They returned, without speaking, down the glens and through the old woods, and the door was shut upon them. Days and nights passed on, and then a bell tolled; and the churchyard, that had sounded to many feet, was again silent. The woods around the hall were loaded with their summer glories; the river flowed on in its brightness; the smoke rose up to heaven from the quiet cottages; and nature continued the same—bright, fragrant, beautiful, and happy. But the hall stood uninhabited; the rich furniture now felt the dust; and there were none to gaze on the pictures that graced the walls. He who had been thus bereaved went across seas to distant countries, from which his tenantry, for three springs, expected his return; but their expectations were never realised, for he died abroad. His remains were brought home to Scotland, according to a request in his will, to be laid by those of his wife; and now they rest together, beside the same simple monument.
MISS PEGGY BRODIE.
By Andrew Picken.
“If I were a man, instead of being a woman, as unfortunately I happen to be,” said Miss Peggy Brodie to me, “I would call a meeting in public, on the part of the ladies, to petition the king for another war; for really, since the peace there is no such thing as any decent woman getting a husband, nor is there so much as the least stir or stramash now-a-days, even to put one in mind of such a thing. And the king, God bless him! is a man of sense, and understands what’s what perfectly,” continued Miss Peggy; “and I have not the least doubt that if he were only put in possession of the real state of the sex since the peace, he would give us a war at once, for it is cruel to keep so many women in this hopeless state.”
“Indeed, mem,” said I, looking as wise as I was able, “you may depend upon it, you are under a mistake.”
“Don’t tell me, sir,” replied Miss Brodie; “you men think you know everything. As if I did not understand politics sufficient to know that the king grants all reasonable petitions. I tell you, Mr What’s-your-name, that the whole sex in Glasgow, from Crossmyloof to the Rotten Row, and from Anderston to Camlachie, are in a state of the utmost distress since ever the peace;—and marriages may be made in heaven, or somewhere else that I do not know of, but there is none made hereaway, to my certain knowledge, since ever the sharpshooters laid down their arms, the strapping fallows!”
“I’m sure, mem,” said I, “for a peaceable man, I have been sadly deaved about these sharpshooters.”
“It’s no for you to speak against the sharpshooters, Mr Thingumy!” said Miss Brodie, getting into a pet; “you that never bit a cartridge in your life, I know by your look! and kens nae mair about platoon exercise, and poother wallets, and ramrods, than my mother does! But fair fa’ the time when we had a thriving war, an’ drums rattlin’ at every corner, an’ fifer lads whistlin’ up and down the streets on a market-day; an’ spruce sergeants parading the Saltmarket, pipe-clayed most beautiful! Then there was our ain sharpshooters, braw fallows, looking so noble in their green dresses, and lang feathers bobbing in their heads. Besides, there was the cavalry, and the Merchants’ corps, and the Trades’ and the Grocers’ corps. Why, every young man of the least pluck was a soldier in these heartsome days, and had such speerit and such pith, and thought no more of taking a wife then, than he would of killing a Frenchman before his breakfast, if he could hae seen one.”
“But, Miss Brodie,” said I, “they were all so busy taking wives that they seem to have quite forgot to take you, in these happy times.”
“Ye needna be so very particular in your remarks, Mr Thingumy; for it was entirely my own fault, an’ I might hae gotten a husband any morning, just for going to the Green of Glasgow, where the lads were taking their morning’s drill; for it was there a’ my acquaintances got men, to my certain knowledge; and now it’s naething but “Mistress” this, an’ “Mistress” that, wi’ a’ the clippy lassocks that were just bairns the other day; and there they go, oxtering wi’ their men, to be sure, an’ laughin’ at me. Weel, it’s vera provokin’, sir, isn’t it?”