Tales from "Blackwood," Volume 7

by Unknown

A NARRATIVE OF NINETY-EIGHT.

[MAGA. April 1832.]

It was in the autumn of 1798, when the North of Ireland had settled down into comparative tranquillity, that I took up my quarters at Knowehead, the grazing farm of a substantial relative, in the remote pastoral valley of Glen—— in Antrim.

The second morning of my stay I had fished a considerable distance up the river; but having broken my top in an unlucky leap, was sitting in impatient bustle, lapping the fracture, and lamenting my ill fortune, as ever and anon I would raise my eyes and see the fresh curl running past my feet; when I perceived by the sudden blackening of the water, and by an ominous but indescribable sensation of the air, that something unusual was brewing overhead. I looked up: there it was, a cloud, low-hung and lurid, and stretching across the whole northern side of the horizon. I had scarce time to gather my clews and bobbins into a hurried wisp, and take shelter under an overhanging bank hard by, when down it came, heavy, hissing, and pelting the whole surface of the river into spray. I drew myself close to the back of the hollow, where I lay in a congratulatory sort of reverie, watching the veins of muddy red, as they slowly at first, and then impetuously, flowed through and finally displaced the dark spring water—the efforts of the beaten rushes and waterflags, as they quivered and flapped about under the shower’s battery—the gradual increase of swell and turbulence in the river opposite; and lower down, the war which was already tossing and raging at the conflux, where

“Tumbling brown, the burn came down,
And roar’d frae bank to brae.”

But why do I dilate upon an aspect thus wild and desolate, when I could so much more pleasantly employ my reader’s and my own mind’s eye with that which next presented itself? I confess, so pleasant was the contrast then, that I still, in recalling that scene to memory, prepare myself, by the renewed vision of its dreariness and desolation, for the more grateful reception of an image than which earth contains none lovelier—it was a lovely girl. She fled thither for shelter: I did not see her until she was close by me; but never surely did man’s eyes rest on a fairer apparition. I have, at this instant, every lineament of the startled beauty, as, drawing back with a suppressed cry and gesture of alarm, she shrank from the unexpected companion who stood by her side; for I had started from my reverie, and now presented myself, baring my head in the rain with involuntary respectfulness of gallantry, and half unconsciously leading her by the hand into my retreat. She yielded, blushing and confused, while I, apologising, imploring, and gazing with new admiration at every look, unstrapped my basket, placed it in the least exposed corner, spread over it my outside coat, and having thus arranged a seat (which, however, she did not yet accept), retired to the opposite side, and reluctantly ceasing to gaze, gave up my whole faculties to wonder—who could she be? Her rich dress—velvet habit, hat and feathers—her patrician elegance of beauty and manner, at once proclaimed her rank; but who could there be in Glen—— above the homely class to which my host belonged? And his daughter, Miss Janet, was certainly a brilliant of a very different water. But, heavens! how the water is running down from my companion’s rich hair, and glistening upon her neck with what a breathing lustre!—“Oh, madam, let me entreat you, as you value your safety, use my handkerchief (and I pulled a muffler from my neck) to bind up and dry your hair. Wrap, I beseech you, your feet in my greatcoat; and withdraw farther from the wind and rain.”

One by one, notwithstanding her gracious refusals, I carefully fulfilled my prescriptions; and now knelt before her, lapping the skirts and sleeves of my envied coat about the little feet and delicate ankles. Yet it seemed to me that she received my services rather with a grateful condescension, than, as I desired, with frank enjoyment of them. So, pausing a moment to account for such a manner, I recollected—and the recollection covered me with confusion—that I must have been, to say the least, as rough a comrade as any one need wish to meet with under a hedge; for, purposing to leave Ireland in another month for Germany, I had, during the last week, allowed my beard to grow all round—putting off from day to day the forming of the moustache, to which I meant to reduce it—and so had my face, at no time very smooth, now covered from ear to ear with a stubble, long, strong, and black as a shoe-brush. My broad-brimmed hat was battered and dinted into strangely uncouth cavities, and the leaf hung flapping over my brows like a broken umbrella; my jacket was tinselled indeed, but it was with the ancient scales of trout; my leathern overalls were black-glazed and greasy; and my whole equipment bore, I must confess, the evident signs of an unexceptionable rascal.

Indignant at my unworthy appearance, I put myself upon my mettle; and after drawing my fair companion from her intrenchments of shyness and hauteur, succeeded in engaging her in the fair field of a conversation the most animated and interesting, in which it was ever my good fortune and credit to bear a part. She had at first, indeed, when I began by running a parallel between our positions, explained the circumstances of her being driven thither alone, in a manner so general, and with such evident painfulness of hesitation, that I had hardly expected a few slow commonplaces at the most. Such wit, then, and vivacity, tempered with such dignified discretion, as she evinced, when I turned the conversation from what I perceived to be perplexing, were by their unexpectedness doubly delightful.

Time and the tempest swept on equally unheeded; topic induced topic, smile challenged smile, and when at last, in obedience to her wishes, I looked towards the north, to see whether the sky were clearing, I only prayed that it might rain on till sunset, when I might accompany her to her home, which, to my surprise, I learned was within a few miles, although I did not ascertain exactly where. My prayers were likely enough to be fulfilled; the sky was still one rush of rain—but, heaven and earth! the river had overflowed its banks above: a broad sheet of water was sailing down the hollow behind; and there we were, no human habitation within sight, in the midst of a tempest, between two rapid rivers, with no better shelter, during the continuance of a Lammas flood, than the hollow of a bank which might be ten feet under water in an hour.

I ran down the back of the hill to the edge of the interposing flood; a stunted tree was in the middle, the fork of which I knew was as high as my shoulder; a mass of weeds and briars was already gathered against it; the water had raised them within a foot of the first branch; then I might still ford a passage; no moment was to be lost; I ran back for the lady, but met her half-way in wild alarm, her head bare, her beautiful hair shaken out into the blast, her hands clasped, and her figure just sinking. I caught her in my arms, and bore her forward with all my speed; but before I again reached the sweeping inundation, insensibility had released her from the terrors of our passage.

I dashed in, holding her across my body, with her head resting on my shoulder; the first step took me to the knee. I raised my burden and plunged forward; the water rose to my haunches. I lifted her again across my breast, rushed on, and sank to the waist. I felt that I could not long support a dead weight in that position; so lowering her limbs into the water, I profited by that relief, and reached the tree.

The flood had now covered me to the breast, and the lady’s neck and bosom were all that remained unimmersed. I leaned against the old trunk, and breathed myself. I raised her drooping head on my shoulder, and pressed my cheek to her forehead; but neither lip nor eyelid moved. I could not but gaze upon her face; it lay among the long floating tresses and turbulent eddies, fair as the water’s own lily, and as unconscious. My heart warmed to the lovely being, and I bent over her, kissing her lips, and pressing her bosom to mine, with an affection so strangely strong, that I might have stood thus till escape had been impossible, but that the rustling of the rubbish, as it crept up the rugged stump with the rise of the waters, caught my ear. A thunderbolt smouldering at my feet could not have sounded so horrible. All my fresh affections rushed back to my heart in multiplied alarm for the safety of their new-found treasure. I started from my resting-place, and swinging back the long hair from my eyes, once more breasted the stream with clenched teeth and dripping brows. But still, as farther I advanced, the water grew deeper and deeper, and the current split upon my shoulder, and twisted through my legs, still stronger and stronger. Lumps of black moss, dried peats, and heavy sods, now struck me, and tumbled on; while wisps of yellow grass and long straws doubled across my body and entangled me. My limbs wavered at every step as I strained and writhed them through the current. I gave way—I was half lifted—the river and the burn met not a hundred yards below. Had I had the strength of ten men, I could not have supported her through that tumult. Every step swerved towards the conclusion of at least her existence; yet with love tenfold did I now press her to my heart, and with tenfold energy struggle to make good her rescue. Her eyes opened—I murmured prayers, comforts, and endearments—she saw the red torrent around, the tawny breakers before, the black storm overhead; but she saw love in my eye, she heard it in my words; and there, within her probable deathbed, and in the embrace of her probable companion in death, she was wooed among the waters, and was won. Another effort—but the eddy swung me round, and I had given up all as lost, save my interest in that perishing girl; when suddenly I heard, through the dashing of waves and the hissing of rain, the hoarse cry of a man, “Courage—hold up, sir—this way, halloo!” I turned, half thinking it imagination, but there I really saw a man up to the breast in the flood, supporting with arms and shoulders a powerful black horse, which he urged across the current. Another minute, and I stood firm behind the breakwater they formed at my side. My dear charge had again fainted; he assisted me to raise her to the saddle; but suddenly, as he looked at her, he uttered a wild cry of astonishment, and kissing and embracing her, exclaimed, “My Madeline, my daughter, my dear child!—Why, sir, how is this?”

“Oh, sir, the river is rising a foot a-minute—take the bridle, I beseech you, and let me support the lady and the horse’s flank—I will explain all when she is out of danger.” So saying, I laid my shoulder to the work and urged him on; we had an easier task, and in another minute succeeded in getting safe out of that perilous passage.

I now looked at our preserver; he was a handsome, tall, and vigorous man, about forty—evidently a soldier and gentleman. He lifted his daughter from the saddle; and while I recounted the particulars of her adventure, unclasped her habit and chafed her forehead; but all was of no avail. He looked distractedly, first at his daughter and then at me; and after a pause of contending emotions, rose, laid her across the pommel, placed his foot in the stirrup, and turning to me said, “I am embarrassed by many circumstances—take my blessings for this day’s help—and forget us.”

“I can never forget.”

“Then take this trifling remembrance.” He pulled a ring from his finger and handed it to me; threw himself into the saddle; placed his daughter across his body, and crying, ere I could say a word for sheer amazement, “Farewell, farewell!” and once more, with some emotion, “Farewell, sir, and may God bless you!” put spurs to his horse, and dashed off at full speed for a pass which leads into the wild country of the Misty Braes.

Till they disappeared among the hills, I stood watching them from the bank where they had left me, bare-headed, numbed, and indignant; with the rain still pelting on me, and the ring between my fingers. It was a costly diamond; I pitched it after him with a curse, and bent my weary way towards Knowehead, a distance of full five miles, in a maze of uncertainty and speculation. She had not told her name, and she seemed to desire a concealment of her residence; her father’s conduct more plainly evinced the same motive; many of the heads of the rebellion were still lurking with their families among the mountains of Ulster; the only house in the direction they had taken, at all likely to be the retreat of respectable persons, was the old Grange of Moyabel; and it was the property of a gentleman then abroad, but connected with all the chief Catholic rebels in the North. All this made me naturally conclude that these were some of that unhappy party; and when I considered that both daughter and father had been riding from different quarters to the same destination—for, as well as I could surmise from her vague account of herself, she had left the servant, behind whom she had come so far, to wait the arrival of her father, who had promised to join them there—I was able to satisfy myself of their being only on their way to Moyabel; and I therefore determined not to create suspicion by making useless inquiries as to the present family there, but to take the first opportunity of judging for myself of the new comers. But how, after such a dismissal, introduce myself? Here lay the difficulty, and beyond this I could fix on nothing; so with a heavy heart I climbed the hill before my kinsman’s house, and presented myself at the wide door of the kitchen, just as the twilight was darkening down into night.

I found my host sitting as was his wont—his nightcap on his head, his long staff in his hand, and two greyhounds at his feet—behind the fire upon his oaken settle. “I’m thinkin’, Willie,” he began as he saw me enter—“I’m thinkin’ ye hae catched a wet sark. Janet, lass, fetch your cusin a dram. Nane o’ your piperly smellin’ bottles,” cried he, as she produced some cordials in an ancient liquor-stand—“Nane o’ your auld wife’s jaups for ane o’ my name—fetch something purpose-like; for when my nevoy has changed himsell, we’ll hae a stoup o’ whisky, and a crack thegither.” In a few minutes I was seated in dry clothes, before a bowl of punch and a blazing fire, beside the old gentleman on his oaken sofa. At any other time I would have enjoyed the scene with infinite satisfaction; for the national tipple, in my mind, drinks nowhere so pleasantly as on a bench behind the broad hearthstone of such a kitchen-hall as my friend’s. Our smaller gentry had, it is true, long since betaken themselves to their parlours and their drawing-rooms; and the steams of whisky-punch had already risen with the odours of bohea, and the smoke of sea-borne coals, to the damask hangings and alabaster cornices of many high-ceiled and stately apartments. Yet there were still some of the old school, who, like my good friend, continued to make their headquarters, after the ancient fashion, among their own domestics, and behind their own hearthstone; for in all old houses the fire is six feet at least from the gable, and the space between is set apart for the homely owner.

It was strange then, that I, who hitherto had so intensely relished such a scene, should be so absent now that it was spread round me in its perfection. The peat and bog-fir fire before me, and the merry faces glistening through the white smoke beyond; the chimney overhead, like some great minster bell (the huge hanging pot for the clapper); the antlers, broadsword, and sporting tackle on the wall behind; the goodly show of fat flitches and briskets around me and above, and that merry and wise old fellow, glass in hand, with endless store of good stories, pithy sayings, and choice points of humour, by my side; yet with all I sat melancholy and ill at ease. In vain did the rare old man tell me his best marvels; how he once fought with Tom Hughes, a wild Welshman, whom he met in a perilous journey through the forests of Cheshire; how Tom would not let go his grip when he had him down (“whilk was a foul villany”); and how he had to roll into a running water before he could get loose (“whilk showed the savage natur of thae menseless barbarians”). In vain he told me that pleasant jest, how my grandfather “ance wiled the six excisemen into a lone house, and then gaed in himsell and pyed them through the windows, whilk cleared the country-side o’ that vermin as lang as auld Redrigs was to the fore.” In vain he told me how his old dog Stretcher hunted the black hare from Dunmoss to Skyboe. I left him in the subtlest of the doubles, and in another minute was in the penthouse of clay, the river boiling at my feet, and the rain rushing round my head; but before me were the rich delighted eyes and quickening features of my unknown beauty. Again I bore her through the flood; again I bent over her, and pressed her to my breast, and once more in fancy I had felt the thrill of her returned embrace; once more I had kissed her lips, and once more we had vowed to live or die together, when I was startled from my reverie by a question which the unsuspecting old man was now repeating for the third time. I stammered an excuse, and roused myself to the hearing of another excellent jest; but what it might have been I know not, for the entrance of a young labourer, an old acquaintance of my own, with whom he had business, cut it short. “Aleck,” he said, “get ready to set out for the fair upon the morn’s e’en; and, Aleck, my man, keep yoursell out o’ drink and fechtin’—and, my bonny man, I’m saying, the neist time ye gang a-courtin’ to the Grange (I pricked up my ears all at once), see that ye’re no ta’en for ane o’ thae rebel chiels, wha, they say, are burrowin’ e’en noo about the auld wa’s as thick as mice in a meal-ark.”—“But Aleck,” crooned old Mause from the corner, “whilk ane o’ the lasses are you for?” This was enough. I watched my opportunity, slipped out to the stable, found Aleck, who had retreated thither in his confusion, and point-blank proposed that he should take me with him that very night, and introduce me to one of the girls at Moyabel, as I longed to have an hour’s courting after the old fashion before I left the country. I concluded by offering him a handsome consideration, which, however, he refused; but, sitting down in the manger, began to consider my proposal, with such head-scratching and nail-biting, as confirmed me in my opinion that there was something mysterious about the family of the Grange. “Master William,” said he at last, “I canna refuse ye, and you gaun awa’, maybe never to see a lass o’ your ain country again; but ye maun promise never to speak o’ whatever ye may see strange aboot the hoose; for, atween oursells, there are anes expeckit there this verra night wha’s names wadna cannily bear tellin’; and Jeanie trusts me, and I maunna beguile her. But the waters are out, and we will hae a lang and cauld tramp through the bogs, sae get a drap o’ somethin’ for the road, and I’ll hae Tam Herron’s Sunday suit ready for you after bed-time. Saul! ye’ll mak a braw weaver wi’ the beard; and wi’ a’ your Englified discoorsin’ ye can talk as like a Christian as ever when ye like. Nanny will think hersell fitted at last; but ye maunna be ower crouse wi’ Nanny, Master William.” I promised everything; waited impatiently till the family had gone to rest; found Aleck true to his engagement; put on the clothes he had prepared, and we stole out about midnight.

It was pitch dark, but fair and calm; so, with the hopes of getting to our journey’s end not wet above the knee, we commenced stumbling and bolting along the great stones and ruts of the causeway; this we cleared without any accident, farther than my slipping once into the ditch, and now found ourselves upon the open hill-side, splashing freely over the soaked turf and slippery pathway. I was in high spirits, and though squirting the black puddle to my knees at every step, and seeing no more of the road I was to travel on than another one in advance, yet faced onward with great gaiety and good humour. After some time, however, Aleck began snuffing the air, and, with evident concern, announced the approach of a mist, which soon thickened into perceptibility to me also. Our path, which hitherto had swept across sheep-grazing uplands and grassy knolls, now began to thread deep rushy bottoms, with here and there a quaking spot of quagmire, or a mantled stream, which I knew by the cold water running sharp below, and by the thick, dull gathering of the weeds about my legs—for the mist made all so dark, that I can only give a blind man’s description. The way now became more intricate and broken, but still I followed Aleck cheerily, pushing through all obstacles, and thinking only of the best measures to be taken when we should arrive at Moyabel, when I suddenly perceived that my footsteps were treading down the long wet grass and heavy sedge itself, and that any distinct pathway no longer remained to guide us. I began to doubt Aleck’s knowledge of the road, which he still maintained to be unshaken; but the next two steps settled the matter, by bringing us both up to the middle in a running river. We scrambled out without saying a word, Aleck being silent from confusion, and I fearing to increase it by reproaches. He began to grope about for the path we had come by; and finding what he thought our track, pursued it a few steps to the right. I thought I had it to the left, and began to explore in that direction. “Hallo! where are you now?” I cried, as I missed him from my side. He answered, “Here,” from a considerable distance lower down. “Where?” I repeated.—“Hereawa,” he answered.—“Hereawa, thereawa, wandering Willie,” I hummed in bitter jollity, as I proceeded in the direction of the voice, “Hereawa, thereawa, haud your way hame,” when—squash, crash, bolt, heels over head—plump I went over a brow into a very Devil’s Punch-Bowl; for bottom I found none, though shot from the bank with the impetus of an arrow. Down I went, the water closing over me in strata and substrata, each one colder than the other, till I expected to find my head at last clashing against the young ice wedges of a preternatural frost below. I sank at least fifteen feet before I could collect my energies and turn. I thought I would never reach the top. To it at last I came, sputtering, blown, and fairly frightened. I never waited to consider my course, but striking desperately out, swam straight forward till I came bump against the bank. I clambered up, and listened. The first sound I could distinguish, after the bubbling and hissing left my ears, was Aleck’s voice nearly before me, on the opposite side. He was singing out something between a howl and a halloo; for he also had got into the water, and could not find bottom anywhere but on the spot he occupied. He could not swim a stroke. There was nothing for it but to go back and rescue him. The unexpectedness alone of my first dip had caused my confusion. That was gone off, and I again plunged resolutely into the river, which I now could discern grey in the clearing mist. A few strokes brought me to where the poor fellow stood, with his arms extended upon the water, and his neck stretched to the utmost to keep it out of his mouth. I knew the danger of taking an alarmed man of greater weight and strength than myself upon my back; and therefore, comforting him with assurances of safety, I tried in all directions for bottom, which at last I found; and having sounded the bed of the river to the opposite side, returned, and with some difficulty succeeded in guiding and supporting him across.

The mist was now rapidly thinning away, and I could distinguish the high bank black against the sky. It was a joyful sight, and induced, by a natural association, the pleasant thought of the comforter in my pocket. I took a mighty dram; then feeling for Aleck’s head (he had lain down, streaming like Father Nile in the pictures, among the rushes, at my feet), I directed the bottle’s mouth to his. He had been making his moan in an under-whine ever since I first heard him lamenting his condition on the opposite side; but no sooner did his lips feel the smooth insinuator’s presence, than (his tongue being put out of the way) they closed with instinctive affection, and went together when the long embrace was past, with a smack quite cheering. Then slowly rising, and fetching a deep sigh as he gathered himself together, “Lord, Lord,” said he “I’m nane the waur o’ that. But, Master William, to tell God’s truth, I dinna ken whaur we are. That we hae crossed Glen—— water, or the Hill-head burn, or the Marcher’s dyke, I’m positive sure; but whilk I’m no just equal to say—but there’s somethin’ black atween us and the lift; I judge it to be Dunmoss Cairn: let’s haud on to it, and we maun soon come to biggit wa’s.” So saying, he led me forward in the direction of what seemed to me also a distant hill; but being occupied in placing my footsteps I had ceased to look at it, when all at once there was a crush of leaves about my head, and I found myself under a green tree. “When will this weary night of error have an end?” I mentally exclaimed; but was surprised by Aleck taking my hand, rubbing the palm along the rough stem, and asking in an elate tone what I felt? “A damnably rough bark,” growled I; “what do you mean?” He cut a caper full three feet into the air. “Here is a pleasant occurrence now—this rascal is drunk—he will roll into the next ditch and suffocate—I shall be the death of the poor fellow—I shall lose”—here he broke my agreeable meditations. “I’ll tell you how it was, Master William; Jeanie and I were partners at the shearin’ (“Evidently drunk,” thought I), and I canna tell how it was (“I well believe you—you can not—but ’twas all my own folly,” I muttered), but I found the maid in a sair fluster that e’en when we parted: (“You’ll be in sorer fluster presently if I begin to you—you drunken idiot!” was my running commentary,) and sae just as I came by this auld thorn”—“Then you do know where you are—do you?” I cried aloud.—“Sure enough,” said he, “for didn’t I carve my heart wi’ Jeanie’s heuk stuck out through it that very night; and isna it here to this minute?”—“Oh, ho, lead on then, in God’s name; but tell me where we are, and how far we have to go.”—“Why,” said he, “the bridge is just a step overby that we ought to hae crossed; and troth, I wonner a dishfu’ at mysell for no kennin’ the black moss and the dolochan’s hole that we hae just come through; for I hae cut turf in the ane, and weshed in the ither, since I was the bouk o’ a peat—but here we are at the end o’ the causey that will take us to the Grange.” We entered on a raised and moated bank, which crossed a mossy flat to the old house; but ere we had advanced a dozen steps, there suddenly appeared a light moving about, and giving occasional glimpses of the white walls and thick trees at the further end; it then came steadily and swiftly towards us; I could presently distinguish the dull beat of hoofs on the greensward, and soon after, the figures of two mounted men.

The sides of the old moat were overgrown with furze and brambles, and we stole into this cover as they approached. The foremost bore the light, was armed at all points, and mounted on a fresh horse. I started with exultation where I lay—he was her father. His companion’s black breeches and canting seat proclaimed a priest. They were conversing as they passed. “Another month, good father, and we will be behind the bastions of Belle Isle; were it not for my Madeline’s sake, I would make it six; but this bloodhound having been slipped upon us.”—The sounds were here lost in the trampling of their horses; I heard the man of masses mumble something in reply, and they wheeled out of hearing up the rugged pathway to the bridge. “Now, mind your promise, Master William,” said Aleck, as we rose and proceeded to the house. We soon arrived there; and he led me to a low wing, repeating his cautions, and, in answer to my questions, denying all knowledge of the strangers. Placing me behind a low wall, he now stole forward and tapped at a window, and presently I heard the inmates moving and whispering. The door was soon opened, and a parley took place, in which I heard my assumed name made honourable mention of by my intruder. He led me forward, pushed me gently before him, and I found myself in a dark passage, soft hands welcoming me, and warm breath playing on my cheek.

The door was closed, and we were led into a wide rude apartment, dim in the low glow of a heap of embers. A splinter of bogwood was soon kindled, and by its light I saw that we had been conducted by two girls. One, whom from her attention to Aleck I concluded to be her of the reaping-hook, was a pretty interesting soft maiden. The other, however, had attractions of a very different class: fine-featured, dark-eyed, coal-black-haired and tall; as she stood—her right hand holding the rude torch over her head, while the left gathered the folds of a long cloak under her bosom, with her eyes of coy expectation and merry amazement—she seemed more the ideal of a robber’s daughter in some old romance, than a menial in a moorland farm-house. I attempted to salute her, but she held me at bay with her hand. “Hech, lad! ye’re no blate—is it knievin’ troots[A] ye think ye are? But, my stars, ye are as droukit as if ye had been through a’ the pools o’ the burn! Sit down, my jo, till we dry ye; and be qu’et till I get a fire.” Peats and bogwood were now heaped upon the hearth; and, kneeling down upon the broad stone, she began puffing away with her pretty puckered mouth; partly, I suppose, because there are no bellows in Glen——; and partly, I took it for granted, to afford me an opportunity of kneeling beside and preeing it. The smoke now rose before me in thick volumes, and for a while I lost sight of Aleck and his Jeanie. By and by, however, on raising my head, I started back at seeing a figure the most extraordinary standing at the further end of the apartment. A blanket covered the shoulders; the feet and legs were bare; a red handkerchief was tied about the head; and, strangest of all, although the hairy neck and whiskers argued him a man, yet was he from the waist to the knees clad in a petticoat!

I started to my feet, visions of sleepwalkers and lunatics thronging through my imagination, but was caught hold of by Nanny, who, shaking with suppressed laughter, whispered me, while the tears ran out and danced upon her long lashes for very fun, that it was only precious Aleck, “wham Jeanie had cled in her bit wyliecoat, since she dauredna wake the house to look for aught else;” then, laying her hand upon my shoulder (and the wet oozed from between her fingers), she proposed, with a maidenly mixture of kindliness and hesitation, that I should go and do so likewise. Who knows how I might have stood the temptation, had she not in time perceived my error, and, blushing deeply, explained, that as Aleck had done—undressed himself alone—so should I. Under these stipulations, I declined parting with more than my coat, for which she substituted a curiously quilted coverlet; then bringing me warm water, insisted on my bathing my feet. I gladly consented; but hardly had I pulled off the coarse stockings, and washed the black soil from my hands, when there began a grievous coughing and grumbling in the room from which the girls had come.

“Lord haud a grip o’ us!” cried Aleck; “it’s auld Peg hoastin’—De’il wauken her, the cankered rush! she’ll breed a bonny splore gin she finds me here.”

“Whisht, whisht,” whispered Nanny, “she’s as keen as colly i’ the lugs; and glegger than baudrons i’ the dark.”

The libelled Mistress Margaret gave no further time for calumniation; slamming open the door, she came down upon us, gaunt, grim, and unescapable—“Ye menseless tawpies! ye bauld cutties! ye wanton limmers! ye—wha’s this?” She snatched the light from Nannie’s hand, and poked it close to my face—“Wha’s this? I say, wha’s this?”

“Hoots, woman!” cried Nanny, spiritedly, yet with an air of conciliation, “I’se bail ye mony a boy has come over the moss to crack wi’ yoursell when ye were a lassie.”

“When I was a lassie!”

I thought she would have choked; but her indignation at last made its way up in thunder upon my devoted head.

“Wha are ye? what are ye? what fetches ye sornin’ here? ye——”

Nanny again interposed. “He’s just a weaver lad, I tell ye, that Aleck Lowther fetched frae the Langslap Moss to keep him company.”

“A weaver lad!” (I had raised my foot to the rim of the tub, and sat with my chin upon my hand, and my elbow on my knee, laughing, to the great aggravation of her anger). “A weaver lad!—there’s ne’er a wabster o’ the Langslap Moss wi’ siccan a leg as that!—there’s ne’er a ane o’ a’ the creeshy clan wha’s shins arena bristled as red as a belly rasher!—there’s ne’er a wabster o’ the Langslap Moss wi’ the track o’ a ring upon his wee finger!—there’s ne’er a wabster o’ the Langslap Moss wi’ aughteen hunner linen in his sark-frill!—Jamie, hoi! Jamie Steenson, here’s a spy!”

So sudden and overpowering was her examination and judgment, and her voice had risen to such a pitch of clamour, that all my attempts at interruption and explanation were lost; while the screams which the girls could not control when they heard her call in assistance, prevented a reply. One after another, five ruffianly-looking fellows rushed in at her call; and ere I could free myself from the importunate exculpations of poor Nanny, they were crowding and cursing round me; while one, apparently their leader, held a lantern to my face, a pike to my throat, and demanded my name and business. That these were one unhappy remnant of the rebel party I could not doubt; if I declared my real name, I might expect all that exasperation could prompt and desperation execute against a disguised enemy in the camp (for the only one from whom I could expect protection was, as I had seen, beyond my appeal). Again, to give a fictitious name, and keep up the character of a country weaver, was revolting to my pride, and in all likelihood beyond my ability. Which horn of this dilemma I might have impaled myself on, I cannot tell; for a sudden interruption prevented my answer.

Aleck, who had with difficulty been hitherto restrained by the united exertions of the three women, here burst from their arms, tossed off his blanket, and leaped with a whoop into the middle of the floor;—except the short petticoat about his loins he was stark naked. “I’m twal stane wecht—my name’s Aleck Lawther—I’ll slap ony man o’ ye for four-an’-twenty tens!” As he uttered this challenge, tossing his long arms about his head, bouncing upright, and cutting like a posture-master at the end of every clause, while the scanty kilt fluttered and flapped about his sinewy hams, the men fell back in a panic, as if from a spectre; but their astonishment soon gave place to indignation, and my questioner, clubbing his pike, stepped forward, and making the shaft rattle off the white array of ribs, which poor Aleck’s flourish had left unprotected, reduced his proposals to practice in a trice. He, wisely making up for disparity of forces by superiority of weapon, started back, and adroitly unhooking the long iron chain and pot-hooks from the chimney, set them flying round his head like a slinger of old; and meeting his antagonist with a clash, shot him rocketwise into the corner: then giving another whirl to his stretcher, and leaping out with the full swing of his long body, he brought it to bear upon the next. There was another clattering crash, and the man went down; but pitching with his shoulder into the tub, upset it, and sent a flood of water into the fire. Smoke, steam, and white ashes, whirled up in clouds; the lantern was trampled out, and the battle became general: for one rascal, lifting his fallen comrade’s pike (there was luckily but one among them), advanced upon me. I had just light to see the thrust and parry it. Another second, and we had closed in the midst of that strange atmosphere, striking and sneezing at each other across the pike shaft, as we each strove to wrest it to himself. My antagonist was a lusty fellow, and tugged me stoutly, while I kept him between me and the main fight, now raging through the water and the fire: this I could just distinguish among the vapour and smoke, dashed about in red showers of embers, as each new tramp and whirl of the combatants swept it from the hearthstone. How Aleck fought his two opponents I could not imagine; yet once, during a minute’s relaxation on our parts, when, having got the pike jammed between a table and the wall, we were reduced to the by-play of kicking one another’s shin-bones, I could hear, every now and again, above the medley of curses and screams (for the women were all busy) his lusty “Hah!” as he put in each successive blow; and then the bolt and thud of some one gone down, far away in the distance; or the rush of a capsize among the loose lumber at my feet. But I had no longer an opportunity of noting his prowess; for my antagonist, getting the weapon disentangled, hauled me after him into the open floor, and then began upon the swinging system. So away we went, sweeping down chairs and stools, and rolling fallen bodies over in our course; till tired and dizzy, I suddenly planted myself, let go both holds, and dashing in right and left together, sent him whirling like a comet, impetuous and hot, into the void beyond. But my own head here fell heavily upon my breast; and the whole scene, smoke, fire, and shifting shapes, with all their mingled hissing, and battering, oaths, shrieks, and imprecations, shut upon my senses.

A Babel of dull sound, chiming and sawing within my head, announced my returned consciousness. This is no dream, thought I; I have been hurt, but I am afraid to ask myself where. If my skull should be fractured now, and I should be an idiot all my life, or if my arm should be broken—farewell to the river! But can I be still doubled up among those pots and pans which I crushed beneath me in my fall? No,—dark as it is, I feel that I am laid straight and soft. I must be in bed, but where? where? It was some time before I had courage to confirm my doubts of my head’s condition: it was carefully bandaged, and doubtless much shattered: I could feel that I was in a close-panelled bedstead, such as are usual in old houses; but had too much discretion to attempt the hazardous experiment of rising without knowing either my strength or situation. So I lay, fancying all sorts of means to account for my preservation: need I say that the main agent in all was the fair Madeline?

My curiosity was at length relieved; a rude folding-door opened opposite, and showed a low dim sitting-room beyond, from which there rose a few steps to the entrance of my chamber. On these appeared, not, alas! the fancied visitant who was to flit about my bedside, and mix her bright presence with my dreams, but stately and severe, with a pale cheek and compressed lip, her father—my aversion.

I lay silent, sick at the thoughts of my own meanness in his eyes; while he advanced, shading the light of the candle from my face, and in a low cold tone, asked if I desired anything?

I shall never forget him as he stood, the light thrown full upon his strong features and broad chest, and shining purple through the fingers of his large hand. “I asked, sir, did you require any assistance?” he repeated. “Are you in pain?” he went on. I now replied that my chief pain was caused by my own unworthy appearance; made a confused apology for my misconduct, and offered my acknowledgments for the protection I had received. “You have saved the life of my child,” he said, turning slightly from me, “and protection is a debt which must be paid; for your follower, he must thank the same circumstance for what little life his own mad conduct has left him.” Without another word, he took a phial from the table, and, pouring out a draught, handed it to me; I mechanically drunk it off; but ere I had taken it from my lips, he was gone. I heard the doors close and the bolts shoot after him with strange forebodings; and when the sound of his footsteps had died away in the long passage beyond, fell back in a wild maze of apprehension and self-censure, till I again sank into a heavy sleep.

When I awoke, there was a yellow twilight in my little cabin, from the scattering of a red ray of the sunset which streamed through a crevice in the door. I had therefore slept a whole day; my fever was abated; the gnawing pain had left my head, and I longed to eat. I knocked upon the boards, and the door was presently opened; but it was some time ere my eyes could endure the flood of light which then burst in. The figure which at length became visible amid it, was little worthy so goodly a birth. The lank, slack, ill-hinged anatomy of Peg, with a bottle in one hand, and a long horn spoon in the other, advanced, and in no gracious tone demanded what was my will. I turned and lay silent; for I never felt an awkward situation so embarrassing as then. My gorge rose at the malignant cause of all my disasters; but interest and discretion told me to be civil if I spoke at all. I gave no answer; she was in no humour to suffer such trifling with her time. “Hear till him, Jamie!” she exclaimed to some one behind her, “hear till him, the fashious scunner! he dunts folk frae their wark as if he was the laird o’ the Lang Marches himsell, and then——” “Good Mistress Margaret——” “Mistress me nae mistresses! there’s ne’er a wife i’ the parish has a right to be mistressed, since she deeit wha’s wean ye wad betray! Deil hae me gin I can keep my knieves aff ye, ye ill-faured bluid-seller!”—“Ill-faured what?” shouted I. “No just ill-faured neither, blest be the Maker, and mair’s the pity; ye’re a clean boy eneugh, as I weel may say, wha had the strippin’ and streekin’ o’ ye; but I say that ye’re just a bluid-seller, a reformer, a spy, gin ye like it better!” She backed down the steps, and holding a leaf of the door at each side, stretched in her neck, and went on, “Ay, spy, Willie Macdonnell, spy to your teeth.—Isna your name upon your sark breast? and arena the arms that ye disgrace upon your seal, and daur ye deny them? daur ye deny that ye’re the swearer away o’ the innocent bluid o’ puir Hughy Morrison, wham ye hangit like a doug upon the lamp-posts o’ Doonpatrick? Daur ye hae the face to deny that ye come here e’en noo to reform upon Square O’More and his bonny wean? Daur ye hae the impurence to deny it?” Here I was relieved by the entrance of Mr O’More himself. I addressed him in a tone as cool and conciliatory as I could command. “I am much relieved to find, sir, that any harshness I may have to complain of, has originated in a mistake. I am Mr Macdonnell of Redrigs. It was only last week that I returned from England. I have not been in this part of the country for many years; and can only say, that if any person bearing my name deserves the character you seem to impute to me, I detest him as cordially as you do.” He eyed me with visibly increased disgust. “It will not pass, sir, it will not pass. I have had notice of your intentions. Mr Macdonnell of Redrigs is in Oxford.”—“I tell you, sir, he is here!” I cried, starting up in bed. “Back, back!” he exclaimed to the servants who were pressing round; they fell back, and he came up to me. “Hark ye, sir, instead of assuming a name to which you have no right——” The passion which had been burning within me all along, blazed out in uncontrollable fury. I started with a sudden energy out into the floor; dashed backwards and forwards through the room, stamping with indignation, while I asserted my honour, and demanded satisfaction; but the fire which had for a minute animated me failed; my tongue became confused and feeble; the whole scene whirled and flickered round me, and I sank exhausted, and in a burning fever, on a seat.

Every one who has suffered fever knows what a fiery trance it is. How long mine had continued I could not guess; when the crisis came, it was favourable, and I awoke, cool and delighted, from a long sweet sleep. That scene I had already witnessed, of sunset through the room beyond, was again before me; the same grey and purple haze hung over the mountain, and the same rich sky from above lit up the river-reaches; the dim old room was warm in the mellow light; the folding-doors stood wide open, but on the steps where the marrer of the whole had stood before, lo! the radiance revelling through her hair; the rich light flushing warm through the outline of her face and neck; the sweet repose of satisfaction and conscious care beaming over her whole countenance; benign and beautiful stood Madeline O’More, her finger on her lips. “She, too, thinks me a spy,” I muttered, in the bitterness of my heart, and hid my face upon the pillow. But who can describe my delight when I heard her well-remembered accents murmur beside me, “Oh no, believe me, indeed I do not!” I looked up. She was covered with blushes—I felt them reflected on my own cheek—there was a conscious pause. “Then you do believe that I am what I have told you?” I said at last. “O yes! but indeed you must forgive the error,” she replied; and readily did I admit its justifiableness, when she went on to tell me that a friend had ridden a long journey to warn them against a person bearing my name, and answering to my appearance—an apostate from their own cause, and a noted spy, who, upon some vague information of their retreat, had set out with the intention of discovering and betraying them; and that their friend (in whom I at once recognised the priest I had seen her father conduct from the house) had left them but a few minutes before I arrived.

It was now my turn to apologise and explain. She listened, with many pleas of palliation for the indignities I had endured, to my account of my business in Ireland, and the circumstances which had led me to Glen——; but when I came to account for my appearance at Moyabel, her confusion satisfied me that the motive was already known. I felt suddenly conscious of having been dreaming about her; and I knew that a fevered man’s dream is his nurse’s perquisite: dissimulation, after what I knew and suspected to have passed, would have been as impossible as repugnant. So then and there, among that mellow sunset in the sick chamber, I confessed to her how my whole thoughts had been haunted by her image, since the time when her father had hurried her from the scene of our meeting; how I could not rest while any scheme, how wild soever, promised me even a chance of again beholding her; how this had induced me to snatch at the first opportunity of discovering her, and had brought on that disastrous adventure which had ended in my wound; but that I still endured another, which I feared would prove incurable, if I might not live upon the hope (and I took her hand) of gaining her to be my heart’s physician constantly.

Footsteps suddenly sounded in the passage. I released her hand, and she hid her confusion, in a hasty escape through a side-door, just before her father made his appearance at that of the hall. He advanced with a frank expression of pleasure and concern; took his seat by my bedside; congratulated me on the favourable issue of my illness, and repeated those apologies and explanations which his daughter had already made; adding that his first intention had been to detain me prisoner, so that I could have no opportunity of betraying them until their departure for France; but that the moment he had heard my undisguised ravings, he perceived the injustice of which he had been guilty; that Aleck’s speech having returned soon after, (for the poor fellow was so beaten that he could not say a word for three days—but I have taken good care of him), another evidence, however unnecessary, was afforded by his declaration; and that, therefore, a messenger was immediately despatched to Knowehead, with private letters, explaining our situation and its causes, and resting on the honour of my friend for the security of all. The trust had been well reposed: Aleck, who was able to go home in a few days, had come the night before (although returned that morning) with the intelligence of the real spy having applied for information to the old gentleman; but that, loyal subject and zealous Protestant as he was, he had given him no more than a civil indication of his door. All this he told with a gratified and grateful air, and left me to a night of happy dreams.

Next morning, however, he came to me, and in a serious, nay severe manner, told me, that as I had divulged the motive which brought me thither in my ravings, he felt it a duty to himself and to me, now that I was established in my recovery, to inform me that, while he forgave my intrusion on a privacy he had already begged me not to break, he must desire that there should be no recurrence of attentions to his daughter, which might distract a heart destined either for the service of a free Catholic in regenerated Ireland, or for that of Heaven in a nunnery.

He had laid his hand upon the table, and it unconsciously rested upon the seals of my watch. “Look,” said I, “at these trinkets; I shall tell you what they are, and let them be my answer. That rude silver seal, with the arms and initials, was dug from my father’s orchard, along with the bones of his ancestor, who fell there beneath the knives of free Catholics in —41, a greyhaired man, among the seven bodies of his murdered wife and children. Look again at that curious ring; it was worn by his son, the sole survivor of all that ancient family who escaped, a maimed and famished spectre, out of Derry, after the same party had driven him to eat his sword-belt for hunger. Look once again at this more antique locket; it contains the hair of a maternal ancestor, who perished for the faith among the fagots of Smithfield; and look, here, at my own arm—that wound I received when a child, from the chief of a ‘Heart of Steel’ banditti, who, under the same banner, lighted our family’s escape from rape and massacre, by the flames of their own burning roof-tree; and yet I—I, every drop of whose blood might well cry out for vengeance, when I see these remembrancers of my wrongs in the hands of my wrongs’ defender, do yet take that hand, and long to call him father.”

I was here interrupted by the sudden entrance of a splashed and wearied messenger: advancing with a military salute, he presented a letter to Mr O’More. “Pardon me,” he said, hastily tearing it open, “this is on a matter of life and death.” He read it in great agitation; led the messenger aside; gave some hurried orders; took down his arms from the mantelpiece; and drawing his belt, and fixing in his pistols while he spoke, addressed me:—“Notwithstanding what you have urged, my determination remains unaltered. I must leave Moyabel, for I cannot now say how long: you shall be taken care of in my absence: farewell, sir, farewell.” He shook me by the hand, and hurried away. I heard confusion in the house, and thought I could distinguish the sweet voice of Madeline, broken by sobs at his departure. A considerable party seemed to leave the house; for there was a great trampling of horses in the courtyard, and two or three mounted men passed by the windows. At length they were out of hearing, and I determined not to lose another minute of the precious opportunity. My clothes had been brought from Knowehead, and I was so much recovered that I found myself able to rise, and set about dressing immediately. My continental visions of beard were more than realised; and if I failed to produce a shapely moustache, ’twas not for lack of material. With fluttering expectation, I selected the most graceful of the pantaloons; drew on my rings; arrayed myself in the purple velvet slippers, cap, and brocade dressing-gown; took one lingering last look at the little mirror, and descended into the parlour. I drew a writing-table to me, and penned a long letter to Knowehead, another to Redrigs, and had half-finished a sonnet to Madeline. The day was nearly past, and she had not yet made her appearance.

For the first time the thought struck me, and that with a pang which made me leap to my feet, that she had accompanied her father, and was gone! gone, perhaps, to a nunnery in France! gone, and lost to me for ever! “Hilloa, Peg!” and I thumped the floor with the poker, “Peg, I say! as you would not have me in another fever, come here!” She came to the door: the poor old creature’s eyes were swollen and blood-shot: she made a frightened curtsy to me as I stood, the papers crumpled up in one hand, and the poker in the other.—“Peggy; oh, Peggy! where is your young mistress?”

“Save us, your honour! Ye are na weel; sall I fetch you a drap cordial?”

“Your mistress? your mistress? where is your young mistress?”

“Oh, sir, dear! take anither posset, and gang to your bed.”

“To the devil I pitch your posset! where is your young mistress? where is Madeline O’More?”

She turned to escape: I leaped forward, and caught her by the shoulder—“Since ye maun ken, then,” she screamed, “by God’s providence, she’s on the saut water wi’ the Square, her father”—I sank back upon the sofa—“wha,” she continued in a soothing strain, “has left me to take charge o’ your honour’s head till ye can gang your lane: A’ the ithers are awa, but wee Jeanie and mysell; and ye wadna, surely your honour wadna gang to frichten twa lane weemen, by dwamin’ awa that gait, and deein’ amang their hands? But save us, if there’s no auld Knowehead himsell, wi’ that bauld sorner, Aleck Lawther, on a sheltie at his heels, trottin’ doon the causey!—Jeanie, hoi, Jeanie, rin and open the yett.”

I lay back—sick—sick—sick. The old man, booted and spurred, strode in—

“I’m thinkin’, Willie, ye hae catched a cloured head?”

“If I do not catch a strait-waistcoat, sir, it will be the less matter.”

“Willie, man,” said he, without noticing my comment, “she’s weel awa, and you are weel redd—but toss off thae wylie-coats and nightcaps, and lap yoursell up in mensefu’ braid-claith; for, donsie as you are, you maun come alang wi’ me to Knowehead—there’s a troop o’ dragoons e’en now on Skyboe side, wi’ your creditable namesake at their head, and they’ll herry Moyabel frae hearthstane to riggin’ before sax hours are gane—best keep frae under a lowin’ king-post, and on the outside o’ the four wa’s o’ a prevost.—You’re no fit to ride, man; and you couldna thole the jolting o’ a wheel-car—but never fear, we’ll slip you hame upon a feather-bed.—Nae denial, Willie—here, draw on your coat: now, that’s something purpose-like—cram thae flim-flams into a poke, my bonny Jean, and fetch me a handkerchief to tie about his head: Come, Willie, take my arm—come awa, come awa.”

I was passive in his hands, for I felt as weak as an infant. They wrapped me up in greatcoats and blankets, and supported me to the courtyard. I had hardly strength to speak to Aleck, whom I now saw for the first time since the night of his disaster; the poor fellow’s face still bore the livid marks of his punishment, but he was active and assiduous as ever. A slide car or slipe—a vehicle something like a Lapland sledge—was covered with bedding in the middle of the square: a cart was just being hurried off, full of loose furniture, with Peggy and Jenny in front. I was placed upon my hurdle, apparently as little for this world as if Tyburn had been its destination: Knowehead and Aleck mounted their horses, took the reins of that which drew me at either side, and hauled me off at a smart trot along the smooth turf of the grass-grown causeway. The motion was sliding and agreeable, except on one occasion, when we had to take a few perches of the highway in crossing the river; but when we struck off into the green horse-track again, and began to rise and sink upon the ridges of the broad lea, I could have compared my humble litter to the knight’s horses, which felt like proud seas under them. From the sample I had had of that part of the country on the night of the flood, I had anticipated a “confused march forlorn, through bogs, caves, fens, lakes, dens, and shades of death,” but was agreeably surprised to see the Longslap Moss a simple stripe along the water’s edge, lying dark in the deepening twilight, a full furlong from our path, which, instead of weltering through the soaked and spungy flats that I had expected, wound dry and mossy up the gentle slope of a smooth green hill; so that, although the night closed in upon us ere half our journey was completed, we arrived at Knowehead without farther accident than one capsize (the beauty of slipping consists in the impossibility of breaks down), and so far from being the worse of my “sail,” I felt actually stronger than on leaving the Grange; nevertheless I was put to bed, where I continued for a week.

Next day brought intelligence of the wrecking of Moyabel in the search for the rebel general and the sick Frenchman: our measures had been so well taken, however, that no suspicion attached itself to Knowehead. I learned from Peggy, so soon as her lamentations subsided, that Mr O’More was a south country gentleman, who had married her master’s sister, and that Madeline was his only child; that this had been his first visit to the north since the death of his lady, which had taken place at her brother’s house, but that Moyabel had long been the resort of his friends and emissaries. The old woman left Knowehead that night, and I learned no more; for Jenny (who remained with Miss Janet) had been so busy with her care of Aleck during his illness, and afterwards so unwell herself, that she knew nothing more than I.

Another week completely re-established me in my strength; but the craving that had never left me since the last sight of Madeline, kept me still restless and impatient. Meanwhile Aleck’s courtship had ripened in the golden sun of matrimony, and the wedding took place on the next Monday morning. He was a favourite with all at Knowehead, and the event was celebrated by a dance of all the young neighbours. After witnessing the leaping and flinging in the barn for half an hour, I retired to Miss Janet’s parlour, where I was lolling away the evening on her high-backed sofa, along with the old gentleman, who, driven from his capitol in the kitchen by the bustle of the day, had installed himself in the unwonted state of an embroidered arm-chair beside me. We were projecting a grand coursing campaign before I should leave the country, and listening to the frequent bursts of merriment from the barn and kitchen, when little Davie came in to tell his master that “Paul Ingram was speerin’ gain he wad need ony tey, or brendy, or prime pigtail, or Virginney leaf.”

“I do not just approve of Paul’s line of trade,” observed the old man, turning to me; “for I’m thinking his commodities come oftener frae the smuggler’s cave than the king’s store; but he’s a merry deevil, Paul, and has picked up a braw hantle o’ mad ballads ae place and another; some frae Glen—— here, some frae Galloway, some frae the Isle o’ Man, and some queer lingos he can sing, that he says he learned frae the Frenchmen.”

A sudden thought struck me. “I will go out and get him to sing some to me, sir.”—“Is Rab Halliday there, Davie?” inquired he.

“Oh aye, sir,” said Davie; “it’s rantin’ Rab that ye hear roarin’ e’en noo.”

“Weel, tell him, Davie, that here’s Mr William, wha has learned to speel Parnassus by a step-ladder, has come to hear the sang he made about my grandmither’s wooin’.”

Accordingly Davie ushered me to the kitchen. I could distinguish through the reaming fumes of liquor and tobacco about half a dozen of carousers; they were chorusing at the full stretch of their lungs the song of a jolly fellow in one corner, who, nodding, winking, and flourishing his palms, in that state of perfect bliss “that good ale brings men to,” was lilting up

“Till the house be rinnin’ round about,
It’s time enough to flit;
When we fell, we aye gat up again,
And sae will we yet!”

This was ranting Rab Halliday—they all rose at my entrance; but being able to make myself at home in all companies, I had little difficulty in soon restoring them to their seats and jollity; while Davie signified what was to him intelligible of his master’s wishes to the tuneful ranter. Rab, after praying law for any lack of skill that might be detected by my learning, sang with great humour the following verses, which he entitled

THE CANNY COURTSHIP.

Young Redrigs walks where the sunbeams fa’;
He sees his shadow slant up the wa’—
Wi’ shouthers sae braid, and wi’ waist sae sma’,
Guid faith he’s a proper man!
He cocks his cap, and he streeks out his briest;
And he steps a step like a lord at least;
And he cries like the deevil to saddle his beast,
And aff to court he’s gaun.

The Laird o’ Largy is far frae hame,
But his dochter sits at the quiltin’ frame,
Kamin’ her hair wi’ a siller kame,
In mony a gowden ban’:
Bauld Redrigs loups frae his blawin’ horse,
He prees her mou’ wi’ a freesome force—
“Come take me, Nelly, for better for worse,
To be your ain guidman.”

“I’ll no be harried like bumbee’s byke—
I’ll no be handled unleddy like—
I winna hae ye, ye worryin’ tyke,
The road ye came gae ’lang!”
He loupit on wi’ an awsome snort,
He bang’d the fire frae the flinty court;
He’s aff and awa’ in a snorin’ sturt,
As hard as he can whang.

It’s doon she sat when she saw him gae,
And a’ that she could do or say,
Was—“O! and alack! and a well-a-day!
I’ve lost the best guidman!”
But if she was wae, it’s he was wud;
He garr’d them a’ frae his road to scud;
But Glowerin’ Sam gied thud for thud,
And then to the big house ran.

The Glowerer ran for the kitchen-door;
Bauld Redrigs hard at his heels, be sure,
He’s wallop’d him roun’ and roun’ the floor,
As wha but Redrigs can?
Then Sam he loups to the dresser-shelf—
“I daur ye wallop my leddy’s delf;
I daur ye break but a single skelf
Frae her cheeny bowl, my man!”

But Redrigs’ bluid wi’ his hand was up;
He’d lay them neither for crock nor cup,
He play’d awa’ wi’ his cuttin’ whup,
And doon the dishes dang;
He clatter’d them doon, sir, raw by raw;
The big anes foremost, and syne the sma’;
He came to the cheeny cups last o’ a’—
They glanced wi’ goud sae thrang!

Then bonny Nelly came skirlin’ butt;
Her twa white arms roun’ his neck she put—
“O Redrigs, dear, hae ye tint your wut?
Are ye quite and clean gane wrang?
O spare my teapot! O spare my jug!
O spare, O spare my posset-mug!
And I’ll let ye kiss, and I’ll let ye hug,
Dear Redrigs, a’ day lang.”

“Forgie, forgie me, my beauty bright
Ye are my Nelly, my heart’s delight;
I’ll kiss and I’ll hug ye day and night,
If alang wi’ me you’ll gang.”
“Fetch out my pillion, fetch out my cloak,
You’ll heal my heart if my bowl you broke.”
These words, whilk she to her bridegroom spoke,
Are the endin’ o’ my sang.

I got this copy of his song since, else I could not have recollected it from that hearing; for I was too impatient to put the plan into execution for which I had come out, to attend even to this immortalising of an ancestor.

I knew Ingram at once by his blue jacket, and the corkscrews which bobbed over each temple as he nodded and swayed his head to the flourishes of “the gaberlunzie man” (the measure which Halliday had chosen for his words); so when the song was finished, and I had drank a health to Robin’s muse, I stepped across to where he sat, and said I wished to speak with him alone. He put down his jug of punch, and followed me into my own room. I closed the door and told him, that as I understood him to be in the Channel trade, I applied to know if he could put me on any expeditious conveyance to the coast of France. “Why, sir,” said he, “I could give you a cast myself in our own tight thing, the Saucy Sally, as far as Douglas or the Calf; and for the rest of the trip, why there’s our consort, the Little Sweep, that will be thereabouts this week, would run you up, if it would lie in your way, as far as Guernsey, or, if need be, to Belle Isle.” “Belle Isle!” repeated I, with a start; for the words of O’More to the priest came suddenly upon my recollection, “Has any boat left this coast or that of Man for Belle Isle within the last fortnight?” “Not a keel, sir; there’s ne’er a boat just now in the Channel that could do it but herself—they call her the Deil-sweep, sir, among the revenue sharks; for that’s all that they could ever make of her. She is the only boat, sir, as I have said, and if so be you are a gentleman in distress, you will not be the only one that will have cause to trust to her—but, d—n it (he muttered), those women—well, what of that?—Mayn’t I lend a hand to save a fine fellow for all that?—but harkye, brother, this is all in confidence.”

“Your confidence shall not be abused,” whispered I, hardly able to breathe for eager hope—the female passengers—the desire for exclusion—the only boat that fortnight, all confirmed me. “Mr O’More and I are friends; fear neither for him nor yourself; let me only get first on board, and I can rough it all night on deck, as many a time I’ve done before: his daughter and her woman can have your cabin to themselves.” It was a bold guess, but all right; he gaped at me for a minute in dumb astonishment; then closing one hand upon the earnest which I here slipped into it, drew the other across his eyes, as if to satisfy himself that he was not dreaming, and in a respectful tone informed me that they intended sailing on the next night from Cairn Castle shore. “We take the squire up off Island Magee, sir; he has been lying to on the look-out for us there for the last ten days; so that if you want to bear a hand in getting the young lady aboard, it will be all arranged to your liking.”

During this conversation, my whole being underwent a wonderful change; from the collapsing sickness of bereavement, I felt my heart and limbs expand themselves under the delightful enlargement of this new spring of hope: I shook Ingram by the hand, led him back to the kitchen, and returned turned to the old man with a step so elated, and with such a kindling of animation over my whole appearance, that he exclaimed, in high glee, “Heard ye ever sic verses at Oxford, Willie? Odd! man, Rab Halliday is as good as a dozen o’ Janet’s possets for ye; I’ll hae him here again to sing to ye the morn’s e’en.”

“He is a very pleasant fellow—a very pleasant fellow indeed, sir; but I fear I shall not be able to enjoy his company to-morrow night, as I purpose taking my passage for the Isle of Man in Ingram’s boat.”—“Nonsense, Willy, nonsense; ye wadna make yoursell ‘hail, billy, weel met,’ wi’ gallows-birds and vagabonds—though, as for Paul himsell”——“My dear sir, you know I have my passport, and need not care for the reputation of my hired servants; besides, sir, you know how fond I am of excitement of all sorts, and the rogue really sings so well”——

“That he does, Willy. Weel, weel—he that will to Cupar maun to Cupar!” and so saying, he lifted up his candle and marched off the field without another blow.

Ingram and I started next evening about four o’clock, attended by little Davie, who was to bring back the horse I rode next day; Ingram, whose occupation lay as much on land as sea, was quite at home on his rough sheltie, which carried also a couple of little panniers at either side of the pommel, well-primed with samples of his contraband commodities. We arrived a little after nightfall in Larne, where we left Davie with the horses, while Ingram, having disposed of his pony, joined me on foot, and we set off by the now bright light of the moon along the hills for Cairn Castle.

During the first three or four miles of our walk, he entertained me with abundance of songs echoed loud and long across the open mountain; but when we descended from it towards the sea, we both kept silence and a sharp look-out over the unequal and bleak country between. We now got among low clumpy hills and furzy gullies, and had to pick our steps through loose scattered lumps of rock, which were lying all round us white in the clear moonshine, like flocks of sheep upon the hill-side. The wind was off the shore, and we did not hear the noise of the water till, at the end of one ravine, we turned the angular jut of a low promontory, and beheld the image of the moon swinging in its still swell at our feet.

Ingram whistled, and was answered from the shore a little farther on; he stepped out a few paces in advance, and led forward; presently I saw a light figure glide out of the shadow in front and approach us.

“Vell, mine Apostéle Paul, vat news of the Ephesiens?”

“All right, Munsher Martin, and here is another passenger.”

He whispered something, and the little Frenchman touched his hat with an air, and expressed, in a compound of Norman-French, Manx, and English, the great pleasure he had in doing a service to the illustrious cavalier, the friend of liberty. Hearing a noise in front, I looked up and discerned the light spar of a mast peeping over an intervening barrier of rock; we wound round it, and on the other side found a cutter-rigged boat of about eighteen tons hauled close to the natural quay, with her mainsail set and flapping heavily in the night wind. Here we met another seaman. In ten minutes we were under way; the smooth groundswell running free and silent from our quarter, and the boat laying herself out with an easy speed, as she caught the breeze freshening over the lower coast. The Saucy Sally was a half-decked cutter (built for a pleasure-boat in Guernsey), and a tight thing, as Ingram had said. I did not go into the cabin, which occupied all the forecastle, but wrapping myself in my cloak, lay down along the stern-sheets, and feigned to be asleep, for I was so excited by the prospect of meeting Madeline, that I could no longer join in the conversation of the crew. In about half an hour I heard them say that we were in sight of Island Magee, and rising, beheld it dark over our weather-bows. I went forward and continued on the forecastle in feverish impatience as we neared it. The breeze stiffened as we opened Larne Lough, and the Saucy Sally tossed two or three sprinklings of cold spray over my shoulders, but I shook the water from my cloak and resumed my look-out. At last we were within a quarter of a mile of the coast, and a light appeared right opposite; we showed another and lay to. With a fluttering heart I awaited the approach of a boat. Twice I fancied I saw it distinguish itself from the darkness of the coast, and twice I felt the blank recoil of disappointment. At last it did appear, dipping distinct from among the rocks, and full of people. They neared us; my heart leapt at every jog of their oars in the loose thewels; for I could now plainly discern two female figures, two boatmen, and a muffled man in the stern. All was now certain; they shot alongside, laid hold of the gunnel, and I heard O’More’s voice call on Ingram to receive the lady. I could hardly conceal my agitation as she was lifted on deck, but had no power to advance; Nancy followed, and O’More himself leaped third on deck—the boat shoved off, the helmsman let the cutter’s head away, the mainsail filled, and we stood out to sea.

Here I was then, and would be for four-and-twenty hours at the least, by the side of her whom a little time before I would have given years of my life to have been near but for a minute; yet, with an unaccountable irresolution, I still delayed, nay, shrunk from, the long-sought interview. It was not till her father had gone into the little cabin to arrange it for her reception, and had closed the door between us, that I ventured from my hiding-place behind the foresail, and approached her where she stood gazing mournfully over the boat’s side at the fast passing shores of her country. I whispered her name; she knew my voice at the first syllable, and turned in amazed delight; but the flush of pleasure which lit up her beautiful features as I clasped her hand, had hardly dawned ere it was chased by the rising paleness of alarm. I comforted her by assurances of eternal love, and vowed to follow her to the ends of the earth in despite of every human power. We stood alone; for two sailors were with O’More and the girl in the cabin, and the third, having lashed the tiller to, was fixing something forward. We stood alone I cannot guess how long—time is short, but the joy of those moments has been everlasting. We exchanged vows of mutual affection and constancy, and I had sealed our blessed compact with a kiss, witnessed only by the moon and stars, when the cabin-door opened, and her father stood before me. I held out my hand, and accosted him with the free confidence of a joyful heart. The severe light of the moon sharpened his strong features into startling expression, as he regarded me for a second with mingled astonishment and vexation. He did not seem to notice my offered hand; but, saying something in a low cold tone about the unexpected pleasure, turned to the steersman, and demanded fiercely why he had not abided by his agreement? The sailor, quailing before the authoritative tone and aspect of his really noble-looking questioner, began an exculpatory account of my having been brought thither by Ingram, to whom he referred.

Bold Paul was beginning with “Lookee, Squire, I’m master of this same craft,” when I interrupted him by requesting that he would take his messmates to the bows, and leave the helm with me, as I wished to explain the matter myself in private. He consigned his soul, in set terms, to the devil, if any other man than myself should be allowed to make a priest’s palaver-box of the Saucy Sally, and sulkily retired, rolling his quid with indefatigable energy, and squirting jets of spittle half-mast high.

O’More almost pushed the reluctant Madeline into the cabin, closed the door, and addressed me.—“To what motive am I to attribute your presence here, Mr Macdonnell?”

“To one which I am proud to avow, the desire of being near the object of my sole affections—your lovely daughter; as well, sir, as from a hope that I may still be able to overcome those objections which you once expressed.”

He pointed over the boat’s side to the black piled precipices of the shore, as they stood like an iron wall looming along the weather-beam.—“Look there, sir; look at the Bloody Gobbins, and hear me—When a setting moon shall cease to fling the mourning of their shadows over the graves of my butchered ancestors, and when a rising sun shall cease to bare before abhorring Christendom”——

“Luff, sir, luff,” cried Ingram, from the forecastle.

“Come aft yourself, Paul,” I replied in despair and disgust.

O’More retired to the cabin bulkhead, and leaned against the door, without completing his broken vow. Ingram took the helm, and I sat down in silence. Paul saw our unpleasant situation, and ceasing to remember his own cause for ill-humour, strove to make us forget ours. He talked with a good deal of tact, but with little success, for the next half hour. O’More remained stern and black as the Gobbins themselves, now rapidly sinking astern, while the coast of Island Magee receded into the broad Lough of Belfast upon our quarter. The moon was still shining with unabated lustre, and we could plainly discern the bold outline of the hills beyond; while the coast of Down and the two Copelands lay glistening in grey obscure over our starboard bow. No sail was within sight; we had a stiff breeze with a swinging swell from the open bay; and as the cutter lay down and showed the glimmer of the water’s edge above her gunnel, the glee of the glorying sailor burst out in song:—

Haul away, haul away, down helm, I say;
Slacken sheets, let the good boat go.—
Give her room, give her room for a spanking boom;
For the wind comes on to blow—
(Haul away!)
For the wind comes on to blow,
And the weather-beam is gathering gloom,
And the scud flies high and low.

Lay her out, lay her out, till her timbers stout,
Like a wrestler’s ribs, reply
To the glee, to the glee of the bending tree,
And the crowded canvass high—
(Lay her out!)
And the crowded canvass high;
Contending, to the water’s shout,
With the champion of the sky.

Carry on, carry on; reef none, boy, none;
Hang her out on a stretching sail:
Gunnel in, gunnel in! for the race we’ll win,
While the land-lubbers so pale—
(Carry on!)
While the land-lubbers so pale
Are fumbling at their points, my son,
For fear of the coming gale!

All but O’More joined in the chorus of the last stanza, and the bold burst of harmony was swept across the water like a defiance to the eastern gale. Our challenge was accepted. “Howsomever,” said Ingram, after a pause, and running his glistening eye along the horizon, “as we are not running a race, there will be no harm in taking in a handful or two of our cloth this morning; for the wind is chopping round to the north, and I wouldn’t wonder to hear Sculmarten’s breakers under our lee before sunrise.”

“And a black spell we will have till then, for when the moon goes down you may stop your fingers in your eyes for starlight,” observed the other sailor, as he began to slacken down the peak halliards; while they brought the boat up and took in one reef in the mainsail; but the word was still “helm a-larboard,” and the boat’s head had followed the wind round a whole quarter of the compass within the next ten minutes. We went off before the breeze, but it continued veering round for the next hour; so that when we got fairly into the Channel, the predictions of the seamen were completely fulfilled; for the moon had set, the wind was from the east, and a hurrying drift had covered all the sky.

We stood for the north of Man; but the cross sea, produced by the shifting of the wind, which was fast rising to a gale, buffeted us with such contrary shocks, that after beating through it almost till the break of day, we gave up the hope of making Nesshead, and, altering our course, took in another reef, and ran for the Calf.

But the gale continued to increase; we pitched and plunged to no purpose; the boat was going bows in at every dip, and the straining of her timbers as she stooped out to every stretch, told plainly that we must either have started planks or an altered course again. The sailors, after some consultation, agreed on putting about; and, for reasons best known to themselves, pitched upon Strangford Lough as their harbour of refuge. Accordingly, we altered our course once more, and went off before the wind. Day broke as we were still toiling ten miles from the coast of Down. The grey dawn showed a black pile of clouds overhead, gathering bulk from rugged masses which were driving close and rapid from the east. By degrees the coast became distinct from the lowering sky; and at last the sun rose lurid and large above the weltering waters. It was ebb tide, and I represented that Strangford bar at such a time was peculiarly dangerous in an eastern gale; nevertheless the old sailor who was now at the helm insisted on standing for it. When we were yet a mile distant, I could distinguish the white horses running high through the black trembling strait, and hear the tumult of the breakers over the dashing of our own bows. Escape was impossible; we could never beat to sea in the teeth of such a gale; over the bar we must go, or founder. We took in the last reef, hauled down our jib, and, with ominous faces, saw ourselves in ten minutes more among the cross seas and breakers.

The waters of a wide estuary running six miles an hour, and meeting the long roll of the Channel, might well have been expected to produce a dangerous swell; but a spring-tide, combining with a gale of wind, had raised them at flood to an extraordinary height, and the violence of their discharge exceeded our anticipations accordingly. We had hardly encountered the first two or three breakers, when Ingram was staggered from the forecastle by the buffet of a counter sea, which struck us forward just as the regular swell caught us astern; the boat heeled almost on her beam ends, and he fell over the cabin door into the hold; the man at the helm was preparing for the tack as he saw his messmate’s danger, and started forward to save him: he was too late; the poor fellow pitched upon his head and shoulders among the ballast; at the same instant the mainsail caught the wind, the boom swung across, and striking the helmsman on the back of the neck, swept him half overboard, where he lay doubled across the gunnel, with his arms and head dragging through the water, till I hauled him in. He was stunned and nearly scalped by the blow. Ingram lay moaning and motionless; the boat was at the mercy of the elements, while I stretched the poor fellows side by side at our feet. I had now to take the helm, for the little Frenchman was totally ignorant of the coast; he continued to hand the main-sheet; and O’More, who all night long had been sitting in silence against the cabin bulkhead, leaped manfully upon the forecastle and stood by the tackle there. We had now to put the boat upon the other tack, for the tide made it impossible to run before the wind. O’More belayed his sheet, and, as the cutter lay down again, folded his arms and leaned back on the weather-bulwark, balancing himself with his feet against the skylight.

The jabble around us was like the seething of a caldron; for the waves boiled up all at once, and ran in all directions. I was distracted by their universal assault, and did not observe the heaviest and most formidable of all, till it was almost down upon our broadside. I put the helm hard down, and shouted with all my might to O’More—“Stand by for a sea, sir—lay hold, lay hold.” It was too late. I could just prevent our being swamped by withdrawing our quarter from the shock, when it struck us on the weather-bows, where he stood: it did not break. Our hull was too small an obstacle: it swept over the forecastle as the stream leaps a pebble, stove in the bulwark, lifted him right up, and launched him on his back, with his feet against the foresail. The foresail stood the shock a moment, and he grappled to it, while we were swept on in the rush, like a sparrow in the clutches of a hawk; but the weight of water bore all before it—the sheets were torn from the deck, the sail flapped up above the water, and I saw him tossed from its edge over the lee-bow. The mainsail hid him for a moment; he reappeared, sweeping astern at the rate of fifteen knots an hour. He was striking out, and crying for a rope; there was no rope at hand, and all the loose spars had been stowed away. He could not be saved. I have said that the sun had just risen: between us and the east his rays shone through the tops of the higher waves with a pale and livid light; as O’More drifted into these, his whole agonised figure rose for a moment dusk in the transparent water, then disappeared in the hollow beyond; but at our next plunge I saw him heaved up again, struggling dim amid the green gloom of an overwhelming sea. An agonising cry behind me made me turn my head. “O save him, save him! turn the boat, and save him! O William, as you love me, save my father!” It was Madeline, frantic for grief, stumbling over, and unconsciously treading on the wounded men, as she rushed from the cabin, and cast herself upon her knees before me. I raised my eyes to heaven, praying for support; and though the clouds rolled, and the gale swept between, strength was surely sent me from above; for what save heavenly help could have subdued that fierce despair, which, at the first sight of the complicated agonies around, had prompted me to abandon hope, blaspheme, and die? I raised her gently but firmly in my arms; drew her, still struggling and screaming wild entreaties, to my breast, and not daring to trust myself with a single look at her imploring eyes, fixed my own upon the course we had to run, and never swerved from my severe determination, till the convulsive sobs had ceased to shake her breast upon mine, and I had felt the warm gush of her relieving tears instead; then my stern purpose melted, and, bending over the desolate girl, I murmured, “Weep no more, my Madeline, for, by the blessing of God, I will be a father and a brother to you yet!” Blessed be he who heard my holy vow!—when I looked up again we were in the smooth water.

Drenched, numbed, and dripping all with the cold spray, one borne senseless and bloody in his messmate’s arms, we climbed the quay of Strangford. The threatened tempest was bursting in rain and thunder; but our miserable plight had attracted a sympathising crowd. No question was asked of who? or whence? by a generous people, to wounded and wearied men and helpless women; till there pressed through the ring of bystanders a tall fellow, with a strong expression of debasement and desperate impudence upon his face, that seemed to say, “Infamy, you have done your worst.” He demanded our names and passports, and arrested us all in the king’s name, almost in the same breath. I struck him in the face with my fist, and kicked him into the kennel. No one attempted to lift him; but he scrambled to his feet, with denunciations of horrible revenge. He was hustled about by the crowd till he lost temper, and struck one of them. He had now rather too much work upon his hands to admit of a too close attention to us; three or four persons stepped forward and offered us protection.

Ingram and the other wounded sailor were taken off, along with the Frenchman, by some of their own associates; while a respectable and benevolent looking man addressed me, “I am a Protestant, sir, and an Orangeman; but put these ladies under my protection, and you will not repent your confidence; for, next to the Pope, I love to defeat an informer;” and he pointed with a smile to our arrester, who was just measuring his length upon the pavement.

“Is his name Macdonnell?” asked I.

“The same, sir,” he replied; “but come away with me before he gets out of my Thomas’s hands, and I will put your friends out of the reach of his.”

I shall never be able to repay the obligation I owe to this good man, who received Miss O’More, with her attendant, into the bosom of his family, till I had arranged her journey to the house of a female relative, whence, after a decent period of mourning, our marriage permitted me to bear her to my own.

---

BEN-NA-GROICH.

[MAGA. March 1839.]

A plain dark-coloured chariot, whose dusty wheels gave evidence of a journey, stopped to change horses at Fushie Bridge, on the 7th of August 1838. The travellers seemed listless and weary, and remained, each ensconced in a corner of the carriage. The elder was a lady of from forty to fifty years of age—thin, and somewhat prim in her expression, which was perhaps occasioned by a long upper lip, rigidly stretched over a chasm in her upper gum, caused by the want of a front tooth. Her companion had taken off her bonnet, and hung it to the cross strings of the roof. The heat and fatigue of the journey seemed to have almost overcome her, and she had placed her head against the side, and was either asleep or very nearly so. It is impossible to say what her appearance might be when her eyes were open; all that we can say under present circumstances is, that the rest of her features were beautifully regular—that what appeared of her form was unimpeachable—that her hair was disengaged from combs and other entanglement, and floated at its own sweet will over cheek, and neck, and shoulders. In the rumble were seated two servants, who seemed to have a much better idea of the art of enjoying a journey than the party within. A blue cloak, thrown loosely over the gentleman’s shoulders, succeeded (as was evidently his object) in concealing a certain ornamental strip of scarlet cloth that formed the collar of his coat; but revealed, at the same time, in spite of all the efforts he could make to draw up the apron, the upper portion of a pair of velvet integuments, which, according to Lord Byron’s description of them, were “deeply, darkly, beautifully blue.” The lady, reclining on his arm, which was gallantly extended, so as to save her from bumping against the iron, requires no particular description. She was dressed in very gay-coloured clothes—had a vast quantity of different-hued ribbons floating like meteors on the troubled air—from the top and both sides of her bonnet; while a glistening pink silk cloak was in correct keeping with a pair of expansive cheeks, where the roses had very much the upperhand of the lilies. While Mistress Wilson, the respectable landlady of the posting-house, was busy giving orders about the horses, a carriage was heard coming down the hill at a prodigious rate, and, with a sort of prophetic spirit, the old woman knew in an instant that four horses more would be required; and then she recollected as instantaneously that there would only be one pair in the stable. Under these circumstances, she went directly to the door of the plain chariot, whose inmates still showed no signs of animation, and tried to set their minds at rest as to the further prosecution of their journey—though, as they had no knowledge of the possibility of any difficulty arising, they had never entertained any anxiety on the subject.

“Dinna be fleyed, my bonny burdy,” she said, addressing the unbonnetted young lady, who was still apparently dozing in the corner. “Ye sal hae the twa best greys in Fussie stables; they’ll trot ye in in little mair than an hour; an’ the ither folk maun just be doin’ wi’ a pair, as their betters hae dune afore them.”

The young lady started up in surprise, and looked on the shrewd intelligent features of the well-known Meg Dods, without understanding a syllable of her address.

“Haena ye got a tongue i’ yer head, for a’ ye’re sae bonny?” continued the rather uncomplimentary landlady—“maybe the auld wife i’ the corner’ll hae mair sense. Hear ye what I said? ye sall hae the twa greys—and Jock Brown to drive them; steady brutes a’ the three, an’ very quick on the road.”

The elder lady gazed with lack-lustre eyes upon the announcer of these glad tidings.

“Greys, did you say?” she asked, catching at the only words she had understood in the address.

“Yes, did I. An’ ye dinna seem over thankful for the same. I tell ye, if ye hadna a woman o’ her word to deal wi’, ye wad likely hae nae horses ava’;—for here comes ane o’ the things thae English idewuts ca’s a dug-cart that they come doon wi’, filled inside an’ out wi’ men, and dugs, an’ guns—a’ hurryin’ aff to the muirs, an’ neither to haud nor bind if they haena four horses the minute they clap their hands. They’ll mak’ a grand fecht, ye’ll see, to get your twa greys; but bide a wee—the twa greys ye sall hae, if it was the laird o’ Dalhousie himsell.”

And in fact in a very few seconds after the venerable hostess had uttered these sybilline vaticinations, they received an exact fulfiment—

“Four horses on!” exclaimed a voice from the last arrived vehicle, which sorely puzzled the knowing ones of Fushie Brig to determine to what genus or species it belonged. It was a long high carriage, fitted for the conveyance both of men and luggage; and its capabilities in both these respects were, on this occasion, very severely tried. On the high driving-seat were perched two gentlemen, counterbalanced on the dicky-seat behind by two sporting-looking servants. Inside, four other gentlemen found ample room; while a sort of second body swinging below, seemed to carry as many packages, trunks, and portmanteaus, as the hold of a Leith smack. “Four horses on!” repeated the voice, which proceeded from one of the sporting-looking servants on the seat behind.

“Blaw awa’, my man,” murmured Mrs Wilson; “it’ll be a gey while or the second pair comes out, for a’ yer blawin’. Did ye want onything, sirs?” she inquired, going up to the equipage.

“To be sure,” answered one of the gentlemen; “four horses immediately—we’re pushed for time.”

“Hech, sirs, so are we a’, but time’ll hae the best o’t,” replied the hostess. “Ye maun just hae patience, sirs, for ye canna get on this three hours.”

“Three hours!” exclaimed the gentleman; “why, what’s the matter? Why the deuce don’t they get out the horses?”

“Just for the same raison the Hielanman couldna’ get out the bawbee,” replied the imperturbable Meg Dods; “the deil a plack was in his pouch, puir body—an’ sae, ye see, ye maun just stay still.”

“My lord,” interposed one of the servants, touching his hat, “there’s a pair of very natty greys just coming out of the stable, and a pair of bays with the harness on. I have seen them in stall”—

“Then let us have them, Charles, by all means,” replied his lordship.

“Yes, my lord.”

In a very short time high words were heard, from which it was evident that by no means a complimentary opinion was entertained of the gentlemanly conduct of the nobleman’s dependant by the guard and ornament of the plain chariot.

“I say, my fine chap, you leave them there grey ’osses alone, will ye? they ain’t none o’ yourn.”

“Quite a mistake, Johnny,” replied the noble retainer, with a supercilious glance at our friend, who was still perched high in air.

“Oh! if ye come to go to be a-leaving off of names, old Timothy, you’ll find I’ve a way of writing my card with my five fingers here in a text hand as no gentleman can mistake.”

While boasting of his literary acquirements, our Hector in livery slewed himself down from the side of the red-cheeked Andromache, and presented an appearance which apparently induced the gentleman in the cockade to believe that the mistake might possibly be on his own side.

“My lord is in a great hurry.”

“So is my ladies.”

“He must have four horses.”

“They must have two.”

“Lauds!” exclaimed the voice of the hostess, addressing three or four stable-men who had been gaping spectators of this altercation, “bring yer grapes and pitchin’ forks here, an’ lift this birkie wi’ the cockaud in his head back till his seat again. Tell Jock Brown to get his boots on wi’ a’ his micht, and drive thir ladies to Douglas’s Hotel. An’ I’m sayin’, if ony o’ thae English bit craturs, wi’ their clippy tongues, lays hand on bit or bridle o’ ony o’ my horses, dinna spare the pitchin’ fork—pit it through them as ye wad a lock strae; I’ll hae nae rubbery in my stable-yaird—I’m braw freens wi’ the Justice-Clerk.”

As affairs now appeared to grow serious, the Noah’s Ark disembogued the whole of its living contents, and a minute inspection of the stables was commenced by the whole party. The ladies, in the mean time, who had some confused idea that all was not right, were looking anxiously from the windows; and if the elder lady had been an attentive observer of her companion’s looks, she would have seen a flush of surprise suffuse her whole countenance as her eyes for an instant rested on one of the gentlemen, who stood apparently an uninterested spectator of the proceedings of his friends. A similar feeling of amazement seemed to take possession of the champion of the ladies, as he recognised the same individual. He left his antagonist in the very middle of a philippic that ought to have sunk that gentleman in his own estimation for ever, and walking hurriedly up to the gentleman, who was still in what is called a reverie, said—

“Mr Harry!—hope ye’re quite well, sir?”

“What?—Copus?” replied the gentleman. “I’m delighted to see you again. Who are you with just now?”

“Family, sir—great family—equal to a duke, master says;—lady’s-maid uncommon pleasant, and all things quite agreeable.”

“Do you mean you are with a duke, Copus?”

“Bless ye! no, sir, only equal to it. Master has bought a Scotch chiefship, and we’re all a-going down to take possession. Master made all the tartans himself afore we left off trade.”

“I don’t understand you—what is he?”

“Smith, Hobbins, and Huxtable, they called us at Manchester,—great way of business—but master, old Smith, has retired, and bought this here Scotch estate, and makes us all call him Ben-na-Groich.”

“And his family, Copus?”

“Only his old sister, and our young lady.”

“Well,—her name?”

“Miss Jane. She’s a niece, they say, of old Smith—Ben-na-Groich, I means; but I don’t b’lieve it. She’s a real lady, and no mistake; and, they say, will have a prodigious fortin. By dad, our old ’ooman takes prodigious care of her, and is always a snubbing.”

“My dear Copus, say not a word of having seen me; you can be the greatest friend I ever had in my life—you’ll help me?”

“Won’t I?—that’s all;—’clect all about Oriel, Mr Harry, and Brussels? Ah! them was glorious days!”

“We shall have better days yet, Copus, never fear.”

After a few minutes’ conversation, the face of affairs entirely changed. An apology was made by his lordship in person for the mistake of his servant; that individual was severely reprimanded, greatly to the satisfaction of Mr Copus; the two greys were peaceably yoked to the plain chariot, and Jock Brown cracked his whip and trotted off at a pace that set loose the tongues of all the dogs in the village.

“What a barbarous set of people these Lowlanders are!” exclaimed the senior lady—“so different from the brave and noble mountaineers. My brother, the chieftain, is lucky in having such a splendid set of retainers, and the tartan he invented is very becoming.”

“Vell, only to think of picking up my old master in a inn-yard!” murmured Mr Copus, resuming his old position, and fixing his guarding arm once more inside of the rumble-rail; “after all the rum goes we had together at Oxford and Brussels. Nothing couldn’t be luckier than meeting a old friend among them Scotch savages. Do ye know, Mariar, they haven’t no breeches?”

“For shame, Mr Copus!”

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