Wilson's Tales of the Borders and of Scotland, Volume 14

by Unknown

But it is time to shift the scene—to resort to that exquisite happiness, and extensive benefit to society, which enthusiasm is calculated to produce. Poetry is the language of nature. All languages originated in poetry; the ballad is the mother of all living and dead books. Whether it be repeated in the shape of Fescenine catches on the banks of the Tiber, of glorious epic on those of the Scamander, of chivalrous narrative by the rapid Rhone or sweet Liger—whether it employ the time and the enthusiastic efforts of the bard, the troubadour, the harper, or the minstrel—whether it resound through the recesses of Pindus, of Arcady, or of Yarrow—still, still the ballad presents the first germ of literature. What are the earlier pages of Livy's "History" but popular ballads, connected and narratived? What the history of our own Scotland—of her Bruces, and Wallaces, and all her many and valorous achievements—but ballads? And

"How canst thou resist the boundless store
Of charms which Nature to her votaries yields—
The warbling woodland—the resounding shore—
The pomp of groves—and garniture of fields—

Oh, how canst thou resist, and hope to be forgiven!"

But who can or does resist? Not even the robber Moor, who soliloquises so poetically the setting sun. Not

"The swain who, journeying homeward from
A day's long labour, feels
The form of beauty smiling on his soul."

Poetry is spread as widely through the human heart as is electricity through all the works of nature. Man can no more help being poetical, than he can new-model his frame. But what is the love—the passion of poetry—but enthusiasm—enthusiasm which converts everything it looks upon into beauty and sublimity? The man is born desert and lonely: and is there no beauty in solitude—no grandeur in expansion? The mountains are highland, wild, heathy, and tempest-beaten: and is there no sublimity in their cliffs, their scarred fronts, and scarred sides? The landscape is covered with wood, or there is at least a pleasing alternation of forest and glade, of peopled levels and wooded hills: and does not the soul nestle softly and lovingly amidst these pleasing varieties? But you are making faces, and there is something like an incipient yawn beginning to travel over your beauteous lips, my dearest madam. Well, I'll have done with advising you to wed the "spirit of poetry," if you wish to be completely happy. You need not write poems, ma'am—that is not necessary; Livy never wrote poetry, and yet he is every inch a poet. Robertson never wrote verse, and yet he is essentially poetical. Witness Mexico and Montezuma. "Am I lying on a bed of roses?"—There, for example, is me now—ay, just me—I am every inch a poet! and yet, with the exception of a few things which need not be excepted, I never wrote any poetry:—yet I see you want a story, and you say, am I not reading "The Tales of the Borders, and of Scotland?"—I cry you mercy, and shall give you the results of my enthusiasm.

When in Edinburgh, at the college, while others prolonged the debauch, it might be, till two or three of a fine moonlight night, I have stolen away about twelve, taken my course through the King's Park to the Echoing Rock, and from thence to that long hollow valley of Bagdad, which runs betwixt Arthur Seat and Salisbury Craigs, and there I have seen the Island of Inchkeith lying, like a glittering diamond, on the face of the deep and the silver sea, and hazy shores of Fife, and the fleecy heavens, and the stars, and the "bonny lady moon," and two figures in the moonlight; they are walking away from me, and are busily engaged in conversation—they do not perceive me—I will ensconce myself behind this large stone till I see what may happen. They have now sat down on the greensward, and I hear their voices very much elevated. The woman is reproaching the man in loud and angry tones—the man makes no reply; or, if he does, it is in an under tone—Ha! he has sprung upon the woman all at once, like a tiger, and she screams, "Murder, murder!" aloud. Shall I allow a poor woman to be murdered in the solitude of nature, without making an effort, even at the risk of my own life, to save her? My resolution, nerved by the wine I had drunk, was taken in an instant—I sprang forward, crying loudly to my companions to assist me. When the horrible object understood how things were going, and imagining, no doubt, that there were more than one witness of its horrible doings, it took to its heels with the speed of lightning. I did not pursue; in fact, I had no inclination to do so; it was sufficient for me if I could save life—I did not wish to take it, either personally or legally. When I went up to the poor woman, she was all astonishment, and her first accents were uttered in thanksgiving to Almighty God for sending me into the desert for her rescue. I found that, although the villain had clutched her by the throat, he had not had time to suffocate her. Her throat was indeed sore from the pressure, and she breathed for some time with difficulty; but there were no deadly symptoms about her. What a mysterious Providence is about us!—and we often know it not. I had originally no intention of taking a moonlight walk that evening, or rather morning, had it not been to avoid the impertinence of a fellow-member of the Dialectic Society, who manifestly wished, in his cups, to fasten a quarrel upon me. I stepped out from Young's, and was off. I was manifestly the messenger of Heaven, and could not help regarding myself with a kind of reverence. The poor woman, who was in fact the wife of this worthless man, gave me her history, to the following purpose:—

That brute, as you very properly call him, is my husband, and was once as kind and affectionate to me as I could wish. Ours was what is called a pure love marriage, for I was born to better circumstances and prospects than, from my present condition and appearance, you may well imagine. (Here the poor woman shed tears, and proceeded.) I was the daughter of a small proprietor in the neighbourhood of Durham, where the Princess of Wales' regiment of Light Dragoons was raised, and was then lying, under the command of Lord Darlington. We—that is to say, my father, my mother, my sister, and myself—used to go frequently into a field adjoining the city, and see this really handsome regiment reviewed, and go through their exercise. One day there was a mock battle represented, in the very field adjoining to my father's house. Several regiments were collected together, from Newcastle and elsewhere, for the purpose. It was to be a great show; and the whole town of Durham, as well as all the country round, were congregated to see the battle. Cannons were fired, charges of cavalry were made, and a detachment of the Darlington troop rode, in pursuit of the supposed enemy, past our door. My father and I were at the upper window when the troop came dashing along, clearing fences and springing over ditches in the finest style imaginable. Just as they came opposite to my father's door, a pig, which had escaped from its confinement in the back-court, dashed headlong forward amongst the feet of the horses. One of the horses fell; and the rider, having pitched on his head, was seemingly killed on the spot. He was immediately carried into our house, and surgical aid was at hand. It was a dislocation of the neck-bone, and was immediately put to rights; but the patient was bled, and ordered to be kept quiet for some days. I naturally became the young gentleman's nurse; for he was the son of a poor but titled family in the neighbourhood of Darlington. Mr Fitzwilliam was a handsome man, about my own age; but he was penniless, and a soldier of fortune. My father, early seeing the danger of my remaining in the way of temptation, had sent me off to a grand house in the neighbourhood of Newcastle. But William Fitzwilliam had won my heart, and, in spite of all watchings and lookings, we were man and wife in less than a fortnight after my departure for Newcastle.

We were married at Gretna Green; and I have accompanied him ever since, through Carlisle and Dumfries, Ayr, Glasgow, and ultimately to Jock's Lodge, where the regiment is now lying. He has taken lodgings for me in Edinburgh; but of late has sadly deserted me. I have been enabled, by taking up linen, and sewing articles for the ladies' exhibition, to do something in aid of our scanty funds. But William has of late undergone a sad change. He has become addicted to gambling; has even introduced improper characters, both male and female, into my presence; and has talked, particularly in his cups, about a divorce and separation. He wishes me, he says, to divorce him; and takes every method of giving me sufficient grounds for so doing; but, with all his errors and vices, I love him still, nor can I think, now that I have time to reflect on it, he would have murdered me outright, even though you had not so providentially interfered. He has of late succeeded to a title, by the death of an uncle, who has disinherited him, and left his vast property past him. This preyed upon his spirits of late; and I have reason to know that he has been making love, and even offers of marriage, to a rich widow lady, who dwells not far from York Place, Edinburgh. But my marriage-lines lie sadly in his way; and it was to attain by force what he could not otherwise, that he had almost, and, but for you, would have perhaps altogether, murdered me, a few minutes ago. Poor William! my heart still bleeds for him; but I will never give up, whilst I live, the only means which I have of proving myself an honest woman.

All Edinburgh rang next morning with the news—Lord M—— had shot himself dead in his bedroom.