AN HOUR IN THE MANSE.
By Professor Wilson.
In a few weeks the annual sacrament of the Lord’s Supper was to be administered in the parish of Deanside; and the minister, venerable in old age, of authority by the power of his talents and learning, almost feared for his sanctity, yet withal beloved for gentleness and compassion that had never been found wanting, when required either by the misfortunes or errors of any of his flock, had delivered for several successive Sabbaths, to full congregations, sermons on the proper preparation of communicants in that awful ordinance. The old man was a follower of Calvin; and many, who had listened to him with a resolution in their hearts to approach the table of the Redeemer, felt so awe-stricken and awakened at the conclusion of his exhortations, that they gave their souls another year to meditate on what they had heard, and by a pure and humble course of life, to render themselves less unworthy to partake the mysterious and holy bread and wine.
The good old man received in the manse, for a couple of hours every evening, such of his parishioners as came to signify their wish to partake of the sacrament; and it was then noted, that, though he in nowise departed, in his conversation with them at such times, from the spirit of those doctrines which he had delivered from the pulpit, yet his manner was milder, and more soothing, and full of encouragement; so that many who went to him almost with quaking hearts, departed in tranquillity and peace, and looked forward to that most impressive and solemn act of the Christian faith with calm and glad anticipation. The old man thought, truly and justly, that few, if any, would come to the manse, after having heard him in the kirk, without due and deep reflection; and therefore, though he allowed none to pass through his hands without strict examination, he spoke to them all benignly, and with that sort of paternal pity which a religious man, about to leave this life, feels towards all his brethren of mankind, who are entering upon, or engaged in, its scenes of agitation, trouble, and danger.
On one of those evenings, the servant showed into the minister’s study a tall, bold-looking, dark-visaged man, in the prime of life, who, with little of the usual courtesy, advanced into the middle of the room, and somewhat abruptly declared the sacred purpose of his visit. But before he could receive a reply, he looked around and before him; and there was something so solemn in the old minister’s appearance, as he sat like a spirit, with his unclouded eyes fixed upon the intruder, that that person’s countenance fell, and his heart was involuntarily knocking against his side. An old large Bible, the same that he read from in the pulpit, was lying open before him. One glimmering candle showed his beautiful and silvery locks falling over his temples, as his head half stooped over the sacred page; a dead silence was in the room dedicated to meditation and prayer; the old man, it was known, had for some time felt himself to be dying, and had spoken of the sacrament of this summer as the last he could ever hope to administer; so that altogether, in the silence, the dimness, the sanctity, the unworldliness of the time, the place, and the being before him, the visitor stood like one abashed and appalled; and bowing more reverently, or at least respectfully, he said, with a quivering voice, “Sir, I come for your sanction to be admitted to the table of our Lord.”
The minister motioned to him with his hand to sit down; and it was a relief to the trembling man to do so, for he was in the presence of one who, he felt, saw into his heart. A sudden change from hardihood to terror took place within his dark nature; he wished himself out of the insupportable sanctity of that breathless room; and a remorse, that had hitherto slept, or been drowned within him, now clutched his heartstrings, as if with an alternate grasp of frost and fire, and made his knees knock against each other where he sat, and his face pale as ashes.
“Norman Adams, saidst thou that thou wilt take into that hand, and put into those lips, the symbol of the blood that was shed for sinners, and of the body that bowed on the cross, and then gave up the ghost? If so, let us speak together, even as if thou wert communing with thine own heart. Never again may I join in that sacrament, for the hour of my departure is at hand. Say, wilt thou eat and drink death to thine immortal soul?”
The terrified man found strength to rise from his seat, and, staggering towards the door, said, “Pardon, forgive me!—I am not worthy.”
“It is not I who can pardon, Norman. That power lies not with man; but sit down—you are deadly pale—and though, I fear, an ill-living and a dissolute man, greater sinners have repented and been saved. Approach not now the table of the Lord, but confess all your sins before Him in the silence of your own house, and upon your naked knees on the stone-floor every morning and every night; and if this you do faithfully, humbly, and with a contrite heart, come to me again when the sacrament is over, and I will speak words of comfort to you (if then I am able to speak)—if, Norman, it should be on my deathbed. This will I do for the sake of thy soul, and for the sake of thy father, Norman, whom my soul loved, and who was a support to me in my ministry for many long, long years, even for two score and ten, for we were at school together; and had your father been living now, he would, like myself, have this very day finished his eighty-fifth year. I send you not from me in anger, but in pity and love. Go, my son, and this very night begin your repentance, for if that face speak the truth, your heart must be sorely charged.”
Just as the old man ceased speaking, and before the humble, or at least affrighted culprit had risen to go, another visitor of a very different kind was shown into the room—a young, beautiful girl, almost shrouded in her cloak, with a sweet pale face, on which sadness seemed in vain to strive with the natural expression of the happiness of youth.
“Mary Simpson,” said the kind old man, as she stood with a timid courtesy near the door, “Mary Simpson, approach, and receive from my hands the token for which thou comest. Well dost thou know the history of thy Saviour’s life, and rejoicest in the life and immortality brought to light by the gospel. Young and guileless, Mary, art thou; and dim as my memory now is of many things, yet do I well remember the evening, when first beside my knee, thou heardst read how the Divine Infant was laid in a manger, how the wise men from the East came to the place of His nativity, and how the angels were heard singing in the fields of Bethlehem all the night long.”
Alas! every word that had thus been uttered sent a pang into the poor creature’s heart, and, without lifting her eyes from the floor, and in a voice more faint and hollow than belonged to one so young, she said, “O sir! I come not as an intending communicant; yet the Lord my God knows that I am rather miserable than guilty, and He will not suffer my soul to perish, though a baby is now within me, the child of guilt, and sin, and horror. This, my shame, come I to tell you; but for the father of my babe unborn, cruel though he has been to me,—oh! cruel, cruel, indeed,—yet shall his name go down with me in silence to the grave. I must not, must not breathe his name in mortal ears; but I have looked round me in the wide moor, and when nothing that could understand was by, nothing living but birds, and bees, and the sheep I was herding, often have I whispered his name in my prayers, and beseeched God and Jesus to forgive him all his sins.”
At these words, of which the passionate utterance seemed to relieve her heart, and before the pitying and bewildered old man could reply, Mary Simpson raised her eyes from the floor, and fearing to meet the face of the minister, which had heretofore never shone upon her but with smiles, and of which the expected frown was to her altogether insupportable, she turned them wildly round the room, as if for a dark resting-place, and beheld Norman Adams rooted to his seat, leaning towards her with his white, ghastly countenance, and his eyes starting from their sockets, seemingly in wrath, agony, fear, and remorse. That terrible face struck poor Mary to the heart, and she sank against the wall, and slipped down, shuddering, upon a chair.
“Norman Adams, I am old and weak, but do you put your arm round that poor lost creature, and keep her from falling down on the hard floor. I hear it is a stormy night, and she has walked some miles hither; no wonder she is overcome. You have heard her confession, but it was not meant for your ear; so, till I see you again, say nothing of what you have now heard.”
“O sir! a cup of water, for my blood is either leaving my heart altogether, or it is drowning it. Your voice, sir, is going far, far away from me, and I am sinking down. Oh, hold me!—hold me up! Is it a pit into which I am falling?—Saw I not Norman Adams?—Where is he now?”
The poor maiden did not fall off the chair, although Norman Adams supported her not; but her head lay back against the wall, and a sigh, long and dismal, burst from her bosom, that deeply affected the old man’s heart, but struck that of the speechless and motionless sinner, like the first toll of the prison bell that warns the felon to leave his cell and come forth to execution.
The minister fixed a stern eye upon Norman, for, from the poor girl’s unconscious words, it was plain that he was the guilty wretch who had wrought all this misery. “You knew, did you not, that she had neither father nor mother, sister nor brother, scarcely one relation on earth to care for or watch over her; and yet you have used her so? If her beauty was a temptation unto you, did not the sweet child’s innocence touch your hard and selfish heart with pity? or her guilt and grief must surely now wring it with remorse. Look on her—white, cold, breathless, still as a corpse; and yet, thou bold bad man, thy footsteps would have approached the table of thy Lord!”
The child now partly awoke from her swoon, and her dim opening eyes met those of Norman Adams. She shut them with a shudder, and said, sickly and with a quivering voice, “Oh spare, spare me, Norman! Are we again in that dark, fearful wood? Tremble not for your life on earth, Norman, for never, never will I tell to mortal ears that terrible secret; but spare me, spare me, else our Saviour, with all His mercy, will never pardon your unrelenting soul. These are cruel-looking eyes; you will not surely murder poor Mary Simpson, unhappy as she is, and must for ever be—yet life is sweet! She beseeches you on her knees to spare her life!”—and, in the intense fear of phantasy, the poor creature struggled off the chair, and fell down indeed in a heap at his feet.
“Canst thou indeed be the son of old Norman Adams, the industrious, the temperate, the mild, and the pious—who so often sat in this very room which thy presence has now polluted, and spake with me on the mysteries of life and of death? Foul ravisher, what stayed thy hand from the murder of that child, when there were none near to hear her shrieks in the dark solitude of the great pine-wood?”
Norman Adams smote his heart and fell down too on his knees beside the poor ruined orphan. He put his arm round her, and, raising her from the floor, said, “No, no, my sin is great, too great for Heaven’s forgiveness; but, oh sir! say not—say not that I would have murdered her; for, savage as my crime was, yet may God judge me less terribly than if I had taken her life.”
In a little while they were both seated with some composure, and silence was in the room. No one spoke, and the old grayhaired man sat with his eyes fixed, without reading, on the open Bible. At last he broke silence with these words out of Isaiah, that seemed to have forced themselves on his heedless eyes:—“Though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow: though they be red like crimson, they shall be as wool.”
Mary Simpson wept aloud at these words, and seemed to forget her own wrongs and grief in commiseration of the agonies of remorse and fear that were now plainly preying on the soul of the guilty man. “I forgive you, Norman, and will soon be out of the way, no longer to anger you with the sight of me.” Then, fixing her streaming eyes on the minister, she besought him not to be the means of bringing him to punishment and a shameful death, for that he might repent, and live to be a good man and respected in the parish; but that she was a poor orphan for whom few cared, and who, when dead, would have but a small funeral.
“I will deliver myself up into the hands of justice,” said the offender, “for I do not deserve to live. Mine was an inhuman crime, and let a violent and shameful death be my doom.”
The orphan girl now stood up as if her strength had been restored, and stretching out her hands passionately, with a flow of most affecting and beautiful language, inspired by a meek, single, and sinless heart that could not bear the thought of utter degradation and wretchedness befalling any one of the rational children of God, implored and beseeched the old man to comfort the sinner before them, and promise that the dark transaction of guilt should never leave the concealment of their own three hearts. “Did he not save the lives of two brothers once who were drowning in that black mossy loch, when their own kindred, at work among the hay, feared the deep sullen water, and all stood aloof shuddering and shaking, till Norman Adams leapt in to their rescue, and drew them by the dripping hair to the shore, and then lay down beside them on the heather as like to death as themselves? I myself saw it done; I myself heard their mother call down the blessing of God on Norman’s head, and then all the haymakers knelt down and prayed. When you, on the Sabbath, returned thanks to God for that they were saved, oh! kind sir, did you not name, in the full kirk, him who, under Providence, did deliver them from death, and who, you said, had thus showed himself to be a Christian indeed? May his sin against me be forgotten, for the sake of those two drowning boys, and their mother, who blesses his name unto this day.”
From a few questions solemnly asked, and solemnly answered, the minister found that Norman Adams had been won by the beauty and loveliness of this poor orphan shepherdess, as he had sometimes spoken to her when sitting on the hill-side with her flock, but that pride had prevented him from ever thinking of her in marriage. It appeared that he had also been falsely informed, by a youth whom Mary disliked for his brutal and gross manners, that she was not the innocent girl that her seeming simplicity denoted. On returning from a festive meeting, where this abject person had made many mean insinuations against her virtue, Norman Adams met her returning to her master’s house, in the dusk of the evening, on the footpath leading through a lonely wood; and, though his crime was of the deepest dye, it seemed to the minister of the religion of mercy, that by repentance, and belief in the atonement that had once been made for sinners, he, too, might perhaps hope for forgiveness at the throne of God.
“I warned you, miserable man, of the fatal nature of sin, when first it brought a trouble over your countenance, and broke in upon the peaceful integrity of your life. Was not the silence of the night often terrible to you, when you were alone in the moors, and the whisper of your own conscience told you, that every wicked thought was sacrilege to your father’s dust? Step by step, and almost imperceptibly, perhaps, did you advance upon the road that leadeth to destruction; but look back now, and what a long dark journey have you taken, standing, as you are, on the brink of everlasting death! Once you were kind, gentle, generous, manly, and free; but you trusted to the deceitfulness of your own heart; you estranged yourself from the house of the God of your fathers; and what has your nature done for you at last, but sunk you into a wretch—savage, selfish, cruel, cowardly, and in good truth a slave? A felon are you, and forfeited to the hangman’s hands. Look on that poor innocent child, and think what is man without God. What would you give now, if the last three years of your reckless life had been passed in a dungeon dug deep into the earth, with hunger and thirst gnawing at your heart, and bent down under a cartload of chains? Yet look not so ghastly, for I condemn you not utterly; nor, though I know your guilt, can I know what good may yet be left uncorrupted and unextinguished in your soul. Kneel not to me, Norman; fasten not so your eyes upon me; lift them upwards, and then turn them in upon your own heart, for the dreadful reckoning is between it and God.”
Mary Simpson had now recovered all her strength, and she knelt down by the side of the groaner. Deep was the pity she now felt for him, who to her had shown no pity; she did not refuse to lay her light arm tenderly upon his neck. Often had she prayed to God to save his soul, even among her rueful sobs of shame in the solitary glens; and now that she beheld his sin punished with a remorse more than he could bear, the orphan would have willingly died to avert from his prostrate head the wrath of the Almighty.
The old man wept at the sight of so much innocence, and so much guilt, kneeling together before God, in strange union and fellowship of a common being. With his own fatherly arms he lifted up the orphan from her knees, and said, “Mary Simpson, my sweet and innocent Mary Simpson, for innocent thou art, the elders will give thee a token, that will, on Sabbath-day, admit thee (not for the first time, though so young) to the communion-table. Fear not to approach it; look at me, and on my face, when I bless the elements, and be thou strong in the strength of the Lord. Norman Adams, return to your home. Go into the chamber where your father died. Let your knees wear out the part of the floor on which he kneeled. It is somewhat worn already; you have seen the mark of your father’s knees. Who knows, but that pardon and peace may descend from Heaven upon such a sinner as thou? On none such as thou have mine eyes ever looked, in knowledge, among all those who have lived and died under my care, for three generations. But great is the unknown guilt that may be hidden even in the churchyard of a small quiet parish like this. Dost thou feel as if God-forsaken? Or, oh! say it unto me, canst thou, my poor son, dare to hope for repentance?”
The pitiful tone of the old man’s trembling voice, and the motion of his shaking and withered hands, as he lifted them up almost in an attitude of benediction, completed the prostration of that sinner’s spirit. All his better nature, which had too long been oppressed under scorn of holy ordinances, and the coldness of infidelity, and the selfishness of lawless desires that insensibly harden the heart they do not dissolve, now struggled to rise up and respect its rights. “When I remember what I once was, I can hope—when I think what I now am, I only, only fear.”
A storm of rain and wind had come on, and Mary Simpson slept in the manse that night. On the ensuing Sabbath she partook of the sacrament. A woeful illness fell upon Norman Adams; and then for a long time no one saw him, or knew where he had gone. It was said that he was in a distant city, and that he was a miserable creature, that never again could look upon the sun. But it was otherwise ordered. He returned to his farm, greatly changed in face and person, but even yet more changed in spirit.
The old minister had more days allotted to him than he had thought, and was not taken away for some summers. Before he died, he had reason to know that Norman Adams had repented in tears of blood, in thoughts of faith, and in deeds of charity; and he did not fear to admit him, too, in good time, to the holy ordinance, along with Mary Simpson, then his wife, and the mother of his children.
THE WARDEN OF THE MARCHES:
A TRADITIONARY STORY OF ANNANDALE.
The predatory incursions of the Scots and English borderers, on each other’s territories, are known to every one in the least acquainted with either the written or traditional history of his country. These were sometimes made by armed and numerous bodies, and it was not uncommon for a band of marauders to take advantage of a thick fog or a dark night for plundering or driving away the cattle, with which they soon escaped over the border, where they were generally secure. Such incursions were so frequent and distressing to the peaceable and well-disposed inhabitants that they complained loudly to their respective governments; in consequence of which some one of the powerful nobles residing on the borders was invested with authority to suppress these depredations, under the title of Warden of the Marches. His duty was to protect the frontier, and alarm the country by firing the beacons which were placed on the heights, where they could be seen at a great distance, as a warning to the people to drive away their cattle, and, collecting in a body, either to repel or pursue the invaders, as circumstances might require. The wardens also possessed a discretionary power in such matters as came under their jurisdiction. The proper discharge of this important trust required vigilance, courage, and fidelity, but it was sometimes committed to improper hands, and consequently the duty was very improperly performed.
In the reign of James V. one of these wardens was Sir John Charteris of Amisfield, near Dumfries, a brave but haughty man, who sometimes forgot his important trust so far as to sacrifice his public duties to his private interests.
George Maxwell was a young and respectable farmer in Annandale, who had frequently been active in repressing the petty incursions to which that quarter of the country was exposed. Having thereby rendered himself particularly obnoxious to the English borderers, a strong party was formed, which succeeded in despoiling him, by plundering his house and driving away his whole live stock. At the head of a large party he pursued and overtook the “spoil-encumbered foe;” a fierce and bloody contest ensued, in which George fell the victim of a former feud, leaving his widow, Marion, in poverty, with her son Wallace, an only child in the tenth year of his age. By the liberality of her neighbours, the widow was replaced in a small farm; but by subsequent incursions she was reduced to such poverty that she occupied a small cottage, with a cow, which the kindness of a neighbouring farmer permitted to pasture on his fields. This, with the industry and filial affection of her son, now in his twentieth year, enabled her to live with a degree of comfort and contented resignation.
With a manly and athletic form, Wallace Maxwell inherited the courage of his father, and the patriotic ardour of the chieftain after whom he had been named; and Wallace had been heard to declare, that although he could not expect to free his country from the incursions of the English borderers, he trusted he should yet be able to take ample vengeance for the untimely death of his father.
But although his own private wrongs and those of his country had a powerful influence on the mind of Wallace Maxwell, yet his heart was susceptible of a far loftier passion.
His fine manly form and graceful bearing had attractions for many a rural fair; and he would have found no difficulty in matching with youthful beauty considerably above his own humble station. But his affections were fixed on Mary Morrison, a maiden as poor in worldly wealth as himself; but nature had been more than usually indulgent to her in a handsome person and fine features; and, what was of infinitely more value, her heart was imbued with virtuous principles, and her mind better cultivated than could have been expected from her station in life. To these accomplishments were superadded a native dignity, tempered with modesty, and a most winning sweetness of manner. Mary was the daughter of a man who had seen better days; but he was ruined by the incursions of the English borderers; and both he and her mother dying soon after, Mary was left a helpless orphan in the twentieth year of her age. Her beauty procured her many admirers; and her unprotected state (for she had no relations in Annandale) left her exposed to the insidious temptations of unprincipled villainy; but they soon discovered that neither flattery, bribes, nor the fairest promises, had the slightest influence on her spotless mind. There were many, however, who sincerely loved her, and made most honourable proposals; among whom was Wallace Maxwell, perhaps the poorest of her admirers, but who succeeded in gaining her esteem and affection. Mary and he were fellow-servants to the farmer from whom his mother had her cottage; and, on account of the troublesome state of the country, Wallace slept every night in his mother’s house as her guardian and protector. Mary and he were about the same age, both in the bloom of youthful beauty; but both had discrimination to look beyond external attractions; and, although they might be said to live in the light of each other’s eyes, reason convinced them that the time was yet distant when it would be prudent to consummate that union which was the dearest object of their wishes.
A foray had been made by the English, in which their leader, the son of a rich borderer, had been made prisoner, and a heavy ransom paid to Sir John, the warden, for his release. This the avaricious warden considered a perquisite of his office; and it accordingly went into his private pocket. Soon after this, the party who had resolved on ruining Wallace Maxwell for his threats of vengeance, took advantage of a thick fog during the day, succeeded by a dark night, in making an incursion on Annandale, principally for the purpose of capturing the young man. By stratagem they effected their purpose; and the widow’s cow, and Wallace her son, were both carried off as part of the spoil. The youth’s life might have been in considerable danger, had his capture not been discovered by the man who had recently paid a high ransom for his own son, and he now took instant possession of Wallace, resolving that he should be kept a close prisoner till ransomed by a sum equal to that paid to the warden.
It would be difficult, if not impossible, to say whether the grief of Widow Maxwell for her son, or that of Mary Morrison for her lover, was greatest. But early in the ensuing morning the widow repaired to Amisfield, related the circumstance to Sir John, with tears beseeching him, as the plunderers were not yet far distant, to despatch his forces after them, and rescue her son, with the property of which she had been despoiled, for they had carried off everything, even to her bed-clothes.
Wallace Maxwell had some time before incurred the warden’s displeasure, whose mind was not generous enough either to forget or forgive. He treated Marion with an indifference approaching almost to contempt, by telling her that it would be exceedingly improper to alarm the country about such a trivial incident, to which every person in that quarter was exposed; and although she kneeled to him, he refused to comply with her request, and proudly turned away.
With a heavy and an aching heart, the widow called on Mary Morrison on her way home to her desolate dwelling, relating the failure of her application, and uttering direful lamentations for the loss of her son; all of which were echoed by the no less desponding maiden.
In the anguish of her distress, Mary formed the resolution of waiting on the warden, and again urging the petition which had already been so rudely rejected. Almost frantic, she hastened to the castle, demanding to see Sir John. Her person was known to the porter, and he was also now acquainted with the cause of her present distress; she therefore found a ready admission. Always beautiful, the wildness of her air, the liquid fire which beamed in her eyes, from which tears streamed over her glowing cheeks, and the perturbation which heaved her swelling bosom, rendered her an object of more than ordinary interest in the sight of the warden. She fell at his feet and attempted to tell her melancholy tale; but convulsive sobs stifled her utterance. He then took her unresisting hand, raised her up, led her to a seat, and bade her compose herself before she attempted to speak.
With a faltering tongue, and eyes which, like the lightning of heaven, seemed capable of penetrating a heart of adamant, and in all the energy and pathos of impassioned grief, she told her tale,—imploring the warden, if he ever regarded his mother, or if capable of feeling for the anguish of a woman, to have pity on them, and instantly exert himself to restore the most dutiful of sons, and the most faithful of lovers, to his humble petitioners, whose gratitude should cease only with their lives.
“You are probably not aware,” said he, in a kindly tone, “of the difficulty of gratifying your wishes. Wallace Maxwell has rendered himself the object of vengeance to the English borderers; and, before now, he must be in captivity so secure, that any measure to rescue him by force of arms would be unavailing. But, for your sake, I will adopt the only means which can restore him, namely, to purchase his ransom by gold. But you are aware that it must be high, and I trust your gratitude will be in proportion.”
“Everything in our power shall be done to evince our gratitude,” replied the delighted Mary, a more animated glow suffusing her cheek, and her eyes beaming with a brighter lustre,—“Heaven reward you.”
“To wait for my reward from heaven, would be to give credit to one who can make ready payment,” replied the warden. “You, lovely Mary, have it in your power to make me a return, which will render me your debtor, without in any degree impoverishing yourself;”—and he paused, afraid or ashamed to speak the purpose of his heart. Such is the power which virgin beauty and innocence can exert on the most depraved inclinations.
Although alarmed, and suspecting his base design, such was the rectitude of Mary’s guileless heart, that she could not believe the warden in earnest; and starting from his proffered embrace, she with crimson blushes replied, “I am sure, sir, your heart could never permit you so far to insult a hapless maiden. You have spoken to try my affection for Wallace Maxwell; let me therefore again implore you to take such measures as you may think best for obtaining his release;” and a fresh flood of tears flowed in torrents from her eyes, while she gazed wistfully in his face, with a look so imploringly tender, that it might have moved the heart of a demon.
With many flattering blandishments, and much artful sophistry, he endeavoured to win her to his purpose; but perceiving that his attempts were unavailing, he concluded thus:—“All that I have promised I am ready to perform; but I swear by Heaven, that unless you grant me the favour which I have so humbly solicited, Wallace Maxwell may perish in a dungeon, or by the hand of his enemies; for he shall never be rescued by me. Think, then, in time, before you leave me, and for his sake, and your own future happiness, do not foolishly destroy it for ever.”
With her eyes flashing indignant fire, and her bosom throbbing with the anguish of insulted virtue, she flung herself from his hateful embrace, and, rushing from his presence, with a sorrowful and almost bursting heart, left the castle.
Widow Maxwell had a mind not easily depressed, and although in great affliction for her son, did not despair of his release. She was ignorant of Mary’s application to the warden, and had been revolving in her mind the propriety of seeking an audience of the king, and detailing her wrongs, both at the hands of the English marauders and Sir John. She was brooding on this when Mary entered her cottage, and, in the agony of despairing love and insulted honour, related the reception she had met from the warden. The relation confirmed the widow’s half formed resolution, and steeled her heart to its purpose. After they had responded each other’s sighs, and mingled tears together, the old woman proposed waiting on her friend the farmer, declaring her intentions, and, if he approved of them, soliciting his permission for Mary to accompany her.
The warden’s indolent neglect of duty was a subject of general complaint; the farmer, therefore, highly approved of the widow’s proposal, believing that it would not only procure her redress, but might be of advantage to the country. He urged their speedy and secret departure, requesting that whatever answer they received might not be divulged till the final result was seen; and next morning, at early dawn, the widow and Mary took their departure for Stirling. King James was easy of access to the humblest of his subjects; and the two had little difficulty in obtaining admission to the royal presence. Widow Maxwell had in youth been a beautiful woman, and, although her early bloom had passed, might still have been termed a comely and attractive matron, albeit in the autumn of life. In a word, her face was still such as would have recommended her suit to the king, whose heart was at all times feelingly alive to the attraction of female beauty. But, on the present occasion, although she was the petitioner, the auxiliary whom she had brought, though silent, was infinitely the more powerful pleader; for Mary might be said to resemble the half-blown rose in the early summer, when its glowing leaves are wet with the dews of morning. James was so struck with their appearance, that, before they had spoken, he secretly wished that their petitions might be such as he could with justice and honour grant, for he already felt that it would be impossible to refuse them.
Although struck with awe on coming into the presence of their sovereign, the easy condescension and affability of James soon restored them to comparative tranquillity; and the widow told her “plain, unvarnished tale” with such artless simplicity, and moving pathos, as would have made an impression on a less partial auditor than his Majesty. When she came to state the result of Mary’s application to Sir John, she paused, blushed, and still remained silent. James instantly conjectured the cause, which was confirmed when he saw Mary’s face crimsoned all over.
Suppressing his indignation, “Well, I shall be soon in Annandale,” said he, “and will endeavour to do you justice. Look at this nobleman,” pointing to one in the chamber; “when I send him for you, come to me where he shall guide. In the meantime, he will find you safe lodgings for the night, and give you sufficient to bear your expenses home, whither I wish you to return as soon as possible, and be assured that your case shall not be forgotten.”
It is generally known that James, with a love of justice, had a considerable share of eccentricity in his character, and that he frequently went over the country in various disguises—such as that of a pedlar, an itinerant musician, or even a wandering beggar. These disguises were sometimes assumed for the purpose of discovering the abuses practised by his servants, and not unfrequently from the love of frolic, and, like the Caliph in the “Arabian Nights,” in quest of amusement. On these occasions, when he chose to discover himself, it was always by the designation of the “Gudeman of Ballengeich”. He had a private passage by which he could leave the palace, unseen by any one, and he could make his retreat alone, or accompanied by a disguised attendant, according to his inclination.
On the present occasion, he determined to visit the warden of the March incog.; and, making the necessary arrangements, he soon arrived in Annandale. His inquiries concerning the widow and Mary corroborated the opinion he had previously formed, and learning where Mary resided, he resolved to repair thither in person, disguised as a mendicant. On approaching the farmer’s, he had to pass a rivulet, at which there was a girl washing linen, and a little observation convinced him it was Mary Morrison. When near, he pretended to be taken suddenly ill, and sat down on a knoll, groaning piteously. Mary came instantly to him, tenderly enquiring what ailed him, and whether she could render him any assistance. James replied, it was a painful distemper, by which he was frequently attacked; but if she could procure him a draught of warm milk, that, and an hour’s rest, would relieve him. Mary answered, that if he could, with her assistance, walk to the farm, which she pointed out near by, he would be kindly cared for. She assisted him to rise, and, taking his arm, permitted him to lean upon her shoulder, as they crept slowly along. He met much sympathy in the family, and there he heard the history of Mary and Wallace Maxwell (not without execrations on the warden for his indolence), and their affirmations that they were sure, if the king knew how he neglected his duty, he would either be dismissed or severely punished; although the former had spoken plainer than others whom James had conversed with, he found that Sir John was generally disliked, and he became impatient for the hour of retribution.
Marching back towards Dumfries, James rendezvoused for the night in a small village called Duncow, in the parish of Kirkmahoe, and next morning he set out for Amisfield, which lay in the neighbourhood, disguised as a beggar. Part of his retinue he left in Duncow, and part he ordered to lie in wait in a ravine near Amisfield till he should require their attendance. Having cast away his beggar’s cloak, he appeared at the gate of the warden’s castle in the dress of a plain countryman, and requested the porter to procure him an immediate audience of Sir John. But he was answered that the warden had just sat down to dinner, during which it was a standing order that he should never be disturbed on any pretence whatever.
“And how long will he sit?” said James.
“Two hours, perhaps three; he must not be intruded on till his bell ring,” replied the porter.
“I am a stranger, and cannot wait so long; take this silver groat, and go to your master, and say that I wish to see him on business of importance, and will detain him only a few minutes.”
The porter delivered the message, and soon returned, saying—“Sir John says, that however important your business may be, you must wait his time, or go the way you came.”
“That is very hard. Here are two groats; go again, and say that I have come from the Border, where I saw the English preparing for an incursion, and have posted thither with the information; and that I think he will be neglecting his duty if he do not immediately fire the beacons and alarm the country.”
This message was also carried, and the porter returned with a sorrowful look, and shaking head.
“Well, does the warden consent to see me?” said the anxious stranger, who had gained the porter’s goodwill by his liberality.
“I beg your pardon, friend,” replied the menial; “but I must give Sir John’s answer in his own words. He says if you choose to wait two hours he will then see whether you are a knave or a fool; but if you send another such impertinent message to him, both you and I shall have cause to repent it. However, for your civility, come with me, and I will find you something to eat and a horn of good ale, to put off the time till Sir John can be seen.”
“I give you hearty thanks, my good fellow, but, as I said, I cannot wait. Here, take these three groats; go again to the warden, and say that the Gudeman of Ballengeich insists upon seeing him immediately.”
No sooner was the porter’s back turned, than James winded his buglehorn so loudly that its echoes seemed to shake the castle walls; and the porter found his master in consternation, which his message changed into fear and trembling.
By the time the warden had reached the gate, James had thrown off his coat, and stood arrayed in the garb and insignia of royalty, while his train of nobles were galloping up in great haste. When they were collected around him, the king, for the first time, condescended to address the terrified warden, who had prostrated himself at the feet of his sovereign.
“Rise, Sir John,” said he, with a stern and commanding air. “You bade your porter tell me that I was either knave or fool, and you were right, for I have erred in delegating my power to a knave like you.”
In tremulous accents the warden attempted to excuse himself by stammering out that he did not know he was wanted by his Majesty.
“But I sent you a message that I wished to speak with you on business of importance, and you refused to be disturbed. The meanest of my subjects has access to me at all times. I hear before I condemn, and shall do so with you, against whom I have many and heavy charges.”
“Will it please your Majesty to honour my humble dwelling with your presence, and afford me an opportunity of speaking in my own defence?” said the justly alarmed warden.
“No, Sir John, I will not enter beneath that roof as a judge, where I was refused admission as a petitioner. I hold my court at Hoddam Castle, where I command your immediate attendance; where I will hear your answer to the charges I have against you. In the meantime, before our departure, you will give orders for the entertainment of my retinue, men and horses, at your castle, during my stay in Annandale.”
The king then appointed several of the lords in attendance to accompany him to Hoddam Castle, whither he commanded the warden to follow him with all possible despatch.
Sir John was conscious of negligence, and even something worse, in the discharge of his duty, although ignorant of the particular charges to be brought against him; but when ushered into the presence of his sovereign, he endeavoured to assume the easy confidence of innocence.
James proceeded to business, by inquiring if there was not a recent incursion of a small marauding party, in which a poor widow’s cow was carried off, her house plundered, and her son taken prisoner; and if she did not early next morning state this to him, requesting him to recover her property.
“Did you, Sir John, do your utmost in the case?”
“I acknowledge I did not; but the widow shall have the best cow in my possession, and her house furnished anew. I hope that will satisfy your Majesty.”
“And her son, how is he to be restored?”
“When we have the good fortune to make an English prisoner, he can be exchanged.”
“Mark me! Sir John. If Wallace Maxwell is not brought before me in good health within a week from this date, you shall hang by the neck from that tree waving before the window. I have no more to say at present. Be ready to wait on me in one hour when your presence is required.”
The warden knew the determined resolution of the king, and instantly despatched a confidential servant, vested with full powers to procure the liberation of Wallace Maxwell, at whatever price, and to bring him safely back without a moment’s delay. In the meantime, the retinue of men and horses, amounting to several hundreds, were living at free quarters, in Sir John’s castle, and the visits of the king diffusing gladness and joy over the whole country.
Next morning James sent the young nobleman, whom he had pointed out to the widow at Stirling, to bring her and Mary Morrison to Hoddam Castle. He received both with easy condescension; when the widow, with much grateful humility, endeavoured to express her thanks, saying that Sir John had last evening sent her a cow worth double that she had lost; also blankets, and other articles of higher value than all that had been carried away; but, with tears in her eyes, she said, all these were as nothing without her dear son. Assuring them that their request had not been neglected, James dismissed them, with the joyful hope of soon seeing Wallace, as he would send for them immediately on his arrival.
The distress of the warden increased every hour, for he was a prisoner in his own castle; and his feelings may be conjectured, when he received a message from the king, commanding him to come to Hoddam Castle next day by noon, and either bring Wallace Maxwell along with him, or prepare for a speedy exit into the next world. He had just seen the sun rise, of which it seemed probable he should never see the setting, when his servant arrived with Wallace, whose liberty had been purchased at an exorbitant ransom. Without allowing the young man to rest, Sir John hurried him off to Hoddam Castle, and sent in a message that he waited an audience of his Majesty.
To make sure of the youth’s identity, the king sent instantly for his mother, and the meeting called forth all the best feelings of his heart, for maternal affection triumphed over every other emotion, and it was only after the first ebullition of it had subsided, that she bade him kneel to his sovereign, to whom he owed his liberty, and most probably his life. Wallace gracefully bent his knee, and took Heaven to witness that both should be devoted to his Majesty’s service.
James was delighted with the manly appearance and gallant behaviour of Wallace; and, after having satisfied himself of the sincerity of his attachment to Mary, he ordered him to withdraw.
He next despatched a messenger for Mary, who, the moment she came, was ushered into the presence of Sir John; James marking the countenance of both,—that of Mary flushed with resentment, while her eye flashed with indignant fire. The pale and deadly hue which overspread the warden’s cheek was a tacit acknowledgment of his guilt.
“Do you know that young woman, Sir John? Reply to my questions truly; and be assured that your life depends upon the sincerity of your answers,” said the king, in a determined and stern voice.
“Yes, my liege, I have seen her,” said Sir John, his lip quivering, and his tongue faltering.
“Where?”
“At Amisfield.”
“On what occasion?”
“She came to me for the release of Wallace Maxwell.”
“And you refused her, except upon conditions which were an insult to her, and a disgrace to yourself. Speak; is it not so?”
“To my shame, my sovereign, I confess my guilt; but I am willing to make all the reparation in my power; and I leave it to be named by your Majesty.”
“You deserve to be hanged, Sir John; but when I look on that face, I acknowledge your temptation, and it pleads a mitigation of punishment. You know that Mary loves and is beloved by Wallace Maxwell, whom you have already ransomed; you shall give him a farm of not less than fifty acres of good land, rent-free, during his life, or that of the woman he marries; and, further, you shall stock it with cattle, and every article necessary, with a comfortable dwelling;—all this you shall perform within three months from this date. If you think these conditions hard, I give you the alternative of swinging from that tree before sunset. Take your choice.”
“My sovereign, I submit to the conditions, and promise that I shall do my best to make the couple happy.”
Wallace was now called in, when Mary clasped him in her arms, both falling on their knees before their sovereign. He raised them up and said, “I have tried both your loves, and found them faithful. Your Mary is all that you believed her, and brings you a dowry which she will explain. I shall see your hands united before I leave Annandale, and preside at the feast. Let your care of the widow be a remuneration for what she has done for both, and I trust all of you will long remember the Gudeman of Ballengeich’s visit to Annandale.”—Edinburgh Literary Gazette.
THE ALEHOUSE PARTY:
A CHAPTER FROM AN UNPUBLISHED NOVEL.
By the Authors of “The Odd Volume.”
The night drave on wi’ sangs and clatter,
And aye the ale was growing better.—Burns.
On the evening of that day which saw Mrs Wallace enter Park a bride, Robin Kinniburgh and a number of his cronies met at the village alehouse to celebrate the happy event. Every chair, stool, and bench being occupied, Robin and his chum, Tammy Tacket, took possession of the top of the meal girnel; and as they were elevated somewhat above the company, they appeared like two rival provosts, looking down on their surrounding bailies.
“It’s a gude thing,” said Tammy, “that the wives and weans are keepit out the night; folk get enough o’ them at hame.”
“I wonder,” said Jamie Wilson, “what’s become o’ Andrew Gilmour.”
“Hae ye no heard,” said Robin, “that his wife died yesterday?”
“Is she dead?” exclaimed Tammy Tacket. “Faith,” continued he, giving Robin a jog with his elbow, “I think a man might hae waur furniture in his house than a dead wife.”
“That’s a truth,” replied Jamie Wilson, “as mony an honest man kens to his cost.—But send round the pint stoup, and let us hae a health to the laird and the leddy, and mony happy years to them and theirs.”
When the applause attending this toast had subsided, Robin was universally called on for a song.
“I hae the hoast,” answered Robin; “that’s aye what the leddies say when they are asked to sing.”
“Deil a hoast is about you,” cried Wattie Shuttle; “come awa wi’ a sang without mair ado.”
“Weel,” replied Robin, “what maun be, maun be; so I’ll gie ye a sang that was made by a laddie that lived east-awa; he was aye daundering, poor chiel, amang the broomie knowes, and mony’s the time I hae seen him lying at the side o’ the wimpling burn, writing on ony bit paper he could get haud o’. After he was dead, this bit sang was found in his pocket, and his puir mother gied it to me, as a kind o’ keepsake; and now I’ll let you hear it,—I sing it to the tune o’ ‘I hae laid a herrin’ in saut.’”
Song.
It’s I’m a sweet lassie, without e’er a faut;
Sae ilka ane tells me,—sae it maun be true;
To his kail my auld faither has plenty o’ saut,
And that brings the lads in gowpens to woo.
There’s Saunders M‘Latchie, wha bides at the Mill,
He wants a wee wifie, to bake and to brew;
But Saunders, for me, at the Mill may stay still,
For his first wife was pushioned, if what they say’s true.
The next is Tam Watt, who is grieve to the Laird,—
Last Sabbath, at puir me a sheep’s e’e he threw;
But Tam’s like the picters I’ve seen o’ Blue Beard,
And sic folk’s no that chancie, if what they say’s true.
Then there’s Grierson the cobbler, he’ll fleech an’ he’ll beg,
That I’d be his awl in awl, darlin’ and doo;
But Grierson the cobbler’s a happity leg,
And nae man that hobbles need come here to woo.
And there’s Murdoch the gauger, wha rides a blind horse,
And nae man can mak a mair beautifu’ boo;
But I shall ne’er tak him, for better, for worse,
For, sax days a week, gauger Murdoch is fou.
I wonder when Willie Waught’s faither ’ll dee;
(I wonder hoo that brings the blude to my brow;)
I wonder if Willie will then be for me;—
I wonder if then he’ll be coming to woo?
“It’s your turn now to sing, Tammy,” said Robin, “although I dinna ken that ye are very gude at it.”
“Me sing!” cried Tammy, “I canna even sing a psalm, far less a sang; but if ye like, I’ll tell you a story.”
“Come awa then, a story is next best; but haud a’ your tongues there, you chiels,” cried Robin, giving the wink to his cronies; “we a’ ken Tammy is unco gude at telling a story, mair especially if it be about himsel.”
“Aweel,” said Tammy, clearing his throat, “I’ll tell you what happened to me when I was ance in Embro’. I fancy ye a’ ken the Calton hill?”
“Whatna daftlike question is that, when ye ken very weel we hae a’ been in Embro’ as weel as yoursel?”
“Weel then,” began Tammy, “I was coming ower the hill—”
“What hill?” asked Jamie Wilson. “Corstorphine hill?”
“Corstorphine fiddlestick!” exclaimed Tammy. “Did ye no hear me say the Calton hill at the first, which, ye ken, is thought there the principal hill?”
“What’s that ye’re saying about Principal Hill?” asked Robin. “I kent him weel ance in a day.”
“Now, Tammy,” cried Willie Walkinshaw, “can ye no gang on wi’ your story, without a’ this balwavering and nonsense about coming ower ane o’ our Professors; my faith, it’s no an easy matter to come ower some o’ them.”
“Very weel,” said Tammy, a little angrily, “I’ll say nae mair about it, but just drap the hill.”
“Whaur, whaur?” cried several voices at once.
“I’m thinkin’,” said Robin, drily, “some o’ the Embro’ folk would be muckle obliged to ye if ye would drap it in the Nor’ Loch.”
“Ye’re a set o’ gomerals!” exclaimed Tammy, in great wrath. “I meant naething o’ the sort; but only that I would gie ower speaking about it.”
“So we’re no to hae the story after a’?” said Matthew Henderson.
“Yes,” said Tammy; “I’m quite agreeable to tell’t, if ye will only sit still and haud your tongues. Aweel, I was coming ower the hill ae night.”
“’Odsake, Tammy,” cried Robin, “will ye ne’er get ower that hill? Ye hae tell’t us that ten times already; gang on, man, wi’ the story.”
“Then, to mak a lang story short, as I was coming ower the hill ae night about ten o’clock I fell in—”
“Fell in!” cried Matthew Henderson, “Whaur? Was’t a hole, or a well?”
“I fell in,” replied Tammy, “wi’ a man.”
“Fell in wi’ a man!” said Willie Walkinshaw. “Weel, as there were twa o’ ye, ye could help ane anither out.”
“Na, na,” roared Tammy, “I dinna mean that at a’; I just cam up wi’ him.”
“I doubt, Tammy,” cried Robin, giving a sly wink to his cronies, “if ye gaed up the Calton hill wi’ a man at ten o’clock at night, I’m thinking ye’ll hae been boozing some gate or ither wi’ him afore that.”
“Me boozing?” cried Tammy. “I ne’er saw the man’s face afore or since; unless it was in the police office the next day.”
“Now, Tammy Tacket,” said Robin, gravely, “just tak a’ frien’s advice, and gie ower sic splores; they’re no creditable to a decent married man like you; and dinna be bleezing and bragging about being in the police office; for it stands to reason ye wouldna be there for ony gude.”
“Deil tak me,” cried Tammy, jumping up on the meal girnel, and brandishing the pint stoup, “if I dinna fling this at the head of the first man who says a word afore I be done wi’ my story:—And, as I said before, I fell in—”
Poor Tammy was not at all prepared for his words being so soon verified, for, in his eagerness to enforce attention, he stamped violently with his hobnailed shoe on the girnel, which giving way with a loud crash, Tammy suddenly disappeared from the view of the astonished party. Robin, who had barely time to save himself from the falling ruins, was still laughing with all his might, when Mrs Scoreup burst in upon them, saying, “What the sorrow is a’ this stramash about?”—but seeing a pale and ghastly figure rearing itself from the very heart of her meal girnel, she ejaculated, “Gude preserve us!” and, retreating a few steps, seized the broth ladle, and prepared to stand on the defensive.
At this moment Grizzy Tacket made her appearance at the open door, saying, “Is blethering Tam here?”
“Help me out, Robin, man,” cried Tammy.
“Help ye out!” said Grizzy; “What the sorrow took you in there, ye drucken ne’er-do-weel?”
“Dinna abuse your gudeman, wife,” said Jamie Wilson.
“Gudeman!” retorted Grizzy; “troth, there’s few o’ ye deserve the name; and as for that idle loon, I ken he’ll no work a stroke the morn, though wife and weans should want baith milk and meal.”
“’Odsake, wife,” cried Robin, “if ye shake Tammy weel, he’ll keep ye a’ in parritch for a week.”
“She’ll shake him,” cried the angry Mrs Scoreup; “cocks are free o’ horses’ corn; I’ll shake him,” making, as she spoke, towards the unfortunate half-choked Tammy.
“Will ye, faith?” screamed Grizzy, putting her arms akimbo. “Will ye offer to lay a hand on my gudeman, and me standing here? Come out this minute, ye Jonadub, and come hame to your ain house.”
“No ae fit shall he steer frae this,” cried Mrs Scoreup, slapping-to the door, “till I see wha is to pay me for the spoiling o’ my gude new girnel, forby the meal that’s wasted.”
“New girnel!” exclaimed Grizzy, with a provoking sneer, “it’s about as auld as yoursel, and as little worth.”
“Ye ill-tongued randy!” cried Mrs Scoreup, giving the ladle a most portentous flourish.
“Whisht, whisht, gudewife,” said Robin; “say nae mair about it, we’ll mak it up amang us; and now, Grizzy, tak Tammy awa hame.”
“It’s no right in you, Robin,” said Grizzy, “to be filling Tammy fou, and keeping decent folks out o’ their beds till this time o’ night.”
“It’s a’ Tammy’s faut,” replied Robin; “for ye ken as well as me, that when ance he begins to tell a story, there’s nae such thing as stopping him; he has been blethering about the Calton hill at nae allowance.”
The last words seemed to strike on Tammy’s ear; who hiccuped out, “As I cam ower the Calton hill—”
“Will naebody stap a peat in that man’s hause?” exclaimed Matthew Henderson. “For ony sake, honest woman, tak him awa, or we’ll be keepit on the Calton hill the whole night.”
“Tak haud o’ me, Tammy,” said Robin; “I’ll gang hame wi’ ye.”
“I can gang mysel,” said Tammy, giving Robin a shove, and staggering towards the door.
“Gang yoursel!” cried Grizzy, as she followed her helpmate; “ye dinna look very like it:” and thus the party broke up—
And each went aff their separate way,
Resolved to meet anither day.