[J] The principles of banking seem to have been imperfectly understood in our fathers' days, for it appears that, at the Anstruther branch, there was a certain fixed sum per month allotted for bills to be discounted. When that sum was exhausted, it mattered not what further sum was wanted, there were no more discounts allowed that month. It followed, that the most needy were always, at the beginning of the month, the earliest customers, and, consequently, post-due bills became the rule, retired bills the exception. Under these circumstances, it is not difficult to foresee what would be the result. The bank was closed at no distant period, and the agent, it is said, lost L1500 of his own money. No other banking company attempted to establish a bank in Anstruther till May 1832, when the National Bank of Scotland opened a branch under the management of Mr F. Conolly, town-clerk, which he conducted successfully for twenty-five years. A handsome new building has lately been erected for the use of this bank. Two other branch banks have been opened in the town.
[K] There were two vessels belonging to the company, one named the Hawk, and the other the Rising Sun. The Hawk was lost on her first voyage, and Bailie Meldrum—some time chief magistrate of Anstruther-Wester—one of the crew, lost the toes of both his feet by frost-bite. The undertaking did not prove a successful one; the company was dissolved; and the premises, which were sold to the late John Miller, senior, shipowner in Anstruther, afterwards became, as I said, the property of Mr Todd.
A LEGEND OF CALDER MOOR.
It was a beautiful evening in the month of September—the air still and serene, forming a delightful change from the sultry heat of the day, which had been oppressive in the extreme. Nature seemed to have redoubled her energies; the swallows twittered cheerfully over the small pond; the bees returned laden with the rich fruits of their industry, humming their satisfaction; the heath sent its fragrance around; and the few sheep that Simon Wallace attended were nibbling earnestly the stunted grass, having spent the greater part of the day in the shade of a small knoll, listless from the heat which oppressed them. In the midst stood Simon, enjoying the scene around him, which, barren and desolate as it might be in the eyes of a stranger, was to him the loveliest spot in the universe; nor would he have bade it farewell to dwell in the most fertile vale in the Lothians. Here he had been born sixty summers before, and here he had enjoyed as much of happiness as falls to the lot of man. Humble and content, his wishes were bounded by the few acres of moss land that his fathers had reclaimed from the waste, and his knowledge of the busy world that lay beyond the hills that bounded the horizon around his humble cottage, was derived from a few books. Farther than the next market-town, Mid-Calder, he had never been, save upon one occasion—an important epoch in his life—when, upon some business of importance, concerning his lease, he had visited the capital, the wonders of which had been a never-failing subject of discourse at his humble hearth; yet, Simon was not ignorant, for he made good profit of the few books he could procure; and there was one—the fountain of all knowledge—he knew so well, that even Esdras, the holy scribe, could scarcely have found him at fault, in pointing out all the most beautiful of the inspired passages. His constant companion, he had been reading it on the hill for the last hour, and now, before retiring to his home for the night, he stood there in mental prayer, his face turned to the setting sun, which sunk beyond a sea of clouds, tinged with the most gorgeous colours, and his mind away among the bright realms of eternal felicity. A faint breeze had arisen, and the heavy clouds began to sail along, denoting rain, when he gave his orders to his faithful dog, to gather his sheep for the night, and urged him to be active, to enable him to proceed home before the shower came on. Looking along in the direction of the road that led through the moor, he thought he could perceive, at a considerable distance, three objects, urging their way forward; and, through the gloom, he with difficulty made them out to be a man and two females upon horseback. A feeling of surprise crossed his mind, as he saw travellers journeying over the moor, at a period when it was not usual, except upon urgent business, to leave Mid-Calder at a late hour, and proceed along roads almost impassable, with no other prospect than a night journey, in dangerous and troubled times. Musing on the circumstance, he had just reached the road on his way to his cottage, when the travellers came up and accosted him with an inquiry if they could find shelter for the night, as they had been overtaken by the storm, and one of the females had been taken suddenly ill since they had left the last town. With an apology for the poorness of his accommodation, Simon made them welcome to his home, and led the way homewards. Neither of the females spoke; but he thought he heard one of them utter, at intervals, a stifled groan, while the other supported her on her saddle, and the male led her horse over the rough path to prevent its stumbling. A few minutes brought them to the house, and they were soon seated by the blazing hearth, while Helen Wallace was busy preparing for them some humble refreshments; but the lady continued to become worse—she had been taken in labour, prematurely, as the female said, from the fatigue of travelling. She appeared to be of a rank far above her companions, who treated her with lowly attentions; but there was something harsh and forbidding in the manner and appearance of the man, which made Helen quail, and feel uneasy in his presence; and the female, who was above the middle age, and of a masculine appearance, had a harshness of voice and manner, that was disagreeable, even to the rustic wife of the moorland farmer. The young and beautiful female they attended—apparently not above eighteen, pale and dejected, her eyes red and swollen with weeping—had not, as yet, uttered a single word; but, apparently fearful of her attendants, especially the female, who sat close by her at the fire, had cast several stolen and imploring glances at Helen, and seemed anxious to speak, but afraid to give utterance to her thoughts.
The lady rapidly grew worse, and was put into their only spare bed, while Helen requested her husband to take one of the horses and ride to the town for assistance. This the man promptly forbade—saying, that the other attendant, a skilful woman, was capable of doing all that was required at such a time, with the assistance of the farmer's wife; that they were on their way to the residence of his master when the present unfortunate illness had occurred much sooner than was expected; that he had in the valise with him everything requisite; and that for any trouble the farmer or his wife might be put to, they should be amply rewarded. The cottage consisted of only one apartment, divided by a hallen or thin partition, which did not extend beyond the centre of the floor, to protect the fire-place from the blasts of winter; and Simon and the stranger retired to a small distance from the door, where they stood and saw the full moon rising in grandeur in the east. In vain the farmer endeavoured to gain any information from his companion of who the strangers were, and whither they were going. He got only an evasive answer. His position was extraordinary and uncomfortable. Three hours had passed: no person appeared from the house; his unsocial acquaintance scarcely spoke; a scowl in his eye, and a shade of ferocity in his countenance, alarmed him; his whole soul, sometimes intent upon some signal from the cottage, at other periods became absent; and he clutched at the sword that hung by his side, as if he meant to draw it and attack the farmer, endeavouring again, in a husky voice, to make an apology for the inconvenience they had put him to. At length Helen came to the door, and requested them to come into the house, for the lady was now better.
"What has she got?" inquired Simon.
"Two beautiful boys as ever I saw," answered the wife; "—but one of them is dead, and the mother is very weak."
While this and some other conversation passed between the farmer and his wife, the man and the woman were busy whispering at the other end of the house; but they at length approached the hearth and partook of some refreshment which had been prepared for them. The farmer offered the female, for the remainder of the night, the use of their only other bed; but both the man and the woman objected to this proposition—saying, that they preferred to sit by the hearth and attend to their mistress, and requesting that their hosts should retire to it themselves. This they did, and soon both fell into a sound sleep. Helen awoke about two hours afterwards, and, to her astonishment, found that neither of the two attendants was in the cottage. She arose and went to the bed of the sick lady, who lay apparently in a deep and troubled sleep, with the babe in her bosom. She looked for the body of its brother; but it was gone. She felt alarmed, and gently awaking Simon, in a whisper told him to arise. He was soon dressed, and, on going out, found that the strangers were gone, the horses were away, and with them everything that had been brought, even to the dress the lady had worn upon her arrival. In great anxiety they approached the bed: the lady still appeared in a deep sleep; her breathing was heavy and laborious, every attempt to awaken her was in vain; her eyes were opened and closed unconsciously, and without a word of utterance.
"Surely," said Helen, with clasped hands, "that woman hasna poisoned the puir young creature wi' that mixture she requested me to gie her just before I ca'ed you into the house. She said it was to compose her to sleep. She had offered it to the lady hersel, who, being afraid o' her, wadna taste it. Then she gave me the cup, and I offered it. O Simon! what a piteous look she threw upon me, as she said, 'From you I will take anything; you, I know, will not do me harm'—and she drank it from my hands. Surely, surely, I am not guilty of her blood, if death was in that cup!"