might well assimilate to this sunny sky. Nature seemed to say to man, from above and from beneath—from hill and from dale—from land and from sea—from a thousand portals of beauty and blessedness—"Thou stranger on earth, enjoy the happiness which thy God prepares for thee. For thee, he hath hung the heavens in a drapery of light and love—for thee, he hath clothed the earth in fragrance and plenty—for thee, he hath spread out the waters of the great sea, and made them carriers of thy wealth and thy will from land to land, and from the broad sea to the city and the hamlet on the narrow frith." Thus spake, or seemed to speak, God to man, in the beautiful manifestations of his love. But what said "man to man?" Alas! true it is, and of verity, that
"Man's inhumanity to man
Makes countless thousands mourn."
The whole of the south of Scotland was, at this peaceful hour, overrun with locusts and caterpillars—with all that can hurt and destroy—that can mar, mangle, and torture—with rage, persecution, and violence—profanity, bloodshed, and death. Oh, what a contrast!—Look, only look, on this picture and on that:—Here all peace; there, Douglas, Grierson, Johnstone, Clavers: here, all mercy and love; there, the red dragoons, stained and besmeared with blood and with brains: here, the comforts, and fellowship, and affection of home and of kindred; there, the mountain solitude, the trembling refugee, the damp cave, and the bed of stone! Truly, God hath made man in innocence, but he hath found out many inventions, and, amongst others, the instruments of torture and of death—the bloody maiden—the accursed boots—and the thumbikin and torch, to twist and burn with anguish the writhing soul. And all this, for what? To convert the nation into a land of hypocrites—to stifle the dictates of conscience—to extinguish liberty, and establish despotism. But tempora mutantur: thank God! it is otherwise now with the people of Scotland—and the sword of oppressive violence has been sheathed for ever.
It was night, it was twelve o'clock, and all was silence, save that, at intervals, the grating crake of the landrail or corncraik was heard, like some importunate creditor craving payment, from breath to breath, of his due. An image stood in the passage of the clay-built dwelling—it was not visible, but there was silence and a voice—it was a well-known voice. "Oh, my God, it is my brother!" Thus exclaimed Nancy Nivison, whilst she threw herself, naked as she was, into the arms of her long-lost and sore-lamented brother. The old woman was gradually aroused to a conception of what was going forward; but her spirit was troubled within her, and she groaned, whilst she articulated, "Beware, I pray ye!—beware what ye're doing!—Douglas is as near as Wigton with his band o' murderers. They have shot the father, and they will not scruple to murder, by law or without law, the son. Oh sirs, I'm unco distressed to think o' the danger which this unexpected visit must occasion!" Thomas Nivison had, indeed, sailed for America; but he had been shipwrecked on the Isle of Arran, not far from the coast of Ireland, and had lived for months with the fishermen, by assisting them in their labour. But hame is hame—
"Oh, hame, hame, hame, fain wad I be!
Oh, hame, hame, hame to my ain countrie!"
So breathes, in perfect nature and simplicity, the old song; and so felt, amidst the bare rocks and stormy inlets of Arran, poor Thomas Nivison. And for the sake of this humble home, this poor outlaw, upon whose head a price had been set (as he had wounded, almost to death, one of his father's murderers), had run, and was now running, incalculable risks. Long ere daylight Thomas Nivison had betaken himself to a hiding-place in the linns of Cree; but his visit had not escaped observation. A smuggler of brandy and tea from the Isle of Man, being engaged in what he denominated the free-trade, chanced to mark his approach, and fled immediately with the news to Douglas at Wigton. The troop surrounded the house by break of day; but the bird was flown.
What a scene was exhibited, in a few days, on this peaceful shore! Two women, the one old, and scarcely able to support her head, and the other young, beautiful, but stripped down to the waist, and tied to a stake within flood-mark on the Frith of Cree; a guard of dragoons surrounding the spot, and an officer of rank riding, ever and anon, to the saddlegirths into the swelling flood, and questioning the poor sufferers very hard. But it was all in vain; Thomas Nivison was neither betrayed by sister nor by grandmother. In fact, they knew not, though they might have their suspicions, of his retreat. Can it be believed in the present times—and yet this is a fact attested by history as well as by tradition—that these two helpless and guiltless beings were permitted to perish, to be suffocated by inches and gulps amidst the tide? The poor old woman died first. Her stake was mercifully sunk farther into the stream. She died, however, speaking encouragement to her grandchild.
"It will soon be over, Nanny—it will not last long—it will not be ill to bear—and there we shall be free" (looking up to heaven)—"there, there is nothing to hurt or to destroy; and my father is there, Nanny; and my mother is there; and my son—oh, my poor murdered boy!—is there! and you and I will be there, and he, too, will soon, soon follow; but his blood be on the guilty, Nanny, and not on us! We will not shed one drop of it for all that man can give—for all that man can do—
'For anything that man can do
I shall not be afraid.'"
These were the last words which she spoke, at least which were heard; for, in the beautiful language of Scripture, "she bowed her head, and gave up the ghost." She was not drowned, but chilled to death. The case was different with youth, strength, and beauty. Again and again was the offer made to her, to spare her life, on condition of her betraying a brother. Nature pled hard for life and length of days; and one of the dragoons, more humane, or rather less brutal, than the rest, was heard to exclaim—