← catalogue

Wilson's Tales of the Borders and of Scotland, Volume 20

by unknown · English · Gutenberg #37217 · 551,295 chars · public domain (US)

The Project Gutenberg eBook of Wilson's Tales of the Borders and of Scotland, Volume 20
    
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States,
you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located
before using this eBook.

Title: Wilson's Tales of the Borders and of Scotland, Volume 20

Compiler: John Mackay Wilson

Editor: Alexander Leighton


        
Release date: August 26, 2011 [eBook #37217]
                Most recently updated: January 8, 2021

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/37217

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


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WILSON'S TALES OF THE BORDERS AND OF SCOTLAND, VOLUME 20 ***




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. XX.


    LONDON:
    WALTER SCOTT, 14 PATERNOSTER SQUARE,
    AND NEWCASTLE-UPON-TYNE.
    1884.




CONTENTS.


    THE DOMINIE OF ST FILLAN'S, (_Alexander Leighton_)                   1

    SAYINGS AND DOINGS OF PETER PATERSON, (_John Mackay Wilson_)        34

    THE HEROINE: A LEGEND OF THE CANONGATE, (_Alexander Leighton_)      66

    THE BARLEY BANNOCK, (_Alexander Campbell_)                          93

    GLEANINGS OF THE COVENANT, (_Professor Thomas Gillespie_)--

          xx. JOHN GOVAN'S NARRATIVE                                   111

         xxi. "OLD BLUNTIE"                                            120

        xxii. THOMAS HARKNESS OF LOCKERBEN                             124

       xxiii. THE SHOES REVERSED                                       132

    THE LOST HEIR OF THE HOUSE OF ELPHINSTONE, (_Rev. G. Thomson_)     143

    TRIALS AND TRIUMPHS, (_John Mackay Wilson_)                        194

    THE MISER OF NEWABBEY, (_Alexander Leighton_)                      226

    THE SEA SKIRMISH, (_Anon._)                                        258




WILSON'S

TALES OF THE BORDERS,

AND OF SCOTLAND.




THE DOMINIE OF ST FILLAN'S.




CHAPTER I.

PLEASANT REMINISCENCES OF MY FATHER.


It is now about twenty years sin' I first raised my voice in the desk o'
the kirk o' St Fillan's, in the parish o' that name, and He wha out o'
the mouths o' babes and sucklins did ordain praise, hath never thought
meet, by means o' ony catarrh, cynanche, quinsy, toothache, or lock-jaw,
to close up my mouth, and prevent me frae leadin the congregation in a
clear, melodious strain, to the worship o' the Chief Musician. When I
was ordained session clerk, schoolmaster, and precentor, I had already
passed about thirty years o' my pilgrimage; yet filled wi' Latin and
Greek, till my _pia mater_ was absolutely like to burst, I had,
notwithstanding, nae trade by the hand. The reason was this. My father,
who had been for forty years sexton o' the parish, had seen, wi' an e'e
lang practised in searchin for traces o' death in the faces o'
parishioners--for the labourer maun live by his hire, and the merchant
by his customers, "and thou shalt eat the labour of thine hands"--a
pleasant leucophlegmatic tinge about the gills o' Jedediah Cameron, my
predecessor in the three offices already mentioned. Weel, as the
husbandman in dry weather, when his fields are parched, and his braird
thin and weak, watches the clouds that contain rain--mair precious to
him than the ointment that ran down upon the beard, even Aaron's dry
beard--my guid father watched the dropsical signs or indications in
Jedediah's face, daily and hourly, in the fair and legitimate hope o'
gettin the aridity o' my starvin condition quenched and satisfied. He
was an argute sexton, and had learned, in his younger days, some
smatterin o' Latin, though I never could ascertain that he retained more
of the humane lear, than the twa proverbs, "_Vita mortalium
brevis_," "Life is short," which comes originally frae Homer;
and "_Pecuniae obediunt omnia_," which comes frae the sixth chapter
o' Ecclesiastes--"Money answereth all things."

But my father was never contented wi' his ain _prognosis_. His ain ee
for death was as gleg as that o' the hawk for its quarry; but the
glegness wasna a mere junction or combination o' a keen and praiseworthy
desire to live, and a lang experience o' lookin for death in ithers; he
had science to guide him; he knew a' the Latin names comprehended in Dr
Cullen's "Nosology;" an' Buchan's "Domestic Medicine" was scarcely ever
out o' his hands, except when there was a spade in them. I hae the auld,
thumed, and faulded, and marked copy o' our domestic AEsculapius yet;
and, as I look at the store from which he used to draw the lore that
enabled him to see, as if by a kind o' necromantic divination, a guid
lucrative death, though still lodged in the wame o' futurity, I canna
but drap a tear to the memory o' ane wha toiled sae hard for the sake o'
his son. But I examine the book, sometimes, in a mair philosophic
way--to mark the train o' my auld parent's mind, as he had perused his
text-book; for it was his practice, when he saw ony o' the parishioners
exhibiting favourable symptoms--such as a hard, dry cough, puffed legs,
white liver lips, or even some o' the mair dubious indications, such as
a pale cheek, spare body, drooping head, difficulty in walking, morbid
appetite, or bulimia, the _delirium tremens_ o' dram-drinkers, the
yellow o' the white o' the ee o' hypochondriacs, and the like--to search
in Buchan for the diseases portended by thae appearances, and, when he
was sure he had caught them, to draw a pencil stroke along the margin
opposite to the pleasantest parts o' the doctor's descriptions. I never
saw mony marks opposite the common and innocuous complaints--_cholica_,
or pain in the stamach; _catarrhs_, or cauld; _arthritis_, or gout;
_rheumatismus_, or rheumatism; _odontalgia_, or toothache; and sae
forth: thae were beneath his notice. Neither did I ever observe ony
marks o' attention to what are called prophylactics, or remedies, to
prevent diseases comin on: thae nostrums he plainly despised. But, sae
far as I could discover, he had a very marked abhorrence o' what the
doctors ca' therapeutics, or means and processes o' curin diseases, and
keepin awa death; and as for what are denominated _specifics_, or
infallible remedies, he wouldna hear o' them ava--showin his despite o'
them by the exclamation--"Psha!" scribbled with contemptuous haste on
the margin. The soul and marrow o' the book to the guid man--bless
him!--were the mortal symptoms--the _facies Hippocraticus_, the
Hippocratic face; the _raucitus mortis_, or rattle in the throat;
_subsultus tendinum_, or twitching o' the hands and fingers; the glazing
o' the ee, and the stoppin o' the breath, and the like o' thae serious
signs and appearances. A strong, determined stroke o' the pencil marked
his attention to and interest in the Doctor's touchin account o' thae
turns o' the spindle wharby the thread o' our existence is wound up for
ever. It may be easily and safely supposed, that the melancholy words,
descriptive o' the oncome o' the grim tyrant himsel--"_and death closes
the tragic scene_"--sae touchingly and feelingly introduced by the
eloquent author werena lost on my respectit parent.

Guid man as he was, however, (I shall return presently to his study o'
my predecessor's dropsy,) it is painfu for his son to hae to say that,
though very generally respectit by people when they were in health and
prosperity, he hadna the same veneration extended to him by the same
individuals when they fell into disease. But though rejectin his visits,
sae lang as a patient was in life and capable o' bein benefited by his
lively manners, the breath was nae sooner out o' the body, than he was
sent for, ye might almost say by express. It is some consolation to me,
that my parent was far abune shewin resentment at conduct sae
contradictory and offensive. In place o' bein angry when invited to the
house o' a dead patient, from which he had been expelled during his
illness, he uniformly appeared well pleased--repairin, wi' the greatest
good humour, to the residence o' the deceased, and disdainin to exhibit
the slightest indication o' pique or anger. There are some men wha brak
the prophet's command--"Rejoice not over thy greatest enemy being dead,
but remember that we die all;" but I can safely and upon my honour and
parole say, that my parent shewed nae greater signs o' happiness on the
death o' an enemy than he did on the death o' a friend. A man has a
pleasure in statin thae things o' a father.

These early associations hae a charm about them that's very apt to lead
a person off his direct road; "_Patriae fumus igne alieno
luculentior_"--the very smoke o' our father's fireside is clearer than
anither's flame. How bright, then, maun the virtue and honour o' a
father and mother appear to a dutiful and affectionate son! I was
stating, at the time when I was seduced into that pleasant episode, that
my father kept up a daily inspection o' the leucophlegmatic face o' my
predecessor, Jedediah Cameron; comparing, with, the greatest diligence,
the aqueous symptoms there discernible, with the description given by
his oracle, Dr Buchan; and, as his hopes strengthened, edging me, by
slow degrees, into the dominie's desk, and the schoolmaster's chair o'
authority, as the friendly and gratuitous assistant o' the dying man.
But my father had mair sense than to trust, entirely and allenarly, in
an affair o' sae gigantic importance, to ony dead authority. He was at
the heels o' Dr Dennistoun, our parish physician, as often as that
worthy man would permit his approach; and it was sometimes said, though
in a jocular way--and nae man likes a joke better than I do--that he
consulted the doctor as the farmer does the barometer, with a view to a
guid crop. But, were this even _vero verius, certo certius_, how could
my parent be blamed for being industrious? Unless ye thresh and grind,
ye hae little chance o' a dinner--"_Ni purgas et molas, non comedes_;"
an auld saying o' Diogenianus, particularly applicable to my father, who
had to support, by his industry, an idle sou--_bos in stabulo_--long,
bare-boned, ill-filled up, as hungry and voracious as a Cyclops, and
never weel-dined but on the day o' a dead-chack. I might blame my
respectable parent for consulting Dr Dennistoun about expected deaths
and burials, if mortals could avoid ony o' the twa; but we hae nae
Elijahs in thae days, "to be taken up in a whirlwind of fire, and in a
chariot of fiery horses." Death comes to a'--_mors omnibus communis_;
and Jedediah Cameron--bless him!--had nae chance o' bein made an
exception; otherwise my lank wame and lean cheeks stood a puir chance o'
bein sae weel filled up as they afterwards came to be, when I held his
three offices.




CHAPTER II.

A KIND PROVIDENCE SMILES ON MY PARENT'S SOLICITUDE.


If it hadna been to make certainty doubly sure, my father had nae
occasion to hound after Dr Dennistoun in the way he did, to ascertain
the probability o' the death o' Jedediah Cameron, or ony other mortal
that stood a chance o' needin a bit turf and a kindly clap o' his spade.
His ee was as sure as a cockatrice's. He needed nae howling o' the
moon-baying tyke, nae' death-watch, nae whip-lash on the table, nae
dead-drap, nae dead-shaving at the candle, nae coffin-spark frae the
fire, nae powers o second-sight, dreams, or divinations, to tell him
when he was to hae a guid job. He came to be able to read death in men's
faces, as he could do a printed book. Now, Jedediah Cameron didna
deceive him. Ae day, when I was busy teachin the puir man's scholars, he
came in, and whispered in my ear, that the parish clerk, schoolmaster,
and precentor o' St Fillan's, was dead. I was, at the time, in the very
act o' flogging an urchin wha had disputed my authority. The ferula fell
from my hands; the urchin's rebellion was, I thought, ominous o' the
rejection o' my claims o' succession; but, after a', there's nae oracle
like the presentiments o' a man's ain soul, speaking frae the inspired
tripod that is set owre the hollow-sounding, murmuring gulf o' an empty
stamach; and so the ancient Pythonissa o' Apollo's temple at Delphi,
judiciously took her seat over the abyss called the _umbilicus orbis
terrarum_. Being an honest man, I confess frankly that the first feeling
produced by my father's lively whisper, was a kind o' pleasure,
approaching as near to delight as any sensation I had yet discovered in
my microcosm. But I remembered the seventh verse o' the eighth chapter
o' Ecclesiasticus, directed against rejoicing over the dead; and, upon
the very instant, set vigorously to work, either to expel the delightful
emotion frae my mind, or, at least, to push the sweet rebel off the
cerebral throne--the pineal gland--and plunge him into some o' the deep
ventricles, or dungeons, lying in the lower part of the brain, or ben in
the cerebellum. It was a considerable struggle; but I succeeded to a
perfect miracle--a circumstance I am the more pleased with, as I hate
mortally that abominable cant of the Calvinists, about necessity, as if
a man hadna the whip-hand, direction, and guidance of his own will.

The grave o' Jedediah Cameron was, in due time, dog by my parent--wi'
what feeling, whether o' sorrow or satisfaction, I am not bound to say,
because a sense o' delicacy prevented me frae being present at the
breaking o' the earth; but I consider myself under an obligation to
state, that I never saw my respected parent cover up a mortal body so
cleverly. Lest, however, ony hasty-minded, sanguine individual, should,
from this admission o' mine, suppose that that cleverness, or
nimbleness, had ony connection with the alacrity o' joy, or the morbid
quickness o' a sorrow that wishes to get an unpleasant job out of hands,
I must explain that my father merely wanted--surely a most legitimate
object--to catch as many o' the parochial heritors present at the
funeral as remained on the ground, reading grave-stanes, or laughing and
chatting thegither, after the body was clappit down--with the view o'
securing their votes for me, as the singular successor (to speak as the
lawyers do) to the three vacant offices held by the now dead dominie.

But this is a sair subject--I can scarcely write upon it. My brain
whirls like an old woman's spindle the moment I think on't. Guidness!
what a risk I ran o' losin my three offices by the mere paternal
fondness o' that honest man. Some o' the heritors had remarked the
vivacity and agility o' my parent in throwin in the heavy moil on the
clatterin coffin, wi' mair noise, force, and fervor than was ever used
on an occasion o' the same kind afore; pushin and shovellin great
hillocks o' stanes and banes at a mighty effort, usin his very feet in
the process; sweatin, pechin, stumblin, and producin a noise frae the
coffin lid like distant thunner; and mair, peradventure, resemblin the
risin than the lyin doun o' the dead. The thing couldna be concealed.
My father was excited beyond a' prudence or decent decorum; and, when he
had finished the wark, or rather pretended to finish it--for it was at
best a clumsy business--and, drawin near, wi' the shovel in his hand, to
a knot o' the heritors, standin on a flat gravestane, they asked him,
wi' a significant expression, why he was in sae great a hurry in coverin
up the puir dominie, a laugh rang amang the grave-stanes--a guid answer
to my father's request--that stuck in his throat; and, in place o'
gettin a vote, he hadna the courage to ask ane. The thing deed awa afore
the meetin o' the heritors, an' I was saved frae ruin--an escape for
which I hae offered up many thanks to the Author o' our mercies.

The pleasant duty o' filial love is sae fu' o' artfu' seduction, and
winnin, pauky guile, that it has carried me awa frae my ain merits an'
successes. The first thing I had to do was to keep a guid firm grip o'
the schule, the parish books, and the dominie's desk; for I knew that
possession is nine points o' the law. I got ready my testimonials wi'
the greatest despatch; the mair by token, that some o' them were in a
very forward state before Jedediah Cameron's breath was out. I ca'ed at
the houses o' a' the heritors wha had bairns at the schule, and praised
wi' decent pride the progress they had made under my care--music mair
sweet to their ears than even the Bangor itsel. Meanwhile, I exerted
mysel on the Sabbaths, to sing, wi' the greatest pith and clearness, the
psalm tunes. I kenned the folks were fondest o' such as the Auld Hunder,
Mount Pleasant, and that excellent favourite the Bangor. My execution,
pathos, quavers, semi-quavers, were wonderfu. The parishioners were
astonished, and followin my leadin tenor into the altitudes o' the
highest inspiration, flew awa into the very Elysian fields o'
enthusiastic devotion.

Nae doubt, some o' the auld, cunnin foxes, that never sang a stave
looked at me as if they saw through my drift; but I was far abune their
envy, and was conscious o' the purity o' my heart. In the meantime, my
most excellent and much-respected parent was hawking aboot amang the
heritors my testimonials; and at the next meetin o' the heritors, I was
duly elected parish-clerk, schoolmaster, and precentor o' St Fillan's.
Weel do I recollect that joyfu occasion. Our dinner exceeded far ony
dead-chack I ever saw. My father took a free glass; and, inspired wi'
the generous liquor, made a speech to me as lang as a funeral oration.

"Noo, Gideon," he began, "yer namesake, the son o' Joash got his fortune
read by a dream o' a barley cake that fell frae heaven, as we find i'
the Book o' Judges. Yer barley-cake hath come frae heaven, and the
forces o' Midian are delivered owre to ye. I can do nae mair for ye. I
hae fed ye, clad ye, made ye. In yer mouth I hae put men's lear, in yer
heart God's fear. For yer sake I watched, as the husbandman does the
clouds, for signs o' mortality in the face o' Jedediah Cameron; and the
first symptom o' water I saw in his body, comin atween me and the sun o'
my hope, made a glitterin rainbow in my paternal ee. Muckle do ye owe
me, Gideon; but I'll no be ill to satisfy. I'll be pleased if ye measure
yer gratitude by the size o' that lank, toom wame, whilk I never saw
filled to satisfaction till this blessed day, when ye hauld the three
principal offices o' this parish."




CHAPTER III.

I EXERT MY GREAT ABILITIES ON A GREAT OCCASION.


When I had fairly made up my mind to tak a wife, I set mysel to the wark
systematically. The first thing to be dune was to put mysel in a
convenient position for being struck; but a knowledge o' my combustible
nature suggested caution against mere love at first sight--_ex aspectu
nascitur amor_--lest I might be caught in yarn toils in place o' a goold
chain. After a', there's nae place like a dominie's desk, for showing
aff to the greatest advantage a man's personalities and graces. The
openin o' the chest to let out the wind, naturally produces an erection
o' the hail man. The keepin o' the time wi' the arm brings out a gracefu
movement, just as ane were to set aff in a minuet. The lightin up o' the
ee, and the fine attenuation o' a' the sma' limber muscles o' the face,
wi' the power o' the music, is a direct expression o' the pure pathetic,
showing at ance baith yer sentiment and yer beauty. Then singin
itsel--and love, Augustinus says, will mak a musician out o' an
ass--_musicam docet amor_--is a great grace and accomplishment, whether
it be in warbling "Dundee's" wild measures, the "plaintive Martyrs," or
"noble Elgin"--a' the very pick o' Psalm tunes--ranting "Tullochgorum,"
or spinnin out the lang, plaintive notes o' "The Flowers o' the Forest."

It may very safely be supposed, that I never lost sight o' thae
advantages. A dominie, in urgent celibacy, has a' the invention aboot
him o' a man in extreme hunger. In fact, I felt as keen to get a wife as
I ever did to get my three offices. But I was weel aware that a' my
dress--and Mr Meiklejohn himsel, the minister, hadna a finer gloss on
his black coat, or a brighter white in his cravat--a' my posture-makin,
my attitudes and smiles--a' my sentimental looks, and turnin up o' the
white o' my een--could avail me little, unless I picked out some female
as the object and mark o' a weel-directed and significant _glowr_. In
case o' failure, I fixed upon twa--May Walker, the dochter o' Gilbert
Walker, an auld cattle-dealer, wha rented Langacres frae a chief
heritor; and Agnes Lowrie, the dochter o' Benjamin Lowrie, feuar o'
Muirbank. Twa or three guid _glowrs_ were a' that was necessary, in the
first instance, to show that I, the dominie o' St Fillan's, wanted a
wife, and that I was even in a state o' great exigency. The moment I
thought I had impressed my twa damosels with this idea, I laboured
assiduously in my vocation of endeavourin to produce, by my gracefu
attitudes and sweet singin, a favourable impression on their hearts.

I am a weel-disposed man, but love is a terrible thing, and it now hangs
heavy on my conscience, that I did little else, during the duration o'
Mr Meiklejohn's discourses, than to cast the glamour o' my attractions
owre the een o' my dulcineas. There was ae particular occasion, however,
beyond a', for expressin the pressure and exigency o' my situation, and,
as it were, forcin attention to my wants and wishes. I used to gie out
the purposed marriages at an early hour, before the congregation was
half assembled; but I now took especial care, that the twa objects o' my
affections should be calmly seated before I executed this part o' my
duties. I began first by fixin my een on the ane I intended to devote
that particular Sabbath to, (for I alternated my preferences;) and, as I
looked at her as significantly as I could, I pronounced the emphatic
words--"There is a purpose o' marriage between"--wi' sae muckle strong,
heart-felt pathos--sometimes even inclinin my right hand a little in the
direction o' my heart--that baith look and word maun hae pierced her
very gizzard. It was perfectly impossible that this could fail. These
preliminary operations I persevered in for sixteen Sabbaths.

Having prepared matters in this effectual--I may say irresistible way--I
bethought mysel o' the maist efficient way o' followin up the advantage
I had gained. I asked my respected parent which o' the twa lasses he
thought I should attack first. He answered, wi' that wisdom for which he
was sae remarkable, that that depended upon circumstances. Twa or three
days afterwards, he said he was prepared to answer my question--the
interval being, I presume, occupied in gettin intelligence about the
wealth o' the respective fathers o' the young women. He said, that, sae
far as he could answer, May Walker was the preferable damsel. I asked
him his reason. He replied, that he had taen the trouble o' ascertainin
the hail circumstances o' her condition; and, though her father wasna
sae rich as Agnes Lowrie's, he was paler, and a guid deal mair
cadaverous looking. If my parent hadna been speakin professionally, as
the sexton o' St Fillans, I might hae been inclined to think he was
jokin, but he never was mair serious in his life; and, in fact, he had
that very mornin been _Buchaneezing_, as he caed it, on Gilbert Walker's
_prognosis_, and had come to a conclusion on his case, very favourable
to my prospects in life.

The saxteen Sabbaths I had spent _in limine_, as it were, o' Cupid's
temple, drove me sae _hard up_--in other words, increased the exigency
o' my celibacy to such an extent--that, actin on my father's advice, I
determined upon fa'in foul o' her the very first time I met her in an
unprotected situation, and in a secret, sequestered, and convenient
place. My respected parent aye said, that love was just like death. The
twa powers are aye best, baith for themsels and their victims, when they
tak them by storm, or, as the French say, by a _coup de main_. A
lingerin death and a lingerin love (said the guidman) make the heart
sick, and, for his part, (laying aside his professional feelings), he
detested baith. He seized my mither, he said, just like an apoplexy, and
she succumbed in a single groan o' consent.

"Gideon, take example by me," he continued; "never seize a woman like
what Buchan ca's a _hemiplegia_--that is, by halves; comprehend in your
embrace liver, pancreas, stamach, heart, spleen, and then ye're sure to
move her compassion, and settle the affair in an instant."

Following my worthy genitor's advice, I watched for May Walker, the
next Sabbath, as she left the kirk after the afternoon's service. She
was alane, and took the quietest road to Langacres. I dogged her most
determinedly up the Willow Loan that leads into a solitary and
sequestered howe, ca'ed the Warlocks' Glen, a place sae intensely
romantic, sae completely sacred to the high feelins o' love and poetry,
that it seemed impossible there for a woman to resist a man; and, if she
might attempt it, she could look for nae mortal assistance. Having ogled
her into a perfect state o' preparation, or predisposition to receive
the attack, as the doctors say, I was quite certain o' success; and,
just as an experienced sportsman lets a bird tak a lang flight afore he
fires, to shew his ease, coolness, and confidence in his powers, I
allowed her to be half-way up the Willow Loan afore I should pounce upon
her. By some misfortune, however, she had got a glimpse o' me; for, just
when I was meditating on the surest way o' makin my point guid, she took
to her heels, like a springbok, and was off through the Warlocks' Glen
in as short a time as I tak to gie out the first line o' a heroic Psalm
verse.

I cam hame and reported my progress to my parent; but he wasna in the
slightest degree dispirited; and next Sabbath, I got Andrew Waugh, a
singin weaver o' the village, to officiate for me, under a pretence that
I had caught a severe cauld. I repaired to the Warlocks' Glen, and sat
doun on a stump o' an auld aik tree, allowin freely the inspiration o'
the place to seize me, and nerve my energies for the bauld project I had
in hand. In a short time, I espied the streamers o' a woman's bannet
wavin amang the willows in the distance. Slouchin doun, like a tiger,
behind a large broom bush, I watched the onward progress o' the sweet
nymph, doubtless my beloved May. It was absolutely and indispensably
requisite that I should take her by ambuscade; for, if she had seen even
the hem o' my garment, I'm satisfied her ambulation would hae been
reversed, and in speed very considerably increased. I'm vexed to be
obliged to mak this admission, which grates sae harshly against my
self-conceit; but verity transcends, in beauty and importance, vanity;
and I consider this biography to be naething but a confession frae
beginnin to end.

Keepin my slouchin, sneakin attitude as weel as my lang gaunt body would
permit, I had at least the exorbitant satisfaction o' seein the dear
young woman walkin mournfully alang, unconscious o' the danger that
awaited her. At a little distance from my lurkin place, she stood, as if
she feared there was a snake in the grass; for the anxiety and
solicitude I felt to get a glimpse o' her fair face, forced me to twist
my body into unpleasant contortions, which produced a kind of a rustling
amang the sere-leaves that lay on the ground. Findin a' quiet again, she
seemed to renounce a' fear; though I secretly suspected that she kenned
weel aneugh the cause o' the noise, for I had detected the hinder part
o' my body in a higher state o' elevation than my will or security
warranted, being considerably abune the broom, and, therefore, plainly
in her ee. Keepin my suspicion to mysel, I watched her motions wi' still
greater curiosity and intensity; because, if my suspicions were true
that she kenned I was lyin sneakin there, her conduct, of course,
required frae me a different rule o' construction. At last she sat doon,
quite close to me--a circumstance that satisfied me still mair that she
was aware o' my position, condition, and intentions--for it seemed to be
a kind o' an invitation to me to dart upon her, and secure my prey. She
spoke.

"Noo, this is no usin me quite weel," said she, "no to be here," (a mere
blind, thinks I, to mak me think she doesna ken I'm lyin slouchin at her
very side), "when I had sae muckle to say to him. Though I was shy to
him the last time I saw him, he might hae learned eneugh o' the heart o'
woman to ken that we hae certain arts and wiles, and guiles about us--a
kind o' secret charms--to increase an affection that we think over
languid, and bring it out o' the dead-thraw o' a starved love into the
warm life o' a lively passion. It canna be, that, after sae lang a
period o' lookin, followin, and languishin, he doesna like me. If he
only kenned the condition o' this puir, flutterin, beatin heart, that
fears to listen to its ain timid voice, as if it were treason to
love--how muckle mair wad he prize my sittin here, invitin--wae's my
puir prudence!--thae very attractions I used to flee frae! But woman,
weak woman, is doomed to be the sport o' men, as weel as o' her ain
heart."

It was noo clearly my time to pounce. In fack, the young woman was
invitin me. Up I sprang, like a jungle thief.

"How can you sit there, May," said I, "kennin I was lyin sneakin there
under that broom bush, and yet abusin a faithfu creature for being slow
and languid in his love, when last Sabbath ye flew frae him wi' a' the
pith o' a bitter hatred disgust, and scorn! Languid in _my_ affection!
Is _that_ like languidness?" (Throwing my arms fully around her, so as
to include, if possible, the hail body in my ample embrace.) "Is _that_,
dear May, like love in the dead-thraw? If _that's_ no a sign" (still
pressing her, as she struggled and cried) "o' the warm life o' a lively
passion, as ye ca'd it, I kenna what it is?"

As I thus held her in my impassioned grasp--as firm as a tiger's--she
screamed most inordinately, makin the hail Warlocks' Glen ring frae end
to end, rousin the mawkins on every side, and makin them skip over the
whin bushes as if they had been followed by a pack o' harriers. But I
wasna to be deceived. She had, when I was sneakin under the bush o'
broom, gien me the key to this conduct, in her cunnin monologue. This
was ane o' the arts, wiles, guiles, and secret charms, to increase a
languid affection, and bring it out o' the dead-thraw o' a starved love
into the warm love o' a lively passion. Her words still rung in my
ears, and I was as determined as the very deevil to show her that her
efforts to increase my love were perfectly effectual. I hugged her
closer and closer. Heart, liver, pancreas, a'thegither, as recommended
by my father, were in my embrace. I squeezed the dear creature like a
vice, sae strong was my determination, increased every minute by her
screams, to prove to her entire satisfaction--in fack, to demonstrate,
beyond the possibility of a doubt--that there was nae mair occasion for
her female guile or charm, and that she might rest assured that my
affection could, nae mair than my grasp, be increased in point o'
intensity. But a' wouldna do--her heart seemed to be insatiable. In
addition to my squeezing grasp, I kissed her ruby lips. She cried the
louder and the louder; and--oh! hae I lived to write it?--she actually
spat on the face that was glowin red hot wi' affection for her. Still I
persevered; for I thought that even the _sputum_ might be ane o' her
secret charms. The struggle continued, and her cries increased. She had
recourse to her nails, and I felt the blude streamin doun my cheeks. We
fell on the ground. A man's voice behind me cried--"My love, my love!
knock doun the spoiler!" A tremendous blow on the head took frae me my
senses; and, when I recovered, I was in my ain bed, with my respectit
parents sitting by me, watchin, with the greatest and tenderest care,
the return o' consciousness to their beloved son.




CHAPTER IV.

LIGHT STRUGGLES THROUGH A CLOUD TO GET TO ME IN MY MISFORTUNE.


I sune recovered my health, but my reputation and fair fame were for a
time under a cloud. The parishioners, in place o' shakin me by the
hand, looked at me with averted eyes. I was treated as a dog that had
been in bad company. A sough went throughout the parish, that Simon
Begley--or, as the folks ca'ed him, with a humorous application to his
craft, that of procurator-fiscal o' the county, Beagle--was busy takin a
precognition with a view to layin the case before the Lord Advocate. But
I was gien to understand, and privately, that the authorities didna
intend, in the meantime, to lay hold o' me, as they had nae suspicion I
would flee the country. Their object was to ascertain the truth o' the
charge, and, if they found there was any real _delictum_, and Gilbert
Walker and May persevered in their determination, to apprehend me then,
and try me as an example and a warnin.

This misfortune brought upon me an attack o' hypochondriacism; and
Melancholy, wi' a' her attendant hags, hounded me, as they say, frae
house to hame. Wearied o' concealin myself within doors, I sought the
by-ways, the loans, and the unfrequented paths--still, however, doin my
duties, and facin the public whar I couldna weel sneak out o' the way.
Ae day, I was sittin on a fence, no far frae my ain door, musin on the
curious turn my love affair had taen, and generally on the "vanity of
human wishes." I thought o' the poem o' that name by the only poet whose
works I could ever thole to read, and cured, in some degree, my
despondency, by repeatin to mysel the lines--

    "Still raise for good the supplicating voice,
    But leave to Heaven the measure and the choice."

"I hae dune baith," said a saft voice in my ear; "but the guid I hae
prayed for is lang o' comin."

"It has a lang road to come, my bonny lass," said I to a young woman
with a child in her arms, wha stood before me. "I, mysel, ken what it is
to suffer; for a pickled rod is at this very moment on my puir
back--sending, as it cuts its way, the nippin brine into my very
marrow. But I am exercisin patience. What may your compliant be?"

"My complaint," said she, wipin a clear, shinin tear frae her bonny blue
ee, "lies owre near my puir broken heart to be tauld to a stranger; for
wha but Him wha is 'the saul's portion,' should hear the secrets, or is
able to cure the waes o' a deserted wife? Ken ye the session-clerk o'
this parish?"

"Owre weel," said I, "guid woman; for, personally, I am noo sufferin for
that officer. I, mysel, hold that honoured office, wi' its twa
appurtenances."

"You are, then, the very man I wanted to see," said she; "but I maun
speak privately to ye. I hae come far to see ye, and heavy are the
burdens I hae carried, baith at this bosom (lookin at her child) and in
it; an' maybe ye may be the means o' relievin me o' ane o' them."

"Which o' them mean ye, woman?" said I, no a'thegither at ease. "I hope
ye dinna mean the bairn. Ae misfortune's enough at a time."

"Na, na," replied she; "I dinna mean that you should be the faither o'
the child; but ye may be the means, in higher hands, o' gettin back its
faither, and thereby relievin me o' a' my burdens and a' my sorrows
thegither."

"Nae man likes to do guid better than I do," replied I, wi' a decent
complacency, "though I hae been sair defamed. Come awa wi' me, an' tell
me your story."

I took the puir woman hame, and, seein she was filled wi' naething but
sorrow, ane o' the maist inflatin o' a' the _non-naturals_ (for
Hippocrates himsel couldna doubt that it's ane o' them,) I supplied her
wi' as muckle victuals o' ae kind or anither--no bein very particular
about the agreement or concurrence o' the elemental parts o' the
polymixia or combination--as I thought would hae the double effeck o'
gettin quit o' her hunger and her sorrow thegither. The puir creature
ate like a rhinoceros. I doubt if she had had any meat for a week.
Cakes, milk, cheese, herrings, tea, and honey, a' disappeared; and
naething remained but a blush o' shame on her bonny cheek, to tell how
muckle abashed she was at her good appetite. Some ungracefu minded folks
wad ha ta'en the sweet suffusion that covered her face, for the mere
effect o' the fecht or warstle o' devouring sae muckle meat; but my
delicacy suggested a truer, a mair feminine, and a mair gallant
conclusion. I was sae muckle pleased with the refinement o' mind that
led to this discovery, that I couldna help bringing't oot--for nae man
should hide his candle under a bushel--

"Ye needna be ashamed, my bonny woman," said I, "at eating sae muckle;
for, though it's no paid for, ye're perfectly welcome to it, ample and
multitudinous as it is."

This had the desired effect; for the blush was instantly succeeded by a
deadly paleness. I then asked her what was her particular object, in
wishin to see and speak to me privately. It was some time afore she
could answer--overcome, I fancy, by her admiration o' my delicacy o'
sentiment; but at last, takin out a ragged handkerchief, as a kind o'
preparation for a scene, a thing I like abune a' things--exceptin,
maybe, that in the Warlocks' Glen--she began--

"I am the dochter o' an honest farmer, that lives down near the Tweed.
His name is Arthur Graeme; and my name--that is my maiden name--is Lucy
Graeme. He was ance accounted rich, and I was--no lang syne
yet--considered to hae some claims to beauty--twa things that hae
produced a' my wae. I was courted by the neighbourin farmers, wha vied
wi' ane anither for my hand and my affections; but, as a prophet has nae
credit in his ain country, sae neeborin lovers were little respeckit.
The gree was born awa frae them by a perfect stranger, kenned neither to
them nor to me. A young man, ca'ed, at that time at least, Hugh
Kennedy, whase looks were, alas! his best recommendation, if I shouldna
speak of a soft honeyed tongue, whase sounds were music to my ear,
recommended himsel to me at a neighbouring fair, and took frae me,
whether I wad or no, my silly affections. He had heard o' my father's
siller, and he saw my blooming face; but he never had the courage to
come to our house and court me honourably, as my other wooers were glad
and proud to do. Yet--strange backslidin o' the human heart!--I wadna
hae gien a stowen kiss o' Hugh Kennedy, among the beech groves o'
Sunnybrae, for a' the flatterin, wooin, and braw presents o' the rest o'
my lovers thegither. The mere circumstance o' the puir youth being
banned, as he was (for his secret courtship was sune kenned), frae the
very neeborin woods, bound him to my heart the closer and the firmer.
Though twenty een were upon me as gleg as hawks, and I was watched like
a convicted thief, I saw him, spoke to him, wept wi' him, lay in his
dear arms, and got my tears kissed awa wi' his burning lips."

Her throat got thick, and she paused. After some sobbing, she
continued--

"Oh, forgie me, sir! To ye alane, wha hae my fortune in yer hands, wad I
speak in this wild strain, for my heart is fu' o' love, grief, and a
still revivin hope that winna dee. I never asked him a question, sae
worthless and silly in the thoughts o' a lover, whar he wad tak me, and
what he wad do wi' me, if I ran frae my faither's house, and married
him. What cared I for things that were to come, when a' my joys were
centred in the single moment when I was in his arms? Na, I never asked
him whar was to be our bed--whar we were to get our dinner. Love had
made me as light, as gay, as free, as thoughtless, as the birds o' the
grove, whose food and raiment, hoose an' ha', are provided by nature,
wha is kinder to them than to us proud human creatures. I need say nae
mair. I flew frae my faither's hoose, was married and ruined. My
husband had nae trade by the hand, nae friends, nae hame. He trusted to
my faither's wealth; but that took wings and flew away as fast as his
dochter. We lived thegither, Gude kens hoo, for twa years, when, ae
mornin aboot six months syne, he rose frae my side an' left me, an' I
hae never seen him since. A month after, I bore this babe, wha hasna yet
seen its faither. I inquired for him in every direction, an' at last I
heard that he was livin in this parish, an' was on the eve o' bein
married to a braw lass, wi' a better tocher than I could bring to him."

"This is a sad story, Lucy--Mrs Kennedy, I mean"--said I. "Your
treacherous husband, and his unconscious victim, this second wife,
whoever she may be, haena gien in their names to me yet, as clerk o'
this parish; and Mr Meiklejohn is owre correct a man to marry them
against the rules."

"Heaven be praised!" cried the poor woman. "I was afraid I might be owre
late."

"Yer in braw time," said I; "but, if Mr Kennedy taks anither name, how
will I ken him?--for he may forge certificates o' residence, or bribe
some residenters to certify him--tricks no uncommon in the traffic o'
matrimony."

"But maybe ye may ken his _sweetheart_," said she, wi a big heart, as
she wrung the bitter name out o' her dry throat.

"It's no unlikely," said I; "I ken the maist o' the leevin folks o' the
parish, and my faither kens a' the dead anes."

"Did you ever hear o' a young woman bearing the name o' May Walker?"
said she.

"I think I hae," said I, hesitatingly, as if trying to recollect mysel;
and, lookin suspiciously at her, for I thocht she had heard o' my
misfortune, and was suspicious o' every individual that mentioned that
charmed, dear, yet terrible name.

"I think I hae," repeated I, drawing my hand owre my weel-shaved chin,
as if to try my beard; and, satisfied o' the ignorance and innocence o'
the creature, wishin to keep my secret.

"Did ye ever see her, or speak to her?" continued Mrs Kennedy. "Is she
bonny?--has she a sweet voice?--is she like--like me?" And she burst
into tears.

"I hae seen her," replied I, tryin to keep mysel frae greetin too; but a
loud blubber burst frae me, in spite o' a' my efforts to keep it amang
the lower pairt o' my lungs. "I hae seen her--I hae kissed--hum--I mean
I hae spoken to her. She _is_ bonny--O ay!" (with an increased blubber);
"she _is_ indeed bonny."

My answer increased the weepin o' the jealous wife, and we baith grat
thegither.

"Has she muckle siller?" said she, calming a little.

"She _will_ hae," replied I; "she _maun_ hae, for her faither is in
_very_ bad health."

This new cause o' sorrow increased my paroxysm to a perfect buller.

"Ye are a maist sympathetic creature," said Mrs Kennedy, "to greet that
way for anither's misfortunes."

"It's just my way," said I; "we canna restrain our heart or our
stamach."

The mention o' the last word made the puir creature blush. It even
stopped her tears. On hoo little springs do our passions depend!

This scene bein acted in the way I hae thus (I hope pretty graphically)
described, I began to tak a mair philosophical view o' this important
business. With an acuteness as natural to me as to a snip's tool, I
penetrated the prudential course o' my operations in an instant o'
inspired intuition. I fancy it wad smack considerably o' the _inane
gotium_ o' supererogation, besides being exposed to the charge o'
anticipation, to lay my plan before my readers in the clumsy way o' a
chart, where there's sae guid a pilot. I like to seize a subject as my
father did my mother when he courted and won her; or as I did May
Walker, when I courted and lost her. To the heart at ance! I premised my
operations, by askin Mrs Kennedy, in spite o' the gladiator-like way she
had o' handlin her knife and fork, to remain in my house for a day or
twa, till we saw whether her husband would ca' upon me, to gie in the
names o' him and _his_--alas! what a change!--_his_ dulcinea! In the
meantime, Beagle's precognition was still proceedin; and Gilbert Walker
and his dochter wouldna, it was said, relent. For about eight days, Mrs
Kennedy sat and watched at the window, to see if she could espy her
faithless husband; while I sneaked about, to try if I could ascertain
the absolute truth of her story, and the real facks o' my ain deplorable
case. My inquiries, conducted under the disadvantage o' being obliged to
skulk, and beg, as it were, an answer to my questions, were not very
successful. I, however, discovered that a young man, wi' black routhy
whiskers, and a long romantic nose juttin out frae amang them, like a
promontory frae the side o' a thick wud, was busy courtin May Walker,
whase heart had got entangled in the forest o' his face, and couldna be
liberated by a' the ruggin o' her father and her friends. This
description o' him agreed wi' that I got frae Mrs Kennedy, wha couldna
describe the coverin o' his face without tears. I was satisfied it was
the man; and my satisfaction was confirmed by a kind o'
recollection--strugglin through the inspissated gloom o' the oblivion I
experienced after being knocked doon in the Warlocks' Glen--o' the
figure o' an Orson-like individual, wi' a great rung in his hand, mixed
with the evanescent sounds o' "My love!--my love!--knock doun the
spoiler!" which produced, thegither, the conviction that Mr Hugh Kennedy
was the very man on whom May Walker was waitin on that eventfu Sabbath,
and who felled me sae unmercifully to the earth.




CHAPTER V.

MY TALENTS BROUGHT STILL MORE IN REQUISITION.


Mrs Kennedy and I persevered, with the asperity o' hedgehogs, _echini
asperitate_, (Pliny,) in our watch. Ae day, as I was sitting ben the
house, where the parish register lies, the puir woman cam rinnin into
the room, in a state of dreadful agitation, crying--

"There he's--there he's passing the very window--comin in, nae doubt, to
gie in the names. Ah, traitor!"

"Be quiet, foolish woman," said I. "Awa again to the kitchen. There he
is!" (there was now a loud knocking at the door;) "awa wi' ye to the
kitchen!"

And I hurried her, _obtorto collo_, by the neck and shoulders, (for the
exigency of the case obliterated every trace of my usual gallantry,) to
the kitchen, whereinto I locked her, as firmly as guid smith's wark
would permit. The prudence o' this preliminary step needs nae
elucidation to them wha ken the nature o' a deserted wife. I then walked
calmly to the door, which I opened slowly and decently, as became a
session clerk.

"How do you do, Mr Willison?" said a man, with large, black, routhy
whiskers, and a prominent nose, o' the aquiline, or romantic cut.

It was the very apparition o' the fever I caught in the Warlocks' Glen.
He pretended never to have seen me before; but a blue mark on my
forehead tingled the moment it caught his eye; and, as I unconsciously
raised my hand to gie it the relief it asked, he smiled--a fair
detection; but I said naething to shew that I recognised him.

"As weel as can be expected," answered I, without mair significancy or
intelligence than a babe or suckling would have exhibited.

"That is the answer of a lying-in wife in Scotland," said he, still
smiling.

"Unfortunately, nane o' us hae ony experience o' that yet," said I, "if
I can guess your errand to a parish clerk."

"You do guess rightly," said he. "I came here to request you, sir, to
publish these banns, on the next three successive Sabbaths."

I received the paper he held out. It contained the names and designation
o' the twa parties--George Webster, residing at Burnfoot; and May
Walker, dochter o' Gilbert Walker, residing at Langacres.

"Where are your certificates o' residence?" said I.

He handed me a certificate, signed and attested wi' apparent regularity,
but which I was predetermined to doubt, wi' a' the obstinacy o' a guid
dogmatic sceptic.

"I fancy you'll be the George Webster mentioned here yersel, Mr Hugh
Kennedy," said I.

He started, at the very least, three guid thumb-measured inches, frae my
floor. The stroke was nearly as pithy as that he applied to me in the
Warlocks' Glen.

"That is my name in the certificate, there," said he, recovering.

"I ken that brawly, Mr Kennedy," said I. "George Webster's your
_present_ name; but I forget neither auld names nor auld friends. Some
folk, wi' new-fangled notions, hae, now-a-days, three names. Even Mr
Meiklejohn, guid man, baptized his son Finlay Johnstone Meiklejohn, to
the admiration o' the twa-named congregation o' St Fillan's; but it
canna be expected that, when the laddie comes up, we are aye to address
him by his three names. It would be owre great an expense o' wind and
time."

"I have neither wind nor time to spend in this foolery," said he. "That
is my name in the paper, and there are your fees."

"I dinna want to quarrel wi' you, Mr Kennedy," said I, "because I hae
owre muckle respect for Mrs Kennedy--Lucy Graeme, the dochter o' Arthur
Graeme o' Sunnybrae, on Tweedside--and her bonny bairn, to get into a
dispute wi' the husband o' the ane and the father o' the other. But I
can keep a secret, man. What are ye alarmed about? Though ye knocked me
doun in the Warlocks' Glen, I hae nae ill-will to ye. I dinna object to
cry ye next Sabbath, wi' May Walker; but ae gude turn deserves
anither--ye can do me a service."

This statement utterly confounded Mr Kennedy. He tried first to bluster
and swear, denied the truth of my assertion, calmed, blustered again; in
short, gaed through a' thae useless and affected turns and movements
that a hooked salmon taks the unnecessary trouble to do before it turns
up the white o' its wame.

"Calm yoursel, my dear sir," said I. "Mrs Lucy Kennedy is in my power,
under my key. She daurna stir. Ye may be married and awa lang afore she
kens onything about it, puir thing. We can settle a bit o' ordinar
business without the interference o' a woman. I pledge ye ye'll neither
hear nor see her, if ye'll promise to do me the favour I want aff ye."

He fell back again into a rantin fit--swore he didna understand
me--threatened to lick me--seized me by the cravat--took awa his hand
again--gaed to the door--returned--calmed--rose, and calmed again.

"What a trouble ye put yersel to, Mr Kennedy!" said I, calmly. "I want
naething frae ye o' ony consequence. Ye're quite welcome to May Walker."
(A sentimental whine here treacherously insinuated itself into my
speech.) "She's a braw lass, and will be a rich lass. Her faither's ga'
blether's fu' o' ga' stanes, or as my faither ca'es them, ga' nuts--a
decided _icterus_ or jaundice. My parent (ye ken he's sexton) says he's
sure o' him in sax weeks, and, consequently, ye're sure o' yer tocher in
that sma' period o' time. I dinna want to deprive ye o' a' thae
blessings, though it's in my power, and I might be urged to't by baith
love and revenge."

"What is't ye want, then?" roared he, at last, in a voice higher than
Stentor's, while the fire flashed frae his ee in almost palpable
scintillations o' fury.

"Just get yer sweetheart, May Walker," said I, softly, "to write twa
lines to Simon Begley, or Beagle, as they ca' him, the fiscal o' the
shire, passin frae her charge against me; and ye'll be cried on Sabbath,
afore the congregation meets, and Mrs Kennedy will never hear o't."

"I'll admit naething aboot Mrs Kennedy," said he, as doggedly as a
mule--"it's all an invention of the brain of a subtle dominie; but I'll
get ye the line ye want, on condition that these idle fancies are lodged
again safely in the addle-noddle where subtlety or folly engendered
them, and when self-interest brought them to aid ye in a bad cause."

"It's dune," said I; "but mark ye, nae cryin till I get the discharge;
at least, if I'm forced, as I may be, to do my duty, and ca' the names,
there'll be somebody in the front seat o' the gallery to answer me. Ye
understand, Mr Kennedy?"

Dartin a furious look at me, no unlike what a person might fancy o' the
minotaur, he flew oot o' the hoose. As he passed the window, the yells
o' Mrs Kennedy resounded through the house, and even, I believe,
followed hard on the heels o' her husband, if they didna owretak him
a'thegither, as he birred through the neeborin plantin like an
incorporated personification o' fear. The moment he was oot o' sight, I
liberated the puir, unfortunate woman frae her place o' confinement.

"Whar is my husband?" she cried--"whar is that dear man, wha, in spite
o' a' his guile and treachery, I maun see ance mair, though it were only
to hauld up in his face this bairn, and then drap doun at his feet, and
dee?"

"Calm yersel, my bonny woman," said I, dautin her on the back like a
bairn. "It's time enough to talk o' deein--a subject my faither likes
better than I do--when I hae renounced my endeavours to get ye back yer
husband. It's a' in a fair way. He's got the shot. Ye may see by the way
he ran, he's got something better than sparrow hail. Be assured he'll
come doun. A deevil couldna flee wi' the weight o' cauld lead he carries
under his wing."

"God bless ye!" said she, "and prosper yer efforts! I'll wait yer time."

In twa hours after this, a man on horseback, bespattered wi' the red
loam o' the Warlocks' Glen up to the chin, arrived at my door. He cam
frae Langacres, and carried a letter, he said, for the session-clerk o'
St Fillan's. I snatched the letter frae his hands in an instant; tearin
it open wi' a' the anxiety o' a creature strugglin for his precious
reputation. It was just what I wanted. I asked the man to come in and
get some refreshment; and the very instant I had him fairly within the
house, I shut the door on him, and, mountin his swift, roan-coloured
mare, flew like lightnin to Simon Begley's. He was at hame. I handed him
the letter. He said it was just the very thing he wanted, for he
acknowledged that the public authorities had no wish to prosecute a case
involvin the ruin o' a puir man; but, until they got out the discharge
o' the private prosecutor, they had nae power to relinquish their
proceedins. He assured me that everything was now at an end, and the
sough o' the country would dree the fate o' a seven days' wonder.




CHAPTER VI.

A SUCCESSFUL ISSUE TO THE EFFORTS OF MY GENIUS.


Next day, I tauld Mrs Kennedy to dress hersel, and be ready, wi' her
bairn and her marriage-lines, to accompany me to a neighbour's house. We
departed thegither. We took the road to Langacres. I felt the necessity
here o' the maist inordinate caution--for I never could have been
answerable for the effects o' my bein seen at a distance, walkin in my
ordinary, erect, bauld, and somewhat martial manner, upon the house o' a
jaundiced invalid, wha possessed the idea that I had already assaulted,
and endeavoured to abduct his dochter. He might, in the first place,
either be placed in a situation o' intense fear and alarm--prejudicial,
if not fatal, to an invalid--or he might fire upon me from the windows,
wi' ane o' his auld sportin guns, for he was ance a great sportsman. At
same time it was necessary to conceal Mrs Kennedy, in case she might hae
been recognised by her faithless spouse. We took, therefore, a
circuitous route, under the cover o' a wood, that led up to the kitchen
door. The moment I entered, the women in the kitchen began to scream and
flee awa; but I soon shewed them I was perfectly canny, and even got the
length o' bein allowed to daut ane o' them (but she was a little
advanced in life) on the back. I was nae langer impeded in my endeavour
to see Mr Gilbert Walker, whom I discovered in an arm-chair, as yellow
as saffron, and as cankered as a nettle. He tried to start up when I
entered; but, heaven be praised! his jaundice sune brought him to his
seat again.

"I am come, sir," said I, "in a matter o' the maist interest in nature
to you and your dochter May."

"How, sir," screamed he, "can ye dare to sully the name o' that
innocent creature, by makin't run the gauntlet o' thae treacherous lips!
Awa wi' ye, ye vile Nicanor! ye wolf that carries woo on your back in
place o' hair! Alas! what a warld is this! 'Baith prophet and priest are
profane; yea, in my house have I found their wickedness.'"

"Gilbert Walker," said I, calmly, "my intentions towards your dochter
were honourable, and I am come here this day--little thanks to me!--to
put you on your guard against one whose intentions are false,
treacherous, and abominable. When I made love to May Walker, I wasna a
married man; but I was scorned, knocked down, and nearly prosecuted, for
merely bein owre warm and lovin in my chaste embrace; while the husband
o' anither woman comes in and carries awa the prize frae the scorned
though honourable Coelebs. May Walker may, if she likes, despise me,
her faithfu lover. Ninety-nine out o' a hunder would, for that mad act,
convict her o' a vitiated and corrupt taste; but, if she had ane to side
wi' her, she may, in a sense, be justified. But wha, save a Turk, could
justify the taste o' a bonny maiden, wha married anither woman's man?
There's no ane, there's no a leg o' ane, frae Buchaness to Ardnamurchan,
frae the Mull o' Galloway to John o' Groat's, that would justify that
taste in ane o' the chaste dochters o' virtuous Scotland."

"What is this?" cried May Walker, openin a side-door, and strugglin, in
the arms of Mr Hugh Kennedy, to get forward. "What do I hear? Who says
that George Webster is a married man?"

"Your greatest enemy!" cried Mr Hugh Kennedy; pointin theatrically with
his outstretched hand. "Ha! ha! ha! Your spoiler, your rejected,
dejected, envious, poisonous, adder-tongued lover, is he who has dared
to spurt his venom on the meat destined for his rival. This is
gratitude. He solicited me to get him discharged from your just
vengeance, and now he endeavours to gnaw the fingers of the hand that
awarded him his safety."

"I see, I see it a'," cried May. "I ken the fox, or rather wolf, i' the
auld. I hae met him in the Warlocks' Glen. He can sneak under broom
bushes like the hairy adder, or lurk in the green moss like the
yellow-wamed ask. It's no i' the wud alane that thae creatures carry
their poison. They dinna cast it aff at the threshold o' the farmer's
ha, whar they can crawl, an' spit, an' wound, an' kill, as weel as in
the green wud. Dinna trouble yersel wi' the reptile, dear George. I gie
him nae faith noo, ony mair than I did when he attacked me in the
Warlocks' Glen."

I sadna a word. I turned, and ran out, and, as I departed, I heard
spinnin after me, frae a' their lips at ance--

"Ay, ay, awa wi' ye!--it is your time, fause, treacherous dog; never
shew your face in this house again."

In three minutes, I opened the door again, wi' my peculiar gentleness
and calmness o' touch, and, wi' a jaunty manner, tinged wi' a kind of
native etiquette, handed in, bowin the while amaist to the very carpet,
Mrs Hugh Kennedy, wi' her bairn in her arms and her marriage-lines in
her pouch.

"I beg leave to introduce to you," said I, "Mrs Hugh Kennedy, the lawfu
wedded wife o' this man, whase real name is Hugh Kennedy, and no George
Webster, which is a mere cover--a vile deceit, and an imposition."

I hadna time to get thae words fairly out, when Mrs Kennedy threw her
bairn into my arms, and, fleein forward wi' the keenness and fire o a
love that had been lang repressed and now burst its chains, seized, wi'
her longing, greedy arms, her husband round the neck, like a ferocious
mastiff. It's a' safe noo, thinks I. He may try and shake her aff if he
can. The thing was just as impossible as it was for Prometheus to shake
the king o' birds frae his liver. He shook, pulled, rugged, tore,
kicked, and pinched her. Her grasp waxed firmer and firmer. She stuck
like a horse leech, whase blude rins fair through, it. Guid sense micht
hae dictated submission, whar the evil was clearly beyond mortal remeid.
But the foolish man struggled--vain, trebly vain, foolish, insane
effort! O pithless man! The struggle continued. He wrestled, and blew,
and puffed. She grasped him closer and mair close. At first his struggle
was for liberty; but now it turned mair serious; it seemed to be for
life. Her grip had extended to his neck, and, choking up his windpipe,
impeded respiration. His face waxed blue. His tongue began to jut out,
as if inclined to hang. Foam came frae his mouth. His een were turned
up, to show their whites. A hollow _raucitus_, or rattle, began in his
throat.

"Save the man frae strangulation," cried Gilbert Walker.

"Haud the young Kennedy, May," said I, throwin the bairn into her arms,
squallin wi' a great noise.

I flew to save the man's life. Gettin behind him, I unclosed the woman's
hands, which were fixed as if in the grasp o' death. The moment she was
deprived of her hold, she fell senseless on the ground, and Kennedy,
staggerin back, leaned on the wa', and tried to recover himsel. In a
short time, the puir woman cam to hersel.

"Hugh, dearest Hugh," she cried, strugglin to get to her knees, "can it
be possible that ye hae tried to desert me for anither--me, wha left,
for yer sake, my dotin father, my hame, an' a' the comforts o' hame; the
bonny holms o' Sunnybrae, whar we courted sae lang in secret; the scene
o' my youthfu' pleasures and my maiden loves--for ay and for ever?"

"I know you not, woman," said he, doggedly.

"Dinna ken yer wedded wife!" cried she, weepin, an' searchin for her
marriage-lines, which she held up in her hand. "Dinna ken Lucy Graeme,
dochter o' Arthur Graeme, o' Sunnybrae, whase heart I hae broken by
marryin you! Mercy on me! Does he wha, by thae holy bands, is bound to
cherish and protect me, his wedded wife, deny a' knowledge o' me? This
is the last, the warst, the maist unbearable o' a' the ills ye hae
brought on my puir head. That bairn," (risin an' seizin the child,)
"that babe, that hadna seen the licht o' day when ye cowardly deserted
its houseless, starvin mither looks to ye as its father, and mocks your
cauld, cruel ignorance wi' its knowledge--got, dootless, frae heaven--o'
its natural protector. O maiden, maiden," (lookin to May Walker,) "tak
example by me. Yer hame here is warm and comfortable. Dinna leave it,
dinna renounce it, but for ane ye ken, in heart, soul, name, pedigree,
and means. He wha has ruined me wad hae trebly ruined ye; for he has
taen frae me only my hame, my daily bread, and peace--he wad hae taen
frae ye a' thae, and, ayont them a', your honour."

Kennedy had seen it was a' up wi' him before the termination o' his
wife's speech, for his ee began to play about the door o' the room. I
watched him, but he was an over-match for me. Runnin forward, he jostled
me to a side--I stumbled and fell--the women screamed--and, before I got
up, he had completely and finally bolted. The puir woman, wi' her bairn
still in her arms, shrieked as she saw him depart, perhaps for ever. Nae
power wad restrain her--she flew, wi' a' the force o' her feeble limbs,
after her faithless husband, and we never heard o' them mair.

Gratitude for this return, on my part, o' guid for ill, in a short time
completely changed the heart o' May Walker. I had saved her frae ruin.
We were wed. I may some day write the fate o' my first-born, for that
famous wark, "The Border Tales."




SAYINGS AND DOINGS OF PETER PATERSON.


An every-day biographer would have said that Peter Paterson was the son
of pious and respectable parents; and he would have been perfectly
right, for the parents of Peter were both pious and respectable. I say
they were pious; for, every week-night, as duly as the clock struck
nine, and every Sabbath morning and evening, Robin Paterson and his wife
Betty called in their man-servant and their maid-servant into what
now-a-days would be styled their parlour, and there the voice of Psalms,
of reading the Word, and of prayer, was heard; and, moreover, their
actions corresponded with their profession. I say also they were
respectable; for Robin Paterson rented a farm called Foxlaw, consisting
of fifty acres, in which, as his neighbours said, he was "making money
like hay"--for land was not three or four guineas an acre in those days.
Foxlaw was in the south of Scotland, upon the east coast, and the
farm-house stood on the brae-side, within a stone-throw of the sea. The
brae on which Foxlaw stood, formed one side of a sort of deep valley or
ravine; and at the foot of the valley was a small village, with a few
respectable-looking houses scattered here and there in its
neighbourhood. Robin and Betty had been married about six years, when,
to the exceeding joy of both, Betty brought forth a son, and they called
his name Peter--that having been the Christian name of his paternal
grandfather. Before he was six weeks old, his mother protested he would
be a prodigy; and was heard to say--"See, Robin, man, see!--did ye ever
ken the like o' that?--see how he laughs!--he kens his name already!"
And Betty and Robin kissed their child alternately, and gloried in his
smile. "O Betty," said Robin--for Robin was no common man--"that smile
was the first spark o' reason glimmerin' in our infant's soul!--Thank
God! the bairn has a' its faculties." At five years old Peter was sent
to the village school, where he continued till he was fifteen; and there
he was more distinguished as a pugilist than as a book-worm.
Nevertheless, Peter contrived almost invariably to remain dux of his
class; but this was accounted for by the fact, that, when he made a
blunder, no one dared to _trap_ him, well knowing that if they had done
so, the moment they were out of school, Peter would have made his
knuckles acquainted with their seat of superior knowledge. On occasions
when he was fairly puzzled, and the teacher would put the question to a
boy lower in the class, the latter would tremble and stammer, and look
now at his teacher, and now squint at Peter, stammer again, and again
look from the one to the other, while Peter would draw his book before
his face, and, giving a scowling glent at the stammerer, would give a
sort of significant nod to his fist suddenly clenched upon the open
page; and when the teacher stamped his foot, and cried, "Speak, sir!"
the trembler whimpered, "I daurna, sir." "Ye daurna!" the enraged
dominie would cry--"Why?" "Because--because, sir," was slowly stammered
out--"Peter Paterson wud _lick_ me!" Then would the incensed
disciplinarian spring upon Peter; and, grasping him by the collar, whirl
his _taws_ in the air, and bring them with his utmost strength round the
back, sides, and limbs of Peter; but Peter was like a rock, and his eyes
more stubborn than a rock; and, in the midst of all, he gazed in the
face of his tormentor with a look of imperturbable defiance and
contempt. Notwithstanding this course of education, when Peter had
attained the age of fifteen, the village instructor found it necessary
to call at Foxlaw, and inform Robin Paterson that he could do no more
for his son, adding that--"He was fit for the college; and, though he
said it, that should not say it, as fit for it as any student that ever
entered it." These were glad tidings to a father's heart, and Robin
treated the dominie to an extra tumbler. He, however, thought his son
was young enough for the college--"We'll wait anither year," said he;
"an' Peter can be improvin' himsel at hame; an' ye can gie a look in,
Maister, an' advise us to ony kind o' books ye think he should
hae--we'll aye be happy to see ye, for ye've done yer duty to him, I'll
say that for ye."

So another year passed on, and Peter remained about the farm. He was now
sometimes seen with a book in his hand; but more frequently with a gun,
and more frequently still with a fishing rod. At the end of the twelve
months, Peter positively refused to go to the college. His mother
entreated, and his father threatened; but it was labour in vain. At
last--"It's o' nae use striving against the stream," said Robin--"ye
canna gather berries off a whin bush. Let him e'en tak his ain way, an'
he may live to rue it." Thus, Peter went on reading, shooting, fishing,
and working about the farm, till he was eighteen. He now began to
receive a number of epithets from his neighbours. His old schoolmaster
called him "Ne'er-do-weel Peter;" but the dominie was a mere proser; he
knew the moods and tenses of a Greek or Latin sentence, but he was
incapable of appreciating its soul. Some called him "Poetical Peter,"
and a few "Prosing Peter;" but the latter were downright bargain-making,
pounds-shillings-and-pence men, whose souls were dead to

    "The music of sweet sounds;"

and sensible only of the jink of the coin of the realm. Others called
him "_Daft_ Peter," for he was the leader of frolic, fun, and harmless
mischief; but now the maidens of the village also began to call him
"Handsome Peter." Yet he of whom they thus spoke would wander for hours
alone by the beach of the solitary sea, gazing upon its army of waves
warring with the winds, till his very spirit took part in the conflict;
or he could look till his eyes got blind on its unruffled bosom, when
the morning sun flung over it, from the horizon to the shore, a flash of
glory; or, when the moon-beams, like a million torches shooting from the
deep, danced on its undulating billows--then would he stand, like an
entranced being, listening to its everlasting anthem, while his soul,
awed and elevated by the magnificence of the scene, worshipped God, the
Creator of the great sea. With all his reputed wildness, and with all
his thoughtlessness, even on the sea-banks, by the wood, and by the
brae-side, Peter found voiceless, yet to him eloquent companions. To him
the tender primrose was sacred as the first blush of opening womanhood;
and he would converse with the lowly daisy, till his gaze seemed to draw
out the very soul of the

    "Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flower."

It, however, grieved his mother's spirit to see him, as she said, "Just
idling awa his time, and leaving his learning at his heels." His father
now said--"Let him just tak his fling an' find his ain weight--an he'll
either mak a spoon or spoil a horn, or my name's no Robin Paterson."
But, from Peter's infancy, it had been his mother's ambition and desire
to live to see him, as she expressed it, "wag his pow in a poopit," or,
at any rate, to see him a gentleman. On one occasion, therefore, when
Robin was at Dunse hiring-market, the schoolmaster having called on his
old pupil, "Ne'er-do-weel Peter," the two entered into a controversy in
the presence of Peter's mother, and, in the course of the discussion,
the man of letters was dumfoundered by the fluency and force of the
arguments of his young antagonist. Silent tears of exultation stole into
Betty's eyes, to hear, as she said, "her bairn expawtiate equal--ay,
superior to ony minister;" and no sooner had the teacher withdrawn,
than, fixing her admiring eyes on her son, she said--

"O Peter, man, what a delivery ye hae?--an' sae fu' o' the dictioner'!
Troth but ye wad cut a figure i' the poopit! There wad nae dust gather
on your cushion--there wad be nae sleeping, nodding, or snoring, while
my Peter was preachin'. An', oh, hinny, but ye will mak me a glad
mother, if ye'll consent to gang to the college! Ye wadna be lang o'
gettin a kirk, my man--I can tell ye that; an', if ye'll only consent to
gang, ye shanna want pocket-money that your faither kens naething
about--my bairn shall appear wi' the best o' them. For syne ever ye was
an infant, it has aye been my hope an' my prayer, Peter, to see ye a
minister; an' I ne'er sent a hunder eggs or a basket o' butter to the
market, but Peter's pennies were aye laid aside, to keep his pockets at
the college."

Peter was, in the main, a most dutiful and most affectionate son; but on
this point he was strangely stubborn; and he replied--

"Wheesht, mother! wheesht!--nae mair aboot it."

"Nae mair aboot it, bairn!" said she; "but I maun say mair aboot it.
Man! wad ye fling awa yer learnin' at a dyke-side, an' yer talents at a
pleugh-tail? Wad ye just break yer mother an' faither's heart? O Peter!
Peter, man, hae ye nae spirit ava?--What is yer objection?"

"Weel, keep your temper, mother," said he, "an' I'll tell ye
candidly:--The kirk puts a strait-jacket on a body that I wadna hae
elbow-room in!"

"What do ye mean, ye graceless?" added she, in a voice betokening a sort
of horror.

"Oh, naething particular; only, for example, sic bits o' scandal as--the
Reverend Peter Paterson was called before the session for shooting on
his ain glebe--or, the Reverend Peter Paterson was summoned before the
presbytery for leistering a salmon at the foot o' Tammy the Miller's
dam--or, the Reverend Peter Paterson was ordered to appear before the
General Assembly for clappin' Tammy the Miller's servant lassie on the
shouther, an' ca'ing her a winsome quean--or"----

"Or!"--exclaimed his impatient and mortified mother--"Oh, ye forward an'
profane rascal ye! how daur ye speak in sic a strain--or wad ye be
guilty o' sic unministerial conduct?--wad ye disgrace _the coat_ by sic
ungodly behaviour?"

"There's nae sayin', mother," added he; "but dinna be angry--I'm sure,
if I did either shoot, leister, or clap a bonny lassie on the shouther,
ye wadna think it unlike your son Peter."

"Weel, weel," said the good-natured matron, softened down by his manner;
"it's true your faither says--it's nae use striving against the stream;
an' a' gifts arena graces. But if ye'll no be a minister, what will ye
be? Wad ye no like to be a writer or an advocate?"

"Worse an' worse, mother! I wad rather beg than live on the misery of
another."

"Then, callant," added Betty, shaking her head, and sighing as she
spoke--"I dinna ken what we'll do wi' ye. Will ye no be a doctor?"

"What!" said Peter, laughing, and assuming a theatrical attitude--"an
apothecary!--make an apothecary of _me_, and cramp _my_ genius over a
pestle and mortar? No, mother--I'll be a farmer, like my father before
me."

"Oh, ye ne'er-do-weel, as your maister ca's ye!" said his mother, as she
rose and left the room in a passion; "ye'll be a play-actor yet, an'
that will be baith seen an' heard tell o', an' bring disgrace on us a'."

Peter was, however, spell-bound to the vicinity of Foxlaw by stronger
ties than an aversion to the college or a love for farming. He was about
seventeen, when a Mr Graham, with his wife and family, came and took up
his residence in one of the respectable-looking houses adjacent to the
village. Mr Graham had been a seafaring man--it was reported the master
of a small privateer; and in that capacity had acquired, as the
villagers expressed it, "a sort o' money." He had a family of several
children, but the eldest was a lovely girl called Ann, about the same
age as Peter Paterson. Mr Graham was fond of his gun, and so was Peter;
they frequently met on the neighbouring moors, and an intimacy sprang up
between them. The old sailor also began to love his young companion;
for, though a landsman, he had a bold, reckless spirit: he could row,
reef, and steer, and swim like an amphibious animal; and, though only a
boy, he was acknowledged to be the only boxer, and the best leaper,
runner, and wrestler in the country side--moreover, he could listen to a
long yarn, and, over a glass of old grog, toss off his heel-taps like a
man; and these qualifications drawing the heart of the skipper towards
him, he invited him to his house. But here a change came over the spirit
of reckless, roving Peter. He saw Ann; and an invisible hand seemed
suddenly to strike him on the breast. His heart leaped to his throat.
His eyes were riveted. He felt as if a flame passed over his face. Mr
Graham told his longest stories, and Peter sat like a simpleton--hearing
every word, indeed, but not comprehending a single sentence. His entire
soul was fixed on the fair being before him--every sense was swallowed
up in sight. Ringlets of a shining brown were parted over her fair brow;
but Peter could not have told their colour--her soft blue eyes
occasionally met his, but he noted not their hue. He beheld her lovely
face, where the rose and the lily were blended--he saw the almost
sculptured elegance of her form; yet it was neither on these--on the
shining ringlets, nor the soft blue eyes--that his spirit dwelt; but on
Ann Graham, their gentle possessor. He felt as he had never felt before;
and he knew not wherefore.

Next day, and every day, found Peter at the house of Captain Graham; and
often as love's own hour threw its grey mantle over the hills, he was to
be seen wandering with the gentle Ann by his side, on the sea-banks, by
the beach, and in the unfrequented paths. Again and again, when no eye
saw them, and when no ear heard them, he had revealed the fulness of his
heart before her; and, in the rapture of the moment, sealed his truth
upon her lips; while she, with affection too deep for words, would fling
her arm across his shoulder, and hide her face on his breast to conceal
the tear of joy and of love.

His parents looked upon Ann as their future daughter; and, with Peter,
the course of "true love ran smooth." A farm had been taken in an
adjoining parish, on which he was to enter at the following Whitsunday;
and, on taking possession of his farm, Ann Graham was to become his
bride. Never did exile long more ardently for his native land, than did
Peter Paterson for the coming Whitsunday; but, ere it came, the poetical
truth was verified, that

    "The course of true love _never did_ run smooth."

Contiguous to the farm of Foxlaw, lay the estate of one Laird Horslie--a
young gentleman but little known in the neighbourhood; for he had
visited it but once, and that only for a few weeks, since it came into
his possession. All that was known of him was, that he wrote J.P. after
his name--that he was a hard landlord, and had the reputation of
spending his rents faster than his factor could forward them to him. To
him belonged the farm that had been taken for Peter; and it so happened,
that, before the Whitsunday which was to make the latter happy arrived,
the laird paid a second visit to his estate. At the kirk, on the Sunday,
all eyes were fixed on the young laird. Captain Graham was one of his
tenants, and occupied a pew immediately behind the square seat of the
squire. But, while all eyes were fixed upon Laird Horslie, he turned his
back upon the minister, and gazed, and gazed again, upon the lovely
countenance of Ann Graham. All the congregation observed it. Ann blushed
and hung her head; but the young squire, with the privilege of a man of
property, gazed on unabashed. What was observed by all the rest of the
congregation, was not unobserved by Peter. Many, with a questionable
expression in their eyes, turned them from the laird, and fixed them
upon him. Peter observed this also and his soul was wroth. His face
glowed like a furnace; he stood up in his seat, and his teeth were
clenched together. His fist was once or twice observed to be clenched
also; and he continued scowling on the laird, wishing in his heart for
ability to annihilate him with a glance.

Next day, the squire called upon the old skipper, and he praised the
beauty of Ann in her own presence, and in the presence of her parents.
But there was nothing particular in this; for he called upon all his
tenants, he chatted with them, tasted their bottle, paid compliments to
their daughters, and declared that their sons did honour to

    "Scotland's glorious peasantry."

Many began to say, that the laird was "a nice young gentleman"--that he
had been "wickedly misca'ed;" and the factor "got the wyte o' a'." His
visits to Mr Graham's cottage, however, were continued day after day;
and his attentions to Ann became more and more marked. A keen sportsman
himself, he was the implacable enemy of poachers, and had strictly
prohibited shooting on his estate; but, to the old skipper, the
privilege was granted of shooting when and where he pleased. Instead,
therefore, of seeing Peter Paterson and the old seaman in the fields
together, it was no uncommon thing to meet the skipper and the squire.
The affection of the former, indeed, had wonderfully cooled towards his
intended son-in-law. Peter saw and felt this; and the visits of the
squire were wormwood to his spirit. If they did not make him jealous,
they rendered him impatient, impetuous, miserable.

He was wandering alone upon the shore, at the hour which Hogg calls
"between the gloamin' and the mirk," in one of those impatient,
impetuous, and unhappy moods, when he resolved not to live in a state of
torture and anxiety until Whitsunday, but to have the sacred knot tied
at once.

Having so determined, Peter turned towards Graham's cottage. He had not
proceeded far, when he observed a figure gliding before him on the
footpath, leading from the village to the cottage. Darkness was
gathering fast, but he at once recognised the form before him to be that
of his own Ann. She was not a hundred yards before him, and he hastened
forward to overtake her; but, as the proverb has it, there is much
between the cup and the lip. A part of the footpath ran through a young
plantation, and this plantation Ann Graham was just entering, when
observed by Peter. He also had entered the wood, when his progress was
arrested for a moment by the sudden sound of voices. It was Ann's voice,
and it reached his ear in tones of anger and reproach; and these were
tones so new to him, as proceeding from one whom he regarded as all
gentleness and love, that he stood involuntarily still. The words he
could not distinguish; but, after halting for an instant, he pushed
softly but hastily forward, and heard the voice of the young laird
reply--

"A rose-bud in a fury, by the goddesses!--Nay, frown not, fairest,"
continued he, throwing his arm around her, and adding--

    "What pity that so delicate a form
    Should be devoted to the rude embrace
    Of some indecent clown!"

Peter heard this, and muttered an oath or an ejaculation which we will
not write.

"Sir," said Ann, indignantly, and struggling as she spoke, "if you have
the fortune of a gentleman, have, at least, the decency of a man."

"Nay, sweetest; but you, having the beauty of an angel, have the heart
of a woman." And he attempted to kiss her cheek.

"Laird Horslie!" shouted Peter, as if an earthquake had burst at the
heels of the squire--"hands off!--I say, hands off!"

Now, Peter did not exactly suit the action to the word; for, while he
yet exclaimed "hands off!" he, with both hands, clutched the laird by
the collar, and hurling him across the path, caused him to roll like a
ball at the foot of a tree.

"Fellow!" exclaimed Horslie, furiously, rising on his knee, and rubbing
his sores--

"Fellow!" interrupted Peter--"confound ye, sir, dinna _fellow_ me, or
there'll be _fellin_' in the way. You can keep yer farm, and be hanged
to ye; and let me tell ye, sir, if ye were ten thousand lairds, if ye
dared to lay yer ill-faur'd lips on a sweetheart o' mine, I wad twist
yer neck about like a turnip-shaw! Come awa, Annie, love," added he,
tenderly, "and be thankfu' I cam in the way."

Before they entered the house, he had obtained her consent to their
immediate union; but the acquiescence of the old skipper was still
wanting; and when Peter made known his wishes to him--

"Belay," cried the old boy; "not so fast, Master Peter; a craft such as
my girl is worth a longer run, lad. Time enough to take her in tow, when
you've a harbour to moor her in, Master Peter. There may be other
cutters upon the coast, too, that will give you a race for her, and that
have got what I call _shot_ in their lockers. So you can take in a reef,
my lad; and, if you don't like it, why--helm about--that's all."

"Captain Graham," said Peter, proudly and earnestly, "I both understand
and feel your remarks; and, but for Ann's sake, I would resent them
also. But, sir, you are a faither--you are an affectionate one--dinna be
a deluded one. By a side-wind, ye hae flung my poverty in my teeth; but,
sir, if I hae poverty, and Laird Horslie riches, I hae loved yer
dochter as a man--he seeks to destroy her like a villain."

"'Vast, Peter, 'vast!" cried the old man; "mind I am Ann's father--tell
me what you mean."

"I mean, sir, that ye hae been hoodwinked," added the other--"that ye
hae been flung aff yer guard, and led to the precipice o' the deep, dark
sea o' destruction an' disgrace; that a villain has hovered round yer
house, like a hawk round a wood-pigeon's nest, waiting an opportunity to
destroy yer peace for ever! Sir, to use a phrase o' yer ain, wad ye
behold yer dochter driven a ruined wreck upon the world's bleak shore,
the discarded property o' the lord o' the manor? If ye doubt me, as to
the rascal's intentions, ask Ann hersel."

"'Sdeath, Peter, man!" cried the old tar, "do you say that the fellow
has tried to make a marine of me?--that a lubber has got the weathergage
of Bill Graham? Call in Ann."

Ann entered the room where her father and Peter sat.

"Ann, love," said the old man, "I know you are a true girl; you know
Squire Horslie, and you know he comes here for you; now, tell me at
once, dear--I say, tell me what you think of him?"

"I think," replied she, bursting into tears--"I _know_ he is a villain!"

"You know it!" returned he; "blow me, have I harboured a shark! What!
the salt water in my girl's eyes, too! If I thought he had whispered a
word in your ear, but the thing that was honourable--hang me! I would
warm the puppy's back with a round dozen with my own hand."

"You have to thank Peter," said she, sobbing, "for rescuing me to-night
from his unmanly rudeness."

"What! saved you from his rudeness!--you didn't tell me that, Peter;
well, well, my lad, you have saved an old sailor from being drifted on
a rock. There's my hand--forgive me--get Ann's, and God bless you!"

Within three weeks, all was in readiness for the wedding. At Foxlaw, old
Betty was, as she said, up to the elbows in preparation, and Robin was
almost as happy as his son; for Ann was loved by every one. It was
Monday evening, and the wedding was to take place next day. Peter was
too much of a sportsman not to have game upon the table at his marriage
feast. He took his gun, and went among the fields. He had traversed over
the fifty acres of Foxlaw in vain, when, in an adjoining field, the
property of his rival, he perceived a full-grown hare holding his
circuitous gambols. It was a noble-looking animal. The temptation was
irresistible. He took aim; and the next moment bounded over the low
hedge. He was a dead shot; and he had taken up the prize, and was
holding it, surveying it before him, when Mr Horslie and his gamekeeper
sprang upon him, and, ere he was aware, their hands were on his breast.
Angry words passed, and words rose to blows. Peter threw the hare over
his shoulder, and left the squire and his gamekeeper to console each
other on the ground. He returned home; but nothing said he of his second
adventure with Laird Horslie.

The wedding-day dawned; and, though the village had no bells to ring,
there were not wanting demonstrations of rejoicing; and, as the marriage
party passed through its little street to the manse, children shouted,
waved ribbons, and smiled, and every fowling-piece and pistol in the
place sent forth a joyful noise; yea, the village Vulcan himself, as
they passed his smithy, stood with a rod of red-hot iron in his hand,
and having his stithies arranged before him like a battery, and charged
with powder, saluted them with a rustic but hearty _feu d'joie_. There
was not a countenance but seemed to bless them. Peter was the very
picture of manly joy--Ann of modesty and love. They were within five
yards of the manse, where the minister waited to pronounce over them the
charmed and holy words, when Squire Horslie's gamekeeper and two
constables intercepted the party.

"You are our prisoner," said one of the latter, producing his warrant,
and laying his hand upon Peter.

Peter's cheek grew pale; he stood silent and motionless, as if palsy had
smitten his very soul. Ann uttered a short, sudden scream of despair,
and fell senseless at the feet of the best-man. Her cry of agony
recalled the bridegroom to instant consciousness; he started round--he
raised her in his arms, he held her to his bosom. "Ann!--my ain Ann!" he
cried; "look up--oh, look up, dear! It is me, Ann--they canna, they
daurna harm me."

Confusion and dismay took possession of the whole party.

"What is the meaning o' this, sirs?" said Robin Paterson, his voice
half-choked with agitation; "what has my son done, that ye choose sic an
untimeous hour to bring a warrant against him?"

"He has done, old boy, what will give him employment for seven years,"
said the gamekeeper, insolently. "Constables, do your duty."

"Sirs," said Robin, as they again attempted to lay hands upon his son,
"I am sure he has been guilty o' nae crime--leave us noo, an' whatever
be his offence, I, his faither, will be answerable for his forthcoming
to the last penny in my possession."

"And I will be bail to the same amount, master constables," said the old
skipper; "for, blow me, d'ye see, if there an't black work at the bottom
o' this, and somebody shall hear about it, that's all."

Consciousness had returned to the fair bride. She threw her arms around
Peter's neck--"They shall not--no, they shall not take you from me!"
exclaimed she.

"No, no, dear," returned he; "dinna put yersel' about."

The minister had come out of the manse, and offered to join the old men
as security for Peter's appearance on the following day.

"To the devil with your bail!--you are no justices, master constables,"
replied the inexorable gamekeeper--"seize him instantly."

"Slave!" cried Peter, raising his hand and grasping the other by the
throat.

"Help! help, in the king's name!" shouted the provincial executors of
the law, each seizing him by the arm.

"Be quiet, Peter, my man," said his father, clapping his shoulder, and a
tear stole down his cheek as he spoke, "dinna mak bad worse."

"A rescue, by Harry!--a rescue!" cried the old skipper.

"No, no," returned Peter--"no rescue; if it cam to that, I wad need nae
assistance. Quit my arms, sirs, and I'll accompany ye in peace. Ann,
love--fareweel the noo, an' Heaven bless you, dearest!--but dinna greet,
hinny--dinna greet!" And he pressed his lips to hers. "Help her,
faither--help her," added he; "see her hame, and try to comfort her."

The old man placed his arm tenderly round her waist--she clung closer to
her bridegroom's neck; and, as they gently lifted up her hands, she
uttered a heart-piercing, and it seemed, a heart-broken scream, that
rang down the valley like the wail o' desolation. Her head dropped upon
her bosom. Peter hastily raised her hand to his lips; then turning to
the myrmidons of the law, said sternly--"I am ready, sirs; lead me where
you will."

I might describe to you the fears, the anguish, and the agony of Peter's
mother, as, from the door of Foxlaw, she beheld the bridal party return
to the village. "Bless me, are they back already!--can anything hae
happened the minister?" was her first exclamation; but she saw the
villagers collecting around them in silent crowds; she beheld the women
raising their hands, as if stricken with dismay; the joy that had
greeted them a few minutes before was dead, and the very children seemed
to follow in sorrow. "Oh, bairn!" said she to the serving maid, who
stood beside her, "saw ye e'er the like o' yon? Rin doun an' see what's
happened; for my knees are sinking under me." The next moment she beheld
her husband and Captain Graham supporting the unwedded bride in their
arms. They approached not to Foxlaw, but turned to the direction of the
Captain's cottage. A dimness came over the mother's eyes--for a moment
they sought her son, but found him not. "Gracious Heaven!" she cried,
wringing her hands, "what's this come owre us!" She rushed forward--the
valley, the village, and the joyless bridal party, floated round before
her--her heart was sick with agony, and she fell with her face upon the
earth.

The next day found Peter in Greenlaw jail. He had not only been detected
in the act of poaching; but a violent assault, as it was termed, against
one of his Majesty's Justices of the Peace, was proved against him; and,
before his father or his friends could visit him, he was hurried to
Leith, and placed on board a frigate about to sail from the Roads. He
was made of sterner stuff than to sink beneath oppression; and, though
his heart yearned for the mourning bride from whose arms he had been
torn, and he found it hard to brook the imperious commands and even
insolence of men "dressed in a little brief authority;" yet, as the
awkwardness of a landsman began to wear away, and the tumult of his
feelings to subside, his situation became less disagreeable; and, before
twelve months had passed, Peter Paterson was a favourite with every one
on board.

At the time we speak of, some French privateers had annoyed the fishing
smacks employed in carrying salmon from Scotland to London; and the
frigate on board of which Peter had been sent, was cruising to and fro
in quest of them. One beautiful summer evening, when the blue sea was
smooth as a mirror, the winds seemed dead, and the very clouds slept
motionless beneath the blue sky, the frigate lay becalmed in a sort of
bay within two miles of the shore. Well was that shore known to Peter;
he was familiar with the appearance of every rock--with the form of
every hill--with the situation of every tree--with the name of every
house and its inhabitants. It was the place of his birth; and, before
him, the setting sun shed its evening rays upon his father's house, and
upon the habitation of her whom he regarded as his wife. He leaned
anxiously over the proud bulwarks of the vessel, gazing till his
imprisoned soul seemed ready to burst from his body, and mingle with the
objects it loved. The sun sank behind the hills--the big tears swelled
in his eyes--indistinctness gathered over the shore--he wrung his hands
in silence and in bitterness. He muttered in agony the name of his
parents, and the name of her he loved. He felt himself a slave. He
dashed his hand against his forehead--"O Heaven!" he exclaimed aloud,
"thy curse upon mine enemy!"

"Paterson!" cried an officer, who had observed him, and overheard his
exclamation; "are you mad? See him below," continued he, addressing
another seaman; "the fellow appears deranged."

"I am not mad, your honour," returned Peter, though his look and his
late manner almost belied his words; and, briefly telling his story, he
begged permission to go on shore. The frigate, however, was considered
as his prison, and his place of punishment; when sent on board, he had
been described as "a dangerous character"--his recent bitter prayer or
imprecation went far in confirmation of that description; and his
earnest request was refused.

Darkness silently stretched its dull curtain over earth and sea--still
the wind slept as a cradled child, and the evening star, like a gem on
the bosom of night, threw its pale light upon the land. Peter had again
crept upon the deck; and, while the tears yet glistened in his eyes, he
gazed eagerly towards the shore, and on the star of hope and of love. It
seemed like a lamp from Heaven suspended over his father's house--the
home of his heart, and of his childhood. He felt as though it at once
invited him to the scene of his young affections, and lighted the way.
For the first time, the gathering tears rolled down his cheeks. He bent
his knees--he clasped his hands in silent prayer--one desperate
resolution had taken possession of his soul; and the next moment he
descended gently into the silent sea. He dived by the side of the
vessel; and, ascending at the distance of about twenty yards, strained
every nerve for the shore.

It was about day-dawn, when Robin Paterson and his wife were aroused by
the loud barking of their farm-dog; but the sound suddenly ceased, as if
the watch-dog were familiar with the intruder; and a gentle tapping was
heard at the window of the room where they slept.

"Wha's there?" inquired Betty.

"A friend--an old friend," was replied in a low, and seemingly disguised
voice.

But there was no disguising the voice of a lost son to a mother's ear.

"Robin! Robin!" she exclaimed--"it is _him_!--Oh, it is
_him_!--Peter!--my bairn!"

In an instant, the door flew open, and Peter Paterson stood on his
parents' hearth, with their arms around his neck, while their tears were
mingled together.

After a brief space wasted in hurried exclamations, inquiries, and tears
of joy and surprise--"Come, hinny," said the anxious mother, "let me get
ye changed, for ye're wet through and through. Oh, come, my man, and
we'll hear a' thing by and by--or ye'll get yer death o' cauld, for
ye're droukit into the very skin. But, preserve us, bairn! ye hae
neither a hat to yer head, nor a coat to yer back! O Peter, hinny, what
is't--what's the matter?--tell me what's the meaning o't."

"O mother, do not ask me!--I have but a few minutes to stop. Faither, ye
can understand me--I maun go back to the ship again; if I stay, they
will be after me."

"O Peter!--Peter, man!" exclaimed Robin, weeping as he spoke, and
pressing his son's hand between his--"what's this o't!--yes, yes, yer
faither understands ye! But is it no possible to hide?"

"No, no, faither!" replied he--"dinna think o't."

"O bairn!" cried Betty, "what is't ye mean? Wad ye leave yer mother
again? Oh! if ye kenned what I've suffered for yer sake, ye wadna speak
o't."

"O mother!" exclaimed Peter, dashing his hand before his face, "this is
worse than death! But I must!--I must go back, or they would tear me
from you. Yet, before I do go, I would see my poor Ann."

"Ye shall see her--see her presently," cried Betty; "and baith her and
yer mother will gang doon on oor knees to ye, Peter, if ye'll promise no
to leave us."

"Haste ye, then, Betty," said Robin, anxiously; "rin awa owre to Mr
Graham's as quick as ye can; for, though ye no understand it, I see
there's nae chance for poor Peter but to tak horse for it before the
sun's up."

Hastily the weeping mother flew towards Mr Graham's. Robin, in spite of
the remonstrances of his son, went out to saddle a horse on which he
might fly. The sun had not yet risen when Peter beheld his mother, his
betrothed bride, and her father, hurrying towards Foxlaw. He rushed out
to meet them--to press the object of his love to his heart. They
met--their arms were flung around each other.

A loud huzza burst from a rising ground between them and the beach. The
old skipper started round. He beheld a boat's crew of the frigate, with
their pistols levelled towards himself, his unhappy daughter, and her
hapless bridegroom!

"O Ann, woman!" exclaimed Peter, wildly, "this is terrible! it is mair
than flesh and blood can stand!"

"Peter! O Peter!" cried the wretched girl, clinging around him.

The party from the frigate approached them. Even their hearts were
touched.

"From my soul, I feel for you, Paterson," said the lieutenant commanding
them; "and I am sorry to see these old people and that lovely girl in
distress; but you know I must do my duty, lad."

"O sir! sir!" cried his mother, wringing her hands, and addressing the
lieutenant, "if ye hae a drap o' compassion in yer heart, spare my puir
bairn! O sir! I implore ye, as ye wad expect mercy here or hereafter,
dinna tear him frae the door o' the mother that bore him."

"Good woman," replied the officer, "your son must go with us; but I
shall do all that I can to render his punishment as light as possible."

Ann uttered a shriek of horror.

"Punishment!" exclaimed Betty, grasping the arm of the lieutenant--"O,
sir, what do ye mean by punishment? Surely, though your heart was harder
than a nether mill-stane, ye couldna be sae cruel as to hurt my bairn
for comin to see his ain mother?"

"Sir," said Robin, "my son never intended to rin awa frae your ship. He
told me he was gaun to return immediately--I assure ye o' that. But,
sir, if ye could only leave him, and if siller can do anything in the
case, ye shall hae the savings o' thirty years, an' a faither's blessing
into the bargain."

"Oh, ay, sir!" cried his mother; "ye shall hae the last penny we hae i'
the world--ye shall hae the very stock of the farm, if ye'll leave my
bairn!"

The officer shook his head. The sailors attempted to pinion Peter's
arms.

"'Vast there, shipmates! 'vast!" said Peter, sorrowfully; "there is no
need for that; had I intended to run for it, you would not have found me
here. Ann, love"----he added--his heart was too full for words--he
groaned--he pressed his teeth upon his lip--he wrung her hand. He
grasped the hands of his parents and of Mr Graham--he burst into tears,
and in bitterness exclaimed, "Farewell!" I will not describe the painful
scene, nor paint the silent agony of the father, the heart-rending
lamentations of the bereaved mother, nor the tears and anguish of the
miserable maiden who refused to be comforted.

Peter was taken to the boat, and conveyed again to the frigate. His
officer sat in judgment upon his offence, and Peter stood as a culprit
before them. He begged to be heard in his defence, and his prayer was
granted.

"I know, your honours," said Peter, "that I have been guilty of a breach
of discipline; but I deny that I had any intention of running from the
service. Who amongst you, that has a heart to feel, would not, under the
same circumstances, have acted as I did? Who that has been torn from a
faither's hearth, would not brave danger, or death itself, again to take
a faither by the hand, or to fling his arms around a mother's neck? Or
who that has plighted his heart and his troth to one that is dearer than
life, would not risk life for her sake? Gentlemen, it becomes not man to
punish an act which Heaven has not registered as a crime. You may flog,
torture, and degrade me--I do not supplicate for mercy--but will
degradation prompt me to serve my king more faithfully? I know you must
do your duty, but I know also you will do it as British officers--as men
who have hearts to feel."

During this address, Peter had laid aside his wonted provincial accent.
There was an evident leaning amongst the officers in his favour, and
the punishment they awarded him was a few days' confinement.

It was during the second war between Britain and the United States. The
frigate was ordered to the coast of Newfoundland. She had cruised upon
the station about three months; and, during that time, as the seamen
said--"not a lubber of the enemy had dared to show his face--there was
no _life_ going at all;" and they were becoming impatient for a friendly
set-to with their brother Jonathan. It was Peter's watch at the
mast-head. "A sail!--a Yankee!" shouted Peter. A sort of wild hurra
burst from his comrades on the deck. An officer hastily ascended the
rigging to ascertain the fact. "All's right," he cried--"a sixty-gun
ship, at least."

"Clear the deck, my boys," cried the commander; "get the guns in
order--active--be steady, and down upon her."

Within ten minutes, all was in readiness for action.

"Then down on the deck, my lads," cried the captain; "not a word amongst
you--give them a British welcome."

The brave fellows silently knelt by the guns, glowing with impatience
for the command to be given to open their fire upon the enemy. The
Americans seemed nothing loath to meet them half-way. Like winged
engines of death rushing to shower destruction on each other, the proud
vessels came within gunshot. The American opened the first fire upon the
frigate. Several shot had passed over her, and some of the crew were
already wounded. Still no word escaped from the lips of the British
commander. At length he spoke a word in the ear of the man at the helm,
and the next moment the frigate was brought across the bow of the enemy.
"Now, my lads," cried the captain, "now give them it." An earthquake
seemed to burst at his words--the American was raked fore and aft, and
the dead and dying, and limbs of the wounded, strewed her deck. The
enemy quickly brought their vessel round--then followed the random gun,
and anon the heavy broadsides were poured into each other. For an hour
the action had continued, but victory or death seemed the determination
of both parties. Both ships were crippled, and had become almost
unmanageable, and in each, equal courage and seamanship were displayed.
It was drawing towards nightfall, they became entangled, and the word
"to board!" was given by the commander of the frigate. Peter Paterson
was the first man who, cutlass in hand, sprang upon the deck of the
American. He seemed to possess a lion's strength, and more than a lion's
ferocity. In a few minutes, four of the enemy had sunk beneath his
weapon. "On, my hearties!--follow Paterson!" cried an officer; "Peter's
a hero!" Fifty Englishmen were engaged hand to hand with the crew of the
American; and for a time they gained ground; but they were opposed with
a determination equal to their own, and, overpowered by a superiority of
numbers, they were driven back and compelled to leap again into the
frigate. At the moment his comrades were repulsed, Peter was engaged
with the first lieutenant of the American--"Stop a minute!" shouted
Peter, as he beheld them driven back; "keep your ground till I finish
this fellow!" His request was made in vain, and he was left alone on the
enemy's deck; but Peter could turn his back upon no man. "It lies
between you and me now, friend," said he to his antagonist. He had
shivered the sword of the lieutenant by the hilt, when a Yankee seaman,
armed with a crowbar, felled Peter to the deck.

Darkness came on, and the vessels separated. The Americans were flinging
their dead into the sea--they lifted the body of Peter. His hands
moved--the supposed dead man groaned. They again placed him on the deck.
He at length looked round in bewilderment. He raised himself on his
side. "I say, neighbours," said he to the group around him, "is this
_our_ ship or _yours_?" The Americans made merry at Peter's question.
"Well," continued he, "if it be yours, I can only tell you it was foul
play that did it. It was a low, cowardly action, to fell a man behind
his back; but come face to face, and twa at a time if ye like, and I'll
clear the decks o' the whole ship's crew o' you."

"You are a noble fellow," said the lieutenant whom he had encountered,
"and if you will join our service, I guess your merit shan't be long
without promotion."

"What!" cried Peter, "raise my right hand against my ain country! Gude
gracious, sir! I wud sooner eat it as my next meal!"

In a few weeks the vessel put into Boston for repairs; and, on her
arrival, it was ascertained that peace had been concluded between the
two countries. Peter found himself once more at liberty; but with
liberty he found himself in a strange land, without a sixpence in his
pocket. This was no enviable situation to be placed in, even in America,
renowned as it is as the paradise of the unfortunate; and he was
standing, on the second morning after his being put on shore, counting
the picturesque islands which stud Boston harbour, for his breakfast,
poor fellow, when a person accosted him--"Well, my lad, how is the new
world using you?" Peter started round--it was his old adversary the
lieutenant.

"A weel-filled pocket, sir," returned Peter, "will mak either the new
warld or the auld use you weel; and without that, I reckon your usage in
either the ane or the ither wad be naething to mak a sang about."

The lieutenant pulled out his purse--"I am not rich, Paterson," said he;
"but, perhaps, I can assist a brave man in need." Peter was prevailed
upon to accept a few dollars. He knew that to return to Berwickshire was
again to throw himself into the power of his persecutor, and he communed
with himself what to do. He could plough--he could manage a farm--he
was master of all field-work; and, within a week, he engaged himself as
a farm-servant to a proprietor in the neighbourhood of Charleston. He
had small reason, however, to be in love with his new employment. Peter
was proud and high-minded, (in the English, not the American acceptation
of the word,) and he found his master an imperious, avaricious,
republican tyrant. The man's conduct ill-accorded with his professions
of universal liberty. His wish seemed to be, to level all down to his
own standard, that he might the more easily trample on all beneath him.
His incessant cry, from the rising of the sun until its setting, was,
"Work! work!" and with an oath he again called upon his servants to
"work!" He treated them as beasts of burden. "Work! hang ye, work!" and
a few oaths, seemed to be the principal words in the man's vocabulary.
Peter had not been overwrought in the frigate--he had been his own
master at Foxlaw--and, when doing his utmost, he hated to hear those
words everlastingly rung in his ear. But he had another cause for
abhorring his employment; his master had a number of slaves, on whom he
wreaked the full measure of his cruelty. There was one, an old man, in
particular, on whom he almost every day gratified his savageness. Peter
had beheld the brutal treatment of the old negro till he could stand it
no longer; and one day, when he was vainly imploring the man who called
himself the owner of his flesh for mercy, Peter rushed forward, he
seized the savage by the breast, and exclaimed--"Confound ye, sir, if I
see ye strike that poor auld black creature again, I'll cleave ye to the
chin."

The slave-owner trembled with rage. "What!" said he--"it's a fine thing,
indeed, if we've wollopped the English for liberty, and after all, a man
an't to have the liberty of wollopping his own neeger!"

He drew out his purse, and flung Peter's wages contemptuously on the
ground. Peter, stooping, placed the money in his pocket, and, turning
towards Charleston, proceeded along the bridge to Boston. He had seen
enough of tilling another man's fields in America, and resolved to try
his fortune in some other way, but was at a loss how to begin. I have
already told you how Peter's mother praised his delivery in his debate
with the schoolmaster; and Peter himself thought that he could deliver a
passage from Shakspeare in a manner that would make the fortune of any
hero of the sock and buskin; and he was passing along the Mall, counting
the number of trees on every row, much in the same manner, and for the
same reason, as he had formerly counted the islands in the harbour, when
the thought struck him that the Americans were fond of theatricals; and
he resolved to try the stage. He called at the lodgings of the manager
in Franklin Place. He gave a specimen of his abilities; and, at a salary
of eighteen dollars a-week, Peter Paterson was engaged as leader of the
"heavy business" of the Boston _corps dramatique_. The tidings would
have killed his mother. Lear was chosen as the part in which he was to
make his first appearance. The curtain was drawn up. "Peter, what would
your mother say?" whispered his conscience, as he looked in the glass,
just as the bell rung and the prompter called him; and what, indeed,
would Betty Paterson have said to have seen her own son Peter, with a
red cloak, a painted face, a grey wig, and a white beard falling on his
breast! Lear--Peter--entered. He looked above, below, and around him.
The audience clapped their hands, shouted, and clapped their hands
again. It was to cheer the new performer. Peter thought they would bring
down the theatre. The lights dazzled his eyes. The gallery began to
swim--the pit moved--the boxes appeared to wave backward and forward.
Peter became pale through the very rouge that bedaubed his face, and
sweat, cold as icicles, rained down his temples. The shouting and the
clapping of hands was resumed--he felt a trembling about his limbs--he
endeavoured to look upon the audience--he could discern only a confused
mass. The noise again ceased.

"Attend----France----Burgundy----hem!----Gloster!" faltered out poor
Peter. The laughter became louder than the clapping of hands had been
before. The manager led Peter off the stage, paid him the half of his
week's salary, and wished him good-by. It is unnecessary to tell you how
Peter, after this disappointment, laid out eight dollars in the purchase
of a pack, and how, as pedlar, he travelled for two years among the
Indians and back-settlers of Canada, and how he made money in his new
calling. He had written to his parents and to Ann Graham; but, in his
unsettled way of life, it is no wonder that he had not received an
answer. He had written again to say, that, in the course of four months,
he would have to be in New York _in the way of business_--for Peter's
pride would not permit him to acknowledge that he carried a pack--and if
they addressed their letters to him at the Post-office there, he would
receive them. He had been some weeks in New York, and called every day,
with an anxious heart, at the Post-office. But his time was not lost; he
had obtained many rare and valuable skins from the Indians, and, with
his shop upon his back, he was doing more business than the most
fashionable store-keeper in the Broadway. At length, a letter arrived.
Peter hastily opened the seal, which bore the impress of his mother's
thimble, and read:--"My dear bairn,--This comes to inform ye that baith
your faither and me are weel--thanks to the Giver o' a' good--and hoping
to find ye the same. O Peter, hinny, could ye only come hame--did you
only ken what sleepless nights I spend on your account, ye wad leave
America as soon as ye get my letter. I wonder that ye no ken that Ann,
poor woman, an' her faither an her mother, an' the family, a' gaed to
about America mair than a year and a half syne, and I'm surprised ye
haena seen them."

"Ann in America!" cried Peter. He was unable to read the remainder of
his mother's letter. He again flung his pack upon his shoulder, but not
so much to barter and to sell, as to seek his betrothed bride. He
visited almost every city in the States, and in the provinces of British
America. He advertised for her in more than fifty newspapers; but his
search was fruitless--it was "Love's labour lost." Yet, during his
search, the world prospered with Peter. His pack had made him rich. He
opened a store in New York. He became also a shareholder in canals, and
a proprietor of steam-boats; in short he was looked upon as one of the
most prosperous men in the city. But his heart yearned for his native
land; and Peter Paterson, Esq., turned his property into cash, and
embarked for Liverpool.

Ten long years had passed since the eyes of Betty Paterson had looked
upon her son; and she was busied, on a winter day, feeding her poultry
in the barn-yard, when she observed a post-chaise drive through the
village, and begin to ascend the hill towards Foxlaw.

"Preserve us, Robin!" she cried, as she bustled into the house, "there's
a coach comin' here--what can folk in a coach want wi' the like o' us?
Haud awa out an' see what they want, till I fling on a clean mutch an'
an apron, an' mak mysel wiselike."

"I watna wha it can be," said Robin, as he rose and went towards the
door.

The chaise drew up--a tall genteel-looking man alighted from it--at the
first glance he seemed nearly forty years of age, but he was much
younger. As he approached Robin started back--his heart sprang to his
throat--his tongue faltered.

"Pe--Pe--Peter!" he exclaimed. The stranger leaped forward, and fell
upon the old man's neck.

Betty heard the word _Peter!_--the clean cap fell from her hand, she
uttered a scream of joy, and rushed to the door, her grey hairs falling
over her face; and the next moment her arms encircled her son.

I need not tell you of the thousand anxious questions of the fond
mother, and how she wept as he hinted at the misfortunes he had
encountered, and smiled, and wept, and grasped his hand again, as he
dwelt upon his prosperity.

"Did I no aye say," exclaimed she, "that I would live to see my Peter a
gentleman?"

"Yet, mother," said Peter, "riches cannot bring happiness--at least not
to me, while I can hear nothing of poor Ann. Can no one tell to what
part of America her father went?--for I have sought them everywhere."

"Oh, forgie me, hinny," cried Betty, bitterly; "it was a mistake o' yer
mother's a'thegither. I understand, now, it wasna Ameri_ca_, they gaed
to; but it was Jamai_ca_, or some _ca_, and we hear they're back again."

"Not America," said Peter: "and back again!--then, where--where shall I
find her?"

"When we wrote to you, that, after leaving here, they had gaen to
America," said Robin, "it was understood they had gaen there--at ony
rate, they went abroad someway--and we never heard, till the other week,
that they were back to this country, and are now about Liverpool, where
I'm very sorry to hear they are very ill off; for the warld, they say,
has gaen a' wrang wi' the auld man."

This was the only information Peter could obtain. They were bitter
tidings; but they brought hope with them.

"Ye were saying that ye was in Liverpool the other day," added his
mother; "I wonder ye didna see some o' them!"

Peter's spirit was sad, yet he almost smiled at the simplicity of his
parent; and he resolved to set out in quest of his betrothed on the
following day.

Leaving Foxlaw, we shall introduce the reader to Sparling Street, in
Liverpool. Amongst the miserable cellars where the poor are crowded
together, and where they are almost without light and without air, one
near the foot of the street was distinguished by its outward
cleanliness; and in the window was a ticket with the words--"_A Girl's
School kept here, by_ A. GRAHAM." Over this humble cellar was a
boarding-house, from which, ever and anon, the loud laugh of jolly
seamen rang boisterous as on their own element. By a feeble fire in the
comfortless cellar, sat an emaciated, and apparently dying man; near him
sat his wife, engaged in making such articles of apparel as the
slop-dealers send to the West Indies, and near the window was a pale but
beautiful young woman, instructing a few children in needle-work and the
rudiments of education. The children being dismissed, she began to
assist her mother; and, addressing her father, said--

"Come, cheer up, dear father--do not give way to despondency--we shall
see better times. Come, smile now, and I will sing your favourite song."

"Heaven bless thee, my own sweet child!" said the old man, while the
tears trickled down his cheeks. "Thou wilt sing to cheer me, wilt
thou?--bless thee!--bless thee! It is enough that, in my old age, I eat
thy bread, my child!--sing not!--sing not!--there is no music now for
thy father's heart."

"Oh, speak not--think not thus," she cried, tenderly; "you make me sad,
too."

"I would not make thee sad, love," returned he, "but it is hard--it is
very hard--that, after cruising till I had made a fortune, as I may say,
and after being anchored in safety, to be tempted to make another
voyage, where my all was wrecked--and not only all wrecked, but my
little ones too--thy brothers and thy sisters, Ann--to see them struck
down one after another, and I hardly left wherewith to bury them--it is
hard to bear, child!--and, worse than all, to be knocked up like a
useless hulk, and see thee and thy mother toiling and killing
themselves for me--it is more than a father's heart can stand, Ann."

"Nay, repine not, father," said she: "He who tempereth the wind to the
shorn lamb, will not permit adversity to press on us more hardly than he
gives us strength to endure it. Though we suffer poverty, our exertions
keep us above want."

The old woman turned aside her head and wept.

"True, dear," added he, "thy exertions keep us from charity; but those
exertions, my child, will not long be able to make--I see it--I feel it?
And, oh, Ann, shall I see thee and thy mother inmates of a
workhouse--shall I hear men call thy father, Bill Graham, the old
pauper?"

The sweat broke upon the old man's brow from his excitement; his
daughter strove to soothe him, and, with an assumed playfulness,
commenced singing Skinner's beautiful old man's song, beginning--

    "Oh, why should old age so much wound us!"

Now, Peter Paterson had been several days in Liverpool anxiously
inquiring for Captain Graham, but without obtaining any information of
him or of his daughter, or where they dwelt. Again and again he had
wandered along the docks; and he was disconsolately passing up Sparling
Street, when the loud revelry of the seamen in the boarding-house
attracted his attention. It reminded him of old associations; he paused
for a moment, and glanced upon the house and, as the pealing laughter
ceased, a low, sweet voice, pouring forth a simple Scottish air, reached
his ear. Peter now stood still. He listened--"That voice!" he exclaimed
audibly, and he shook as he spoke. He looked down towards the
cellar--the ticket in the window caught his eye. He read the words, "_A
Girl's School kept here, by_ A. GRAHAM." "I have found her!" he cried,
clasping his hands together. He rushed down the few steps, he stood in
the midst of them--"I have found her!" he repeated, as he entered. His
voice fell like a sunbeam on the cheerless heart of the fair vocalist.
"Peter!--My own"----she exclaimed, starting to her feet. She could not
utter more; she would have fallen to the ground, but Peter caught her in
his arms.

I need not describe the scene that followed: that night they left the
hovel which had served as a grave for their misfortunes. Within a week
they had arrived at Foxlaw, and within a week old and young in the
village danced at a joyful wedding. I may only add, that, a few weeks
after his marriage, Peter read in the papers an advertisement,
headed--"UPSET PRICE GREATLY REDUCED.--_Desirable Property in the
neighbourhood of Foxlaw, &c._" It was the very farm now offered for sale
of which Peter was to have become a tenant some twelve years before, and
was the remnant of the estates of the hopeful Laird Horslie; and Peter
became the purchaser. The old skipper regained his wonted health and
cheerfulness; and Betty Paterson lived to tell her grandchildren, "she
aye said their faither wad be a gentleman, and her words cam true." Even
the old schoolmaster, who had styled him "Ne'er-do-weel Peter," said, he
"had aye predicted o' Mr Paterson, even when a callant, that he would
turn out an extraordinary man."




THE HEROINE.




A LEGEND OF THE CANONGATE.


After it became known that the wily Sir Robert Carey had hurried away
from the deathbed of Queen Elizabeth, to announce to the delighted
monarch of Scotland his succession to the crown of England, a great many
English noblemen and gentlemen came north on much the same errand that
brings so many of them at this day--viz., to hunt; the game, in the one
case, being place and favour, and in the other, blackcock and grouse.
Among the rest, was one Sir Willoughby Somerset, of Somerset-Hall, in
Devonshire, a knight of gay and chivalric manners, excellently set off
by an exterior on which nature and art had expended their best favours,
but exhibiting, at same time, in his total want of true honour and
mental acquirements, that tendency to a fair distribution, which nature,
in all her departments, delights to display--suggesting, as it did, to
an ancient philosopher, that the _pulchrum_ and the _utile_ are dealt
out in equal portions under a whimsical law against their union in one
person.

Having arrived, with his gay suit of servants and splendid equipage, at
the palace of Holyrood, Sir Willoughby was informed that there were no
apartments close to the palace which could be given to him for his
accommodation, in consequence of the great influx of noble visiters who
had come from all parts of Scotland and England to testify their
allegiance, and express their satisfaction, whether real or assumed, on
the occasion of King James' succession. Sir Willoughby, therefore, took
up his abode in a house in the Canongate, which was pulled down more
than a hundred years ago--at that time known by the name of the House
of Gordon, in consequence, it is supposed, of having at one time been
occupied by the ducal family of that name. It was situated on the south
side of the street, and nearly opposite to the close called Big Loch-end
Close, which possessed at that time a very different appearance from
what it does at present; for the double row of low Flemish-looking huts
which lined the narrow entry, have given place to modern buildings,
which do not look half so well as their more humble predecessors.

Now, in one of these little huts there lived, at that time--unconscious,
doubtless, that their names would thus become of historical interest
centuries after they were gathered to their fathers--a man called Adam
Hunter, and his wife, Janet, both of some importance in the small sphere
of their own little gossiping world; but, if these humble individuals
had been all that their lowly mansion contained, the chronicler would
scarcely have stooped to notice either it or its inhabitants. There was
a third inmate in that house--an orphan girl, called Margaret
Williamson--a young, slender, azure-eyed creature, about seventeen years
of age, of bewitching beauty, and of a simplicity, kindness, and
meekness of disposition, that endeared her to thousands. Producing that
kind of interest and sensation in her own limited circle, which is so
often found to be the effect of the mysterious power of beauty, though
allied to poverty, which, indeed, sometimes enhances it, Margaret seemed
as unconscious of the magic influence of her charms, as she was of the
singular fate that awaited her. She had been heard of where she was not
seen; and, innocent and harmless as she was, she had not been passed
unheeded by the "wise women" of her day, who, in spite of fire and King
James' wrath, provided her, according to their love or their spite, with
a prison or a palace, as her lot upon earth. As already hinted, Margaret
was represented as being an orphan, brought up by the gratuitous
kindness of Adam Hunter and his wife, though there were not wanting some
who thought that her parentage was not of the equivocal kind that was
represented.

Scotland was not, at that time, so far behind in the love and practice
of gossiping, as that there should be any want of the usual kind and
number of remarks on the new-comers to the house of Gordon; and the
family of Adam Hunter were not behind their neighbours in their
curiosity.

"He's a braw knight that wha has come to the House o' Gordon," said
Janet Hunter, one night when they were sitting round the fire.

"Ken ye wha, or what, or whence he is," inquired Adam, "atour the mere
title an' form o' his knighthood?"

"I ken naething aboot him," replied Janet, "save that his name is Sir
Willoughby Somerset, and that he has a great number o' servitors, wham
he treats like princes. They say he is gallant and weel-favoured, and
Elspet Craig, the wise woman o' the Watergate, says, in her fashion o'
speech, that he is a rock whereon the happiness, and peace o' mind, and
honour o' mony a bonny maiden may perish, like the silly boats that
trust to the smiles o' an autumn day. But, if I'm no cheated, Peggy
Williamson can tell mair aboot the knight than a' the 'wise women' frae
the Watergate to St. Mary's."

"An' if she can," said Adam, "it may be waur for her than if she were as
deep learned as Elspet Craig in the mysteries o' that art, whereby she
works sae meikle mischief to her faes, and may, peradventure, bring upon
her head the vengeance o' the law. I houp better things o' Peggy."

"I ken naething aboot the Knight o' the White Feather," said Margaret,
with a deep sigh; "and wherefore should I?--he's far abune my degree."

"But ye ken, at least," rejoined Adam, "that he wears a white feather,
my bonny bird--and feathered creatures are flichtie, especially when
they're far frae their ain countrie. Even our ain robin, wha condescends
to come and eat our crumbs, when the snaw is on the hill, leaves us in
summer; and, mair than a' that, he's a bird o' prey, and doesna
hesitate, when he has a guid opportunity, to soil his bonny red breast
wi' the blood o' his companions."

It was apparent that both Adam Hunter and Janet were suspicious of
Margaret's limited knowledge of the knight, and they had good reason to
be so; for Janet had been told that, one night, when Margaret had said
she was going to meet a person of the name of Simon Frazer--a tradesman
who had been making honourable proposals to her, along with many others
who were proud to be called her suitors--she had been seen walking with
a gentleman wrapped up in a Spanish cloak, supposed to be Sir
Willoughby, in the glen of St Arthur's Seat, called the Hunter's Bog. On
another occasion, she had been followed by Simon Frazer to a trysting
place, known by the name of the Hunter's Rest--a large boulder of basalt
lying on the side of the bog, and remarkable to geologists by its
unaccountable position. On this stone Margaret had sat till the moon had
concealed her horns behind the top of St Arthur's, and the glen had
gradually become enveloped in the shade of the hill. Simon Frazer took
advantage of the gloom, and concealed himself near to the spot where
Margaret sat; and, amidst the silence which reigned in this secluded
place, he could distinctly hear the sighs of the maiden, as the hope of
seeing the person she had come to meet became fainter and fainter.

"Wae's my puir, deluded heart!" she said, in a desponding and tremulous
voice; "what is it that drives me, like a charmed bird or a dementit
thing, into the power o' this braw knight, in spite o' the warnings o'
Elspet Craig, the admonition o' Adam Hunter, and, what's abune a', the
fearsome visions o' my ain wild dreams? Can it be that I, wha hae seen,
and may still see, sae mony bended knees o' lovers o' my ain country
supplicating my favours as if their condition here and in anither warld
depended on a blink o' these worthless een, sit here, even noo, at the
Hunter's Rest, a mile frae my ain hame, and when naething but spirits
are in the glen, to meet a lover frae a strange land, wha speaks a
strange language, and mak's love in a strange fashion? But it is even
sae. My heart is nae langer my ain. He has ta'en it into his ain
keeping, and he may, in his ain pleasure, as easily break it as he may
crush the bonny blue bells that flower there i' the glen."

At the termination of Margaret's simple soliloquy, the sound of
footsteps was heard, and there soon followed the greeting of lovers.
Margaret's spirits soon revived, and, having taken Sir Willoughby's arm,
she said, playfully, as she looked up into his face--"The faithless moon
has been truer this nicht than ye hae been; for she left the tap o' the
hill half an hour syne, and ye are only here noo."

"Upbraid me not, my fair Margaret," answered Sir Willoughby; "for I was
scared at the Friar's Path by some person who seemed inclined to follow
me, and I was obliged to change my road; but thou knowest that love is
fed by hindrances, and its course is none of the straightest."

"I didna think," answered the simple maiden, "that true love stood in
need o' onything else in this warld, than the company and kindness o'
the twa lovers to ane anither."

"By my feather, Margaret, that is a true maiden's speech! But I do not
think that St Arthur, who must surely be the lover's saint, will thank
us for an argument, instead of a love-token, on such a beautiful night
as this. Observe these gleams of Cynthian glory, falling like streaks of
silver on the tops of the crags, investing the darkness of this glen
with a mystery in which love delights, and thou wilt forget thy
argument, in the sweets of our accustomed dalliance."

"That is a licht aith, Sir Willoughby, that ye hae sworn," answered the
maiden; "but every land, as the sang says, has its ain laugh, and it may
also hae its ain aith; and I may weel forgie ye that, for the bonny
words ye hae now spoken. Foreign lands hae finer words than puir
Scotland; but dinna think that I canna enjoy the beauty o' these silvery
rocks and that mirky glen, because my silly heart can find nae utterance
to its feelings, but by its ain unmeaning thrabs."

"And that is nature's best and most beautiful language, my sweet bird,"
said Sir Willoughby, kissing the yielding maiden; "nor would I give one
throb of thy fair bosom for all the eloquence of poetry."

Holding such conversation, the lovers passed deeper into the shades of
the hill, and disappeared; but the death-like silence of the place
discovered, to the disappointed Simon Frazer, many sighs and
protestations which otherwise would have been sacred to the happy pair.

Well, many such meetings had Sir Willoughby and Margaret. Their walks
became more frequent, and of longer duration; and it was often a late
hour before Margaret returned to her home. It could not be that such a
change in the habits of the girl could escape the keen eye of public
curiosity, and far less the suspicious guardianship of Adam Hunter. Wide
spread, and generally known, as was the beauty of the maiden, so, in
proportion, was the voice of scandal heard over the town, whispering the
strange tidings, that Peggy Williamson had been seduced by the great
knight who lived in the House of Gordon.

The circumstance, indeed, very soon became apparent, from the appearance
of the unhappy girl, who could no longer conceal her condition. She
was, in consequence, sorely beset by Adam Hunter, and interrogated
whether she had received any promise of marriage, or any pledge whereon
she could found any expectation or hope that the knight's intentions
towards her were of an honourable nature. On this subject, no
satisfaction could be got from Margaret, who persisted in a dogged
silence, whenever any question was put to her, tending to implicate, in
any way, the man who, to all appearance, had ruined her. But chance
brought to light what Margaret had been so anxious to conceal; for one
evening, Janet Hunter discovered in Margaret's sleeping apartment a
small scented paper, curiously folded up, which she instantly carried to
her husband. Adam took the paper to a learned clerk, in Blackfriars'
Hospital--(for few persons, at that day, could either write, or read
writing)--who read it to him; and he was surprised to find that it
contained a promise, on the faith of a knight, that Sir Willoughby
Somerset would make, when time and circumstances afforded opportunity,
Margaret Williamson his wedded wife. The paper was again returned to the
place from which it was taken.

This paper, combined with Margaret's condition, having satisfied Adam
Hunter of the truth of the general report and his own suspicions, he
lost no time in waiting upon the knight. Being a man of hasty and even
furious temper, he taxed Sir Willoughby, in unmeasured terms, with the
seduction of his ward, and demanded, with a stern determination,
satisfaction to the maiden and to himself. Touched to the quick, and
wounded in his pride by the pertinacious manner of Adam Hunter, Sir
Willoughby lost in turn his temper, and seizing a baton which lay near
him, he struck the choleric Scot a heavy blow on the head, and, with the
aid of his servants, kicked him out of the house. One of Sir
Willoughby's servants, who aided in this ejection and outrage, was
Richard Foster; the person who, it was supposed, first procured a
meeting between his master and Margaret. He was possessed of his
master's secrets, in this and many other dishonourable amours; and,
though he now, by his master's orders, assisted in the expulsion of Adam
Hunter, he hated him in his heart, in consequence of a blow which he had
some time before received from him, on which occasion he had threatened
to report his master's practices to Sir Robert Carey, who would not have
failed to communicate them to King James, whereby Sir Willoughby's
status at Court would have been lost, and his ruin accomplished. The
knight wished, therefore, to get quit of Richard; but to part with him
living was to part with his secrets; and he had accordingly made up his
mind to get him disposed of in such a manner as that he could tell no
tales. An opportunity for this occurred sooner than might have been
expected.

Stung with an ungovernable rage, Adam Hunter, on passing the threshold
of the house of Gordon, threw himself on his knees, and vowed to
Almighty God that he would take the first opportunity that fortune
afforded him of depriving his enemy of life. This dreadful purpose, thus
definitively and impiously settled, calmed Adam Hunter's rage; for he
felt, as if by anticipation, that he was revenged. He walked
deliberately home, and without hinting anything of his deadly intention
to his wife, sent for Simon Frazer, Margaret's rejected suitor,
communicated to him his design, and requested his co-operation. Frazer
entered into the scheme with all the spirit of his clan, and all the
rage of a disappointed lover towards his successful rival. They resolved
to fix the manner of accomplishing their purpose that evening, after
Janet and Margaret had retired to rest.

In the evening, when Adam Hunter and Simon Frazer met, Margaret had just
retired to bed, but not to sleep. Her mind was occupied with the
thoughts of her situation. She had now become suspicious of Sir
Willoughby's intentions. In her late interviews with him, he had been
distant and shy; and he had even refused, on one occasion, to meet her,
alleging, as an excuse, that he was engaged to go to an evening
entertainment, to which it was ascertained he never went. He had,
besides, endeavoured to get back from her the letter, which, in an
unguarded moment, when intoxicated with love and wine, he had given to
her. All these circumstances satisfied the unhappy maiden that she was
about to become, or rather had already become, the dupe of a heartless
villain. She now considered herself standing on the very verge of ruin;
about to become, as Elspet Craig had foreboded, the victim of a passion
insidiously introduced into her young heart; and left to the scorn of an
unfeeling world, or the unavailing pity of a conceited and unfruitful
philanthropy. These reflections were passing through her mind, when she
heard Simon Frazer come into the house; for her bed was so situated that
she could hear everything that occurred in the adjoining apartment. She
soon ascertained the object of this late meeting of the two friends; and
with feelings that shook her whole frame, she heard it fixed that, on
the following evening, when Sir Willoughby was expected to go to an
evening entertainment at the palace, Adam Hunter should gain the
staircase window of Widow Hutchison, fire upon his enemy, and, upon
seeing him fall, make his escape, along with his friend, by a back
passage that led to the North Back of the Canongate. This resolved upon,
the two friends parted.

The agitation which the knowledge of this fierce and bloody purpose
produced in the mind of Margaret, was proportioned to the love which she
still bore to her seducer, and to the gentle character of the maiden,
who shrunk from the very thought of violence. Her nerves had, moreover,
been severely affected by the train of sorrowful thoughts which, at the
moment when she heard the fatal resolution, were passing through her
mind. But a new feeling soon arose. She was now called upon to act, and
the urgency of the case requiring the most prompt communication to Sir
Willoughby, assuaged, in some degree, her nervous excitement, by forcing
her ideas into a train calculated to the contrivance of some method of
meeting him in the morning.

At daybreak, Margaret rose from her sleepless pillow, wrapt herself up
in her plaid, and went and secreted herself behind a large tree, which
stood in the garden at the back of the House of Gordon, from which she
could observe the bedroom window of Sir Willoughby. It was a cold raw
morning; the rain was pouring in torrents, and bursts of distant thunder
shook the heavens. In this situation, Margaret sat for two hours, wet,
wearied, and disconsolate. Her attention was, in some degree, arrested
by a new equipage that stood in the court-yard, apparently newly arrived
from a distance; and she concluded that Sir Willoughby had visitors--a
prediction which she had good reason to verify. Her eye sought
continually the casement of the knight's sleeping apartment, which was
at last opened, and to her surprise and mortification, she saw standing
behind the dressing-glass, the form of a gay and fashionable lady, with
Sir Willoughby standing behind her--his head leaning on her left
shoulder, and his right hand patting, with playful fondness, her cheek,
and arranging her ringlets with the sportive gaiety and confidence of a
professed libertine.

Overcome by this apparition, which so completely justified Margaret's
suspicions of the character of her lover, and wearied and wasted as she
was by the scene of the previous night, the fevered vigil which
succeeded, and the cold and wet position she had so long occupied on
this morning, she became faint; and, being unable longer to stand, leant
herself, in a stooping posture, against the stem of the tree under which
she stood. Sir Willoughby now entered the garden; he had observed her
from the window, and came with marked displeasure in his countenance.

"Why this early visit, young maiden?" he said, with a querulous tone of
voice, and without making any effort to assist her to rise.

"I dinna come here this morning, Sir Willoughby Somerset," replied
Margaret, with the warmth of offended pride, and standing up, nerved by
her feelings, which were roused as far as the gentleness of her nature
permitted--"I dinna come here this morning on my ain account, though
maybe I hae as meikle reason to do that as the braw leddie wha sits,
even noo, in your sleepin chamber, and whose braw hair ye were pleased,
in a fashion of merriment, to put in disorder. Oh, that it had pleased
heaven that ye had deranged nae mair o' me than my worthless locks, I
might this morning hae been the blithe, thochtless, and innocent Peggy
Williamson, that I was when my stray wits left me to mysel' at the
Hunter's Rest! Na, Sir Willoughby, I dinna come to tell ye o' your
broken troth, and my lost love, and the ruin o' a puir lassie, wha wad
gladly hae laid down her worthless life to save yours. These
things--though, by our memories, whilk are but as the quicksand to the
finger-marks of the drowning sailor, they may ance be forgotten--are
recorded, doubtless, whar' they shall remain, ay, as the graving on
adamant. Yet, though these things, in this world at least, concern only
me, wha am, doubtless, o' sma concernment to ony living mortal; and
though they may cost me _my_ life, may be o' sma avail, they are o' less
importance to me at this time than what I cam' to tell ye, being
naething less than how to save your ain. Adam Hunter has resolved to
slay ye this night, as ye gang to Holyrood. Tak' anither road than the
Canongate; or, what is better, stay at hame, and save a life that is
dearer to Peggy Williamson than her ain.--Fareweel, fareweel!" And
before Sir Willoughby could reply, she had left him, waving her hand to
him as she went. But, on looking back, as she opened the wicket, she saw
the same lady--whom she afterwards ascertained to be lady Arabella
Winford, a person of bad repute, with whom Sir Willoughby had resided
for some time on the continent--enter the garden, and greet him in a
manner very different from the modest custom of Scotland at that day.

After the departure of Margaret, Sir Willoughby, instead of being in any
degree affected by gratitude for the preservation of his life, or by
compassion for the kind maiden who had been instrumental in doing him
that service, projected, from her information, a scheme marked by
cowardice and cruelty, whereby he might get rid of his servant Richard
Forster, and put an end to him and the secrets with which he had
entrusted him, at the same moment. He resolved, and true to the
character he bore--a combination of cruelty and frivolity--he resolved,
amidst the blandishments of meretricious affection, and the imbecile
badinage and persiflage of a strumpet's conversation, to send Richard
down the Canongate in the evening, wrapped up in his cloak, and wearing
his hat and white plume, by which he had become so remarkable. The
project was executed as it was planned; and a deed was done with which
Edinburgh, and indeed Scotland, rang for many a day. Richard Forster,
wearing the cloak and plumed hat of his master, was shot dead in the
Canongate, opposite the house of the widow Hutchison, by the unerring
hand of Adam Hunter, who, seeing his supposed victim fall, flew in the
direction of the Calton Hill, leaving the gun, with which he had done
the deed, lying in a hedge, which at that time skirted a part of the
north back of the Canongate.

A hue and cry was soon raised against Adam Hunter who, about a week
after the crime was committed, was laid hold of by the officers of the
law, and lodged in prison. Sufficient evidence having, in the opinion of
the crown authorities, been procured for a conviction, the unfortunate
man was, in due course of time, brought to trial before the High Court
of Justiciary. The court met on the 15th day of November; and Adam
Hunter, guarded on each side by members of the City Guard, sat, with the
stoical indifference which marked his character, to hear the evidence to
be brought forward against him, and, in all probability, to receive
sentence of death. The august appearance of the judges, sitting in their
silk robes, the venerable and even dignified aspect of the unfortunate
culprit, and the strange and mysterious crime with which he stood
charged, joined with the fate of the well-known Canongate beauty, with
which that crime was unaccountably associated, produced a sensation in
the Justiciary Court which had not been experienced for many years. The
deepest silence prevailed when the indictment was read; and the Lord
Justice-Clerk, having put the ordinary question to the pannel of guilty
or not guilty, Adam Hunter rose with firmness, and calmly and
respectfully answered--"Not guilty, my Lord, of the murder of Richard
Forster." The trial proceeded, and the crown advocate spoke:--

"My Lords, and gentlemen of the jury, this is a case of murder, whereto,
so far as I can see, no defence or plea of justification, or even
palliation, can be set up by the prisoner at the bar, unless it be that
which is indeed an aggravation, that he did intend to kill one man
against whom he entertained _malice prepense_, and slew another against
whom he had no cause of quarrel. On the day preceding the commission of
this murder, the prisoner at the bar was, in consequence of his
outrageous and brutal conduct in the House of Gordon, occupied at
present by Sir Willoughby Somerset, kicked by that honourable knight out
of doors, whereby, being fiercely enraged, he impiously vowed a
desperate revenge, the which, though he had taken it instanter and
killed his enemy, _percitus rixa_, would still, by the just laws of this
land, which make no distinction between forethought felony, and _chaude
melee_, have been murder, and sufficient to subject the prisoner to the
penal consequences of that heinous crime. But, my Lords, the prisoner
cannot even plead _homicidium in rixa_; for he went home and meditated
upon his crime; settled deliberately the _modus trucidandi_ in cool
blood--or, as we say, _sanguine frigida_; and, on the following day,
watched, _sanguinem sitiens_, for his victim; and more like a
bloodhound, _canis vestigator_, than a human being, deprived him, whom
he supposed to be his victim, of life. But revenge is known to be blind,
and, instead of his enemy, the prisoner murdered, by shooting him
through the body, a person who was not in any degree guilty of having
offended him; but who was going about his private affairs, as any of us
might have been, unconscious of meriting, standing in no fear of
receiving, and knowing no reason for expecting such an awful fate as
that which awaited him. This, I say, is an aggravation of the crime of
murder, in so far as, while in the ordinary case there may, in man's
estimation, be some palliation in consequence of the infliction of an
injury--in this there can be none."

The witnesses for the crown were then called. The death of Richard
Forster, caused by a shot from a gun, was proved. It was also proved,
that the gun found in the hedge was Adam Hunter's. The quarrel with Sir
Willoughby Somerset was next established, as also the fact that the
deceased wore, on that evening, the dress of his master. The macer of
court then called out the name of the next witness, which was that of
Margaret Williamson; but, before she had time to make her appearance,
Adam Hunter rose from his seat and addressed the court in the following
terms:--

"My Lords, it doesna appear to me, that, in the eye o' God, or even in
that o' man, it can abide the twitch o' natural reason that a puir bairn
should, in ignorance o' the relation she bears to him against whom she
is to swear, be entrapped by cunning men o' the law, to gie evidence
against the life o' him wha gave her life. The veins o' Margaret
Williamson are filled wi' my bluid, albeit her heart mayna beat wi' the
ordinary feelings o' a bairn to a father; for she, puir thing, has nae
knowledge that Adam Hunter is her parent, whom she is bound to love and
respect, and therefore she may this day, in that unseemly ignorance
which I and my wife Janet have imposed upon her, say what at some future
time she may repent wi' tears o' bitterness, whilk winna recall to her
the parent she has slain. I canna think, therefore, my Lords, that ye
can consider it unreasonable in a parent--a character maybe some o'
yourselves bear, and, if ye do, oh, think what it is to be doomed by
your ain bairn!--that this puir lassie be tauld, before she be examined,
that she is bane o' the bane, and flesh o' the flesh, o' him whom she is
about to arraign o' murder."

As soon as Adam Hunter had finished his speech, which, delivered with
much emphasis, produced a great sensation in all the persons present,
who never understood that Margaret Williamson was in any way related to
him, the crown counsel stood up and said--

"My Lords, this is an ingenious device, on the part of the prisoner at
the bar, to deprive the law of its evidence. This girl, who is about to
be brought forward as a witness, has been held out to the world as an
orphan--a fact that may be testified by hundreds of persons, and is,
indeed, admitted by the culprit himself. The story now fabricated by the
prisoner is, indeed, improbable--as what father would deny his child? I
cannot, therefore, consent to allow any communication to be made to the
witness, whereby the fountain of evidence may be contaminated by
prejudice, and truth itself sacrificed to the false feelings and
hysterical emotions of a relationship which, in my opinion, has no
foundation in fact."

The judges, having disbelieved the statement of Adam Hunter, refused to
comply with his request. Margaret Williamson was, accordingly, brought
in and placed in the witnesses' box. Upon being examined, she gave, in
evidence, the substance of the conversation which took place between
Adam Hunter and Simon Frazer on that night when the death of Sir
Willoughby Somerset was resolved upon. She was then asked whether she
had, between that period and the death of Richard Forster, any
communication with Sir Willoughby; but to this question she refused to
give any answer, or rather she, by the effect of her simplicity--in this
instance, however, made subservient to something approaching to
cunning--so completely baffled the men of law that they were obliged to
give up the question in despair.

On the part of Adam Hunter, an attempt was made to prove an alibi; but
that having failed, the jury, upon the charge of the judge, who
considered the crime proved, returned a verdict of guilty, and Adam
Hunter received sentence of death.

The speech which Adam Hunter had made on the occasion of his trial, as
already said, excited much sensation, and the truth of the fact stated
by him was subjected to investigation. It was found to be perfectly
true, though no notice is taken of it in the books of adjournal.
Margaret Williamson was the illegitimate child of Adam Hunter, by the
daughter of Elspet Craig, who died in giving birth to the infant; and it
was to gratify the prejudices of Janet Hunter, who refused to bring up
the child on any other condition, that the parentage had been so
industriously concealed.

The unfortunate Adam Hunter was executed according to his sentence. At
the time of his execution, considerable uproar was observed among the
populace, who, displaying the usual shrewdness of the lower orders in
Scotland, perceived that, although Adam could not be justified, he was
only one of the actors in the tragedy; and that, while their unfortunate
countryman was expiating his crime by an ignominious death, the English
knight, whose enmity towards Richard Forster, and shameful conduct
towards Adam's daughter, were now generally known, was allowed to
escape.

The rumours thus circulated by the crowd at the execution of Adam Hunter
were not unknown to the crown officers, who felt the force of the
extraordinary circumstance, that Richard Forster should, on that fatal
night, have worn the clothes of his master. That fact was, moreover, in
a considerable degree, explained by another, which had been elicited
from one of Sir Willoughby's servants, of the name of William Evans,
viz., that Sir Willoughby and Richard had had a quarrel, which produced
high words between the parties, and some threats on the part of the
knight. The crown officers were, besides, moved by the curious
circumstance, that Margaret Williamson had so artfully evaded the
question put to her on the occasion of the trial of Adam Hunter; while
it was almost impossible to believe that she would not have communicated
to Sir Willoughby the plot that was laid for his life, notwithstanding
of the injury she had received by being made the victim of his
seduction.

A warrant was accordingly issued for the apprehension of Sir Willoughby
Somerset. He was found by the officers in the company of Lady Arabella
Winford, torn from her arms, and lodged in jail. The charge against him
was the murder of Richard Forster, perpetrated by his having, _sciens et
prudens_, sent him where death awaited him. Application was, in the
meantime, again made by the crown officers to Margaret Williamson, for
information as to whether she had had any communication with Sir
Willoughby on the day on which Richard Forster was slain. Margaret's
answers were still of an evasive character, and her examinators left
her, stating that they would visit her again, and use some other means
of extorting the truth. Before this threat was put in execution, the
knight, having heard that Margaret was in the hands of the examinators,
overcome by fear and cowardice, and indulging the mean and despicable
hope of being able to persuade his victim to save his life a second
time, still without rendering her justice, sent for her to visit him in
prison--a request with which she instantly complied.

"My fair Margaret," commenced the knight, "I have sent for thee to know
what are still thy feelings towards one who loves thee, and now requires
some aid and consolation, such as only thou canst render him. I flatter
myself that, at one time, I was not indifferent to thee; and, if my
present peril were past (and thou art the arbiter of my fate), I may
find a suitable opportunity of showing thee that I still love thee as
fervently as I did when I used to meet thee, by the light of the moon,
at the Hunter's Rest. I understand that my persecutors have been with
thee, and it is my pleasure to be informed, from thy own fair lips, that
it is not thy intention to communicate to them what passed between thee
and me in my garden, on the day of the death of my worthless servant."

"I didna think," replied Margaret, with calmness and dignity, "that Sir
Willoughby Somerset could hae mistaken sae far the heart of Margaret
Williamson as to find, in the compass o' his ain, any doubt sufficient
to cause him to put that question to her. Aince already hae I saved your
life, and I would be laith to throw that awa now which I had before sae
meikle pains--though wae's my heart! sae little thanks or reward--to
preserve. Na, na; let the officers of the law tak' their course--mine
has been lang fixed; and a' the hand-screws and stocks o' Scotland, and
even the black wuddy itsel', winna wrest frae me sae meikle as would
injure a single hair o' your head. It may be that I only preserve ye for
the love o' anither; but I will at least hae that satisfaction--and it
is better to the broken heart than a fause love that has now nae power
to bind it--that I hae rendered, as our holy religion inculcates, good
for evil."

These sentiments only interested or concerned Sir Willoughby in so far
as they told him that the fair maiden would not betray him. He mistook
entirely the Scotch character generally; and he had not himself any of
those high-minded qualities which could enable him to appreciate
Margaret's. Betrayed, by her determination to do justice to her own
standard of female duty, into an idea that the sacrifices she had
thrown, and was again to throw, on the shrine of that duty which she
had, in her fervid imagination, defied, were mere indications of a wish
to oblige and conciliate him, Sir Willoughby thought he might safely go
a step further, and endeavour to wring out of her the written promise of
marriage he had so unguardedly given her. He began by using some more of
the bland language by which he had originally beguiled her; but he had
scarcely approached the subject on which her mind was fixed, when
Margaret, with the perspicacity of her sex in these tender points,
interrupted him; and, raising herself to the utmost extent of her
height, while the fire flashed from her dark blue eye, said--

"If ye can tak' frae me the burden o' shame I hae carried for six moons
under my broken heart, and restore to me my lost repute, aince pure as
the snaw that the winds o' heaven hae driven o'er muir and mountain, and
tear from my puir crazy brain the image I hae made an idol o', and on
whose unholy alter I hae sacrificed my maiden virtue--and maybe that
eternal life that hasna been promised to the trafficker in sin--then,
Sir Willoughby, ye may ask me for that whilk stands to me in the place
of ane haly covenant. It is the only solace left to bind up my broken
spirit, and be a sign and a token to your bairn whom I hae yet to bear,
that its puir mother, though doubtless guilty o' a great sin, was the
victim o' a knight's broken troth, and maybe entitled to a drap o' mercy
in her burning cup. Tell me, sir to keep frae the officers o' the law
the secret that would bring ye to a shamefu' death, and I will part wi'
it as sune as I will part wi' the written testimonial of what a merciful
God, and the less merciful laws o' my countrie, may, peradventure, deal
wi' as ane haly bond o' marriage."

With these words, Margaret abruptly left the prison, and Sir Willoughby,
concerned only for his liberation, denied access to his heart to the
sentiments which reflected so much honour on the feelings of his victim,
from whom he was entitled to expect nothing but revenge.

Margaret was soon again visited by the officers of the law; but she
remained firm to her resolution, not to say anything tending to
implicate Sir Willoughby. Recourse was therefore had, according to the
usages of that period, to the ordinary mode of dealing with an unwilling
witness. She was now told, that, as a person refractory, and disobedient
to the laws of her country, she must go to prison, where the means of
extorting her withholden testimony would be more in the power of the
crown officials. She was, accordingly, conveyed to the prison in which
Sir Willoughby was confined, and intimation was solemnly made to her
that, on the following morning, she would be subjected to the rack of
the thumbikins. The threat was fulfilled with fidelity and vigour. On
the first application of this cruel instrument, the poor girl screamed
with agony; but the unstability of her frame, attenuated and weakened by
her previous sufferings, and her pregnancy, loosened, under the effect
of the torture, that connection between agony and resolution, without
which all tortured methods of extorting testimony must be unavailing.
Every increased pressure produced an agonized scream, succeeded by a
state of insensibility, or faint, which these deluded searchers for
truth had as much difficulty in bringing her out of, as they had in
producing. The torture continued to be applied, at stated intervals, for
days, and the screams of the unfortunate maiden could not fail to find
their way to the ears, if not to the heart, of the wretch by whom her
sufferings had been occasioned. Little impression, however, was produced
on Margaret's resolution to die with her secret; and, upon the occasion
of one application of the instrument, the syncope produced had so long a
period of duration, that the medical man who was present declared that
it could not be applied without danger of producing death.

The officers were now inclined to allow the period of Margaret's
pregnancy to pass before they again applied the instrument--a
circumstance of rather an anamolous nature in the proceedings of these
lovers of truth; for a true medical philalethes would naturally have
conceived, that the weaker the habit of the patient, the more certain
was the chance of a recovery. In the meantime, however, a circumstance
came to the ears of the king's prosecutor, which induced him to relax
his energies in the prosecution of Sir Willoughby. Several of his
servants now declared, (no doubt by the aid of concealed bribery), that
Richard Forster was in the habit of attiring himself in his master's
garments, and personating him in the prosecution of amours. In addition
to this, Janet Hunter, though called upon, could not swear that Margaret
Williamson had stirred from the house on the day of the murder. Unable
to force Margaret to speak, and influenced by the testimony of these
witnesses, the public prosecutor came to the resolution of liberating
Sir Willoughby, and the knight was accordingly let out of gaol.

Within a few hours after his liberation, he was on his way to England,
in company with Lady Arabella. He had devoted the whole period of his
imprisonment to writing letters to her, and venting curses against
Scotland. Margaret Williamson was forgotten, in the hope of finding in
the arms of Lady Arabella a panacea for his wrongs, and a solace of his
sufferings--for it is as true as it is remarkable, that the truly wicked
are the most querulous of justice, and the most impatient of her
retributions.

Nothing was, for a long time, heard of Sir Willoughby; but she whom he
had ruined and deserted, remained to the inhabitants of Edinburgh as an
object of their pity, and an example to their children. Margaret bore a
son, and Janet Hunter soon died of a broken heart, for the loss of Adam.
Margaret was thus left to the charity of a world which is often moved to
pity only through the selfish conceit of a comparison between the
alms-giver and the alms-receiver, and begged her bread from the doors of
the inhabitants of Edinburgh.

Now, it was five years after the transactions I have detailed, and when
King James had been nearly as long seated on the throne of England, that
Lionel Apsley, a gentleman in the confidence of the king, arrived in
Edinburgh. He was observed to make inquiries after a person of the name
of Margaret or Peggy Williamson, who, he was informed, resided in a
small ground room in the White Horse Close, in the Canongate of
Edinburgh. A man who was standing at the top of Leith Wynd took him to
Margaret's residence. Upon entering the humble abode, he found the
object of his search making porridge for the son of the English knight.
Lionel entered into conversation with Margaret, and endeavoured to draw
her into a recital of the story of her life; but she evaded, though in
the gentlest manner, his efforts, stating, that her griefs and her
secrets were her own, and that the making the one known would not make
the other unfelt. She had been much annoyed, she said, by the
impertinent interrogations of gossiping people, who often insulted her
by withholding their charity when they found their love of gossip
ungratified.

Lionel made many visits to Margaret, and, by degrees, succeeded in
breaking down her reluctance to speak of herself. He told her, that he
had been commissioned to visit her, and had come down to Scotland for
the sole purpose of seeing and serving her, and pledged his honour, as a
gentleman, that the only use he would make of her information would be
in turning it to her advantage. He was evidently already well acquainted
with many parts of her story; but the chief object of his inquiry
related to the written promise of marriage which, he had been given to
understand, she had got from Sir Willoughby. Margaret, at first, would
not admit that any such document existed, and appeared to feel acute
pain from Lionel's urgent solicitation to see it. Overcome, at last, by
his importunity, she went to a little chest, which was secreted in a
recess dug into the wall of her apartment, and having drawn it out, and
opened it with trembling hands, she took from it the small, but
curiously folded piece of paper, still retaining the fragrance with
which Sir Willoughby's gallantry had invested it. With conclusive sobs,
Margaret looked at the paper, and handed it to the stranger. Lionel read
it, and found it to contain the following words, written in a small
affected character, which bore evident traces of having been penned by
the writer when in a state bordering at least on intoxication. "Sir
Willoughby Somerset, of Somerset Hall, knight of the noble order
of--(here there was drawn a rude image of George and the dragon)--doth,
by these lines, declare that he doth truly intend to wed Margaret
Williamson, and this he promises to do on the faith of a knight of the
order to which he belongs. Given at the Hunter's Rest, this 26th day of
April, in the year of the succession of King James to the throne of
England."

This document Lionel copied, and having returned the original to
Margaret, he asked her if she would accompany him to London.

"If it be to meet Sir Willoughby Somerset," answered she, "I will sooner
walk to the graves o' Sir Patrick Spence and the Scottish lords wha lie
between Leith and Aberdour."

"It is not to meet Sir Willoughby, my fair maiden," said Sir Lionel;
"and if thou wilt trust to the honour of one who is your friend, I
promise thee thou shalt not have cause to regret thy journey."

After much solicitation, Margaret agreed to go to London and take her
child with her; and Lionel having got her equipped in a manner so as to
escape observation, they departed for London, where they arrived after
ten days' travelling. On their arrival, Margaret and her child were
taken to respectable lodgings, where she was requested to remain till
Lionel called for her.

After some days, a coach drove up to the door, and a lady, carrying a
bundle, came out, and asked to be shown to the apartment occupied by the
Scotch lady. This was the wife of Lionel, who brought with her a number
of specimens of tartan, which she exhibited to Margaret, requesting her
to point out the kind she wore when she lived with Adam Hunter. This
Margaret did; and the next request made by the lady was, that Margaret
should describe to her the shape of the garments, and the manner in
which she wore them; all of which Margaret complied with, and the lady
departed.

In two days more, the same lady called with the garment made, and
requested Margaret to put them on, and, with the child, accompany her to
the place where she was going. Margaret complied, and they departed
together in a coach. After driving for some little time, the coach
stopped at a large house, into which they entered. The lady led Margaret
and her child up a great many stairs, and round winding passages, until
they came to a room, where she was requested to remain. After waiting
about ten minutes, a gentleman of a fair complexion entered, and shook
her kindly by the hand, launching, at the same time, and without any
explanation, into a quick spoken and confused speech, which formed a
part of his salutation.

"Why, woman, didna ye mak' some legal use o' the bit paper ye got frae
your braw lover, Sir Willoughby Somerset? Can it be possible that ye
didna ken, that by the law o' your country, a promise o' marriage,
coupled wi' a--a--hem! hem!--a bairn, is, to a' intents and purposes, as
gude a marriage as if it were celebrated wi' a' the solemnities o' haly
kirk? By my royal troth, ye hae been a blate and silly lassie, whatever
folk may sae o' ye, praising ye for the hich and michtie honour ye made
sae meikle fashion o', to save the life o' a ne'er-do-weel villain, wha
ruined ye, and slew his servant, and cheated the wuddy o' my countrie,
though made o' guid aik, a mair suitable wife to him, God wot, than the
like o' ye. But lat that alane--_tempus reparabit_--ha! ha! ye ken
naething o' Latin, I fancy, but I meant only by that flicht to tell ye
that ye will be revenged."

While in the act of delivering this strange speech, the gentleman began
to drag Margaret, somewhat rudely, out of the room where they were, into
another; his speech and the dragging operation going on at the same
time. She now found herself in a large hall, where she saw an elevated
chair overshaded by a canopy of crimson velvet, on the top of which was
a crown. The gentleman, still in the same confused manner--speaking
sometimes to himself, and sometimes to her--shoved her behind a small
screen, apparently placed there for the purpose of concealing some one,
telling her to remain there until she was called for.

The folding doors of the apartment now opened, and Margaret heard the
voices of heralds, and saw a great number of high-dressed ladies and
gentlemen come in, and stand round the elevated chair. Among these she
observed Sir Willoughby Somerset, and a lady (the same she had seen in
the garden of the House of Gordon) leaning upon his arm. "Come forth,
Margaret Williamson," cried the gentleman who had first spoken to her;
and Margaret, with her tartan plaid around her, and her child at her
foot, stood before King James. Opposite to her stood Sir Willoughby
Somerset and his lady, dressed in the most gorgeous style, and forming
a strange and striking contrast with the plaided stranger.

"I am right glad," said James, "to see my auld subjects o' my native
kingdom; and I greet ye weel, Peggy Williamson, and wish ye and your
bairn mony braw days. I also greet ye weel, Sir Willoughby Somerset,
Knight, and your braw leddie, wha is, nevertheless, only your wife, in
sae meikle as she is nearest your heart, in the fashion o' the
connection whilk exists between our auld Scotch wuddy and the heart o'
Mid-Loudon. But awa wi' this--_Et nunc labores exantlare_--whilk means,
to wark, to wark. Ken ye this Scotch lassie, Sir Willoughby Somerset?"

"No, sire," answered the knight, in evident confusion, but still
retaining a portion of his natural impudence.

"It's fause, sir," answered the King, whose choler now rose to the
boiling point of his royal fervour--"It's fause, sir; ye ken her as weel
as did our royal faither our royal mither, or as Hamman did his wuddy,
whilk was made o' sweet-smelling cedar, as is clearly made out by the
learned Chrysostom. I canna believe you; for our royal brither Solomon
hath said, that if a ruler hearken to lies, all his servants shall be
wicked. But, maybe, ye may ken your ain handwriting better than ye do
the lassie. Look at that, man; do ye ken that?"

Sir Willoughby was silent.

"I will take your silence, man, for an ill-favoured confession; and now,
sir, let it be understood by ye, that that bit writing and that bit
callant--wha doesna ken ye sae weel as ye ken his mither--maks a gude
marriage by the law o' Scotland. I dinna mean, sir, in the presence o'
this assembly, to disgrace ye, mair than will serve the purposes o'
justice; and I leave ye to reflect, if ye hae sic a thing about ye as
reflection, how ye treated this po'r lassie, wham ye ruined, and wha,
though fire, and famine, and death, and scorpions, are given, as
Ecclesiasticus says, for vengeance, sat quietly and--seeking nae other
satisfaction--sucked, wi' her honied lips, the poison which your shaft
carried to her broken heart; and wha, though exposed to terrible and
racking tortures, saved, on twa occasions, your life, regardless o' her
ain. Now, sir, though the lassie can claim ye as her husband, she alane
has the power o' severing that connection on the ground o' your
cohabitation wi' that leddie, wham ye call your wife; whilk power, by my
advice, she will doubtless exercise. But, sir, there maun here be a
_solatium_; and I ask you if you are willing to sign that paper whilk
Lionel Apsley is ready to shaw ye?"

Sir Willoughby took the document, which purported to be a conveyance to
Margaret Williamson, in liferent, and her son in fee, of one-half of the
domain of Somerset Hall, calculated to amount to L2,000 a year; and,
having read it, he seemed to hesitate to sign it. During his hesitation,
James whispered in his ear the name of Richard Foster. His manner
changed, and he signed the deed.

Margaret Williamson received the deed from the King, giving, in return,
one of her best curtsies. She came down to Scotland, prosecuted a
divorce against Sir Willoughby Somerset, and lived a much honoured and
respected lady, in Edinburgh, for many years.




THE BARLEY BANNOCK


Between Falkirk and Stirling are the remains of a wood, even yet pretty
extensive, which existed in the times of Wallace and Bruce. It is the
well-known Torwood, so frequently mentioned in the histories of these
Scottish heroes, and so celebrated for the shelter and concealment it
afforded them on frequent occasions during their seasons of adversity.
In those days, however, if we may believe old chronicles, the Torwood
covered a great deal more ground than it does now, extending, on its
northern side, it is said, to the banks of the Forth, a distance of
about four miles. Experiencing the fate of our other ancient woods, the
progress of cultivation and improvement has now greatly lessened its
extent; but it forms even in the present day, a singularly striking and
impressive piece of sylvian scenery. Its outward characteristics,
striking as they are, may not differ from those of other forests; but
there are associations connected with the Torwood, which fill its
sombre, solitary depths and recesses with a profound and solemn mystery,
and which diffuse throughout its picturesque glades a golden atmosphere
of poetry and romance. The spirit of the olden time is there, and has
flung its bewitching glamoury around the forest scene. There are few who
have wandered through its green arcades, and have penetrated its far and
gloomy depths, with a knowledge and recollection of the scenes which
they have witnessed, and the sounds they have heard--the mustering of
Wallace's patriot bands, and the stirring strains of the bugle of
Bruce--few, we say, who have roamed through the dark solitudes of the
Torwood, and who have thought of these things, but must have felt the
fullest, the deepest effect of those sacred associations and
recollections which enshrine the memory of the mighty dead.

At the period we refer to, namely, the glorious period when Bruce was
struggling to complete the work which his great predecessor Wallace had
begun--to compass the independence of Scotland--a rude little cottage or
bothy reared its humble form on the eastern skirts of the Torwood, or
rather a little way within the verge of the forest.

This lowly and lonely domicile was then occupied by a widow woman of the
name of Margaret Grahame. Her husband had been killed, some years
previous to the period at which we introduce her to the notice of the
reader, in a skirmish with a party of the English garrison from
Stirling; and she was thus left to bring up, as she best might, a family
of young children; the eldest of whom, a beautiful girl, named after her
mother, was only nine years of age at the time of her husband's death.

Margaret, however, was not one of those women who sink under
misfortune--who unresistingly yield to the pressure of calamity. In that
which had befallen her, she only saw an additional reason for redoubling
those exertions in behalf of her family which had never, at any time,
been wanting. After her husband's death, she continued to cultivate,
with the assistance of her children, the little patch of ground, which,
together with a small track of pasturage, on which two cows, her whole
stock of bestial, grazed, formed her only means of subsistence.

Small and humble as these means were, however, the industry and thrifty
management of Margaret Grahame rendered them sufficient to place herself
and family beyond the reach of want. The fare, indeed, which she could
put before her children, was homely enough in quality, but it was
abundant.

In character, Margaret, who had been a remarkably good-looking woman in
her day, and who was even yet a comely dame to look upon, was what we,
in Scotland here, call "furthy." She was a lively, rattling,
kind-hearted, out-spoken person; warm in her feelings, active in all her
habits, and possessing a natural courage and presence of mind, that
singularly fitted her for performing the duties of friendship in cases
of difficulty, danger, or distress.

Such, then, was Margaret Grahame, and such were the circumstances in
which she was placed at the period when we bring her before the reader.
These essential preliminary matters recorded, we proceed to say, that,
on a certain evening, a wet and stormy one, in the month of October,
1307, as Margaret was busily employed, with the assistance of her eldest
daughter--the younger children having been put to bed--in toasting some
barley meal bannocks before the fire, some one rapped smartly at the
door.

"Wha's there?" exclaimed Margaret, in some surprise at the lateness of
the visit, and little accustomed to the calls of either friends or foes
at her remote and solitary dwelling, wondering who the person could be
who sought admittance. To her inquiry, a mellow-toned, but masculine
voice replied--that the person without was one who had no other place of
shelter to go to for the night, and who would cheerfully pay for a
little refreshment, and an hour or two's shelter from the storm.

"A houseless stranger! Rin Margaret and open the door and let him in."

"I'm feart, mother," replied the timid girl, holding back, and putting
her finger to her mouth.

"Feart, ye little cowardly thing; what are ye feart for?" exclaimed Mrs
Grahame, hastening herself to the door. "Wha wad do us ony harm, ye
gowk," she continued, as she undid the fastenings of the door; "and is't
feer, think ye, that's to hinder us frae gien shelter to the
shelterless, or food to the hungry?"

As she uttered the last word, she flung the door widely and boldly open;
and there entered a figure which might well have appalled even the stout
heart of Margaret Grahame. This figure was that of a man of gigantic
stature and powerful frame, wearing a steel cap and shirt of mail that
glanced through the openings of a leathern doublet by which it was
covered, and in some measure concealed. From a belt which passed over
his right shoulder, depended a sword of dimension corresponding to the
tremendous strength indicated by the proportions of the wearer; and in
another belt, which passed round his middle, and which was joined in
front by a silver clasp, part of whose fashioning displayed two lion's
heads, was stuck a richly hilted dagger. A small silver bugle horn,
which was suspended from his neck by a chain of the same metal,
completed his appointments.

On the entrance of this formidable figure, the little girl uttered a
scream of terror, and flew to a remote corner of the apartment. The
gigantic stranger smiled, and, turning to her mother, said--

"I am sorry that my appearance is so alarming as to make young ladies
fly me. I would have them believe that I would much sooner protect than
injure them. God forbid it should ever be otherwise. Come hither, my
little primrose, and let me assure thee of all safety at my hands." And
the stranger drew out a silken purse and took from it a small gold coin,
which he seemed desirous of presenting to the little fugitive fair one.
He was, however, interrupted.

"Never mind her, sir; never mind her," said her mother, who now
perceived that her guest was a person apparently of some note; "she'll
sune learn no to be sae frichtened for the men. Sit doon, sir, sit doon.
Tak a seat, and throw aff your wat jerkin, and I'll gie ye a pair o' my
puir gude-man's stockins to draw on, for I'm sure ye're soakit to the
skin; and a pair o' slippers to yer feet." And while the kindly-hearted
and hospitable woman was thus rattling away, she was actively employed
in seeking out the various comforts which she enumerated.

In a very few minutes after, the portly figure of the stranger filled
the favourite arm-chair, by the fire, of Mrs Grahame's late husband, in
as comfortable a plight as the hospitable attentions of his hostess
could place him. Several of these, however, he declined. He would not
part with his boots, nor divest himself of any part of his apparel or
appointments, excepting his steel cap and sword, both of which he placed
on the floor close by his chair, as if desirous that they should be
within reach on the slightest appearance of emergency.

"Now, my good dame," said the stranger, after enjoying for a few minutes
the invigorating warmth of a blazing fire, which his hostess had heaped
with faggots for his comfort, "I must be plain enough to tell ye that I
am famishing of hunger, and that these barley bannocks of yours look
most tempting."

"And do ye think, sir, I wasna gaun to mak ye an offer o' a tastin o'
them? That wad be a gay churlish like thing, I think; I was but waiting
till they war ready, to place some o' them before ye, wi' a soup milk,
and a bit butter, cheese, and a cauler egg or twa. Ye'll hae them a' in
ten minutes, and welcome."

"Thank you, my kind lady, thank you; and now, with your leave," added
Margaret's guest, whose hunger seemed to be in one of its most active
moods--"I'll just see what state the bannocks are in," and he stretched
out his hand, took one from the fire, blew on it, tossed it quickly to
and fro in his hands--for it was too hot to hold steadily--and, finally,
when it had cooled a little, broke it, took a mouthful, pronounced it
nearly ready, and, with great gusto, despatched the remainder.

"Dear me, man," said Mrs Grahame, who witnessed this gastronomic feat of
her guest with a feeling of increased compassion for his condition; "but
ye are awfu' hungry, I dare say, or ye wadna hae eaten a half-raw barley
bannock that way."

"The sweetest morsel ever I ate in my life!" replied the stranger,
smiling. "I'll never forget it; nor you either, my good dame."

"Pho, nonsense, man; but I see you're dreadfu' hungry;" and she
commenced an active turn of the bannocks, to expedite the process of
toasting.

This done, she redoubled her exertions in general preparation, and with
such effect, that in a few minutes, a little round table, spread with a
clean white cloth, which she placed by the elbow of her guest, was
covered with the homely but wholesome edibles which she had
enumerated--namely, a small basin of fresh eggs, a quarter of a cheese,
a plate of butter, a large bowl of milk, and a heaped-up platter of warm
smoking barley bread.

"Noo, sir, set to, and do me and yoursel credit by makin a hearty
supper. I'm sure ye're welcome; and I houp I needna say that again."

Obeying, without hesitation or further ceremony, the kind and cordial
invitation of his hostess, the stalworth stranger commenced a vigorous
attack on the tempting viands placed before him; and, had the credit of
Mrs Grahame been dependant on the quantity he might consume, it was
safe, for he did, indeed, make a splendid meal of it.

The stranger had completed his repast, but his hostess had scarcely
removed the surplus and other traces of the meal, when both were
suddenly alarmed by the sound of the trampling of horses' feet from
without, mingled with occasional shouts by the riders, some of mirth,
and some of imprecation.

"No sound of bugle--they cannot be friends!" exclaimed Mrs Grahame's
guest, starting to his feet and seizing his sword. "Now, my good
weapon," he added, as he unsheathed the shining blade, "stand me in as
good stead this night as thou hast hitherto done, and thou shalt find
that I will do my duty by thee."

"Fecht, sir! ye'll fecht nane here," exclaimed Margaret Grahame, who had
been, during the previous instant, listening eagerly with her ear close
to the door, endeavouring to make out who or what the approaching party
of horsemen were. "Fecht! ye'll fecht nane," she exclaimed, rushing up
to her guest, and seizing him by the sword arm. "It wad be madness,
perfect madness. It's a party o' Englishers frae Stirlin Castle--a
dizzen at least. And what could your single arm, strong as it is, do
against sae mony? No, no, come here--here wi' me," she added, in a state
of great excitement. "Leave me to fecht the Englishers; I ken how to
do't. I'll fecht them wi' barley bannocks and dauds o' butter. Keep thae
chiels chowan, and deil haet else they'll think o'."

By this time Margaret Grahame had conducted, or rather dragged her
guest, who passively, and, it may be added, prudently yielded to her
proceeding, into a dark back apartment. This gained, she hastily threw
aside the curtain of a bed, which occupied a corner of the room, opened
a _press_ or closet, the door of which the former concealed, and
unceremoniously thrust her guest, without saying another word, into the
unoccupied receptacle, fastened the door, and drew the curtains of the
bed again before it.

All this was the work of but an instant, and there was need that it
should be so; for the English troopers--such they were--were already
thundering at the door for admittance.

"Comin this moment!" exclaimed Margaret Grahame. "Dear me, will ye no
gie folk time to throw on their claes," she added, as she undid the
fastenings of the door. "To raise folk out o' their beds this way at
this time o' nicht."

As she said this, she threw the door open, and, in the same instant, six
or eight dismounted troopers, who had given their horses in charge to
two or three comrades remaining mounted outside, entered.

On the entrance of the soldiers, Margaret Grahame, in pursuance of the
particular line of tactics which she had laid down for herself,
commenced, with great volubility of speech, to overwhelm her visiters
with both words and deeds of hospitality--she stirred the fire to warm
them, and covered her homely board with the best she had to regale them,
and all this with such expedition, accompanied by such an outpouring of
expressions of kindness, that the soldiers could do nothing but look at
each other in surprise, and, by their smiles, express the perplexity
into which such an unexpected reception had placed them.

One obvious general effect, however, was produced on them all by
Margaret's proceedings; this was the completely disarming them of all
vindictive feeling, and substituting in its place one of kindness and
sympathy.

Pressed by their hostess, and nothing loth themselves, the soldiers now
sat down to the well-spread board which the former's hospitality had
prepared for them, and ate heartily; those first served giving place to
their comrades, until the whole had partaken of the widow's good cheer.

This done, the soldiers, though not without apologies for the rudeness
which their duty imposed on them, informed Margaret Grahame that the
purpose of their visit was to search her house for a certain important
personage--not naming him--who, they had information, had been seen in
that neighbourhood in the course of the day.

Having given her this intimation, the soldiers, attended by Margaret
herself, proceeded to search the house, but in a temper so mollified by
the kind treatment they had received, that they went through the process
more as a matter of form than duty.

On completing their brief and cursory search, the troopers, after
thanking their hostess for her hospitality, remounted their horses, and
departed.

It was not for some time after they were gone, that Margaret Grahame
ventured to seek the hiding-place of her first guest of the evening.
There were two reasons for this delay. The first was to ensure the
perfect safety of the latter, by allowing her late visiters to get to a
secure distance; the other was one of a less definite and more
perplexing nature. From some expressions which had dropped from the
troopers in the course of their search, she had now no doubt that her
concealed guest was no other than Robert Bruce.

It was under this impression, then, and under the feeling of reverential
awe it inspired, that Margaret Grahame at length went to intimate to her
concealed guest that the troopers were gone, and that he might now come
forth from his hiding-place.

On the latter's stepping from his concealment, Margaret flung herself on
her knees, and calling him her King, implored his pardon for the homely
and familiar manner in which, in ignorance of his quality, she had
treated him.

"So, my good dame," replied Bruce, smiling--for it was indeed he--and
taking his hostess kindly by the hand, and raising her from her humble
position, "so you have discovered me? These troopers have blabbed, I
fancy. Well, my secret could not be in safer keeping, I feel assured,
than in thine, my kind hostess. It is even so. I _am_ Robert Bruce, and
none other."

Overcome by the various and tumultuous feelings which the incident,
altogether, was so well calculated to excite, Margaret Grahame burst
into tears, and, raising the corner of her apron to her eyes, stood
thus for some seconds without uttering a word.

Bruce, affected, even to the starting of a tear, took his hostess again
by the hand, and, not without very evident emotion, said--"Come, my good
dame, why those tears?"

"I canna richtly tell mysel, sir. I dinna ken. I canna help it. Maybe it
is to see you in this plight--to see Scotland's chief without a single
attendant, and glad o' the shelter o' sae lowly a roof as mine."

"Pho, pho, my kind hostess, and what is in that?" replied Bruce, in a
cheering tone. "We must all rough it out as we best can in these times,
king and cobbler, baron and beggar. Better days are coming, and we will
then think of our present hardships only to laugh at them. As to
attendants," he added, with a look of peculiar intelligence, "I am not,
perhaps, so destitute of them as I may seem; although they are not, it
may be, within calling at this moment. Half-an-hour's walk into the
Torwood, however, and half-a-dozen blasts of this little horn would
bring around me a band of as stalworth, nay, as brave hearts as Scotland
can boast."

"God be thankit for that!" said Bruce's enthusiastic hostess. "Then
there is hope yet."

"There is, there is. A day of reckoning is coming. But now, my good
dame," he added, glancing at a little window, through which the dull,
faint light of the breaking day had just begun to gleam, "I must take my
departure. I must be at the mustering place an hour after daybreak."
Saying this the redoubted warrior drew out a leathern purse, from whence
he took several pieces of gold coin, which he vainly endeavoured to
press on the acceptance of his hostess.

"Well, well, my good dame," he said, on finding his urgency only gave
offence; "we'll settle all this on some future day. Depend upon it, _I_
will not forget the score which stands against me here. In the meantime,
farewell; and fare ye well too, my little maiden," he said, taking his
hostess's daughter by the hand; "you and I will meet again." Having said
this, and having once more bid mother and daughter adieu, Bruce left the
house, and soon after disappeared in the depths of the Torwood.

Margaret Grahame stood at the door, and, with the corner of her apron at
her eye, looked after the stately figure of the patriot chief, as long
as it remained in sight. When it had disappeared, she returned into the
house, and began, as she busied herself in brushing up, or, as she would
herself have called it, "redding" up her little cottage, after the
hospitalities of which it had been the scene, in _crooning_ a popular
Scottish ditty of the day, of which the two first verses ran thus,

    "Guid speed the wark o' bow and brand
      That's raised for Scotland's weal,
    And blessins on the heart and hand
      O' the ever true and leal."

    "Come frae the east, come frae the wast,
      Come frae the south and north;
    For Bruce's horn has blawn a blast
      That's heard frae Clyde to Forth."
                "Guid speed the wark," &c.

Here, we beg to apprise the reader, the first act of our little drama
closes--the curtain drops; and when we again raise it, years have passed
away, and many things have undergone those changes which the lapse of
time so certainly produces.

During the interval to which we allude--an interval of eight or ten
years, Scotland, after a long and arduous struggle, had achieved her
independence, and Bruce was now in secure and peaceable possession of
the Scottish crown.

To all, however, the changes which had taken place had not been equally
fortunate or favourable. On many the sanguinary and ruthless warfare
which had desolated the country brought poverty and ruin.

Amongst the sufferers of this description was Margaret Grahame. About
three years after the occurrence of the incidents which occupy the
preceding pages, a party of English soldiers had first plundered and
then burned her little cottage, driving herself and family forth on the
world, to earn a livelihood as they best might, or to subsist, if other
means failed, on the scanty doles of charity.

On being driven from her home, Margaret Grahame, followed by her
children, in melancholy procession, wandered she knew nor cared not
whither; but, instinctively, taking that direction which promised to
leave further danger at the greatest distance behind her. This direction
was westward, and on this route she continued; subsisting by the way on
the benevolence of the humane; most of whom, however, were more willing
than able to relieve her, till she reached the neighbourhood of the
village of Kilpatrick, on the Clyde. Exhausted with fatigue, and
famishing with hunger, the widow and her children here applied at a
respectable farm-house, which stood a little way off the road, for
relief.

The door was opened by the farmer himself, a man of mild and benevolent
disposition. To him, therefore, the petition of the destitute widow was
not proffered in vain. Herself and children were instantly admitted, and
a plenteous meal of bread, and cheese, and milk, placed before them.

When the famishing family had satisfied the cravings of hunger, the
farmer, whose name was Blackadder, inquired, but in the most delicate
manner possible, into the history of the widow. She told him her story.
When she had concluded, Blackadder, looking at her two sons, said that
they were fine stout boys, and that he thought, if she chose, he could
find them employment about his farm.

"Ye're kind, sir, very kind," replied the widow; "but I'm sweart to
pairt wi' my bairns. Destitute as I am, I canna think o' separatin frae
them."

"But there's no occasion for that either," replied the farmer. "I'm
willin, in consideration o' their services, to gie ye a bit sma cot to
live in, and ye'll never want a pickle meal, and a soup o' milk forbye.
And for this bonnie lassie, here," he added, and now looking at
Margaret, who had grown into a tall and handsome girl, "she micht mak
herself useful about my house too, for which, of course, I wad gie her
the wages gaun. Ye micht then be a' comfortable aneuch, for a wee, at
ony rate."

Need we say that the kind offers of Blackadder were readily closed with.
We think we need not. The grateful family, the children, by looks of
glee and satisfaction, and the mother by broken sentences and tears of
joy, acknowledged their deep sense of the obligation proposed to be
conferred on them.

"And wha kens," said the farmer, on this matter being settled, "an wha
kens," he said, smiling; "but this bonny lassie here," laying his hand
on Margaret's shoulder, "may sune fa' in wi' a bit canny guidman
hereawa, wi' a weel-stocked mailin."

"I doot, sir, that's a' settled already," replied the widow, smiling,
"although there's but little gear in the case. Margaret, I'm jalousin,
has left her heart at the Torwood. There's a certain young lad, a
farmer's son there, that I'm thinkin she wadna willingly forget. But
want o' warl's gear aften sunders fond hearts."

"Better times may come roun, guidwife," replied Mr Blackadder; "an' the
lass may get her leman for a'."

During this conversation, the subject of it seemed in an agony of
maidenly distress. With a face burning with blushes, she vainly
attempted, with a series of unconnected interjections, amongst which
were several _denials_ of the _fact_, to arrest her mother's
communications regarding the secrets of her heart. Finding these
efforts ineffectual, the bashful girl retreated behind her mother's
chair, and there, concealing herself as much as possible, awaited, in
suffering silence, the conclusion of the, to her, most annoying
discussion.

In less than a week from this period, Widow Grahame was comfortably
domiciled in a small cot-house at a little distance from the residence
of her benefactor, Blackadder. Here, contented with her humble lot, and
grateful to a kind Providence, which had so timeously interposed in her
behalf, Margaret Grahame plied her wheel the livelong day, singing as
merrily, the while, as the "laverock in the lift." Her boys were giving
every satisfaction to their employer, and her daughter was no less
successful in pleasing in her department. She was thus in the enjoyment
of one of the greatest happinesses of which her condition was
susceptible, and she fully appreciated the blessing. It was while
matters were in this state with Widow Grahame, and somewhere about two
years after she had settled at Kilpatrick, that her eldest son said to
her one evening, on returning home after the labours of the day were
over:--

"Mother, they say the King has come to Cardross Castle and I believe
it's true; for I saw, frae the braes, a great cavalcade o' knights and
gentlemen on horseback, doon on the Glasgow road, gaun towards Dumbarton
as hard's they could bir."

"An' what's that to me, laddie, whar the King, God bless him, is?"
replied his mother. "I'm aye blithe to hear o' his weelfare, for auld
lang syne; but what mair is there aboot it?"

"I dinna ken, mother," said the boy; "but I've been thinkin that if he
kent you were here, or kent whar to fin ye, he wad maybe let you see
that he hadna fo

Showing first 200,000 characters. Full text: gutenberg.org/ebooks/37217