This only increased our curiosity, and, after some flattering language about Janet's good nature, retentive memory, and Covenanting lineage, the old crone proceeded to the following purpose; and, as nearly as we can mind, (for it is a tale o' fifty years,) repeated it in the following words:—
"Thou ken's the auld ruin, bairn, the auld wa's out by there. That's the auld farm-house o' Dalgarno, ere the new one at the path-head was biggit; and there, within the wa's, was ance a warm hearth, and twa as leal hearts as ever beat against pin or button. John Porter was young, handsome, and the tenant of the best farm in the parish o' Dalgarno; but he was nae frien to the vile curate, and a marked bird, as they ca' it, by Grierson o' Lag, in particular, who had been heard to say, that he would decant his porter for him some day yet, in the shape and colour of heart's bluid. Agnes Milligan was an orphan, brought up at Dalgarno—a sister's son o' the auld Dalgarno, and a fu' cousin, ye ken, o' the young farmer. They had baith fed frae the same plate; sleeped under the same roof; played at the same sports; and dabbled in the same river—the bloody, bloody Nith!—from infancy to youth. Oh! sirs! but I canna get on ava"—— Here Janet sorted her wheel, and apparently shed a tear, for she moved her apron corner to her eye. "Aweel, this was the nicht o' the wedding, bairn—no this nicht, like; but I think I just see it present, for I was there mysel, a wee bit whilking lassie. Lawson, guid godly Lawson, had tied the knot, an' we war a' merry like; but it was a fearfu' spate, and the Nith went frae bank to brae. 'They are comin!' was the cry. I kenna wha cried it, but a voice said it, an' twenty voices repeated it. Lag an' his troop's coming; they're gallopin owre the Cunning-holm at this moment. John Porter flew to his bonnet, an', in an instant, was raised six or seven feet high on his long stilts, with which he had often crossed the Nith when nae mortal could tak it on horseback. Agnes Milligan was out and after; the moon shone clear through a cloud, and she saw the brave man tak the water at the broadest. On he went—for we a' witnessed what he did—on he went, steady, firm, an' unwaverin; but, alas! it was hin' harvest, an' some sheaves o' corn had been carried off the holms by the spate. Ane o' them crossed his upper stilt, an', in a moment, his feet went frae him, an' doon he cam into the roarin flood. He was still near the Closeburn bank, an' we a' ran down the side to see if we could help him out. Again an' again he rose to his feet; but the water was mighty, it was terrible, it just whumbled him owre, an' we saw nae mair o' him. Agnes ran for Porter's Hole, (then only kent as the salmon pool,) an' stood watching the eddy, as it whirled straw an' corn, an' sic like rubbish, aboot. Her husband's head appeared floating in the whirl—she screamed, leaped into the deep, deep pool, an' next day they were found clasped in each other's arms. Oh, my bairn, my bairn!—what brocht ye here the day?"
Janet was found, next morning, dead in her bed—the exertion and excitement had killed her.
FOOTNOTES:
[B] Vide Jameson.
THE RECLUSE.
The situations of farm-houses, or steadings, as we call them in Scotland, are very rarely selected so much for their beauty, with reference to the surrounding scenery, as for conveniency; and hence it is that we find but few of them in positions which a view-hunter would term strikingly felicitous. When they are so, we rather presume the circumstance arises from its happening that eligibility and choice have agreed in determining the point. Yet, seriously, though the generality of farm-steadings have little to boast of as regards situation, there are many pleasing exceptions. Nay, there are some to be found occupying the most choice positions—surrounded with or overlooking all that is beautiful in nature. One of these, most certainly, is the farm-house of West Mains, in the parish of Longorton, Lanarkshire. It stands on the summit of a gentle, isolated eminence that rises in the very centre of a deep and romantic valley, formed of steep green hills, thickly wooded towards the bottom, but rising in naked verdancy from about the centre upwards. The view from the house is thus, indeed, limited; but this limitation is amply compensated by its singular beauty.
About fifty years ago, this beautifully-situated farm-house was occupied by one Robert Adair, who rented also the entire valley in which it is situated. Adair's family, at this time, consisted of himself, his wife, a son, and two daughters, Martha and Rosina, or Rosy, as she was familiarly called. The former was, at the period of our story, in her twentieth year, the latter in her eighteenth. Martha was a good-looking and good-tempered girl; but, in both respects, and in several others, she was much surpassed by her younger sister, Rosy, as we, too, prefer to call her. The latter, with, personal attractions of no common order, was one of the liveliest and most cheerful creatures imaginable. Nothing could damp her buoyant spirit; nothing, be it what it might, could make her sad for longer than ten minutes together. From morning to night she continued pouring out, in a voice of the richest and most touching melody, the overflowings of a light and innocent heart. And scarcely less melodious was the joyous and gleeful laugh, in which she ever and anon gave way to the promptings of a lively and playful imagination. Let it not, however, be thought that all this apparent levity of manner was the result of an unthinking or uncalculating mind, or that it was in her case, as it frequently is in others, associated with qualities which exclude the finer and better feelings of female nature. It was by no means so. With all her gaiety and sportiveness, she had a heart filled with all the tenderest sensibilities of a woman. Her attachments were warm and ardent. In character, simple and sincere, Rosy could have died for those she loved; and so finely strung were the sympathies of her nature, that they were wrought on at will by either mirth or pathos, and with each were found equally to accord.
Rosy's father, Mr Adair, although holding a considerable extent of land, and paying a very handsome rental, was yet by no means in affluent circumstances. Both his name and his credit in the country were on a fair footing, and he was not encumbered with more debt than he could very easily pay. But this was all; there was no surplus—nothing to spare; and the less, that he had been liberal in his expenditure on the education of his daughters. On this he had grudged no cost; they had both passed several winters in Glasgow, and had there possessed themselves of some of the more elegant accomplishments in female education.