Wilson's Tales of the Borders and of Scotland, Volume 07

by Unknown

THE STORY OF THE MEALMONGER.

"It is wonderful," remarked the decent-looking, elderly man who had contributed the story of Donald Gair—"it is wonderful how long a recollection of that kind may live in the memory without one's knowing it is there. There is no possibility of one taking an inventory of one's recollections. They live unnoted and asleep, till roused by some likeness of themselves, and then up they start, and answer to it, as 'face answereth to face in a glass.' There comes a story into my mind, much like the last, that has lain there all unknown to me for the last thirty years, nor have I heard any one mention it since; and yet, when I was a boy, no story could be better known. You have all heard of the dear years that followed the harvest of '40, and how fearfully they bore on the poor. The scarcity, doubtless, came mainly from the hand of Providence, and yet man had his share in it too. There were forestallers of the market, who gathered their miserable gains by heightening the already enormous price of victuals, thus adding starvation to hunger; and among the best known and most execrated of these was one M'Kechan, a residenter in the neighbouring parish. He was a hard-hearted, foul-spoken man; and often what he said exasperated the people as much against him as what he did. When, on one occasion, he bought up all the victuals on a market, there was a wringing of hands among the women, and they cursed him to his face; but, when he added insult to injury, and told them, in his pride, that he had not left them an ounce to foul their teeth, they would that instant have taken his life, had not his horse carried him through. He was a mean, too, as well as a hard-hearted man, and used small measures and light weights. But he made money, and deemed himself in a fair way of gaining a character on the strength of that alone, when he was seized by a fever, and died after a few days' illness. Solomon tells us that, when the wicked perish, there is shouting—there was little grief in the sheriffdom when M'Kechan died; but his relatives buried him decently, and, in the course of the next fortnight, the meal fell two-pence the peck. You know the burying-ground of St Bennet's—the chapel has long since been ruinous, and a row of wasted elms, with white skeleton-looking tops, run around the enclosure, and look over the fields that surround it on every side. It lies out of the way of any thoroughfare, and months may sometimes pass, when burials are unfrequent, in which no one goes near it. It was in St Bennet's that M'Kechan was buried; and the people about the farmhouse that lies nearest it were surprised, for the first month after his death, to see the figure of a man, evening and morning, just a few minutes before the sun had risen, and a few after it had set, walking round the yard, under the elms, three times, and always disappearing when it had taken the last turn, beside an old tomb near the gate. It was, of course, always clear daylight when they saw the figure; and the month passed ere they could bring themselves to suppose it was other than a thing of flesh and blood like themselves. The strange regularity of its visits, however, at length bred suspicion; and the farmer himself, a plain, decent man, of more true courage than men of twice the pretence, determined, one evening, on watching it. He took his place outside the wall, a little before sunset, and no sooner had the red light died away on the elm tops, than up started the figure from among the ruins on the opposite side of the burying-ground, and came onward in its round—muttering incessantly as it came, 'Oh, for mercy sake! for mercy sake!' it said, 'a handful of meal—I am starving! I am starving! a handful of meal!' And then, changing its tone into one still more doleful, 'Oh,' it exclaimed, 'alas, for the little lippie and the little peck! alas, for the little lippie and the little peck!' As it passed, the farmer started up from his seat; and there, sure enough, was M'Kechan, the corn factor, in his ordinary dress, and, except that he was thinner and paler than usual, like a man suffering from hunger, presenting nearly his ordinary appearance. The figure passed, with a slow, gliding sort of motion; and, turning the farther corner of the burying-ground, came onward in its second round; but the farmer, though he had felt rather curious than afraid as it went by, found his heart fail him as it approached the second time, and, without waiting its coming up, set off homeward through the corn. The apparition continued to take its rounds, evening and morning, for about two months after, and then disappeared for ever. Mealmongers had to forget the story, and to grow a little less afraid, ere they could cheat with their accustomed coolness. Believe me, such beliefs, whatever may be thought of them in the present day, have not been without their use in the past."

As the old man concluded his story, one of the women rose to a table in the little room, and replenished our glasses. We all drank in silence.

"It is within an hour of midnight," said one of the men, looking at his watch; "we had better recruit the fire and draw in our chairs; the air aye feels chill at a lykewake or a burial. At this time to-morrow we will be lifting the corpse."

There was no reply. We all drew in our chairs nearer the fire, and for several minutes there was a pause in the conversation, but there were more stories to be told, and before the morning, many a spirit was evoked from the grave, the vasty deep, and the Highland stream, whose histories we may yet give in a future number.

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THE PENNY-WEDDING.

If any of our readers have ever seen a Scottish penny-wedding they will agree with us, we daresay, that it is a very merry affair, and that its mirth and hilarity is not a whit the worse for its being, as it generally is, very homely and unsophisticated. The penny-wedding is not quite so splendid an affair as a ball at Almack's; but, from all we have heard and read of these aristocratic exhibitions, we for our own parts would have little hesitation about our preference, and what is more, we are quite willing to accept the imputation of having a horrid bad taste.

It is very well known to those who know anything at all of penny-weddings, that, when a farmer's servant is about to be married—such an occurrence being the usual, or, at least, the most frequent occasion of these festivities—all the neighbouring farmers, with their servants, and sometimes their sons and daughters, are invited to the ceremony; and to those who know this, it is also known that the farmers so invited are in the habit of contributing each something to the general stock of good things provided for the entertainment of the wedding guests—some sending one thing and some another, till materials are accumulated for a feast, which, both for quantity and quality, would extort praise from Dr Kitchener himself, than whom no man ever knew better what good living was. To all this a little money is added by the parties present, to enable the young couple to plenish their little domicile.

Having given this brief sketch of what is called a penny-wedding, we proceed to say that such a merry doing as this took place, as it had done a thousand times before, in a certain parish (we dare not be more particular) in the south of Scotland, about five-and-twenty years ago. The parties—we name them, although it is of no consequence to our story—were Andrew Jardine and Margaret Laird, both servants to a respectable farmer in that part of the country of the name of Harrison, and both very deserving and well-doing persons.

On the wedding-day being fixed, Andrew went himself to engage the services of Blind Willie Hodge, the parish fiddler, as he might with all propriety be called, for the happy occasion; and Willie very readily agreed to attend gratuitously, adding, that he would bring his best fiddle along with him, together with an ample supply of fiddle-strings and rosin.

"An' a wee bit box o' elbow grease, Willie," said Andrew, slily; "for ye'll hae gude aught hours o't, at the very least."

"I'll be sure to bring that too, Andrew," replied Willie, laughing; "but it's no aught hours that'll ding me, I warrant. I hae played saxteen without stoppin except to rosit."

"And to weet your whistle," slipped in Andrew.

"Pho, that wasna worth coontin. It was just a mouthfu' and at it again," said Willie. "I just tak, Andrew," he went on, "precisely the time o' a demisemiquaver to a tumbler o' cauld liquor, such as porter or ale; and twa minims or four crotchets to a tumbler o' het drink, such as toddy; for the first, ye see, I can tak aff at jig time, but the other can only get through wi' at the rate o' 'Roslin Castle,' or the 'Dead March in Saul,' especially when it's brought to me scadding het, whilk sude never be dune to a fiddler."

Now, as to this very nice chromatic measurement, by Willie, of the time consumed in his potations, while in the exercise of his calling, we have nothing to say. It may be perfectly correct for aught we know; but when Willie said that he played at one sitting, and with only the stoppages he mentioned, for sixteen hours, we rather think he was drawing fully a longer bow than that he usually played with. At all events this we know, that Willie was a very indifferent if not positively a very bad fiddler; but he was a good-humoured creature, harmless and inoffensive, and, moreover, the only one of his calling in the parish, so that he was fully as much indebted to the necessities of his customers for the employment he obtained, as to their love or charity.

The happy day which was to see the humble destinies of Andrew Jardine and Margaret Laird united having arrived, Willie attired himself in his best, popped his best fiddle—which was, after all, but a very sober article, having no more tone than a salt-box—into a green bag, slipped the instrument thus secured beneath the back of his coat, and proceeded towards the scene of his impending labours. This was a large barn, which had been carefully swept and levelled for the "light fantastic toes" of some score of ploughmen and dairymaids, not formed exactly after the Chinese fashion. At the further end of the barn stood a sort of platform, erected on a couple of empty herring-barrels; and on this again a chair was placed. This distinguished situation, we need hardly say, was designed for Willie, who from that elevated position was to pour down his heel-inspiring strains amongst the revellers below. When Willie, however, came first upon the ground, the marriage party had not yet arrived. They were still at the manse, which was hard by, but were every minute expected. In these circumstances, and it being a fine summer afternoon, Willie seated himself on a stone at the door, drew forth his fiddle, and struck up with great vigour and animation, to the infinite delight of some half-dozen of the wedding guests, who, not having gone with the others to the manse, were now, like himself, waiting their arrival. These immediately commenced footing it to Willie's music on the green before the door, and thus presented a very appropriate prelude to the coming festivities of the evening.

While Willie was thus engaged, an itinerant brother in trade, on the look-out for employment, and who had heard of the wedding, suddenly appeared, and stealing up quietly beside him, modestly undid the mouth of his fiddle-bag, laid the neck of the instrument bare, and drew his thumb carelessly across the strings, to intimate to him that a rival was near his throne. On hearing the sound of the instrument, Willie stopped short.

"I doubt, frien, ye hae come to the wrang market," he said, guessing at once the object of the stranger. "An' ye hae been travellin too, I daresay?" he continued, good-naturedly, and not at all offended with the intruder, for whom and all of his kind he entertained a fellow feeling.

"Ay," replied the new Orpheus, who was a tall, good-looking man of about eight-and-twenty years of age, but very poorly attired, "I hae been travellin, as ye say, neebor, an' hae come twa or three miles out o' my way to see if I could pick up a shilling or twa at this weddin."

"I am sorry now, man, for that," said Willie, sympathisingly. "I doot ye'll be disappointed, for I hae been engaged for't this fortnight past. But I'll tell ye what—if ye're onything guid o' the fiddle, ye may remain, jist to relieve me now an' then, an' I'll mind ye when a's owre; an' at ony rate ye'll aye pick up a mouthfu' o' guid meat and drink—an' that ye ken's no to be fand at every dyke-side."

"A bargain be't," said the stranger, "an' much obliged to you, frien. I maun just tak pat-luck and be thankfu'. But isna your weddin folks lang o' comin?" he added.

"They'll be here belyve," replied Willie, and added, "Ye'll no be blin, frien?"

"Ou no," said the stranger; "thank goodness I hae my sight; but I am otherwise in such a bad state o' health, that I canna work, and am obliged to tak the fiddle for a subsistence."

While this conversation was going on, the wedding folks were seen dropping out of the manse in twos and threes, and making straight for the scene of the evening's festivities, where they all very soon after assembled. Ample justice having been done to all the good things that were now set before the merry party, and Willie and his colleague having had their share, and being thus put in excellent trim for entering on their labours, the place was cleared of all encumbrances, and a fair and open field left for the dancers. At this stage of the proceedings, Willie was led by his colleague to his station, and helped up to the elevated chair which had been provided for him, when the latter handed him his instrument, while he himself took up his position, fiddle in hand, on his principal's left, but standing on the ground, as there was no room for him on the platform.

Everything being now ready, and the expectant couples ranged in their respective places on the floor, Willie was called upon to begin—an order which he instantly obeyed, by opening in great style.

On the conclusion of the first reel, in the musical department of which the strange fiddler had not interfered, the latter whispered to his coadjutor, that if he liked he would relieve him for the next.

"Weel," replied the latter, "if ye think ye can gae through wi't onything decently, ye may try your hand."

"I'll no promise much," said the stranger, now for the first time drawing his fiddle out of its bag; "but, for the credit o' the craft, I'll do the best I can."

Having said this, Willie's colleague drew his bow across the strings of his fiddle, with a preparatory flourish, when instantly every face in the apartment was turned towards him with an expression of delight and surprise. The tones of the fiddle were so immeasurably superior to those of poor Willie's salt-box, that the dullest and most indiscriminating ear amongst the revellers readily distinguished the amazing difference. But infinitely greater still was their surprise and delight when the stranger began to play. Nothing could exceed the energy, accuracy, and beauty of his performances. He was, in short, evidently a perfect master of the instrument, and this was instantly perceived and acknowledged by all, including Willie himself, who declared, with great candour and good-will, that he had never heard a better fiddler in his life.

The result of this discovery was, that the former was not allowed to lift a bow during the remainder of the night, the whole burden of its labours being deposited on the shoulders, or perhaps we should rather say the finger-ends, of the stranger, who fiddled away with an apparently invincible elbow.

For several hours the dance went on without interruption, and without any apparent abatement whatever of vigour on the part of the performers; but, at the end of this period some symptoms of exhaustion began to manifest themselves, which were at length fully declared by a temporary cessation of both the mirth and music.

It was at this interval in the revelries that the unknown fiddler—who had been, by the unanimous voice of the party, installed in Willie's elevated chair, while the latter was reduced to his place on the floor—stretching himself over the platform, and tapping Willie on the hat with his bow, to draw his attention, inquired of him, in a whisper, if he knew who the lively little girl was that had been one of the partners in the last reel that had been danced.

"Is she a bit red-cheeked, dark ee'd, and dark-haired lassie, about nineteen or twenty?" inquired Willie, in his turn.

"The same," replied the fiddler.

"Ou, that's Jeanie Harrison," said Willie—"a kind-hearted, nice bit lassie. No a better nor a bonnier in a' the parish. She's a dochter o' Mr Harrison o' Todshaws, the young couple's maister, an' a very respectable man. He's here himsel, too, amang the lave."

"Just so," replied his colleague. And he began to rosin his bow, and to screw his pegs anew, to prepare for the second storm of merriment, which he saw gathering, and threatening to burst upon him with increased fury. Amongst the first on the floor was Jeanie Harrison.

"Is there naebody 'll tak me out for a reel?" exclaimed the lively girl; and without waiting for an answer—"weel, then, I'll hae the fiddler." And she ran towards the platform on which the unknown performer was seated. But he did not wait her coming. He had heard her name her choice, laid down his fiddle, and sprang to the floor with the agility of a harlequin, exclaiming, "Thank ye, my bonny lassie—thank ye for the honour. I'm your man at a moment's notice, either for feet or fiddle."

It is not quite certain that Jeanie was in perfect earnest when she made choice of the musician for a partner, but it was now too late to retract, for the joke had taken with the company, and, with one voice, or rather shout, they insisted on her keeping faithful to her engagement, and dancing a reel with the fiddler; and on this no one insisted more stoutly than the fiddler himself. Finding that she could do no better, the good-natured girl put the best face on the frolic she could, and prepared to do her partner every justice in the dance. Willie having now taken bow in hand, his colleague gave him the word of command, and away the dancers went like meteors: and here again the surprise of the party was greatly excited by the performances of our friend the fiddler, who danced as well as he played. To say merely that he far surpassed all in the room would not, perhaps, be saying much; for there were none of them very great adepts in the art. But, in truth, he danced with singular grace and lightness, and much did those who witnessed it marvel at the display. Neither was his bow to his partner, nor his manner of conducting her to her seat on the conclusion of the reel, less remarkable. It was distinguished by an air of refined gallantry certainly not often to be met with in those in his humble station in life. He might have been a master of ceremonies; and where the beggarly-looking fiddler had picked up these accomplishments every one found it difficult to conjecture.

On the termination of the dance, the fiddler—as we shall call him, par excellence, and to distinguish him from Willie—resumed his seat and his fiddle, and began to drive away with even more than his former spirit; but it was observed by more than one that his eye was now almost constantly fixed, for the remainder of the evening, as, indeed, it had been very frequently before, on his late partner, Jeanie Harrison. This circumstance, however, did not prevent him giving every satisfaction to those who danced to his music, nor did it in the least impair the spirit of his performances; for he was evidently too much practised in the use of the instrument, which he managed with such consummate skill, to be put out, either by the contemplation of any chance object which might present itself, or by the vagaries of his imagination.

Leaving our musician in the discharge of his duty, we shall step over to where Jeanie Harrison is seated, to learn what she thinks of her partner, and what the Misses Murray, the daughters of a neighbouring farmer, between whom she sat, think of him, and of Jeanie having danced with a fiddler.

Premising that the Misses Murray, not being by any means beauties themselves, entertained a very reasonable and justifiable dislike and jealousy of all their own sex to whom nature had been more bountiful in this particular; and finding, moreover, that, from their excessively bad tempers (this, however, of course, not admitted by the ladies themselves), they could neither practise nor share in the amenities which usually mark the intercourse of the sexes, they had set up for connoisseurs in the articles of propriety and decorum, of which they professed to be profound judges.

Premising this, then, we proceed to quote the conversation that passed between the three ladies—that is, the Misses Murray and Miss Harrison; the latter taking her seat between them after dancing with the fiddler.

"My certy," exclaimed the elder, with a very dignified toss of the head, "ye warna nice, Jeanie, to dance wi' a fiddler. I wad hae been very ill aff, indeed, for a partner before I wad hae taen up wi' such a ragamuffin."

"An' to go an' ask him too!" said the younger, with an imitative toss. "I wadna ask the best man in the land to dance wi' me, let alane a fiddler! If they dinna choose to come o' their ain accord, they may stay."

"Tuts, lassies, it was a' a piece o' fun," said the good-humoured girl. "I'm sure everybody saw that but yersels. Besides, the man's weel aneugh—na, a gude deal mair than that, if he was only a wee better clad. There's no a better-lookin man in the room; and I wish, lassies," she added, "ye may get as guid dancers in your partners—that's a'."

"Umph! a bonny like taste ye hae, Jeanie, an' a very strange notion o' propriety!" exclaimed the elder, with another toss of the head.

"To dance wi' a fiddler!" simpered out the younger, who, by the way, was no chicken either, being but a trifle on the right side of thirty.

"Ay, to be sure—dance wi' a fiddler or a piper either. I'll dance wi' baith o' them—an' what for no?" replied Jeanie. "There's neither sin nor shame in't; and I'll dance wi' him again, if he'll only but ask me."

"An' faith he'll do that wi' a' the pleasure in the warld, my bonny lassie," quoth the intrepid fiddler, leaping down once more from his high place; for, there having been a cessation of both music and dancing while the conversation above recorded was going on, he had heard every word of it.—"Wi' a' the pleasure in the warld," he said, advancing towards Jeanie Harrison, and making one of his best bows of invitation; and again a shout of approbation from the company urged Jeanie to accept it, which she readily did, at once to gratify her friends, and to provoke the Misses Murray.

Having accordingly taken her place on the floor, and other couples having been mustered for the set, Jeanie's partner again called on Willie to strike up, again the dancers started, and again the fiddler astonished and delighted the company with the grace and elegance of his performances. On this occasion, however, the unknown musician's predilection for his fair partner exhibited a more unequivocal character; and he even ventured to inquire if he might call at her father's, to amuse the family for an hour or so with his fiddle.

"Nae objection in the warld," replied Jeanie. "Come as aften as ye like; and the aftener the better, if ye only bring yer fiddle wi' ye, for we're a' fond o' music."

"A bargain be't," said the gallant fiddler; and, at the conclusion of the reel, he again resumed his place on the platform and his fiddle.

"Time and the hour," says Shakspere, "will wear through the roughest day;" and so they will, also, through the merriest night, as the joyous party of whom we are speaking now soon found.

Exhaustion and lassitude, though long defied, finally triumphed; and even the very candles seemed wearied of giving light; and, under the influence of these mirth-destroying feelings, the party at length broke up, and all departed, excepting the two fiddlers.

These worthies now adjourned to a public-house, which was close by, and set very gravely about settling what was to them the serious business of the evening. Willie had received thirty-one shillings, as payment in full for their united labours; and, in consideration of the large and unexpected portion of them which had fallen to the stranger's share, he generously determined, notwithstanding that he was the principal party, as having been the first engaged, to give him precisely the one-half of the money, or fifteen shillings and sixpence.

"Very fair," said the stranger, on this being announced to him by his brother in trade—"very fair; but what would ye think of our drinking the odd sixpences?"

"Wi' a' my heart," replied Willie—"wi' a' my heart. A very guid notion."

And a jug of toddy, to the value of one shilling, was accordingly ordered and produced, over which the two got as thick as ben-leather.

"Ye're a guid fiddler—I'll say that o' ye," quoth Willie, after tossing down the first glass of the warm, exhilarating beverage. "I wad never wish to hear a better."

"I have had some practice," said the other, modestly, and at the same time following his companion's example with his glass.

"Nae doot, nae doot, sae's seen on your playin," replied the latter. "How do you fend wi' your fiddle? Do ye mak onything o' a guid leevin o't?"

"No that ill ava," said the stranger. "I play for the auld leddy at the castle—Castle Gowan, ye ken; indeed, I'm sometimes ca'd the leddy's fiddler, and she's uncommon guid to me. I neither want bite nor sowp when I gang there."

"That's sae far weel," replied Willie. "She's a guid judge o' music that Leddy Gowan, as I hear them say; and I'm tauld her son, Sir John, plays a capital bow."

"No amiss, I believe," said the stranger; "but the leddy, as ye say, is an excellent judge o' music, although whiles, I think, rather owre fond o't, for she maks me play for hours thegither, when I wad far rather be wi' Tam Yule, her butler, a sonsy, guid-natured chiel, that's no sweer o' the cap. But, speaking o' that, I'll tell ye what, frien," he continued, "if ye'll come up to Castle Gowan ony day, I'll be blithe to see you, for I'm there at least ance every day, and I'll warrant ye—for ye see I can use every liberty there—in a guid het dinner, an' a jug o' better toddy to wash it owre wi'."

"A bargain be't," quoth Willie; "will the morn do?"

"Perfectly," said the stranger; "the sooner the better."

This settled, Willie proceeded to a subject which had been for some time near his heart, but which he felt some delicacy in broaching. This feeling, however, having gradually given way before the influence of the toddy, and of his friend's frank and jovial manner, he at length ventured, though cautiously, to step on the ice.

"That's an uncommon guid instrument o' yours, frien," he said.

"Very good," replied his companion, briefly.

"But ye'll hae mair than that ane, nae doot?" rejoined the other.

"I hae ither twa."

"In that case," said Willie, "maybe ye wad hae nae objection to pairt wi' that ane, an the price offered ye wur a' the mair temptin. I'll gie ye the saxteen shillins I hae won the nicht, an' my fiddle, for't."

"Thank ye, frien, thank ye for your offer," replied the stranger; "but I daurna accept o't, though I war willin. The fiddle was gien to me by Leddy Gowan, and I daurna pairt wi't. She wad miss't, and then there wad be the deevil to pay."

"Oh, an that's the case," said Willie, "I'll say nae mair aboot it; but it's a first-rate fiddle—sae guid a ane, that it micht amaist play the lane o't."

It being now very late, or rather early, and the toddy jug emptied, the blind fiddler and his friend parted, on the understanding, however, that the former would visit the latter at the castle (whither he was now going, he said, to seek a night's quarters) on the following day.

True to his appointment, Willie appeared next day at Gowan House, or Castle Gowan, as it was more generally called, and inquired for "the fiddler." His inquiry was met with great civility and politeness by the footman who opened the door. He was told "the fiddler" was there, and desired to walk in. Obeying the invitation, Willie, conducted by the footman, entered a spacious apartment, where he was soon afterwards entertained with a sumptuous dinner, in which his friend the fiddler joined him.

"My word neighbour," said Willie, after having made a hearty meal of the good things that were set before him, and having drank in proportion, "but ye're in noble quarters here. This is truly fiddlin to some purpose, an' treatin the art as it ought to be treated in the persons o' its professors. But what," he added, "if Sir John should come in upon us? He wadna like maybe a'thegither to see a stranger wi' ye?"

"Deil a bodle I care for Sir John, Willie! He's but a wild harum-scarum throughither chap at the best, an' no muckle to be heeded."

"Ay, he's fond o' a frolic, they tell me," quoth Willie; "an' there's a heap o' gay queer anes laid to his charge, whether they be true or no; but his heart's in the richt place, I'm thinkin, for a' that. I've heard o' mony guid turns he has dune."

"Ou, he's no a bad chiel, on the whole, I daresay," replied Willie's companion. "His bark's waur than his bite—an' that's mair than can be said o' a rat-trap at ony rate."

It was about this period, and then for the first time, that certain strange and vague suspicions suddenly entered Willie's mind regarding his entertainer. He had remarked that the latter gave his orders with an air of authority which he thought scarcely becoming in one who occupied the humble situation of "the lady's fiddler;" but, singular as this appeared to him, the alacrity and silence with which these orders were obeyed, was to poor Willie still more unaccountable. He said nothing, however; but much did he marvel at the singular good fortune of his brother-in-trade. He had never known a fiddler so quartered before; and, lost in admiration of his friend's felicity, he was about again to express his ideas on the subject, when a servant in splendid livery entered the room, and, bowing respectfully, said, "The carriage waits you, Sir John."

"I will be with you presently, Thomas," replied who? inquires the reader.

Why, Willie's companion!

What! is he then Sir John Gowan—he, the fiddler at the penny-wedding, Sir John Gowan, of Castle Gowan, the most extensive proprietor and the wealthiest man in the county?

The same, and no other, good reader, we assure thee.

A great lover of frolic, as he himself said, was Sir John; and this was one of the pranks in which he delighted. He was an enthusiastic fiddler; and as has been already shown, performed with singular skill on that most difficult, but most delightful, of all musical instruments.

We will not attempt to describe poor Willie's amazement and confusion, when this singular fact became known to him; for they are indescribable, and therefore better left to the reader's imagination. On recovering a little from his surprise, however, he endeavoured to express his astonishment in such broken sentences as these—"Wha in earth wad hae ever dreamed o't? Rosit an' fiddle-strings!—this beats a'. Faith, an' I've been fairly taen in—clean done for. A knight o' the shire to play at a penny-waddin wi' blin Willie Hodge, the fiddler! The like was ne'er heard tell o'."

As it is unnecessary, and would certainly be tedious, to protract the scene at this particular point in our story, we cut it short by saying, that Sir John presented Willie with the fiddle he had so much coveted, and which he had vainly endeavoured to purchase; that he then told down to him the half of the proceeds of the previous night's labours which he had pocketed, added a handsome douceur from his own purse, and finally dismissed him with a pressing and cordial invitation to visit the castle as often as it suited his inclination and conveniency.

Having arrived at this landing-place in our tale, we pause to explain one or two things, which is necessary for the full elucidation of the sequel. With regard to Sir John Gowan himself, there is little to add to what has been already said of him; for, brief though these notices of him are, they contain nearly all that the reader need care to know about him. He was addicted to such pranks as that just recorded; but this, if it was a defect in his character, was the only one. For the rest, he was an excellent young man—kind, generous, and affable, of the strictest honour, and the most upright principles. He was, moreover, an exceedingly handsome man, and highly accomplished. At this period, he was unmarried, and lived with his mother, Lady Gowan, to whom he was most affectionately attached. Sir John had, at one time, mingled a good deal with the fashionable society of the metropolis; but soon became disgusted with the heartlessness of those who composed it, and with the frivolity of their pursuits; and in this frame of mind he came to the resolution of retiring to his estate, and of giving himself up entirely to the quiet enjoyments of a country life, and the pleasing duties which his position as a large landed proprietor entailed upon him.

Simple in all his tastes and habits, Sir John had been unable to discover, in any of the manufactured beauties to whom he had been, from time to time, introduced while he resided in London, one to whom he could think of intrusting his happiness. The wife he desired was one fresh from the hand of nature, not one remodelled by the square and rule of art; and such a one he thought he had found during his adventure of the previous night.

Bringing this digression, which we may liken to an interlude, to a close, we again draw up the curtain, and open the second act of our little drama with an exhibition of the residence of Mr Harrison at Todshaw.

The house or farm-steading of this worthy person was of the very best description of such establishments. The building itself was substantial, nay, even handsome, while the excellent garden which was attached to it, and all the other accessories and appurtenances with which it was surrounded, indicated wealth and comfort. Its situation was on the summit of a gentle eminence that sloped down in front to a noisy little rivulet, that careered along through a narrow rugged glen overhanging with hazel, till it came nearly opposite the house, where it wound through an open plat of green sward, and shortly after again plunged into another little romantic ravine similar to the one it had left.

The approach to Mr Harrison's house lay along this little rivulet, and was commanded, for a considerable distance, by the view from the former—a circumstance which enabled Jeanie Harrison to descry, one fine summer afternoon, two or three days after the occurrence of the events just related, the approach of the fiddler with whom she had danced at the wedding. On making this discovery, Jeanie ran to announce the joyful intelligence to all the other members of the family, and the prospect of a merry dancing afternoon opened on the delighted eyes of its younger branches.

When the fiddler—with whose identity the reader is now as well acquainted as we are—had reached the bottom of the ascent that led to the house, Jeanie, with excessive joy beaming in her bright and expressive eye, and her cheek glowing with the roseate hues of health, rushed down to meet him, and to welcome him to Todshaw.

"Thank ye, my bonny lassie—thank ye," replied the disguised baronet, expressing himself in character, and speaking the language of his assumed station. "Are ye ready for anither dance?"

"Oh, a score o' them—a thousand o' them," said the lively girl.

"But will your faither, think ye, hae nae objections to my comin?" inquired the fiddler.

"Nane in the warld. My faither is nane o' your sour carles that wad deny ither folk the pleasures they canna enjoy themsels. He likes to see a'body happy around him—every ane his ain way."

"An' your mother?"

"Jist the same. Ye'll find her waur to fiddle doun than ony o' us. She'll dance as lang's a string hauds o't."

"Then, I may be quite at my ease," rejoined Sir John.

"Quite so," replied Jeanie—and she slipped half-a-crown into his hand—"and there's your arles; but ye'll be minded better ere ye leave us."

"My word, no an ill beginnin," quoth the musician, looking with well-affected delight at the coin, and afterwards putting it carefully into his pocket. "But ye could hae gien me a far mair acceptable arles than half-a-crown," he added, "and no been a penny the poorer either."

"What's that?" said Jeanie, laughing and blushing at the same time, and more than half guessing, from the looks of the pawky fiddler, what was meant.

"Why, my bonny leddie," he replied, "jist a kiss o' that pretty little mou o' yours."

"Oh, ye gowk!" exclaimed Jeanie, with a roguish glance at her humble gallant; for, disguised as he was, he was not able to conceal a very handsome person, nor the very agreeable expression of a set of remarkably fine features—qualities which did not escape the vigilance of the female eye that was now scanning their possessor. Nor would we say that these qualities were viewed with total indifference, or without producing their effect, even although they did belong to a fiddler.

"Oh, ye gowk!" said Jeanie; "wha ever heard o' a fiddler preferring a kiss to half-a-crown?"

"But I do, though," replied the disguised knight; "and I'll gie ye yours back again for't."

"The mair fule you," exclaimed Jeanie, rushing away towards the house, and leaving the fiddler to make out the remainder of the way by himself.

On reaching the house, the musician was ushered into the kitchen, where a plentiful repast was instantly set before him, by the kind and considerate hospitality of Jeanie, who, not contented with her guest's making a hearty meal at table, insisted on his pocketing certain pieces of cheese, cold meat, &c., which were left. These the fiddler steadily refused; but Jeanie would take no denial, and with her own hands crammed them into his capacious pockets, which, after the operation, stuck out like a well-filled pair of saddle-bags. But there was no need for any one who might be curious to know what they contained, to look into them for that purpose. Certain projecting bones of mutton and beef, which it was found impossible to get altogether out of sight, sufficiently indicated their contents. Of this particular circumstance, however—we mean the projection of the bones from the pockets—we must observe, the owner of the said pockets was not aware, otherwise, we daresay, he would have been a little more positive in rejecting the provender which Jeanie's warmheartedness and benevolence had forced upon him.

Be this as it may, however, so soon as the musician had finished his repast, he took fiddle in hand, and opened the evening with a slow pathetic Scottish air, which he played so exquisitely that Jeanie's eye filled with a tear, as she listened in raptures to the sweet but melancholy turns of the affecting tune.

Twice the musician played over the touching strain, delighted to perceive the effects of the music on the lovely girl who stood before him, and rightly conceiving it to be an unequivocal proof of a susceptible heart and of a generous nature.

A third time he began the beautiful air; but he now accompanied it with a song, and in this accomplishment he was no less perfect than in the others which have been already attributed to him. His voice was at once manly and melodious, and he conducted it with a skill that did it every justice. Having played two or three bars of the tune, his rich and well-regulated voice chimed in with the following words:—

"Oh, I hae lived wi' high-bred dames,
Each state of life to prove,
But never till this hour hae met
The girl that I could love.

It's no in fashion's gilded ha's
That she is to be seen;
Beneath her father's humble roof
Abides my bonny Jean.

Oh, wad she deign ae thought to wair,
Ae kindly thought on me,
Wi' pearls I wad deck her hair,
Though low be my degree.

Wi' pearls I wad deck her hair,
Wi' gowd her wrists sae sma';
An' had I lands and houses, she'd
Be leddy owre them a'.

The sun abune's no what he seems,
Nor is the night's fair queen;
Then wha kens wha the minstrel is
That's wooin bonny Jean?"

Jeanie could not help feeling a little strange as the minstrel proceeded with a song which seemed to have so close a reference to herself.

She, of course, did not consider this circumstance otherwise than as merely accidental; but she could not help, nevertheless, being somewhat embarrassed by it; and this was made sufficiently evident by the blush that mantled on her cheek, and by the confusion of her manner under the fixed gaze of the singer, while repeating the verses just quoted.

When he had concluded, "Well, good folks all," he said, "what think ye of my song?" And without waiting for an answer, about which he seemed very indifferent, he added, "and how do you like it, Jeanie?" directing the question exclusively to the party he named.

"Very weel," replied Jeanie, again blushing, but still more deeply than before; "the song is pretty, an' the air delightfu'; but some o' the verses are riddles to me. I dinna thoroughly understan them."

"Don't you?" replied Sir John, laughing; "then I'll explain them to you by and by; but, in the meantime, I must screw my pegs anew, and work for my dinner, for I see the good folk about me here are all impatience to begin." A fact this which was instantly acknowledged by a dozen voices; and straightway the whole party proceeded, in compliance with a suggestion of Mr Harrison, to the green in front of the house, where Sir John took up his position on the top of an inverted wheelbarrow, and immediately commenced his labours.

For several hours, the dance went on with uninterrupted glee; old Mr Harrison and his wife appearing to enjoy the sport as much as the youngest of the party, and both being delighted with the masterly playing of the musician. But, although, as on a former occasion, Sir John did not suffer anything to interfere with or interrupt the charge of the duties expected of him, there was but a very small portion of his mind or thoughts engrossed by the employment in which he was engaged. All, or nearly all, were directed to the contemplation of the object on which his affections had now become irrevocably fixed.

Neither was his visit to Todshaws, on this occasion, by any means dictated solely by the frivolous object of affording its inmates entertainment by his musical talents. His purpose was a much more serious one. It was to ascertain, as far as such an opportunity would afford him the means, the dispositions and temper of his fair enslaver. Of these, his natural shrewdness had enabled him to make a pretty correct estimate on the night of the wedding; but he was desirous of seeing her in other circumstances, and he thought none more suitable for his purpose than those of a domestic nature.

It was, then, to see her in this position that he had now come; and the result of his observations was highly gratifying to him.

He found in Miss Harrison all that he, at any rate, desired in woman. He found her guileless, cheerful, gentle, kind-hearted, and good-tempered, beloved by all around her, and returning the affection bestowed on her with a sincere and ardent love.

Such were the discoveries which the disguised baronet made on this occasion; and never did hidden treasure half so much gladden the heart of the fortunate finder as these did that of him who made them. It is true that Sir John could not be sure, nor was he, that his addresses would be received by Miss Harrison, even after he should have made himself known; but he could not help entertaining a pretty strong confidence in his own powers of persuasion, nor being, consequently, tolerably sanguine of success. All this, however, was to be the work of another day. In the meantime, the dancers having had their hearts' content of capering on the green sward, the fiddle was put up, and the fiddler once more invited into the house, where he was entertained with the same hospitality as before, and another half-crown slipped into his hand. This he also put carefully into his pocket; and having partaken lightly of what was set before him, rose up to depart, alleging that he had a good way to go, and was desirous of availing himself of the little daylight that still remained. He was pressed to remain all night, but this he declined; promising, however, in reply to the urgent entreaties with which he was assailed on all sides to stay, that he would very soon repeat his visit. Miss Harrison he took by the hand, and said, "I promised to explain to you the poetical riddle which I read, or rather attempted to sing, this evening. It is now too late to do this, for the explanation is a long one; but I will be here again, without fail, in a day or two, when I shall solve all, and, I trust, to your satisfaction. Till then, do not forget your poor fiddler."

"No, I winna forget ye," said Jeanie. "It wadna be easy to forget ane that has contributed so much to our happiness. Neither would it be more than gratefu' to do so, I think."

"And you are too kind a creature to be ungrateful to any one, however humble may be their attempts to win your favour—of that I feel assured." Having said this, and perceiving that he was unobserved, he quickly raised the fair hand he held to his lips, kissed it, and hurried out of the door.

What Jane Harrison thought of this piece of gallantry from a fiddler, we really do not know, and therefore will say nothing about it. Whatever her thoughts were, she kept them to herself. Neither did she mention to any one the circumstance which gave rise to them. Nor did she say, but for what reason we are ignorant, how much she had been pleased with the general manners of the humble musician—with the melodious tones of his voice, and the fine expression of his dark hazel eye. Oh, love, love! thou art a leveller, indeed, else how should it happen that the pretty daughter of a wealthy and respectable yeoman should think for a moment, with certain indescribable feelings, of a poor itinerant fiddler? Mark, good reader, however, we do not say that Miss Harrison was absolutely in love with the musician. By no means. That would certainly be saying too much. But it is as certainly true, that she had perceived something about him that left no disagreeable impression—nay, something which she wished she might meet with in her future husband, whoever he might be.

Leaving Jeanie Harrison to such reflections as these, we will follow the footsteps of the disguised baronet. On leaving the house, he walked at a rapid pace for an hour or so, till he came to a turn in the road, at the distance of about four miles from Todshaws, where his gig and man-servant, with a change of clothes, were waiting him by appointment. Having hastily divested himself of his disguise, and resumed his own dress, he stepped into the vehicle, and about midnight arrived at Castle Gowan.

In this romantic attachment of Sir John Gowan's—or rather in the romantic project which it suggested to him of offering his heart and hand to the daughter of a humble farmer—there was but one doubtful point on his side of the question, at any rate. This was, whether he could obtain the consent of his mother to such a proceeding. She loved him with the utmost tenderness; and, naturally of a mild, gentle, and affectionate disposition, her sole delight lay in promoting the happiness of her beloved son. To secure this great object of her life, there was scarcely any sacrifice which she would not make, nor any proposal with which she would not willingly comply. This Sir John well knew, and fully appreciated; but he felt that the call which he was now about to make on her maternal love was more than he ought to expect she would answer. He, in short, felt that she might, with good reason, and without the slightest infringement of her regard for him, object to his marrying so far beneath his station. It was not, therefore, without some misgivings that he entered his mother's private apartment on the day following his adventure at Todshaws, for the purpose of divulging the secret of his attachment, and hinting at the resolution he had formed regarding it.

"Mother," he said, after a pause which had been preceded by the usual affectionate inquiries of the morning, "you have often expressed a wish that I would marry."

"I have, John," replied the good old lady. "Nothing in this world would afford me greater gratification than to see you united to a woman who should be every way deserving of you—one with whom you could live happily."

"Ay, that last is the great, the important consideration, at least with me. But where, mother, am I to find that woman? I have mingled a good deal with the higher ranks of society, and there, certainly, I have not been able to find her. I am not so uncharitable as to say—nay, God forbid I should—that there are not as good, as virtuous, as amiable women, in the upper classes of society as in the lower. I have no doubt there are. All that I mean to say is, that I have not been fortunate enough to find one in that sphere to suit my fancy, and have no hopes of ever doing so. Besides, the feelings, sentiments, and dispositions of these persons, both male and female, are so completely disguised by a factitious manner, and by conventional rules, that you never can discover what is their real nature and character. They are still strangers to you, however long you may be acquainted with them. You cannot tell who or what they are. The roller of fashion reduces them all to one level; and, being all clapped into the same mould, they become mere repetitions of each other, as like as peas, without exhibiting the slightest point of variety. Now, mother," continued Sir John, "the wife I should like is one whose heart, whose inmost nature, should be at once open to my view, unwarped and undisguised by the customs and fashions of the world."

"Upon my word, John, you are more than usually eloquent this morning," said Lady Gowan, laughing. "But pray now, do tell me, John, shortly and unequivocally, what is the drift of this long, flowery, and very sensible speech of yours?—for that there is a drift in it I can clearly perceive. You are aiming at something which you do not like to plump upon me at once."

Sir John looked a good deal confused on finding that his mother's shrewdness had detected a latent purpose in his remarks, and endeavoured to evade the acknowledgment of that purpose, until he should have her opinion of the observations he had made; and in this he succeeded. Having pressed her on this point:

"Well, my son," replied Lady Gowan, "if you think that you cannot find a woman in a station of life corresponding to your own that will suit your taste, look for her in any other you please; and, when found, take her. Consult your own happiness, John, and in doing so you will consult mine. I will not object to your marrying whomsoever you please. All that I bargain for is, that she be a perfectly virtuous woman, and of irreproachable character; and I don't think this is being unreasonable. But do now, John, tell me at once," she added, in a graver tone, and taking her son solemnly by the hand; "have you fixed your affections on a woman of humble birth and station? I rather suspect this is the case."

"I have, then, mother," replied Sir John, returning his mother's expressive and affectionate pressure of the hand—"the daughter of a humble yeoman, a woman who——" But we will spare the reader the infliction of the high-flown encomiums of all sorts which Sir John lavished on the object of his affections. Suffice it to say, that they included every quality of both mind and person which go to the adornment of the female sex.

When he had concluded, Lady Gowan, who made the necessary abatements from the panegyric her son had passed on the lady of his choice, said that, with regard to his attachment, she could indeed have wished it had fallen on one somewhat nearer his own station in life, but that, nevertheless, she had no objection whatever to accept of Miss Harrison as a daughter-in-law, since she was his choice. "Nay," she added, smiling, "if she only possesses one-tenth—ay, one-tenth, John—of the good qualities with which you have endowed her, I must say you are a singularly fortunate man to have fallen in with such a treasure. But, John, allow me to say that, old woman as I am, I think that I could very easily show you that your prejudices, vulgar prejudices I must call them, against the higher classes of society, are unreasonable, unjust, and, I would add, illiberal, and therefore wholly unworthy of you. Does the elegance, the refinement, the accomplishments, the propriety of manner and delicacy of sentiment, to be met with in these circles, go for nothing with you? Does——"

"My dear mother," here burst in Sir John, "if you please, we will not argue the point; for, in truth, I do not feel disposed just now to argue about anything. I presume I am to understand, my ever kind and indulgent parent, that I have your full consent to marry Miss Harrison—that is, of course, if Miss Harrison will marry me."

"Fully and freely, my child," said the old lady, now flinging her arms around her son's neck, while a tear glistened in her eye; "and may God bless your union, and make it happy! I would rather ten thousand times see you marry such a girl as you have described, than that you should do by her as many young men of your years and station would be but too ready to do."

Sir John with no less emotion returned the embrace of his affectionate parent, and, in the most grateful language he could command, thanked her for her ready compliance with his wishes.

On the day following that on which the preceding conversation between Sir John Gowan and his mother took place, the inmates of Todshaws were surprised at the appearance of a splendid equipage driving up towards the house.

"Wha in a' the world's this?" said Jeanie to her father, as they both stood at the door, looking at the glittering vehicle, as it flashed in the sun and rolled on towards them. "Some travellers that hae mistaen their road."

"Very likely," replied her father; "yet I canna understand what kind o' a mistake it could be that should bring them to such an out-o'-the-way place as this. It's no a regular carriage road—that they micht hae seen; an' if they hae gane wrang, they'll find some difficulty in getting richt again. But here they are, sae we'll sune ken a' about it."

As Mr Harrison said this, the carriage, now at the distance of only some twenty or thirty yards from the house, stopped, a gentleman stepped out, and advanced smiling towards Mr Harrison and his daughter. They looked surprised, nay confounded; for they could not at all comprehend who their visiter was.

"How do you do, Mr Harrison?" exclaimed the latter, stretching out his hand to the person he addressed; "and how do you do, Miss Harrison?" he said, taking Jeanie next by the hand.

In the stranger's tones and manner the acute perceptions of Miss Harrison recognised something she had heard and seen before, and the recognition greatly perplexed her; nor was this perplexity lessened by the discovery which she also made, that the countenance of the stranger recalled one which she had seen on some former occasion. In short, the person now before her she thought presented a most extraordinary likeness to the fiddler—only that he had no fiddle, that he was infinitely better dressed, and that his pockets were not sticking out with lumps of cheese and cold beef. That they were the same person, however, she never dreamed for a moment.

In his daughter's perplexity on account of the resemblances alluded to, Mr Harrison did not participate, as, having paid little or no attention to the personal appearance of the fiddler, he detected none of them; and it was thus that he replied to the stranger's courtesies with a gravity and coolness which contrasted strangely with the evident embarrassment and confusion of his daughter, although she herself did not well know how this accidental resemblance, as she deemed it, should have had such an effect upon her.

Immediately after the interchange of the commonplace civilities above-mentioned had passed between the stranger and Mr Harrison and his daughter—

"Mr Harrison," he said, "may I have a private word with you?"

"Certainly, sir," replied the former. And he led the way into a little back parlour.

"Excuse us for a few minutes, Miss Harrison," said the stranger, with a smile, ere he followed, and bowing gallantly to her as he spoke.

On entering the parlour, Mr Harrison requested the stranger to take a seat, and placing himself in another, he awaited the communication of his visiter.

"Mr Harrison," now began the latter, "in the first place, it may be proper to inform you that I am Sir John Gowan of Castle Gowan."

"Oh!" said Mr Harrison, rising from his seat, approaching Sir John, and extending his hand towards him—"I am very happy indeed to see Sir John Gowan. I never had the pleasure of seeing you before, sir; but I have heard much of you, and not to your discredit, I assure you, Sir John."

"Well, that is some satisfaction, at any rate, Mr Harrison," replied the baronet, laughing. "I am glad that my character, since it happens to be a good one, has been before me. It may be of service to me. But to proceed to business. You will hardly recognise in me, my friend, I daresay," continued Sir John, "a certain fiddler who played to you at a certain wedding lately, and to whose music you and your family danced on the green in front of your own house the other night."

Mr Harrison's first reply to this extraordinary observation was a broad stare of amazement and utter non-comprehension. But after a few minutes' pause thus employed, "No, certainly not, sir," he said, still greatly perplexed and amazed. "But I do not understand you. What is it you mean, Sir John?"

"Why," replied the latter, laughing, "I mean very distinctly that I was the musician on both of the occasions alluded to. The personification of such a character has been one of my favourite frolics; and, however foolish it may be considered, I trust it will at least be allowed to have been a harmless one."

"Well, this is most extraordinary," replied Mr Harrison, in great astonishment. "Can it be possible? Is it really true, Sir John, or are ye jesting?"

"Not a bit of that, I assure you, sir. I am in sober earnest. But all this," continued Sir John, "is but a prelude to the business I came upon. To be short, then, Mr Harrison, I saw and particularly marked your daughter on the two occasions alluded to, and the result, in few words, is, that I have conceived a very strong attachment to her. Her beauty, her cheerfulness, her good temper, and simplicity, have won my heart, and I have now come to offer her my hand."

"Why, Sir John, this—this," stammered out the astonished farmer, "is more extraordinary still. You do my daughter and myself great honour, Sir John—great honour, indeed."

"Not a word of that," replied the knight—"not a word of that, Mr Harrison. My motives are selfish. I am studying my own happiness, and therefore am not entitled to any acknowledgments of that kind. You, I hope, sir, have no objection to accept of me as a son-in-law; and I trust your daughter will have no very serious ones either. Her affections, I hope, are not pre-engaged?"

"Not that I know of, Sir John," replied Mr Harrison; "indeed, I may venture to say positively that they are not. The girl has never yet, that I am aware of, thought of a husband—at least, not more than young women usually do; and as to my having any objections, Sir John, so far from that, I feel, I assure you, extremely grateful for such a singular mark of your favour and condescension as that you have just mentioned."

"And you anticipate no very formidable ones on the part of your daughter?"

"Certainly not, Sir John; it is impossible there should."

"Will you, then, my dear sir," added Sir John, "be kind enough to go to Miss Harrison and break this matter to her, and I will wait your return?"

With this request the farmer instantly complied; and having found his daughter, opened to her at once the extraordinary commission with which he was charged. We would fain describe, but find ourselves wholly incompetent to the task, the effect which Mr Harrison's communication had upon his daughter, and on the other female members of the family, to all of whom it was also soon known. There was screaming, shouting, laughing, crying, fear, joy, terror, and amazement, all blended together in one tremendous medley, and so loud, that it reached the ears of Sir John himself, who, guessing the cause of it, laughed very heartily at the strange uproar.

"But, oh! the cauld beef an' the cheese that I crammed into his pockets, father," exclaimed Jeanie, running about the room in great agitation. "He'll never forgie me that—never, never," she said, in great distress of mind. "To fill a knight's pockets wi' dauds o' beef and cheese! Oh! goodness, goodness! I canna marry him. I canna see him after that. It's impossible, father—impossible, impossible!"

"If that be a' your objections, Jeanie," replied her father, smiling, "we'll soon get the better o't. I'll undertake to procure ye Sir John's forgiveness for the cauld beef an' cheese—that's if ye think it necessary to ask a man's pardon for filling his pockets wi' most unexceptionable provender. I wish every honest man's pouches war as weel lined, lassie, as Sir John's was that nicht." Saying this, Mr Harrison returned to Sir John and informed him of the result of his mission, which was—but this he had rather made out than been told, for Jeanie could not be brought to give any rational answer at all—that his addresses would not, he believed, be disagreeable to his daughter, "which," he added, "is, I suppose, all that you desire in the meantime, Sir John."

"Nothing more, nothing more, Mr Harrison; she that's not worth wooing's not worth winning. I only desired your consent to my addresses, and a regular and honourable introduction to your daughter. The rest belongs to me. I will now fight my own battle, since you have cleared the way, and only desire that you may wish me success."

"That I do with all my heart," replied the farmer; "and, if I can lend you a hand, I will do it with right good will."

"Thank you, Mr Harrison, thank you," replied Sir John; "and now, my dear sir," he continued, "since you have so kindly assisted me thus far, will you be good enough to help me just one step further. Will you now introduce me in my new character to your daughter? Hitherto, she has known me only," he said, smiling as he spoke, "as an itinerant fiddler, and I long to meet her on a more serious footing—and on one," he added, again laughing, "I hope, a trifle more respectable."

"That I'll very willingly do, Sir John," replied Mr Harrison, smiling in his turn; "but I must tell you plainly, that I have some doubts of being able to prevail on Jane to meet you at this particular moment. She has one most serious objection to seeing you."

"Indeed," replied Sir John, with an earnestness that betokened some alarm. "Pray, what is that objection?"

"Why, sir," rejoined the latter, "allow me to reply to that question by asking you another. Have you any recollection of carrying away out of my house, on the last night you were here, a pocketful of cheese and cold beef?"

"Oh! perfectly, perfectly," said Sir John, laughing, yet somewhat perplexed. "Miss Harrison was kind enough to furnish me with the very liberal supply of the articles you allude to; cramming them into my pocket with her own fair hands."

"Just so," replied Mr Harrison, now laughing in his turn. "Well, then, to tell you a truth, Sir John, Jane is so dreadfully ashamed of that circumstance that she positively will not face you."

"Oh ho! is that the affair?" exclaimed the delighted baronet. "Why, then, if she won't come to us, we'll go to her; so lead the way, Mr Harrison, if you please." Mr Harrison did lead the way, and Jane was caught.

Beyond this point our story need not be prolonged, as here all its interest ceases. We have only now to add, then, that the winning manners, gentle dispositions, and very elegant person of Sir John Gowan, very soon completed the conquest he aimed at; and Jeanie Harrison, in due time, became Lady Gowan.

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THE AMATEUR LAWYERS.[3]

The profession of the law is one of the highest respectability; the study itself a sufficiently interesting one, nevertheless of its having been called dry by those whose genius it does not suit, or by those whose pockets have been made lighter by some of its technical behests; yet we cannot conceive what there is, either in its language, its technicalities, or its general practical operation, or its application, to captivate the fancy of any one not connected with it professionally. But, of a surety, the science has had many amateur attachés—men whose whole souls were wrapped up in multiplepoindings, who loved summonses, who were captivated by condescendences. Strange customers for the most part—original geniuses in some of the queerest senses of the word. Born with a natural propensity for litigation, possessed of a most unaccountable aptitude for everything that is complicated and involved, the law becomes with these persons, not only a favourite, but an engrossing study—engrossing almost to the exclusion of everything else. Law, in short, becomes their hobby. Of law they constantly speak; of law they constantly think; of law, we have no doubt, they constantly dream. The victims of this curious disease—for disease it is—are generally to be found amongst the lower and uneducated classes, and are, for the most part, men of confused intellect and large conceit, all of them, without any exception, imagining themselves astonishingly acute, shrewd, and clever fellows—sharp chaps, who know much more than the world is aware of, or will give them credit for—screws for bungs of any dimensions—dungeons of wit and wisdom. For these persons the jargon of the law has charms superior to the sweetest strains that music ever poured forth. They delight in its uncouthness and unintelligibility, employ it with a gravity, composure, and confidence which, when contrasted with their utter ignorance, or, at best, confused notions of its meaning, is at once highly edifying and impressive.

Yet, notwithstanding of the natural tendencies of such persons to legal pursuits and studies, they do not generally betake themselves to them spontaneously, or without some original influencing cause. They will be found, for the most part, to have been started in their legal career by some small lawsuit of their own, and, being previously predisposed, this at once inoculates them with the disease. From that moment to the end of their natural lives they are confirmed, incorrigible lawyers. They have imbibed a love for the science, a taste for litigation, which quits them only with life. All which remarks we have made with the view of introducing to the world, with the grandest effect possible, our very good friend, Mr John Goodale, or, as the name was more generally and more euphoniously pronounced by his acquaintances, Guidyill, who was precisely such a person and character as we have endeavoured to picture forth in this preliminary sketch with which our story opens.

Guidyill was a small laird or landed proprietor in the shire of Renfrew, or, as it was anciently spelled, Arranthrough. He was a man of grave, solemn demeanour, with a look of intense wisdom, which was hardly made good by either his speech or his actions. It was evident that he was desirous of palming himself on a simple world for a man of shining parts, of great penetration and discernment, and profound knowledge. All this he himself firmly believed he was, and this belief imparted to his somewhat saturnine countenance a degree of calm repose, confidence, and self-reliance particularly striking. In person, he was tall and thin, or rather gaunt, with that peculiar conformation of face which has obtained the fancy name of lantern-jawed. His age was about fifty-five. To descend to items: the laird always wore knee-breeches, and never wore braces; so that the natural tendency of the former downwards being thus unchecked, gave free egress to a quantity of linen, which, taking advantage of the liberty, always displayed itself in a voluminous semicircle of white across his midriff. A small, unnecessary exhibition of snuff about the nose completed the tout ensemble of the Laird of Scouthercakes.

We have described Mr Guidyill (we prefer the colloquial to the classical pronunciation of his name) as a small laird, and such he was at the period we take up his history; but it had not been always so with him. He was at one time the owner of a very extensive property; but lawsuit after lawsuit had gradually circumscribed its dimensions, until he found no difficulty in accomplishing that in ten minutes which used to take him a good hour—that is, in walking round his possessions. Yet the laird had still a little left—as much as would carry him through two or three other suits of moderate cost; and this happiness he hoped to enjoy before he died; for, like a spaniel with its master, the more the law flogged him, the more attached he became to the said law.

Just at the particular moment at which we introduce Mr Guidyill to the notice of the reader, he had no legal business whatever on hand—not a single case in any one even of the petty local courts of the district, to say nothing of his great field of action, the Court of Session. It was a predicament he had not been in for twenty years before, and he found it exceedingly irksome and disagreeable; for a dispute with some one or other was necessary, if not to his existence absolutely, at least most certainly to his happiness. The laird's last lawsuit, which was with a neighbouring proprietor regarding the site of a midden or dung-stead, and which, as usual, had gone against him, to the tune of some hundred and eighty pounds, had been brought to a conclusion about a year and a-half before the period we allude to; and, during all that time, the laird had lived contrived to live, we should have said, without a single quarrel with any one on which any pretext for a law-plea could be grounded. Moreover, and what was still more distressing, he was not only without a case at the moment, but without the prospect of one; for he had exhausted all the pugnacity that was in his vicinity. There was not now one left who would "take him up." But better days were in store for the Laird of Scouthercakes—better than he had dared to hope for. One thumping plea, a thorough cleaner out before he died, was the secret wish of his heart, though unavowed even to himself; and in this wish it was permitted him to be gratified.

Now, about the period to which we refer, there came a new tenant to the farm of Skimclean, which farm marched with the remnant of Mr Guidyill's property. For some days after this person, whose name was Drumwhussle, had taken possession of his new farm, the laird kept a sharp look-out on his proceedings, in the hope that he would commit some trespass or other, or perpetrate some encroachment, which would afford standing-room for a quarrel; but, to the great disappointment of our amateur lawyer, no such occurrence took place. In no single thing did, or would, Skimclean offend. No; Skimclean would not throw even a stick on his neighbour's grounds, of whose exact lines of demarcation he seemed to have a most provokingly accurate knowledge. Losing all hope of his new neighbour's giving any offence spontaneously—that is, through ignorance, or involuntarily, or purposely, or in any way—Scouthercakes determined on visiting him, in the desperate expectation that an acquaintanceship might throw up something to quarrel with—that familiarity might breed, not contempt, but dislike—that friendship might give rise to enmity. This conduct of the laird's certainly seems at first sight paradoxical; but a little reflection, especially if accompanied also by a little experience of the world, will show that it was not quite so absurd or so contradictory as it seems. On the contrary, such reflections and experience would discover, in the laird's intended proceeding, a good deal of philosophy, and a very considerable knowledge of human nature. Be this as it may, Mr Guidyill determined on paying his new neighbour, Skimclean, a visit; and this determination he forthwith executed. The latter, whom he had never had the pleasure of seeing before, he found to be a little, lively, volatile person, of great volubility of speech; like himself, a prodigious snuffer; and like himself, too, possessed of a very comfortable opinion of his own knowledge and abilities. In another and still more remarkable point in character they resembled each other closely. This last resemblance involved a rather singular and certainly curious coincidence between the dispositions of the two worthies, and one which the laird, when he discovered it, viewed with a very strange mixture of feelings. What these were, and what was their cause, will be best left to appear in the progress of our narrative.

On Mr Guidyill's having introduced himself to his new neighbour, and after a little desultory conversation on various subjects had taken place, but chiefly on the merits and demerits of the lands of Skimclean—

"Mr Drumwhussle," said the laird, planting his stick in the ground before him, and looking with deep interest on some trees that grew in front of Skimclean's house, "it's my opinion that ye ocht to cut down thae sticks. They shut oot yer licht terribly, man, and tak up a great deal o' valuable grun."

"Ah, ha, laird, catch me there," replied Drumwhussle, with a knowing laugh. "The trees do a' the mischief ye say; but, do ye no ken, that, being but a tenant, I hae nae richt to cut them, my power being only owre the surface, and that, if I did cut them, I wad be liable to an action o' damages by the laird, wha wad inevitably recover accordin to law. A' tacks, ye ken, are granted, 'propter koorum et kultoorum'[4] (ye'll perceive the Latin), an' the fellin o' trees, without consent o' the proprietor, wad be a direck violation. Na, na, I ken better how to keep my feet out o' thae law traps than that, laird."

We wish we could describe the look of amazement with which the laird listened to this extraordinary outpouring of law and Latin—this flourishing of his own weapons in his face. He was perfectly confounded with it. It was a thing so wholly unexpected and unlooked for, to meet with so accomplished a lawyer as Drumwhussle seemed to be in one of his own class and standing, that it was some time before he could say another word on any subject whatever. He was evidently struck with a feeling of mingled respect and awe for his learned neighbour, who, he perceived, had decidedly the advantage of him in the article, Latin—this being a language with which the laird was not at all conversant. Another consideration occurred to the laird, even in the moment of his first surprise. This was, that, should a difference arise between them, he had found in his new neighbour a foeman worthy of his steel; and that, should they remain friends, they might be of service to each other as legal advisers.

In the meantime, the "interlockitor," as the laird would have called the series of legal sentiments which Drumwhussle had just delivered, was far beyond the reach of his comprehension. He did not understand a word of it, and neither could anybody else, we suspect; but, careful of exposing his ignorance—

"Aweel, Skimclean," he said, looking very gravely, "I'm no sure but ye're richt, and it may be as weel, after a', to let the trees stan whar they are; but there's a bit land there," pointing to a patch of about an acre and a-half, which lay low on the side of a small stream, "that I wadna advise ye to crap; for there's no a year that it's no three months under water."

"Ah ha, laird, but that's a pluskum,"[5] replied the vivacious and acute Skimclean; "a case whar the owner o' the land is liable to the extent, at ony rate, o' remittin a year's rent. It's a pluskum, laird—that's Latin," added Skimclean, who always gave such intimation to his auditors when he employed that language; from a shrewd suspicion, probably, that it would not otherwise be readily recognised in the very peculiar shape in which he presented it.

"Aweel, I daur say ye're no far wrang there either," replied the laird, now perfectly overwhelmed with the legal knowledge of his new neighbour. "I daur say ye're no far wrang there either, but it's best to be cowshous;" and, having delivered himself of this safe and general sentiment, the laird looked wiser than ever, and shook his head with an air of great intelligence. Hitherto, Scouthercakes, as the reader will have observed, had made no display of his legal acquirements. He had been too much taken aback by the sudden and unexpected effulgence of those of Skimclean; but it was by no means his intention to allow the latter to remain in ignorance of them. Availing himself of an early opportunity, he discharged a volley of law terms at Skimclean, in which the words Rejoinder, Multiplepoinding, Reclaimer, and, above all, the phrase, "Revise the Condescendence," sounded most audibly; the latter being an especial favourite of the laird's, who used it on all occasions, on all matters indifferently, and, as everybody but himself thought, almost always in the most absurdly inappropriate cases and circumstances.

The effect on Skimclean, again, of the discovery of the laird's legal knowledge was pretty similar to that which the latter had experienced in similar circumstances, only that there was in the case of Drumwhussle a secret feeling of superiority over the laird, in the matter of intimacy with the science of the law. He, in short, considered the laird's knowledge respectable, but his own considerably more so. Now, the laird also, after his first surprise at his neighbour's acquirements had worn off a little, began to think Skimclean fully more apt and ready than profound. He considered his own depth, on the whole, rather greater. Each, thus, while certainly honouring the legal knowledge of his neighbour, enjoyed, at the same time, the comfortable conviction that he was the superior man.

Having thus come to an understanding regarding each other's character, and this having given rise to a friendly feeling on both sides, their interview terminated in Drumwhussle inviting his new acquaintance into the house, to partake of a little refreshment—an invitation which the latter graciously accepted; looking forward to a feast of quiet, deliberate legal discussion with his learned friend.

On entering the house—indeed, previous to entering it—Mr Guidyill was struck with the singular neatness and good order which everywhere prevailed—a point on which his inviter prided himself, and so much pleased was he with it, that he could not refrain from openly expressing his approbation.

"A' accordin to law, Skimclean," he said, looking around him with a complimentary air of satisfaction; "a' accordin to law, I see."

"Ay, ay," replied his host, perfectly understanding the laird's metaphorical laudation, and smiling complacently; "we aye try to keep things in as guid order as possible. I look after everything mysel, and see that a's done as it should be. That's the true way, laird."

"Nae doot o't, nae doot o't," said the latter. "Naething like revisin the condescendence, Skimclean—eh!" he added, with an intelligent look.

"Right there, laird," replied Drumwhussle, "as honest Donald Quirkum, the writer, ance said to me whan I consulted him anent a point o' law, in the case o' Drumwhussle versus Camlachie. 'Drumwhussle,' said he, 'Drumwhussle'——But I'll tell ye a' about it presently, laird," said Skimclean, suddenly interrupting himself, to perform the duties of hospitality towards his guest; "step ben, step ben." And he ushered the laird into a little sitting-room in the back part of the house.

"Now, laird, what wull ye drink?" inquired Drumwhussle. "Wull ye tak a drap o' cauld straik, or wad ye hae ony objection to a warm browst?"

"Weel, if equally convenient, I'll vote for the toddy," replied the laird.

"I second the motion," said Skimclean, now proceeding to a closet in a corner of the room, from which he shortly emerged with his arms and hands loaded with bottles, glasses, jugs, and decanters, and all the other paraphernalia requisite for the occasion. These arranged on the table, flanked by an enormous cheese, and hot water supplied from the kitchen, Drumwhussle commenced brewing secundum artem; and having produced the desiderated beverage, handed over half a glass to the laird, for his opinion as to its merits. The laird tasted, gave a short suffocating cough, and, speaking at such intervals as the stifling affection afforded—

"Re-revise the—the con-condescendence, Skimclean. Revise the—the condescendence. It's far owre strong."

"It micht hae a waur faut, laird," replied Drumwhussle, "an' it's ane that's easy mended," he added, filling up the jug with hot water. "Taste him now, laird."

"Accordin to law," replied the other, emphatically, after smacking off the half-glass submitted to him. "Accordin to law at a' points as accords. Just the thing now, Skimclean."

The liquor thus approved of was immediately subjected to the process of consumption, which its merits were so well calculated to insure for it, and this at such a rate that the consumers very soon began to exhibit, in their own persons, rather curious specimens of the effect of strong drink on the animal economy. They began to speak thick and fast, and both at the same time; their conversation chiefly turning on the various actions and law proceedings in which they had from time to time been engaged.

It was during this confabulation that Skimclean informed his guest of a certain law-plea in which he was at the moment involved, and in which he was ably supported by the astute Donald Quirkum, already alluded to.

"The case, ye see," said Skimclean, "the case, ye see, my frien, is jist this:—In the place whar I was last, Craignockan, ane o' my laddies had a bit gemm cock, a bit steeve fechtin wee beastie, yea, a deevil o' a cratur. Aweel, ye see, it happened that our neebor the schulemaster had anither, o' whilk he was sae proud that he seemed to think mair o't than o' his wife. It was beyond a' doot a wonderfu' bird. His son brought it—so at least he said—frae Sumatra, in the East Indies—something o' the jungle-cock, or Jago cock species, gawlus giganteus[6] ye ken—ye'll maybe no understand the Latin."

"Deel an' it may choke ye, as the gallows has dune mony a better man!" interrupted the laird. "Purge the record o' a' bad Latin! Ha! ha! Drumwhussle, I ken guid Latin frae dog-Latin or cock Latin, just as weel as ye do. Purge the record, man, I say."

"Let me alane, man," replied Drumwhussle, impatiently; "ye interrupt my story wi' your scraps o' misapplied learning. You should never insinuate an ill motive in English. Do ye no ken lawyers never use the words 'bad intention' in designating vice: they veil a' enormities in Latin—for the craturs are sae pure an' delicate-minded that they couldna bear the expression o' man's frailties in the vulgar tongue; maelice prepense—maelice prepense is the term you should hae used, man. But letten that slip gang—for I excuse ignorance whar knowledge is so difficult o' attainment—the cocks were brought face to face, an', like true lawyers, they closed—no the record, for the craturs despised a' condescendence o' grievances; they fought upon the mere libel an' defence: a craw on each side vivy vocey; and till't they gaed wi' a pluck seldom witnessed out o' the Parliament House. The upshot may be easily predicted: weight, substance prevailed just as in the courts o' justice—the 'midden,' a pound heavier than the Sumatra jungle-cock, killed his opponent in five minutes; and Jock, lifting up the victor, that crew a noble triumph in his arms, hurried awa, an' left the dominie's cock lying a mere kappit mortum—like an interlocutor that's allowed to become feenal because nae man can mak either head or tail o't—on the ground, a corp, or, as Quirkum ca'ed it, a corpus delichtfu."[7]

"Capital, capital," cried the laird. "We'll hae a plea, I hope, on the ground o' damage. A better case for 'plucking' never came before the fifteen."

"Ay, and that wi' a vengeance," resumed Drumwhussle. "Though the cock's plea was feenal, a sleeping or dead case, as lawyers ken, may produce twenty living anes. The dominie valued his cock at the price o' twenty guineas; he was to have been the pawter o' a new breed (he said) that he intended to produce in Scotland; an' the expense o' bringing him frae Sumatra alane was at least the half o' that sum. Like a sturdy litigant—gemm to the heels—I resisted the demand o' damage, an' took my ground on the instant—alleging preemo, that the cocks fought sowy sponty;[8] and, secundo, that the slaughtered cock was a mere 'blue ginger;' and thus throwing the onus o' proving the contrary on the back o' the dominie."

"A noble device," shouted the laird; "famous pleas in law. Even Corporal Jooris[9] himsel could na hae ta'en his position better. But proceed, proceed. I'm deein to hear the issue. Oh, that that plea had been mine! The chancellor's wig wad hae bobbit owre't; for they say there's nae stoure in it, as in the mealy, muddy scratches in our Parliament House. Come awa wi' the soul-stirring intelligence."

"Ay, an' pouch-stirring too," rejoined Drumwhussle. "Weel, the dominie was as guid gemm as his cock, an' awa he hied to Paisley, an' put the case into the hands o' that clever deevil o' a cratur Jobbit, who, instanter, sent me a summons, containing a preamble o' nineteen pages, an' a conclusion o' three—seventy-five words a-page, according to my calculation. I declare the screed made my vera een reel, it was sae masterfully Latineezed, turned, interwoven, an' crammed wi' 'saids' and 'foresaids.' It set forth the said dominie as 'greeting' to the sheriff for the loss o' his cock—a maist cunning an' loyal device o' Jobbit's, wha dootless had an ee to the case going before the depute, an' then it went on to narrate" (Drumwhussle drew out a copy of the summons) "that 'the complainer had commissioned the said bird or cock—along with a female—which was of the species gallus giganteus, from the island of Sumatra, where it is known by the natives of that island by the scientific, or vulgar, or common appellative of ayam bankiva—all as appeareth from Temmink's History of Cocks—and that the complainer's intention or object, in so commissioning the said birds from that distant region, was, that he might introduce into our country the breed, which was supposed to be more full of blood and spirit than our own breed of poultry, and had, moreover, the advantage of producing more eggs—insomuch as the female laid all the year through, while the flesh was whiter and more highly-flavoured, approaching, in this respect, to that of the pheasant; that the expense of bringing the said birds from Sumatra was ten guineas sterling; that the complainer had, by dint of great ingenuity and perseverance, got the said birds naturalised as completely as if they had been natural-born subjects of this realm, and was on the very eve of reaping the fruits of his patriotic labours—the fame of a breeder of a new species of poultry, and the emoluments of a vender or seller of the same to the farmers and bird-fanciers of the kingdom—when David Drumwhussle, tenant of Craignockan, actuated by malice prepense, or by envy, or by fear that his own breed of poultry (of the common or dunghill species) would be displaced and superseded by the other and superior kind, or by some other motive or feeling, implying dolus, did stir up and excite his son, John Drumwhussle, for whose acts and deeds—being a minor, and not forisfamiliated—he was liable, to bring—vi aut clam—his the said David Drumwhussle's cock, and his the said complainer's, into a pugnacious attitude and position, and to instigate the same to mortal combat, whereby the said cocks having engaged secundum suam naturam in a lethal duellum, did fight till his, the complainer's, was left in the field dead; that the primary consequence of this premeditated act was, that the female was rendered mateless, unproductive, and useless, insomuch as her cohabitation and society with cocks of this country would never be the means of producing the species of gallus giganteus; the secondary, that the complainer was deprived of a source of legitimate gain; and the tertiary, that the country of Great Britain lost the superlative advantage of an improved breed of poultry.' Thae are the premises."

"An' fine premises they are," replied Guidyill. "Jobbit never laid an egg mair certain o' producin a weel-feathered bird for the lawyers."

"Ye're richt, laird, sae far," replied Drumwhussle; "but ye've yet to learn that it had twa yolks—twa law-pleas cam out o't. But ye'll hear. I needna read the conclusion—a' in the ordinary form, ye ken:—therefore it ought and should be found and declared, and so forth; and that I should be decerned to pay twenty guineas as the value of the cock, and damages sustained for the loss of his expected progeny."

"Weel, weel, the defences, the defences," cried the laird, in eager expectation. "Ye wad state the defence on the merits first, I fancy, an' then the preliminary ane."

"The cart afore the horse, ye fule!" answered Drumwhussle, chuckling. "I despised a' dilatory pleas, man: I cam to the marrow at ance, an' instructed my agent, Mr Kirkham, or Quirkum, as he is generally styled, for his exquisite adroitness an' cleverness, to use the very highest flicht o' his inventive fancy—to consult Erskine an' Stair, an' even Corporal Jooris—to dive into the Roman Pawndecs[10]—the deegest—the discreets—every authority, in fack, he could think o'—no forgetting Cock on Littletun; and send me a draft o' the defences siny mory.[11] He did so, and oh, such a beautiful invention! They set forth, as a kind o' flourish afore the real tug o' the tournay, that the libel was a big lee frae beginning to end; that the pursuer's cock was, even in his ain showing, an alien cratur, an' no entitled to the richts o' natural-born subjects; that he interfered wi' the queens o' the seraglio o' my winged potentate—making love to them, crawing to them, an' displaying his gaudy wings to them, as if he were lord o' a' the feathered creation; that the defender's cock, acting upon the weel-ascertained richt o' defending conjugal property, slew him, on the strength o' the English case, Jenkins versus Lovelace, where a husband was found justified in taking the life o' ane wha made love to his wife. In the second place, it was denied simpleeciter that the cock was o' the species gawlus giganteus, being a mere 'blue ginger'—worth five shillins—o' the auld breed o' Scotland, whilk cam frae the stock named by the Greek play-writer, Mr Arrantstuffanes, 'the Persian bird.' We thus threw the hail onus proovandy on the back o' the dominie, an', by my faith, he fand the weight o't!"

"A noble defence—jist exactly what I wad hae written," ejaculated Guidyill, in ecstasy. "Weel, ye wad revise the condescendence after that, I fancy?"

"Before it was written, man?" responded Drumwhussle. "Na, na; ye ken little aboot thae things. The dominie was ordered to condescend on what he undertook, and offered to prove in support o' his libel, then we answered, then he revised, then we revised, then he re-revised, then we re-revised, then he made an addition, which we answered by a corresponding addition, equal to a re-re-revision."

"Hurrah!" cried Scouthercakes.

"Then the record was purged, then closed, an' then we set to proving—for the proof was conjunk and confident—wi' a' the spirit o' the cocks themselves. Oh, it was gran' sport! The dominie brought twa witnesses frae Lunnon, to swear to the cock having been brought frae Sumatra; an' I brought frae Dumbarton, where the best cock mains in a' Scotland are fought, twa cock-fanciers wha had seen the dominie's bird, to swear that it was a 'blue ginger;' then there was sic proving, and counter-proving, witness against witness; the dominie's servant swearing to the instigation practised by Jock, my bothie men swearing an aliby; valuators for the dominie fixing ae value, and valuators by me fixing anither, till I fancy there were nae fewer than fifteen witnesses a-side."

"Famous, famous!" cried the laird; "what a glorious main! Never was sic a cocking sin the match in 1684, between Forfarshire and the Loudons. You would be decreetit favourably, beyond a' doubt."

"Mr Guidyill," answered Drumwhussle, taking up his glass, "I was cast in fifteen guineas, an' a' expenses."

"Gran'!" exclaimed the laird—"gran'! Jist as bonny a plea as a man could wish. Ye protested an' appealed."

"I gaed straught to my agent, Quirkum," continued Skimclean, "and stated the case to him, expressin, at the same time, my determination no to submit to the iniquitous decision o' the sheriff. Aweel, what did Mr Quirkum say or do, think ye, on my expressin mysel this way? He never spak, but, gruppin me by the haun, looked in my face, an', after a minnit, said, 'Drumwhussle, ye're a man o' spirit, an' I honour ye for't. Ye've just now come oot wi' sentiments that do ye the highest credit. I'll manage your case for ye, Drumwhussle. I'll let the dominie hear such a cock crawin as he never heard in his life before.' Aweel, ye see, we had the cock flappin his wings in the Court of Session in a jiffy. And as bonny a case it was, so Mr Quirkum said, as ever he had the haundlin o' in his life. Seemly in a' its bearins, he said, and as clean's a leek on our side, a' as ticht an' richt as legal thack and rape could mak it. But deil may care—wad ye believe it?—it was gien against us here, too, cast wi' a' expenses. There was a dish o' cockyleeky for ye, laird—cast wi' a' expenses!—an' they war nae trifle, as ye may weel believe; for yon lawyer folk dinna live on muslin kail."

The laird shook his head with a concurring emphasis, whose force of expression was greatly increased by certain pungent reminiscences of his own disbursements in this way.

"Aweel, there we are, ye see," continued Drumwhussle; "but we're no beat yet. I'll hae't to the House o' Lords, laird, if I should pawn my coat for't." And he struck the table with his fist, in token of his high determination, till jugs and glasses rang again.

Delighted with his host's beautiful spirit of litigation, the laird, in a corresponding fit of enthusiasm, got up from his seat with a full bumper in one hand, and, extending the other across the table towards Skimclean—

"Your haun, Drumwhussle," he said, briefly, but with great emphasis. "Your haun, my frien. I honour ye—I respeck ye for thae sentiments." Saying this, he grasped the extended hand of his host, who had risen to meet his advances, shook it cordially, tossed off the contents of his uplifted glass to his success in his law-plea, and concluded with a piece of advice.

"Stick till't, Skimclean," he said—"stick till't as lang's there's a button on your coat. That's my way. Kittle them up wi' duplies, and triplies, and monyplies, and a' the plies that's o' them—if thae papers are allowed in the Hoose o' Lords—an', if they stir a fit, nail them wi' a rejoinder and dilatory defences. Gie them't het, Skimclean. Gie them't het; an' if a' winna do, sweep your opponent clean oot o' the court wi' a multiplepoinding an' infeftment. That's the legal coorse, accordin to the new form o' process—no Mr Eevory's, or Mr Berridges, or the like o' thae auld forms—quite oot o' date noo."

"Jist my ain notion o' things preceesely, laird," replied Drumwhussle. "Although I say't that shouldna say't, I maybe ken law as weel as some that hae mair pretensions. A' the law in the country, laird, 's no to be fan' under puthered weegs." (This with a look of great complacency.) "My lair's maybe nae great things, but my law's guid. I'll haud up my face to that ony day. An' I'm thinkin, laird, ye ken twa or three things in that way yersel."

"I should," replied the laird, with a knowing smile.

"But ye'll never hae been in the Court o' Session, maybe," said Skimclean.

"Revise the condescendence there, Drumwhussle," replied the laird. "A score o' times at the least. It wad hae been a bonny business, indeed, if I had never had a case in the Court o' Session. A man wad hae but sma' pretension to respeck, in my opinion, that hadna been there wi' half-a-dizzen."

We here take the liberty of interrupting, for a time, the colloquy of Skimclean and his guest, for the purpose of saying, that, although we have given, as we imagine, a pretty correct account of their conversation on the occasion to which our story refers, we have by no means done equal justice to the subject of their potations. On this point we have said little or nothing, an omission which we beg now to supply, by stating most explicitly, that, during the whole time they were engaged in exchanging the sentiments which we have just recorded, they had been also unremitting in their attention to the toddy jug, which had three several times sank to the dregs under their persevering devotions. It is not necessary to add, we should suppose, that this feat was not performed with impunity, nor that it had the effect of considerably deranging the faculties of the two lawyers. All this will be presumed—and, if it be not presumed, let it be so immediately; for it was the fact.

Both Skimclean and the laird were now in a state of great felicity and personal comfort. They swore eternal friendship to each other at least fifty times over, and on each occasion sealed their amiable protestations by a cordial shaking of hands. But it was not love alone they expressed for each other. There was respect too, the most profound respect for each other's abilities and legal knowledge, declared in no very measured terms. In truth, if their own statements on this subject could have been credited, no two lawyers had ever got together who made so near an approach to Coke and Lyttleton. At an advanced period of the evening, and just after the fourth jug had been put upon active service, Skimclean again adverted to his famous game-cock case, and, having mentioned that he was going to Paisley on the following day, to call on Quirkum, on the subject of carrying the said case to the House of Lords, asked the laird if he would have any objection to go along with him and assist in the consultation which would then and there take place.

"It wad be a great favour, laird," said Skimclean; "for ye ken twa heads are better than ane, and three than twa, an', moreover, laird, to tell a truth, there's twa or three points o' law that I'm no jist sure that Mr Quirkum's clean up to, an' I wad like a man o' your knowledge to be present. I dinna ken but you an' me, laird, wad bother the best o' them."

The laird smiled slightly but complacently at this conjunct compliment, and modestly said that he had never seen the "law-wir yet that he couldna bambouzle. An' as to gaun in wi' ye the morn to Paisley, Skimclean," he added, "that I'll do wi' great pleasure." This was said, most assuredly, in all sincerity; for, next to the happiness of having a plea of his own, was that of being allowed to have what may be called a handling of the pleas of others; especially if they had a dash of the spirit of litigation in them, and gave promise of a protracted and obstinate fight; and this the laird saw, with intuitive tact, was the character of Skimclean's.

This matter then settled, the two worthies proceeded to the discussion of various other subjects, until the laird, finding that he could hold out no longer, suggested, in the midst of a series of violent hiccups, that they should "clo-close the record, and re-re-revise the condescendence." Saying this, the laird got up to his feet, leaned his hands upon the table, and as he swung backwards and forwards in this attitude, gazed on his friend opposite with a look of drunken gravity. "We maun clo-clo-close the record," he repeated, "and re-re-revise the condescendence."

"That's no accordin to the form o' process, laird," replied Skimclean, making an effort, but an unavailing one, to get up also to his feet. "That's no accordin to form, laird," he said; and now making a virtue of necessity, by throwing himself back in the chair which he found he could not conveniently leave.

"Revise the condescendence, Skimclean," rejoined the laird, after a pause, during which he had been employed in an attempt to collect his scattered senses; an operation which was accompanied by sundry odd contortions of countenance, especially a strange working of the lips. "I say, revise the condescendence, Skimclean. It's baith accordin to law an' to form. Ye're no gaun to instruck me, I houp, in a law process."

"Instruck or no instruck," replied Drumwhussle, with great confidence of manner, "ye're as far wrang as ever Maggy Low was, when you speak first o' closin the record an' then o' revisin the condescendence. Onybody that has ony law in them at a' kens that the revisin o' a condescendence taks place before the closin o' the record, an' no after't."

"Before or after't, it's guid law," said the laird, doggedly, and still rocking to and fro, as he leaned on the table, and continued gazing with lacklustre eye in the face of his learned brother opposite. "It's guid law, I'll uphaud; an' it's my opinion, Skimclean—an' I'll just tell ye't to your face—that for a' your blether o' Latin, I dinna think ye hae a' the law ye pretend to. The thorough knowledge is no in ye. That's my opinion."

The reply to this sneer at Skimclean's legal acquirements was of as summary and expressive a nature as can well be imagined. It was the contents of a jug—said contents being somewhere about a quart of boiling hot water—discharged with great force and dexterity full in the face of the "soothless insulter," accompanied by the appropriate injunction—"Tak that, ye auld guse; an' if that's no law, it's justice."

"Revise that condescendence," replied the laird, making a tremendous effort to seize his antagonist across the table, in which effort the said table instantly went over with a tremendous crash, sending every individual article that it had supported into a thousand pieces. In the midst of the wreck and ruin thus occasioned lay the prostrate person of the laird, who had naturally gone down with the table, and who now, as we have said, lay floundering amongst the debris, composed of broken bottles, jugs, and glasses, with which the floor was covered.

"A clear case o' damages," shouted Skimclean.

"Revise the condescendence in that partikler," said the laird, rising to his feet, and exhibiting sundry bleeding scars on his lugubrious countenance. "That cock 'll no fecht, Drumwhussle. The case is no guid in law. It wadna stan a hoast in the Court o' Session."

"Wull that stan, then?" exclaimed Skimclean, making a lounge at the laird's face with his closed fist, which took full effect upon the enemy's left eye.

"I maun mak a rejoinder to that," said the laird, now attacking his host in turn, and with such effect, as finally to floor him, being, although the older, by much the stronger man—"I maun mak a rejoinder to that," he said, first striking at, and then grappling, his antagonist, when a deadly struggle ensued, which ended in both coming to the floor with an appalling thud.

The laird, although taken from his feet, still maintained his physical superiority by keeping the foe under him. He was uppermost, and uppermost he determined to remain; and this triumphant position he further secured himself in by seizing Skimclean by the neckcloth, and, by the vigour of his hold, subjecting him to a fac-simile of the process of strangulation.

"What think ye o' my law, noo, ye puir empty pretender?" said the laird, as he gave the other twist to Drumwhussle's neckcloth—"you and yer trash o' Latin, that ye ken nae mair aboot, I believe, than a cow kens about a steam-engine."

"That's aboot yer ain knowledge o' law, I'm thinkin," replied Skimclean, chokingly, but boldly; and in gallant defiance of his present adverse circumstances. "I wad match ony coo I hae in my byre against ye at a defeeckwalt point o' law."

"Do ye fin' that?" said the laird, twisting Drumwhussle's neckcloth with increasing ferocity. "There's law for ye. There's the strong arm o' the law for ye. Doin summary justice on an ignorant, pretendin idowit."

How or in what way this fierce struggle between the two lawyers would have terminated, we cannot tell, as it was not permitted to attain its own natural conclusion. It was interrupted. At the moment that the laird had renewed his efforts on Skimclean's neckcloth, which the reader will observe was doing the duty of a bowstring, the wife of the latter rushed into the apartment, exclaiming—

"The Lord hae a care o' me! what's this o't?—what's this o't? What are ye fechtin aboot, ye auld fules?"

"A case o' hamesookin, Jenny—a decided case o' hamesookin," shouted Skimclean. "A man attacked an' abused in his ain hoose. That's hamesookin, an' severely punishable by law."

"Tuts, confound yer law?—mind reason and common sense," said Skimclean's wife, seizing the laird by the coattails, and dragging him off her prostrate husband, of whose penchant for law she had long been perfectly sick. "Mind reason an' common sense, an' let alane law to them it belangs to."

Whether it was that the combatants had expended all the present pugnacity of their natures in the contest which had just been brought to a close, or that the soft tones of Mrs Drumwhussle's voice had suddenly allayed their ire, we know not; but certain it is, that the faces of both the lawyers exhibited, all at once, and at the same instant, a trait of amiable relaxation, indicative of a return of friendly feeling, together with something like a sense of regret, and perhaps shame for what had passed. It was then, under this change of sentiment, that Skimclean replied, laughingly, to his wife—

"Weel, weel, gudewife, if the laird here's willin, we'll close the record, an' let byganes be byganes."

"Wi' a' my heart," said the former; "for it's a case that'll no stan law. Sae we'll just revise the condescendence, an' tak better care for time to come. This wark's no accordin to law."

"Neither law, nor reason, nor sense," said Mrs Drumwhussle, who was a rattling, but good-natured, motherly sort of woman. "Ye're jist a pair o' auld fules—that's what ye are. Noo, laird," she continued, as she turned round to that worthy—who presented rather an odd spectacle; his person exhibiting, at this moment, a strange combination of ludicrous points—extreme tallness, extreme thinness, extreme drunkenness, extreme snuffiness, if we may use the expression, and a countenance marked and mangled in a manner that was absolutely hideous to look upon, although the application of a little simple water would have shown that the said countenance was not, after all, very seriously damaged—"noo, laird," said Mrs Drumwhussle, laying her hand kindly on the shoulder of her husband's guest, "ye'll jist stap awa hame, like a guid honest man as ye are, an' you an' the gudeman 'll meet the morn, whan ye're baith yersels, an' ye'll baith be as guid freens as ever—maybe a hantle better; for I've kent folk that never could understan ane anither till they had a guid fecht."

To the general tone of this mediatory interference, neither Skimclean nor the laird offered any objection. Nay, as we have already shown, it met with their decided approbation; but there was one clause in it, as they themselves would have called it, which both peremptorily resented. This was the insinuation that they were tipsy.

"Revise that part o' the condescendence, Mrs Drumwhussle," said the laird, in allusion to the said insinuation. "I could discuss a point o' law as weel as ever I did in my life. I'm as soun's a bell, woman."

"A' ticht an' richt, laird. We're baith that," said Skimclean, staggering towards his guest. "For my pairt, I never was better in my life. Never mair correck. Jenny, ye're wrang—clean wrang, I'm perfectly compous."

"Aweel, it's perfectly possible," replied the latter, laughing; "but I canna be far wrang in advising the laird here to stap his wa's hame, an' you, Davie, to slip to yer bed."

"Ou, no, no, ye're no wrang there," said both the lawyers together; and in evident satisfaction with the circumstance of Mr Drumwhussle's having deserted the charge of inebriety, and founding upon other grounds—"ye're no wrang there," repeated the laird; "for it's gettin late, an' my road's nane o' the straughtest."

Having been provided with his hat and stick, and an old tartan cloak, which was his constant companion in all his wanderings, the laird now commenced his retreat out of the house, and had gained the outer door, when his host shouted after him—

"Mind the consultation, laird—mind yer promise o' gaun to Paisley wi' me the morn."

"I'll revise that condescendence, and decern as accords," replied the laird, turning half round, to deliver himself of this mystical response. Then, resuming his progress, he was soon quit of the house, but not of the premises altogether, as was made manifest by a certain awkward interruption he met with before he had gone fifty yards. This was by a huge watch-dog, within the reach of whose chain one of the laird's lee lurches had brought him. Availing himself of the tempting advantage, the dog bolted, with a growl like that of a tiger, out of his wooden tenement, and, in a twinkling had the laird fast by the cloak, at which he commenced tugging with a violence which all its owner's efforts to counteract, by dragging himself in an opposite direction, could not overcome. Finding his exertions this way vain, and that a continuance of them would only insure the dissolution of his favourite outer garment, the laird turned upon his enemy, and, making some hits at him with his stick—"Desert the diet, ye brute; an' bring yer action in a regular form, an' accordin to law," he exclaimed, abruptly; and, by a dexterous movement, avoiding a snap at his leg, which the dog at this moment made—"Tak yer mittimus," he said, discharging another violent blow at the animal, which, however, had only the effect of increasing the latter's ferocity; for the dog now fairly leaped on his back, and seizing him by the neck of the coat behind, laid him, in an instant, prostrate in the mud. Having thus got the laird down, the dog, without offering him further injury, planted a fore-leg on either side of him, and, with his muzzle within half-an-inch of his face, commenced a series of growls, "not loud, but deep," that indicated anything but a friendly feeling towards his victim.

Even in these circumstances, however, the laird's deep sense of the propriety of proceeding strictly "according to law" in all cases did not desert him. Looking steadily at the dog, he thus addressed him, in a clear, loud voice, imitating, as nearly as he could, the tones of a court crier:—

"I, John Guidyill, Laird o' Scouthercakes, summon, warn, and charge you, Skimclean's dug, to compear before His Majesty's justices o' the peace for the shire o' Renfrew, within their ordinary court-place, in Paisley, upon the 12th day o' October, 1817, at eleven o'clock forenoon, to answer, at the instance o' the above-designed Laird o' Scouthercakes, for an illegal assault made on the said laird's person, on the nicht o' the 2d day o' October, in the aforesaid year, or in the month o' September preceding, or the month o' November following. This I do on the 2d day o' October, one thoosan aucht hunner an' seventeen years, with certification as effeirs. John Guidyill.—There, noo, ye're regularly ceeted," added the laird; "sae desert the diet for the present; an' see that ye mak punctual compearance in the hoor o' cause."

Having thus delivered himself, the laird made another violent effort to free himself from his captor, and to regain his feet. But, finding this vain, he commenced a series of shouts for assistance, that had the effect of bringing Mrs Drumwhussle and a formidable body of her retainers to the rescue. By the aid of this friendly detachment, the laird was immediately relieved from his perilous situation. On regaining his feet—

"I tak ye a' witnesses," said the laird, "hoo I hae been abused wi' that infernal brute o' yours; an' it's my opinion that I hae a guid case baith against Skimclean an' his dug. If richtly argued, an action o' damages wad lie, in my opinion, against them baith; an' decreet wad follow, accordin to law, decernin the ane to be hanged, an' the ither to be mulcted o' a soum not exceedin fifty puns sterlin, as law directs—that's my opinion o' the case. But I'll revise the condescendence, an' let Skimclean ken the result the morn."

Saying this, the laird gathered his cloak, in which there were now three or four tremendous rents, around him, and stalked, or rather staggered away, on his progress home, which he reached in safety, and without meeting with any further interruption.

Faithful to his promise, and oblivious of all causes of difference with his host of the preceding night—an obliviousness for which a night's sleep and a return to sobriety, co-operating with the irresistible temptation of being permitted to interfere with the latter's law-plea, will sufficiently account—the laird waited, on the following day, on Skimclean, and announced his readiness to accompany him to Paisley, as had been previously arranged between them. Skimclean having, in turn, expressed his sense of the obligation, the two lawyers shortly after set out for the town just named—a distance of from five to six miles, which they beguiled with learned discussions on the various points of law that had come within the range of their respective experiences. On reaching Paisley, our two worthies directed their steps to the residence of Mr Quirkum, whom they luckily found at home. This worthy limb of the law was a stout, burly personage, with a loud voice, and tolerably confident manner, although it was pretty generally alleged that his skill in his profession was by no means very profound. This lack of legal knowledge, however, was compensated by a bold bearing, an unhesitating promptitude of decision, an utter fearlessness in delivering an opinion, whether right or wrong. Such, then, was the gentleman to whom Skimclean introduced the laird, as "an intimate frien, wha kent twa or three things in the law line, an' whom he had jist brocht in to gie him an inklin o' what was gaun on in the gemm-cock case, in the whilk, he bein a near neebor, he took a freinly interest."

"Glad to see your learned friend, Skimclean," said Quirkum, who affected the being a bit of a wag in his own way. "He'll perhaps help us with a little useful advice, which, you know, is always welcome."

And Quirkum rubbed his hands with a sort of professional glee, and chuckled facetiously at his own banter. Not perceiving the irony of the lawyer's remarks, the laird smiled complacently, and said—

"That he didna pretend to ony very great skeel in law matters, although he had had some experience in that way, too. But that he wad be very glad to gie ony hints that micht appear to him, on revisin the condescendence in his frien Skimclean's case, to be likely to be o' service."

"Muckle obliged, I'm sure, laird," said Drumwhussle; "an' sae is my frien Quirkum here, I daresay." Then addressing himself to the latter, "Wad ye be sae guid, noo, as gie oor frein here an inklin o' oor case. I hae explained to him the gruns o' oor action; but ye can let him mair fully into the merits o' the case."

Now, Quirkum, although, as already said, no great lawyer, was by no means destitute of common sense. In fact, he was rather clever in a general sort of way, and this cleverness enabled him to see at once what kind of a character the laird was. Skimclean he knew well before, and according to this knowledge he acted on the present occasion. He rattled over a given quantity of law terms, galloped through two or three varieties of legal processes, and concluded by asking the laird's opinion of what they had done, what they were doing, and what they should do. Confounded with the volubility of Quirkum, of whose oration he did not comprehend one word, and yet unwilling to acknowledge his difficulty, the laird adopted the safe course of merely shaking his head, and looking wise. For some seconds he uttered not a word. At length—

"It seems to me a gey steeve case," he said. "There's twa or three points in't that wad require consideration, an' on the whilk I wadna consider myself jist free to gie an aff-haun opinion. Noo, this bein the case, I'll jist revise the condescendence in my ain mind, an' gie my frien, Skimclean here, the benefit o' the process at anither meetin."

This Quirkum thought pretty well from a man whom he perfectly knew did not understand a word of what he had said; and he knew this, because he had not understood a word of it himself. Not being possessed of this important secret, however, Skimclean thought the laird's remarks highly creditable to his prudence; and, having expressed himself to this effect, concluded by inviting Quirkum and his brother lawyer to adjourn with him to the Brown Cow Inn, to "tak a bit chack o' dinner;" adding facetiously, "that, though law was a very guid thing, it wadna fill the wame."

The laird smiled, and Quirkum laughed outright at the sally, and both at once accepted the invitation by which it was associated. Acceptation was speedily followed by accomplishment. In little more than a quarter-of-an-hour after, the whole three were seated around a comfortably-covered table in a small, snug back-parlour in the Brown Cow Inn. Dinner despatched, tumblers were filled up, and a very pleasant career of talking and drinking commenced, and continued without interruption for somewhere about a couple of hours. At the end of this period, however, a circumstance occurred which somewhat disturbed the quiet sociality of the party. A person, evidently the worse of drink, unceremoniously entered the room, and, seemingly unconscious that he was intruding, deliberately planted himself in a chair directly opposite the laird. It was some seconds before he appeared to recognise any of the party—as, indeed, it was hard he should, for he knew and was known to none of them, but one. This one was our friend Guidyill, and him he knew to his cost; the laird having once defeated him in a law-plea about a certain pathway which passed through the corner of a field on the farmer's property. For the laird, therefore, this man, whose name was Moffat, entertained anything but a friendly feeling. It was, however, some little time before he was aware of his being in the presence of his ancient enemy on the present occasion, the liquor he had swallowed having considerably impaired his powers of discernment. These, however, at length helped him to a knowledge of the fact; and, when they had done so—

"Ho, ho, laird, are ye here?" he exclaimed, with a look and manner in which all the grudge he bore Guidyill was made manifest. "Ony law-pleas in the win' 'enow, laird—eh?"

"Was ye wantin ane?" said the laird, coolly. "I thocht I had gien ye aneugh o' that."

"Maybe ye hae, an' maybe no," replied Moffat. "But there's some things I ken, and some things I dinna. I dinna ken what ye're guid for; and I ken that ye're the biggest aul' rogue in the County o' Renfrew—a litigious, leein, cheatin rascal."

"Revise that condescendence, frien," replied the laird. "Mr Quirkum and Skimclean, I tak ye to witness what that man has said. Defamation o' character as clean's a leek—a thumpin action cut and dry. I tak instruments in your hauns, Mr Quirkum, an' employ you to do the needfu' in this case. Ye baith distinctly heard what was said, an' 'll testify to the fact when ca'ed upon in due coorse o' law."

Both Quirkum and Skimclean at once declared their willingness to do so—the latter from a wish to serve his friend, the former from a wish to serve himself, as he saw in the affair something like the promise of a very tolerable job.

In the meantime, Moffat, rather alarmed at the formal and business-like manner in which his complimentary remarks on the laird's character had been taken up, first endeavoured to back out of the scrape, and, in default of success in this, sneaked out of the room, leaving the laird an infinitely happier man than he had found him; for he was now provided with a most unexceptionable ground for an action-at-law. It was a most unexpected piece of good fortune; chance having done for him in a moment what a long period of anxiety, directed to the same end, had failed to accomplish. It was truly delightful, and the laird was delighted, delighted beyond measure. But, alas! by how frail a tenure is all earthly felicity held! By how frail a thread is life itself suspended! We make the remark, and the sequel illustrates it.

The laird having given instructions on the spot to Quirkum to commence an action immediately against his defamer, the party broke up. The professional member repaired to his own house, and the laird and Skimclean mounted the Greenock coach, which passed within a short distance of their respective residences. Fatal proceedings. The coach was overturned, and the laird, falling on his head, received an injury which, in half-an-hour, proved fatal to him. Skimclean, more fortunate, escaped with some slight bruises. The latter was the first to come to the poor laird's assistance after the vehicle had capsised. He found him lying on his face on the road, bleeding profusely, and apparently insensible. On turning him round, however, and raising him up a little, he opened his eyes, and, recognising Drumwhussle, said, in a slow and scarcely audible tone—"The record's closed wi' me, Skimclean. I hae gotten my mittimus. Fate has decerned against me. It was an irregular summons; but it maun be obeyed, for a' that."

The poor laird was now conveyed to an adjoining house, where he was assiduously attended by his friend, Skimclean, to whom his last request was, that he would consult Quirkum, and see whether it would not be competent for him, Skimclean, to carry on the action against Moffat after his own decease. Shortly after making this request, the poor laird sank into a state of insensibility; and, just before he expired, having lain for some time previously without moving, scarcely breathing, he began muttering, evidently in delirium, something which the bystanders could not make out. Skimclean stooped down to catch the words. They were quivering on his lip, and proved to be, "Clo-clo-close the Record."

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THE PROFESSOR'S TALES.

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FAMILY INCIDENTS.

There is a beautiful glen in Dumfries-shire, which I would willingly point out to any as the very beau-ideal of all glens whatever. It is, in fact, entirely surrounded by high grounds, rising ultimately, towards the north in particular, into hills, or, more properly speaking, mountains, making part of the Queensberry range. In the centre of this glen, or vale, there is a round and conical green eminence, around which a small mountain-stream winds and wanders, as if unwilling to encounter the tossings and turmoil of the linn and precipitous course beneath. I could never behold, or even think, of this snug quietude in the bosom of unadulterated nature, without, at the same time, considering it as emblematic, in a striking degree, of man's experience in life. In infancy and youth all is snug, sunny, and peaceful as this little sheltered stream; but the linns and precipices of after-life assimilate but too closely to the foam, and tossing, and tumbling of the passage beneath. On the summit of that grassy mound, there once stood a thatched cottage, with which my story is connected.

It was evening, or rather twilight, or, as emphatically expressed in Scottish dialect, it was the "gloaming," when Janet Smith, a poor widow woman, sat in her own doorway—

"E'en drawing out a thread wi' little din,
And beaking her auld limbs afore the sun."

A large grey cat occupied the other side of the passage, and a few hens, with the necessary accompaniment, clucked and chuckled, and crowed around. Janet sat there in her solitude, an old, infirm, and comparatively helpless creature; but she was wonderfully contented and happy. Her own industry supplied her little wants; and she was protected, in a free house and kail-yard, by Sir Thomas Kirkpatrick, the princely and humane laird of Closeburn. The wheel had just ceased its revolution, and her spectacles had just been assumed, with the view of reading, by the light of a cheery spark, her evening chapter. A cake of oat-bread was toasting at the fire, and a bowl of pure whey was set upon a stool, when Janet's ear was arrested by the approach of a horseman, who with difficulty urged his steed up the somewhat precipitous ascent. The horseman had no sooner attained the doorway, than he alighted, and giving his horse to be held by a little urchin, whom he had beckoned from the wood for this purpose, he was at once in the presence of the aged inmate of this humble dwelling. The scene I shall never forget; for I was, in fact, the little boy whom he had enlisted in his service, by the tempting reward of sixpence. The horseman was tall and well-built; he might be about fifty years of age, and every way wearing the garb and the aspect of a gentleman. Having advanced towards the old woman, he looked steadily and keenly into her face, while his bosom heaved, and the tears began to indicate deep and tender emotion. The old woman seemed petrified with astonishment, and fell back into her arm-chair, as if some one had rudely pushed her down into it. At last, old Janet found utterance in these words, pronounced in a quavering and almost inarticulate voice, "In the name of God, who or what art thou?" These words, however, had not been pronounced, when the stranger had already dropped down on his knees, and had actually flung himself into the arms of his mother. Yes, of his mother—for so it proved to be, that this was the first meeting betwixt mother and child for the space of upwards of forty years. The old woman's mind seemed for a time bewildered. She endeavoured to clear her eyes, pushed the stranger feebly from her, looked him intensely in the face for an instant, and then, uttering a loud scream, became altogether insensible.

"Oh, what shall I do!" exclaimed the stranger; "what have I done? I have murdered—I have murdered the mother that bore me! Oh, that I had staid at Brownhill inn till morning, and had apprised my poor parent—alas! my only parent—of my approach!"

Whilst he was ejaculating in this manner, the old woman's lips began to resume their usual colour, and she opened her eyes and her arms at once, exclaiming, in an agony of transport—

"My son! oh, my son! My long-lost, long-dead, long-despaired-of son!"

The scene now became more calm and rational. The stranger passed, with his mother, into the humble dwelling. I tied the horse to the door-sneck, and followed, more from curiosity than humanity. The stranger sat down on what he termed his old creepy stool, from which, in days long past, he had taken his porridge. He drew his mother nearer and nearer him, kissed her again and again, and the tears fell fast and full over his manly and withered cheeks; and, ever and anon, as old Janet would eye her tall and manly son, she would exclaim, looking into his face at all the distance which her withered arms could place him—

"Ay, me, an' is that my wee Geordie?"

The facts of Geordie's history I have often listened to with more than boyish interest; for this stranger ultimately took up his abode in a beautiful cottage, built on the spot where his original dwelling stood; and, as I came and went to Closeburn School, Mr George Smith would take me into his parlour, and discourse with me for hour after hour, and day after day, on all the varied incidents of a stirring and eventful life. His father died early, having lost his life by the fall of a tree which he was assisting in cutting down, or felling, as it is termed. George was a first-born, and, indeed, an only child; and the kindness of the laird, with the industry of his mother, combined to rear him into boyhood. Being, however, under no paternal authority, he became wild and wayward, and, ere he had gained his thirteenth year, he was a greater adept in fishing, orchard-breaking, and cock-fighting, than in Ovid and Virgil. It was his early fortune to become acquainted with an old sailor, who had been in various engagements, particularly in that betwixt Rodney and De Grasse, in the western seas. This sailor, whose name was Bill Wilson, and whose trade in his old age was that of smuggling tea and brandy from the Solway to the Clyde, used to fill his head with adventure, and daring purpose, and successful execution. He had listened, he said, for hours to Bill's account of niggers, and buccaneers, and dare-devils, who fed on gunpowder, and walked, whistling, amidst cannon and musket shots. And then, prize-money, and Plymouth, and fun, and frolic, all night long! The thing was irresistible; so, with a letter in his pocket from Bill to an old comrade in the Isle of Man, then the centre of smuggling, George Smith took a moonlight leave of his mother, and his youthful associates, and the bonny braes of Dunsyette, and was on board a smuggler at Glencaple Key ere day dawned. He was conveyed, in the course of forty-eight hours, to the Isle of Man, and fairly stowed into the warehouse of Dick Davison, in the neighbourhood of the town of Douglas. His first adventure was the landing of a cargo of French brandy in the Bay of Glenluce; but the night was dark and stormy, and the boat upset; and, according to a published account, all in the boat—namely, three souls—had perished. The fact, however, was, that, whilst clinging to the inverted boat, he had been picked up by a West Indian ship from Greenock, which had been driven into the bay by stress of weather, and carried out incontinent, as no land could be made, to the island of Jamaica. In the meantime, Bill Wilson thought proper to get sick, and to die, and to confess the whole truth, with the dreadful catastrophe, to the poor distracted mother.

When George arrived off Kingston, in Jamaica, he resolved upon pushing his way, in one course or another, upon land; so, having bid his captain good-by, and thanked him sincerely for the small trifle of saving his life, he set his foot on shore, almost naked, friendless, penniless. As he entered Kingston, he encountered a runaway steed, which, with a young lady screaming on its back, was plunging forwards, and entirely without control. George, acting on a natural impulse, threw himself in the way of the unruly animal, and, by getting hold of the bridle, at last brought it up; but not without several severe bruises, as he hung betwixt its fore-feet, unable, for want of weight, all at once to check the horse's career. The father of the young lady had now overtaken them; and, having alighted, extricated first his daughter, and then poor George Smith, from their perilous position. The young lady, who had in fact sustained no bodily injury, was loud in praise of him who, by his promptitude and intrepidity, had rescued her, in all probability, from much serious injury, or even from death; and George was immediately invited to accompany the party (for there was a well-mounted servant likewise) home to their villa, in the neighbourhood of the town. As they walked slowly (the young lady refusing to mount anew) up the rising ground to the south of Kingston, George had sufficient time to unfold the particulars of his short but eventful history; and to interest the father not less by his good sense and sagacity, than he had the daughter by his intrepidity and self-devotion. In a word, George found favour in the great man's eyes, and was introduced to the overseer of an extensive plantation, with instructions to have him clothed, employed as a clerk or slave-driver, and properly attended to in all respects. This seeming accident George used always to consider as one of those arrangements of divine Providence, by which good is brought out of seeming evil; and a total destitution of all the necessaries of life was in his case prevented. For three years, George continued to act on these plantations, receiving many acts of kindness from his really humane employer; and waxing into vigorous manhood, without seasoning fever, or any disease whatever. It was Mr Walker's habit (such was the name of his benefactor) to have George up with him to dine every Saturday, when he had renewed opportunities of becoming acquainted with the young lady whom he had rescued; and who was now budding sweetly into the perfect and accomplished woman. The distance in point of wealth, and consequently station (in a country where wealth is the only rank), betwixt George and Miss Walker, kept the eyes of the parent long blind to the actual position of affairs. But true it was, and of verity, that Miss Walker's heart was fairly won, and George's was as fairly lost, without one word on the subject of love having been exchanged on either side. Wonderful, unsearchable passion!—the electric fluid does not more universally penetrate nature herself, than does this passion the whole framework of society; and yet the ethereal agency is not more remote and inscrutable in its workings and doings, than in love—

"Sae, lang ere bonny Mary wist,
Her peace was lost, her heart was won."

It was the employment of Miss Walker, on warm, yet refreshing evenings, to sit in her open verandah or balcony, playing on the harp, and wooing all the sea-breezes with the witchery of sweet sounds. To George Smith, who had never been accustomed to such refined and overpowering entertainment, this performance and exhibition (for what is there in nature so graceful as a fine female hand and arm sweeping the strings of the harp?) was perfect magic. A thousand times, as he sat and gazed, trembling all over, he felt inclined to grasp the fair performer, harp and all, to his bosom; and to squeeze them incontinently into himself. Again and again he has arisen, and partly withdrawn, as one would from a house on fire. Nor was Miss Smith, on her part, insensible to the presence of a youth, uncommonly handsome, who had so early recommended himself to her good graces. Her walks and rides over the plantation were frequent; and she took particular pleasure in observing the progress of that part of her father's property over which George Smith more immediately presided. Her questions and inquiries were truly astonishing; and she seemed as anxious to learn all about the process of cane-cutting and sugar-boiling, as if her own happiness had depended on this knowledge. But George was conscientious; and although loving the "bonny lassie" (as he said) to distraction, he understood it as a crime worse than that of witchcraft—namely, of ingratitude—to disclose his feelings. For some months, matters were in this position—the young lady's health manifestly suffering, and George evidently visited by strange and unaccountable fits of silence and mental absence. The overseer, who happened to be more quick-sighted than even the father, from repeated observations, guessed at the truth; and, thinking it his duty, immediately apprised Mr Walker of his suspicions. As Mary had been destined for some time to another—to a neighbouring planter, whose property was adjoining to that of Mr Walker—steps were immediately devised to prevent the lovers from coming to any more definite understanding on the subject; and, one night, when George had just fallen asleep, after having penned a few lines to "Mary, flower of sweetest hue," &c., he was forcibly seized upon, manacled, and carried on board a ship, which was lying at some distance from the harbour. By daylight the vessel was under weigh, and, ere noon, not a blue hill of Jamaica could be seen from the deck of His Majesty's ship Spitfire. It was needless to remonstrate or grumble—his fate, and the cause of it, were but too manifest; and he almost felt inclined to justify an act, which at once put it out of his power to prove ungrateful to so kind a benefactor. Still, still the bright idea of Mary haunted his imagination, and would not depart from his heart.

In this frigate of forty-four guns, there was a countryman, and even countryman of his own; who, having more recently left the sweet banks of the silver Nith, was enabled to give him more recent information respecting affairs in Drumfries-shire; and from him he learned that his poor mother's heart had broken, and that she was reported to have died a few days before he had left the place. This distressed George exceedingly; for, though he had been an idle and wayward boy, under more strict management it might have been otherwise; and he manifestly bore in his bosom a kind and a feeling heart. But who can recall the past, or the dead from their appointment? So, in the active discharge of duty as a seaman, and in the enjoyment of the company of one or two intimate companions, George confessed that he soon chased, in a great measure, the mournful tidings from his recollection. It was not so easy, however, to get rid of Mary: and he used to entertain his friend Tom Harkness with all the outs and ins, the hopes and fears, the pulsations and ecstasies, of his love passion. In this ship, George sailed first to Rio Janeiro, then across the Atlantic to Cape Town, back again to the Azores, and ultimately, by the coast of France, into Plymouth. Although, during the whole of these voyages, they had no windfalls, no prizes, yet his pay had accumulated, and he landed with fifty guineas in his pocket. Having no friend or home, as he now conceived, to return to, he immediately took coach for London, resolved to make the most, in sailor phrase, of his fifty guineas. Over this part of Mr George Smith's history he himself ever preserved a veil; but I could easily gather, that his conduct, during four weeks spent in London, was, like that of many others similarly situated, anything but prudent, moral, or praiseworthy. Having at last got rid of the yellow boys, he bethought himself of returning to Plymouth, and of obtaining a berth as purser, if possible, in one of the many ships-of-war then lying in that port. When on his way down to Plymouth, he became the fellow-traveller, in the stage-coach, of a lady of a certain age, fair, fat, and forty, who was on a visit to a relative in the neighbourhood of Portsmouth. As his manners and person were both agreeable, he contrived to get into the good graces of the fair dame, who was yet ignorant of the "betters and the worse" of matrimony. So much was the buxom damsel taken with her travelling companion, that she invited him to visit her at "View Cottage," about a mile from Plymouth. This invitation was willingly accepted of—the visit was paid, the reception was most flattering, and, in the course of a fortnight, George was in possession of the charming Miss Higgenbottom, with one thousand pounds for her portion. With this money and the wife, George contrived to spend a couple of months at a place near Exeter, as unhappily as possible. His wife was the daughter of a rich butcher in Whitechapel, and as unlike her husband in tastes, temper, and pursuits, as possible. She was, moreover, miserably addicted to the bottle, which, with the help of a sufficient quantity of opium, brought her to the grave in the course of the time mentioned. As George, during this period, had lived upon the principal of his wife's money, he was just now where he was before—ready to step on board ship, and to push his fortune. On board ship, therefore, he went, and was immediately in the western seas, keeping a sharp look-out after some privateers, which had been, for some time past, harassing our traders, and making prizes of our merchantmen. At this stage of his narrative, the hero of my tale used to get so animated, that I can still recall nearly the very words which I have heard, I am sure, fifty times at least.

"We had steered off and on for more than a month, betwixt Demerara and St Domingo, all along the stretch of the Leeward Islands. Our commander, Captain Broughton, was beginning to pet a little at our inactivity, and to thrust the tobacco into his left instead of his right cheek—a sure mark that he was out of tune. At last a sail appeared on the horizon, which, from her rigging, seemed of a suspicious character, and the orders were immediately issued to bear down upon her. As we neared, she hoisted British colours, and slipped quietly across our bows.

"'Oh ho!' exclaimed old 'Broughty;' 'none of your tricks upon travellers, my lad—you are no more British than I am a kail-stock; and that we will very soon ascertain, by putting a few homethrust questions to you.' So saying, he ordered two shots to be fired across her bows. Upon finding that we were disposed to grapple with her, she instantly hoisted her own colours, and sent a broadside right across our quarters. The battle now began in good earnest, and, for a full half-hour, we bowled away as if all hell had been on deck. When the smoke cleared a little, we could see that we had disabled our adversary, by shooting away part of his rigging; and the captain's orders were to arm and board instantly. We rushed on board like furies; but, in the desperate struggle, our captain fell, and almost every officer on board. There was the hesitation of a moment, which determined our fate; for the dare-devils rushed in upon us, fore and aft, and made sad work of it. Not a man, with the exception of myself, the first lieutenant, and the steward, was spared; the cutlass and the deep soon obliterated the gallant crew of the Thunderer. It was, indeed, an awful sight; and, expecting every moment to be put to some horrid death by the monsters, I leaped from the deck into the sea, and remember nothing more till I awoke, as I conceived, in a state of future punishment. But over me there hung a countenance with which I was too well acquainted ever to mistake it: it was that of Mary Walker, my first, and dearest, and never entirely forgotten love. Her father sat by, wrung his hands in absolute despair; and Mary's face was strangely altered—wan, shrunk, and full of extreme misery. I scarcely could credit my senses, and was on the point of coming to some explanation, when a terrible tramping and bustle on board bespoke some approaching crisis. It was so. A British seventy-four was in the act of bearing straight down upon the crippled privateer, and the scarcely less disabled Thunderer, and all on board was despair and distraction. Resistance was found to be out of the question; so, in less than an hour, we were all conveyed safely on board of the Neptune—Captain Briggs commander. We were immediately carried into Kingston, and landed, at our own desire—Mr Walker having satisfied Captain Briggs in regard to my discharge from His Majesty's service."

The explanation of the whole matter was this:—Miss Walker, after her lover's departure, became very disconsolate, and her health ultimately became very precarious. The more temperate air of Britain was recommended, and her fond father had sailed with her, with the view of placing her somewhere in Devonshire, with a near relative. He proposed to return for a season, to wind up his affairs finally, which, of late, had not prospered, and to spend the remainder of his days and fortune in his native land. They had only sailed twelve hours, when, after a desperate and unequal struggle, they were captured, and put under hatches. During the desperate engagement which succeeded, the sequel explains itself. They were ultimately landed in safety at the pier from which they had started, and all slept, the following night, under Mr Walker's roof. George Smith and Mary Walker were married in the course of a few months, nor did her husband perceive that her health declined. She lived to become the mother of two children—a boy and a girl—when her father, whose affairs, from some unlooked-for losses, had become embarrassed, died suddenly, not without some ugly surmises respecting the cause. Smith, after this, had no heart to remain on the island; so, collecting the remnant of a once princely fortune, he embarked, with his beloved wife and children, for Britain. Finding, however, that he could not succeed to his wish in his native land, he set out for Bordeaux, where he established himself in the wine trade, and, in the language of sacred writ, "begat sons and daughters." There he lived many years, in domestic peace and happiness, enjoying the society and affection of a most attached and amiable partner, and getting his family disposed of, till only one daughter remained with him unmarried. At last, death robbed him, in the disguise of a slow or typhus fever, of his beloved Mary; and, with his beautiful and amiable daughter, he sought again the shores of his own Scotland—his beloved Dumfries, his native Closeburn. Whilst dining with his daughter at Brownhill, he had learned that his aged mother was still alive, and an inmate of the same dwelling which he had himself inhabited. The rest of the story can easily be anticipated: his mother was well provided for during the few years—and they were but few—of her happily protracted existence; and his lovely and affectionate Eliza is now the mother of seven children, and the virtuous and beloved wife of the bumble narrator of these "Family Incidents."

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HOME AND THE GIPSY MAID.

I have been at school and college, I have read considerably in books, and have attended debating societies to satiety. Thus I have picked up a deal of what the world calls useful knowledge and worldly wisdom. But there is one branch of education to which I am more indebted than to any other whatever. I was born in the retired solitude of a mountain glen. I was myself alone amongst the mountains, with my mother and two old women, my relatives. I did not know, at the time, that I was any way peculiarly situated. I felt joyous and happy from morn to night; but the cause of all this happiness was no matter of inquiry. In fact, I never thought of causes at all. I took nature as she appeared, and put no impertinent questions to her. There I lay by a little stream, which, after dancing gaily down a steep and broken rock, became, all at once, a deep bumbling pool. There I lay, amidst the daisies and buttercups of spring, on the green plot, listening to the song of a thousand throats, and marking the suspended trout, as it rose to the fly, or floated along in the watery sunshine. At intervals, I would stretch myself supine; and, with my eyes half-closed, convert the clouds which covered in our little valley into what shapes and forms my fancy pleased. The wild bee passed in his hum; but I saw him not. The grasshopper chirruped from the adjoining grass; but I marked not his form or his locality. The buzz of insect life was in the air, and on the earth. I was not alone, and I felt it; my companions were the happy, the lively, the rejoicing, the exulting; and I partook of all their sentiments. I was, in fact, a unity lost in the midst of countless beings—a single throb in the great framework of animated nature. And, then, there were the woods which embanked and enclosed me all around. The oak, with its spread stole and broad leaf; the glorious birch, rising in pillows of green fragrance, and overtopping all; the hazel, in its less aspiring nature, peeping from betwixt the trees; and the sweet hawthorn, bestudding the brae, arrayed in a wedding suit of purest white. The tall ash-tree was there, and the rowan-tree, and the sloe-thorn, and the rasp-berry, and the bramble. The whole valley was my own orchard; and I selected at pleasure, without check or restraint, the nut, the sloe, and the hind-berry. Upon the top of the tall ash, there I sat, with the mavis for my companion on one side, and the blackbird on the other. With all manner of birds I was familiar, from the pyat to the water-wagtail. The searching for nests was my spring recreation, from April till July—I could tell at once the inmate from the construction of its abode. The eggs of the linnet, goldfinch, yorling, laverock, robin, titling, thrush, and blackbird, were as familiar to me as the letters of the alphabet. And if I wandered but a mile and a-half up the glen, I was in the midst of barrenness and solitude. The shepherd loomed from the distant horizon—the sheep roved along the steep—the goats clung to the cliffs. There the hawk and the raven had their abode; and there hung their nests from the projecting rock, or the horizontal tree. The heath was the nursery of its wild inmates. The whaup, and plover, and lapwing piped, and whistled, and fluttered around me. I was in the midst of their nesting-ground; and they seemed disposed to sacrifice me to their fears. Overhead were the lofty peaks of Queensberry—the greater and the less twin pillars—over which the pediment of heaven was spread. The mist trailed and deepened. I beheld its approach; and witnessed its breaking up into shreds and patches. I saw the first gleam of the sunshine, as it struggled through the density, and stood revealed in all the glory of a full effulgence of sunlight. My fishing-rod, a hazel sapling, was in my hand, and I pulled from streams and gullets of the most tiny dimensions large black and yellow trouts. There they lay, amidst the wet spret, or on the velvet fringe of the streamlet, in all the glory of scale and fin. My soul leaped in unison to their motions; and I absolutely danced in ecstasy. When I gained the mountain summit—O my God! what impressions I have had of beauty and sublimity! On the one hand, the dark, southern range, ranging away eastward in barren magnitude; on the other, the green and softly-outlined Lead Hills, rounded into magnificence. Before me, and stretching far southward, the distant Criffell, lumbering on the horizon; the sunny Solway, gleaming in light; the Nith, winding and coqueting with its fertile banks and fruitful plains; the Annan, a younger but scarcely less lovely sister, running its lateral course to the same ultimate destiny, the nascent feeders of the Clyde, Carsehope, and Darr, bursting from their mossy cradles into the wilderness around them, rejoicing in their solitudes, and in their numerous and undisturbed inmates. Oh, what is education—the alphabet in all its combinations and significations—to this! When in after life I have had occasion to animate my public addresses with simile, or to inspire them with sentiment—when at the desk, and with the pen in my hand, I have fished in my brain for metaphor or illustration—I have constantly recurred to my infant, my boyish home; to my native glen, and woods, and streams, and cliffs, and mountains; and when I have once seated myself on the Cat-craig, or on a branch of the oak or the birch, I feel myself quite at home. I can, indeed, call spirits, as I do now, from the depths of imagination and feeling—I can ascend in the spiral movements of that blue smoke, which lies so soft and silky between me and the opposite green sward. I can sympathise with those devout and happy hearts, which, in simple female habiliments, are now plying the wheel, or preparing the frugal repast within. I see the domestic fowls, in their sunny happiness, flapping their wings in the dusty corner of the kail-yard, or crowing in frolic till the echoes are awakened. There is but one world—one sinless, sorrowless, painless world—and this is it. Where then were the cares of the great world, which has absorbed this one? Where the jarrings of envy—the justlings of competition—the dread of disappointment—the frenzy of hope—the fever of love—the whole bevy of passions, which form the Corrievrecken of the heart! They were then, like Abraham's posterity, in Abraham's loins; they were possibilities, mere futurities—sleeping undisturbed and undisturbing in the limbs of contingencies. Alas! that ever my soul awoke from this dream!—that ever, one fine summer evening, I discovered that a change had come over my nature—that I had crept unknowingly into youth—that there was a soft delicious fire in my blood, which made me look beyond my humble cottage, with its aged inmates, for gratification and happiness! Oh, the exquisite, the ecstatic delight of this first awakening into the manhood of feeling!—when the passion-flower is just opening—when the nerves are troubled, for the first time, by the sensibilities of sex—when the blooming cheek, the rosy lip, the inviting glance, and the happily-moulded rotundities of the female form, become, for the first time, an object of fearful, of indescribable, of trembling interest! I ask any one of my readers, male and female, Was it not thus with you? Did not your first perceptions of the full compass of your nature come upon you at once? Come, no blushing now—no shuffling—it was even so; but you never liked to speak of it to any one. You thought that, in this respect, you were singular; but now, that you see I have turned king's evidence, you are conscious that what I aver is true. Here, then, I fix my landmark, with the age of puberty; all on this side is school, college, society, the world, care, troubles, and anxieties; all before this was that paradise from which I still pluck, as on this occasion, an apple or two, to refresh you and me as we journey along. Come, now, good-natured reader, and I will tell you a tale or anecdote of this primeval state of my being.

In one of my early fishing excursions, I had the misfortune to lose myself in a dense fog or mist. I wandered on and on, not knowing well where I was (for it is well known that in such circumstances the most familiar objects assume a strange and unknown aspect), till at last I sat myself down on the brow of a peat-hag, not knowing well whether to cry or laugh at my wanderings. Twice had I come upon a tethered horse, and twice upon a thorn-tree with a solitary nest in it; so I found that I was assuredly walking in a circle, the centre of which, for anything that I could learn to the contrary, might very probably be my own habitation. Whilst employed in listening for the response of a mountain stream by which I might be directed, as by an old acquaintance, to a more familiar locality, I thought I heard a kind of strange, unearthly noise, coming from—I could not well tell by the ear—what quarter. I listened again, and all was silent, and I began to think that the noise had proceeded from some bird or beast in my immediate neighbourhood. Again, however, as I moved cautiously across the moss, the sound came upon me more distinctly—it was manifestly the sound of wailing and moaning, intermingled with much and hysterical sobbing. What could this mean? Night was at hand, the mist was manifestly mingling with the coming darkness, and here I was alone, in the presence, seemingly, of some unearthly being. My head was full of fairies, and brownies, and such-like supernaturals; and my heart, under such apprehensions, was as that of the bird taken in a snare. It immediately occurred to me that this must be some decoy fairy, employed in entrapping me into that unchristian brotherhood. The story of young "Tam Lean," which my mother had often repeated to me, occurred opportunely to augment my apprehensions and increase my agitation. I already felt as if mounted on a fairy steed—I was "pawing the light clouds," and shaking my belled bridle over my native dwelling, without the power of returning to it. Whilst such meditations as these shook my whole frame, the awful voice of wo was manifestly approaching me; and I immediately took to my heels, "with all convenient speed, according to the rules of terror." But, in endeavouring to increase the distance betwixt the object of my fears and myself, I ran immediately and directly in upon it; and had all but fainted, as I saw immediately before me a small female figure running about, and crying piteously. The form came upon my vision very indistinctly, and induced me to reverse my steps, and set off in double swift time in a direction opposite to that in which I had advanced. To my utter horror and amazement, the thing pursued me swiftly, and screaming at the top of its voice. This was indeed appalling, and I already felt as if I had taken up my residence in the dark recesses of a fairy-knowe. I ran and screamed, whilst it ran screaming too, through moss and pool, and spret and heath; and there we coursed it along—startling the whaups and miresnipes with our music. At last I was fairly overcome, and threw myself head foremost into a peat hag, whilst my pursuer halted immediately over my person. Oh, I could have wished to have concealed myself, at this moment, somewhere near the centre of the earth; when a couple of shepherd's curs appeared, and instantly afterwards James Hogg, the Mitchelslacks hind (since better known as the Ettrick Shepherd), stood before me.

"What's a' this o't, sirs?" said Hogg, eyeing my tormentor and myself with a look of perplexed inquiry. "What's the matter wi' ye, Tam, that ye're derned that gate into the throat o' a moss-hole? Get up, man, an' tell me whar ye fell in wi' this bit puir lassie."

The lassie, in the meantime, had clung to the shepherd's knees, and was endeavouring, but unsuccessfully, to speak.

"It's a fairy!" I exclaimed. "O Jamie Hogg, it's a fairy!—hae naething to do wi't; it has pursued me this hour past" (not in reality above two minutes!); "an' I saw a great many more fairies up by yonder. O Jamie, dinna meddle wi't; it's uncanny, I'm sure."

Hereupon the fairy began to give utterance, in tones quite human, to a fearful statement, implying that she had been carried off from Annan by some gipsies, and carried away by them to the wild hills; and that, about an hour ago, she had run away in the mist, and had fairly escaped, but became alarmed as the darkness approached, and had followed me, as her only guide and protector in these wild hills. I cannot tell how much I felt relieved by this statement; and, as I began to gather up my members into a human shape, I saw plainly that my pursuer was a fine, well-thriven lassie, about ten or eleven years of age, and no unearthly fairy, as I had so lately believed. Hogg laughed heartily at my mistake, telling me that I wad find the lasses, by an' by, muckle waur than the fairies; and that, instead o' rinnin awa frae them, I wad be rinnin after them. At the time when these words were spoken, I did not rightly understand their meaning; but, reading them through the spectacles of future experience, I now understand them to the letter.

Just as this conversation was finished, a great, tall, lumbering, but most athletic fellow bore down upon us through the mist. At sight of him, the poor girl screamed piteously, and clung to Hogg, and begged most imploringly that she should not be given up to that "terrible man." Hogg had just thrown off his plaid, adjusted his staff, and put himself determinedly betwixt the stranger and the girl, when down came two brother shepherds, attracted in all probability by the noise, and guessing immediately that a battle was about to ensue. When the tinker saw that the odds were thus against him, he bent his course, as if he had mistaken his way, in another direction, and was immediately lost in obscurity. Home to my mother's was this poor girl conducted by Hogg and me; and for three days and nights she partook of my home and board. Her story was simple and consistent. She had been out pulling rushes, to make a rush-cap, in a wood adjoining to the town of Annan, when she was accosted by a woman, who was exceedingly kind to her, giving her some sugar-bools, and decoying her by fair words into the centre of the forest. There she found four or five men, with a great many women, children, asses, &c., employed in making spoons, pans, &c., at a fire lighted in the open air. The children immediately gathered around her, and endeavoured to engage her in some games, whilst the "terrible man," as she always designated the chief of the gang, patted her on the cheek, and said, "You must come along with me, and be my daughter."

Meantime the whole party were in motion, and the poor child was tossed into a pannier, on the back of an ass, and, being bound down with cords, was carried all night long, she knew not whither. By daybreak she found herself on the banks of a mountain-stream, and no human habitation within view. In this station she had remained for three days, being always kindly used, but observing fearful scenes, and hearing dreadful expressions. At last, being worn out with crying, and partly gained over by the companionship of her playmates, she had assumed a more resigned and contented appearance, in consequence of which she ceased to be watched with so much vigilance. Taking advantage, however, of the mist, and of the absence of the greater part of the women, she had edged into the stream, along the almost dry channel of which she had run, till she lost sight of the encampment, and had taken at once to the hill, without knowing whither she was flying. Fatigued, however, at last, and terrified, she had even resolved to retrace, if possible, her steps, when the occurrence above mentioned brought her refuge and safety.

I shall never forget the scene which took place on the occasion of the restoration of this sweet girl to her parents, who were immediately informed by Hogg of the asylum which the poor wanderer had found. But, as every breast in which the genuine feelings of humanity are implanted will immediately conceive what such a meeting must have been, I shall not attempt to describe it. We were all in tears, and the poor mother fainted outright, as she grasped convulsively her lost lamb (as she tenderly termed it) to her bosom.

I have lived long, and so has Jeanie Paton, the now respected mother of a large family, and the wife of honest Willie Paton, the best fisher and the best weaver in all Annandale. When I take my annual excursions south, their house is my home, and a day's fishing with Willie in the Annan is to me a treat of no ordinary delight—Jeanie welcomes us with her best, though, to be sure, I occasionally rub her a little too hard, in reference to the circumstance which made us first acquainted.

---

THE RETURN.

"Alas! regardless of their fate,
The little victims play;
No sense have they of ills to come,
No cares beyond to-day."

In passing by coach to Cheltenham, in the year 1831, I dined with a very agreeable fellow at Carlisle. It so happened that, in the course of conversation, I discovered that he was a class-fellow of mine, some forty-five years ago. But we had been separated ever since; nor was there a single feature by which I could recognise his countenance. He wore a wig, was sallow, withered, and almost emaciated; whereas Charles M'Murdo, the boy of my acquaintance, was a chubby, rosy imp, with a heart as light as a feather, and feet as swift as a roe. Nevertheless, if I did not recognise him, he soon discovered me: the change upon my person being less remarkable, as I had never left my own country, nor been any way exposed to extreme climate, either of heat or cold. He having some business to transact in London, as I had in Cheltenham, we agreed, before parting, and whilst the guard was blowing his horn, to rendezvous, on my return, at Liverpool, and to proceed north in company with each other. Accordingly, at the appointed day and hour, we met; ordered a private room and a comfortable dinner at the Saddle, a bottle of good old port, and a strict watch upon all intrusion. What a night we had of it! All the scenes of our youth rose into review, and, as glass after glass, and perhaps bottle after bottle, disappeared, our souls warmed, our imaginations fired, our memories, like the churchyard at the day of reckoning, "gave up the dead that were in them," and at last we all but embraced each other, shaking hands from time to time, as the toast arose to some old remembrance, some school companion now no more. There had been twelve of us in the same class; and my friend and I were all that remained (like Job's friends), to think or to speak of the fate of the rest. One, two, three, had gone to Jamaica, and had perished, sooner or later, in quest or in possession of competence or wealth; two had been ruined by dissipated company at college, had enlisted, and perished at Waterloo; one had done well as a surgeon at Sierra Leone, but had fevered at last, and died. In short, the roll-call was mournful—we were the skeleton of the class, its ghost, its shadow; but we were alive, beside a comfortable fire, and a cheerful gas-light, and with wine before us; and it is wonderful how soon we forgot the mournful recollection which would ever and anon peep in upon us through the mazes of our many-hued discourse. At last our enthusiasm began somewhat to subside; we ordered tumblers and hot water, with the necessary accompaniments, drew in the table closer to the fire, for it was the month of November, and agreed each to give the narrative of his own life and experience. My tale was soon told, nor would it be any way interesting to the reader to hear it. I had been a home-bird, and had attained, without much adventure or difficulty, a respectable position in society; but my old companion had been tossed about in the world, as he expressed it, like a quid of hay in the throat of a cow; and I shall endeavour to put the reader in possession of the outline of what Charles M'Murdo that night, betwixt the hours of seven and eleven, related to me in large detail.

"You know," said he, "my début: I was sent out to Jamaica by Mr Watson, a rich planter, to act as clerk on his plantations—in other words, to keep a large and terrible whip in constant employ. Our voyage was tempestuous; I frequently felt as if the ship, in her lurches into the trough of the sea, would never reascend, but would go down head foremost to the bottom of the Atlantic. But our captain was a skilful seaman, kept his men in heart, had his orders promptly obeyed, and we weathered the storm. Landing at Kingston, I was received in, what was termed, a warehouse by an overseer, who, after reading Mr Watson's letter, cursed me as a supernumerary, and said I might go where I liked, but I could not be there; they had too many of my sort already. Watson he called an old superannuated fool, who was determined, seemingly, to ruin the estate by the mere expense of working it. In a little, however, the storm blew over. Having drunk pretty deeply from a tumbler of rum and water—at least so he called it, though for my part I never could discover any trace of the water, and think this element might easily have proved an alibi in any court of justice—he made me partake of his beverage, and tumble into a corner of a counting-room, beyond a number of chairs, desks, and old ledgers. My bed was none of the best, but the weather was exceedingly warm, and I contrived to sleep pretty soundly till morning. Next day I was roused betimes by a black slave, naked to the middle, and instructed in my day's work. I was to join some four or five slave-drivers at a common rendezvous, and with them to march a-field, suitably provided for my task. I saw the poor slaves hard at work—digging the soil, and planting slips of cane, under a most oppressive sun; I saw, likewise, my hardened and inhuman associates applying the scourge to mothers with children at the breast, to the old, and to the infirm. I could not stand it; my heart sank within me. Oh, how I sighed for my own native land, with all its advantages and endearments!—and how I cursed my ambition, that had been kindled at the wheels of the chariot of Mr Watson, who, though born poor as I was, had realised an immense fortune in Jamaica!"

Hereupon he burst out into an eulogy on Britain, and the administration which had given liberty to the slaves, and at the same time remunerated the unhallowed proprietors; but, after a short pause, during which I expressed my anxiety to hear the sequel of his story, he proceeded:—

"Well, custom will reconcile one to anything. You will scarcely believe me when I tell you that, though shy at first, and backward in the active discharge of my duty, I came at last to regard it as a matter of course, and to imagine that the poor blacks did not feel as I did, or experience the pain which such an infliction would have occasioned to myself. I was one day chastising a fellow, who absolutely refused to labour, on the score of indisposition, which I knew or believed to be put on, when a little child, of the African breed, came up to me, and, with a look of perfect nature and simplicity, said—

"'Ah, massa, you no have father—you never know father—you no black man's boy—you no born at all, massa—you made of stone—you have no pity for poor black boy's pa!'

"The speech struck me exceedingly. I immediately ordered the father into the sick-house, and, patting the boy on the head, said he was a good, kind-hearted boy, and I would look after him for this. All this was repeated at head-quarters, and I was represented as neglecting my duty, and conniving at the idle and the dissolute amongst the slaves; and being summoned into the overseer's presence, I was examined, confessed the truth, and was immediately dismissed the estate.

"Where was I to turn?—Without a character, no other plantation would admit my services. The heavens over my head were iron, the earth was brass. I could get no employment, and to beg I was ashamed. I wandered down to the sea-shore, and in my excursion met with several ladies and gentlemen, riding on beautiful chargers, talking and laughing loudly all the while—and I wished to be one of them. It was this stimulus which had set me in motion, made me cross the Atlantic, and submit to great indignities—and yet here I was, an outcast less valuable than the wrecks which lined the bay. No one of the various cavalcades took the least notice of me; and I seated myself, at last, on a rock, and began to plunge little water-worn pebbles into the smooth bay. After a considerable interval of most poignant despair, the little black boy made his appearance, and told me that he had just heard of my dismissal, and that his father wished to see me in the hospital. I went with the boy half-stupified, and almost unconscious of either motive or motion. The poor, grateful creature wished me to take some money, which he had accumulated by his Sabbath-afternoon industry; but I refused it at once, though I did so with tears of gratitude in my eyes. He then informed me that he had formerly slaved on an adjoining plantation, and that his former master was of a more kindly disposition than the present one. He had just heard of the death of one of his clerks, and, if I would present myself immediately, ere the next fleet should arrive with a fresh supply of slave-drivers, he had no doubt but, from my appearance, and my good hand of writing, I might find employment. I took the honest creature's advice; and, accompanied by little Ebony, made the best of my way to Hillside plantation, about a mile and a-half from Kingston. The kind-hearted boy went before me, and, chancing to meet Mr Ferguson, the proprietor of Hillside estate, he threw himself on his knees before him, in the most imploring manner:—

"'Young gentleman dismissed; but he no ill—he kind to poor father—he very kind to black man when sick. Massa know poor Gabby.'

"Ere the boy had risen from his knees, I had presented myself to Mr Ferguson, and told my own story precisely as it stood. Luckily for me, Mr Ferguson and my former employer were upon the worst terms possible; so I found no difficulty in getting a temporary appointment on trial. It is said somewhere that despotism is the best of all governments, when the despot is a good man. This is truly verified in these islands. Nothing can differ more than does the usage of the slaves in different plantations. The overseer, Mr Handy, on Watson's plantation, he whom I had just left, was a brutal person, almost constantly under the excitement or reaction of rum, and his slaves were constantly beaten and ill used in every way; whereas the Hillside slaves were allowed all possible indulgences, and really seemed quite happy. They used to go about, on the fine Jamaica evenings, singing, dancing, and playing upon instruments, visiting and returning visits, and enjoying all the happiness of which their state was susceptible. I lived two years on this plantation, and was handsomely paid as a clerk. I now, for the first time, began to think of accumulating money, with the view of purchase or partnership. But an incident occured to me at this stage of my fortunes which gave them an unforeseen turn. I was kidnapped, whilst walking on the sea-shore, rather late one evening, and immediately carried on board a vessel, which sailed ere morning. This had been done, as I afterwards understood, under the direction of Handy; who, having heard of my good fortune and prosperity, persuaded a brother of his, who traded to Hudson's Bay, in the fur trade, to carry me there, and keep me out of his sight. He could not bear to think that I might possibly one day come to effect an establishment in his immediate neighbourhood. Captain Handy was a cruel, despotic, weatherbeaten piece of mortality; he carried me in a few months to Hudson's Bay, and had me introduced into a great house in the fur trade. In vain, when I got ashore, did I remonstrate against the violence which had been used in regard to me; I was immediately clothed in warm garments, armed with a musket, and marched overland, along with about ten or twelve copper-faced Indians, towards the upper lakes of the St. Lawrence. Our ultimate destination was Lake Superior. There we were commissioned to trade with the Indians, exchanging muskets, spirits, and various kinds of cutlery, for fur-skins. There was a small settlement in the centre of the lake, but there were not sufficient provisions for the additional numbers during winter; so we were expected to return on land to the settlement on Hudson's Bay ere the winter set in. But this year the American winter commenced a month earlier than usual, and with unprecedented severity. We had nothing but one log-house to accommodate upwards of thirty people; but this erection was of considerable extent, and leaned against several growing trees. Our situation became immediately all but desperate. You can have no idea of an American winter in such latitudes." (Hereupon I stirred the fire, and helped myself to a glass of toddy.) "The snow comes on at once, and the atmosphere is so loaded and thickened with drift, that you may cut it into cubes with a knife. And then the snow, which in a few hours accumulates over your dwelling to the very roof, penetrates everywhere through your wooden erection. In spite of a blazing hearth, you are shivering almost in the midst of the flame. The horrors of that winter I can never forget; we were, long ere New Year's-day, reduced to our daily shifts for our daily food. Had it not been for our Indian friends, we should have perished of hunger to a man; but their skill in archery and even in ball-shooting is altogether incredible. Nothing borne on wings over our heads escaped them. The bow was lifted immediately to the eye, the arrow was pointed, and followed for a small space the course of the bird; it flew, but apparently not straight for the object, but greatly in advance of it; but, ere it had gained its utmost ascent, the winged and the feathered objects had crossed on their courses, and the prey fell immediately, transfixed by the arrow. We broke the ice, too, of the lake, which was often three feet in thickness, and, with bait prepared by the Indians, of the seeds of trees, decoyed occasionally some half-starved fish to our lines. But, with all appliances and means to boot, we became perfect skeletons; several died of various complaints, all brought on by cold, and spare as well as unwholesome diet. Oh, what would I then have given for a dinner such as we have enjoyed this day! But, not to fatigue you with exclamations and with representations of suffering which to you must seem incredible, the winter gave way at last, and its departure was agreeably unexpected with its approach; the thaw came as much earlier as the frost had anticipated its average approach. Our boats were again on the lake, and we were enabled to ship off our skins for their ultimate destination, Montreal. As I had shown considerable talents, and what they termed mettle, during the winter trials, the commander of the party had me boated off, along with the skins, for Mr Syme's warehouse, at Montreal. Here I met with a friend, in a cousin of my mother. He immediately took me into his warehouse.

"By this time I was sufficiently tired of a moving life; like the rolling stone of the proverb, I had gathered no fog—'movebam, sed nil promovebam.' I was very happy, therefore, when Mr Syme proposed my remaining at least some time with him in the capacity mentioned. Montreal, as everybody knows, is situated upon an island in the St Lawrence, and few places could be more advantageous for trade, or more picturesque in appearance. In the centre of the island there rises a beautiful eminence, still covered with trees of the primeval American forests; and towards the eastern skies lies the town itself, upper and lower, adorned with public buildings, and presenting, as you approach it, a very prepossessing aspect. Mr Syme had a warehouse, at a place called Chine, about eight miles up, and immediately upon the river. Here the furs were shipped for Europe, and Britain in particular, and here it was my duty to remain, except on Sundays, when I constantly dined with my kind relative. Mr Syme had an only daughter, two sons having died, and the mother likewise, whilst being delivered of the last. This daughter was now a young woman of nineteen, and sufficiently handsome for matrimony, considering that she was to inherit her father's wealth and business, which was itself a mine of gain. Her father, who in many respects was a kind-hearted and a prudent man, was as obstinate as an old oak-trunk when he took it into his head to be so. Most people have some weak side or other—and this was his. He had determined, from the time when Samuel Horseman, the rich merchant (the richest, it was supposed, in the island), had rocked his Nancy in the cradle, and had suffered himself to be scorned with the child, that Nancy should one day or other be Mrs Horseman; and that thus, by the union of their families and their fortunes, there should not be a firm in Montreal that would once be spoken of in the same day with Horseman, Syme, & Co. This idea had grown with the growth of the child, and had strengthened with her strength—it was never twenty-four hours out of his head. But, one dreadful afternoon, Horseman arrived from Quebec with a little pretty French milliner, whom he had married. This was death to Syme's plans and prospects, and so he set immediately about cutting Horseman, and looking out for some other advantageous way of disposing of his article, which had now seen some fourteen summers. But before he could settle upon any particular individual, he was relieved from his disappointment, and restored to his intercourse with Horseman, by a gallant serjeant, who claimed Mrs Horseman as his lawful and married wife; in fact, there were several claimants; but one was as good as a hundred to Horseman, who by this time was heartily tired of his partner, and would have willingly seen her attempting a voyage of discovery over the Falls of Niagara. Syme soon redoubled his diligence, and gave his daughter to understand that, so soon as she had attained the age of nineteen, the age of her mother when she became a bride, she should be exalted to all the honours and privileges of Mrs Horseman.

"There are two, it is said, at a bargain-making; but that is merely the minimum: in this case, there were three, and ultimately four. Miss Syme had been exceedingly annoyed by her father's unreasonable arrangement; she, of course, disliked Horseman, as she did everything old, ugly, snuffy, and bandylegged; but her father was incessant in his importunities, or rather commands, and matters were in this state when the friend now addressing you made his appearance, and took up his principal residence at Chine. It was not long before Miss Syme and I came to understand each other. I do not know how it was—I was not romantically in love—perhaps it is not in my nature; but I was willing to hear the poor girl's story, and to mingle tears with hers. We never talked of love; but yet, somehow or other, it made an inroad upon the debateable territory on both sides, till we felt that we were assuredly over head and ears, from the circumstance that, like Darby and Joan, 'we were ever uneasy asunder.' The father began to smell a rat, as they say—at least you and I have often said whilst at school—and he was in a furious passion, threatened dismissal to me and imprisonment to Nancy. In the meantime, death, in the shape of an ague, carried Horseman beyond the reach of matrimony—he went to that land where there is neither marrying nor giving in marriage; and I became every day more and more useful to my employer. It was manifest to all that his heart had now softened, and that he had come to see the utter folly of human schemes when controverted by the decrees of Heaven. One day he was up at Chine, seeing some furs shipped for London; when in passing from the shore to the ship, he slipped a foot and fell into the water. There was no one who observed this but myself, as all the men were busily engaged. I immediately plunged headlong into the somewhat rapid stream. He was not to be found. The current had borne him downwards, and a water-dog, which was kept on purpose on board, was in the act, as I perceived, of dragging the body ashore. I assisted the animal, and got the credit of saving my friend.

"I need not delay you longer. I married Mr Syme's daughter, and succeeded, at his death, to the whole concern, which I have just wound up; and, having left my wife and an only daughter in London, I am on my way to visit, by surprise, my aged mother, who still lives in the place of my birth, and to purchase, if possible, a property in the neighbourhood, there to spend, in peace, and affection, and domestic love, the evening of my days.—Will you go with me to Lastcairn?"

I agreed. We drove up the glen, by Croalchapel; and my friend was all absence, and inward rumination, and anticipated delight. But the footsteps of death were on the threshold. His aged parent was still alive and sensible, but manifestly fast going. She was made sensible that her long-lost Charlie, who had been so kind to her in her old age, was before her. She tried to stretch forth her withered arm, but it was scathed by death. She received the last embrace of her son, said something about "depart in peace," and fell asleep.

---

THE POOR SCHOLAR.

Reader, if ever thou hast been in "Babylon the Great," or, in other words, in the overgrown metropolis of the southern portion of these kingdoms, peradventure you have observed melancholy-looking men, their countenances tinged with the "pale cast of thought," in suits of well-worn black, "a world too wide," creeping, edging, or shuffling along the streets, each belike with a bundle of papers peering from his pocket. In nine cases out of ten, these neglected-looking men are the poor scholars who instruct or amuse the world. You may also find them, with anxiety in their eyes, and hunger sitting at home upon their cheeks, wandering in the most secluded corners of the parks, enjoying, by way of a substitute for dinner, the apology which the air in the parks offers for the pure and unadulterated breath of heaven. Daily, too, they may be seen in the library of the Museum, poring over an old volume, and concealing their shoes beneath the table, lest they should "prate" of the scholar's "whereabouts," and ask of the venerable volume, "Are you or we oldest?" Or you may find them in the corner of some obscure coffee-house, poring intently over the periodicals of the day, at intervals slowly sipping and mincing the cup of coffee and half slice of bread before them. But, in speaking of poor scholars generally, I keep you from the tale of our Poor Scholar.

You have heard of Longtown, which is a neat, respectable-looking, and remarkably clean little town in Cumberland, on the banks of the Esk, near to what is called Solway Moss, and sometimes spoken of as the first or last town in England, in the same manner as Coldstream is mentioned as the first or last town in Scotland. Well, there dwelt in Longtown a respectable widow, named Musgrave. She derived an income of about eighty pounds a-year from a property that had been bequeathed to her in the West Indies. She had an only son, whose name was Robert, and who, after a respectable education in his native place, was bound as an apprentice to a medical practitioner in Carlisle. He afterwards attended the classes in Edinburgh; but, before he had taken out all the necessary tickets, and before he had obtained the diploma or qualification which was to enable him to use the word "surgeon" after his name, something went wrong about the property that was bequeathed to his mother in the West Indies; her remittances ceased, and, after a tedious lawsuit, it was swallowed up altogether.

She was left in poverty—in utter destitution. The misfortune fell upon her heavily; she drooped, pined, mourned, and died; and Robert Musgrave, still under twenty, was left without money and without friends. His talents, however, had excited the notice of several of the professors under whom he had studied; and they, acquiring a knowledge of his circumstances, and feeling an interest in his fate, enabled him to take out his certificate as a member of the College of Surgeons.

He now, with high hopes, and, I need not say, a low pocket, commenced practice as a country surgeon in a small village on the Borders. It was a young man's dream. A surgeon in a country village, and especially a young one, is generally the worst paid man in it. The war between poverty and the necessity of appearing respectable never ceases. The clergyman, be he churchman or dissenter, has a certain income, be it less or more; but the surgeon lives between the hand and the mouth; and he can hardly, considering his avocation, in Christian benevolence, pray for "daily bread." Such a prayer would be something akin to a gravedigger's for an east wind or a "green Christmas," which, as the adage hath it, "maketh a fat kirkyard."

Now, Robert Musgrave was a young man, possessed not only of what may be called talent, but, what is more, of strong and ardent genius; while, young as he was, his professional skill would have done honour to a court physician. But, buried in the obscurity of a poor and secluded village, struggling between gentility and penury, shut out from all society congenial to his taste, education, and former habits, he became heartless and callous, if not slovenly; and, eventually, he sank into a sceptic from the force of appearance. For, be assured, gentle reader, if ye will study mankind closely, and examine into their outgoings and their incomings, and think of the why for every wherefore, ye will find that the reasoning of a shabby coat produces more converts to everyday free-thinking or infidelity, than the philosophy of Hobbes, the rhetoric of Shaftesbury, the wit of Voltaire, the sophistry of Hume, and the blackguard ribaldry of Paine, united. The neighbouring farmers admitted Doctor Musgrave, as they called him, to be clever; but they despised his poverty, and invited him to their tables only for amusement. Deprived of books, and without society, while his temperament was framed for both, and feeling himself slighted, he gradually lost his respectability, and became a tippler, if not a drunkard.

I shall here follow out a portion of his history, in a conversation which he had with a Cumberland farmer, one Peter Liddell, whom he met in London about three years after he had left his country practice on the Borders:—

"The longer I remained in——," said he, "my situation became the more painful. I felt I was becoming something less than the equal of society I despised. I found that I had gradually sunk into the odious vice of drunkenness; that I was the companion only of the ignorant and the worthless; and poverty, eternal poverty and obscurity, were all that appeared before me. But the dormant ambition of boyhood, the dreams that delighted my early years, did not wholly forsake me. I had long determined to leave the village, and try my fortune in the world; but want of means prevented me. I resolved to tear adversity by the beard, and face every obstacle. With difficulty I gathered in as many debts as enabled me to proceed to Newcastle, and take a passage to London, where I arrived on the first of February, without friends, and almost without money—in fact, with not five shillings in my pocket."

"Poor fellow!" said Peter; and they were sitting together in a tavern in Fleet Street, which is called a north-country house; for Peter was in London on business, and having met the doctor on the street, they went into the tavern to talk of their native hills, and the "old familiar faces." "Poor fellow!" added Peter; and, with a sort of sigh, added, "Ah, sirs! it is really well said that the one half of the world doesn't know how the other lives. It would take planning to lay out those five shillings."

"It certainly did," said the scholar. "You are aware that my practice in the village, from a prejudice against what some called my religion, or rather my no religion, was exceedingly limited. In fact, I was a persecuted man, for principles of which I was as ignorant as themselves; and disdaining to accommodate my habits and conversation to their rules, the persecution increased, and the payments made to me became more limited than my practice. I bade fair to become an actual representative of Shakspere's apothecary; and would assuredly have thought myself 'passing rich with forty pounds a-year.' But the one-half of my practice would not pay the expense of wrapping the powders in paper. On sending to our village tobacconist's, I have had my own accounts returning as snuff-paper; and, though my success was not, I believe, inferior to most in the profession, my patients regarded paying me as throwing money away, or as an unnecessary charity; and never did the payments, taking one year with another, exceed thirty pounds."

"Poor fellow! do ye really say so?" responded Peter; "thirty pounds a-year!—and was that a'? And was ye really not an atheist or a deist, doctor, as the people gied ye out to be?"

"Whatever I and the mass of mankind are in our practice, Mr Liddell," he replied, "I am neither, when the small still voice of conscience speaks."

"Gie's your hand—gie's your hand, doctor," cried Peter; "I ask your pardon for onything I ever thought or said respecting ye, as sincerely as ever man did. Conscience is, as ye say, a sma still voice; but I doubt it is one that many will hear aboon the sough o' friends at a death-bed, the thunders o' the day o' judgment, and the roaring and raging o' the bottomless pit. But ye say that ye had barely five shillings in your pocket when ye arrived in London here. How, in a' the world, did ye manage to lay it out?'

"Sixpence," replied the scholar, "went in treating the captain to a glass of grog, when we came on shore, including one for myself."

"That was very foolishly spent, however," interrupted Peter.

"And it being night when we landed," added the doctor, "another shilling was spent in the public-house for a bed."

"A bed!" exclaimed our Cumberland farmer. "Man, had ye not the gumption to sleep aboord, or gie the captain the hint, after treating him wi' the glass. That was eighteen-pence clean thrown awa'; and only left ye wi' three-and-sax-pence. Poor soul! what did ye do?"

"Beginning to reflect in the morning," said the other, "that three-and-sixpence was not an inexhaustible sum, I agreed to pass over the very useful ceremony of a breakfast; and, strolling about, planning what to do, and marvelling at all I saw—after narrowly escaping being jostled to pieces, as I moved slowly from street to street, while every soul in the great city appeared to be walking for a wager but myself—towards three o'clock I dined in an eating-house, for six pence, by the side of a coalheaver. The afternoon was also passed in dreamy wandering. After nightfall, I became dispirited and fatigued. I was still unable to form any definite plan of proceeding, and I more than once asked myself what I had come to London to do."

"Poor man! I doubt there are too many like ye," said Peter.

"I was satiated with the busy variety of the scene," he continued; "the very changes became as sameness, and I longed only for a place where I might lie down and rest. I obtained a lodging for the night, in a suspicious-looking public-house, for a sixpence; and rising early on the following morning, my second day in London was spent as the first had been, and at the same expense, save a penny—for on that day my dinner cost me but five pence. My two shillings and a penny were now sacred, and I feared to incur the expense of a night's lodgings. I was passing what I discovered to be Covent Garden. Crowds were pressing into the theatre. I stood and ran my eyes over the playbill. I saw the names, Kemble! Cooke! Bannister! Siddons!—The temptation was irresistible."

"Irresistible!" cried Peter; "what the mischief do ye mean? I see naething irresistible in the case, unless ye just mean to tell me that ye are a born fool."

"Siddons! Kemble! Cook! and Bannister!" proceeded our hero, "on the same boards, and on the same night! I thought myself transported to Elysium! I looked for the word Gallery, pressed forward with the eager crowd, and threw down my shilling. 'Another shilling, sir,' said the man of checks. I had followed the stream of the two-shilling gallery, and thus——"

"Good gracious!" exclaimed the farmer, raising his hands "did ever man in his right judgment hear the like o' that?—ye're no to be pitied! I wonder ye didna think o' buying a strait-jacket!—ye was fitter for it than a play-house. Doctor, I didna think ye had been such an idiot. But I must say that some mothers bring fools into the world after a'. Did ye really no turn back again?—or what did ye do wi' your last penny? It would be thrown away as wisely as the two shillings, I reckon."

"I plead guilty," said Robert; "I acted as a fool, but bore the consequence like a philosopher. My last shilling had disappeared. The performance proceeded—I was delighted, enraptured, overwhelmed. The curtain dropped. The house was crowded to suffocation—my throat was parched—and with my last penny—(keep your seat, Mr Liddell)—with my last penny I bought an orange from a fruit-seller in the gallery. The second piece was concluded. The human mass moved every one to the tavern or their homes, a supper and a pillow, and I—I alone of the thousands—went forth penniless into the streets, hungry, shivering, and fatigued, to wander without hope!"

"And served ye right," said Peter. "I dinna pity ye, sir. No, no; after that, I'm done wi' ye. But how did ye get through the night?"

"The day dawned," resumed Robert Musgrave, "and I was still wandering—fainting, trembling, cold, and benumbed. I had long had some pretensions to literature. I was born in the midst of poetry. It sang around me from the deathless voices of my native Esk, hymning to its green woods and its massy crags. It looked down upon me from the thunder-belted brows of my native mountains, and drew my soul upwards to itself. It grew with my growth, it became a part of my being, and, in the midst of my debasement, it parted not from me."

"Famous! famous!—drat, ye're an orator, doctor!" cried the farmer, in admiration of the eloquent fervour of his countryman. "Cumberland—and where is the county like it? I wish, doctor, I had been a bishop for your sake—ye should have had a benefice."

"My luggage," continued the other, "consisted only of a chest containing little beyond books and manuscripts. With the same feeling which every author may be supposed to have for his productions, I considered mine were not inferior to others which were puffed and published. I say puffed and published; for, now-a-days, it is common for a puff to be both written and published before the work be-praised is in the hands of the printer."

"Coom, now, Maister Musgrave," said the farmer, "not so fast, if you please; I can believe anything that's possible in a reasonable way. But how a book can be praised before it be read and printed, or, as I should say, before it is a book, I canna comprehend. So ye mustna come over me in that way, doctor."

"It is not so impossible as you imagine," replied the other; "you know that money is a powerful agent."

"Ay, troth do I," said the farmer; "now I understand ye; I know

'That money makes the mare to go,
Whether she has legs or no.'"

"Well," resumed the surgeon, "laying the hope of fame and reward as an unction to my wounded spirit, I returned to the vessel, and, intrusting my trunk to the care of a wharfinger, I took from it a bundle of manuscripts—consisting of a novel, poems, essays, and papers on medical subjects—and, with a beating heart, proceeded towards Paternoster Row, praying as I went. I passed every bookseller's in the street, measuring the countenance of himself and his shopman. At length, after passing and repassing several doors a dozen times, as often having my feet upon their thresholds, half drawing my papers from my pocket and thrusting them back again, I ventured into one; and, after a few words awkwardly expressed, holding the manuscripts in my hands, I made known my business. The gentleman, without looking at my productions, but not without looking at me, said his hands were full, and hurried back to his desk. I called on six others; and though my reception with some was more courteous, my success was the same. I applied to the eighth and last. A glimmering of hope returned with the first glance of his countenance. It was not what every one would term inviting; but genuine feeling glowed through a garb of roughness. He received me with politeness, looked over my papers, delicately asked me a few questions, which I neither knew how to answer nor how to evade; he hinted his fears that I had written on subjects which were not exactly in demand in the market, and, in conclusion, requested me to leave the manuscripts, and call on him on the following morning. I again went into the streets, to hold battle with hunger and anticipation. For several hours, hope and hope's fond dreams bore me up; but towards evening, and throughout the night, the wind blew cold and wildly, the rain fell unceasingly. I was drenched and almost motionless, and but for the interference of the patrols, I would fain have lain down to sleep, beneath the cover of a passage, on the damp earth."

"Oh, help us!" said Peter, "what is that o't! I know as well what it is to travel by night, and in a' weathers, as anybody; but, poor man! I had none o' your sufferings to contend wi'."

"The longed-for and yet dreaded hour arrived," resumed the other. "I approached the shop with feelings as anxious, and not more enviable, than those of a criminal when he is dragged to the bar. The publisher was out upon business, and one of his young men returned me my manuscripts, and a letter, with his master's compliments and thanks. I do not remember leaving the shop. The stupefaction of death was dashed upon my soul. I believe that I appeared tranquil; but it was the tranquillity of misery immoveable beneath its own load. In despair, I broke open the letter—a guinea fell from its folds at my feet."

"Heaven bless him!" interrupted the farmer.

"Amen!" responded the scholar, and continued: "Without waiting to read the contents of his note, I hurried into a tavern, to allay the cravings of hunger, and to warm, or rather thaw, my almost frozen body. But I sickened, and could eat little. I had wanted food until, like a spoiled child, my appetite refused that for which it had yearned. With the still open letter upon my knee, as my joints began to feel the influence of returning heat, I suddenly sank, with my head upon my bosom, into a deep, dreamless sleep; and, being awoke by the rioting of some half-drunken men, I found one of them had made free with the back part of my letter to light his pipe, which had been addressed, after the usual silly and absurd fashion common amongst literary men—who ought rather to set an example in despising vain frivolities—B. Musgrave, Esq. 'I beg your pardon, Squire,' said the fellow, in a tone of irony. 'Here's wishing you a pair of new shoes, and health to wear them, Squire,' said a third, in the same tone, raising a tankard to his lips. And the party broke into a laugh of derision."

"Doctor!" exclaimed the farmer, indignantly, "ye deserved all ye got, if ye didna make a broom o' the bunch o' them, and sweep the house wi' the hair o' their heads."

"I am not remarkable for brooking insults," added Musgrave, "and of that more than one of the company had cause to be convinced. In his letter, the bookseller spoke of my writings as displaying considerable originality and genius. Parts of them, he thought, exhibited marks of being written too hastily, and recommended their omission. He regretted that he durst not hazard their publication; as, unfortunately, too much depended upon patronage, connection, or the influence of a name. He recommended publishing by subscription, and brought forward the example of Pope, Burns, and others, to render the advice palatable, as children receive sweetmeats after acid drugs. He begged to enclose a guinea for two copies to himself; and, wishing me success, he said it would afford him pleasure, by every means in his power, to forward the publication. I will not exhaust your patience by a recital of calamities which a critic, ignorant of their meaning, or ashamed to look back on them, would pronounce vulgar, and in bad taste. Being contented with the luxury of half a bed, for which I paid sixpence, I experienced the truth of the proverb, that 'misery maketh a man acquainted with strange bedfellows.' Beggars, thieves, men of all nations, and of all climes and colours, shared my pillow. But I resolved to husband my guinea, indulging myself with sleeping one night, and wandering the streets the next, alternately. It was in vain, in the meantime, that I used every effort to obtain the situation of assistant-surgeon. In London, more, perhaps, than in any city, appearance is everything; and I carried my own condemnation written on my ruined garments."

"Troth, I have remarked there is some truth in what ye say, doctor," said the farmer; "if a man wishes to prosper, he should never, if possible, appear like a shorn sheep wi' the fleece bare on his back."

"My money," added the scholar, "was again reduced to five shillings; and to ward off the approach of starvation, I was compelled to renounce the comforts of a bed once in forty-eight hours, as a luxury I could no longer afford. The very shoes left my feet with ceaseless wandering. My feet bled as I walked. My hat became shapeless; I was ashamed to look on it. The wind began to sport through my garments, and found loopholes for his sport. My person became like a moving spirit of famine, clothed with poverty, and shivering in a storm. My spirit was not broken, but it was bowed down. Yielding to the hope of despair, I attempted publishing by subscription. The plan may succeed where a man is known, where he has friends to push the subscription for him, or where he has impudence that is proof against insult; but, amongst strangers, it is a hopeless task. I was doomed to endure indignities from ignorant and contemptible menials, who, glancing at my figure, thrust the doors in my face, as on a common beggar! O sir! the recollection haunts me still. It is the only act of my life on which I cannot think without a burning blush coming over my face. I need not say it was unsuccessful. For thirty successive nights I wandered through the streets of this city, exposed to the storms of February and the bleak winds of March, sleeping as I moved along, or standing, and knowing not that I stood, till aroused by the jest of a passing unfortunate, or rudely driven on by the watchman of the night. Ten times in the hour, I would stumble beneath the oppression of sleep to the ground. But I will not detail those days and nights of misery. The scenes I then encountered would provoke a smile and a tear at the same moment. They were a mingling of the ludicrous and the wretched. Yet, to give you but one or two instances out of many:—One cold and weary night, sleep came upon me like death itself. I was wandering along Thames Street, and came to Billingsgate. Porters and oyster-sellers were lounging about the market, some sitting smoking, laughing, or drinking, though it was not an hour past midnight. I sought shelter beneath the sheds, and stretched myself upon one of the tables or benches. But the cold was intense. My very blood seemed freezing. I arose and removed to a corner of the market over the side of the river, and there, there was one of the open shops, stalls, or sheds, the one side of which was screened by a large and loosely-hanging canvas sign, facing the river, of more than six feet square, setting forth the occupant of the stall as fishmonger, oyster-dealer, and so forth. Through the lamplight and starlight, I cast a longing and envious look at the loose and painted canvas. I took it down, and stretched myself upon the bench, spread it over me as a blanket. It was the most comfortable covering I had had for many nights. But scarce had sleep, which pressed heavily upon me, sealed up my eyelids, when I was aroused by a rude hand shaking me by the shoulder, and a ruder voice exclaiming, 'Holloa! who have we got here?' It was the proprietor of the shed. I started—rubbed my eyes—stammered out an apology. A crowd of fishwomen and porters gathered round us. The fishmonger spoke of calling for the police. I expostulated. He offered to hold me. I raised my hand, and I am thankful that his table, which was a fixture, was between him and the river. I rushed through the crowd; and whether the blow which I had lent the fishmonger operated upon their courage and humanity, I cannot tell, but they made way for me. I had not, however, proceeded far, when sleep again became too much for me, and too literally I 'caught myself tripping.' Its influence was irresistible, and St Paul's had not yet chimed the hour of three. I saw a cart standing beneath an open gateway; and, with gratitude in my heart, I lay down on it as a couch of luxury. But there I had not lain long when I was awoke by a person at my side. I started.

"'Don't be afraid, sir,' said the intruder; 'it is only a poor brother in misfortune!'

"I turned round and glanced at him through the dim light, but scarce could I discover what manner of man he was, till sleep again 'locked up my senses in forgetfulness.' A little after daybreak, I awoke, shivering, my joints stiff, my teeth chattering together, and my whole body a mass of pain. I perceived that my 'poor brother in misfortune' was, or rather I ought to say had been, dressed respectably, yea, even fashionably. He carried with him a portfolio, which even in his sleep he pressed closely beneath his arm. As I arose he awoke; and groaning, he arose also and accompanied me. I know not whether it was mutual wretchedness, or the portfolio beneath his arm, that caused me to feel a regard for him at the first glance; but certain it is I was prepossessed in his favour. We were a couple of strange, miserable-looking characters, as we went drowsily, laggardly, and lamely up Fish Street Hill together. I observed the night-watchmen, who had not left their beat, turned round, and even held up their lanterns—though the morning's light was well advanced—and examined us as we passed. As though our errand or our thoughts were the same, we proceeded towards the Park together; and when the sun arose, he opened his portfolio, and exhibited it to me. He was an artist, and an artist, too, of high promise. His portfolio contained many bold and vigorous pencil sketches, where soul, taste, and a daring hand were exemplified. He had also a number of beautiful pieces in water-colours, which showed that his touch was delicate as well as bold. I took my pencil, and wrote a few lines on the back of one of the Bristol boards on which one of the subjects was sketched, and the artist and I became friends. Neither of us had wherewith to purchase a breakfast; but, in the forenoon, he had to call upon a printseller in the Strand with some of his pieces in water-colours, and we parted with a promise to meet again on the following day. But an accident, which I shall afterwards mention, prevented me from keeping my engagement; and we parted without the one knowing the name of the other. I have not again met with him; but, until this hour, I regret that I learned not the name of a young artist, whom I met with under such circumstances, and whose productions manifested high genius, a correct taste, and a skilful hand. Now, at this period, sir, I should tell you that the greater part of the day was generally spent in attempts to sleep upon the seats in the Park; and, dreadful as the pangs of hunger were, at length (and this is no idle saying), I could have been content to die beneath their rage, to have purchased but one hour of rest and repose. The agony of hunger yields to the agony of sleep."

"And do you really say, doctor," inquired the farmer, "that ye have suffered a' this in a Christian land, even in this city? I hardly think it possible."

"Some may doubt it," replied Robert, earnestly; "but the remembrance of what I have endured will live as a coal of fire in my heart for ever; and the fiftieth part of what I suffered has not been told you. But, sir, before I proceed farther with my story, allow me to go back to another part of my history, and advert to another circumstance. You will remember—it is more than a dozen years ago—a military gentleman, whom we generally called Colonel Forster, took up his residence on the banks of the Esk, a few miles from Longtown. He was, I believe, a lieutenant-colonel in the service of the East India Company."

"I remember him perfectly well, Mr Musgrave," said the farmer, "and know him yet; and, moreover, I also remember that ye was particularly fond of his daughter Bertha, and that it was said that it wasna her beauty ye was in love wi', but her siller; for the colonel was understood to be a perfect nabob, and I have heard that he forbade you to come about the house."

"Sir," continued Musgrave—and there was a glow of indignation on his countenance—"I care not what the world may have said, nor what they do say. The lark greeteth not the dawning of the dawn with more fervent delight than I first beheld the fair countenance of Bertha Forster. I knew not that her father was rich, and, when I did know it, I grieved that he was so. But to me she plighted her first vow, and pledged her 'maiden troth;' and, though I knew that, by her fulfilling it, I should take the hand of a penniless bride—for it is true that her father threatened to disinherit her if she kept my company, and to leave all that he was possessed of to a son in India—yet I loved her the more. I loved her for herself, and our feelings were reciprocal. Ever shall I remember the night on which we parted, previous to my leaving Cumberland for this city. It was in a deep wood, near her father's house. The Esk murmured by our feet, and the grey twilight fell over us. The evening-star was in the heavens; and the wood, the star, the river, and the twilight, were the witnesses of our tears and of our vows. But you are past the period of life when the recital of such things can be interesting; and respect for her whom my soul worships forbids me to say more. Yet, although her father despised and spurned me, we parted with a promise to write to each other, with a declaration to preserve our plighted vows inviolate even unto death. It was agreed that I should send my letters to her, addressed to a humble but mutual friend. But I was long in London ere I wrote; for I had not the means of writing; and, when an answer came to that letter—oh! I never knew real misery till then! She knew not the depth of my wretchedness—the extremeness of my poverty! I beheld my name on the board at the post-office amongst the list of persons whose residence could not be found. Day after day I visited it, and stood with my eyes fixed upon my own name, while my heart was ready to burst with agony and anxiety. I knew the letter was from my Bertha; but I had not the few pence necessary to relieve it. I had no means of obtaining them. I was a penniless, houseless stranger, unknown to every one in this vast city. And, after gazing on the board till my eyes were dimmed by rising tears, and my brain excited almost to madness, I was wont to flee from the city; and often, in solitude and in darkness, pour forth the bitterness of my spirit to the night winds. Often, at such times, in the excess of misery, I have wrung my hands together, and exclaimed aloud—

"'What would my poor Bertha think if she knew this!'

"At length the list of names amongst which mine appeared was removed from the post-office and replaced by others; and when, after obtaining the means of paying for the letter, I made inquiry after it, I was informed that it had been returned. I doubted not but that she would imagine I had forgotten her; and, as I turned away in disappointment and in hopelessness, I said unto myself, 'Farewell, my Bertha!'"

"Help us, doctor!" exclaimed Peter; "is it really possible that anybody can have been so put about for a thirteenpence matter! Yet, how do we fling away shilling after shilling, day after day, without ever thinking o' the road they are going! And how ready we are to say about anything, 'Oh, it was only a shilling!' But, doctor, when ye think what a relief 'only a shilling' would have given to your mind at that moment, surely ye will have considered weel the length and breadth o' every sixpence ye have spent since then. It will be a lesson to me, however, to be more cautious how I ever spend thirteenpence again; and, if I find myself ready to fling it away on any unwiselike or unprofitable purposes, I will just think—'What good will what I am going to do wi' my money do me?—and what would Doctor Musgrave have given for it, when he saw the letter from his sweetheart, and hadna the thirteenpence to open it?' As sure as death!—as we used to say at school, and that is gay sure—had any other body told me what ye have said but yoursel, I would have laughed at it. Had I read it in print, I wouldna have believed it. But there is one thing in it, and that is, it just shows us what poor dependent creatures we are one upon another. Doctor, ye had a sair trial there for a sma' matter."

"You, sir," continued Mr Musgrave, "no doubt consider London an immense, almost a limitless city; but, sir, it is too small for the bounds of misery. Often have I wandered from Knightsbridge to Mile End, yea, from Cheswick to the East India Docks, and slowly returned the way I came thinking that daylight would never break, and wondering how people spoke of London as a great city. They, sir, who would really know the limits of London, must shake hands with misery as I have done. They must wander its streets by night, without food and without hope, and they will marvel how short they are. People talk of losing themselves amongst the intricacies and many turnings of this city. It is nonsense, sir—sheer stupidity. Let them once be lost in misery, in penniless, houseless wretchedness, and should a purse show itself at their feet, they would discover where they were in a moment. The man who has no money never loses himself in London—none do but fools who have it to lose. But, sir, it was on the very night after I had attempted to sleep in Billingsgate, beneath the comfortable covering of a fishmonger's sign, and dreamed by the side of an artist in a drayman's cart, that I was wandering on the borough side of the river, and had proceeded nearly three miles beyond the Elephant and Castle, when cries for assistance roused me from my waking dream. I rushed forward. A gentleman in an open carriage, with his servant, were attacked by four footpads, armed with knives and bludgeons. I took up a stone from the road, and, hurling it at the head of one of the robbers, when within a few yards of them, stretched him on the ground. We were then man to man. I sprang upon another—I grappled with him, overpowered him, and wrenched the bludgeon from his hands, but not until he had plunged his knife into my side. It was a bad wound, but not a dangerous one. With the bludgeon which I had wrenched from the hand of the robber, I rushed upon another of his associates, who, I found, had that moment overcome the gentleman to whose rescue I had providentially arrived. I dealt him a heavy and a hearty blow upon his busiest arm, which causing him to find that he had only his limbs left, he took to his heels and ran. The two whom I had already overthrown, had anticipated him in his flight, and, on seeing him run, the fourth followed their example. I attempted to run after them, but fell upon the ground from loss of blood. The gentleman was himself wounded, but slightly; and he, with his servant, raising me from the ground, and placing me in his carriage, conveyed me to the nearest inn. There, after a surgeon had been sent for, and my wound dressed, he requested to know who I was, and to whom he was indebted for his liberty and his life. But in all that concerned myself I was silent; and, in answer to all questions as to whom or what I was, I was dumb. My wound was deep, though not dangerous; and all that I regretted was, that I should be left an invalid in an inn, while I had nothing to recompense those who attended on me. After earnestly entreating to know who I was, or what was my name—though I have reason to believe that, from my dejected appearance, he entertained a most sorry idea of me—the gentleman whom I had rescued proceeded onwards to London. But I was silent to all his inquiries. Pride sealed up my tongue, and I shook my head and said nothing. I could not speak—shame and poverty tortured me more than my wound.

"Within an hour he proceeded on his journey; and, on the following day, he returned with a medical gentleman to visit me. It was with difficulty that I could sit up in my bed to welcome them. The man of surgery began by asking many questions, which I answered like a true Scotsman, by asking others which startled him; and I heard him whisper to him whom I had rescued—

"'Sir, he is, without doubt, a member of my profession.'

"The gentleman—I mean him whom I rescued from the ruffians—came forward to me; he took my hand in his—most earnestly he took it—and, as he held it, there was something like a tear—a tear of gratitude—rolling in his eyes.

"'Sir,' said he, 'to your courage I owe my life. Allow me to ask by what name I shall call my deliverer. It is evident that you are not, or that you have not always been, what your present appearance bespeaks. Let me know, therefore, how I am to thank you—how I can reward you as I ought.'

"'Sir,' answered I, 'you are a stranger to me; so am I to you. Let us remain so. If you speak of reward, you will cause me to regret what I did in attempting your rescue. Whatever I am, whatever I have been, matters not. I saw a fellow-man attacked and overpowered, and I attempted to deliver him. The humblest animal, prompted by its instinct, would have done the same. I am entitled to no thanks for what I have done—and, above all, I wish no questions asked of me.'"

"Faith, doctor, ye answered nobly, and just as ye ought to have, if ye had had a hundred pounds in your pocket; but, man, ye stood in your ain light. There is nae saying what he might have done for you. It might hae been the king or the prime minister for onything ye kenned."

"He might," resumed the scholar; "but he rejoined, 'Sir, I admire the independence of your spirit, but wherefore should you, without cause, reject the acquaintance of one who seeks your friendship? You have endangered your life to save mine—what stronger claim could you have on my everlasting gratitude? If common feeling prompted you to rescue me, suffer me not to leave you until I have testified that I am actuated by such feelings, in common with yourself. You refuse to tell me your name; mine is William Forster, a colonel in the service of the East India Company.'

"At the mention of his name my heart leaped within me. The brother of my Bertha, and of whom I have spoken, was in the service of the East India Company. I dreaded that he and the individual I had saved might be the same person; and I resolved, more determinedly than before, to conceal from him my name and circumstances. But, finding he could learn nothing from me, he offered me money. O sir! at that time I could have taken his life—I could have taken my own. To what have I sunk, I thought, or what am I now, that I should be treated as the veriest beggar that crawls upon the streets! 'Sir,' I exclaimed, wildly, 'keep your gold—your dross—your insulting dross. I did not assist you in your hour of need, that you should insult my situation by a mendicant's reward. I, sir, have the feelings of a gentleman as well as you, whatever I may now seem—therefore torment me not.' He informed me that he had to leave London on the following day; and he entreated that I would tell him who I was, that he might show that he was grateful for what I had done, in a way that might not be painful to my feelings. But the thought that he was the brother of my Bertha haunted me, maddened me, and I waved my hand to him and cried, 'Away! away!' His countenance bespoke him to be a man to whom I could have poured forth my whole soul; but even in that countenance I read her lineaments, and my soul moved like an agitated thing that I could feel within me, as I gazed on them.

"'Go, sir,' I exclaimed; 'and if you will be grateful, be so to one who rejoices in having been instrumental in assisting you. Leave me. I ask no more, for your questions torture me, and your pecuniary offers insult me.'

"He left me, but never did I behold a man part from another more reluctantly, or one who was more under the influence of strong emotion. My wound confined me to the inn for five weeks, and, during much of that time, my thoughts were distracted regarding the bill of the innkeeper. But one day he came to me and said—

"'Sir, I don't know how you and the gentleman whom you rescued from the highwaymen stand; but one thing I know, he is a gentleman every inch of him. He has paid for all that you have had, or may have for a month to come; and here, master, are fifty pounds which he left me to give to you in as delicate a way as I could, for, as he said, you were rather proud-spirited. Now, master, here is the money, and he was as safe in trusting it in my hands as if he had put it in the bank.'

"I knew not what to do; but, after a struggle, and a severe one, I accepted the money. You may despise me for what I did——"

"Me despise you!" cried the farmer; "for what, I would like to ken? It is the only wiselike action I have heard you say that you did. The man that would despise another for taking fifty pounds where it was deserved, is a being that doesna understand what money is, or what it was made for. They may despise ye that like, doctor, upon that account, but it winna be me."

"Well, sir," resumed Musgrave, "with the fifty pounds in my pocket, I again appeared upon the streets of London. But a change had passed over me. Even the policemen who before had ordered me to 'walk on' knew me not. I was another man—I was as one on whom fashion shed its sunning influence. I again endeavoured to obtain a situation as an assistant-surgeon, but the attempt was unsuccessful. I should have told you that it was owing to being confined with my wound that I was unable to meet my 'brother in misfortune,' the artist of whom I have spoken. I now tried my fortune as a writer for the magazines, and was paid for what I wrote even liberally, as I considered it. But there was one drawback attending this liberality: though I could write an article for which I received three, four, or seven guineas, in a day (for authors always calculate in guineas, though they are paid in pounds), yet it was not every day, neither was it every month, that I could get such an article accepted; and it was not every magazine that admitted me as a contributor. But by such writing I managed to live; and, as my name became known, I felt less of the misery which I endured when I first embarked in the precarious trade of authorship. Yet a precarious trade I still found it to be. I was enabled to live, but I lived between the hand and the mouth.

"The publisher whom I have already mentioned as having given a guinea towards the publishing of my works by subscription, engaged me to translate a novel from the French, and a small work from the Italian, of which language I had but a scanty knowledge. But it does not require the perfect knowledge of a language to be a translator which many consider necessary."

"I canna say," said Peter; "I must confess ye are out o' my depths there—but get on wi' your story, for I'm not sure but I may have something to tell ye."

"Well, sir," resumed the scholar, "after the translations had appeared, and when the seductions of a literary life, notwithstanding all its privations and all its uncertainty, had induced me to abandon all thoughts of pursuing my own profession, I determined to write for the stage. It would be tedious for me to tell you of all the difficulties I had to encounter before I could obtain an audience of the theatrical managers, or what was called the committee of management. I found them more difficult of access than the Cham of Tartary. As well might I have undertaken a mission to Pekin, with the intent of pulling the celestial emperor by the button. But at length my object was attained. A tragedy that I had written was accepted, and announced for representation. The eventful night came. The new drama—my drama—was to be performed. The first scene went off in silence—in utter silence; and often the actors mangled the lines most miserably. They forgot Hamlet's advice. But, as the first act was concluded, pit, boxes, and gallery burst into a tumult of applause. I was seated in the pit. The sweat broke upon my brow. Vanity wrought triumphantly in my bosom. I was the greatest man in London. The second, the third, the fourth, the fifth acts concluded in the same manner. The curtain fell, and the audience shouted, 'The author! the author!' For this tribute of public approbation I was not prepared. The stage-manager came to me, and still the audience in the gallery kept thundering and shouting, 'The author! the author!' He insisted that I should appear upon the stage, and before the audience. Vain as I was, I sickened at his words; but he took my hand, and led me forth. I became as a thing that moves, without a consciousness of, or a power over, its moving. I had become pale as death. They led me to what they call the green-room, and they put rouge upon my face. But it was in vain, and the cold sweat swept it away, and left my countenance as if covered with wounds. I was led upon the stage as a sheep is led to the slaughter. The lights flashed on me, and I beheld twice a thousand eyes fixed upon me. I knew not how to act. I trembled—bowed—threw my eyes in bewilderment over the multitude; but, as I was about to address them, on whom amongst that mixed assembly should my eyes fall, but on my Bertha! I started. A frenzy came upon me. I sprang towards the pit. Yet it is in vain for me to tell you, for I knew not what I did. She sat in a box immediately facing me. I heard a woman's scream; I knew it came from where she was. The multitude seemed rising, and moving around me, and every eye was on me. But I cannot describe to you what I felt or what I saw. I became unconscious. I knew only that I had seen her—that she was somewhere. There was a noise like that of many waters in my ears. My head went round—my eyes were blind. When I recovered, I was seated in the green-room, and the actors in their strange dresses surrounded me. They endeavoured to restore me to consciousness, as though I had been a sickly maiden that had fainted in their arms; and when I did recover from the sickness and insanity that came over me—

"'Where—oh, where,' I cried, 'is my Bertha?'

"I remember not of having done so; but I have been told that I did. You may think, sir, that I acted wildly, as a madman, or as a fool; but, before you condemn, think of what I had endured—of my recent misery, and of my vanity when shout rose on shout, and the cry from the assembled thousands was—'The author! the author!' Such changes, sir, were enough to turn a steadier head than mine."

"For my part, doctor," said Peter, "I have no notion o' plays; I never saw one in my life, and I canna say that I a'thegither comprehend ye. But let me hear about Miss Bertha."

"All that I could learn concerning her was," resumed Musgrave, "that a young lady in the boxes had uttered a sudden scream as she beheld me and the strange bewilderment that came over me, but that she had immediately been conveyed away by her friends in a coach. This only have I been able to learn. But it was she. Though all else that took place is as a wreck upon my memory, I see her before me now as I at that moment beheld her; I see still her one wild look that entered my soul, and I yet hear her heart-piercing cry, which brought delirium upon me, and rendered me dead to every other sound. But, from that night, I have been able to hear no more concerning her. I have sought her in church and in chapel, in the theatres and in the public walks, but never again have I beheld her. Often also have I written to Cumberland; but my letters have remained unanswered or been returned. She had forsaken me, or she has been compelled to forsake me; for, when I last beheld her, her face still beamed with affection, and her wild and sudden cry was the offspring of an old but a still living affection."

"I hear, by what ye say, doctor," rejoined the farmer, "that ye are as fond o' Miss Bertha as ever. Now, as I said to ye before, I am not certain but what I have something that ye might wish to hear, to communicate to ye; and, before doing so, with your permission, I would just ask you one or two plain questions. Ye have told me a great deal of the miserable state ye was in after ye came to London, and I would just like to ask ye if ye are bettor off now, and how and in what respect ye are so? I trust, therefore, that ye will by no means think the question impertinent; for I assure you, it is for your sake that I ask it, and not for any gratification to mysel."

"Well, sir," answered the scholar, "to be as plain with you as you desire, I have shaken hands with privation, and left it upon the road, to form the acquaintance of those who may follow me; or, to be more plain with you, I found that literature was a good staff but a bad crutch; and, as I began to gather my feet, I used it accordingly. In a word, as my name became known amongst men, my labours became more and more profitable; and, three years ago, thinking that I had obtained the means of doing so, I made an attempt to resume my profession as a surgeon. For many months, it was but an attempt, and a hopeless one, too; but gradually practice dawned or crept upon me. I am now employed as well as other members of my profession are; and, with the assistance of my literary labours, I look back upon the penury with which I struggled, and wish it to remain where I left it. But, though I have known something of the moonshine of fame as it has scattered its rays upon my head, and felt also the influence of the warmer beams of profit as I began to bask in the sun of popularity, yet there was, and there is, one dark and unsunned spot in my heart—and that is, the remembrance of my Bertha. Still does imagination conjure up her sudden glance, her one wild cry and look of agony, as I came forward to receive the plaudits of the multitude, when, as the bay-leaves were circling my brow, the prickly brier was rudely drawn across my bosom."

"Well, doctor," said Peter, "ye have not just spoken so plain as I could have wished; but I dare to say that I comprehend ye. When ye eat a meal now, ye ken where the next is to come from; and if Miss Bertha still thinks o' ye, and were to gie you her hand, there would be no likelihood o' her being brought in contact with the privations with which ye have manfully struggled, and which, I am happy to hear (and, I may say, more happy to perceive—for a person's own eyes are excellent witnesses), ye have overcome. Now, sir, hearken to me, for I have something to tell ye. I had always a sort of liking for ye, doctor; and though I did see ye foolish and stupid in many things, yet I was sorry for ye, and I said I believed that ye was a lad o' real genius, and of a right heart at the bottom. More than that, I said, that, if ye minded your hand, ye would be heard tell of in the world—and I have not been mistaken, for, even down in Cumberland, we have seen your name in the papers; and a hundred times have I said to my neighbours—'I always told ye that lad would rise to something.' But now, sir—now to the main subject, the one in which you will feel the greatest interest. Ye say that ye again and again wrote to Miss Bertha to Cumberland, and never got an answer. I am in no way surprised at that at all; and for this simple reason, that old Colonel Forster left Eskside five years ago, and went to reside near a place they call Elstree, about ten miles from this city. Now, the way in which I am acquainted with the circumstance is this:—About a year after ye left, the old nabob, as we used to ca' him, bought the farm that I rented, and became my landlord. Therefore, when he came to live in this quarter, I had to send my rents here. But, sir, he understands that I am in London—for I just handed him my rent, being here, the other day—and he has invited me to dine wi' him at his house to-morrow. Now, sir, if ye hae nae objections, I will just tak you out wi' me as an old friend; and if ye're not made welcome, I shall not be welcome either. So, say the word—will ye go wi' me, or will ye not?"

"I will—yes, yes, I will!" answered Mr Musgrave, eagerly.

"Well, well," said Peter, "there need be no more about it, then—say that I meet you at this house to-morrow at two o'clock."

"Agreed," replied the other.

"But," returned Peter, "there is one thing I forgot to tell ye, and that is, that I understand Miss Bertha is on the eve of being married, and highly married, too, they say wi' us. Therefore, ye will not be surprised if ye find your former acquaintance forgotten, or seemingly forgotten, which, in such matters, amounts to somewhat about the same thing."

On the following day, Mr Peter Liddell and Robert Musgrave entered a cab in Fleet Street together, and proceeded towards Elstree.

"Now," said Peter, as they approached the residence of his landlord, "I believe that I may be running my head against a wall; for I am well aware that the old colonel never liked ye. Ye are one who would be unwelcome at any time, but doubly so at a time like this, when his daughter is on the point of being married. But I will tell ye what it is—I am just as independent as he is. I am as able to live without the help o' the landlord, as the landlord is to live without the help o' the tenant. Therefore, if he puts down his brows at you when we are introduced, I will show him the back o' my coat, and so good-day to him."

"I believe, then," said Musgrave, "that with him I shall be no welcome guest; but, if Bertha welcome me, it is enough. You have spoken to me of her intended marriage—be it so. If she has forgotten me, if she has ceased to care for me, I will look upon her and bless her, in remembrance of days which have passed away as the shadow of a cloud passeth over the earth. But with that blessing hope will depart; for, sir, it was the remembrance of her that sustained me in all my struggles. It was the hope that she might, would one day be mine, that induced me to hope against hope, to wrestle with despair. For her sake only have I sought for fame, as a miser would seek after hidden treasure; and when it began to throw its light and its sunniness over me, she was the flower that rendered sunlight beautiful—for what is there lovely in light but as a thing which maketh the face of the earth fair to look upon?"

They drew up at the door of the colonel's residence, and were ushered into a room where he and a party of his friends sat. Peter, who was what people in the south would call a 'cute man, was beginning to make an apology, saying—

"I beg your pardon, colonel, for the liberty I have taken; but meeting with my old friend, Doctor Musgrave, yesterday, I prevailed on him to come out wi' me, as we were a' Cumberland folk together; and though he is a great man now——"

But, while Peter spoke, one of the company started forward. He grasped our hero by the hand, and exclaimed—

"My deliverer! Long and anxiously have I sought for you; but, until this hour, nothing have I been able to learn respecting you. Father," he added, "this is the gentleman of whom a hundred times you have heard me speak, as having at the peril of his own life saved mine. I have never known or met him again until now. Thank him with me." And, as he spoke, he held the doctor's hand between his.

The old man rose. He evidently laboured to speak to the stranger; but other feelings obtained the mastery. He stretched out his hand. He touched Robert Musgrave's—he coldly bowed to him. The blood left his face.

"Father," exclaimed the son, "you are ill. Hath gratitude——" But he paused as he beheld the expression of his father's features. They betrayed anger and agony at the same moment.

"Son," said he, "I would speak with you: that man—that man;" and he pointed to the scholar impatiently, and, beckoning to his son, rose to leave the room.

"Sir," said Musgrave, proudly, "if my presence trouble you, I can withdraw."

"My friend, what mean you?—what means my father?" asked the brother of Bertha, who was, indeed, the same individual that the scholar had rescued.

"I dinna ken," answered Peter Liddle; "but, if Doctor Musgrave go the door, I go to the door too."

The father and the son looked at each other. The glance of the latter sought from the former an explanation.

At that instant the door opened, and the much-talked-of Bertha entered the room.

"Bertha!" exclaimed Musgrave, and stepped forward, as if unconscious of what he did.

"Robert!" she rejoined, clasping her hands together. She started—she fell back; her brother supported her in his arms.

"Bertha!—father!—friend!" he exclaimed, hastily glancing to each as he spoke, "what means this?"

A man of middle age rose, and, as he hurried from the room, said—

"Farewell, Forster," addressing the old man; "you have deceived, you have insulted me. The man who is to be your daughter's husband is with her now."

It was the intended husband of Bertha that so spoke, and left the apartment. The old colonel rose to follow him.

"Stay, father," said his son; "what I have now witnessed requires an explanation. This stranger, to whom I owe my life, you have seen before—my sister has seen him—and there is something connected with your acquaintance with each other that I must understand."

"Yes," cried the old man, "I have seen him before—I have—I have."

"Bertha?" said his son; but she raised her hands before her face and wept.

"Sir," said the younger Forster, "I can be grateful. Though I am not acquainted with you, my sister is. Let me call my deliverer brother!" And he took the hand of his weeping sister and placed it in that of Robert Musgrave.

The old man started; but his son soothed him. And Robert Musgrave stood with the hand of Bertha Forster locked in his; and within a few weeks he called that hand his own, and was happy—and the sufferings that the Poor Scholar had endured became as a tale that is told.

---

THE LAIRD OF DARNICK TOWER.[12]

"Red glared the beacon on Pownell—
On Eildon there were three;
The bugle-horn on muir and fell
Was heard continually."—JAMES HOGG.

There is no country in the world that has so many legends, and legends of so remarkable a character, as Scotland. The fact is attributable to the peculiar mental form of the Saxon; always with a disposition to look back, to cull glorious memories of the past, and from these, again, to distil the spirit of a noble emulation for the present and the future. We are not now speaking of a dilettante antiquarianism, which becomes blasé over a household utensil, or learned on a relic from the cradle of art; but of that moral antiquarianism which courts examples of a grand courage, exercised for the sake of liberty or Christianity, or searches for traits of the domestic or social virtues, upon which the true greatness of a nation is founded. In this sense, every Scotsman is an antiquary—embracing his subject with enthusiasm, and inspiring his contemporaries with the patriotism he himself feels. He cannot see an old ruin, be it of a castle or a peel tower, but he must know what its possessors did in the days of the red Flodden or the desperate Drumclog—a good old grandam, but he must hear of a legend of foray, or tournay, or love:

"A story old
Of baron bold,
Or trollëd lay
Of lady gaye;"

and laugh or weep over the details, as they come from lips trembling as if with inspiration.

Nor does time ever end legend, or the love of it, in the true legendary lands. Time's embalming yields the incense, which, like the sweetness of the vestal lamp, is fragrant for ever. Every recital, and every listening, is a triumph of the genius of tradition; but, as if the past were a thing of endless development, we are continually meeting with new instances, to add to the treasury of the old, and increase the stock for those who are to come after us, and live our feelings, and our throbbings, and our sighs, over again, even as did those of the dearly-beloved ones who have gone before, and now know the traditions of eternity. Though every nook and corner has been searched, there is something always left for such gleaners as we; and even now we are discoverers at the very side and within the verge of the wand of a magician. Notwithstanding that the old tower or peel of Darnick is described in the "Monastery," it was practically known to Sir Walter Scott principally as an ancient pile, which he wanted to possess, to impart some dignity of antiquity to the domains of Abbotsford. If he knew that it had been for ages the residence of the good old family of the Heitons, with the sturdy bull for their crest, the sooner their representative was engulfed in the Abbotsford swirl the better; for the new edifice was not only to be composed of old armorial stones, but to represent an old family just brought into being by the modern Libitina, Genius.[13]

Now it was left for us to know something more of the old peel tower in addition to what history tells. The traveller by the Tweed cannot fail to observe the old peel, as it raises its grey head over the houses of the village of Darnick, a little to the west of Melrose. The real antiquary will turn from Abbotsford to examine it, and to admire its wonderful preservation, after so many years' exposure to the devastations of time and war. It is many a long day since a gallant member of the house fell, as "one of the Flowers of the Forest," in the battle of Flodden; or since another fought against the bold Buccleugh in the fight with Angus, in the very precincts of the tower; or since another Heiton, or De Heyton, as he was called, got the charter to the lands from Queen Mary and Darnley; yet, dating from the last of these periods, and we know for certain the strength then existed, we are left to admire the old representative of defence against foray, as a kind of contrast to the modern effort of the Great Unknown, so like an old-new worm-eaten charter written in vellum, worm-eaten while on the sheep's back—at least not so ancient as the skin of the goat which suckled Jove!

But to proceed with our legend of Darnick:

It happened some time about the year 1526 that Andrew Heiton was sitting in his tower of Darnick, thinking of the strange things doing in Scotland at that time, which was the Augustan Era of the Borderers. Scott of Buccleugh had risen from the condition of a riever, and would have been a right poor clan, as the ballad says, if every honest man on the Borders had had his own cow. The Homes and the Kers had also risen into great power, and the Elliots, through the greatness of the Scotts, stood second in the ranks of these sturdy champions of might against right. All was tumult south of the Tweed, but it was not of the old foraying kind simply, when cattle made hatred, and hatred made war, when a Cockburn was against a Tushielaw, an Elibank against a Harden, an Elliot against a Ker, only because, some twenty years before that, a heifer or a sheep had chanced to change its ownership. When the king was strong, the Borderers sometimes made a virtue of necessity, and leagued together to save their necks; but, strange enough, this brotherhood never stopped their depredations upon one another's property. These were a necessity, a kind of birthright, and being inevitable, and born with them, and ingrained to the very marrow, they were looked upon in a jolly kind of way, even by the losers, because they knew they would have better luck next time. The only difference was, that, when the king was weak, or the crown in minority, their depredations got a wider scope. The quiet proprietors then came in for their contribution, and in reward for this, the greater rievers were grateful enough to do a good act for their sovereign in their own way, but only if he kept out of their province, and did not interfere with their feuds. In truth, the Borderers never hated their king, when he did not shorten their swords, or lengthen their necks. Amidst all their fighting and stealing, there was lurking in their hearts that spirit of chivalry which, surviving in their descendants, evolved, in the changes of time, into justice and order, adorned by sagacity and good manners. So it was that, when King James V. was a minor in the clutches of Angus, and Lennox could do nothing to get him at liberty, a number of the greater chieftains were on the side of the young prince, and among these the Scotts of Buccleugh and the Elliots of Stobs; but others, such as the Homes, and Kers, and Cockburns, were creatures of the Douglas; all the Borderland was divided into king's parties and Douglas' parties, and these again were partitioned into lesser rivalships, resulting from their personal feuds; so that it often happened that the lesser proprietors knew not what side to take, seeing their loyalty interfered with their revenge, or their revenge with their loyalty. In this way, as was said by a writer of the times, "a cow was greater than a king."

Now the Laird of Darnick was, as we have said, thinking of these things in his tower of Darnick. "My father fell at the red Flodden," he said, meditatively, "and our house has ever been a loyal one. If we joined in a foray among the green fields of Wells or Harden, or took one upon our own account, it was only what we had a right to do, by the laws of the Borders, older, I ween, than those of Edinburgh or Scone. For what other purpose has the bull upon our crest his horns, if not to show that we had a courage to maintain, and which, thank God, has never been disgraced by an inhabitant of this old peel. By my crest! I love this young James Stewart as well as I love a Scott, or hate a Douglas, and I will away to meet him on his journey from Jedburgh to Melrose."

And, calling together his retainers and all those who looked upon the old tower as a rallying point, and these having got their shaggy garrons, and as good equipments of shining rippons as they could muster, they set out upon their journey, viewing, as they went along, the rich pasturing places, to count how many sirloins they could turn out, when a good riever was hungry, and was not forgetful of himself while he was mindful of his king and his old country. They arrived in happy time to join the cavalcade, and the eyes of the Laird of Darnick were blessed with the sight of the young prince, though he was the son of the imprudent king who led the last Laird of Darnick to his death at Flodden.

"But where is Wat Scott?" he asked at many among the royal party; "where is he who should be here with his strong arm and his sword, to show his master the kind of man he has in those parts to help him in his need against the Douglas, who holds him in a leash, and leads him about his own kingdom as if he were a dog, to show his breed and his fine collar."

But no one could answer. Some said that the sturdy but changeable Wat of Buccleugh, the most extraordinary man, next to the doughty Harden, that ever led a foray by moonlight, had joined Angus, and turned against the prince, and was to be King of the Borders, or keep the prince in his own stronghold of Buccleugh, and rule Scotland himself. And some said that he was afraid of the Douglas, and kept away; and others, that he had gone west among the Johnstones and Blackets to get "kitchen,"[14] because, while the king was about the forest, the kine had got saucy, and would not follow a Scott.

All this confused the Laird of Darnick mightily, and he even regetted coming among the royalists, because his display might raise Wat against him some day, and he might have kept his loyalty without endangering his clanship. But he could not help himself, now that he was there, and he resolved to wait and see whether Wat would turn out to be loyal after all.

When in this dilemma, and standing amidst the cavalcade, which had stopped to recruit about midway, in a field still called the Prince's Rest, he was surprised by a whisper in his ear:

"The mistress of Darnick says ye are to stand by Jamie Stewart."

"And by my faith I will," he said, as he turned to see who had come with this news from Darnick. "Did Jessie tell you this herself, Will?"

"Ay," rejoined Will; "and what's more, she says that Wat Scott is against James Stewart, and that, if the riever Buceleugh were ten times greater than he is, all the men of his clan wouldna mak her consent to desert her king."

"Just like the woman!" said Andrew. "Not the first time she has unearthed the fox, and made him rue the day he has passed the peel. Get thee back, and tell her I will obey her—not because it is a command of a wife, but the request of one who might be a queen. While horse and man may stand, or spear and blade hold together, neither bolt nor bar shall keep me from the king—neither monk nor mass shall break my purpose."

"And what's more?"

"What more, man? is not that enough?" said Heiton.

"No; there's to be a fight at Darnick; for Wat is to try to tak the king at Hallidon Hill, and you are to come hame to the tower, and be ready to offer it as a place of refuge for him, and, if necessary, to defend it; and if ye winna, she'll defend it hersel."

"Then take this other answer with you: say I will return as soon as I can with credit get away, without creating the suspicion of going over to Scott; and in the meantime get everything put into fighting order in the tower. All this I know she can do as well as I."

The messenger departed with the answer; but he had scarcely got out of sight, when Heiton encountered another man, whom he knew to be one of Scott's retainers.

"Why are you here, man," he said, "and your master collecting his clan yonder for treason against his lawful sovereign?"

"Because I am come to seek thee, as well as some others," replied he. "My master, Walter Scott, sends this to thee, wi' his gude greetings, that to-morrow night, by God's grace, he is to make a surprise on the Douglas, and seize him, and confine him in his castle, till the prince can get a better governor, or be able to reign himsel; and thou'rt to meet him, with all the strength thou canst muster, at Hallidon."

"The foul fiend is in thee, man," said Heiton; "for thou dost not speak the truth. It is the king your master wants, and then he will rule Scotland and all of us as he listeth. Go, tell him I'll stand by the prince, though I hate Angus; but if he'll let this alone, I will still pay him his blackmail."

With this answer, which astonished the messenger, he went away, and the cavalcade moved on. There was something like a difficulty into which Heiton had got, and he began to cast up the odds. His wife, he knew, was seldom wrong in her calculations; Scott was an old wolf, who never hesitated to make honesty subserve his policy, and with him policy was only another name for self-seeking.

Even as he so thought he might get out of his perplexity, a knight with splendid armour rode past him, and whispered to him, as if afraid of being overheard, "Heiton, if you're for the prince, join Scott."

"The foul fiend is in thee, too," muttered Heiton to himself. "Thou dost prevaricate, sir knight. Thinkst thus to trick me with thy jugglery—ha! ha!"

Now Heiton was no more than other gallant Border men long in coming to a point, whether it was among black cattle or obscure fancies. His life had been spent in asserting rights which were constantly liable to invasion; and the prompt, fiery, and resolute disposition of the man had been kept for ever on the alert by the circumstances of his situation. Brave to intrepidity, almost to insensibility—strong and active in person—master of his weapons, and always ready to use them in the extremity of danger—his aid was courted in many a desperate enterprise by the rival clans on the Borders. So, putting spurs to his garron, he was galloping determinedly over the muir, when others might have been groping about for a solution in the intricate chambers of the brain. His face was turned to Darnick, and his spurs against his horse's side. Nor was the occasion unworthy of his energy. There was mischief brewing about the very precincts of his peel, and the torrent would be poured on the very heart of his kindred. He might lose his head, or win a charter, as the issue might show; and it was impossible that, in a contest where royalty was engaged, or a Douglas endangered, he could, with his stronghold in the midst of it, be permitted to be neutral.

"And by the horns of my crest, I don't wish," he said, as he spurred on; "and if I did wish, the mistress of Darnick would teach me a better lesson than to shame myself beside the husbands of Yarrow roses or Ettrick lilies."

But a man is never so ready to be caught, as when his head is above the bush; and Heiton's somewhat grand soliloquy was no sooner finished, than he was stopped by a body of Borderers well equipped. "Bellenden!" sounded in his ears. "Buccleugh himself!" he muttered, and in an instant he stood before Wat Scott.

Now comes the storm, thought Heiton to himself, and began to collect his thoughts, as the cautious master of a vessel furls his sails, and makes his ship snug, when he discerns the approaching squall.

"Whither drive you, man, as if the mistress of Darnick waited for ye to take your dinner off the best heifer in our enemy Home's parks?" said Scott.

"Having only a small peel," rejoined Heiton, "it is necessary I should look after it when a thousand Scotts are marching north by west. It is not for crows' nests that Buccleugh marches with a thousand men, and without a blast of his horn. May I take the liberty to ask why thou'rt not with the followers of the prince?"

"Because I wish to do better for my king than follow him," said Scott.

"Make him follow thee," said Heiton. "Ay, so it is said; but, Walter Scott, though I have no objection to be in train, I would not like to see my king there."

"Nor wilt thou, man," said Scott. "Hush! what would Wat Scott do with a king? Ha! ha! kings are ill to fodder, and when thou'st fattened them, they don't make the pot boil or keep the spurs out of the pewter dish. There are kings enow besouth the Tweed when Buccleugh is there. Let Jamie keep north and Wat south, and there will be no strife in Scotland but that of the good old custom of keeping thine own. Come, I want thee and thy friends."

"I must know the foray first," replied Heiton.

"And so thou wilt. Come near," said Scott. "Listen. I know that the prince wishes to get out of the hands of Angus, and I wish to undo the grasp—understand ye."

"But an thou fail our heads may lick sawdust," replied Heiton. "Good-by."

"When wilt thou return?" cried Scott after him.

"I will tell thee when I know what's o'clock at Darnick," was the reply.

And Heiton spurred on more hastily than ever, and never lifted rein or rested heel till he was at his own tower.

"What's brought ye here, man, when the king needs thee?" said his wife, when he entered. "Thou look'st as if the king's headsman were after thee, and not thou after his enemies. Saw ye my messenger?"

"I did, Jessie," replied he; "but there's one wheel within another wheel, and one within that."

"And thou'st lost thy wits among wheels, and may even lose thy head under an axe."

"And 'tis because I fear that I am here," he said, "to tell thee thou'rt wrong, lass. Scott wants only to free the king from the hands of the Douglas. What am I to do? I am placed between the horns of a dilemma. If I go with the king, I go against him, and may see the Heading Hill at Stirling; if I go with Scott, I go against Douglas, and may lose my head even before I get there."

"A woman's wits are like her palfrey," said the wife—"go quickest when hardest pressed. Get thee back for the men, and come here to Darnick as fast as spurs can drive thee. There's no fear of your being suspected of a want of loyalty, for Douglas does not know that Scott is at the back of Hallidon; but hark ye, keep out of Scott's path, for he has a trick of keeping live stock when they come in his way."

"And what am I to do when I come back?" said he; "for if there's a fight at Darnick, will the Laird of Darnick not be expected to be in the thickest of it?"

"Certainly; and so ye will, man. Mount and go—begone! The cloud must soon rise, or it must sink for ever!"

And Heiton, without putting more questions, returned to the Royal party, which was now approaching danger. He got the men who had gone with him, and returning by a round to avoid Scott, again reached his own peel.

There was not much time to be lost, for there were signs abroad of the coming cavalcade. People were running hither and thither, under the excitement so natural as a consequence of a Royal procession in a part of the country accustomed only to lawless raids. There was a mystery too among the more knowing, for Scott's manœuvre could not be altogether hidden. He was in the neighbourhood at no great distance from the Royal procession, and yet he did not show any intention to be of it; but his secret must have been wonderfully kept, for the generality had no suspicion that within less than an hour a bloody contest would eclipse by the confusion of its strife the éclat of a Royal presence. Now the mistress of Darnick evolved her plans. She sent the men away on various errands, which somehow seemed to be all very necessary, though the necessity never appeared till the moment it was made known.

"And now Andrew Heiton," she said, "thou'rt not to be found anywhere. Away in the donjon there, to remain till I tell thee thou'rt wanted either by James Stewart or Wat Scott."

This command Heiton would not obey, till he understood better her intentions, and these were conveyed by a whisper which seemed to satisfy him. He did as he was directed, and the portal of the peel tower was closed and bolted.

The mistress then betook herself to the top, and planted herself where she could see far around without being observed.

Nor was all this done more quickly than was required. By and by the signs of the coming procession thickened. The indescribable stir of the air on the approach of crowds of human beings might easily be detected. Then the sounds of horses' feet, succeeded by the reverberations of trumpets, which the heralds and pursuivants began to blow as the town of Melrose came in view. The heraldic ensigns glittered in the rays of an unclouded sun; the gay armour of barons and knights cast their reflections everywhere, carrying the glory of war under the aspects of peace and loyalty. The young prince was seated on horseback, with Angus on the one side, and George Douglas on the other; their horses equipped after the gaudy fashion of the times, which were not yet beyond the era of chivalry, neighing to the sound of the horns, and curveting as if under the very feelings which inspired the riders. The scene was such as might seem the farthest removed from the inspirations of strife. Royalty sat enshrined in peace, to receive the éclat of admiration, and be blessed with the breathings of gratitude.

But, quick as a blast of a horn among the hills or the advent of a thunder-clap, the terrific cry of "Bellenden!" was heard, succeeded by the Border hurrah, and the next instant a thousand wild men, with glittering swords in their hands, the terrible battle-axe or the piercing spear, rushed more like a cataract than a torrent on the all-unprepared and utterly-unsuspicious party. In the midst of them was Wat Scott, with his stern face and fierce eye. For an enemy to see it was to tremble, for a warrior to be fired. Taken at once, the Royal party swerved like a surging sea. The prince was cared for, and the Douglas, maddened by the fear of losing their royal prize, and burning with the revenge of an old hatred, flew from place to place, crying, "For the king! for the king!" It was answered by the roar of the now raised Scotts, returned again by the Royalists, and echoed with an energy redoubled by the rising fury of opposition. The pressure of the Borderers increased as their hopes rose, and their repeated hurrahs told of their success amidst the clanging of swords, the heavy fall of the axe, the sharp risp of the lance. Scott was still paramount, and everywhere, pointing, hacking, calling to secure the prince.

"The noise of battle hurtled in the air,
Horses did neigh, and dying men did groan."

At first and for some time the contest had more the appearance of an attack, ill resisted; but it soon ceased to present that aspect, and now it was as if every man closed with every man. The sounds of triumph or hope died away into hard breathings.

"With foot to foot, and eye opposed,
In dubious strife they darkly closed."

Work allowed no time or inclination for exclamations; but death everywhere among both parties extorting the groan or the yell, pulled down the proudest and the bravest; but their places were not seen after their heads fell, for the mass was so thick that there scarcely seemed room for the arm to do the work of the will. Still victory boded well for Buccleugh; and again, as the opposing party began to recede, the cries commenced, "Bellenden! Bellenden!" but they were not destined to be many times repeated. A loud cheer came from the king's party, even when they were retiring. It was soon explained. They were being joined by the two clans of the Homes and Kers, who had come up hot with revenge against their old enemy, but with less loyalty than possessed by Scott. The onset of the newcomers was a repetition of that of the Borderers, fierce, and bearing the aspect of victory before it was won.

All this was seen by the mistress of Darnick, and heard by Heiton with the feelings of a caged lion. It was now her time, she saw how victory pointed. It was impossible for Buccleugh to hold out.

"Now," she said, "thou knowest whom to fight for with safety. Ere a quarter-of-an-hour the king's party will prevail. Get thee into the thick of the fight, but as far from Wat Scott as you can. Thou'lt save thy head and thy lands, without injuring thy old friend."

The portal was opened, and the master of Darnick was soon fighting desperately in the ranks of the king, his nervous arm dealing death at every stroke. "Heiton to the rescue!" was sounded; and his retainers, returning, took the Scotts in flank. This movement was decisive. In a short time the Borderers were in retreat, and the wounded of the king's party conveyed to the tower, where the kind attentions and hospitality of the laird hastened their recovery.

The policy of the mistress of Darnick was soon apparent from the treatment inflicted not only upon the retainers of Scott, but on all those who did not come forward to the help of Angus;[15] and it was this latter consequence, foreseen by her, which dictated her stratagem. She knew that it was necessary for Heiton to be on the one side or the other; and the good effects of her wisdom were shown in another way. About thirty years after the battle of Darnick, a new charter was bestowed on Heiton; a good sign that he was held in remembrance for having been found in the ranks of the king; that charter was, no doubt, not by James, who was supposed to favour the design of Scott, but by Mary, whose counsellors were not led by these distinctions, and who looked only at the open evidences of loyalty.

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THE BROKEN HEART.