CHRONICLES OF THE CANONGATE.
The Two Drovers.
(Concluded from page 289.)
[Our readers must have missed, and probably with some regret, the conclusion of the above story, as promised for insertion in our last Number; and unaccustomed as we are to an intentional discrepancy of this sort, (for such was the above,) we shall consider ourselves justified in briefly stating some of the circumstances which led to the irregularity. We are not disposed to enter into the tilts of rival journalists, some of whom, in taking time by the forelock, may have perhaps been rather more enterprising than the subject warranted.[17] Nevertheless, in the attempt to please the public, as in other races, the youngest are often the fleetest. In the present case, the appetite of the public had been whetted with "reiterated advertisement:" and one of our contemporaries, with more playfulness than truth, had compared his priority to that of Fine-ear in the fairy tale. But his talisman failed, and a young rival outstripped him; and from this quarter we were induced to copy the first portion of the tale of The Two Drovers, upon the editor's assurance of his own honesty in obtaining the precedence, and which assurance We are still unwilling to question: although, were we to do so, ours would not he a solitary specimen of such ingratitude.[18] On the day of our publishing the first portion, we received a notice to desist from its continuance,—full of the causticity of our friends on the other side of the Tweed, and with whom, for the credit of the south, we hope the measure originated. We next resolved to suspend the conclusion; since the brutum fulmen became louder and louder still, in an advertisement actively inserted in the London newspapers. To make short of what is and ought to be but a trifling affair, we have abridged the whole story, and accordingly now present the conclusion to our readers, though certainly not in the promised state; how far we have exculpated ourselves, is for our patrons to determine.—A few words at parting, on the policy of the above conduct. We need not enlarge upon the advantages which publishers (and, to some extent, authors) derive from portions of their works appearing in periodical journals. The benefit is not reciprocal, but largely on their side, if they consider how many columns of advertisement duty they thereby avoid. It is well known that the first edition of any work by such a master-spirit as Sir Walter Scott is consumed in a few days by the circulating libraries and reading societies of the kingdom; but how many thousands would neither have seen nor heard of his most successful works, had not the gusto been previously created by the caducei of these literary Mercuries. Again, sift any one of them, with higher pretensions to originality than our economical sheet will admit of, and you shall find it, in quantity, at least, to resemble Gratiano's three grains. But we are not inclined to quarrel with the scheme, for with Johnson we say, "Quotation, sir (Walter), is a good thing," in the hope of hearing our readers reply, "This fellow pecks up wit as pigeons peas."—ED.]
Some words passed after the departure, of Robin Oig, between the bailiff, and Harry Wakefield, who was now not indisposed to defend Robin Oig's reputation. But Dame Heskett prevented this second quarrel by her peremptory interference. The conversation turned on the expected markets, and the prices from different parts of Scotland and England, and Harry Wakefield found a chap for a part of his drove, and at a considerable profit; an event more than sufficient to blot out all remembrances of the past scuffle. But there remained one from whose mind that recollection could not have been wiped by possession of every head of cattle betwixt Esk and Eden.
This was Robin Oig M'Combich.—"That I should have had no weapon," he said, "and for the first time in my life!—Blighted be the tongue that bids the Highlander part with the dirk—the dirk—ha! the English blood!—My muhme's word—when did her word fall to the ground?"
Robin now turned the light foot of his country towards the wilds, through which, by Mr. Ireby's report, Morrison was advancing. His mind was wholly engrossed by the sense of injury the treasured ideas of self-importance and self-opinion—of ideal birth and quality, had become more precious to him, (like the hoard to the miser,) because he could only enjoy them in secret. But insulted, abused, and beaten, he was no longer worthy, in his own opinion, of the name he bore, or the lineage which he belonged to—nothing was left to him—but revenge.
When Robin Oig left the door of the ale-house, seven or eight English miles at least lay betwixt him and Morrison, whose advance was limited by the sluggish pace of his cattle. And now the distant lowing of Morrison's cattle is heard; and now he meets them—passes them, and stops their conductor.
"May good betide us," said the South-lander—"Is this you, Robin M'Combich, or your wraith?"
"It is Robin Oig M'Combich," answered the Highlander, "and it is not.—But never mind that, give me pack my dirk, Hugh Morrison, or there will be words petween us."
"There it is for you then, since less wunna serve."
"Cot speed you, Hughie, and send you good marcats. Ye winna meet with Robin Oig again either at tryste or fair."
So saying, he shook hastily the hand of his acquaintance, and set out in the direction from which he had advanced.
Long ere the morning dawned, the catastrophe of our tale had taken place. It was two hours after the affray when Robin Oig returned to Heskett's inn. There was Harry Wakefield, who amidst a grinning group of smockfrocks, hob-nailed shoes, and jolly English physiognomies, was trolling forth an old ditty, when he was interrupted by a high and stern voice, saying "Harry Waakfelt—if you be a man, stand up!"
"Harry Waakfelt," repeated the same ominous summons, "stand up, if you be a man!"
"I will stand up with all my heart, Robin, my boy, but it shall be to shake hands with you, and drink down all unkindness.
"'Tis not thy fault, man, that, not having the luck to be an Englishman, thou canst not fight more than a school-girl."
"I can fight," answered Robin Oig, sternly, but calmly, "and you shall know it. You, Harry Waakfelt, showed me to-day how the Saxon churls fight—I show you now how the Highland Dunniewassal fights."
He then plunged the dagger, which he suddenly displayed, into the broad breast of the English yeoman, with such fatal certainty and force, that the hilt made a hollow sound against the breast bone, and the double-edged point split the very heart of his victim. Harry Wakefield fell, and expired with a single groan.
Robin next offered the bloody poniard to the bailiff's throat.
"It were very just to lay you beside him," he said, "but the blood of a base pick-thank shall never mix on my father's dirk, with that of a brave man."
As he spoke, he threw the fatal weapon into the blazing turf-fire.
"There," he said, "take me who likes—and let fire cleanse blood if it can."
The pause still continuing, Robin Oig asked for a peace-officer, and a constable having stepped out, he surrendered himself.
"A bloody night's work you have made of it," said the constable.
"Your own fault," said the Highlander. "Had you kept his hands off me twa hours since, he would have been now as well and merry as he was twa minutes since."
"It must be sorely answered," said the peace-officer.
"Never you mind that—death pays all debts; it will pay that too."
The constable, with assistance, procured horses to guard the prisoner to Carlisle, to abide his doom at the next assizes. While the escort was preparing, the prisoner, before he was carried from the fatal apartment, desired to look at the dead body, which had been deposited upon the large table, (at the head of which Harry Wakefield had just presided) until the surgeons should examine the wound. The face of the corpse was decently covered with a napkin. Robin Oig removed the cloth, and gazed on the lifeless visage. While those present expected that the wound, which had so lately flooded the apartment with gore, would send forth fresh streams at the touch of the homicide, Robin Oig replaced the covering, with the brief exclamation, "He was a pretty man!"
My story is nearly ended. The unfortunate Highlander stood his trial at Carlisle. I was myself present. The facts of the case were proved in the manner I have related them; and whatever might be at first the prejudice of the audience against a crime so un-English as that of assassination from revenge, yet when the national prejudices of the prisoner had been explained, which made him consider himself as stained with indelible dishonour, the generosity of the English audience was inclined to regard his crime as the aberration of a false idea of honour, rather than as flowing from a heart naturally savage, or habitually vicious. I shall never forget the charge of the venerable judge to the jury.
"We have had," he said, "in the previous part of our duty, (alluding to some former trials,) to discuss crimes which infer disgust and abhorrence, while they call down the well-merited vengeance of the law. It is now our still more melancholy duty to apply its salutary, though severe enactments to a case of a very singular character, in which the crime (for a crime it is, and a deep one) arose less out of the malevolence of the heart, than the error of the understanding—less from any idea of committing wrong, than from an unhappily perverted notion of that which is right. Here we have two men, highly esteemed, it has been stated, in their rank of life, and attached, it seems, to each other as friends, one of whose lives has been already sacrificed to a punctilio, and the other is about to prove the vengeance of the offended laws; and yet both may claim our commiseration at least, as men acting in ignorance of each other's national prejudices, and unhappily misguided rather than voluntarily erring from the path of right conduct.
In the original cause of the misunderstanding, we must in justice give the right to the prisoner at the bar. He had acquired possession of the enclosure, by a legal contract with the proprietor, and yet, when accosted with galling reproaches he offered to yield up half his acquisition, and his amicable proposal was rejected with scorn. Then follows the scene at Mr. Heskett the publican's, and you will observe how the stranger was treated by the deceased, and I am sorry to observe, by those around, who seem to have urged him in a manner which was aggravating in the highest degree.
"Gentlemen of the jury, it was with some impatience that I heard my learned brother, who opened the case for the crown, give an unfavourable turn to the prisoner's conduct on this occasion. He said the prisoner was afraid to encounter his antagonist in fair fight, or to submit to the laws of the ring; and that therefore, like a cowardly Italian, he had recourse to his fatal stiletto, to murder the man whom he dared not meet in manly encounter. I observed the prisoner shrink from this part of the accusation with the abhorrence natural to a brave man; and as I would wish to make my words impressive, when I point his real crime, I must secure his opinion of my impartiality, by rebutting every thing that seems to me a false accusation. There can be no doubt that the prisoner is a man of resolution—too much resolution; I wish to heaven that he had less, or rather that he had had a better education to regulate it.
"But, gentlemen of the jury, the pinch of the case lies in the interval of two hours betwixt the injury and the fatal retaliation. In the heat of affray and chaude melée, law, compassionating the infirmities of humanity, makes allowance for the passions which rule such a stormy moment—But the time necessary to walk twelve miles, however speedily performed, was an interval sufficient for the prisoner to have recollected himself; and the violence and deliberate determination with which he carried his purpose into effect, could neither be induced by anger, nor fear. It was the purpose and the act of pre-determined revenge, for which law neither can, will, nor ought to have sympathy.
The law says to the subjects, with a voice only inferior to that of the Deity, 'Vengeance is mine.' The instant that there is time for passion to cool, and reason to interpose, an injured party must become aware, that the law assumes the exclusive cognizance of the right and wrong betwixt the parties, and opposes her inviolable buckler to every attempt of the private party to right himself. I repeat, that this unhappy man ought personally to be the object rather of our pity than our abhorrence, for he failed in his ignorance, and from mistaken notions of honour. But his crime is not the less that of murder, gentlemen, and, in your high and important office, it is your duty so to find. Englishmen have their angry passions as well as Scots; and should this man's action remain unpunished, you may unsheath, under various pretences, a thousand daggers betwixt the Land's-end and the Orkneys."
The venerable judge thus ended what, to judge by his emotion and tears, was really a painful task. The jury, accordingly brought in a verdict of guilty; and Robin Oig M'Combich, alias M'Gregor, was sentenced to death, and executed accordingly. He met his fate with firmness, and acknowledged the justice of his sentence. But he repelled indignantly the observations of those who accused him of attacking an unarmed man. "I give a life for the life I took," he said, "and what can I do more?"