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The Fair Maid of Perth; Or, St. Valentine's Day

by Walter Scott · English · Gutenberg #7987 · 1,049,212 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The Fair Maid of Perth; Or, St. Valentine's Day

Author: Walter Scott


        
Release date: April 1, 2005 [eBook #7987]
                Most recently updated: August 31, 2016

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/7987

Credits: Produced by Martin Robb, and David Widger


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE FAIR MAID OF PERTH; OR, ST. VALENTINE'S DAY ***




Produced by Martin Robb





THE FAIR MAID OF PERTH

or

ST. VALENTINE’S DAY


By Sir Walter Scott





INTRODUCTORY.

The ashes here of murder’d kings Beneath my footsteps sleep; And yonder
lies the scene of death, Where Mary learn’d to weep.

CAPTAIN MARJORIBANKS.


Every quarter of Edinburgh has its own peculiar boast, so that the city
together combines within its precincts, if you take the word of the
inhabitants on the subject, as much of historical interest as of natural
beauty. Our claims in behalf of the Canongate are not the slightest.
The Castle may excel us in extent of prospect and sublimity of site; the
Calton had always the superiority of its unrivalled panorama, and has of
late added that of its towers, and triumphal arches, and the pillars of
its Parthenon. The High Street, we acknowledge, had the distinguished
honour of being defended by fortifications, of which we can show no
vestiges. We will not descend to notice the claims of more upstart
districts, called Old New Town and New New Town, not to mention the
favourite Moray Place, which is the Newest New Town of all. We will not
match ourselves except with our equals, and with our equals in age only,
for in dignity we admit of one. We boast being the court end of the
town, possessing the Palace and the sepulchral remains of monarchs,
and that we have the power to excite, in a degree unknown to the less
honoured quarters of the city, the dark and solemn recollections of
ancient grandeur, which occupied the precincts of our venerable Abbey
from the time of St. David till her deserted halls were once more made
glad, and her long silent echoes awakened, by the visit of our present
gracious sovereign.

My long habitation in the neighbourhood, and the quiet respectability of
my habits, have given me a sort of intimacy with good Mrs. Policy, the
housekeeper in that most interesting part of the old building called
Queen Mary’s Apartments. But a circumstance which lately happened
has conferred upon me greater privileges; so that, indeed, I might, I
believe, venture on the exploit of Chatelet, who was executed for
being found secreted at midnight in the very bedchamber of Scotland’s
mistress.

It chanced that the good lady I have mentioned was, in the discharge of
her function, showing the apartments to a cockney from London--not one
of your quiet, dull, commonplace visitors, who gape, yawn, and
listen with an acquiescent “umph” to the information doled out by the
provincial cicerone. No such thing: this was the brisk, alert agent of a
great house in the city, who missed no opportunity of doing business,
as he termed it--that is, of putting off the goods of his employers,
and improving his own account of commission. He had fidgeted through the
suite of apartments, without finding the least opportunity to touch upon
that which he considered as the principal end of his existence. Even the
story of Rizzio’s assassination presented no ideas to this emissary of
commerce, until the housekeeper appealed, in support of her narrative,
to the dusky stains of blood upon the floor.

“These are the stains,” she said; “nothing will remove them from the
place: there they have been for two hundred and fifty years, and there
they will remain while the floor is left standing--neither water nor
anything else will ever remove them from that spot.”

Now our cockney, amongst other articles, sold Scouring Drops, as they
are called, and a stain of two hundred and fifty years’ standing was
interesting to him, not because it had been caused by the blood of a
queen’s favourite, slain in her apartment, but because it offered
so admirable an opportunity to prove the efficacy of his unequalled
Detergent Elixir. Down on his knees went our friend, but neither in
horror nor devotion.

“Two hundred and fifty years, ma’am, and nothing take it away? Why, if
it had been five hundred, I have something in my pocket will fetch it
out in five minutes. D’ye see this elixir, ma’am? I will show you the
stain vanish in a moment.”

Accordingly, wetting one end of his handkerchief with the all deterging
specific, he began to rub away on the planks, without heeding the
remonstrances of Mrs. Policy. She, good soul, stood at first in
astonishment, like the abbess of St. Bridget’s, when a profane visitant
drank up the vial of brandy which had long passed muster among the
relics of the cloister for the tears of the blessed saint. The venerable
guardian of St. Bridget probably expected the interference of her
patroness--she of Holyrood might, perhaps, hope that David Ruzzio’s
spectre would arise to prevent the profanation. But Mrs. Policy stood
not long in the silence of horror. She uplifted her voice, and screamed
as loudly as Queen Mary herself when the dreadful deed was in the act of
perpetration--

“Harrow, now out, and walawa!” she cried.

I happened to be taking my morning walk in the adjoining gallery,
pondering in my mind why the kings of Scotland, who hung around me,
should be each and every one painted with a nose like the knocker of
a door, when lo! the walls once more re-echoed with such shrieks as
formerly were as often heard in the Scottish palaces as were sounds of
revelry and music. Somewhat surprised at such an alarm in a place so
solitary, I hastened to the spot, and found the well meaning traveller
scrubbing the floor like a housemaid, while Mrs. Policy, dragging him
by the skirts of the coat, in vain endeavoured to divert him from his
sacrilegious purpose. It cost me some trouble to explain to the zealous
purifier of silk stockings, embroidered waistcoats, broadcloth, and deal
planks that there were such things in the world as stains which ought
to remain indelible, on account of the associations with which they are
connected. Our good friend viewed everything of the kind only as
the means of displaying the virtue of his vaunted commodity. He
comprehended, however, that he would not be permitted to proceed
to exemplify its powers on the present occasion, as two or three
inhabitants appeared, who, like me, threatened to maintain the
housekeeper’s side of the question. He therefore took his leave,
muttering that he had always heard the Scots were a nasty people, but
had no idea they carried it so far as to choose to have the floors of
their palaces blood boltered, like Banquo’s ghost, when to remove them
would have cost but a hundred drops of the Infallible Detergent Elixir,
prepared and sold by Messrs. Scrub and Rub, in five shilling and ten
shilling bottles, each bottle being marked with the initials of the
inventor, to counterfeit which would be to incur the pains of forgery.

Freed from the odious presence of this lover of cleanliness, my good
friend Mrs. Policy was profuse in her expressions of thanks; and yet her
gratitude, instead of exhausting itself in these declarations, according
to the way of the world, continues as lively at this moment as if she
had never thanked me at all. It is owing to her recollection of this
piece of good service that I have the permission of wandering, like the
ghost of some departed gentleman usher, through these deserted halls,
sometimes, as the old Irish ditty expresses it--

Thinking upon things that are long enough ago;--and sometimes wishing
I could, with the good luck of most editors of romantic narrative, light
upon some hidden crypt or massive antique cabinet, which should yield to
my researches an almost illegible manuscript, containing the authentic
particulars of some of the strange deeds of those wild days of the
unhappy Mary.

My dear Mrs. Baliol used to sympathise with me when I regretted that all
godsends of this nature had ceased to occur, and that an author might
chatter his teeth to pieces by the seaside without a wave ever wafting
to him a casket containing such a history as that of Automates; that
he might break his shins in stumbling through a hundred vaults without
finding anything but rats and mice; and become the tenant of a dozen
sets of shabby tenements without finding that they contained any
manuscript but the weekly bill for board and lodging. A dairymaid of
these degenerate days might as well wash and deck her dairy in hopes of
finding the fairy tester in her shoe.

“It is a sad and too true a tale, cousin,” said Mrs. Baliol, “I am sure
we all have occasion to regret the want of these ready supplements to a
failing invention. But you, most of all, have right to complain that the
fairest have not favoured your researches--you, who have shown the world
that the age of chivalry still exists--you, the knight of Croftangry,
who braved the fury of the ‘London ‘prentice bold,’ in behalf of the
fair Dame Policy, and the memorial of Rizzio’s slaughter! Is it not a
pity, cousin, considering the feat of chivalry was otherwise so much
according to rule--is it not, I say, a great pity that the lady had not
been a little younger, and the legend a little older?”

“Why, as to the age at which a fair dame loses the benefit of chivalry,
and is no longer entitled to crave boon of brave knight, that I leave
to the statutes of the Order of Errantry; but for the blood of Rizzio
I take up the gauntlet, and maintain against all and sundry that I
hold the stains to be of no modern date, but to have been actually the
consequence and the record of that terrible assassination.”

“As I cannot accept the challenge to the field, fair cousin, I am
contented to require proof.”

“The unaltered tradition of the Palace, and the correspondence of the
existing state of things with that tradition.”

“Explain, if you please.”

“I will. The universal tradition bears that, when Rizzio was dragged
out of the chamber of the Queen, the heat and fury of the assassins, who
struggled which should deal him most wounds, despatched him at the door
of the anteroom. At the door of the apartment, therefore, the greater
quantity of the ill fated minion’s blood was spilled, and there the
marks of it are still shown. It is reported further by historians, that
Mary continued her entreaties for his life, mingling her prayers with
screams and exclamations, until she knew that he was assuredly slain; on
which she wiped her eyes and said, ‘I will now study revenge.’”

“All this is granted. But the blood--would it not wash out, or waste
out, think you, in so many years?”

“I am coming to that presently. The constant tradition of the Palace
says, that Mary discharged any measures to be taken to remove the marks
of slaughter, which she had resolved should remain as a memorial to
quicken and confirm her purposed vengeance. But it is added that,
satisfied with the knowledge that it existed, and not desirous to have
the ghastly evidence always under her eye, she caused a traverse, as it
is called (that is, a temporary screen of boards), to be drawn along the
under part of the anteroom, a few feet from the door, so as to separate
the place stained with the blood from the rest of the apartment, and
involve it in considerable obscurity. Now this temporary partition still
exists, and, by running across and interrupting the plan of the roof
and cornices, plainly intimates that it has been intended to serve some
temporary purpose, since it disfigures the proportions of the room,
interferes with the ornaments of the ceiling, and could only have been
put there for some such purpose as hiding an object too disagreeable
to be looked upon. As to the objection that the bloodstains would have
disappeared in course of time, I apprehend that, if measures to efface
them were not taken immediately after the affair happened--if the blood,
in other words, were allowed to sink into the wood, the stain would
become almost indelible. Now, not to mention that our Scottish palaces
were not particularly well washed in those days, and that there were no
Patent Drops to assist the labours of the mop, I think it very probable
that these dark relics might subsist for a long course of time, even
if Mary had not desired or directed that they should be preserved, but
screened by the traverse from public sight. I know several instances
of similar bloodstains remaining for a great many years, and I doubt
whether, after a certain time, anything can remove them save the
carpenter’s plane. If any seneschal, by way of increasing the interest
of the apartments, had, by means of paint, or any other mode of
imitation, endeavoured to palm upon posterity supposititious stigmata, I
conceive that the impostor would have chosen the Queen’s cabinet and the
bedroom for the scene of his trick, placing his bloody tracery where it
could be distinctly seen by visitors, instead of hiding it behind
the traverse in this manner. The existence of the said traverse, or
temporary partition, is also extremely difficult to be accounted for, if
the common and ordinary tradition be rejected. In short, all the rest of
this striking locality is so true to the historical fact, that I think
it may well bear out the additional circumstance of the blood on the
floor.”

“I profess to you,” answered Mrs. Baliol, “that I am very willing to be
converted to your faith. We talk of a credulous vulgar, without always
recollecting that there is a vulgar incredulity, which, in historical
matters as well as in those of religion, finds it easier to doubt than
to examine, and endeavours to assume the credit of an esprit fort,
by denying whatever happens to be a little beyond the very limited
comprehension of the sceptic. And so, that point being settled, and
you possessing, as we understand, the open sesamum into these secret
apartments, how, if we may ask, do you intend to avail yourself of your
privilege? Do you propose to pass the night in the royal bedchamber?”

“For what purpose, my dear lady? If to improve the rheumatism, this east
wind may serve the purpose.”

“Improve the rheumatism! Heaven forbid! that would be worse than adding
colours to the violet. No, I mean to recommend a night on the couch of
the nose of Scotland, merely to improve the imagination. Who knows
what dreams might be produced by a night spent in a mansion of so many
memories! For aught I know, the iron door of the postern stair
might open at the dead hour of midnight, and, as at the time of the
conspiracy, forth might sally the phantom assassins, with stealthy step
and ghastly look, to renew the semblance of the deed. There comes the
fierce fanatic Ruthven, party hatred enabling him to bear the armour
which would otherwise weigh down a form extenuated by wasting disease.
See how his writhen features show under the hollow helmet, like those of
a corpse tenanted by a demon, whose vindictive purpose looks out at
the flashing eyes, while the visage has the stillness of death. Yonder
appears the tall form of the boy Darnley, as goodly in person as
vacillating in resolution; yonder he advances with hesitating step, and
yet more hesitating purpose, his childish fear having already overcome
his childish passion. He is in the plight of a mischievous lad who
has fired a mine, and who now, expecting the explosion in remorse and
terror, would give his life to quench the train which his own hand
lighted. Yonder--yonder--But I forget the rest of the worthy cutthroats.
Help me if you can.”

“Summon up,” said I, “the postulate, George Douglas, the most active of
the gang. Let him arise at your call--the claimant of wealth which he
does not possess, the partaker of the illustrious blood of Douglas, but
which in his veins is sullied with illegitimacy. Paint him the ruthless,
the daring, the ambitious--so nigh greatness, yet debarred from it; so
near to wealth, yet excluded from possessing it; a political Tantalus,
ready to do or dare anything to terminate his necessities and assert his
imperfect claims.”

“Admirable, my dear Croftangry! But what is a postulate?”

“Pooh, my dear madam, you disturb the current of my ideas. The postulate
was, in Scottish phrase, the candidate for some benefice which he had
not yet attained. George Douglas, who stabbed Rizzio, was the postulate
for the temporal possessions of the rich abbey of Arbroath.”

“I stand informed. Come, proceed; who comes next?” continued Mrs.
Baliol.

“Who comes next? Yon tall, thin made, savage looking man, with the
petronel in his hand, must be Andrew Ker of Faldonside, a brother’s son,
I believe, of the celebrated Sir David Ker of Cessford; his look and
bearing those of a Border freebooter, his disposition so savage that,
during the fray in the cabinet, he presented his loaded piece at the
bosom of the young and beautiful Queen, that queen also being within a
few weeks of becoming a mother.”

“Brave, beau cousin! Well, having raised your bevy of phantoms, I hope
you do not intend to send them back to their cold beds to warm them? You
will put them to some action, and since you do threaten the Canongate
with your desperate quill, you surely mean to novelise, or to dramatise,
if you will, this most singular of all tragedies?”

“Worse--that is less interesting--periods of history have been, indeed,
shown up, for furnishing amusement to the peaceable ages which, have
succeeded but, dear lady, the events are too well known in Mary’s days
to be used as vehicles of romantic fiction. What can a better writer
than myself add to the elegant and forcible narrative of Robertson?
So adieu to my vision. I awake, like John Bunyan, ‘and behold it is a
dream.’ Well enough that I awake without a sciatica, which would have
probably rewarded my slumbers had I profaned Queen Mary’s bed by using
it as a mechanical resource to awaken a torpid imagination.”

“This will never do, cousin,” answered Mrs. Baliol; “you must get over
all these scruples, if you would thrive in the character of a romantic
historian, which you have determined to embrace. What is the classic
Robertson to you? The light which he carried was that of a lamp to
illuminate the dark events of antiquity; yours is a magic lantern to
raise up wonders which never existed. No reader of sense wonders at your
historical inaccuracies, any more than he does to see Punch in the show
box seated on the same throne with King Solomon in his glory, or to
hear him hallooing out to the patriarch, amid the deluge, ‘Mighty hazy
weather, Master Noah.’”

“Do not mistake me, my dear madam,” said I; “I am quite conscious of
my own immunities as a tale teller. But even the mendacious Mr. Fag, in
Sheridan’s Rivals, assures us that, though he never scruples to tell
a lie at his master’s command, yet it hurts his conscience to be found
out. Now, this is the reason why I avoid in prudence all well known
paths of history, where every one can read the finger posts carefully
set up to advise them of the right turning; and the very boys and girls,
who learn the history of Britain by way of question and answer, hoot at
a poor author if he abandons the highway.”

“Do not be discouraged, however, cousin Chrystal. There are plenty of
wildernesses in Scottish history, through which, unless I am greatly
misinformed, no certain paths have been laid down from actual survey,
but which are only described by imperfect tradition, which fills up
with wonders and with legends the periods in which no real events are
recognised to have taken place. Even thus, as Mat Prior says:

“Geographers on pathless downs Place elephants instead of towns.”

“If such be your advice, my dear lady,” said I, “the course of my story
shall take its rise upon this occasion at a remote period of history,
and in a province removed from my natural sphere of the Canongate.”

It was under the influence of those feelings that I undertook the
following historical romance, which, often suspended and flung aside,
is now arrived at a size too important to be altogether thrown away,
although there may be little prudence in sending it to the press.

I have not placed in the mouth of the characters the Lowland Scotch
dialect now spoken, because unquestionably the Scottish of that day
resembled very closely the Anglo Saxon, with a sprinkling of French
or Norman to enrich it. Those who wish to investigate the subject may
consult the Chronicles of Winton and the History of Bruce by Archdeacon
Barbour. But supposing my own skill in the ancient Scottish were
sufficient to invest the dialogue with its peculiarities, a translation
must have been necessary for the benefit of the general reader. The
Scottish dialect may be therefore considered as laid aside, unless
where the use of peculiar words may add emphasis or vivacity to the
composition.




PREFACE.

In continuing the lucubrations of Chrystal Croftangry, it occurred
that, although the press had of late years teemed with works of various
descriptions concerning the Scottish Gad, no attempt had hitherto been
made to sketch their manners, as these might be supposed to have
existed at the period when the statute book, as well as the page of the
chronicler, begins to present constant evidence of the difficulties to
which the crown was exposed, while the haughty house of Douglas all but
overbalanced its authority on the Southern border, and the North was
at the same time torn in pieces by the yet untamed savageness of the
Highland races, and the daring loftiness to which some of the remoter
chieftains still carried their pretensions.

The well authenticated fact of two powerful clans having deputed each
thirty champions to fight out a quarrel of old standing, in presence of
King Robert III, his brother the Duke of Albany, and the whole court of
Scotland, at Perth, in the year of grace 1396, seemed to mark with
equal distinctness the rancour of these mountain feuds and the degraded
condition of the general government of the country; and it was fixed
upon accordingly as the point on which the main incidents of a romantic
narrative might be made to hinge. The characters of Robert III,
his ambitious brother, and his dissolute son seemed to offer some
opportunities of interesting contrast; and the tragic fate of the heir
of the throne, with its immediate consequences, might serve to complete
the picture of cruelty and lawlessness.

Two features of the story of this barrier battle on the Inch of
Perth--the flight of one of the appointed champions, and the reckless
heroism of a townsman, that voluntarily offered for a small piece
of coin to supply his place in the mortal encounter--suggested the
imaginary persons, on whom much of the novel is expended. The fugitive
Celt might have been easily dealt with, had a ludicrous style of
colouring been adopted; but it appeared to the Author that there would
be more of novelty, as well as of serious interest, if he could succeed
in gaining for him something of that sympathy which is incompatible with
the total absence of respect. Miss Baillie had drawn a coward by
nature capable of acting as a hero under the strong impulse of filial
affection. It seemed not impossible to conceive the case of one
constitutionally weak of nerve being supported by feelings of honour and
of jealousy up to a certain point, and then suddenly giving way, under
circumstances to which the bravest heart could hardly refuse compassion.

The controversy as to who really were the clans that figured in the
barbarous conflict of the Inch has been revived since the publication of
the Fair Maid of Perth, and treated in particular at great length by Mr.
Robert Mackay of Thurso, in his very curious History of the House and
Clan of Mackay. Without pretending to say that he has settled any part
of the question in the affirmative, this gentleman certainly seems to
have quite succeeded in proving that his own worthy sept had no part in
the transaction. The Mackays were in that age seated, as they have since
continued to be, in the extreme north of the island; and their chief at
the time was a personage of such importance, that his name and proper
designation could not have been omitted in the early narratives of the
occurrence. He on one occasion brought four thousand of his clan to the
aid of the royal banner against the Lord of the Isles. This historian is
of opinion that the Clan Quhele of Wyntoun were the Camerons, who appear
to have about that period been often designated as Macewans, and to
have gained much more recently the name of Cameron, i.e. Wrynose, from a
blemish in the physiognomy of some heroic chief of the line of Lochiel.
This view of the case is also adopted by Douglas in his Baronage, where
he frequently mentions the bitter feuds between Clan Chattan and Clan
Kay, and identifies the latter sept in reference to the events of 1396,
with the Camerons. It is perhaps impossible to clear up thoroughly this
controversy, little interesting in itself, at least to readers on
this side of Inverness. The names, as we have them in Wyntoun, are
“Clanwhewyl” and “Clachinya,” the latter probably not correctly
transcribed. In the Scoti Chronicon they are “Clanquhele” and “Clankay.
Hector Boece writes Clanchattan” and “Clankay,” in which he is followed
by Leslie while Buchanan disdains to disfigure his page with their
Gaelic designations at all, and merely describes them as two powerful
races in the wild and lawless region beyond the Grampians. Out of
this jumble what Sassenach can pretend dare lucem? The name Clanwheill
appears so late as 1594, in an Act of James VI. Is it not possible that
it may be, after all, a mere corruption of Clan Lochiel?

The reader may not be displeased to have Wyntoun’s original rhymes [bk.
ix. chap. xvii.]:


     A thousand and thre hundyr yere,
     Nynty and sex to mak all clere--
     Of thre scor wyld Scottis men,
     Thretty agane thretty then,
     In felny bolnit of auld fed,
     [Boiled with the cruelty of an old feud]
     As thare forelderis ware slane to dede.
     Tha thre score ware clannys twa,
     Clahynnhe Qwhewyl and Clachinyha;
     Of thir twa kynnis ware tha men,
     Thretty agane thretty then;
     And thare thai had than chiftanys twa,
     Scha Ferqwharis’ son wes ane of tha,
     The tother Cristy Johnesone.
     A selcouth thing be tha was done.
     At Sanct Johnestone besid the Freris,
     All thai entrit in barreris
     Wyth bow and ax, knyf and swerd,
     To deil amang thaim thare last werd.
     Thare thai laid on that time sa fast,
     Quha had the ware thare at the last
     I will noucht say; hot quha best had,
     He wes but dout bathe muth and mad.
     Fifty or ma ware slane that day,
     Sua few wyth lif than past away.

The prior of Lochleven makes no mention either of the evasion of one
of the Gaelic champions, or of the gallantry of the Perth artisan, in
offering to take a share in the conflict. Both incidents, however,
were introduced, no doubt from tradition, by the Continuator of Fordun
[Bower], whose narrative is in these words:


Anno Dom. millesimo trecentesimo nonagesimo sexto, magna pars borealis
Scotiae, trans Alpes, inquietata fuit per duos pestiferos Cateranos, et
eorum sequaces, viz. Scheabeg et suos consanguinarios, qui Clankay, et
Cristi Jonsonem ac suos, qui Clanqwhele dicebantur; qui nullo pacto
vel tractatu pacificari poterant, nullaque arte regis vel gubernatoris
poterant edomari, quoadusque nobilis et industriosus Dominus David de
Lindesay de Crawford, at Dominus Thomas comes Moraviae, diligentiam et
vires apposuerunt, ac inter partes sic tractaverunt, ut coram domino
rege certo die convenirent apud Perth, et alterutra pars eligeret de
progenie sua triginta personas adversus triginta de parte contraria,
cum gladiis tantum, et arcubus et sagittis, absque deploidibus, vel
armaturis aliis, praeter bipennes; et sic congredientes finem liti
ponerant, et terra pace potiretur. Utrique igitur parti summe placuit
contractus, et die lunae proximo ante festum Sancti Michaelis, apud
North insulam de Perth, coram rege et gubernatore et innumerabili
multitudine comparentes, conflictum acerrimum inierunt; ubi de sexaginta
interfecti sunt omnes, excepto uno ex parte Clankay et undecim exceptis
ex parte altera. Hoc etiam ibi accidit, quod omnes in procinctu belli
constituti, unus eorum locum diffugii considerans, inter omnes in
amnem elabitur, et aquam de Thaya natando transgreditur; a millenis
insequitur, sed nusquam apprehenditur. Stant igitur partes attonitae,
tanquam non ad conflictum progressuri, ob defectum evasi: noluit enim
pars integrum habens numerum sociorum consentire, ut unus de suis
demeretur; nec potuit pars altera quocumque pretio alterum ad supplendum
vicem fugientis inducere. Stupent igitur omnes haerentes, de damno
fugitivi conquerentes. Et cum totum illud opus cessare putaretur, ecce
in medio prorupit unus stipulosus vernaculus, statura modicus, sed
efferus, dicens: Ecce ego! quis me conducet intrare cum operariis istis
ad hunc ludum theatralem? Pro dimidia enim marca ludum experiar, ultra
hoc petens, ut si vivus de palaestra evasero, victum a quocumque vestrum
recipiam dum vixero: quia, sicut dicitur, “Majorem caritatem nemo habet,
quam ut animam suam ponat suis pro amicis.” Quali mercede donabor, qui
animam meam pro inimicis reipublicae et regni pono? Quod petiit, a rege
et diversis magnatibus conceditur. Cum hoc arcus ejus extenditur, et
primo sagittam in partem contrariam transmittit, et unum interficit.
Confestim hinc inde sagittae volitant, bipennes librant, gladios
vibrant, alterutro certant, et veluti carnifices boves in macello, sic
inconsternate ad invicem se trucidant. Sed nec inter tantos repertus
est vel unus, qui, tanquam vecors ant timidus, sive post tergum alterius
declinans, seipsum a tanta caede praetendit excusare. Iste tamen tyro
superveniens finaliter illaesus exivit; et dehinc multo tempore Boreas
quievit, nec ibidem fuit, ut supra, cateranorum excursus.

The scene is heightened with many florid additions by Boece and Leslie,
and the contending savages in Buchanan utter speeches after the most
approved pattern of Livy.

The devotion of the young chief of Clan Quhele’s foster father and
foster brethren in the novel is a trait of clannish fidelity, of which
Highland story furnishes many examples. In the battle of Inverkeithing,
between the Royalists and Oliver Cromwell’s troops, a foster father and
seven brave sons are known to have thus sacrificed themselves for Sir
Hector Maclean of Duart; the old man, whenever one of his boys fell,
thrusting forward another to fill his place at the right hand of the
beloved chief, with the very words adopted in the novel, “Another for
Hector!”

Nay, the feeling could outlive generations. The late much lamented
General Stewart of Garth, in his account of the battle of Killiecrankie,
informs us that Lochiel was attended on the field by the son of his
foster brother.

“This faithful adherent followed him like his shadow, ready to assist
him with his sword, or cover him from the shot of the enemy. Suddenly
the chief missed his friend from his side, and, turning round to look
what had become of him, saw him lying on his back with his breast
pierced by an arrow. He had hardly breath, before he expired, to tell
Lochiel that, seeing an enemy, a Highlander in General Mackay’s army,
aiming at him with a bow and arrow, he sprung behind him, and thus
sheltered him from instant death. This” observes the gallant David
Stewart, “is a species of duty not often practised, perhaps, by our aide
de camps of the present day.”--Sketches of the Highlanders, vol. i. p.
65.

I have only to add, that the Second Series of Chronicles of the
Canongate, with the chapter introductory which precedes, appeared in
May, 1828, and had a favourable reception.

ABBOTSFORD, Aug. 15, 1831.




CHAPTER I.

     “Behold the Tiber,” the vain Roman cried,
     Viewing the ample Tay from Baiglie’s side;
     But where’s the Scot that would the vaunt repay,
     And hail the puny Tiber for the Tay?

     Anonymous.


Among all the provinces in Scotland, if an intelligent stranger were
asked to describe the most varied and the most beautiful, it is probable
he would name the county of Perth. A native also of any other district
of Caledonia, though his partialities might lead him to prefer his
native county in the first instance, would certainly class that of Perth
in the second, and thus give its inhabitants a fair right to plead that,
prejudice apart, Perthshire forms the fairest portion of the Northern
kingdom. It is long since Lady Mary Wortley Montagu, with that excellent
taste which characterises her writings, expressed her opinion that the
most interesting district of every country, and that which exhibits the
varied beauties of natural scenery in greatest perfection, is that where
the mountains sink down upon the champaign, or more level land. The
most picturesque, if not the highest, hills are also to be found in the
county of Perth. The rivers find their way out of the mountainous region
by the wildest leaps, and through the most romantic passes connecting
the Highlands with the Lowlands. Above, the vegetation of a happier
climate and soil is mingled with the magnificent characteristics of
mountain scenery, and woods, groves, and thickets in profusion clothe
the base of the hills, ascend up the ravines, and mingle with the
precipices. It is in such favoured regions that the traveller finds what
the poet Gray, or some one else, has termed beauty lying in the lap of
terror.

From the same advantage of situation, this favoured province presents a
variety of the most pleasing character. Its lakes, woods, and mountains
may vie in beauty with any that the Highland tour exhibits; while
Perthshire contains, amidst this romantic scenery, and in some places in
connexion with it, many fertile and habitable tracts, which may vie
with the richness of merry England herself. The county has also been
the scene of many remarkable exploits and events, some of historical
importance, others interesting to the poet and romancer, though recorded
in popular tradition alone. It was in these vales that the Saxons of
the plain and the Gad of the mountains had many a desperate and bloody
encounter, in which it was frequently impossible to decide the palm of
victory between the mailed chivalry of the low country and the plaided
clans whom they opposed.

Perth, so eminent for the beauty of its situation, is a place of great
antiquity; and old tradition assigns to the town the importance of
a Roman foundation. That victorious nation, it is said, pretended to
recognise the Tiber in the much more magnificent and navigable Tay,
and to acknowledge the large level space, well known by the name of the
North Inch, as having a near resemblance to their Campus Martins. The
city was often the residence of our monarchs, who, although they had no
palace at Perth, found the Cistercian convent amply sufficient for the
reception of their court. It was here that James the First, one of the
wisest and best of the Scottish kings, fell a victim to the jealousy of
the vengeful aristocracy. Here also occurred the mysterious conspiracy
of Gowrie, the scene of which has only of late been effaced by the
destruction of the ancient palace in which the tragedy was acted. The
Antiquarian Society of Perth, with just zeal for the objects of their
pursuit, have published an accurate plan of this memorable mansion, with
some remarks upon its connexion with the narrative of the plot, which
display equal acuteness and candour.

One of the most beautiful points of view which Britain, or perhaps the
world, can afford is, or rather we may say was, the prospect from a
spot called the Wicks of Baiglie, being a species of niche at which the
traveller arrived, after a long stage from Kinross, through a waste and
uninteresting country, and from which, as forming a pass over the
summit of a ridgy eminence which he had gradually surmounted, he beheld,
stretching beneath him, the valley of the Tay, traversed by its ample
and lordly stream; the town of Perth, with its two large meadows, or
inches, its steeples, and its towers; the hills of Moncrieff and Kinnoul
faintly rising into picturesque rocks, partly clothed with woods; the
rich margin of the river, studded with elegant mansions; and the
distant view of the huge Grampian mountains, the northern screen of this
exquisite landscape. The alteration of the road, greatly, it must
be owned, to the improvement of general intercourse, avoids this
magnificent point of view, and the landscape is introduced more
gradually and partially to the eye, though the approach must be still
considered as extremely beautiful. There is still, we believe, a
footpath left open, by which the station at the Wicks of Baiglie may be
approached; and the traveller, by quitting his horse or equipage, and
walking a few hundred yards, may still compare the real landscape with
the sketch which we have attempted to give. But it is not in our power
to communicate, or in his to receive, the exquisite charm which surprise
gives to pleasure, when so splendid a view arises when least expected or
hoped for, and which Chrystal Croftangry experienced when he beheld, for
the first time, the matchless scene.

Childish wonder, indeed, was an ingredient in my delight, for I was not
above fifteen years old; and as this had been the first excursion which
I was permitted to make on a pony of my own, I also experienced the
glow of independence, mingled with that degree of anxiety which the most
conceited boy feels when he is first abandoned to his own undirected
counsels. I recollect pulling up the reins without meaning to do so,
and gazing on the scene before me as if I had been afraid it would shift
like those in a theatre before I could distinctly observe its different
parts, or convince myself that what I saw was real. Since that hour, and
the period is now more than fifty years past, the recollection of that
inimitable landscape has possessed the strongest influence over my
mind, and retained its place as a memorable thing, when much that was
influential on my own fortunes has fled from my recollection. It is
therefore unnatural that, whilst deliberating on what might be brought
forward for the amusement of the public, I should pitch upon some
narrative connected with the splendid scenery which made so much
impression on my youthful imagination, and which may perhaps have that
effect in setting off the imperfections of the composition which ladies
suppose a fine set of china to possess in heightening the flavour of
indifferent tea.

The period at which I propose to commence is, however, considerably
earlier of the remarkable historical transactions to which I have
already alluded, as the events which I am about to recount occurred
during the last years of the 14th century, when the Scottish sceptre was
swayed by the gentle but feeble hand of John, who, on being called to
the throne, assumed the title of Robert the Third.



CHAPTER II.

     A country lip may have the velvet touch;
     Though she’s no lady, she may please as much.

     DRYDEN.


Perth, boasting, as we have already mentioned, so large a portion of the
beauties of inanimate nature, has at no time been without its own share
of those charms which are at once more interesting and more transient.
To be called the Fair Maid of Perth would at any period have been a
high distinction, and have inferred no mean superiority in beauty, where
there were many to claim that much envied attribute. But, in the feudal
times to which we now call the reader’s attention, female beauty was a
quality of much higher importance than it has been since the ideas of
chivalry have been in a great measure extinguished. The love of the
ancient cavaliers was a licensed species of idolatry, which the love of
Heaven alone was theoretically supposed to approach in intensity, and
which in practice it seldom equalled. God and the ladies were familiarly
appealed to in the same breath; and devotion to the fair sex was as
peremptorily enjoined upon the aspirant to the honour of chivalry as
that which was due to Heaven. At such a period in society, the power of
beauty was almost unlimited. It could level the highest rank with that
which was immeasurably inferior.

It was but in the reign preceding that of Robert III. that beauty alone
had elevated a person of inferior rank and indifferent morals to share
the Scottish throne; and many women, less artful or less fortunate, had
risen to greatness from a state of concubinage, for which the manners
of the times made allowance and apology. Such views might have dazzled
a girl of higher birth than Catharine, or Katie, Glover, who was
universally acknowledged to be the most beautiful young woman of the
city or its vicinity, and whose renown, as the Fair Maid of Perth, had
drawn on her much notice from the young gallants of the royal court,
when it chanced to be residing in or near Perth, insomuch that more than
one nobleman of the highest rank, and most distinguished for deeds of
chivalry, were more attentive to exhibit feats of horsemanship as they
passed the door of old Simon Glover, in what was called Couvrefew, or
Curfew, Street, than to distinguish themselves in the tournaments, where
the noblest dames of Scotland were spectators of their address. But the
glover’s daughter--for, as was common with the citizens and artisans of
that early period, her father, Simon, derived his surname from the trade
which he practised--showed no inclination to listen to any gallantry
which came from those of a station highly exalted above that which she
herself occupied, and, though probably in no degree insensible to her
personal charms, seemed desirous to confine her conquests to those who
were within her own sphere of life. Indeed, her beauty being of that
kind which we connect more with the mind than with the person, was,
notwithstanding her natural kindness and gentleness of disposition,
rather allied to reserve than to gaiety, even when in company with her
equals; and the earnestness with which she attended upon the exercises
of devotion induced many to think that Catharine Glover nourished the
private wish to retire from the world and bury herself in the recesses
of the cloister. But to such a sacrifice, should it be meditated, it
was not to be expected her father, reputed a wealthy man and having this
only child, would yield a willing consent.

In her resolution of avoiding the addresses of the gallant courtiers,
the reigning beauty of Perth was confirmed by the sentiments of her
parent.

“Let them go,” he said--“let them go, Catharine, those gallants, with
their capering horses, their jingling spurs, their plumed bonnets, and
their trim mustachios: they are not of our class, nor will we aim at
pairing with them. Tomorrow is St. Valentine’s Day, when every bird
chooses her mate; but you will not see the linnet pair with the sparrow
hawk, nor the Robin Redbreast with the kite. My father was an honest
burgher of Perth, and could use his needle as well as I can. Did there
come war to the gates of our fair burgh, down went needles, thread, and
shamoy leather, and out came the good head piece and target from the
dark nook, and the long lance from above the chimney. Show me a day that
either he or I was absent when the provost made his musters! Thus we
have led our lives, my girl, working to win our bread, and fighting to
defend it. I will have no son in law that thinks himself better than me;
and for these lords and knights, I trust thou wilt always remember thou
art too low to be their lawful love, and too high to be their unlawful
loon. And now lay by thy work, lass, for it is holytide eve, and it
becomes us to go to the evening service, and pray that Heaven may send
thee a good Valentine tomorrow.”

So the Fair Maid of Perth laid aside the splendid hawking glove which
she was embroidering for the Lady Drummond, and putting on her holyday
kirtle, prepared to attend her father to the Blackfriars monastery,
which was adjacent to Couvrefew Street in which they lived. On their
passage, Simon Glover, an ancient and esteemed burgess of Perth,
somewhat stricken in years and increased in substance, received from
young and old the homage due to his velvet jerkin and his golden chain,
while the well known beauty of Catharine, though concealed beneath her
screen--which resembled the mantilla still worn in Flanders--called both
obeisances and doffings of the bonnet from young and old.

As the pair moved on arm in arm, they were followed by a tall handsome
young man, dressed in a yeoman’s habit of the plainest kind, but which
showed to advantage his fine limbs, as the handsome countenance that
looked out from a quantity of curled tresses, surmounted by a small
scarlet bonnet, became that species of headdress. He had no other weapon
than a staff in his hand, it not being thought fit that persons of his
degree (for he was an apprentice to the old glover) should appear on
the street armed with sword or dagger, a privilege which the jackmen, or
military retainers of the nobility, esteemed exclusively their own. He
attended his master at holytide, partly in the character of a domestic,
or guardian, should there be cause for his interference; but it was
not difficult to discern, by the earnest attention which he paid to
Catharine Glover, that it was to her, rather than to her father, that he
desired to dedicate his good offices.

Generally speaking, there was no opportunity for his zeal displaying
itself; for a common feeling of respect induced passengers to give way
to the father and daughter.

But when the steel caps, barrets, and plumes of squires, archers, and
men at arms began to be seen among the throng, the wearers of these
warlike distinctions were more rude in their demeanour than the
quiet citizens. More than once, when from chance, or perhaps from an
assumption of superior importance, such an individual took the wall of
Simon in passing, the glover’s youthful attendant bristled up with a
look of defiance, and the air of one who sought to distinguish his zeal
in his mistress’s service by its ardour. As frequently did Conachar, for
such was the lad’s name, receive a check from his master, who gave him
to understand that he did not wish his interference before he required
it.

“Foolish boy,” he said, “hast thou not lived long enough in my shop to
know that a blow will breed a brawl; that a dirk will cut the skin as
fast as a needle pierces leather; that I love peace, though I never
feared war, and care not which side of the causeway my daughter and I
walk upon so we may keep our road in peace and quietness?”

Conachar excused himself as zealous for his master’s honour, yet was
scarce able to pacify the old citizen.

“What have we to do with honour?” said Simon Glover. “If thou wouldst
remain in my service, thou must think of honesty, and leave honour to
the swaggering fools who wear steel at their heels and iron on their
shoulders. If you wish to wear and use such garniture, you are welcome,
but it shall not be in my house or in my company.”

Conachar seemed rather to kindle at this rebuke than to submit to it.
But a sign from Catharine, if that slight raising of her little finger
was indeed a sign, had more effect than the angry reproof of his master;
and the youth laid aside the military air which seemed natural to him,
and relapsed into the humble follower of a quiet burgher.

Meantime the little party were overtaken by a tall young man wrapped in
a cloak, which obscured or muffled a part of his face--a practice often
used by the gallants of the time, when they did not wish to be known, or
were abroad in quest of adventures. He seemed, in short, one who might
say to the world around him: “I desire, for the present, not to be known
or addressed in my own character; but, as I am answerable to myself
alone for my actions, I wear my incognito but for form’s sake, and care
little whether you see through it or not.”

He came on the right side of Catharine, who had hold of her father’s
arm, and slackened his pace as if joining their party.

“Good even to you, goodman.”

“The same to your worship, and thanks. May I pray you to pass on? Our
pace is too slow for that of your lordship, our company too mean for
that of your father’s son.”

“My father’s son can best judge of that, old man. I have business to
talk of with you and with my fair St. Catharine here, the loveliest and
most obdurate saint in the calendar.”

“With deep reverence, my lord,” said the old man, “I would remind you
that this is good St. Valentine’s Eve, which is no time for business,
and that I can have your worshipful commands by a serving man as early
as it pleases you to send them.”

“There is no time like the present,” said the persevering youth, whose
rank seemed to be a kind which set him above ceremony. “I wish to know
whether the buff doublet be finished which I commissioned some time
since; and from you, pretty Catharine (here he sank his voice to a
whisper), I desire to be informed whether your fair fingers have been
employed upon it, agreeably to your promise? But I need not ask you,
for my poor heart has felt the pang of each puncture that pierced the
garment which was to cover it. Traitress, how wilt thou answer for thus
tormenting the heart that loves thee so dearly?”

“Let me entreat you, my lord,” said Catharine, “to forego this wild
talk: it becomes not you to speak thus, or me to listen. We are of poor
rank but honest manners; and the presence of the father ought to protect
the child from such expressions, even from your lordship.”

This she spoke so low, that neither her father nor Conachar could
understand what she said.

“Well, tyrant,” answered the persevering gallant, “I will plague you no
longer now, providing you will let me see you from your window tomorrow,
when the sun first peeps over the eastern hills, and give me right to be
your Valentine for the year.”

“Not so, my lord; my father but now told me that hawks, far less eagles,
pair not with the humble linnet. Seek some court lady, to whom your
favours will be honour; to me--your Highness must permit me to speak the
plain truth--they can be nothing but disgrace.”

As they spoke thus, the party arrived at the gate of the church.

“Your lordship will, I trust, permit us here to take leave of you?” said
her father. “I am well aware how little you will alter your pleasure for
the pain and uneasiness you may give to such as us but, from the throng
of attendants at the gate, your lordship may see that there are others
in the church to whom even your gracious lordship must pay respect.”

“Yes--respect; and who pays any respect to me?” said the haughty young
lord. “A miserable artisan and his daughter, too much honoured by
my slightest notice, have the insolence to tell me that my notice
dishonours them. Well, my princess of white doe skin and blue silk, I
will teach you to rue this.”

As he murmured thus, the glover and his daughter entered the Dominican
church, and their attendant, Conachar, in attempting to follow them
closely, jostled, it may be not unwillingly, the young nobleman. The
gallant, starting from his unpleasing reverie, and perhaps considering
this as an intentional insult, seized on the young man by the breast,
struck him, and threw him from him. His irritated opponent recovered
himself with difficulty, and grasped towards his own side, as if seeking
a sword or dagger in the place where it was usually worn; but finding
none, he made a gesture of disappointed rage, and entered the church.
During the few seconds he remained, the young nobleman stood with his
arms folded on his breast, with a haughty smile, as if defying him to do
his worst. When Conachar had entered the church, his opponent, adjusting
his cloak yet closer about his face, made a private signal by holding
up one of his gloves. He was instantly joined by two men, who, disguised
like himself, had waited his motions at a little distance. They spoke
together earnestly, after which the young nobleman retired in one
direction, his friends or followers going off in another.

Simon Glover, before he entered the church, cast a look towards the
group, but had taken his place among the congregation before they
separated themselves. He knelt down with the air of a man who has
something burdensome on his mind; but when the service was ended,
he seemed free from anxiety, as one who had referred himself and his
troubles to the disposal of Heaven. The ceremony of High Mass was
performed with considerable solemnity, a number of noblemen and ladies
of rank being present. Preparations had indeed been made for the
reception of the good old King himself, but some of those infirmities to
which he was subject had prevented Robert III from attending the service
as was his wont. When the congregation were dismissed, the glover and
his beautiful daughter lingered for some time, for the purpose of making
their several shrifts in the confessionals, where the priests had taken
their places for discharging that part of their duty. Thus it happened
that the night had fallen dark, and the way was solitary, when they
returned along the now deserted streets to their own dwelling.

Most persons had betaken themselves to home and to bed. They who still
lingered in the street were night walkers or revellers, the idle and
swaggering retainers of the haughty nobles, who were much wont to insult
the peaceful passengers, relying on the impunity which their masters’
court favour was too apt to secure them.

It was, perhaps, in apprehension of mischief from some character of
this kind that Conachar, stepping up to the glover, said, “Master, walk
faster--we are dogg’d.”

“Dogg’d, sayest thou? By whom and by how many?”

“By one man muffled in his cloak, who follows us like our shadow.”

“Then will it never mend my pace along the Couvrefew Street for the best
one man that ever trode it.”

“But he has arms,” said Conachar.

“And so have we, and hands, and legs, and feet. Why, sure, Conachar, you
are not afraid of one man?”

“Afraid!” answered Conachar, indignant at the insinuation; “you shall
soon know if I am afraid.”

“Now you are as far on the other side of the mark, thou foolish boy:
thy temper has no middle course; there is no occasion to make a brawl,
though we do not run. Walk thou before with Catharine, and I will take
thy place. We cannot be exposed to danger so near home as we are.”

The glover fell behind accordingly, and certainly observed a person
keep so close to them as, the time and place considered, justified some
suspicion. When they crossed the street, he also crossed it, and when
they advanced or slackened their pace, the stranger’s was in proportion
accelerated or diminished. The matter would have been of very little
consequence had Simon Glover been alone; but the beauty of his daughter
might render her the object of some profligate scheme, in a country
where the laws afforded such slight protection to those who had not the
means to defend themselves.

Conachar and his fair charge having arrived on the threshold of their
own apartment, which was opened to them by an old female servant, the
burgher’s uneasiness was ended. Determined, however, to ascertain, if
possible, whether there had been any cause for it, he called out to the
man whose motions had occasioned the alarm, and who stood still, though
he seemed to keep out of reach of the light. “Come, step forward, my
friend, and do not play at bo peep; knowest thou not, that they who
walk like phantoms in the dark are apt to encounter the conjuration of a
quarterstaff? Step forward, I say, and show us thy shapes, man.”

“Why, so I can, Master Glover,” said one of the deepest voices that ever
answered question. “I can show my shapes well enough, only I wish they
could bear the light something better.”

“Body of me,” exclaimed Simon, “I should know that voice! And is it
thou, in thy bodily person, Harry Gow? Nay, beshrew me if thou passest
this door with dry lips. What, man, curfew has not rung yet, and if it
had, it were no reason why it should part father and son. Come in, man;
Dorothy shall get us something to eat, and we will jingle a can ere thou
leave us. Come in, I say; my daughter Kate will be right glad to see
thee.”

By this time he had pulled the person, whom he welcomed so cordially,
into a sort of kitchen, which served also upon ordinary occasions the
office of parlour. Its ornaments were trenchers of pewter, mixed with a
silver cup or two, which, in the highest degree of cleanliness, occupied
a range of shelves like those of a beauffet, popularly called “the
bink.” A good fire, with the assistance of a blazing lamp, spread light
and cheerfulness through the apartment, and a savoury smell of some
victuals which Dorothy was preparing did not at all offend the unrefined
noses of those whose appetite they were destined to satisfy.

Their unknown attendant now stood in full light among them, and though
his appearance was neither dignified nor handsome, his face and figure
were not only deserving of attention, but seemed in some manner to
command it. He was rather below the middle stature, but the breadth
of his shoulders, length and brawniness of his arms, and the muscular
appearance of the whole man, argued a most unusual share of strength,
and a frame kept in vigour by constant exercise. His legs were somewhat
bent, but not in a manner which could be said to approach to deformity,
on the contrary, which seemed to correspond to the strength of his
frame, though it injured in some degree its symmetry.

His dress was of buff hide; and he wore in a belt around his waist a
heavy broadsword, and a dirk or poniard, as if to defend his purse,
which (burgher fashion) was attached to the same cincture. The head was
well proportioned, round, close cropped, and curled thickly with black
hair. There was daring and resolution in the dark eye, but the other
features seemed to express a bashful timidity, mingled with good humor,
and obvious satisfaction at meeting with his old friends.

Abstracted from the bashful expression, which was that of the moment,
the forehead of Henry Gow, or Smith, for he was indifferently so called,
was high and noble, but the lower part of the face was less happily
formed. The mouth was large, and well furnished with a set of firm and
beautiful teeth, the appearance of which corresponded with the air of
personal health and muscular strength which the whole frame indicated.
A short thick beard, and mustachios which had lately been arranged with
some care, completed the picture. His age could not exceed eight and
twenty.

The family appeared all well pleased with the unexpected appearance of
an old friend. Simon Glover shook his hand again and again, Dorothy made
her compliments, and Catharine herself offered freely her hand, which
Henry held in his massive grasp, as if he designed to carry it to his
lips, but, after a moment’s hesitation, desisted, from fear lest the
freedom might be ill taken. Not that there was any resistance on the
part of the little hand which lay passive in his grasp; but there was a
smile mingled with the blush on her cheek, which seemed to increase the
confusion of the gallant.

Her father, on his part, called out frankly, as he saw his friend’s
hesitation: “Her lips, man--her lips! and that’s a proffer I would not
make to every one who crosses my threshold. But, by good St. Valentine,
whose holyday will dawn tomorrow, I am so glad to see thee in the bonny
city of Perth again that it would be hard to tell the thing I could
refuse thee.”

The smith, for, as has been said, such was the craft of this sturdy
artisan, was encouraged modestly to salute the Fair Maid, who yielded
the courtesy with a smile of affection that might have become a sister,
saying, at the same time: “Let me hope that I welcome back to Perth a
repentant and amended man.”

He held her hand as if about to answer, then suddenly, as one who lost
courage at the moment, relinquished his grasp; and drawing back as
if afraid of what he had done, his dark countenance glowing with
bashfulness, mixed with delight, he sat down by the fire on the opposite
side from that which Catharine occupied.

“Come, Dorothy, speed thee with the food, old woman; and Conachar--where
is Conachar?”

“He is gone to bed, sir, with a headache,” said Catharine, in a
hesitating voice.

“Go, call him, Dorothy,” said the old glover; “I will not be used thus
by him: his Highland blood, forsooth, is too gentle to lay a trencher
or spread a napkin, and he expects to enter our ancient and honourable
craft without duly waiting and tending upon his master and teacher in
all matters of lawful obedience. Go, call him, I say; I will not be thus
neglected.”

Dorothy was presently heard screaming upstairs, or more probably up a
ladder, to the cock loft, to which the recusant apprentice had made
an untimely retreat; a muttered answer was returned, and soon after
Conachar appeared in the eating apartment. There was a gloom of
deep sullenness on his haughty, though handsome, features, and as he
proceeded to spread the board, and arrange the trenchers, with salt,
spices, and other condiments--to discharge, in short, the duties of
a modern domestic, which the custom of the time imposed upon all
apprentices--he was obviously disgusted and indignant with the mean
office imposed upon him.

The Fair Maid of Perth looked with some anxiety at him, as if
apprehensive that his evident sullenness might increase her father’s
displeasure; but it was not till her eyes had sought out his for a
second time that Conachar condescended to veil his dissatisfaction,
and throw a greater appearance of willingness and submission into the
services which he was performing.

And here we must acquaint our reader that, though the private
interchange of looks betwixt Catharine Glover and the young mountaineer
indicated some interest on the part of the former in the conduct of the
latter, it would have puzzled the strictest observer to discover whether
that feeling exceeded in degree what might have been felt by a young
person towards a friend and inmate of the same age, with whom she had
lived on habits of intimacy.

“Thou hast had a long journey, son Henry,” said Glover, who had always
used that affectionate style of speech, though no ways akin to the young
artisan; “ay, and hast seen many a river besides Tay, and many a fair
bigging besides St. Johnston.”

“But none that I like half so well, and none that are half so much worth
my liking,” answered the smith. “I promise you, father, that, when
I crossed the Wicks of Baiglie, and saw the bonny city lie stretched
fairly before me like a fairy queen in romance, whom the knight finds
asleep among a wilderness of flowers, I felt even as a bird when it
folds its wearied wings to stoop down on its own nest.”

“Aha! so thou canst play the maker [old Scottish for poet] yet?” said
the glover. “What, shall we have our ballets and our roundels again? our
lusty carols for Christmas, and our mirthful springs to trip it round
the maypole?”

“Such toys there may be forthcoming, father,” said Henry Smith, “though
the blast of the bellows and the clatter of the anvil make but coarse
company to lays of minstrelsy; but I can afford them no better, since I
must mend my fortune, though I mar my verses.”

“Right again--my own son just,” answered the glover; “and I trust thou
hast made a saving voyage of it?”

“Nay, I made a thriving one, father: I sold the steel habergeon that you
wot of for four hundred marks to the English Warden of the East Marches,
Sir Magnus Redman. He scarce scrupled a penny after I gave him leave to
try a sword dint upon it. The beggardly Highland thief who bespoke it
boggled at half the sum, though it had cost me a year’s labour.”

“What dost thou start at, Conachar?” said Simon, addressing himself, by
way of parenthesis, to the mountain disciple; “wilt thou never learn to
mind thy own business, without listening to what is passing round
thee? What is it to thee that an Englishman thinks that cheap which a
Scottishman may hold dear?”

Conachar turned round to speak, but, after a moment’s consideration,
looked down, and endeavoured to recover his composure, which had been
deranged by the contemptuous manner in which the smith had spoken of his
Highland customer.

Henry went on without paying any attention to him. “I sold at high
prices some swords and whingers when I was at Edinburgh. They expect war
there; and if it please God to send it, my merchandise will be worth its
price. St. Dunstan make us thankful, for he was of our craft. In short,
this fellow (laying his hand on his purse); who, thou knowest, father,
was somewhat lank and low in condition when I set out four months since,
is now as round and full as a six weeks’ porker.”

“And that other leathern sheathed, iron hilted fellow who hangs beside
him,” said the glover, “has he been idle all this while? Come, jolly
smith, confess the truth--how many brawls hast thou had since crossing
the Tay?”

“Nay, now you do me wrong, father, to ask me such a question (glancing
a look at Catharine) in such a presence,” answered the armourer: “I
make swords, indeed, but I leave it to other people to use them. No--no,
seldom have I a naked sword in my fist, save when I am turning them
on the anvil or grindstone; and they slandered me to your daughter
Catharine, that led her to suspect the quietest burgess in Perth of
being a brawler. I wish the best of them would dare say such a word at
the Hill of Kinnoul, and never a man on the green but he and I.”

“Ay--ay,” said the glover, laughing, “we should then have a fine sample
of your patient sufferance. Out upon you, Henry, that you will speak so
like a knave to one who knows thee so well! You look at Kate, too, as if
she did not know that a man in this country must make his hand keep his
head, unless he will sleep in slender security. Come--come, beshrew me
if thou hast not spoiled as many suits of armour as thou hast made.”

“Why, he would be a bad armourer, father Simon, that could not with
his own blow make proof of his own workmanship. If I did not sometimes
cleave a helmet, or strike a point through a harness, I should not know
what strength of fabric to give them; and might jingle together such
pasteboard work as yonder Edinburgh smiths think not shame to put out of
their hands.”

“Aha, now would I lay a gold crown thou hast had a quarrel with some
Edinburgh ‘burn the wind’ upon that very ground?”

[“Burn the wind,” an old cant term for blacksmith, appears in Burns:

Then burnewin came on like death, At every chaup, etc.]


“A quarrel! no, father,” replied the Perth armourer, “but a measuring
of swords with such a one upon St. Leonard’s Crags, for the honour of
my bonny city, I confess. Surely you do not think I would quarrel with a
brother craftsman?”

“Ah, to a surety, no. But how did your brother craftman come off?”

“Why, as one with a sheet of paper on his bosom might come off from the
stroke of a lance; or rather, indeed, he came not off at all, for, when
I left him, he was lying in the Hermit’s Lodge daily expecting death,
for which Father Gervis said he was in heavenly preparation.”

“Well, any more measuring of weapons?” said the glover.

“Why, truly, I fought an Englishman at Berwick besides, on the old
question of the supremacy, as they call it--I am sure you would not have
me slack at that debate?--and I had the luck to hurt him on the left
knee.”

“Well done for St. Andrew! to it again. Whom next had you to deal with?”
 said Simon, laughing at the exploits of his pacific friend.

“I fought a Scotchman in the Torwood,” answered Henry Smith, “upon a
doubt which was the better swordsman, which, you are aware, could not be
known or decided without a trial. The poor fellow lost two fingers.”

“Pretty well for the most peaceful lad in Perth, who never touches a
sword but in the way of his profession. Well, anything more to tell us?”

“Little; for the drubbing of a Highlandman is a thing not worth
mentioning.”

“For what didst thou drub him, O man of peace?” inquired the glover.

“For nothing that I can remember,” replied the smith, “except his
presenting himself on the south side of Stirling Bridge.”

“Well, here is to thee, and thou art welcome to me after all these
exploits. Conachar, bestir thee. Let the cans clink, lad, and thou shalt
have a cup of the nut brown for thyself, my boy.”

Conachar poured out the good liquor for his master and for Catharine
with due observance. But that done, he set the flagon on the table and
sat down.

“How now, sirrah! be these your manners? Fill to my guest, the
worshipful Master Henry Smith.”

“Master Smith may fill for himself, if he wishes for liquor,” answered
the youthful Celt. “The son of my father has demeaned himself enough
already for one evening.”

“That’s well crowed for a cockerel,” said Henry; “but thou art so far
right, my lad, that the man deserves to die of thirst who will not drink
without a cupbearer.”

But his entertainer took not the contumacy of the young apprentice with
so much patience. “Now, by my honest word, and by the best glove I ever
made,” said Simon, “thou shalt help him with liquor from that cup and
flagon, if thee and I are to abide under one roof.”

Conachar arose sullenly upon hearing this threat, and, approaching the
smith, who had just taken the tankard in his hand, and was raising it
to his head, he contrived to stumble against him and jostle him so
awkwardly, that the foaming ale gushed over his face, person, and dress.
Good natured as the smith, in spite of his warlike propensities, really
was in the utmost degree, his patience failed under such a provocation.
He seized the young man’s throat, being the part which came readiest to
his grasp, as Conachar arose from the pretended stumble, and pressing
it severely as he cast the lad from him, exclaimed: “Had this been in
another place, young gallows bird, I had stowed the lugs out of thy
head, as I have done to some of thy clan before thee.”

Conachar recovered his feet with the activity of a tiger, and exclaimed:
“Never shall you live to make that boast again!” drew a short, sharp
knife from his bosom, and, springing on Henry Smith, attempted to plunge
it into his body over the collarbone, which must have been a mortal
wound. But the object of this violence was so ready to defend himself
by striking up the assailant’s hand, that the blow only glanced on the
bone, and scarce drew blood. To wrench the dagger from the boy’s hand,
and to secure him with a grasp like that of his own iron vice, was, for
the powerful smith, the work of a single moment.

Conachar felt himself at once in the absolute power of the formidable
antagonist whom he had provoked; he became deadly pale, as he had been
the moment before glowing red, and stood mute with shame and fear,
until, relieving him from his powerful hold, the smith quietly said: “It
is well for thee that thou canst not make me angry; thou art but a boy,
and I, a grown man, ought not to have provoked thee. But let this be a
warning.”

Conachar stood an instant as if about to reply, and then left the room,
ere Simon had collected himself enough to speak. Dorothy was running
hither and thither for salves and healing herbs. Catharine had swooned
at the sight of the trickling blood.

“Let me depart, father Simon,” said Henry Smith, mournfully, “I might
have guessed I should have my old luck, and spread strife and bloodshed
where I would wish most to bring peace and happiness. Care not for me.
Look to poor Catharine; the fright of such an affray hath killed her,
and all through my fault.”

“Thy fault, my son! It was the fault of yon Highland cateran, whom it
is my curse to be cumbered with; but he shall go back to his glens
tomorrow, or taste the tolbooth of the burgh. An assault upon the life
of his master’s guest in his house! It breaks all bonds between us. But
let me see to thy wound.”

“Catharine!” repeated the armourer--“look to Catharine.”

“Dorothy will see to her,” said Simon; “surprise and fear kill not;
skenes and dirks do. And she is not more the daughter of my blood than
thou, my dear Henry, art the son of my affections. Let me see the wound.
The skene occle is an ugly weapon in a Highland hand.”

“I mind it no more than the scratch of a wildcat,” said the armourer;
“and now that the colour is coming to Catharine’s cheek again, you shall
see me a sound man in a moment.”

He turned to a corner in which hung a small mirror, and hastily took
from his purse some dry lint to apply to the slight wound he had
received. As he unloosed the leathern jacket from his neck and
shoulders, the manly and muscular form which they displayed was not more
remarkable than the fairness of his skin, where it had not, as in
hands and face, been exposed to the effects of rough weather and of his
laborious trade. He hastily applied some lint to stop the bleeding; and
a little water having removed all other marks of the fray, he buttoned
his doublet anew, and turned again to the table, where Catharine, still
pale and trembling, was, however, recovered from her fainting fit.

“Would you but grant me your forgiveness for having offended you in the
very first hour of my return? The lad was foolish to provoke me, and yet
I was more foolish to be provoked by such as he. Your father blames me
not, Catharine, and cannot you forgive me?”

“I have no power to forgive,” answered Catharine, “what I have no title
to resent. If my father chooses to have his house made the scene of
night brawls, I must witness them--I cannot help myself. Perhaps it was
wrong in me to faint and interrupt, it may be, the farther progress of a
fair fray. My apology is, that I cannot bear the sight of blood.”

“And is this the manner,” said her father, “in which you receive my
friend after his long absence? My friend, did I say? Nay, my son. He
escapes being murdered by a fellow whom I will tomorrow clear this house
of, and you treat him as if he had done wrong in dashing from him the
snake which was about to sting him!”

“It is not my part, father,” returned the Maid of Perth, “to decide who
had the right or wrong in the present brawl, nor did I see what happened
distinctly enough to say which was assailant, or which defender. But
sure our friend, Master Henry, will not deny that he lives in a perfect
atmosphere of strife, blood, and quarrels. He hears of no swordsman but
he envies his reputation, and must needs put his valour to the proof. He
sees no brawl but he must strike into the midst of it. Has he friends,
he fights with them for love and honour; has he enemies, he fights with
them for hatred and revenge. And those men who are neither his friends
nor foes, he fights with them because they are on this or that side of
a river. His days are days of battle, and, doubtless, he acts them over
again in his dreams.”

“Daughter,” said Simon, “your tongue wags too freely. Quarrels and
fights are men’s business, not women’s, and it is not maidenly to think
or speak of them.”

“But if they are so rudely enacted in our presence,” said Catharine, “it
is a little hard to expect us to think or speak of anything else. I will
grant you, my father, that this valiant burgess of Perth is one of the
best hearted men that draws breath within its walls: that he would walk
a hundred yards out of the way rather than step upon a worm; that
he would be as loth, in wantonness, to kill a spider as if he were a
kinsman to King Robert, of happy memory; that in the last quarrel before
his departure he fought with four butchers, to prevent their killing a
poor mastiff that had misbehaved in the bull ring, and narrowly escaped
the fate of the cur that he was protecting. I will grant you also,
that the poor never pass the house of the wealthy armourer but they are
relieved with food and alms. But what avails all this, when his
sword makes as many starving orphans and mourning widows as his purse
relieves?”

“Nay, but, Catharine, hear me but a word before going on with a string
of reproaches against my friend, that sound something like sense, while
they are, in truth, inconsistent with all we hear and see around us.
What,” continued the glover, “do our King and our court, our knights and
ladies, our abbots, monks, and priests themselves, so earnestly crowd to
see? Is it not to behold the display of chivalry, to witness the gallant
actions of brave knights in the tilt and tourney ground, to look upon
deeds of honour and glory achieved by arms and bloodshed? What is it
these proud knights do, that differs from what our good Henry Gow works
out in his sphere? Who ever heard of his abusing his skill and strength
to do evil or forward oppression, and who knows not how often it has
been employed as that of a champion in the good cause of the burgh? And
shouldst not thou, of all women, deem thyself honoured and glorious,
that so true a heart and so strong an arm has termed himself thy
bachelor? In what do the proudest dames take their loftiest pride, save
in the chivalry of their knight; and has the boldest in Scotland done
more gallant deeds than my brave son Henry, though but of low degree? Is
he not known to Highland and Lowland as the best armourer that ever made
sword, and the truest soldier that ever drew one?”

“My dearest father,” answered Catharine, “your words contradict
themselves, if you will permit your child to say so. Let us thank God
and the good saints that we are in a peaceful rank of life, below the
notice of those whose high birth, and yet higher pride, lead them to
glory in their bloody works of cruelty, which haughty and lordly men
term deeds of chivalry. Your wisdom will allow that it would be absurd
in us to prank ourselves in their dainty plumes and splendid garments;
why, then, should we imitate their full blown vices? Why should we
assume their hard hearted pride and relentless cruelty, to which murder
is not only a sport, but a subject of vainglorious triumph? Let those
whose rank claims as its right such bloody homage take pride and
pleasure in it; we, who have no share in the sacrifice, may the better
pity the sufferings of the victim. Let us thank our lowliness, since it
secures us from temptation. But forgive me, father, if I have stepped
over the limits of my duty, in contradicting the views which you
entertain, with so many others, on these subjects.”

“Nay, thou hast even too much talk for me, girl,” said her father,
somewhat angrily. “I am but a poor workman, whose best knowledge is to
distinguish the left hand glove from the right. But if thou wouldst
have my forgiveness, say something of comfort to my poor Henry. There he
sits, confounded and dismayed with all the preachment thou hast heaped
together; and he, to whom a trumpet sound was like the invitation to a
feast, is struck down at the sound of a child’s whistle.”

The armourer, indeed, while he heard the lips that were dearest to him
paint his character in such unfavourable colours, had laid his head
down on the table, upon his folded arms, in an attitude of the deepest
dejection, or almost despair.

“I would to Heaven, my dearest father,” answered Catharine, “that it
were in my power to speak comfort to Henry, without betraying the sacred
cause of the truths I have just told you. And I may--nay, I must have
such a commission,” she continued with something that the earnestness
with which she spoke and the extreme beauty of her features caused for
the moment to resemble inspiration.

“The truth of Heaven,” she said, in a solemn tone, “was never committed
to a tongue, however feeble, but it gave a right to that tongue to
announce mercy, while it declared judgment. Arise, Henry--rise up, noble
minded, good, and generous, though widely mistaken man. Thy faults are
those of this cruel and remorseless age, thy virtues all thine own.”

While she thus spoke, she laid her hand upon the smith’s arm, and
extricating it from under his head by a force which, however gentle, he
could not resist, she compelled him to raise towards her his manly face,
and the eyes into which her expostulations, mingled with other feelings,
had summoned tears.

“Weep not,” she said, “or rather, weep on, but weep as those who have
hope. Abjure the sins of pride and anger, which most easily beset thee;
fling from thee the accursed weapons, to the fatal and murderous use of
which thou art so easily tempted.”

“You speak to me in vain, Catharine,” returned the armourer: “I may,
indeed, turn monk and retire from the world, but while I live in it I
must practise my trade; and while I form armour and weapons for others,
I cannot myself withstand the temptation of using them. You would not
reproach me as you do, if you knew how inseparably the means by which I
gain my bread are connected with that warlike spirit which you impute
to me as a fault, though it is the consequence of inevitable necessity.
While I strengthen the shield or corselet to withstand wounds, must I
not have constantly in remembrance the manner and strength with which
they may be dealt; and when I forge the sword, and temper it for war, is
it practicable for me to avoid the recollection of its use?”

“Then throw from you, my dear Henry,” said the enthusiastic girl,
clasping with both her slender hands the nervous strength and weight
of one of the muscular armourer’s, which they raised with difficulty,
permitted by its owner, yet scarcely receiving assistance from his
volition--“cast from you, I say, the art which is a snare to you. Abjure
the fabrication of weapons which can only be useful to abridge human
life, already too short for repentance, or to encourage with a
feeling of safety those whom fear might otherwise prevent from risking
themselves in peril. The art of forming arms, whether offensive or
defensive, is alike sinful in one to whose violent and ever vehement
disposition the very working upon them proves a sin and a snare. Resign
utterly the manufacture of weapons of every description, and deserve the
forgiveness of Heaven, by renouncing all that can lead to the sin which
most easily besets you.”

“And what,” murmured the armourer, “am I to do for my livelihood, when
I have given over the art of forging arms for which Henry of Perth is
known from the Tay to the Thames?”

“Your art itself,” said Catharine, “has innocent and laudable resources.
If you renounce the forging of swords and bucklers, there remains to you
the task of forming the harmless spade, and the honourable as well as
useful ploughshare--of those implements which contribute to the support
of life, or to its comforts. Thou canst frame locks and bars to defend
the property of the weak against the stouthrief and oppression of the
strong. Men will still resort to thee, and repay thy honest industry--”

But here Catharine was interrupted. Her father had heard her declaim
against war and tournaments with a feeling that, though her doctrine
were new to him, they might not, nevertheless, be entirely erroneous.
He felt, indeed, a wish that his proposed son in law should not commit
himself voluntarily to the hazards which the daring character and great
personal strength of Henry the Smith had hitherto led him to incur
too readily; and so far he would rather have desired that Catharine’s
arguments should have produced some effect upon the mind of her lover,
whom he knew to be as ductile when influenced by his affections as he
was fierce and intractable when assailed by hostile remonstrances or
threats. But her arguments interfered with his views, when he heard her
enlarge upon the necessity of his designed son in law resigning a trade
which brought in more ready income than any at that time practised in
Scotland, and more profit to Henry of Perth in particular than to any
armourer in the nation. He had some indistinct idea that it would not be
amiss to convert, if possible, Henry the Smith from his too frequent use
of arms, even though he felt some pride in being connected with one
who wielded with such superior excellence those weapons, which in that
warlike age it was the boast of all men to manage with spirit. But when
he heard his daughter recommend, as the readiest road to this pacific
state of mind, that her lover should renounce the gainful trade in which
he was held unrivalled, and which, from the constant private differences
and public wars of the time, was sure to afford him a large income, he
could withhold his wrath no longer. The daughter had scarce recommended
to her lover the fabrication of the implements of husbandry, than,
feeling the certainty of being right, of which in the earlier part of
their debate he had been somewhat doubtful, the father broke in with:

“Locks and bars, plough graith and harrow teeth! and why not grates and
fire prongs, and Culross girdles, and an ass to carry the merchandise
through the country, and thou for another ass to lead it by the halter?
Why, Catharine, girl, has sense altogether forsaken thee, or dost thou
think that in these hard and iron days men will give ready silver for
anything save that which can defend their own life, or enable them to
take that of their enemy? We want swords to protect ourselves every
moment now, thou silly wench, and not ploughs to dress the ground for
the grain we may never see rise. As for the matter of our daily bread,
those who are strong seize it, and live; those who are weak yield it,
and die of hunger. Happy is the man who, like my worthy son, has means
of obtaining his living otherwise than by the point of the sword which
he makes. Preach peace to him as much as thou wilt, I will never be he
will say thee nay; but as for bidding the first armourer in Scotland
forego the forging of swords, curtal axes, and harness, it is enough to
drive patience itself mad. Out from my sight! and next morning I prithee
remember that, shouldst thou have the luck to see Henry the Smith, which
is more than thy usage of him has deserved, you see a man who has not
his match in Scotland at the use of broadsword and battle axe, and who
can work for five hundred marks a year without breaking a holyday.”

The daughter, on hearing her father speak thus peremptorily, made a low
obeisance, and, without further goodnight, withdrew to the chamber which
was her usual sleeping apartment.



CHAPTER III.

      Whence cometh Smith, be he knight, lord, or squire,
      But from the smith that forged in the fire?

      VERSTEGAN.


The armourer’s heart swelled big with various and contending sensations,
so that it seemed as if it would burst the leathern doublet under which
it was shrouded. He arose, turned away his head, and extended his hand
towards the glover, while he averted his face, as if desirous that his
emotion should not be read upon his countenance.

“Nay, hang me if I bid you farewell, man,” said Simon, striking the flat
of his hand against that which the armourer expanded towards him. “I
will shake no hands with you for an hour to come at least. Tarry but
a moment, man, and I will explain all this; and surely a few drops of
blood from a scratch, and a few silly words from a foolish wench’s
lips, are not to part father and son when they have been so long without
meeting? Stay, then, man, if ever you would wish for a father’s blessing
and St. Valentine’s, whose blessed eve this chances to be.”

The glover was soon heard loudly summoning Dorothy, and, after some
clanking of keys and trampling up and down stairs, Dorothy appeared
bearing three large rummer cups of green glass, which were then esteemed
a great and precious curiosity, and the glover followed with a huge
bottle, equal at least to three quarts of these degenerate days.

“Here is a cup of wine, Henry, older by half than I am myself; my
father had it in a gift from stout old Crabbe, the Flemish engineer,
who defended Perth so stoutly in the minority of David the Second. We
glovers could always do something in war, though our connexion with
it was less than yours who work in steel and iron. And my father had
pleased old Crabbe, some other day I will tell you how, and also how
long these bottles were concealed under ground, to save them from the
reiving Southron. So I will empty a cup to the soul’s health of my
honoured father--May his sins be forgiven him! Dorothy, thou shalt drink
this pledge, and then be gone to thy cock loft. I know thine ears are
itching, girl, but I have that to say which no one must hear save Henry
Smith, the son of mine adoption.”

Dorothy did not venture to remonstrate, but, taking off her glass, or
rather her goblet, with good courage, retired to her sleeping apartment,
according to her master’s commands.

The two friends were left alone.

“It grieves me, friend Henry,” said Simon, filling at the same time his
own glass and his guest’s--“it grieves me from my soul that my daughter
retains this silly humor; but also methinks, thou mightst mend it. Why
wouldst thou come hither clattering with thy sword and dagger, when the
girl is so silly that she cannot bear the sight of these? Dost thou not
remember that thou hadst a sort of quarrel with her even before thy
last departure from Perth, because thou wouldst not go like other honest
quiet burghers, but must be ever armed, like one of the rascally jackmen
that wait on the nobility? Sure it is time enough for decent burgesses
to arm at the tolling of the common bell, which calls us out bodin in
effeir of war.”

“Why, my good father, that was not my fault; but I had no sooner quitted
my nag than I run hither to tell you of my return, thinking, if it
were your will to permit me, that I would get your advice about being
Mistress Catharine’s Valentine for the year; and then I heard from
Mrs. Dorothy that you were gone to hear mass at the Black Friars. So I
thought I would follow thither, partly to hear the same mass with you,
and partly--Our Lady and St. Valentine forgive me!--to look upon one who
thinks little enough of me. And, as you entered the church, methought
I saw two or three dangerous looking men holding counsel together, and
gazing at you and at her, and in especial Sir John Ramorny, whom I knew
well enough, for all his disguise, and the velvet patch over his eye,
and his cloak so like a serving man’s; so methought, father Simon, that,
as you were old, and yonder slip of a Highlander something too young to
do battle, I would even walk quietly after you, not doubting, with the
tools I had about me, to bring any one to reason that might disturb you
in your way home. You know that yourself discovered me, and drew me into
the house, whether I would or no; otherwise, I promise you, I would not
have seen your daughter till I had donn’d the new jerkin which was made
at Berwick after the latest cut; nor would I have appeared before her
with these weapons, which she dislikes so much. Although, to say truth,
so many are at deadly feud with me for one unhappy chance or another,
that it is as needful for me as for any man in Scotland to go by night
with weapons about me.”

“The silly wench never thinks of that,” said Simon Glover: “she never
has sense to consider, that in our dear native land of Scotland every
man deems it his privilege and duty to avenge his own wrong. But, Harry,
my boy, thou art to blame for taking her talk so much to heart. I have
seen thee bold enough with other wenches, wherefore so still and tongue
tied with her?”

“Because she is something different from other maidens, father
Glover--because she is not only more beautiful, but wiser, higher,
holier, and seems to me as if she were made of better clay than we that
approach her. I can hold my head high enough with the rest of the lasses
round the maypole; but somehow, when I approach Catharine, I feel myself
an earthly, coarse, ferocious creature, scarce worthy to look on her,
much less to contradict the precepts which she expounds to me.”

“You are an imprudent merchant, Harry Smith,” replied Simon, “and rate
too high the goods you wish to purchase. Catharine is a good girl, and
my daughter; but if you make her a conceited ape by your bashfulness and
your flattery, neither you nor I will see our wishes accomplished.”

“I often fear it, my good father,” said the smith; “for I feel how
little I am deserving of Catharine.”

“Feel a thread’s end!” said the glover; “feel for me, friend Smith--for
Catharine and me. Think how the poor thing is beset from morning to
night, and by what sort of persons, even though windows be down and
doors shut. We were accosted today by one too powerful to be named--ay,
and he showed his displeasure openly, because I would not permit him
to gallant my daughter in the church itself, when the priest was saying
mass. There are others scarce less reasonable. I sometimes wish that
Catharine were some degrees less fair, that she might not catch that
dangerous sort of admiration, or somewhat less holy, that she might sit
down like an honest woman, contented with stout Henry Smith, who
could protect his wife against every sprig of chivalry in the court of
Scotland.”

“And if I did not,” said Henry, thrusting out a hand and arm which might
have belonged to a giant for bone and muscle, “I would I may never bring
hammer upon anvil again! Ay, an it were come but that length, my fair
Catharine should see that there is no harm in a man having the trick of
defence. But I believe she thinks the whole world is one great minster
church, and that all who live in it should behave as if they were at an
eternal mass.”

“Nay, in truth,” said the father, “she has strange influence over those
who approach her; the Highland lad, Conachar, with whom I have been
troubled for these two or three years, although you may see he has the
natural spirit of his people, obeys the least sign which Catharine makes
him, and, indeed, will hardly be ruled by any one else in the house. She
takes much pains with him to bring him from his rude Highland habits.”

Here Harry Smith became uneasy in his chair, lifted the flagon, set it
down, and at length exclaimed: “The devil take the young Highland whelp
and his whole kindred! What has Catharine to do to instruct such a
fellow as he? He will be just like the wolf cub that I was fool enough
to train to the offices of a dog, and every one thought him reclaimed,
till, in an ill hour, I went to walk on the hill of Moncrieff, when he
broke loose on the laird’s flock, and made a havoc that I might well
have rued, had the laird not wanted a harness at the time. And I marvel
that you, being a sensible man, father Glover, will keep this Highland
young fellow--a likely one, I promise you--so nigh to Catharine, as
if there were no other than your daughter to serve him for a
schoolmistress.”

“Fie, my son--fie; now you are jealous,” said Simon, “of a poor young
fellow who, to tell you the truth, resides here because he may not so
well live on the other side of the hill.”

“Ay--ay, father Simon,” retorted the smith, who had all the narrow
minded feelings of the burghers of his time, “an it were not for fear
of offence, I would say that you have even too much packing and peiling
with yonder loons out of burgh.”

“I must get my deer hides, buckskins, kidskins, and so forth somewhere,
my good Harry, and Highlandmen give good bargains.”

“They can afford them,” replied Henry, drily, “for they sell nothing but
stolen gear.”

“Well--well, be that as it may, it is not my business where they get
the bestial, so I get the hides. But as I was saying, there are certain
considerations why I am willing to oblige the father of this young man,
by keeping him here. And he is but half a Highlander neither, and wants
a thought of the dour spirit of a ‘glune amie’ after all, I have seldom
seen him so fierce as he showed himself but now.”

“You could not, unless he had killed his man,” replied the smith, in the
same dry tone.

“Nevertheless, if you wish it, Harry, I’ll set all other respects aside,
and send the landlouper to seek other quarters tomorrow morning.”

“Nay, father,” said the smith, “you cannot suppose that Harry Gow cares
the value of a smithy dander for such a cub as yonder cat-a-mountain?
I care little, I promise you, though all his clan were coming down the
Shoegate with slogan crying and pipes playing: I would find fifty blades
and bucklers would send them back faster than they came. But, to speak
truth, though it is a fool’s speech too, I care not to see the fellow so
much with Catharine. Remember, father Glover, your trade keeps your eyes
and hands close employed, and must have your heedful care, even if this
lazy lurdane wrought at it, which you know yourself he seldom does.”

“And that is true,” said Simon: “he cuts all his gloves out for the
right hand, and never could finish a pair in his life.”

“No doubt, his notions of skin cutting are rather different,” said
Henry. “But with your leave, father, I would only say that, work he or
be he idle, he has no bleared eyes, no hands seared with the hot iron,
and welked by the use of the fore hammer, no hair rusted in the smoke,
and singed in the furnace, like the hide of a badger, rather than what
is fit to be covered with a Christian bonnet. Now, let Catharine be
as good a wench as ever lived, and I will uphold her to be the best in
Perth, yet she must see and know that these things make a difference
betwixt man and man, and that the difference is not in my favour.”

“Here is to thee, with all my heart, son Harry,” said the old man,
filling a brimmer to his companion and another to himself; “I see that,
good smith as thou art, thou ken’st not the mettle that women are made
of. Thou must be bold, Henry; and bear thyself not as if thou wert going
to the gallows lee, but like a gay young fellow, who knows his own worth
and will not be slighted by the best grandchild Eve ever had. Catharine
is a woman like her mother, and thou thinkest foolishly to suppose they
are all set on what pleases the eye. Their ear must be pleased too, man:
they must know that he whom they favour is bold and buxom, and might
have the love of twenty, though he is suing for theirs. Believe an
old man, woman walk more by what others think than by what they think
themselves, and when she asks for the boldest man in Perth whom can
she hear named but Harry Burn-the-wind? The best armourer that ever
fashioned weapon on anvil? Why, Harry Smith again. The tightest dancer
at the maypole? Why, the lusty smith. The gayest troller of ballads?
Why, who but Harry Gow? The best wrestler, sword and buckler player, the
king of the weapon shawing, the breaker of mad horses, the tamer of
wild Highlandmen? Evermore it is thee--thee--no one but thee. And shall
Catharine prefer yonder slip of a Highland boy to thee? Pshaw! she
might as well make a steel gauntlet out of kid’s leather. I tell thee,
Conachar is nothing to her, but so far as she would fain prevent the
devil having his due of him, as of other Highlandmen. God bless her,
poor thing, she would bring all mankind to better thoughts if she
could.”

“In which she will fail to a certainty,” said the smith, who, as the
reader may have noticed, had no goodwill to the Highland race. “I will
wager on Old Nick, of whom I should know something, he being indeed
a worker in the same element with myself, against Catharine on that
debate: the devil will have the tartan, that is sure enough.”

“Ay, but Catharine,” replied the glover, “hath a second thou knowest
little of: Father Clement has taken the young reiver in hand, and he
fears a hundred devils as little as I do a flock of geese.”

“Father Clement!” said the smith. “You are always making some new saint
in this godly city of St. Johnston. Pray, who, for a devil’s drubber,
may he be? One of your hermits that is trained for the work like
a wrestler for the ring, and brings himself to trim by fasting and
penance, is he not?”

“No, that is the marvel of it,” said Simon: “Father Clement eats,
drinks, and lives much like other folks--all the rules of the church,
nevertheless, strictly observed.”

“Oh, I comprehend!--a buxom priest that thinks more of good living than
of good life, tipples a can on Fastern’s Eve, to enable him to face
Lent, has a pleasant in principio, and confesses all the prettiest women
about the town?”

“You are on the bow hand still, smith. I tell you, my daughter and I
could nose out either a fasting hypocrite or a full one. But Father
Clement is neither the one nor the other.”

“But what is he then, in Heaven’s name?”

“One who is either greatly better than half his brethren of St. Johnston
put together, or so much worse than the worst of them, that it is sin
and shame that he is suffered to abide in the country.”

“Methinks it were easy to tell whether he be the one or the other,” said
the smith.

“Content you, my friend,” said Simon, “with knowing that, if you judge
Father Clement by what you see him do and hear him say, you will think
of him as the best and kindest man in the world, with a comfort for
every man’s grief, a counsel for every man’s difficulty, the rich man’s
surest guide, and the poor man’s best friend. But if you listen to what
the Dominicans say of him, he is--Benedicite!--(here the glover crossed
himself on brow and bosom)--a foul heretic, who ought by means of
earthly flames to be sent to those which burn eternally.”

The smith also crossed himself, and exclaimed: “St. Mary! father Simon,
and do you, who are so good and prudent that you have been called the
Wise Glover of Perth, let your daughter attend the ministry of one
who--the saints preserve us!--may be in league with the foul fiend
himself! Why, was it not a priest who raised the devil in the Meal
Vennel, when Hodge Jackson’s house was blown down in the great wind?
Did not the devil appear in the midst of the Tay, dressed in a priest’s
scapular, gambolling like a pellack amongst the waves, the morning when
our stately bridge was swept away?”

“I cannot tell whether he did or no,” said the glover; “I only know I
saw him not. As to Catharine, she cannot be said to use Father Clement’s
ministry, seeing her confessor is old Father Francis the Dominican, from
whom she had her shrift today. But women will sometimes be wilful, and
sure enough she consults with Father Clement more than I could wish; and
yet when I have spoken with him myself, I have thought him so good and
holy a man that I could have trusted my own salvation with him. There
are bad reports of him among the Dominicans, that is certain. But what
have we laymen to do with such things, my son? Let us pay Mother Church
her dues, give our alms, confess and do our penances duly, and the
saints will bear us out.”

“Ay, truly; and they will have consideration,” said the smith, “for any
rash and unhappy blow that a man may deal in a fight, when his party was
on defence, and standing up to him; and that’s the only creed a man can
live upon in Scotland, let your daughter think what she pleases. Marry,
a man must know his fence, or have a short lease of his life, in any
place where blows are going so rife. Five nobles to our altar have
cleared me for the best man I ever had misfortune with.”

“Let us finish our flask, then,” said the old glover; “for I reckon the
Dominican tower is tolling midnight. And hark thee, son Henry; be at the
lattice window on our east gable by the very peep of dawn, and make
me aware thou art come by whistling the smith’s call gently. I will
contrive that Catharine shall look out at the window, and thus thou wilt
have all the privileges of being a gallant Valentine through the rest of
the year; which, if thou canst not use to thine own advantage, I shall
be led to think that, for all thou be’st covered with the lion’s hide,
nature has left on thee the long ears of the ass.”

“Amen, father,” said the armourer, “a hearty goodnight to you; and God’s
blessing on your roof tree, and those whom it covers. You shall hear the
smith’s call sound by cock crowing; I warrant I put sir chanticleer to
shame.”

So saying, he took his leave; and, though completely undaunted, moved
through the deserted streets like one upon his guard, to his own
dwelling, which was situated in the Mill Wynd, at the western end of
Perth.



CHAPTER IV.

     What’s all this turmoil crammed into our parts?
     Faith, but the pit-a-pat of poor young hearts.

     DRYDEN.


The sturdy armourer was not, it may be believed, slack in keeping the
appointment assigned by his intended father in law. He went through the
process of his toilet with more than ordinary care, throwing, as far as
he could, those points which had a military air into the shade. He was
far too noted a person to venture to go entirely unarmed in a town where
he had indeed many friends, but also, from the character of many of his
former exploits, several deadly enemies, at whose hands, should they
take him at advantage, he knew he had little mercy to expect. He
therefore wore under his jerkin a “secret,” or coat of chain mail, made
so light and flexible that it interfered as little with his movements
as a modern under waistcoat, yet of such proof as he might safely depend
upon, every ring of it having been wrought and joined by his own hands.
Above this he wore, like others of his age and degree, the Flemish
hose and doublet, which, in honour of the holy tide, were of the best
superfine English broadcloth, light blue in colour, slashed out with
black satin, and passamented (laced, that is) with embroidery of black
silk. His walking boots were of cordovan leather; his cloak of good
Scottish grey, which served to conceal a whinger, or couteau de chasse,
that hung at his belt, and was his only offensive weapon, for he carried
in his hand but a rod of holly. His black velvet bonnet was lined with
steel, quilted between the metal and his head, and thus constituted a
means of defence which might safely be trusted to.

Upon the whole, Henry had the appearance, to which he was well entitled,
of a burgher of wealth and consideration, assuming, in his dress, as
much consequence as he could display without stepping beyond his own
rank, and encroaching on that of the gentry. Neither did his frank and
manly deportment, though indicating a total indifference to danger, bear
the least resemblance to that of the bravoes or swashbucklers of the
day, amongst whom Henry was sometimes unjustly ranked by those who
imputed the frays in which he was so often engaged to a quarrelsome and
violent temper, resting upon a consciousness of his personal strength
and knowledge of his weapon. On the contrary, every feature bore
the easy and good-humoured expression of one who neither thought of
inflicting mischief nor dreaded it from others.

Having attired himself in his best, the honest armourer next placed
nearest to his heart (which throbbed at its touch) a little gift which
he had long provided for Catharine Glover, and which his quality of
Valentine would presently give him the title to present, and her to
receive, without regard to maidenly scruples. It was a small ruby
cut into the form of a heart, transfixed with a golden arrow, and was
inclosed in a small purse made of links of the finest work in steel, as
if it had been designed for a hauberk to a king. Round the verge of the
purse were these words:

Loves darts Cleave hearts Through mail shirts.

This device had cost the armourer some thought, and he was much
satisfied with his composition, because it seemed to imply that his
skill could defend all hearts saving his own.

He wrapped himself in his cloak, and hastened through the still silent
streets, determined to appear at the window appointed a little before
dawn.

With this purpose he passed up the High Street, and turned down the
opening where St. John’s Church now stands, in order to proceed to
Curfew Street; when it occurred to him, from the appearance of the sky,
that he was at least an hour too early for his purpose, and that it
would be better not to appear at the place of rendezvous till nearer the
time assigned. Other gallants were not unlikely to be on the watch as
well as himself about the house of the Fair Maid of Perth; and he
knew his own foible so well as to be sensible of the great chance of a
scuffle arising betwixt them.

“I have the advantage,” he thought, “by my father Simon’s friendship;
and why should I stain my fingers with the blood of the poor creatures
that are not worthy my notice, since they are so much less fortunate
than myself? No--no, I will be wise for once, and keep at a distance
from all temptation to a broil. They shall have no more time to quarrel
with me than just what it may require for me to give the signal, and for
my father Simon to answer it. I wonder how the old man will contrive to
bring her to the window? I fear, if she knew his purpose, he would find
it difficult to carry it into execution.”

While these lover-like thoughts were passing through his brain, the
armourer loitered in his pace, often turning his eyes eastward, and
eyeing the firmament, in which no slight shades of grey were beginning
to flicker, to announce the approach of dawn, however distant, which, to
the impatience of the stout armourer, seemed on that morning to abstain
longer than usual from occupying her eastern barbican. He was now
passing slowly under the wall of St. Anne’s Chapel (not failing to cross
himself and say an ace, as he trode the consecrated ground), when a
voice, which seemed to come from behind one of the flying buttresses of
the chapel, said, “He lingers that has need to run.”

“Who speaks?” said the armourer, looking around him, somewhat startled
at an address so unexpected, both in its tone and tenor.

“No matter who speaks,” answered the same voice. “Do thou make great
speed, or thou wilt scarce make good speed. Bandy not words, but
begone.”

“Saint or sinner, angel or devil,” said Henry, crossing himself, “your
advice touches me but too dearly to be neglected. St. Valentine be my
speed!”

So saying, he instantly changed his loitering pace to one with which few
people could have kept up, and in an instant was in Couvrefew Street.
He had not made three steps towards Simon Glover’s, which stood in the
midst of the narrow street, when two men started from under the houses
on different sides, and advanced, as it were by concert, to intercept
his passage. The imperfect light only permitted him to discern that they
wore the Highland mantle.

“Clear the way, cateran,” said the armourer, in the deep stern voice
which corresponded with the breadth of his chest.

They did not answer, at least intelligibly; but he could see that they
drew their swords, with the purpose of withstanding him by violence.
Conjecturing some evil, but of what kind he could not anticipate, Henry
instantly determined to make his way through whatever odds, and defend
his mistress, or at least die at her feet. He cast his cloak over his
left arm as a buckler, and advanced rapidly and steadily to the two men.
The nearest made a thrust at him, but Henry Smith, parrying the blow
with his cloak, dashed his arm in the man’s face, and tripping him at
the same time, gave him a severe fall on the causeway; while almost at
the same instant he struck a blow with his whinger at the fellow who was
upon his right hand, so severely applied, that he also lay prostrate
by his associate. Meanwhile, the armourer pushed forward in alarm,
for which the circumstance of the street being guarded or defended
by strangers who conducted themselves with such violence afforded
sufficient reason. He heard a suppressed whisper and a bustle under the
glover’s windows--those very windows from which he had expected to be
hailed by Catharine as her Valentine. He kept to the opposite side of
the street, that he might reconnoitre their number and purpose. But
one of the party who were beneath the window, observing or hearing
him, crossed the street also, and taking him doubtless for one of the
sentinels, asked, in a whisper, “What noise was yonder, Kenneth? why
gave you not the signal?”

“Villain,” said Henry, “you are discovered, and you shall die the
death.”

As he spoke thus, he dealt the stranger a blow with his weapon, which
would probably have made his words good, had not the man, raising his
arm, received on his hand the blow meant for his head. The wound must
have been a severe one, for he staggered and fell with a deep groan.

Without noticing him farther, Henry Smith sprung forward upon a party of
men who seemed engaged in placing a ladder against the lattice window
in the gable. Henry did not stop ether to count their numbers or to
ascertain their purpose. But, crying the alarm word of the town, and
giving the signal at which the burghers were wont to collect, he rushed
on the night walkers, one of whom was in the act of ascending the
ladder. The smith seized it by the rounds, threw it down on the
pavement, and placing his foot on the body of the man who had been
mounting, prevented him from regaining his feet. His accomplices struck
fiercely at Henry, to extricate their companion. But his mail coat stood
him in good stead, and he repaid their blows with interest, shouting
aloud, “Help--help, for bonny St. Johnston! Bows and blades, brave
citizens! bows and blades! they break into our houses under cloud of
night.”

These words, which resounded far through the streets, were accompanied
by as many fierce blows, dealt with good effect among those whom the
armourer assailed. In the mean time, the inhabitants of the district
began to awaken and appear on the street in their shirts, with
swords and targets, and some of them with torches. The assailants now
endeavoured to make their escape, which all of them effected excepting
the man who had been thrown down along with the ladder. Him the intrepid
armourer had caught by the throat in the scuffle, and held as fast as
the greyhound holds the hare. The other wounded men were borne off by
their comrades.

“Here are a sort of knaves breaking peace within burgh,” said Henry
to the neighbours who began to assemble; “make after the rogues. They
cannot all get off, for I have maimed some of them: the blood will guide
you to them.”

“Some Highland caterans,” said the citizens; “up and chase, neighbours!”

“Ay, chase--chase! leave me to manage this fellow,” continued the
armourer.

The assistants dispersed in different directions, their lights flashing
and their cries resounding through the whole adjacent district.

In the mean time the armourer’s captive entreated for freedom, using
both promises and threats to obtain it. “As thou art a gentleman,” he
said, “let me go, and what is past shall be forgiven.”

“I am no gentleman,” said Henry--“I am Hal of the Wynd, a burgess of
Perth; and I have done nothing to need forgiveness.”

“Villain, then hast done thou knowest not what! But let me go, and I
will fill thy bonnet with gold pieces.”

“I shall fill thy bonnet with a cloven head presently,” said the
armourer, “unless thou stand still as a true prisoner.”

“What is the matter, my son Harry?” said Simon, who now appeared at the
window. “I hear thy voice in another tone than I expected. What is all
this noise; and why are the neighbours gathering to the affray?”

“There have been a proper set of limmers about to scale your windows,
father Simon; but I am like to prove godfather to one of them, whom I
hold here, as fast as ever vice held iron.”

“Hear me, Simon Glover,” said the prisoner; “let me but speak one word
with you in private, and rescue me from the gripe of this iron fisted
and leaden pated clown, and I will show thee that no harm was designed
to thee or thine, and, moreover, tell thee what will much advantage
thee.”

“I should know that voice,” said Simon Glover, who now came to the door
with a dark lantern in his hand. “Son Smith, let this young man speak
with me. There is no danger in him, I promise you. Stay but an instant
where you are, and let no one enter the house, either to attack or
defend. I will be answerable that this galliard meant but some St.
Valentine’s jest.”

So saying, the old man pulled in the prisoner and shut the door,
leaving Henry a little surprised at the unexpected light in which his
father-in-law had viewed the affray.

“A jest!” he said; “it might have been a strange jest, if they had got
into the maiden’s sleeping room! And they would have done so, had it not
been for the honest friendly voice from betwixt the buttresses, which,
if it were not that of the blessed saint--though what am I that the holy
person should speak to me?--could not sound in that place without her
permission and assent, and for which I will promise her a wax candle at
her shrine, as long as my whinger; and I would I had had my two handed
broadsword instead, both for the sake of St. Johnston and of the rogues,
for of a certain those whingers are pretty toys, but more fit for a
boy’s hand than a man’s. Oh, my old two handed Trojan, hadst thou been
in my hands, as thou hang’st presently at the tester of my bed, the legs
of those rogues had not carried their bodies so clean off the field. But
there come lighted torches and drawn swords. So ho--stand! Are you for
St. Johnston? If friends to the bonny burgh, you are well come.”

“We have been but bootless hunters,” said the townsmen. “We followed by
the tracks of the blood into the Dominican burial ground, and we started
two fellows from amongst the tombs, supporting betwixt them a third, who
had probably got some of your marks about him, Harry. They got to the
postern gate before we could overtake them, and rang the sanctuary
bell; the gate opened, and in went they. So they are safe in girth and
sanctuary, and we may go to our cold beds and warm us.”

“Ay,” said one of the party, “the good Dominicans have always some
devout brother of their convent sitting up to open the gate of the
sanctuary to any poor soul that is in trouble, and desires shelter in
the church.”

“Yes, if the poor hunted soul can pay for it,” said another “but, truly,
if he be poor in purse as well as in spirit, he may stand on the outside
till the hounds come up with him.”

A third, who had been poring for a few minutes upon the ground by
advantage of his torch, now looked upwards and spoke. He was a
brisk, forward, rather corpulent little man, called Oliver Proudfute,
reasonably wealthy, and a leading man in his craft, which was that of
bonnet makers; he, therefore, spoke as one in authority.

“Canst tell us, jolly smith”--for they recognised each other by the
lights which were brought into the streets--“what manner of fellows they
were who raised up this fray within burgh?”

“The two that I first saw,” answered the armourer, “seemed to me, as
well as I could observe them, to have Highland plaids about them.”

“Like enough--like enough,” answered another citizen, shaking his head.
“It’s a shame the breaches in our walls are not repaired, and that these
landlouping Highland scoundrels are left at liberty to take honest men
and women out of their beds any night that is dark enough.”

“But look here, neighbours,” said Oliver Proudfute, showing a bloody
hand which he had picked up from the ground; “when did such a hand as
this tie a Highlandman’s brogues? It is large, indeed, and bony, but
as fine as a lady’s, with a ring that sparkles like a gleaming candle.
Simon Glover has made gloves for this hand before now, if I am not much
mistaken, for he works for all the courtiers.”

The spectators here began to gaze on the bloody token with various
comments.

“If that is the case,” said one, “Harry Smith had best show a clean pair
of heels for it, since the justiciar will scarce think the protecting a
burgess’s house an excuse for cutting off a gentleman’s hand. There be
hard laws against mutilation.”

“Fie upon you, that you will say so, Michael Webster,” answered the
bonnet maker; “are we not representatives and successors of the stout
old Romans, who built Perth as like to their own city as they could? And
have we not charters from all our noble kings and progenitors, as being
their loving liegemen? And would you have us now yield up our rights,
privileges, and immunities, our outfang and infang, our handhaband,
our back bearand, and our blood suits, and amerciaments, escheats,
and commodities, and suffer an honest burgess’s house to be assaulted
without seeking for redress? No, brave citizens, craftsmen, and
burgesses, the Tay shall flow back to Dunkeld before we submit to such
injustice!”

“And how can we help it?” said a grave old man, who stood leaning on a
two handed sword. “What would you have us do?”

“Marry, Bailie Craigdallie, I wonder that you, of all men, ask the
question. I would have you pass like true men from this very place
to the King’s Grace’s presence, raise him from his royal rest, and
presenting to him the piteous case of our being called forth from our
beds at this season, with little better covering than these shirts, I
would show him this bloody token, and know from his Grace’s own royal
lips whether it is just and honest that his loving lieges should be thus
treated by the knights and nobles of his deboshed court. And this I call
pushing our cause warmly.”

“Warmly, sayst thou?” replied the old burgess; “why, so warmly, that we
shall all die of cold, man, before the porter turn a key to let us into
the royal presence. Come, friends, the night is bitter, we have kept
our watch and ward like men, and our jolly smith hath given a warning to
those that would wrong us, which shall be worth twenty proclamations of
the king. Tomorrow is a new day; we will consult on this matter on this
self same spot, and consider what measures should be taken for discovery
and pursuit of the villains. And therefore let us dismiss before the
heart’s blood freeze in our veins.”

“Bravo--bravo, neighbour Craigdallie! St. Johnston for ever!”

Oliver Proudfute would still have spoken; for he was one of those
pitiless orators who think that their eloquence can overcome all
inconveniences in time, place, and circumstances. But no one would
listen, and the citizens dispersed to their own houses by the light of
the dawn, which began now to streak the horizon.

They were scarce gone ere the door of the glover’s house opened, and
seizing the smith by the hand, the old man pulled him in.

“Where is the prisoner?” demanded the armourer.

“He is gone--escaped--fled--what do I know of him?” said the glover. “He
got out at the back door, and so through the little garden. Think not of
him, but come and see the Valentine whose honour and life you have saved
this morning.”

“Let me but sheathe my weapon,” said the smith, “let me but wash my
hands.”

“There is not an instant to lose, she is up and almost dressed. Come
on, man. She shall see thee with thy good weapon in thy hand, and with
villain’s blood on thy fingers, that she may know what is the value of a
true man’s service. She has stopped my mouth overlong with her pruderies
and her scruples. I will have her know what a brave man’s love is worth,
and a bold burgess’s to boot.”



CHAPTER V.

     Up! lady fair, and braid thy hair,
     And rouse thee in the breezy air,
     Up! quit thy bower, late wears the hour,
     Long have the rooks caw’d round the tower.

     JOANNA BAILLIE.


Startled from her repose by the noise of the affray, the Fair Maid of
Perth had listened in breathless terror to the sounds of violence and
outcry which arose from the street. She had sunk on her knees to pray
for assistance, and when she distinguished the voices of neighbours and
friends collected for her protection, she remained in the same posture
to return thanks. She was still kneeling when her father almost thrust
her champion, Henry Smith, into her apartment; the bashful lover hanging
back at first, as if afraid to give offence, and, on observing her
posture, from respect to her devotion.

“Father,” said the armourer, “she prays; I dare no more speak to her
than to a bishop when he says mass.”

“Now, go thy ways, for a right valiant and courageous blockhead,” said
her father--and then speaking to his daughter, he added, “Heaven is best
thanked, my daughter, by gratitude shown to our fellow creatures. Here
comes the instrument by whom God has rescued thee from death, or perhaps
from dishonour worse than death. Receive him, Catharine, as thy true
Valentine, and him whom I desire to see my affectionate son.”

“Not thus--father,” replied Catharine. “I can see--can speak to no one
now. I am not ungrateful--perhaps I am too thankful to the instrument of
our safety; but let me thank the guardian saint who sent me this timely
relief, and give me but a moment to don my kirtle.”

“Nay, God-a-mercy, wench, it were hard to deny thee time to busk thy
body clothes, since the request is the only words like a woman that thou
hast uttered for these ten days. Truly, son Harry, I would my daughter
would put off being entirely a saint till the time comes for her being
canonised for St. Catherine the Second.”

“Nay, jest not, father; for I will swear she has at least one sincere
adorer already, who hath devoted himself to her pleasure, so far as
sinful man may. Fare thee well, then, for the moment, fair maiden,” he
concluded, raising his voice, “and Heaven send thee dreams as peaceful
as thy waking thoughts. I go to watch thy slumbers, and woe with him
that shall intrude on them!”

“Nay, good and brave Henry, whose warm heart is at such variance with
thy reckless hand, thrust thyself into no farther quarrels tonight;
but take the kindest thanks, and with these, try to assume the peaceful
thoughts which you assign to me. Tomorrow we will meet, that I may
assure you of my gratitude. Farewell.”

“And farewell, lady and light of my heart!” said the armourer, and,
descending the stair which led to Catharine’s apartment, was about to
sally forth into the street, when the glover caught him by the arm.

“I shall like the ruffle of tonight,” said he, “better than I ever
thought to do the clashing of steel, if it brings my daughter to her
senses, Harry, and teaches her what thou art worth. By St. Macgrider!
I even love these roysterers, and am sorry for that poor lover who will
never wear left handed chevron again. Ay! he has lost that which he will
miss all the days of his life, especially when he goes to pull on his
gloves; ay, he will pay but half a fee to my craft in future. Nay, not
a step from this house tonight,” he continued “Thou dost not leave us, I
promise thee, my son.”

“I do not mean it. But I will, with your permission, watch in the
street. The attack may be renewed.”

“And if it be,” said Simon, “thou wilt have better access to drive them
back, having the vantage of the house. It is the way of fighting which
suits us burghers best--that of resisting from behind stone walls. Our
duty of watch and ward teaches us that trick; besides, enough are awake
and astir to ensure us peace and quiet till morning. So come in this
way.”

So saying, he drew Henry, nothing loth, into the same apartment where
they had supped, and where the old woman, who was on foot, disturbed as
others had been by the nocturnal affray, soon roused up the fire.

“And now, my doughty son,” said the glover, “what liquor wilt thou
pledge thy father in?”

Henry Smith had suffered himself to sink mechanically upon a seat of old
black oak, and now gazed on the fire, that flashed back a ruddy light
over his manly features. He muttered to himself half audibly: “Good
Henry--brave Henry. Ah! had she but said, dear Henry!”

“What liquors be these?” said the old glover, laughing. “My cellar holds
none such; but if sack, or Rhenish, or wine of Gascony can serve, why,
say the word and the flagon foams, that is all.”

“The kindest thanks,” said the armourer, still musing, “that’s more
than she ever said to me before--the kindest thanks--what may not that
stretch to?”

“It shall stretch like kid’s leather, man,” said the glover, “if
thou wilt but be ruled, and say what thou wilt take for thy morning’s
draught.”

“Whatever thou wilt, father,” answered the armourer, carelessly, and
relapsed into the analysis of Catharine’s speech to him. “She spoke
of my warm heart; but she also spoke of my reckless hand. What earthly
thing can I do to get rid of this fighting fancy? Certainly I were best
strike my right hand off, and nail it to the door of a church, that it
may never do me discredit more.”

“You have chopped off hands enough for one night,” said his friend,
setting a flagon of wine on the table. “Why dost thou vex thyself, man?
She would love thee twice as well did she not see how thou doatest upon
her. But it becomes serious now. I am not to have the risk of my booth
being broken and my house plundered by the hell raking followers of the
nobles, because she is called the Fair Maid of Perth, an’t please ye.
No, she shall know I am her father, and will have that obedience to
which law and gospel give me right. I will have her thy wife, Henry, my
heart of gold--thy wife, my man of mettle, and that before many weeks
are over. Come--come, here is to thy merry bridal, jolly smith.”

The father quaffed a large cup, and filled it to his adopted son,
who raised it slowly to his head; then, ere it had reached his lips,
replaced it suddenly on the table and shook his head.

“Nay, if thou wilt not pledge me to such a health, I know no one who
will,” said Simon. “What canst thou mean, thou foolish lad? Here has a
chance happened, which in a manner places her in thy power, since from
one end of the city to the other all would cry fie on her if she should
say thee nay. Here am I, her father, not only consenting to the cutting
out of the match, but willing to see you two as closely united
together as ever needle stitched buckskin. And with all this on thy
side--fortune, father, and all--thou lookest like a distracted lover
in a ballad, more like to pitch thyself into the Tay than to woo a lass
that may be had for the asking, if you can but choose the lucky minute.”

“Ay, but that lucky minute, father? I question much if Catharine ever
has such a moment to glance on earth and its inhabitants as might lead
her to listen to a coarse ignorant borrel man like me. I cannot tell
how it is, father; elsewhere I can hold up my head like another man, but
with your saintly daughter I lose heart and courage, and I cannot help
thinking that it would be well nigh robbing a holy shrine if I could
succeed in surprising her affections. Her thoughts are too much fitted
for Heaven to be wasted on such a one as I am.”

“E’en as you like, Henry,” answered the glover. “My daughter is not
courting you any more than I am--a fair offer is no cause offend; only
if you think that I will give in to her foolish notions of a convent,
take it with you that I will never listen to them. I love and honour
the church,” he said, crossing himself, “I pay her rights duly and
cheerfully--tithes and alms, wine and wax, I pay them as justly, I say,
as any man in Perth of my means doth--but I cannot afford the church my
only and single ewe lamb that I have in the world. Her mother was dear
to me on earth, and is now an angel in Heaven. Catharine is all I have
to remind me of her I have lost; and if she goes to the cloister, it
shall be when these old eyes are closed for ever, and not sooner. But
as for you, friend Gow, I pray you will act according to your own best
liking, I want to force no wife on you, I promise you.”

“Nay, now you beat the iron twice over,” said Henry. “It is thus we
always end, father, by your being testy with me for not doing that
thing in the world which would make me happiest, were I to have it in my
power. Why, father, I would the keenest dirk I ever forged were sticking
in my heart at this moment if there is one single particle in it that
is not more your daughter’s property than my own. But what can I do? I
cannot think less of her, or more of myself, than we both deserve; and
what seems to you so easy and certain is to me as difficult as it would
be to work a steel hauberk out of bards of flax. But here is to you,
father,” he added, in a more cheerful tone; “and here is to my fair
saint and Valentine, as I hope your Catharine will be mine for the
season. And let me not keep your old head longer from the pillow, but
make interest with your featherbed till daybreak; and then you must be
my guide to your daughter’s chamber door, and my apology for entering
it, to bid her good morrow, for the brightest that the sun will awaken,
in the city or for miles round.”

“No bad advice, my son,” said the honest glover, “But you, what will you
do? Will you lie down beside me, or take a part of Conachar’s bed?”

“Neither,” answered Harry Gow; “I should but prevent your rest, and
for me this easy chair is worth a down bed, and I will sleep like a
sentinel, with my graith about me.” As he spoke, he laid his hand on his
sword.

“Nay, Heaven send us no more need of weapons. Goodnight, or rather good
morrow, till day peep; and the first who wakes calls up the other.”

Thus parted the two burghers. The glover retired to his bed, and, it
is to be supposed, to rest. The lover was not so fortunate. His bodily
frame easily bore the fatigue which he had encountered in the course of
the night, but his mind was of a different and more delicate mould. In
one point of view, he was but the stout burgher of his period, proud
alike of his art in making weapons and wielding them when made; his
professional jealousy, personal strength, and skill in the use of arms
brought him into many quarrels, which had made him generally feared,
and in some instances disliked. But with these qualities were united the
simple good nature of a child, and at the same time an imaginative and
enthusiastic temper, which seemed little to correspond with his labours
at the forge or his combats in the field. Perhaps a little of the hare
brained and ardent feeling which he had picked out of old ballads, or
from the metrical romances, which were his sole source of information
or knowledge, may have been the means of pricking him on to some of
his achievements, which had often a rude strain of chivalry in them; at
least, it was certain that his love to the fair Catharine had in it a
delicacy such as might have become the squire of low degree, who was
honoured, if song speaks truth, with the smiles of the King of Hungary’s
daughter. His sentiments towards her were certainly as exalted as if
they had been fixed upon an actual angel, which made old Simon, and
others who watched his conduct, think that his passion was too high
and devotional to be successful with maiden of mortal mould. They were
mistaken, however. Catharine, coy and reserved as she was, had a heart
which could feel and understand the nature and depth of the armourer’s
passion; and whether she was able to repay it or not, she had as much
secret pride in the attachment of the redoubted Henry Gow as a lady
of romance may be supposed to have in the company of a tame lion, who
follows to provide for and defend her. It was with sentiments of the
most sincere gratitude that she recollected, as she awoke at dawn, the
services of Henry during the course of the eventful night, and the first
thought which she dwelt upon was the means of making him understand her
feelings.

Arising hastily from bed, and half blushing at her own purpose--“I have
been cold to him, and perhaps unjust; I will not be ungrateful,” she
said to herself, “though I cannot yield to his suit. I will not wait
till my father compels me to receive him as my Valentine for the year:
I will seek him out, and choose him myself. I have thought other girls
bold when they did something like this; but I shall thus best please my
father, and but discharge the rites due to good St. Valentine by showing
my gratitude to this brave man.”

Hastily slipping on her dress, which, nevertheless, was left a good deal
more disordered than usual, she tripped downstairs and opened the door
of the chamber, in which, as she had guessed, her lover had passed the
hours after the fray. Catharine paused at the door, and became half
afraid of executing her purpose, which not only permitted but enjoined
the Valentines of the year to begin their connexion with a kiss of
affection. It was looked upon as a peculiarly propitious omen if the one
party could find the other asleep, and awaken him or her by performance
of this interesting ceremony.

Never was a fairer opportunity offered for commencing this mystic
tie than that which now presented itself to Catharine. After many and
various thoughts, sleep had at length overcome the stout armourer in the
chair in which he had deposited himself. His features, in repose, had
a more firm and manly cast than Catharine had thought, who, having
generally seen them fluctuating between shamefacedness and apprehension
of her displeasure, had been used to connect with them some idea of
imbecility.

“He looks very stern,” she said; “if he should be angry? And then when
he awakes--we are alone--if I should call Dorothy--if I should wake my
father? But no! it is a thing of custom, and done in all maidenly and
sisterly love and honour. I will not suppose that Henry can misconstrue
it, and I will not let a childish bashfulness put my gratitude to
sleep.”

So saying, she tripped along the floor of the apartment with a light,
though hesitating, step; and a cheek crimsoned at her own purpose; and
gliding to the chair of the sleeper, dropped a kiss upon his lips as
light as if a rose leaf had fallen on them. The slumbers must have been
slight which such a touch could dispel, and the dreams of the sleeper
must needs have been connected with the cause of the interruption,
since Henry, instantly starting up, caught the maiden in his arms, and
attempted to return in ecstasy the salute which had broken his repose.
But Catharine struggled in his embrace; and as her efforts implied
alarmed modesty rather than maidenly coyness, her bashful lover suffered
her to escape a grasp from which twenty times her strength could not
have extricated her.

“Nay, be not angry, good Henry,” said Catharine, in the kindest tone, to
her surprised lover. “I have paid my vows to St. Valentine, to show how
I value the mate which he has sent me for the year. Let but my father
be present, and I will not dare to refuse thee the revenge you may claim
for a broken sleep.”

“Let not that be a hinderance,” said the old glover, rushing in ecstasy
into the room; “to her, smith--to her: strike while the iron is hot, and
teach her what it is not to let sleeping dogs lie still.”

Thus encouraged, Henry, though perhaps with less alarming vivacity,
again seized the blushing maiden in his arms, who submitted with a
tolerable grace to receive repayment of her salute, a dozen times
repeated, and with an energy very different from that which had provoked
such severe retaliation. At length she again extricated herself from
her lover’s arms, and, as if frightened and repenting what she had done,
threw herself into a seat, and covered her face with her hands.

“Cheer up, thou silly girl,” said her father, “and be not ashamed that
thou hast made the two happiest men in Perth, since thy old father is
one of them. Never was kiss so well bestowed, and meet it is that it
should be suitably returned. Look up, my darling! look up, and let me
see thee give but one smile. By my honest word, the sun that now rises
over our fair city shows no sight that can give me greater pleasure.
What,” he continued, in a jocose tone, “thou thoughtst thou hadst Jamie
Keddie’s ring, and couldst walk invisible? but not so, my fairy of the
dawning. Just as I was about to rise, I heard thy chamber door open, and
watched thee downstairs, not to protect thee against this sleepy headed
Henry, but to see with my own delighted eyes my beloved girl do that
which her father most wished. Come, put down these foolish hands,
and though thou blushest a little, it will only the better grace St.
Valentine’s morn, when blushes best become a maiden’s cheek.”

As Simon Glover spoke, he pulled away, with gentle violence, the hands
which hid his daughter’s face. She blushed deeply indeed, but there was
more than maiden’s shame in her face, and her eyes were fast filling
with tears.

“What! weeping, love?” continued her father; “nay--nay, this is more
than need. Henry, help me to comfort this little fool.”

Catharine made an effort to collect herself and to smile, but the smile
was of a melancholy and serious cast.

“I only meant to say, father,” said the Fair Maid of Perth, with
continued exertion, “that in choosing Henry Gow for my Valentine, and
rendering to him the rights and greeting of the morning, according to
wonted custom, I meant but to show my gratitude to him for his manly
and faithful service, and my obedience to you. But do not lead him to
think--and, oh, dearest father, do not yourself entertain an idea--that
I meant more than what the promise to be his faithful and affectionate
Valentine through the year requires of me.”

“Ay--ay----ay--ay, we understand it all,” said Simon, in the soothing
tone which nurses apply to children. “We understand what the meaning
is; enough for once--enough for once. Thou shalt not be frightened or
hurried. Loving, true, and faithful Valentines are ye, and the rest as
Heaven and opportunity shall permit. Come, prithee, have done: wring
not thy tiny hands, nor fear farther persecution now. Thou hast done
bravely, excellently. And now, away to Dorothy, and call up the old
sluggard; we must have a substantial breakfast, after a night of
confusion and a morning of joy, and thy hand will be needed to prepare
for us some of these delicate cakes which no one can make but thyself;
and well hast thou a right to the secret, seeing who taught it thee. Ah!
health to the soul of thy dearest mother,” he added, with a sigh; “how
blythe would she have been to see this happy St. Valentine’s morning!”

Catharine took the opportunity of escape which was thus given her, and
glided from the room. To Henry it seemed as if the sun had disappeared
from the heaven at midday, and left the world in sudden obscurity. Even
the high swelled hopes with which the late incident had filled him began
to quail, as he reflected upon her altered demeanour--the tears in her
eyes, the obvious fear which occupied her features, and the pains
she had taken to show, as plainly as delicacy would permit, that the
advances which she had made to him were limited to the character with
which the rites of the day had invested him. Her father looked on his
fallen countenance with something like surprise and displeasure.

“In the name of good St. John, what has befallen you, that makes you
look as grave as an owl, when a lad of your spirit, having really such
a fancy for this poor girl as you pretend, ought to be as lively as a
lark?”

“Alas, father!” replied the crestfallen lover, “there is that written
on her brow which says she loves me well enough to be my Valentine,
especially since you wish it, but not well enough to be my wife.”

“Now, a plague on thee for a cold, downhearted goosecap,” answered the
father. “I can read a woman’s brow as well, and better, than thou, and
I can see no such matter on hers. What, the foul fiend, man! there thou
wast lying like a lord in thy elbow chair, as sound asleep as a judge,
when, hadst thou been a lover of any spirit, thou wouldst have been
watching the east for the first ray of the sun. But there thou layest,
snoring I warrant, thinking nought about her, or anything else; and the
poor girl rises at peep of day, lest any one else should pick up her
most precious and vigilant Valentine, and wakes thee with a grace
which--so help me, St. Macgrider!--would have put life in an anvil; and
thou awakest to hone, and pine, and moan, as if she had drawn a hot iron
across thy lips! I would to St. John she had sent old Dorothy on the
errand, and bound thee for thy Valentine service to that bundle of dry
bones, with never a tooth in her head. She were fittest Valentine in
Perth for so craven a wooer.”

“As to craven, father,” answered the smith, “there are twenty good
cocks, whose combs I have plucked, can tell thee if I am craven or
no. And Heaven knows that I would give my good land, held by burgess’
tenure, with smithy, bellows, tongs, anvil, and all, providing it would
make your view of the matter the true one. But it is not of her coyness
or her blushes that I speak; it is of the paleness which so soon
followed the red, and chased it from her cheeks; and it is of the
tears which succeeded. It was like the April showers stealing upon and
obscuring the fairest dawning that ever beamed over the Tay.”

“Tutti taitti,” replied the glover; “neither Rome nor Perth were built
in a day. Thou hast fished salmon a thousand times, and mightst have
taken a lesson. When the fish has taken the fly, to pull a hard strain
on the line would snap the tackle to pieces, were it made of wire. Ease
your hand, man, and let him rise; take leisure, and in half an hour thou
layest him on the bank. There is a beginning as fair as you could wish,
unless you expect the poor wench to come to thy bedside as she did to
thy chair; and that is not the fashion of modest maidens. But observe
me; after we have had our breakfast, I will take care thou hast an
opportunity to speak thy mind; only beware thou be neither too backward
nor press her too hard. Give her line enough, but do not slack too fast,
and my life for yours upon the issue.”

“Do what I can, father,” answered Henry, “you will always lay the blame
on me--either that I give too much head or that I strain the tackle.
I would give the best habergeon I ever wrought, that the difficulty in
truth rested with me, for there were then the better chance of its being
removed. I own, however, I am but an ass in the trick of bringing about
such discourse as is to the purpose for the occasion.”

“Come into the booth with me, my son, and I will furnish thee with a
fitting theme. Thou knowest the maiden who ventures to kiss a sleeping
man wins of him a pair of gloves. Come to my booth; thou shalt have a
pair of delicate kid skin that will exactly suit her hand and arm. I
was thinking of her poor mother when I shaped them,” added honest Simon,
with a sigh; “and except Catharine, I know not the woman in Scotland
whom they would fit, though I have measured most of the high beauties of
the court. Come with me, I say, and thou shalt be provided with a theme
to wag thy tongue upon, providing thou hast courage and caution to stand
by thee in thy wooing.”



CHAPTER VI.

     Never to man shall Catharine give her hand.

     Taming of the Shrew.


The breakfast was served, and the thin soft cakes, made of flour and
honey according to the family receipt, were not only commended with all
the partiality of a father and a lover, but done liberal justice to in
the mode which is best proof of cake as well as pudding. They talked,
jested, and laughed. Catharine, too, had recovered her equanimity where
the dames and damsels of the period were apt to lose theirs--in the
kitchen, namely, and in the superintendence of household affairs, in
which she was an adept. I question much if the perusal of Seneca for as
long a period would have had equal effect in composing her mind.

Old Dorothy sat down at the board end, as was the homespun fashion
of the period; and so much were the two men amused with their own
conversation, and Catharine occupied either in attending to them or with
her own reflections, that the old woman was the first who observed the
absence of the boy Conachar.

“It is true,” said the master glover; “go call him, the idle Highland
loon. He was not seen last night during the fray neither, at least I saw
him not. Did any of you observe him?”

The reply was negative; and Henry’s observation followed:

“There are times when Highlanders can couch like their own deer--ay,
and run from danger too as fast. I have seen them do so myself, for the
matter of that.”

“And there are times,” replied Simon, “when King Arthur and his Round
Table could not make stand against them. I wish, Henry, you would speak
more reverently of the Highlanders. They are often in Perth, both alone
and in numbers, and you ought to keep peace with them so long as they
will keep peace with you.”

An answer of defiance rose to Henry’s lips, but he prudently suppressed
it. “Why, thou knowest, father,” he said, smiling, “that we handicrafts
best love the folks we live by; now, my craft provides for valiant and
noble knights, gentle squires and pages, stout men at arms, and others
that wear the weapons which we make. It is natural I should like the
Ruthvens, the Lindsays, the Ogilvys, the Oliphants, and so many others
of our brave and noble neighbours, who are sheathed in steel of my
making, like so many paladins, better than those naked, snatching
mountaineers, who are ever doing us wrong, especially since no five of
each clan have a rusty shirt of mail as old as their brattach; and that
is but the work of the clumsy clan smith after all, who is no member of
our honourable mystery, but simply works at the anvil, where his father
wrought before him. I say, such people can have no favour in the eyes of
an honest craftsman.”

“Well--well,” answered Simon; “I prithee let the matter rest even now,
for here comes the loitering boy, and, though it is a holyday morn, I
want no more bloody puddings.”

The youth entered accordingly. His face was pale, his eyes red, and
there was an air of discomposure about his whole person. He sat down at
the lower end of the table, opposite to Dorothy, and crossed himself, as
if preparing for his morning’s meal. As he did not help himself to any
food, Catharine offered him a platter containing some of the cakes which
had met with such general approbation. At first he rejected her offered
kindness rather sullenly; but on her repeating the offer with a smile of
goodwill, he took a cake in his hand, broke it, and was about to eat a
morsel, when the effort to swallow seemed almost too much for him; and
though he succeeded, he did not repeat it.

“You have a bad appetite for St. Valentine’s morning, Conachar,” said
his good humoured master; “and yet I think you must have slept soundly
the night before, since I conclude you were not disturbed by the noise
of the scuffle. Why, I thought a lively glune amie would have been at
his master’s side, dirk in hand, at the first sound of danger which
arose within a mile of us.”

“I heard but an indistinct noise,” said the youth, his face glowing
suddenly like a heated coal, “which I took for the shout of some merry
revellers; and you are wont to bid me never open door or window, or
alarm the house, on the score of such folly.”

“Well--well,” said Simon; “I thought a Highlander would have known
better the difference betwixt the clash of swords and the twanging on
harps, the wild war cry and the merry hunt’s up. But let it pass, boy; I
am glad thou art losing thy quarrelsome fashions. Eat thy breakfast, any
way, as I have that to employ thee which requires haste.”

“I have breakfasted already, and am in haste myself. I am for the hills.
Have you any message to my father?”

“None,” replied the glover, in some surprise; “but art thou beside
thyself, boy? or what a vengeance takes thee from the city, like the
wing of the whirlwind?”

“My warning has been sudden,” said Conachar, speaking with difficulty;
but whether arising from the hesitation incidental to the use of a
foreign language, or whether from some other cause, could not easily
be distinguished. “There is to be a meeting--a great hunting--” Here he
stopped.

“And when are you to return from this blessed hunting?” said the master;
“that is, if I may make so bold as to ask.”

“I cannot exactly answer,” replied the apprentice. “Perhaps never,
if such be my father’s pleasure,” continued Conachar, with assumed
indifference.

“I thought,” said Simon Glover, rather seriously, “that all this was to
be laid aside, when at earnest intercession I took you under my roof. I
thought that when I undertook, being very loth to do so, to teach you
an honest trade, we were to hear no more of hunting, or hosting, or clan
gatherings, or any matters of the kind?”

“I was not consulted when I was sent hither,” said the lad, haughtily.
“I cannot tell what the terms were.”

“But I can tell you, sir Conachar,” said the glover, angrily, “that
there is no fashion of honesty in binding yourself to an honest
craftsman, and spoiling more hides than your own is worth; and now, when
you are of age to be of some service, in taking up the disposal of
your time at your pleasure, as if it were your own property, not your
master’s.”

“Reckon with my father about that,” answered Conachar; “he will pay you
gallantly--a French mutton for every hide I have spoiled, and a fat cow
or bullock for each day I have been absent.”

“Close with him, friend Glover--close with him,” said the armourer,
drily. “Thou wilt be paid gallantly at least, if not honestly. Methinks
I would like to know how many purses have been emptied to fill the
goat skin sporran that is to be so free to you of its gold, and whose
pastures the bullocks have been calved in that are to be sent down to
you from the Grampian passes.”

“You remind me, friend,” said the Highland youth, turning haughtily
towards the smith, “that I have also a reckoning to hold with you.”

“Keep at arm’s length, then,” said Henry, extending his brawny arm: “I
will have no more close hugs--no more bodkin work, like last night. I
care little for a wasp’s sting, yet I will not allow the insect to come
near me if I have warning.”

Conachar smiled contemptuously. “I meant thee no harm,” he said. “My
father’s son did thee but too much honour to spill such churl’s blood. I
will pay you for it by the drop, that it may be dried up, and no longer
soil my fingers.”

“Peace, thou bragging ape!” said the smith: “the blood of a true man
cannot be valued in gold. The only expiation would be that thou shouldst
come a mile into the Low Country with two of the strongest galloglasses
of thy clan; and while I dealt with them, I would leave thee to the
correction of my apprentice, little Jankin.”

Here Catharine interposed. “Peace,” she said, “my trusty Valentine, whom
I have a right to command; and peace you, Conachar, who ought to obey me
as your master’s daughter. It is ill done to awaken again on the morrow
the evil which has been laid to sleep at night.”

“Farewell, then, master,” said Conachar, after another look of scorn at
the smith, which he only answered with a laugh--“farewell! and I thank
you for your kindness, which has been more than I deserve. If I have at
times seemed less than thankful, it was the fault of circumstances, and
not of my will. Catharine--” He cast upon the maiden a look of strong
emotion, in which various feelings were blended. He hesitated, as if
to say something, and at length turned away with the single word
“farewell.”

Five minutes afterwards, with Highland buskins on his feet and a small
bundle in his hand, he passed through the north gate of Perth, and
directed his course to the Highlands.

“There goes enough of beggary and of pride for a whole Highland clan,”
 said Henry. “He talks as familiarly of gold pieces as I would of silver
pennies, and yet I will be sworn that the thumb of his mother’s worsted
glove might hold the treasure of the whole clan.”

“Like enough,” said the glover, laughing at the idea; “his mother was a
large boned woman, especially in the fingers and wrist.”

“And as for cattle,” continued Henry, “I reckon his father and brothers
steal sheep by one at a time.”

“The less we say of them the better,” said the glover, becoming again
grave. “Brothers he hath none; his father is a powerful man--hath long
hands--reaches as far as he can, and hears farther than it is necessary
to talk of him.”

“And yet he hath bound his only son apprentice to a glover in Perth?”
 said Henry. “Why, I should have thought the gentle craft, as it is
called, of St. Crispin would have suited him best; and that, if the son
of some great Mac or O was to become an artisan, it could only be in the
craft where princes set him the example.”

This remark, though ironical, seemed to awaken our friend Simon’s sense
of professional dignity, which was a prevailing feeling that marked the
manners of the artisans of the time.

“You err, son Henry,” he replied, with much gravity: “the glovers’ are
the more honourable craft of the two, in regard they provide for the
accommodation of the hands, whereas the shoemakers and cordwainers do
but work for the feet.”

“Both equally necessary members of the body corporate,” said Henry,
whose father had been a cordwainer.

“It may be so, my son,” said the glover; “but not both alike honourable.
Bethink you, that we employ the hands as pledges of friendship and good
faith, and the feet have no such privilege. Brave men fight with their
hands; cowards employ their feet in flight. A glove is borne aloft; a
shoe is trampled in the mire. A man greets a friend with his open
hand; he spurns a dog, or one whom he holds as mean as a dog, with his
advanced foot. A glove on the point of a spear is a sign and pledge of
faith all the wide world over, as a gauntlet flung down is a gage of
knightly battle; while I know no other emblem belonging to an old shoe,
except that some crones will fling them after a man by way of good luck,
in which practice I avow myself to entertain no confidence.”

“Nay,” said the smith, amused with his friend’s eloquent pleading for
the dignity of the art he practised, “I am not the man, I promise you,
to disparage the glover’s mystery. Bethink you, I am myself a maker of
gauntlets. But the dignity of your ancient craft removes not my wonder,
that the father of this Conachar suffered his son to learn a trade of
any kind from a Lowland craftsman, holding us, as they do, altogether
beneath their magnificent degree, and a race of contemptible drudges,
unworthy of any other fate than to be ill used and plundered, as often
as these bare breeched dunnie wassals see safety and convenience for
doing so.”

“Ay,” answered the glover, “but there were powerful reasons for--for--”
 he withheld something which seemed upon his lips, and went on: “for
Conachar’s father acting as he did. Well, I have played fair with him,
and I do not doubt but he will act honourably by me. But Conachar’s
sudden leave taking has put me to some inconvenience. He had things
under his charge. I must look through the booth.”

“Can I help you, father?” said Henry Gow, deceived by the earnestness of
his manner.

“You!--no,” said Simon, with a dryness which made Henry so sensible of
the simplicity of his proposal, that he blushed to the eyes at his own
dulness of comprehension, in a matter where love ought to have induced
him to take his cue easily up.

“You, Catharine,” said the glover, as he left the room, “entertain your
Valentine for five minutes, and see he departs not till my return. Come
hither with me, old Dorothy, and bestir thy limbs in my behalf.”

He left the room, followed by the old woman; and Henry Smith remained
with Catharine, almost for the first time in his life, entirely alone.
There was embarrassment on the maiden’s part, and awkwardness on that
of the lover, for about a minute; when Henry, calling up his courage,
pulled the gloves out of his pocket with which Simon had supplied him,
and asked her to permit one who had been so highly graced that morning
to pay the usual penalty for being asleep at the moment when he would
have given the slumbers of a whole twelvemonth to be awake for a single
minute.

“Nay, but,” said Catharine, “the fulfilment of my homage to St.
Valentine infers no such penalty as you desire to pay, and I cannot
therefore think of accepting them.”

“These gloves,” said Henry, advancing his seat insidiously towards
Catharine as he spoke, “were wrought by the hands that are dearest to
you; and see--they are shaped for your own.”

He extended them as he spoke, and taking her arm in his robust hand,
spread the gloves beside it to show how well they fitted.

“Look at that taper arm,” he said, “look at these small fingers; think
who sewed these seams of silk and gold, and think whether the glove and
the arm which alone the glove can fit ought to remain separate, because
the poor glove has had the misfortune to be for a passing minute in the
keeping of a hand so swart and rough as mine.”

“They are welcome as coming from my father,” said Catharine; “and surely
not less so as coming from my friend (and there was an emphasis on the
word), as well as my Valentine and preserver.”

“Let me aid to do them on,” said the smith, bringing himself yet closer
to her side; “they may seem a little over tight at first, and you may
require some assistance.”

“You are skilful in such service, good Henry Gow,” said the maiden,
smiling, but at the same time drawing farther from her lover.

“In good faith, no,” said Henry, shaking his head: “my experience has
been in donning steel gauntlets on mailed knights, more than in fitting
embroidered gloves upon maidens.”

“I will trouble you then no further, and Dorothy shall aid me, though
there needs no assistance; my father’s eye and fingers are faithful to
his craft: what work he puts through his hands is always true to the
measure.”

“Let me be convinced of it,” said the smith--“let me see that these
slender gloves actually match the hands they were made for.”

“Some other time, good Henry,” answered the maiden, “I will wear the
gloves in honour of St. Valentine, and the mate he has sent me for
the season. I would to Heaven I could pleasure my father as well in
weightier matters; at present the perfume of the leather harms the
headache I have had since morning.”

“Headache, dearest maiden!” echoed her lover.

“If you call it heartache, you will not misname it,” said Catharine,
with a sigh, and proceeded to speak in a very serious tone.

“Henry,” she said, “I am going perhaps to be as bold as I gave you
reason to think me this morning; for I am about to speak the first upon
a subject on which, it may well be, I ought to wait till I had to answer
you. But I cannot, after what has happened this morning, suffer my
feelings towards you to remain unexplained, without the possibility of
my being greatly misconceived. Nay, do not answer till you have heard me
out. You are brave, Henry, beyond most men, honest and true as the steel
you work upon--”

“Stop--stop, Catharine, for mercy’s sake! You never said so much that
was good concerning me, save to introduce some bitter censure, of which
your praises were the harbingers. I am honest, and so forth, you would
say, but a hot brained brawler, and common sworder or stabber.”

“I should injure both myself and you in calling you such. No, Henry, to
no common stabber, had he worn a plume in his bonnet and gold spurs on
his heels, would Catharine Glover have offered the little grace she has
this day voluntarily done to you. If I have at times dwelt severely upon
the proneness of your spirit to anger, and of your hand to strife, it is
because I would have you, if I could so persuade you, hate in yourself
the sins of vanity and wrath by which you are most easily beset. I have
spoken on the topic more to alarm your own conscience than to express
my opinion. I know as well as my father that, in these forlorn and
desperate days, the whole customs of our nation, nay, of every Christian
nation, may be quoted in favour of bloody quarrels for trifling causes,
of the taking deadly and deep revenge for slight offences, and the
slaughter of each other for emulation of honour, or often in mere sport.
But I knew that for all these things we shall one day be called into
judgment; and fain would I convince thee, my brave and generous friend,
to listen oftener to the dictates of thy good heart, and take less pride
in the strength and dexterity of thy unsparing arm.”

“I am--I am convinced, Catharine” exclaimed Henry: “thy words shall
henceforward be a law to me. I have done enough, far too much, indeed,
for proof of my bodily strength and courage; but it is only from you,
Catharine, that I can learn a better way of thinking. Remember, my
fair Valentine, that my ambition of distinction in arms, and my love
of strife, if it can be called such, do not fight even handed with my
reason and my milder dispositions, but have their patrons and sticklers
to egg them on. Is there a quarrel, and suppose that I, thinking on your
counsels, am something loth to engage in it, believe you I am left to
decide between peace or war at my own choosing? Not so, by St. Mary!
there are a hundred round me to stir me on. ‘Why, how now, Smith, is thy
mainspring rusted?’ says one. ‘Jolly Henry is deaf on the quarrelling
ear this morning!’ says another. ‘Stand to it, for the honour of Perth,’
says my lord the Provost. ‘Harry against them for a gold noble,’ cries
your father, perhaps. Now, what can a poor fellow do, Catharine, when
all are hallooing him on in the devil’s name, and not a soul putting in
a word on the other side?”

“Nay, I know the devil has factors enough to utter his wares,” said
Catharine; “but it is our duty to despise such idle arguments, though
they may be pleaded even by those to whom we owe much love and honour.”

“Then there are the minstrels, with their romaunts and ballads, which
place all a man’s praise in receiving and repaying hard blows. It is sad
to tell, Catharine, how many of my sins that Blind Harry the Minstrel
hath to answer for. When I hit a downright blow, it is not--so save
me--to do any man injury, but only to strike as William Wallace struck.”

The minstrel’s namesake spoke this in such a tone of rueful seriousness,
that Catharine could scarce forbear smiling; but nevertheless she
assured him that the danger of his own and other men’s lives ought not
for a moment to be weighed against such simple toys.

“Ay, but,” replied Henry, emboldened by her smiles, “methinks now
the good cause of peace would thrive all the better for an advocate.
Suppose, for example, that, when I am pressed and urged to lay hand on
my weapon, I could have cause to recollect that there was a gentle and
guardian angel at home, whose image would seem to whisper, ‘Henry, do no
violence; it is my hand which you crimson with blood. Henry, rush
upon no idle danger; it is my breast which you expose to injury;’ such
thoughts would do more to restrain my mood than if every monk in Perth
should cry, ‘Hold thy hand, on pain of bell, book, and candle.’”

“If such a warning as could be given by the voice of sisterly affection
can have weight in the debate,” said Catharine, “do think that, in
striking, you empurple this hand, that in receiving wounds you harm this
heart.”

The smith took courage at the sincerely affectionate tone in which these
words were delivered.

“And wherefore not stretch your regard a degree beyond these cold
limits? Why, since you are so kind and generous as to own some interest
in the poor ignorant sinner before you, should you not at once adopt
him as your scholar and your husband? Your father desires it, the town
expects it, glovers and smiths are preparing their rejoicings, and you,
only you, whose words are so fair and so kind, you will not give your
consent.”

“Henry,” said Catharine, in a low and tremulous voice, “believe me I
should hold it my duty to comply with my father’s commands, were there
not obstacles invincible to the match which he proposes.”

“Yet think--think but for a moment. I have little to say for myself in
comparison of you, who can both read and write. But then I wish to hear
reading, and could listen to your sweet voice for ever. You love music,
and I have been taught to play and sing as well as some minstrels. You
love to be charitable, I have enough to give, and enough to keep, as
large a daily alms as a deacon gives would never be missed by me. Your
father gets old for daily toil; he would live with us, as I should truly
hold him for my father also. I would be as chary of mixing in causeless
strife as of thrusting my hand into my own furnace; and if there came
on us unlawful violence, its wares would be brought to an ill chosen
market.”

“May you experience all the domestic happiness which you can conceive,
Henry, but with some one more happy than I am!”

So spoke, or rather so sobbed, the Fair Maiden of Perth, who seemed
choking in the attempt to restrain her tears.

“You hate me, then?” said the lover, after a pause.

“Heaven is my witness, no.”

“Or you love some other better?”

“It is cruel to ask what it cannot avail you to know. But you are
entirely mistaken.”

“Yon wildcat, Conachar, perhaps?” said Henry. “I have marked his
looks--”

“You avail yourself of this painful situation to insult me, Henry,
though I have little deserved it. Conachar is nothing to me, more than
the trying to tame his wild spirit by instruction might lead me to
take some interest in a mind abandoned to prejudices and passions, and
therein, Henry, not unlike your own.”

“It must then be some of these flaunting silkworm sirs about the
court,” said the armourer, his natural heat of temper kindling from
disappointment and vexation--“some of those who think they carry it
off through the height of their plumed bonnets and the jingle of their
spurs. I would I knew which it was that, leaving his natural mates, the
painted and perfumed dames of the court, comes to take his prey among
the simple maidens of the burgher craft. I would I knew but his name and
surname!”

“Henry Smith,” said Catharine, shaking off the weakness which seemed to
threaten to overpower her a moment before, “this is the language of an
ungrateful fool, or rather of a frantic madman. I have told you already,
there was no one who stood, at the beginning of this conference, more
high in my opinion than he who is now losing ground with every word he
utters in the tone of unjust suspicion and senseless anger. You had no
title to know even what I have told you, which, I pray you to observe,
implies no preference to you over others, though it disowns any
preference of another to you. It is enough you should be aware that
there is as insuperable an objection to what you desire as if an
enchanter had a spell over my destiny.”

“Spells may be broken by true men,” said, the smith. “I would it were
come to that. Thorbiorn, the Danish armourer, spoke of a spell he had
for making breastplates, by singing a certain song while the iron was
heating. I told him that his runic rhymes were no proof against the
weapons which fought at Loncarty--what farther came of it it is needless
to tell, but the corselet and the wearer, and the leech who salved his
wound, know if Henry Gow can break a spell or no.”

Catharine looked at him as if about to return an answer little approving
of the exploit he had vaunted, which the downright smith had not
recollected was of a kind that exposed him to her frequent censure. But
ere she had given words to her thoughts, her father thrust his head in
at the door.

“Henry,” he said, “I must interrupt your more pleasing affairs, and
request you to come into my working room in all speed, to consult about
certain matters deeply affecting the weal of the burgh.”

Henry, making his obeisance to Catharine, left the apartment upon her
father’s summons. Indeed, it was probably in favour of their future
friendly intercourse, that they were parted on this occasion at the
turn which the conversation seemed likely to take. For, as the wooer
had begun to hold the refusal of the damsel as somewhat capricious and
inexplicable after the degree of encouragement which, in his opinion,
she had afforded; Catharine, on the other hand, considered him rather
as an encroacher upon the grace which she had shown him than one whose
delicacy rendered him deserving of such favour. But there was living
in their bosoms towards each other a reciprocal kindness, which, on the
termination of the dispute, was sure to revive, inducing the maiden
to forget her offended delicacy, and the lover his slighted warmth of
passion.



CHAPTER VII.

     This quarrel may draw blood another day.

     Henry IV. Part I.


The conclave of citizens appointed to meet for investigating the affray
of the preceding evening had now assembled. The workroom of Simon Glover
was filled to crowding by personages of no little consequence, some of
whom wore black velvet cloaks, and gold chains around their necks.
They were, indeed, the fathers of the city; and there were bailies and
deacons in the honoured number. There was an ireful and offended air of
importance upon every brow as they conversed together, rather in whisper
than aloud or in detail. Busiest among the busy, the little important
assistant of the previous night, Oliver Proudfute by name, and bonnet
maker by profession, was bustling among the crowd, much after the
manner of the seagull, which flutters, screams, and sputters most at the
commencement of a gale of wind, though one can hardly conceive what the
bird has better to do than to fly to its nest and remain quiet till the
gale is over.

Be that as it may, Master Proudfute was in the midst of the crowd,
his fingers upon every one’s button and his mouth in every man’s ear,
embracing such as were near to his own stature, that he might more
closely and mysteriously utter his sentiments; and standing on tiptoe,
and supporting himself by the cloak collars of tall men, that he might
dole out to them also the same share of information. He felt himself one
of the heroes of the affair, being conscious of the dignity of superior
information on the subject as an eyewitness, and much disposed to push
his connexion with the scuffle a few points beyond the modesty of truth.
It cannot be said that his communications were in especial curious and
important, consisting chiefly of such assertions as these:

“It is all true, by St. John! I was there and saw it myself--was the
first to run to the fray; and if it had not been for me and another
stout fellow, who came in about the same time, they had broken into
Simon Glover’s house, cut his throat, and carried his daughter off
to the mountains. It is too evil usage--not to be suffered, neighbour
Crookshank; not to be endured, neighbour Glass; not to be borne,
neighbours Balneaves, Rollock, and Chrysteson. It was a mercy that I
and that stout fellow came in, was it not, neighbour and worthy Bailie
Craigdallie?”

These speeches were dispersed by the busy bonnet maker into sundry ears.
Bailie Craigdallie, a portly guild brother, the same who had advised the
prorogation of their civic council to the present place and hour, a big,
burly, good looking man, shook the deacon from his cloak with pretty
much the grace with which a large horse shrugs off the importunate
fly that has beset him for ten minutes, and exclaimed, “Silence, good
citizens; here comes Simon Glover, in whom no man ever saw falsehood. We
will hear the outrage from his own mouth.”

Simon being called upon to tell his tale, did so with obvious
embarrassment, which he imputed to a reluctance that the burgh should
be put in deadly feud with any one upon his account. It was, he dared to
say, a masking or revel on the part of the young gallants about court;
and the worst that might come of it would be, that he would put iron
stanchions on his daughter’s window, in case of such another frolic.

“Why, then, if this was a mere masking or mummery,” said Craigdallie,
“our townsman, Harry of the Wind, did far wrong to cut off a gentleman’s
hand for such a harmless pleasantry, and the town may be brought to a
heavy fine for it, unless we secure the person of the mutilator.”

“Our Lady forbid!” said the glover. “Did you know what I do, you would
be as much afraid of handling this matter as if it were glowing iron.
But, since you will needs put your fingers in the fire, truth must be
spoken. And come what will, I must say, that the matter might have ended
ill for me and mine, but for the opportune assistance of Henry Gow, the
armourer, well known to you all.”

“And mine also was not awanting,” said Oliver Proudfute, “though I do
not profess to be utterly so good a swordsman as our neighbour Henry
Gow. You saw me, neighbour Glover, at the beginning of the fray?”

“I saw you after the end of it, neighbour,” answered the glover, drily.

“True--true; I had forgot you were in your house while the blows were
going, and could not survey who were dealing them.”

“Peace, neighbour Proudfute--I prithee, peace,” said Craigdallie, who
was obviously tired of the tuneless screeching of the worthy deacon.

“There is something mysterious here,” said the bailie; “but I think I
spy the secret. Our friend Simon is, as you all know, a peaceful man,
and one that will rather sit down with wrong than put a friend, or say a
neighbourhood, in danger to seek his redress. Thou, Henry, who art never
wanting where the burgh needs a defender, tell us what thou knowest of
this matter.”

Our smith told his story to the same purpose which we have already
related; and the meddling maker of bonnets added as before, “And thou
sawest me there, honest smith, didst thou not?”

“Not I, in good faith, neighbour,” answered Henry; “but you are a little
man, you know, and I might overlook you.”

This reply produced a laugh at Oliver’s expense, who laughed for
company, but added doggedly, “I was one of the foremost to the rescue
for all that.”

“Why, where wert thou, then, neighbour?” said the smith; “for I saw you
not, and I would have given the worth of the best suit of armour I ever
wrought to have seen as stout a fellow as thou at my elbow.”

“I was no farther off, however, honest smith; and whilst thou wert
laying on blows as if on an anvil, I was parrying those that the rest of
the villains aimed at thee behind thy back; and that is the cause thou
sawest me not.”

“I have heard of smiths of old time who had but one eye,” said Henry; “I
have two, but they are both set in my forehead, and so I could not see
behind my back, neighbour.”

“The truth is, however,” persevered Master Oliver, “there I was, and I
will give Master Bailie my account of the matter; for the smith and I
were first up to the fray.”

“Enough at present,” said the bailie, waving to Master Proudfute an
injunction of silence. “The precognition of Simon Glover and Henry Gow
would bear out a matter less worthy of belief. And now, my masters,
your opinion what should be done. Here are all our burgher rights broken
through and insulted, and you may well fancy that it is by some man of
power, since no less dared have attempted such an outrage. My masters,
it is hard on flesh and blood to submit to this. The laws have framed us
of lower rank than the princes and nobles, yet it is against reason to
suppose that we will suffer our houses to be broken into, and the honour
of our women insulted, without some redress.”

“It is not to be endured!” answered the citizens, unanimously.

Here Simon Glover interfered with a very anxious and ominous
countenance. “I hope still that all was not meant so ill as it seemed
to us, my worthy neighbours; and I for one would cheerfully forgive the
alarm and disturbance to my poor house, providing the Fair City were not
brought into jeopardy for me. I beseech you to consider who are to be
our judges that are to hear the case, and give or refuse redress. I
speak among neighbours and friends, and therefore I speak openly. The
King, God bless him! is so broken in mind and body, that he will but
turn us over to some great man amongst his counsellors who shall be in
favour for the time. Perchance he will refer us to his brother the Duke
of Albany, who will make our petition for righting of our wrongs the
pretence for squeezing money out of us.”

“We will none of Albany for our judge!” answered the meeting with the
same unanimity as before.

“Or perhaps,” added Simon, “he will bid the Duke of Rothsay take charge
of it; and the wild young prince will regard the outrage as something
for his gay companions to scoff at, and his minstrels to turn into
song.”

“Away with Rothsay! he is too gay to be our judge,” again exclaimed the
citizens.

Simon, emboldened by seeing he was reaching the point he aimed at, yet
pronouncing the dreaded name with a half whisper, next added, “Would you
like the Black Douglas better to deal with?”

There was no answer for a minute. They looked on each other with fallen
countenances and blanched lips.

But Henry Smith spoke out boldly, and in a decided voice, the sentiments
which all felt, but none else dared give words to: “The Black Douglas to
judge betwixt a burgher and a gentleman, nay, a nobleman, for all I know
or care! The black devil of hell sooner! You are mad, father Simon, so
much as to name so wild a proposal.”

There was again a silence of fear and uncertainty, which was at length
broken by Bailie Craigdallie, who, looking very significantly to the
speaker, replied, “You are confident in a stout doublet, neighbour
Smith, or you would not talk so boldly.”

“I am confident of a good heart under my doublet, such as it is,
bailie,” answered the undaunted Henry; “and though I speak but little,
my mouth shall never be padlocked by any noble of them all.”

“Wear a thick doublet, good Henry, or do not speak so loud,” reiterated
the bailie in the same significant tone. “There are Border men in the
town who wear the bloody heart on their shoulder. But all this is no
rede. What shall we do?”

“Short rede, good rede,” said the smith. “Let us to our provost, and
demand his countenance and assistance.”

A murmur of applause went through the party, and Oliver Proudfute
exclaimed, “That is what I have been saying for this half hour, and not
one of ye would listen to me. ‘Let us go to our provost,’ said I. ‘He is
a gentleman himself, and ought to come between the burgh and the nobles
in all matters.”

“Hush, neighbours--hush; be wary what you say or do,” said a thin meagre
figure of a man, whose diminutive person seemed still more reduced in
size, and more assimilated to a shadow, by his efforts to assume an
extreme degree of humility, and make himself, to suit his argument, look
meaner yet, and yet more insignificant, than nature had made him.

“Pardon me,” said he; “I am but a poor pottingar. Nevertheless, I have
been bred in Paris, and learned my humanities and my cursus medendi as
well as some that call themselves learned leeches. Methinks I can tent
this wound, and treat it with emollients. Here is our friend Simon
Glover, who is, as you all know, a man of worship. Think you he would
not be the most willing of us all to pursue harsh courses here, since
his family honour is so nearly concerned? And since he blenches away
from the charge against these same revellers, consider if he may not
have some good reason more than he cares to utter for letting the matter
sleep. It is not for me to put my finger on the sore; but, alack! we all
know that young maidens are what I call fugitive essences. Suppose now,
an honest maiden--I mean in all innocence--leaves her window unlatched
on St. Valentine’s morn, that some gallant cavalier may--in all honesty,
I mean--become her Valentine for the season, and suppose the gallant
be discovered, may she not scream out as if the visit were unexpected,
and--and--bray all this in a mortar, and then consider, will it be a
matter to place the town in feud for?”

The pottingar delivered his opinion in a most insinuating manner; but
he seemed to shrink into something less than his natural tenuity when he
saw the blood rise in the old cheek of Simon Glover, and inflame to the
temples the complexion of the redoubted smith.

The last, stepping forward, and turning a stern look on the alarmed
pottingar, broke out as follows: “Thou walking skeleton! thou asthmatic
gallipot! thou poisoner by profession! if I thought that the puff of
vile breath thou hast left could blight for the tenth part of a minute
the fair fame of Catharine Glover, I would pound thee, quacksalver!
in thine own mortar, and beat up thy wretched carrion with flower of
brimstone, the only real medicine in thy booth, to make a salve to rub
mangy hounds with!”

“Hold, son Henry--hold!” cried the glover, in a tone of authority,
“no man has title to speak of this matter but me. Worshipful Bailie
Craigdallie, since such is the construction that is put upon my
patience, I am willing to pursue this riot to the uttermost; and though
the issue may prove that we had better have been patient, you will
all see that my Catharine hath not by any lightness or folly of hers
afforded grounds for this great scandal.”

The bailie also interposed. “Neighbour Henry,” said he, “we came here to
consult, and not to quarrel. As one of the fathers of the Fair City, I
command thee to forego all evil will and maltalent you may have against
Master Pottingar Dwining.”

“He is too poor a creature, bailie,” said Henry Gow, “for me to harbour
feud with--I that could destroy him and his booth with one blow of my
forehammer.”

“Peace, then, and hear me,” said the official. “We all are as much
believers in the honour of the Fair Maiden of Perth as in that of our
Blessed Lady.” Here he crossed himself devoutly. “But touching our
appeal to our provost, are you agreed, neighbours, to put matter like
this into our provost’s hand, being against a powerful noble, as is to
be feared?”

“The provost being himself a nobleman,” squeaked the pottingar, in some
measure released from his terror by the intervention of the bailie.
“God knows, I speak not to the disparagement of an honourable gentleman,
whose forebears have held the office he now holds for many years--”

“By free choice of the citizens of Perth,” said the smith, interrupting
the speaker with the tones of his deep and decisive voice.

“Ay, surely,” said the disconcerted orator, “by the voice of the
citizens. How else? I pray you, friend Smith, interrupt me not. I speak
to our worthy and eldest bailie, Craigdallie, according to my poor
mind. I say that, come amongst us how he will, still this Sir Patrick
Charteris is a nobleman, and hawks will not pick hawks’ eyes out. He may
well bear us out in a feud with the Highlandmen, and do the part of our
provost and leader against them; but whether he that himself wears silk
will take our part against broidered cloak and cloth of gold, though
he may do so against tartan and Irish frieze, is something to be
questioned. Take a fool’s advice. We have saved our Maiden, of whom
I never meant to speak harm, as truly I knew none. They have lost one
man’s hand, at least, thanks to Harry Smith--”

“And to me,” added the little important bonnet maker.

“And to Oliver Proudfute, as he tells us,” continued the pottingar, who
contested no man’s claim to glory provided he was not himself compelled
to tread the perilous paths which lead to it. “I say, neighbours, since
they have left a hand as a pledge they will never come in Couvrefew
Street again, why, in my simple mind, we were best to thank our stout
townsman, and the town having the honour and these rakehells the loss,
that we should hush the matter up and say no more about it.”

These pacific counsels had their effect with some of the citizens,
who began to nod and look exceedingly wise upon the advocate of
acquiescence, with whom, notwithstanding the offence so lately given,
Simon Glover seemed also to agree in opinion. But not so Henry Smith,
who, seeing the consultation at a stand, took up the speech in his usual
downright manner.

“I am neither the oldest nor the richest among you, neighbours, and I am
not sorry for it. Years will come, if one lives to see them; and I can
win and spend my penny like another, by the blaze of the furnace and the
wind of the bellows. But no man ever saw me sit down with wrong done
in word or deed to our fair town, if man’s tongue and man’s hand could
right it. Neither will I sit down with this outrage, if I can help it.
I will go to the provost myself, if no one will go with me; he is a
knight, it is true, and a gentleman of free and true born blood, as we
all know, since Wallace’s time, who settled his great grandsire amongst
us. But if he were the proudest nobleman in the land, he is the Provost
of Perth, and for his own honour must see the freedoms and immunities of
the burgh preserved--ay, and I know he will. I have made a steel doublet
for him, and have a good guess at the kind of heart that it was meant to
cover.”

“Surely,” said Bailie Craigdallie, “it would be to no purpose to stir
at court without Sir Patrick Charteris’s countenance: the ready answer
would be, ‘Go to your provost, you borrel loons.’ So, neighbours and
townsmen, if you will stand by my side, I and our pottingar Dwining
will repair presently to Kinfauns, with Sim Glover, the jolly smith, and
gallant Oliver Proudfute, for witnesses to the onslaught, and speak with
Sir Patrick Charteris, in name of the fair town.”

“Nay,” said the peaceful man of medicine, “leave me behind, I pray you:
I lack audacity to speak before a belted knight.”

“Never regard that, neighbour, you must go,” said Bailie Craigdallie.
“The town hold me a hot headed carle for a man of threescore; Sim Glover
is the offended party; we all know that Harry Gow spoils more harness
with his sword than he makes with his hammer and our neighbour
Proudfute, who, take his own word, is at the beginning and end of every
fray in Perth, is of course a man of action. We must have at least one
advocate amongst us for peace and quietness; and thou, pottingar, must
be the man. Away with you, sirs, get your boots and your beasts--horse
and hattock, I say, and let us meet at the East Port; that is, if it is
your pleasure, neighbours, to trust us with the matter.”

“There can be no better rede, and we will all avouch it,” said the
citizens. “If the provost take our part, as the Fair Town hath a right
to expect, we may bell the cat with the best of them.”

“It is well, then, neighbours,” answered the bailie; “so said, so shall
be done. Meanwhile, I have called the whole town council together about
this hour, and I have little doubt,” looking around the company, “that,
as so many of them who are in this place have resolved to consult with
our provost, the rest will be compliant to the same resolution. And,
therefore, neighbours, and good burghers of the Fair City of Perth,
horse and hattock, as I said before, and meet me at the East Port.”

A general acclamation concluded the sitting of this species of privy
council, or Lords of the Articles; and they dispersed, the deputation to
prepare for the journey, and the rest to tell their impatient wives and
daughters of the measures they had taken to render their chambers safe
in future against the intrusion of gallants at unseasonable hours.

While nags are saddling, and the town council debating, or rather
putting in form what the leading members of their body had already
adopted, it may be necessary, for the information of some readers,
to state in distinct terms what is more circuitously intimated in the
course of the former discussion.

It was the custom at this period, when the strength of the feudal
aristocracy controlled the rights, and frequently insulted the
privileges, of the royal burghs of Scotland, that the latter, where it
was practicable, often chose their provost, or chief magistrate, not out
of the order of the merchants, shopkeepers, and citizens, who inhabited
the town itself, and filled up the roll of the ordinary magistracy, but
elected to that preeminent state some powerful nobleman, or baron, in
the neighbourhood of the burgh, who was expected to stand their friend
at court in such matters as concerned their common weal, and to lead
their civil militia to fight, whether in general battle or in private
feud, reinforcing them with his own feudal retainers. This protection
was not always gratuitous. The provosts sometimes availed themselves of
their situation to an unjustifiable degree, and obtained grants of lands
and tenements belonging to the common good, or public property of the
burgh, and thus made the citizens pay dear for the countenance which
they afforded. Others were satisfied to receive the powerful aid of the
townsmen in their own feudal quarrels, with such other marks of respect
and benevolence as the burgh over which they presided were willing to
gratify them with, in order to secure their active services in case of
necessity. The baron, who was the regular protector of a royal burgh,
accepted such freewill offerings without scruple, and repaid them by
defending the rights of the town by arguments in the council and by bold
deeds in the field.

The citizens of the town, or, as they loved better to call it, the
Fair City, of Perth, had for several generations found a protector
and provost of this kind in the knightly family of Charteris, Lords of
Kinfauns, in the neighbourhood of the burgh. It was scarce a century (in
the time of Robert III) since the first of this distinguished family
had settled in the strong castle which now belonged to them, with the
picturesque and fertile scenes adjoining to it. But the history of the
first settler, chivalrous and romantic in itself, was calculated to
facilitate the settlement of an alien in the land in which his lot was
cast. We relate it as it is given by an ancient and uniform tradition,
which carries in it great indications of truth, and is warrant enough,
perhaps, for it insertion in graver histories than the present.

During the brief career of the celebrated patriot Sir William Wallace,
and when his arms had for a time expelled the English invaders from his
native country, he is said to have undertaken a voyage to France, with
a small band of trusty friends, to try what his presence (for he was
respected through all countries for his prowess) might do to induce the
French monarch to send to Scotland a body of auxiliary forces, or other
assistance, to aid the Scots in regaining their independence.

The Scottish Champion was on board a small vessel, and steering for the
port of Dieppe, when a sail appeared in the distance, which the mariners
regarded, first with doubt and apprehension, and at last with confusion
and dismay. Wallace demanded to know what was the cause of their alarm.
The captain of the ship informed him that the tall vessel which was
bearing down, with the purpose of boarding that which he commanded, was
the ship of a celebrated rover, equally famed for his courage, strength
of body, and successful piracies. It was commanded by a gentleman named
Thomas de Longueville, a Frenchman by birth, but by practice one of
those pirates who called themselves friends to the sea and enemies to
all who sailed upon that element. He attacked and plundered vessels
of all nations, like one of the ancient Norse sea kings, as they were
termed, whose dominion was upon the mountain waves. The master added
that no vessel could escape the rover by flight, so speedy was the bark
he commanded; and that no crew, however hardy, could hope to resist him,
when, as was his usual mode of combat, he threw himself on board at the
head of his followers.

Wallace smiled sternly, while the master of the ship, with alarm in his
countenance and tears in his eyes, described to him the certainty of
their being captured by the Red Rover, a name given to De Longueville,
because he usually displayed the blood red flag, which he had now
hoisted.

“I will clear the narrow seas of this rover,” said Wallace.

Then calling together some ten or twelve of his own followers, Boyd,
Kerlie, Seton, and others, to whom the dust of the most desperate battle
was like the breath of life, he commanded them to arm themselves,
and lie flat upon the deck, so as to be out of sight. He ordered the
mariners below, excepting such as were absolutely necessary to manage
the vessel; and he gave the master instructions, upon pain of death, so
to steer as that, while the vessel had an appearance of attempting to
fly, he should in fact permit the Red Rover to come up with them and do
his worst. Wallace himself then lay down on the deck, that nothing might
be seen which could intimate any purpose of resistance. In a quarter of
an hour De Longueville’s vessel ran on board that of the Champion, and
the Red Rover, casting out grappling irons to make sure of his prize,
jumped on the deck in complete armour, followed by his men, who gave a
terrible shout, as if victory had been already secured. But the armed
Scots started up at once, and the rover found himself unexpectedly
engaged with men accustomed to consider victory as secure when they
were only opposed as one to two or three. Wallace himself rushed on the
pirate captain, and a dreadful strife began betwixt them with such fury
that the others suspended their own battle to look on, and seemed by
common consent to refer the issue of the strife to the fate of the
combat between the two chiefs. The pirate fought as well as man could
do; but Wallace’s strength was beyond that of ordinary mortals. He
dashed the sword from the rover’s hand, and placed him in such peril
that, to avoid being cut down, he was fain to close with the Scottish
Champion in hopes of overpowering him in the grapple. In this also he
was foiled. They fell on the deck, locked in each other’s arms, but the
Frenchman fell undermost; and Wallace, fixing his grasp upon his gorget,
compressed it so closely, notwithstanding it was made of the finest
steel, that the blood gushed from his eyes, nose, and month, and he was
only able to ask for quarter by signs. His men threw down their weapons
and begged for mercy when they saw their leader thus severely handled.
The victor granted them all their lives, but took possession of their
vessel, and detained them prisoners.

When he came in sight of the French harbour, Wallace alarmed the place
by displaying the rover’s colours, as if De Longueville was coming to
pillage the town. The bells were rung backward, horns were blown, and
the citizens were hurrying to arms, when the scene changed. The Scottish
Lion on his shield of gold was raised above the piratical flag, and
announced that the Champion of Scotland was approaching, like a falcon
with his prey in his clutch. He landed with his prisoner, and carried
him to the court of France, where, at Wallace’s request, the robberies
which the pirate had committed were forgiven, and the king even
conferred the honour of knighthood on Sir Thomas de Longueville, and
offered to take him into his service. But the rover had contracted such
a friendship for his generous victor, that he insisted on uniting his
fortunes with those of Wallace, with whom he returned to Scotland, and
fought by his side in many a bloody battle, where the prowess of Sir
Thomas de Longueville was remarked as inferior to that of none, save of
his heroic conqueror. His fate also was more fortunate than that of his
patron. Being distinguished by the beauty as well as strength of his
person, he rendered himself so acceptable to a young lady, heiress of
the ancient family of Charteris, that she chose him for her husband,
bestowing on him with her hand the fair baronial Castle of Kinfauns, and
the domains annexed to it. Their descendants took the name of Charteris,
as connecting themselves with their maternal ancestors, the ancient

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