In a few minutes the muir was clear. The two took different directions; nor was Henry Leslie heard of again for a period of two years. During this interval, an investigation was made into the circumstances attending the murder of Blackburn. There was no evidence brought home to Melville; and the opinion prevailed that the commendator had fallen accidentally into the chasm. Melville, meanwhile, withdrew himself again to the Continent, where he died. The property was again restored to Margaret, in consideration of the injuries sustained by her parents. The death of Hamilton produced, throughout Scotland, so great an effect, that the prosecutions for heresy were for a time suspended, and Leslie returned to his native country. From the circumstance of Falconcleugh and Riddlestain being afterwards in the family of the Leslies, we may augur something of a union between the two lovers of our story. We merely, however, throw out this as a conjecture—our attention having been chiefly directed to the more important parts of the strange legend we have now given, which certainly does not exceed credibility.
THE LYKEWAKE.
I know no place where one may be brought acquainted with the more credulous beliefs of our forefathers at a less expense of inquiry and exertion, than in a country lykewake. The house of mourning is naturally a place of sombre thoughts and ghostly associations. There is something, too, in the very presence and appearance of death, that leads one to think of the place and state of the dead. Cowper has finely said, that the man and the beast who stand together, side by side, on the same hill-top, are, notwithstanding their proximity, the denizens of very different worlds. And I have felt the remark to apply still more strongly when sitting beside the dead. The world of intellect and feeling in which we ourselves are, and of which the lower propensities of our nature form a province, may be regarded as including, in part at least, that world of passion and instinct in which the brute lives; and we have but to analyse and abstract a little, to form for ourselves ideas of this latter world from even our own experience. But by what process of thought can we bring experience to bear on the world of the dead? It lies entirely beyond us—a terra incognita of cloud and darkness, and yet the thing at our side—the thing over which we can stretch our hand—the thing dead to us but living to it—has entered upon it, and, however uninformed or ignorant before, knows more of its dark, and, to us, inscrutable mysteries, than all our philosophers and all our divines. Is it wonder that we would fain put it to the question—that we would fain catechise it, if we could, regarding its newly-acquired experience—that we should fill up the gaps in the dialogue which its silence leaves to us, by imparting to one another the little we know regarding its state and its place—or that we should send our thoughts roaming in long excursions, to glean from the experience of the past all that it tells us of the occasional visits of the dead, and all that in their less taciturn and more social moments they have communicated to the living. And hence, from feelings so natural, and a train of associations so obvious, the character of a country lykewake and the cast of its stories—I say a country lykewake, for in at least all our larger towns, where a cold and barren scepticism has chilled the feelings and imaginations of the people, without, I fear, much improving their judgments, the conversation on such occasions takes a lower and less interesting range.
I once spent a night with a friend from the south, a man of an inquiring and highly philosophic cast of mind, at a lykewake in the upper part of the parish of Cromarty. I had excited his curiosity by an incidental remark or two of the kind I have just been dropping; and, on his expressing a wish that I should introduce him, by way of illustration, to some such scenes as I have been describing, we had set out together to the wake of an elderly female who had died that morning. Her cottage—a humble creation of stone and lime—was situated beside a thick fir wood, on the edge of the solitary Mulebuy, one of the dreariest and most extensive commons in Scotland. We had to pass, in our journey, over several miles of desolate muir, sprinkled with cairns and tumuli—the memorials of some forgotten conflict of the past; we had to pass, too, through a thick, dark wood, with here and there an intervening marsh, whitened over with moss and lichens, and which, from this circumstance, are known to the people of the country as the white bogs. Nor was the more distant landscape of a less gloomy character. On the one hand, there opened an interminable expanse of muir, that went stretching onwards, mile beyond mile, bleak, dreary, uninhabited, and uninhabitable, till it merged into the far horizon. On the other, there rose a range of blue, solitary hills, towering, as they receded, into loftier peaks and bolder acclivities, till they terminated on the snow-streaked Ben Weavis. The season, too, was in keeping with the scene. It was drawing towards the close of autumn; and, as we passed through the wood, the falling leaves were eddying round us with every wind, or lay in rustling heaps at our feet.
"I do not wonder," said my companion, "that the superstitions of so wild a district as this should bear in their character some marks of a corresponding wildness. Night itself, in a populous and cultivated country, is attended with less of the stern and the solemn than mid-day amid solitudes like these. Is the custom of watching beside the dead of remote antiquity in this part of the country?"
"Far beyond the reach of either history or tradition," I said. "But it has gradually been changing its character, as the people have been changing theirs; and is now a very different thing from what it was a century ago. It is not yet ninety years since lykewakes in the neighbouring Highlands used to be celebrated with music and dancing; and even here, on the borders of the low country, they used invariably, like the funerals of antiquity, to be the scenes of wild games and amusements, never introduced on any other occasion. You remember how Sir Walter describes the funeral of Athelstane. The Saxon ideas of condolence were the most natural imaginable. If grief was hungry, they supplied it with food, if thirsty, they gave it drink. Our simple ancestors here seem to have reasoned by a similar process. They made their seasons of deepest grief their times of greatest merriment; and the more they regretted the deceased, the gayer were they at his wake and his funeral. A friend of mine, now dead, a very old man, has told me that he once danced at a lykewake in the Highlands of Sutherland. It was that of an active and very robust man, taken away from his wife and family in the prime of life; and the poor widow, for the greater part of the evening, sat disconsolate beside the fire, refusing every invitation to join the dancers. She was at length, however, brought out by the father of the deceased. 'Little, little did he think,' he said, 'that she would be the last to dance at poor Rory's lykewake.'"
We reached the cottage, and went in. The apartment in which the dead lay was occupied by two men and three women. Every little piece of furniture it contained was hung in white, and the floor had recently been swept and sanded; but it was on the bed where the body lay, and on the body itself, that the greatest care had been lavished. The curtains had been taken down, and their place supplied by linen white as snow; and on the sheet that served as a counterpane, the body was laid out in a dress of white, fantastically crossed and recrossed in every direction by scalloped fringes, and fretted into a species of open work, at least intended to represent alternate rows of roses and tulips. A plate containing a little salt was placed over the breast of the corpse. As we entered, one of the women rose; and, filling two glasses with spirits, presented them to us on a salver. We tasted the liquor, and sat down on chairs placed for us beside the fire. The conversation, which had been interrupted by our entrance, began to flow apace; and an elderly female, who had lived under the same roof with the deceased, began to relate, in answer to the queries of one of the others, some of the particulars of her last illness and death.
THE STORY OF ELSPAT M'CULLOCH.
"Elspat was aye," she said, "a retired body, wi' a cast o' decent pride aboot her; an', though bare an' puirly aff sometimes, in her auld days, she had never been chargeable to onybody. She had come o' decent, 'sponsible people, though they were a' low aneugh the day—ay, an' they were God-fearing people, too, wha had gien plenty in their time, and had aye plenty to gie. An' though they had been a' langsyne laid in the kirkyard—a' except hersel, puir body!—she wouldna disgrace their guid name, she said, by takin an alms frae ony ane. Her sma' means fell oot o' her hands afore her last illness. Little had aye dune her turn—but the little failed at last; an' sair, sair thocht did it gie her, for a while, what was to come o' her. I could hear her, in the butt-end o' the house, ae mornin, mair earnest an' langer in her prayers than usual—though she never neglected them, puir body—an' a' the early part o' that day she seemed to be no weel. She was aye up and down; an' I could ance or twice hear her gaunting at the fireside; but, when I went ben to her, an' asked what was the matter wi' her, she said she was just in her ordinar. She went oot for a wee; an' what did I do but gang to her amry, for I jaloused a' wasna richt there; an', oh! it was a sair sicht to see, neebors; but there was neither a bit o' bread nor a grain o' meal within its four corners—naething but the sealed-up greybeard, wi' the whisky, that, for twenty years an' mair, she had been keeping for her lykewake; an', ye ken, it was oot o' the question to think that she would meddle wi' it. Weel did I scold her, when she cam in, for being sae close-minded. I asked her what harm I had ever done to her, that she would rather hae died than hae trusted her wants to me; but, though she said nothing, I could see the tears in her ee; an' sae I stopped, and we took a late breakfast thegither at my fireside.