The tales of James Hogg, the Ettrick shepherd

THE TALES OF THE
ETTRICK SHEPHERD

THE TALES

OF

JAMES HOGG

THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD

LIBRARY EDITION
POLMOOD SERIES

LONDON

SANDS & CO.

15 KING STREET, COVENT GARDEN, W.C.

AND AT EDINBURGH AND GLASGOW

CONTENTS

PAGE

LIFE OF AUTHOR, _ - - ix

THE BROWNIE OF BODS BECK:

A Tale of the Times of the Cozoianters, - - - i

THE WOOL-GATHERER:

Or, the Lost Heir, 87

A TALE OF THE BATTLE OF PENTLAND. - - 120

EWAN M'GABHAR:

A Highland Legend, - 127

THE BRIDAL OF POLMOOD :

A Talc of the Times of the Stuarts, - . . - 13^

STORMS:

Incidents connected with remarkable Sno-X'-Falls in

Scotland, --------- 198

A SHEPHERD'S WEDDING. __----- 211

COUNTRY DREAMS AND APPARITIONS :

The Wife of Lochmahen, - - - - - - 222

Welldean Hall, --------- 226

Tibby Johnston's Wraith j 262

CONTENTS

PACK
A TALE OF GOOD QUEEN BESS:

Her Jealousy of a Successes 268

SOUND MORALITY:

Or, Practical Religion as distinguished from Theor-
etical Religion, - - - 282

TRIALS OF TEMPER:

A Tale of Hasty Courtship, ------ 290

THE FORDS OF CAELUM:

A Tale of Mystery and Wraith -Warning, - - - 297

THE CAMERONIAN PREACHER'S TALE, _ - - 300

THE PRIVATE MEMOIRS AXD CONFESSIONS

OF A FANATIC, _ _ 308

SOME REMARKABLE PASSAGES IN THE LIFE
OF AN EDINBURGH BAILIE:
A Tale of the Times of the Covenanters and Wars of

Montrose, --------- 409

JULIA M'KENZIE:

A Highland Talc, -------- ^-jg

ADAM BELL:

A Tale of Feud, Mystery and Murder. - - - - 483

DUNCAN CAMPBELL:

Or, The Faithful Dog, - - - - - - - ^"6

LIFE OF THE AUTHOR

LIFE OF THE AUTHOR.

James Hogg— better known as the Ettrick Shepherd — was bom about the end of the
year 1770. The poet himself was under the belief that he was not born till 25th January,
1772, but the record of his baptism in the register of his native parish bears that he was
baptised on the 9th of December, 1770.

His ancestors for many years had held property in the forest of Ettrick as retainers of
the Scotts of Harden, the line from which Sir Walter Scott sprang. But both chief and
retainer had lost their lands, and the one was practising as a lawyer in Edinburgh, while
the other followed the humbler pursuit of shepherd on the slopes of Green Ettrick. The
shepherds father, Robert Hogg, saved money while a servant, and on his marriage
was in a position to lease a couple of sheep farms, Ettrick House and Ettrick Hall.
He was industrious and frugal, but simple-minded, and that simplicity of mind in
business matters he seems to have transmitted to his son. His, wife Margaret Laidlaw,
was of a different stamp. She is said to have been a woman of energy and resources ; and
to have received an education beyond what was customary in the district. Keeping this
ir mind, the wonder is that the education of the poet should have been so neglected.

The first seven or eight years of the poet's life were passed in comparative comfort.
But misfortune fell on his parents. One of his father's heaviest debtors fled the country in
the face of a falling market. Robert Hogg found himself a bankrupt, and he and his family
turned out of doors. By the kindness of a neighbour they were saved from utter destitu-
tion, and the shepherd's father was installed as servant where he had lately been master.
The future poet, then a boy about eight, was taken from school, and sent to the cow-
herding — the first step of the shepherd trade — receiving, as half-yearly fee, a ewe lamb and
a pair of shoes.

In his autobiography the poet says that at this time he had not been more than three
months at school, and this, with thr3e months in the following winter, was all the teaching
he ever received. Elsewhere he affirms that he never received any schooling. But when
the shepherd made these statements, it was his object to induce comparisons between what
he was and what he had been, and this may have led him (unconsciously it may be, for chil-
dren take little note of periods of time), to deepen the contrast by a little exaggeration in
reference to the scantiness of his education. But he must have been about eight years of
age when first sent to school — an unusual age under the circumstances, as the school-room
was almost at his father's door. Moreover, a boy who before he had been three months at
school, was dux in a class studying the Shorter Catechism, and reading the Proverbs of
Solomon, must either have had some previous edr.cation, or have been an uncommonly
clever child.

After he had received another three months' schooling, he returned to the cow-herding,
and gradually rose till he was entrusted with the herding of sheep. For the next twelve
years there was little change in his position, except perhaps a change of masters, for he
seems to have had a new one every Whitsundaj' term. There is no mention of a love of
reading as is the case w-ith most poets in their youth, the only book he had being a Bible.
The metrical psalms attracted him, and he learned the most of them by heart. When
about fifteen, he began a-fiddling on an old violin he had bought for five shillings, and this
he practised in the byres or stables with no other auditory and accompaniment, than what
the usual occupants supplied.

After serving various masters and gaining the character of being a very inoffensive
mortal, Hogg became shepherd to Mr. Laidlaw of Wellenslee, a farmer in Ettrick forest.
Now, in his nineteenth year, he began to acquire a taste for reading, his first books being
Blind Harry's Epic, " The Life and Adventures of Sir William Wallace," and Allan
Ramsay's "Gentle Shepherd." Through these he plodded without much benefit. The old
Scotch was a stumbling block to him. Another book he read (one of several theological
works lent him by Jlrs. Laidlaw, his master's wife), was Burnett's "Theory of the Conflag-
ration of the Earth." It nearly turned his brain, Had he been studying it by night when
the world was hushed, and there was nothing to distract his somewhat superstitious fancy
from vivid conceptions of the scenes described, the results might have been lamentable ;
but it was on the green slopes of Ettrick that he read it, with the living sun bathing all in
light, and the chirping of birds and tlie bleating of lambs to keep him in the present.

Once more he sought a new master, this time Mr. Laidlaw of Blackhouse. He had
served three Laidlaws in succession. He entered the service under Mr. Laidlaw when
twenty, and remained with him till he was thirty years old. He expressed great affection
for this gentleman, and says he treated him more like a father than a master. Here also
he became acquainted with William Laidlaw (afterwards amanuensis and factor of Sir

X LIFE OF THE AUTHOR.

Walter Scott, and author of that sweet song " Lucy's Flittin,") then a lad nearly ten years
younger than the Shepherd, with whom he struck up a fast friendship, which lasted till his
dying-day, for Laidlaw stood by his death-bed. This friendship was serviceable to him
in many ways during his career. Six years later, when Hogg began to develop his latent
genius, the younger Laidlaw encouraged him, when others were ridiculing the Shepherd's
assumption and vanity. It was while in this situation that he really made his first entrance
among books, greedily devouring the contents of Mr. Laidlaw's fine library, and then be-
cominj;^ a subscriber to a circulating library in Peebles.

He had been almost six years in Mr. Laidlav/s service, the twenty-sixth year of his
age, before he began to awalcen to a knowledge of his own powers. Shortly after he had
acquired a love of reading, he thought of writing, and his first attempts were
desperate work. It was no light task, for he could not write; he learned however to
imitate the italic letters he foimd in books, the operation necessitating his casting off coat
and vest. Hi.=i first literary attempts were chiefly songs and short essays, some of which
were inserted in the '' Scots Magazine." He projected a literary society, which is referred
to in one of his tales ; he entered into poetical contests with his brother and Alexander
Laidlaw, a neighbouring shepherd ; and in every way he could devise he endeavoured to
develop his power and genius. For several years he was content with a local fame, but he
had made a resolution to be Burns's successor. The first of his songs that circulated
beyond the borders of his native parish was "Donald M'Dorald," the theme of
which was defiance to Napoleon Bonaparte, who at that time was threatening to invade
England. In the course of the year 1800 he had sung it at a convivial party in the Crown
Tavern in Edinburgh ; and one of his hearers introduced it to the notice of Jlr. Hamilton,
music publisher, who got it set to music and properly printed. It became popular at
once ; it was sung over all the length and breadth of the land, but being published
anonymously, few knew the author's name, and Hogg, with a feeling of disappointment,
complained that no one thought it worth while to inquire.

Emboldened by the popularity of his song, Hogg believed that he had only to publish
io acquire fame, and perhaps money. He was a very creature of impulse. John Wilson,
who had been an intimate friend of the Shepherd for many years, idealizes this trait of the
Shepherd's character, and makes him say : '' At once my soul kens that it must obey the
Impulse, nor ever seeks to refuse. Oftenestlt is towards something sad — but although sad,
seldom insensible— a journey ower the hills to see some freen, whom I hae nae reason to
fear is otherwise than well and happy — but on reaching his house I see grief-fu' faces, and
perhaps hear the voice of prayer by the bedside o' ane whom the bystanders fear is about to
die. Ance the Impulse led me to go by a ford, instead o' the brig, although the ford was
fardest, and the river red ; and I was just in time to save a puir travellin' mither, wi' twa
wee weans on her breast ; awa she went wi' a blessing on my head, and I never saw her
main Anither time the Impulse sent me to a lancsome spot amang the hills, as I thought
only because the stamies were, mair than tisual, beautifully bright, and that I micht aiblins
mak a bit poem or sang in the solitude, and I found my ain brither's wee dochter, o'
twelve years auld, lyin' delirious o" a sudden brain fever, and sae weak that I had to carry
her hame in my plaid like a bit lamb." But although the Impulse may have led him right
at times, at other periods it led him into foolish conduct, and expensive misadventures.
He had determined to print a number of his poems, but in place of carefully selecting and
preparing: them for the press from his manuscripts at home, he made use of some enforced
idle d: ys in Edinburgh to write down as many of them as he could remember, and these
imperluct copies he put into the hands of a printer. Shortly after his return home, he
received copies of his book, and was horrified to find he had omitted several verses,
others he had put in the wrong place, while the printer added his quota of disfigurement in
numerous typographical errors and very inferior printing and paper. The name of this
book was "Scottish Pastorals, Poems, Songs," &c., i8or.

It was shortly before this time that the poet left the service of Mr. Laidlaw, of Black-
house. He had spent a very happy time there, and would have been content to remain ;
but his brother William had married, and as his father and mother lived with him, the
house was too small. He took another farm, and handed over Ettrick House to James,
with whom the old people were to remain ; and thus, at the age of thirty, the Shepherd
was a farmer on his account. But the lease was nearly out, and perhaps he had not
money enough to carry it on properly. At any rate he saw he must make a change, and
he took a journey into the Highlands in search of^a situation as farm manager, His
journey was fruitless ; and on the expiration of the lease, the farm was given to another
who could afford to pay a higher rent for it.

It was while he was tenant of Ettrick House that he made the acquaintance of Sir
Walter Scott. Scott's two volumes of the " Border Minstrelsy" had been published, and
Hogg perusing them critically, thought he could do much better himself. He composed
some imitations of old ballads, and took others down from his mother's recital, and these
he sent to Sir Walter to learn his opinion of them. Leyden, the poet and linguist, intro-
duced the "Shirra" to William Laidlaw, who in turn led him to Hogg's house, where he
heard the Shepherd's aged mother recite some ancient ballads to his great delight. Other
meetings between Scott and Hogg followed, and the two became fast friends.

LIFE OF THE AUTHOR, xi

Hogg had few hopes of bettering his worldly affairs by fanning in his native district ; he
made further visits to the Highlands in search of employment, and during the last visit he
had crossed to Harris, one ol the Hebrides. It seraed to him that sheep-farming ought
to be successful there, so he leased a farm, and began to gather stock for it. He also in-
duced a friend to embark in the adventure. But, unfortunately, when he thought all was
ready for going north and entering on a successful business, news came that the farm was
the subject of litigation in the Court of Session. He lost all he had by this, about ;(^2oo,
rhilc his friend's loss was much greater. The Shepherd had to conceal himself from his
creditors for a time in Cumberland ; but in the end of the year he returned unmolested to
his native place, and resumed his shepherd life with Mr. Harkness of Mitchell Slack, a farm
in Nithsdale.

White serving here he thought again of publishing his poems, especially his imitations
of Border ballads, and he started to Edinburgh to get Scott's advice on the matter. Scott,
who was best known then as Sheriff of Selkirk, invited the Shepherd to dinner in his house,
where Hogg would meet with several of the notables of the town. Hogg had never been in
such fashionable company. He was afraid his ignorance of the forms of social intercourse
amongst the upper classes would be too glaring. But he accepted the invitation, resolving
to model his conduct after that of the company. Mrs. Scott was ailing at the time, and
when the Shepherd entered, she was resting on a sofa. The Shepherd fixed on her as his
exemplar, and after making his best bow, flung himself at full length on a sofa opposite the
lady of the house. At dinner, the Shepherd shone in song and story, and as he became
aftccted by the drink he had tal<cn, so he descended in addressing Mr. Scott, to '.Scott'
'Shirra,' 'Walter,' then ' Wattie,' besides committing numerous other breaches of
etiquette. Next day he was in the throes of repentance, and as soon as he reached home
he sent his friend an ample apology, and finished by asking Scott's advice about publishing
anew. Scott approved generally of his scheme, and in 1803 the " Mountain Bard " was
printed, with a dedication to "Walter Scott, Esq., Advocate, Sheriff-depute of Ettrick
Forest," and a sketch of Hogg's life.

But the Shepherd had some difficulty in bringing his new poems to the light. Walter
Scott introduced him to Constable, the largest pubhsher in Edinburgh at the time. But
Constable was in nowise anxious to treat for works such as the Ettrick Shepherd brought ;
poetry v/as a drug in the market as publishers too well knew. But if Hogg could get two
hundred subscribers, he would undertake its publication. Five hundred subscribers were
found, the poet gleaned ;^300 from the " Mountain Bard" and a prize essay on Sheep ;
and then set himself to throw it away.

On the strength of his ^^300 he re-embarked in farming speculations. He took a fami
in Dumfriesshire, called Carfarden, at a rent far above its value, and the consequent loss
was increased by a lawsuit wih his landlord. Then he leased another farm, so large that
his capital was inadequate for the ninth part of it ; while to add to his difficulties, the
murrain made havock among his flocks. With such troubles pressing on him he had little
time or heart for poetry, pastoral or otherwise ; and the next three years of his life was
fruitless in literature. But amidst all his stru;^gles he was ever cheerful. He possessed
the happy knack of being able, when the first bitterness of misfortune was past, to cast his
cares away, and console himself with hopes of the future.

The 2,300 got from the "' Mountain Bard " and " Hogg on Sheep " had brought him
nothing but care and anxiety, and at the end of three years he had to surrender all to his
creditors, becoming dependent for the necessaries of life to the generosity of a friend —
Mr. Macturk of Stenhouse — to whom he gratefully wrote " Perhaps the very circumstance
of being initiated into the mysteries of your character is of itself sufficient coiii^rnsation for
all I suffered in your country."

Little is known of what he \vas doing the next three years. He is known, however,
to have tried to obtain a commission in the mihtia. As a last resource he returned to
Ettrick, without having made a settlement with his creditors. But no one would employ
him there ; he had twice miserably failed in business, he was one of the rhyming trade, and
he was not now to be trusted in the meanest trifle in regard to sheep-farming. This must
have been humihating to the author of a work on sheep that received the premium of the
Highland Society. After hanging about his native place for some time, ridiculed, despised,
and lectured by friends and foes, the want of money forced him to think of shifting. In
the impulse of desperation, he picked up his plaid and staff and trudged off to Edinburgh,
determined to make a living by his pen. But that was no easier in Edinburgh than in
Ettrick. He found plenty who would accept his work ; but payment there was none. In
his distress he called again on Constable, to get him to publish another volume of songs,
" The Forest Minstrel." Constable did so, on condition that Hogg was to receive half the
profits ; but the Shepherd was so much afraid of the volume having been a failure, that ;ie
never dared to ask the publisher any questions about money. It was dedicated to the
Duchess of Buccleuch, and she acknowledged the honour by sending the poet a hundred
guineas.

Thereafter he determined to put no trust in publishers ; he would do his own publish-
ing; so, on the ist September, 1810, he started a weekly paper called "The Spy "—certainly
a very unfortunate title. He had some difficulty in finding a printer for it, all the members

xii LIFE OF THE AUTHOR.

of the trade preferring the security of an established house to that of a penniless
shepherd,

The sale of the first number gave hopes of success, but by some indiscretion in the second
or third number, he caused a portion of his subscribers to drop off ; these the Shepherd
scarified in succeeding numbers, and soon found himself with more enemies than was
pleasant or convenient for a man trying to earn a livelihood by his pen. He con-
tinued it for a year, and in its last number he told his adhering subscribers that they had
had the honour of patronising an undertaking quite new in the annals of literature : for
that a "common shepherd, who never was at school ; who went to service at seven years of
age, and could neither read nor write with any degree of accuracy when thirty; yet who,
smitten with an unconquerable thirst after knowledge, should leave his native mountains
and his flocks to wander where they chose, come to the metropolis with his plaid about
his shoulders, and all at once set up for a connoisseur in manners, taste, and genius —
has much more the appearance of a romance than a matter of fact ; yet a matter of fact
it certainly is — and such a person is the editor of ' The Spy.' "

Although the editor of " The Spy " denied it. there was surely some little romance in
his " leaving his native hills and his flocks to wander where they chose," and in his being
animated with missionary zeal to reform the manners, taste, and genius of the good people
of Edinburgh.

The Shepherd, it need hardly be said, derived no benefit pecuniarily from " The Spy,"
but it brought him into contact with some gentlemen, who assisted him with occasional
articles. These were James Gray, of the High School ; John Sym, who figured in the
" Noctes Ambrosianas " as Timothy Tickler; and Thomas Gillespie, afterwards a professor
at St. Andrews ; Rev. Wm. Gillespie, Kells ; and J. Black, well-known in connection with
the " Morning Chronicle." But of greater value than theirs was the assistance rendered to
the poet by John Grieve, a hatter of Edinburgh, and worshipper of the Ettrick Shepherd,
He was more than a brother to the unfortunate poet. For six months after the Shepherd
was starved into Edinburgh Mr. Grieve was his host, and gave him everything he required.
He seemed to take a delight in forestalling the poet's needs. Moreover, Mr. Grieve's
partner became as firmly attached to the poet ; and had it not been for their assistance,
the Ettrick Shepherd might have suffered the fate of Otway.

Having failed to ingratiate himself with the public as an editor, Hogg next turned his
attention to oratory. He and a number of young aspirants for fame established the
Forum, a debating society which held its meetings in Carubbers Close, Edinburgh, and
which allowed the public, by payment, to hear the members air their eloquence and
opinions. The Shepherd was appointed secretary, with a salary of twenty pounds
a-year, which he never got. Here, every night, he made a point to speak ; and
his broad, south-country dialect was the source of great amusement to the audience, with
whom, however, the Shepherd was a special favoiuite. This society lasted three years, and
it was acknowledged by Hogg to have done him exceeding good, for it let him " feel, as
it were, the pulse of the public, and precisely what they w'ould swallow and what they
would not. Private societies signify nothing, but a discerning public is a severe test,
especially in a multitude, where the smallest departure from good taste, or from the
question, is sure to draw down disapproval." Audiences have degenerated since Hogg's
time, for a wordy battle in good humour would be more appreciated than keeping to the
question. Hogg amused himself in public by depreciating the public men of the time,
especially Napoleon and his followers, and all who were Whigs, for he was Con-
servative in his politics. The society was modelled after Parliament, and the incon-
sistencies which often arose between the youthful members and their prototypes was pro-
ductive of much fun. Hogg tells us he hit off the comic side in a farce, called "The
Forum, a Tragedy for cold weather.'' In it he humorously depicted some of the budding
orators, himself included. He either valued the piece lightly, or was afraid to shock the
feelings of the members, for this fai'ce never saw the light, a like fate befalhng a
musical drama which he wrote for Mr. Siddons, then manager of the theatre in
Edinburgh.

The Shepherd must have been leading a desultory life in Edinburgh at this time, for
we hear very little of how he obtained the means of living. He had been in Edinburgh
for three years now, and had entered it in a condition not very remote from starvation.
We know he had been kepi by Mr, Grieve and his partner, Mr. Scott; but during the next
two years he might have come under the definition of a vagrant, " of being without any
visible means of support." At a chance hint from Mr. Grieve he resuscitated some poems
from " The Spy," wove them into a continuous narrative, and surprised the reading world
\vith '' The Queen's Wake '' — his masterpiece. This work was descriptive of a poetic
competition held before Queen Mary, on her arrival in Scotland from France. As usual,
the poet had difficulties in getting a publisher. Constable would have nothing to do with
it unless the Shepherd obtained two hundred subscribers ; and, in that case, he would give
the poet ;^ioo for permission to print a thousand copies. The poet had to accede to these
terms, and hunted up subscribers to the amount stipulated. But a Mr. Goldie (one of the
Forum) stepped forward and offered better terms for the " Queen's Wake." Now, when
there was competition for his poem, the poet asked Constable to reconsider his terms ; but

LIFE OF THE AUTHOR. xiii

Scott and the publisher had recently been quarrelling, and the Shepherd got nothing but
curses for all the poetic tribe, so Goldie published the book.

The work was well received, both by the public and the critics — the only dissentient
being the " Eclectic Review," of which JeftVey was the editor. Two editions were quickly
sold. The Shepherd having doubts of Goldie's stabiUty, had arranged with Constable
to publish the third edition, and when Goldie heard of this, he attacked the poet, and
"browbeat" him, till he broke tiio engagement with Constable. Hardly were the new
copies a week on sale when Goldie became bankrupt, and the Shepherd's e.xpectalions
of remuneration were at once swept away. By the considerate kindness of Mr.
.•\itken and Mr. Blackwood, however, matters were arranged much better than hee.xpected.
for he received a'l the unsold copies of his book on paying the expenses of printing, and
these when sold brought him twice as much as Goldie had promised to pay him. A fifth
edition of the '' Queen's Wake," with engraved illustrations, was published some years
after.

His next work was '' Mador of the Moor," produced at the instigation of Mrs. Izett, of
Kinnaird House, a lady who had taken a great interest in the career of the Shepherd, and
invited him every year to her house in Athole. While on a visit there, he had caught
cold, and was conimtd to the house. Mrs. Izett deprecated him idling about, so she led
him into a study and bid him write. The choice of the subject being left to the lady, she
suggested the Tay, tluwing beneath their eyes. The poet immediately began, and in a few
ueeks produced " Mador of the Moor,'' a poem replete with beauties, but marred by the
great improbability of the narrative. He followed up this with " Connel of the Dee," and
"The Pilgrims of the Sun.'' On the publication of the "Pilgrims,"' which was bandied
from one publisher to another before it saw the press, it received a favourable criticism, but
its sale did not reach a second edition.

The poet gave way to the force of facts, and acknowledged to himself that his pen was
unable tc gain him a livelihood. Longing too for his native place and his old occupation, he
addressed to the Duchess of Buccleuch a playful letter in the form of an humble petition,
praying her to use her influence with the Duke's chamberlain to obtain for him a small fann
on which he had cast his eyes. ' ' There is a certain poor bard," he wrote, " who has two old
parents, each of them upwards of eighty years of age, and that bard has no house nor home
to shelter these poor parents in, or cheer the evening of their lives. A single line from a
certain very great and very beautiful lady, to a certain Mr. Riddell would insure that small
pendicle to the bard at once. But she will grant no such thing ! I appeal to your Grace
if she is not a very bad lady that ! " The poet's request was not immediately answered ;
what was the reason caimot now be told ; but the Duchess died about live months after,
and her death ended the poet's suspense. The Duke took up his case, and installed him,
rent free, in a farm at Altrive, instead of the one sought by the Shepherd, informing him at
the same time that the gift was in fulfilment of the desire of the Duchess.

Now that he had obtained a farm on such easy terms, it behoved him to look about for
the means to work it. He had many personal friends in Edinburgh and elsewhere, and his
literary fame had brought him into communication with a large number of literary men,
such as Rogers, Southey, Byron, Wordsworth, De Quincey, and others. When the " Isle
of Palms" was published, Hogg was moved with a strong desire to know its author.
John Wilson, afterwards known as Christopher North, was slightly known to Scott, but
Scott would not give letters of introduction, so the Shepherd wrote and invited Wilson to din-
ner, as he was burning to see him. Wilson came, and the dinner was the initiation of a warm
friendship between them. When both were in Edinburgh, they saw each other every day.
After Hogg's death, Wilson undertook to write his biography ; and it is a pity that he did
so, for as no one was better able to do the work, the intimation prevented others from at-
tempting it, while he himself was ultimately unable to fulfil his promise through the pressure
of his other labours. Through Wilson, the Shepherd was introduced to Sym — "Timothy
Tickler." This "genuine old Tory" had been eagerly scanning Hogg's articles in
the "Spy," and had assisted him with articles, with advice, and by bringing the good
points of the poet to the notice of his acquaintances. Hogg did not know Sym at that
time, for he kept himself concealed ; and the poet therefore received a surprise when he
was ushered into a wealthy mansion to meet a gentleman nearly seven feet high, with an
aristocratic air, as his secret friend when engaged on the " Spy.'' Thereafter Hogg was a
frequent visitor to the big house in George's Square, for besides meeting a congenial friend
in Mr Sym, he was sure also of seeing other pleasant companions, and moreover Sym had
a couple of splendid violins, on which the Shepherd and he were wont to regale themselves
with Scotch reels and strathspeys, while the others sat and talked in a comer. Wilson
(Christopher North), Sym (Timothy Tickler), and Hogg (the Shepherd), were the three
leading characters in the celebrated "Noctes Ambrosianae'' of " Blackwood's Magazine. " It
was hkely in Southside House, for that was the name of Mr. Sym's place, that Hogg first
met J. G. Lockhart ; but although the Shepherd had a great admiration for some ol"
Locknart's humorous poetry, he could have had little cordial esteem for him. Lockhart
was extremely fond of joking, and the simplicity of the Shepherd was too great a temptation
to be resisted. On the death of Sir Walter Scott, Lockhart was extremely irate because
the Shepherd published reminiscences of the great novelist ; and seemed to view it as an ia-
trusion on his rights as the biographer of his father-in-law.

riv LIFE OF THE AUTHOR.

Hogg had never seen Byron, but he originated a correspondence with hini which the
moody poi-t kept up for a time. The Shepherd introduced himself to i>outhey one day,
wlicn on his way to visit his friend Wilson at Elleray. When in Keswick, he sent a note
to the author of "Mador"' and the "Curse of Kehama," to come and see him at the
Queen's Head Inn, which the poet'Haiu^ate at once did. Something happened at this
meeting, very astonishing in the Shepherd's eyes — Southey refused to take rum punch ; but
othei-\Nise Hogg's esteem for the Lake poet grew rapidly, and he passed some days with
Southey at Greta Hall.

It was in Edinburgh that Hogg and Wordsworth first came together. James Wilson,
brother of Professor Wilson, invited the Shepherd to a dinner at his mother's, to
meet Mr. Wordsworth. A celebrated horse-dealer was the Wordsworth uppermost in the
poet's memory, and when Wilson told him that he would like their visitor very much, for he
was very intelligent, Hogg replied ' ' I dare say he is ; at all events he is allowed to be a good
judge of horse-flesh." Wordsworth the horse-dealer was much better knovvi) at this time in
and about Edinburgh than Wordsworth the poet, lor more than the Shepherd made the same
mistake. There is more than a touch of the Shepherd's conceit in some remarks he makes in
reference to the Scotch Wordsworth. He (a shepherd) had some misgivings how a celebrated
horse-dealer should have the entry of a house where only the first prople of Edinburgh were
invited ; and some gentlemen were at a loss to know why he should be travelling tlie
country with a horse-couper. This last remark refers to the journey, M/. Wordsworth, Dr.
Anderson and the Shepherd made to the Yarrow, when they visited the Shepherd's country
house. But their acquaintance did not long continue without a flaw. On the night of a
visit the Shepherd made to Ryedale Mount — Wordsworth's house — there chanced to be a
brilliant display of the aurora borealis. The party assembled came out to
the front of the house to see the beautiful appearance ; and Miss Wordsworth expressed
her fears that it might be the precursor of ill-luck, 'fhe Shepherd exclaimed, " Hout,
mem, it's joost a triumphal airch in honour o' the meeting of the poets.'' De Quincey
told afterwards that when Hogg had uttered the words, Wordsworth growled in his com-
panion's ear '' Poets ! Poets I what does the fellow mean ? Where are they ? " Hogg could
not forgive this aflront and took his revenge in parodying Wordsworth's style in " The
Poetic Mirror." He had some suspicion, however, that De Quincey himself was the author
of the irritating words.

To obtain capital to start in his venture at Altrive Farm, the Shepherd resorted to a
novel scheme. He applied to his poetical friends for a {xaem from each, and these he in-
tended to publish in one volume for his own benefit. Some of those he applied to are now
almost unknown, but his list included Scott, Wilson, Wordsworth. Byron, and Rogers.
Scott refused point blank — " Let every herring hing by its ain head," was the answer — and
the Shepherd was wroth with him, writing him a bitter letter, and avoiding his society for
a long time afterwards ; Wordsworth sent a poem, but withdrew it again ; Byron and
Rogers did not keep their promise ; and what was sent by others was of such unequal
value, that Hogg thought he could do better himself, So he sat down to v^'rite a piece in
imitation of each of the leading living poets. With the exception of the second article,
which was by Thomas Pringle, the Shepherd wrote the whole of the "Poetic Mirror,"
within three weeks, Had it not been for the venomous caricature of Wordsworth, the
several pieces might have passed as playful originals of the authors whose mannerisms were
imitated. Hogg s preface to this anonymous book is as ambiguous as any utterance of
ancient oracle.

It was some months before the Shepherd made up his quarrel with Scott, He had
fallen into the company of a wild set of clever men, who had been seized by a paroxysm of
hard drinking. By a bacchanalian career of six weeks among them, Hogg drove himself into
a fever, which nearly put an end to him. As soon as news of this illness reached Scott, he ii>-
quired every day concerning the Shepherd's condition, and o'lered his purse that his old
friend might have everything necessary to restore him. Mr. Grieve, to whom Scott made
these inquiries, was enjoined to keep secret the interest Scott had shown in the Shepherd's re-
covery ; but Hogg learned it afterwards by some other means, and immediately repented
of having treated Scott in the manner he had done. He avowed contrition, and asked a
return to their old friendship, which Scott answered by inviting him to breakfast next
morning, and ignoring all that led to their disagreement, although Hogg was not quite
so wise.

During 1815, the year of Waterloo, Hogg was busy with literary work, a series of
songs adapted to Jewish melodies and two volumes of " Dramatic Tales" coming from his
pen. The songs were to be paid for at the rate of a guinea a stanza, but the author got
nothing ; and his " Dramatic Tales " were a failure. He had not yet reached the goal of
his present ambition— stocking for Altrive Farm. As a last resource, he turned to Mr.
Blackwood, and that publisher suggested a U^ luxe edition of the "Quecn'> Wake."
By the aid of Sir Walter Scott and other friends, this edition brought something to the
Shepherd, but how much is unknown. He entered his farm at Altrive, and tried to settle
down to pastoral and agricultural pursuits. Years before he had called poetry a thankless
trade, and now he resolved to forswear it entirely. He kept his resolution for some years,
till at the urT^nt request of some friends, he began "Queen Hynde.'' Meantime he could not
be content \. ith his agricultural labours. A dream of the " Spy " on a larger and differenl

LIFE OF THE AUTHOR. xr

plan haunted him, and having discovereJ w.^'. ! '-—■i. T":--:-— Prnp'.r ^ 'a !,i.,,1.ir
idea, the two discloicd their schcn.. t^ ,.„

thinking of a i'-nal publicaiion. 1';:j S.i - ^j

in the country lie cotUd not uii.icrtake it. i ■■■■^.^ .... . . ......c ._. ...

and the first number of Blackwood was issued. Pr ..int was ( ,1

before the fourth month, the two dis^f^ree ! \^.th ttv» : i ! y r.".<^ ,-r

to the camp of the enemy — the <• p ^

youth of twenty, supplied their plac .,.

tered on its palmiest days. The she,. : ......,.„_..._ d

editors, and the consequent embittered competition between the two pub h

party tried to ridicule the other, and with this object Hogg wTote the fa:. -e

manuscript —a witty description of the battle between the two publishers i:. .:i.

guage. Additions were made to it by lil.ickwood's assistants — chiefly, as id

thought, by Lockhart, and its boldness and bitterness greatly intensified, i.... .le

horrified the religious feelings of the community, and the publisher cairowly escaped sut:er-
ing ecclesiastical censure.

Following the example of Walter Scott, the Shepherd in 1817 commenced to write
novels, the first of which was the " Brownie of Bodsbtck.'" The time of publ cition was
imfortunate— a year after Scott's " Old Mortality." This necessarily provoked companson
between the two, much to the disadvantage of Hogg's work, for many declared it a mere
imitaiion of the other. But there were not a few who were glad to receive a true and more
favourable picture of the Covenanters and their times, and the book became popular. He
nejit st.-ined for the Highlands to search for Jac.jl)ite songs, and published one volume of
them in 1819, and the other in 1821, under the title of " J.-icobite Relics of Scotland."
Between the two volumes he sent forth "Winter Evening Talei," the "greater part of
which were written when he was a shepherd on the mountains.''

The same year, iSijo, on the 23th April, the ShepherdlmarriL-d. He who bad n's

charms and women's wiles so long, simple-minded as he wai, was not marr.- is

in his fiftieth year. That requires explanation among the many strange ths: _,_ -..,3 s

career. His wife was Margaret Phillips, the yoimgest daughter of Mr. Phillips, of Long-
bridge Moor, in Annandale. In his choice of a wife he was fortunate, although not so in
llie attendant money matters. On now considering his position, the Shepherd thought ho
had good grounds for undertaking a larger farm than the one in his pos: cision. His
literary earnings accunmlaling in the hands of his various publishers, amounted to nearly
;^iooo, and he was to receive another £1000 as his wife's dowry. He took a nine-years' lease
of a neighbouring farm — Mount Benger. He laid out his entire capital on stock for it, and
found it to be far short of what was necessary ; his father-in-law became emb.uTassed. and
disappointed the Shepherd's expectations ; and in desperation for money he reverted to his
story writing in 1822, producing "The Three Perils of .Man, viz.. War, \Somen, and
Witchcraft,' for which he received £iso from Messrs. Longman & Co., of London. Next
year he brought out " The Three Perils of Women," by the same publishers, which brought
him another jJi5o, and in 1824, " The Confessions of a Fanatic." " The Three Perils " now
appear as the " The Siege of Roxburgh." His next literary adventure was a lonp [xjcin
called "Queen Hynde," which the poet maintained to be sujjerior to his " Queen's Wake,''
but the public thought differently, tor the work was slow in going off, and the p)oet did iiot
gain a farthing by it. " Poetry," as Allan Cunningham put it, " must be its own reward."
This was the last of his important htfr.. . ' .' ' - .tinuedwriti ' -y

tales, ghoit stones, songs, and poc. 1 he some'. -.1

payment and sometimes not. In i8j ,. 'ction of hi . . it

140, and this was favourably received, <^id biou^hi suiucihuig to his purse. His next work
was a p>oetical essay dealmg with Reform, which at that time rreatly aeitated the country,
culminating in the Reform Act of 1832. IIo;;g's polit. ' : party,

and his publ.shcr did not dare to issue the thousand '

Hogg wa.s glad when the nine years' lease of .Nj ■ could

withdraw to his old house at I^ke Alirive. He was iicariy sixty now, and U mast have
occn evident to him that he had neither time nor energy to retrieve his fortunes. His
very fame was now ■ ihcra daily called on him, both .it Mount

Benger and Altriv v won by a favourable word, tie.ii-il all

hospitably. His ■.. ,- re few and irregular, and he coriiinrd

himself chiefly to pre|jariiig new ediiioiis of his works- In 1831, in company vmili Mother-
well, he edited an edition of liurns for a Glasgow publisher. On the first day ol the vr.ir
following he ^^ '■ • • ' ' ' ' ' -:e

form. After ; •\

me beyond t
Mr. Cochrane, oi l^jiido
with illustrations by Gcor

hts • ,v - ' '

S. i\

n>- , • 'ic

prcjci.l; aiid Imu boitj of LuUu kal uia t)<c wkhci *iU«. ol Uic Uiaiiutan, ^.t juttit Mai4,uUu.

x^ LIFE OF THE AUTHOR.

But the mnin object of the visit to London turned out another unsuccess; Cochrane be-
came bankrupt, and the Shepherd had to forego the hope of seeing a complete collection
of his works.

Shortly after his return from London further honours were heaped on him. His
friends desired to express tlieir appreciation of his wonderful talents, and of their con-
sideration of his personal worth, by giving him a public dinner. This took place at
Peebles, his old friend, John Wilson, being in the chuir. That night the Shepherd said,
that he had sought fame while yet among the mountains he carried the crook and plaid ;
he had sought it in the city ; and now when he saw so many talented men around him,
and met on his account, well might he exclaim, " I have found it at last !"

During the next two years the poet did almost nothing ; but in 1834 he put forth
"Lay Sermons on good principles and good breeding"— lessons drawn from his experience
of what was conducive to every one's welfare and happiness ; and nearer the end of the
year he sketched the " Domestic Manners and Private Life of Sir Walter Scott," full of
mteresting anecdotes of his lately-departed friend, whom he was soon to follow. During
the same year he renewed his attempts to get his tales republished. A fresh series of both
old and new was arranged, under the title of the " Alontrose Tales." Three volumes
were issued by Mr. Cochrane, who had again started business. They were favourably
received, and seemed likely to sell well, when Cochrane again became bankrupt. But ere
this happened the poet had passed away. Since his return from "^^ondon his constitution
had grown enfeebled ; but no serious illness appeared till October, 1835, when he was
confined to his bed by an affection of the liver. After suffering severely for four weeks he
died on the 21st of November, 1835, *' as calmly, and to all appearance, with as little pain
as if he had fallen asleep in his grey plaid on the side of a moorland rill." He was buried
in Ettrick churchyard, close to the church in which he was baptized, and a few yards from
the cottage in which he was bom. His widow raised a simple stone to his memory,
bearing his najne, the dates of his birth and death, and a minstrel harp : and the sod
above was covered with daisies transplanted from a distance. In 1858 a subscription was
originated to erect a pubhc monument to the bard of Ettrick ; and with the ^^400 gathered
a statue by Andrew Currie, also a native of Ettrick, was erected on a beautiful spot by the
side of St. Mary's Loch.

ilogg has often been coupled with Burns, but there is little similarity between them,
except in the humbleness of their origin and upbringing. Burns's personality dominates
in the best of his work, no small number of his poems and songs being written on the spur
of the moment ; according as his passions were moved by the incidents happening around
him, he gave vent to his feeUngs in words, like an ^olian harp rising and falling with the
changing breeze. But the personality of the Bard of Ettrick is seldom manifested ; we
scarcely know the source of inspiration of any one of his poems, while the history of Bums is
hut a long hst of them. It is not to Burns, but to Scott that we must tum for a poet of
the same feather ; and the parallelisms between them are munerous. Both were
born about the same period, and reared in the same traditions : a common love of
old Border ballad brought them together : Scott was animated by the desire of
restoring the fame and state of his family name ; Hogg longed to walk in the steps
of his forefathers as a great sheep-farmer : Scott wrote the " Lady of the Lake";
Hogg, *' Mador of the Moor," and "Queen Hynde" : "Old Mortality" has its
counterpart in the " Brownie of Bodsbeck." The works of both evince more of observa-
tion than of reflection and deep thought ; more of the external than of the inner man.
Burns was an Etna, its fiery plumes towering aloft, its snow-clad sides gleaming 'neath the
morning sun, and dazzling the eyes of the beholder ; while the moods of Scott and Hogg
were hke the varied undulations of a Scottish landscape.

J. T. a

THE BROWNIE OF BODSRECK:

A TALE OF THE IJMEU OF THE COVENANTERS.

IiNTRODUCTION.

There is a range of high mountains that border on Annandale, Ettrick
Forest, and Twceddale, that are by many degrees the wildest, the most
rugged, and inaccessible in the south of Scotland. They abound with pre-
cipitous rocks, caverns, and water-falls, besides interminable morasses, full of
deep ruts, which are nevertheless often green and dry in the bottom, with
perhaps a small rill tinkling along each of them. No superior hiding place
can be conceived. With means of subsistence, thousands of men might
remain there in safe hiding, witli the connivance of one single shepherd. To
that desolate and unfrequented region did the shattered remains of the
routed fugitives from the held of Bothwell Bridge, as well as the broken and
persecuted whigs from all the western districts, ultimately flee as to their
last refuge.

They, being however all Westland men, were consequently utterly unac-
quainted with the inhabitants of the country in which they had taken shelter.
They neither knew their religious principles, nor the opinions which they held
regarding the measures of government, and therefore durst not trust them
with the secret of their retreat. They had watchers set all around ; certain
calls of different birds for signals, and conformable to these they skulked away
from one hiding-place to another, alike at the approach of the armed troop,
the solitar>' shepherd, or the careless fowler.

It was a season of calamity and awful interest. From the midst of that
inhospitable wilderness, from those dark morasses, and unfrequented caverns,
the prayers of the persecuted race nightly rose to the throne of the Almighty :
prayers, as all tebtified who heard them, fraught with the most simple pathos,
as well as bold and vehement sublimity. In the solemn gloom of the evening,
after the last rays of day had disappeared, and again in the morning before
the ruddy streaks began to paint the east ; yea, often at the deepest hours of
midnight, songs of praise were sung to that Being under whose fatherly
chastisement they were patiently suffering. These hymns, always chanted
with ardour and wild melody, and borne afar on the light breezes of the
twilight, were often heard at a great distance, causing no little consternation
to the remote dwellers of that mountain region. The heart of the shepherd
grew chill, and his hairs stood on end, as he hasted home to alarm the cottage
circle with a tale of horror. For, besides this solemn and unearthly music,
he perceived lights moving about by night in wilds and in caverns where
human thing had never resided, and where foot of man had never trod, and
he deemed that legions of spiritual creatures had once more taken possession
of his solitary dells.

At length the hiders became so numerous that it was impracticable to keep
themselves altogether concealed from the people of the country. Chance
brought them in contact with the men, while sickness and utter necessity
often drove the sufferers to m.ike thrir ajjpcal to the tender heart of women.
Never were those appeals refused, aUhuiij;h the favours granted were l>cstowcd
at the hazard of life ; and in no ono instance on record was the contidcnrc of
I. 1

2 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERDS TALES.

the sufferer betrayed ; even although the cir^amstances were partially known
to two or three of the same family, they were often puzzled to the last to
conceal them from one another. Of such a dilemma the following Tale is a
pleasant instance. The general part is taken from Wodrow, and the local
part from the relation of my own father, who had the best possible traditionary
account of the incidents. On the publication of the first edition, I was
^ievously blamed, by a certain party, for having drawn an unfair character
of Clavers. I can only say that it is the character 1 had heard drawn of him
all my life, and the character of him which was impressed upon my mind
since my earliest remembrance, which all his eulogists can never erase.
Moreover, 1 have not contrived one incident in order to make his character
blacker than it was : I may have taken a few of the worst, and condensed
them, and that is all, and perfectly fair. If, through all the histories of that
suffering period, I had discovered one redeeming quality about Clavers, I
would have brought it forward, but 1 found none. He had the nature of a
wolf and the bravery of a bull-dog.

CHAPTER I.
" It will be a bloody night in Gemsop, this," said Walter of Chapelhope, as
he sat one evening by the side of his little parlour fire, and wrung the rim of
his wet bonnet into the grate. His wife sat by his side, airing a pair of clean
hosen for her husband, to replace his wet ones. She looked steadfastly in his
face, but uttered not a word ; — it was one of those looks that cannot be
described, but it bespoke the height of curiosity, mingled with a kind of
indefinite terror. She loved and respected her husband, and sometimes was
wont to tease or cajole him from his purpose ; but one glance of his eye, or
scowl of his eyebrow, was a sufficient admonition to her when she ventured
to use such freedom.

The anxious stare that she bent on his face at this time was inquiry enough,
what he meant by the short and mysterious sentence he had just uttered ; but
from the fulness of his heart he had said that which he could not recall, and
had no mind to commit himself further. His eldest son, John, was in the
room, too, which he had not remarked before he spoke, and therefore he took
the first opportunity to change the subject. " Gudewife," said he, tartly,
" what are ye sittin glowrin like a bendit wulcat there for ? Gae away and get
me something to eat ; I'm like to fa' atwae wi' sheer hunger."

" Hunger, father !" said the lad ; " I'm sure I saw ye take as muckle meat
to the hill with you as might have served six."

Walter looked first over the one shoulder at him, and then over the other,
but, repressing his wrath, he sat silent about the space of two minutes, as if
he had not heard what the youth said. " Callant," then said he with the
greatest seeming composure, " rin away to the hill, an' see after the eild nowt ;
ca' them up by the Quave Burn, an' bide wi' them till they lie down, gin that
sudna be till twal o'clock at night — Gae away when I bid ye — What are ye
mungin at .''" And saying so, he gave him such a thwack on the neck and
shoulders with the wet bonnet as made him make the best of his way to the
door. Whether he drove the young cattle as far as the Quave Burn, or
whether he looked after them that night or not, Walter made no further
inquiry.

He sat still by his fire wrapt in deep thought, which seemed to increase his
uneasy and fretful mood. Maron Linton (for that was the goodwife of Chapel-
hope's name), observing the bad humour of her husband, and knowing for
certain that something disagreeable had befallen him, wisely forebore all inter-
meddling or teasing questions respecting the cause. Long experience had
taught her tlie danger of these. She bustled about, and set him down the
best fare that the house afforded : then, taking up her tobacco pipe, she
meditated an escape into the kitchen. She judged that a good hearty m^al
by himself might somewhat abate his chagrin ; and, besides, the ominous
words were still rin.(ing in Iior ears — " It will be a bloody night in Gerr.-op

THE BROWNIE OE BODS BECK. 3

this"— and she longed to sound the shepherds that were assembled around
the kitchen fire, in order to find out their import. Walter, however, pen tiv-
iiiij her drilt, stopped her short with—" Gudewife, whar arc ye gauu b^c last?
Come back an' sit down here, I want to speak t'ye."'

Maron trembled at the tone in whii h the^c words were spoken, but never-
theless did as she was desired, and sat down again by the fire. " WctL
Watie, what is't ?" said she, in a low and humble tone.

Walter plied his spoon for some time, without deigning any reply ; then
turning lull upon her, ''Has Kate been in her bed every night this week?"
risked he seriously.

" Dear gudcman, whaten a Question's that to speer at mc? What can hac
put sic a norie i' your head as that 'i"

" That's no answerin my question, Maron, but spcerin ither twa instead
o't : — I ask ye gin Kale hasna been out o' her bed for some nights byganc."

" How sude I ken ony thing about that, gudcman .'- ye may gang an' spccr
at her — Out o' her bed, quotha !—Na— there'll nac young bkcmpy amang
them wile her out o her bed i' the night-time.— Dear gudeman, what has put
it i' your head that our bairn stravaigs i' the night-time?"

" Na, na, Maron, there's nae mortal soul will ever gar ye answer to tlie
point"

" Dear gudeman, wha heard ever tell o' a mortal soul ? — the soul's no

mortal at a' — Didna ye hear our ain worthy curate-clerk say"

" O, Maron 1 Maron ! ye'U aye be the auld woman, if the warld sude turn
upside-down ! — Canna ye answer my question simply, ay or no, as far as ve
ken, whether our daughter has been out o' her bed at midnight for some
nights bygane or no? — If ye ken that she has, canna yc tell me sae at aince,
without ganging about the bush? it's a thing that deeply concerns us
baith."

" Troth, gudeman, gin she has been out o' her bed, mony an honest man's
bairn has been out o' her bed at midnight afore her, an' nae ill in licr mind
nouthcr- the thing's as common as the rising o' the sc'cn sterns."

Walter turned towards his meal, after casting a look of pity and despair
upon his yokefellow, who went on at great length defending the equivocal
practice of young women who might deem it meet and convenient to leave
their beds occasionally by night; and at length, with more sagacity than
usual, concluded her arguments with the following home remark: — " Ve ken
fu' weel, gudeman, ye courtit me i' the howe o' the night yoursel; an' Him
that kens the heart kens weel that I hae never had cause to rue our bits o'
trysts i'.the dark — Na, na 1 mony's the time an' aft that I hae blest them, an'
thought o' them wi' pleasure! We had ae kind o' happiness then, Watie, we
hae another now, an' we'll hae another yet.''

There was something in this appeal that it would have been unnatural to
have resisted. There is a tenderness in the recollection of early scenes of
mutual joy and love, that invariablv softens the asperity of our nature, anil
draws the heart by an invisible bond towards the sharer of these; but when
these scenes are at one view connected with the present and the future, the
delight receives a tinge of sublimity. In short, the apiieal was one of the
\\v\^\ happy that ever fell from the lips of a simple and ignorant, though a
well-meaning: woman. It was not lost upon Walter; who, though of a riiu';h
e.\tcrior and impatient humour, was a good man. He took his wife's hand
and pressed it fervently.

" .My glide auld wife," said he, " God bless ye!— Yc hae bits o' queer gates
whiles, but I wadna part wi' yc, or see anc o' your grey hairs wrangcd, lor a'
the ewes on the Hermon Law." — Maron gave two or three sobs, and put the
corner of her check-apron upon the eye that was next Walter —" Kair la'
your heart, Maron," said he, "we'll sae nae mair about it; l»ut, my woman,
wc maun crack al)out our bits o' hamc alf.iirs, an' 1 had the sttnngcst reasons
for coming to the truth o' yon; however, I'll try ither iiic.ins liut, .M.intn
Lmton, there's anither thing, that in spite o' my heart is like to breed me

4 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

muckle grief, an' trouble, an' shame. — Maron, has the Brownie o' Bodsbeck
been ony mair seen about the town ?"

" Troth, gudeman, " ye're aye sac hard i' the belief^wi' a' your kindness to
me and mine, ye hae a dour, stiff, unbowsome kind o' nature in ye — it'll hardly
souple whan steepit i' yer ain e'esight — but I can tell ye for news, yell no hae
a servant about yer house, man, woman, nor boy, in less than a fortnight, if
this wicked and malevolent spirit canna be put away— an' I may say i' the
language o' Scripture, ' My name is Legion, for we arc many.' It's no ae
Ikownie, nor twa, nor half-a-score, that's about the house, but a great multi-
tude— they say they're ha'f deils ha'f fock — a thing that I dinna weel under-
stand. Hut how many bannocks think ye I hae baken in our house these
eight days, an' no a cmst o' them to the fore but that wee bit on your timber
trencher ? Half-a-dizen o' dizens, gudemani — a' the meal girnels i' the coun-
try wadna stand it, let abce the wee bit meal ark o' Chapelhope."

" Ciudewife, I'm perfectly stoundit. 1 dinna ken what to say, or what to
think, or what to do ; an' the mair sae o' what I have heard sin' I gaed to the
hill — Auld John o' the Muchrah, our herd, wha I ken wadna tell a lee for the
Laird o' Drummelzier's estate, saw an unco sight the night afore last."

" Mercy on us, gudeman ! what mair has been seen about this unlucky
place.'"'

" I'll tell ye, gudewife — on Monanday night he cam yont to stop the ewes
aff the hogg-fence, but or it was lang he saw a white thing an' a black thing
comin' up the Houm close thegither; they cam by within three cat-loups o'
him — he grippit his cudgel firm, an' was aince gaun to gie them strength o'
arm, but his power failed him an' a' his sinnens grew like dockans; there was
a kind o' glamour cam o'er his een too, for a' the 'Hope an' the heaven grew
as derk as tar an' pitch — but the settin moon shone even in their faces, and
he saw them as weel as it had been fore-day. The tane was a wee bit hurklin
crile of an unearthly thing, as shrinkit an' wan as he had lien seven years i'
the grave; the tither was like a young woman — an' what d'ye think? he says
he'll gang to death wi't that it was outher our dochter or her wraith."

Maron lifted up her eyes and her clasped hands toward the ceiling, and
broke out with the utmost vehemence into the following raving ejaculation: — ■
"O mercy, mercy! Watie Laidlaw ! — O, may Him that d walls at ween the
Sherubeams be wi' us and preserve us and guide us, for we are undone crea-
tures ! — O, Watie Laidlaw, Watie Laidlaw ! there's the wheel within the
wheel, the mvstery o' Babylon, the mother of harlots, and abominations o' the
earth "

"Maron Linton! — What are ye sayin ? — Haud your tongue, Maron
Linton."

" O gudeman, I thought it was the young fallows ye jaloosed her wi' — I
wish it had. I wad rather hae seen her i' the black stool, in the place where
repentance is to be hoped for; but now she's i' the deil's ain hands. I
jaloosed it, Watie — I kend it — I was sure o't lang syne — our bairn's changed
— she's transplanted — she's no Keaty Laidlaw now, but an unearthly creature
— we might weel hae kend that flesh an' blude could never be sae bonny —
Gudeman, I hae an awsome tale to tell you— Wha think ye was it that killed
Clavers' Highlanders?"

" That, I suppose, will remain a mystery till the day when a' secrets will be
cleared up, an' a' the deeds o' darkness brought to light."

" Sae may it be, Watie ! Sae may it be ! But it was neither ane nor ither
but our ain only dochter Kate."

"Ye're ravin, Maron — troth, ye're gaun daft — a bit sklendry lassie o'
aughteen kill sae mony armed Highlanders? — Hout fye! keep within bounds,
Maron."

" I heard her wi' thir lugs it's i' my ain head — Stannin on that very room
floor, I heard her gie the orders to her l^rownie. She was greetin whan I cam
in — I listened and heard her saying, while her heart was like to louj). 'Wae's
me! O wae's me ! or mid-dav their blood will be rinnin like water! The

THE BROWNIE OF BODS BECK. >

auld an' the young, the bonny an' the gude, the sic an' the uoundit — Tl.ti
blude may cry to Heaven, but the cauld earth will drink it up; days may be
better, but waur they canna be ! Down wi the clans, Brownie, and spare nac
ane.' In less than ten minutes after that, the men were found dead Now,
Watie, this is a plain an' positive truth."

Walters blood curdled within him at this relation. He was superstitious,
but he always affected to disbelieve the existence of the Hrownie. though the
evidences were so strong as not to admit of any doubt; but this double assur-
ance, that his only daughter, whom he loved above all the world l>csides, was
leagued with evil spirits, utterly confounded him. He charged his wife, in the
most solemn manner, never more, during her life, to mention the mysterious
circumstance relating to the death of the Highland soldiers. It is not easy to
conceive a pair in more consummate astonishment than Walter and his
spouse were by the time the conversation had reached this p>oint. The one
knew not what to think, to reject, or believe- the other believed all, without
comprehending a single iota of what she did believe; her mind endeavoured
to grasp a dreadful imaginary form, but the dimensions were too ample for its
reasoning powers; they were soon dilated, burst, and were blown about, as it
were, in a world of vision and terror.

CHAPTER II.
Before proceeding with the incidents as they occurred, which is the common
way of telling a story in the country, it will be necessary to explain some
circumstances alluded to in the foregoing chapter.

Walter Laidlaw rented the extensive bounds of Chapelhope from the Laird
of Drummelzier. He was a substantial, and even a wealthy man, as times
went then, for he had a stock of 3000 sheep, cattle, and horses ; and had,
besides, saved considerable sums of money, which he had lent out to
neighbouring farmers who were not in circumstances so independent as
himself.

He had one only daughter, his darling, who was adorned with every
accomplishment which the country could then afford, and with every grace
and beauty that a country maiden may possess. He had likewise two
sons, who were younger than she, and a number of shepherds and female
servants.

The time in which the incidents here recorded took place, was, I believe,
in the autumn of the year 1685, the most dismal and troublous time that these
districts of the south and west of Scotland ever saw, or have since seen. The
persecution for religion then raged in its wildest and most unbridled fury :
the Covenanters, or the whigs, as they were then called, were proscribed,
imprisoned, and at last hunted down like wild beasts. Graham, Viscount of
Dundee, better known by the detested name of Clavers, set loose his savage
troopers upon those peaceful districts, with peremptory orders to plunder,
waste, disperse, and destroy the conventiclers, wherever they might be
foimd.

The shepherds knew, or thought they knew, that no human being fre-
quented these places. They lived in tenor and consternation. Those who
had no tie in the country left it, and retreated into the vales, where the habi-
tations of men are numerous, and where the fairy, the Brownie, or the
walking ghost, is rarely seen. Such as had friends whom they could not
leave, or sheep and cattle upon the lands, as the farmers and shepherds
had, were obliged to rrmain, but their astonishment and awe continued to
increase. They knew there was but one Being to whom they could apply for
protection against these unearthly visitants ; family woisliip was Ix^gun )>oth
at evening an<l morning in the farmer's hall and the most remote hanilct ; and
that age intro<lu< ed a spirit of devotion into those legions whiih one hundred
and thirty years' continuance of the utmost laxity and indecision in religious
I'rinciplcs has nut )ct Ix'en able wholly to eradicate.

It IS likewise necessary to mention here, thougii perfectly well kjiuwu, llut

d THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

every corner of that distracted countr)' was furnished with a gownsman, to
instruct the inhabitants in the ..lihi and benignant principles of prelacy, but
chiefly to act as spies upon the detested whigs. In the fulfilment of this last
task they were not remiss ; they proved the most inveterate and incorrigible
enemies that the poor covenanters had.

The officiating priest at the kirk of Saint Mary of the Lowes had been
particularly active in this part of his commission. The smallest number
could not be convened for the purposes of public devotion — two or three
stragglers could not be seen crossing the country, but information was
instantly sent to Clavers, or some one of his officers ; and, at the same time,
these devotional meetings were always described to be of the most atrocious
and rebellious nature. The whigs became grievously incensed against this
ecclesiastic, for, in the bleakest mountain of their native land, they could not
enjoy a lair in common with the fo.\es and the wild-goats in peace, nor wor-
ship their God without annoyance in the dens and caves of the earth. Their
conventicles, though held in places ever so remote, were broken in upon and
dispersed by armed troops, and their ministers and brethren carried away to
prisons, to banishment, and to death. They waxed desperate ; and what will
not desperate men do ? They waylaid, and seized upon one of the priest's
emissaries by night, a young female, who was running on a message to
Grierson of Lag. Overcome with fear at being in custody of such frightful-
looking fellows, with their sallow cheeks and long beards, she confessed the
whole and gave up her despatches. These were of the most aggravated
nature. Forthwith two or three of the most hardy of the whigs, without the
concurrence or knowledge of their brethren, posted straight to the Virgin's
chapel that very night, shot the chaplain, and buried him at a small distance
from his own little solitary mansion ; at the same time giving out to the
country that he was a sorcerer, an adulterer, and a character every way evil.
His name has accordingly been handed down to posterity as a most horrid
necromancer.

This was a rash and unpremeditated act ; and, as might well have been
foreseen, the cure proved worse than the disease. It brought the armed
troops upon them both from the east and the west. Clavers came to Tra-
quair, and stationed companies of troops in a line across the country. The
Laird of Lag placed a body of men in the narrowest pass of Moffatdale, in
the only path by which these mountains are accessible. Thus all communi-
cation was cut off between the mountain-men and the western counties ; for
every one who went or came by that way, these soldiers took prisoner,
searched, and examined ; and one lad, who was coming from Moffat, carry-
ing more bread than they thought he could well account for, they shot dead
on the spot just as he had dropt on his knees lo pray.

A curate, named Clerk, still remained to keep an eye upon the whigs and
pester them. He had the charge of two chapels in that vicinity ; the one at
a place now called Kirkhope, which was dedicated to Saint Irene, a saint of
whom the narrator of this story could give no account. The other was dedi-
cated to Saint Lawrence ; the remains of it are still to be seen at Chapelhope, in
a small circular inclosure on the west side of the burn. Clerk was as malevolent
to the full against the proscribed party as his late brother, but he wanted the
abilities of the deceased ; he was ignorant, superstitious, and had assumed a
part of that fanaticism in religion by which many of the adverse party were
distinguished. By this principally he had gained some influence among his
hearers, on whom he tried every stimulant to influence them against the
whigs. The goodwifc of Chapelhope was particularly attached to him and
his tenets ; he held her completely in leading-strings ; her conscience
approved of evervthing, or disapproved, merely as he direc ted ; he flattered
her for her deep knowledge in true and sound divinity and the Holy Scrip-
tures, although of both she was grossly ignorant. But she had learned from
her preceptor a kind of cant - a jargon of religious terms and sentences of
Scripture mi.xed, of which she had great pride but little understanding. She

THE URO I VME OF U u u^^ ///: l . . . f

was jUs* such a character as would have been a whig, had she ever had aj.
opportunity of hearing or conversing with any of that sect Few ihin >
could be so truly ludicrous as some of her exhibitions in a religious style.
The family and ser\-ants were in general swayed by their mistress, who took
a decided part with Clerk in all his schemes against the whigs, and con-
stantly dispatched one of her own servants to carry his messages of informa-
tion to the king's officers. This circumstance soon became known to the
mountain-men, and though they were always obliged to take refuge on the
lands of Chapelhope by day, they avoided carefully all communication with
the family or shepherds (for several of the shepherds on that farm lived in
cottages at a great distance from one another and from the farmhouse).

Walter despised Clerk and his tenets most heartily ; he saw that he was a
shallow, hypocritical, and selfish being, and that he knew nothing of the
principles in which he pretended to instruct them ; therefore he sorely re-
gretted the influence that he had gained over his family. Neither did he
approve of the rigid and rebellious principles which he believed the Cove-
nanters professed. When he met with any man, or community of men, who
l)elicvcd firmly in any thing .ind held it sacred, Walter revered that, and held
it sacjed likewise ; but it was rather from a deference to the belief and feelings
of his fellow creatures than his own conviction. In short, Walter was an
honest, conscientious, good, old-fashioned man, but he made no great fuss
about religion, and many supposed that he did not care a pin who was right
or who was wrong.

On the 23rd of August, Clavers dispatched nineteen men from Traquair,
under the command of one Copland, a gentleman volunteer in his troop, and
a very brave young man, to gain intelligence concerning the murder of the
curate, and use every means to bring the perpetrators to justice. Copland
and his men came to the mansion of the late chaplain, where they remainetl
all the night, and made every inquiry that they could concerning the
murderers. Several witnesses were brought in and examined, and among
others the very identical girl whom the whigs took prisoner, and robbed of
the dispatches. She had heard the letter read by one of the gang who seized
her, while the rest stood and listened. It bore, "that great numbers of the
broken and rebellious traitors kenneled in the wilds around Loch Skene, from
whence they committed depredations on all the countries about ; that they
hkewise made reli;;ious incursions into those districts, where great multitudes
attended their inflammatory harangues." It also stated, " that a noted
incendiary was to preach on such a day in Kiskinhope Linn, where the whole
group might easily be surrounded and annihilated ; that many of them were
armed with guns, bludgeons, and broad-swords, but th.it they were the nio'^t
cowardly, heartless dogs alive ; and that he himself, who had private and
certain information of all their hiding places, would engage to rid the
country of them in a few days, if Lag would allow him but one company
of soldiers."

Copland now began to suspect that his force was too small to accomplish
anything of moment ; he detennined, however, to make a dash into the wild
next morning, and, if possible, to seize some prisoners, and thereby gain more
accurate information. On the morning of the 24th, having procured two
trusty guides, he proceeded on his expedition. He and nine of his foUowt-rs
went up by a place called Sheilhope, the other nine by Chaijelh<i|>c : they
were to scour the broken ground, take all those prisoners whom they fmind
skulking, fire upon such as refused to stand, and meet on a certain height M
noon. Copland and his party reached the appointed pla< e without making
any reprisal ; they perceived some stragglers on tli<- lu-ij-.hts .uul rocks at a
great distance, who always vanished away, like beings not of this world.
Three of the other parly took one poor lad prisonr:. vnd

emaciated that he had been unable to fly at the sigi '-cnl

were ihcy on blond that he was not even brought Uimr imn jimuh, who
never so much a^ knew of llie c.iptuie.

S THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

The guide v\ as wont to relate the circumstances of this poor man's trial and
execution, for, but for him, no such thing would ever have been kno\\Ti ; the
death of a whig, or a straggler ot any kind, was then a matter of no concern
— They were three Braemar Highlanders who took him ; like the most part
of his associates, he answered their questions in a surly manner, and by the
most cutting retorts, which particularly enraged a Donald Farquharson, one
of the party, against him. " Weel, I'll pe pitting you to 'e test, and tat fery
shun, my coot f'reen," said Donald ; "and I'll just pe telling you, eince for a',
tat ye haif ne meer but twa meenets and a half to leef."

The poor forlorn wight answered, " that he expected no better at their
hands,— that he desired no longer time, and he hoped they would bear
patiently with him for that short space." He then kneeled down and prayed
most fervently, while Donald, who wanted only a hair to make a tether of, as
the saying is, seemed watching diligently for a word at which to quarrel. At
length he spoke words to the following purport: — " Father, forgive these poor
misled creatures, as I forgive them ; they are running blindly upon a wrong
path, and without the power of thy grace they shall never gain the right one
more.' Donald, who did not well understand the dialect in which the prisoner
prayed, looked shrewdly at his companions. " Dugald More," said he,
" Dugald More, fat's 'c man saying.'^"

" He is praying," replied the other, " that we may lose our way, and never
find it more."

" Plast 'e soul o' 'c tief, is he?" said Donald, and shot him through the
body.

The wounded man groaned, and cried most piteously, and even called out
"murder," but there was none to rescue or regard him. The soldiers, how-
ever, cut the matter short, by tossing him into a deep hole in the morass,
where he sunk in the mire and was seen no more.

When Copland arrived at the place of rendezvous, five out of his ten asso-
ciates were nowhere to be seen, nor did they make their appearance, although
he tarried there till two in the afternoon. The guide then conducted him by
the path on which those missing should have come, and on arriving at a
narrow pass in Chapelhope, he found the bodies of the four soldiers and their
guide mangled and defaced in no ordinary way ; and judging from this that
he had been long enough in that neighbourhood, he hasted back to Traquair
with the news of the loss. Clavers is said to have broke out into the most
violent rage, and to have sworn that night by the Blessed Virgin and all the
Holy Trinity, utterly to extirpate the seed of the whining psalm-singing race
from the face of the earth, and that ere Beltein there should not be as much
whig blood in Scotland as would make a dish of soup to a dog. He however
concealed from the privy council the loss of these five men, nor did they ever
know of it to this day.

CHAPTER III.
Things were precisely in this state when the goodman of Chapelhope, taking
his plaid and staff, went out to the heights one misty day in autumn to drive
off a neighbour's flock from his pasture ; but, as Walter was wont to relate
the story himself, when any stranger came there on a winter evening, as long
as he lived, it may haply be acceptable to the curious, and the lovers of rustic
simplicity, to read it in his own words, although he drew it out to an inordi-
nate length, and perhaps kept his own personal feelings and prowess too
much in view for the fastidious or critical reader to approve.

" It was on a mirk misty day in September," said Walter, " I mind it weel,
that I took my plaid about me, and a bit gay steeve aik stick in my hand, and
away I sets to turn aff the Winterhopeburn sheep. The wind had been east-
about a' that hairst, I hae some sma' reason ne'er to forget it, and they had
amaisl gane wi' a' the gairs i' our North Grain. I weel expected I wad find
them a' in the scaithe that dark day, and I was just amind to tak them hamc
in a drove to Aidie Andison's door, and say, ' Here's yer sheep for ye, lad ; ye

1 ut. iiKU>\ .Mi:. OF BODSBECK. 9

riiaun outher keep them better, or else, gude faith, 111 keep them for ve.' I
had been crost and put about wi thejn a' that year, and 1 wa» just gaun to
bring the screw to the neb o' the mire-snipe — Wee), off I sets. I had a special
dog at my foot, and a bit gay fine stick in my hand, and I was rather ctom-
natured that day — 'Auld Wat's no gaun to be o'er-trampit wi' nane o them,
for a' that's come and pane yet,' t^uo' I to mysel as 1 gaed up the burn — Weel,
I slings aye on wi' a gay lang step ; but, by the time that 1 had won the Fork-
ings, I gat colhed amang the mist, sae derk, that fient a spark 1 could see
— Stogs aye on through cleuch and gill, and a' the gairs that they used to
spounge, but, to my great mer\-el, I can nouther see a hair of a ewe's tail,
nor can I hear tlii^ bleat of a lamb, or the bell of a wether — No ane, outher of
my ain or ither folks !

'Ay,' says I to mysel', ' what can be the meaning o' this ? od, there has been
lomebody here afore me the day ! ' I was just standin' looking about me
amang the lang hags that lead out frae the head o' the North Grain, and
considering what could be wort of a' the sheep, when I noticed my dog.
Reaver, gaun couring away forrit as he had been setting a fox. What s this,
thinks I — On he gangs very angry like, cocking his tail, and setting up his
birscs,till he wan to the very brink of a deep hag ; but when he gat there, my
certy, he wasna lang in turning ! Back he comes, by me, an' away as the
deil had been chasing him ; as terrified a beast I saw never — Od, sir, I fand
the very hairs o' my head begin to creep, and a prinkling through a' my veins
and skin like needles and preens. — 'God guide us!' thinks I, 'what can
this bef The day was derk, derk ; for I was in the very stamoch o' the
cludd, as it were ; still it was the day time, an' the e'e o' heaven was open. I
was as near turned an' run after my tike as ever I'll miss, but 1 just fand a
stound o' manheid gang through my heart, an' forrit I sets wi' a' the vents o
my head open. ' If it's tlcsh an' blude,' thinks I, ' or it get the owrance 0' auld
Wat Laidlaw, od it sal get strength o' arm for aince.' It was a deep hag, as
deep as the wa's o' this house, and a strip o' green sward alang the bottom
o't ; and when I cam to the brow, what does I see but twa lang liesh chaps
lying sleeping at ither's sides, baitli happit wi the same maud. ' Hallo ! ' cries
1, wi' 2 stern voice, ' wha hae we here ! ' If ye had but seen how they lookit
when they stertit up : od, ye wad hae thought they were twa scoundrels
wakened frae the dead ! I never saw twa mare hemp-looking dogs in my
life.

' What are ye feared for, lads ? Whaten twa blades are ye .' Or what are
ye seeking in sic a place as this.'

' This is a derk day, gudeinan.'

' This is a derk day, gudeman ! That's sic an answer as I heard never. 1
wish ye wad tell me something I dinna ken — and that's wha ye are, and wh.u
ye're seeking here.""

' We're seeking nought o' yours, friend.'

' I dinna believe a word o't — ye're nae folk o' this country — I doubt ye ken
o'er weel what stealing o' sheep is — But if ye winna tell me plamiy and
honestly your business here, the deil be my inmate gin I winna knock your
twa heads thegither.'

'There's a gude auld say, honest man, // is best to let sleeping doj^s lie, they
may rise atui bite you.'

' Bite me, lad !— Rise and bite me .' \ wad like to see a dog on a' the
heights o' Chapclhope that wad snarl at me, let be to bite ! '

" I had a gay stecve dour aik stick in my hand, an' wi' that I l)egoud to
heave't up, no to strike them, but jist to gic them a glist o' the loming-on that
was in't. By this time they were b.iith on their feet ; and the ;me that was
ncist me he gi'es the labbie o' his jockey-coat a llm^ back, and out he pu's a
braid sword fr.ie aneath it — an' wi' the same blink, the ither whips a sma'
spear out o' the heart o' his aik stick,* Here's for ye thcUfauld can»stary,'»ays
iney ; ' an unhu ky fish gets an unlucky bait.' Od sir, I was nuhcr stoundil .
I began to look o'er my shouther, but there was nacthin^ there but the swalhcjt

lo THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

o' mist. What would I hae gien for twa minutes of auld John o' the Muchrah 1
However there was nae time to lose — it was come fairly to the neb o' the
miresnipe wi' me. I never was gude when taken by surprise a' my life — gie
me a wee time, an' I turn quite foundcmental then — sae, to tell the truth, in
my hurry I took the flier's part, flang the plaid frae me, and ran off up the
hag as fast as my feet could carry me, an a' the gate the ragamuffian wi' tlw
sword was aimast close at my heels. The bottom o' the hag was very narrow .
twa could hardly rin abreast. My very bluid began to rise at being chased
by twa skebels, and I thought 1 heard a voice within me, crying, ' Dinna flee,
Wat Laidlaw ! dinna flee, auld Wat ; ye hae a gude cause by the end I ' I
wheeled just round in a moment, sir, and drew a desperate straik at the fore-
most, an' sae little kend the haniel about fencing, that instead o' sweeing aff
my downcome wi' his sword, he held up his sword-arm to save his head — I
gart his arm just snap like a pipe-stapple, and down fell his bit whittle to the
ground, and he on aboon it. The tither, wi' his sma' spear, durstna come on,
but ran for it ; I followed, and was mettler o' foot than he, but I durstna grip
him, for fear he had run his bit spit through my sma-fairns i' the struggle, for
it was as sharp as a lance, but I keepit a little back till I gat the end o' my
stick just i' the how o' his neck, and then I gae him a push that soon gart
him plew the flow with his nose. On aboon him I gets, and the first thing I
did was to fling away his bit twig of a sword — I gart it shine through the air
like a fiery dragon —then I took him by the cuff o' the neck, and lugged him
back to his neighbour, wha was lying graning in the hag. ' Now, billies,' says
I, ' ye shall answer face to face, it wad hae been as good soon as syne; tell
me directly wha ye are, and what's your business here, or, d'ye hear me,
I'll tie ye thegither like twa tikes, and tak ye to them that will gar ye speak.'

' Ah ! lack-a-day, lack-a-day ! ' said the wounded man, ' ye're a rash, foolish,
passionate, man, whaever ye be.'

' Ye're maybe no very far wrang there,' quo' 1 ; ' but for aince, I trow, I had
gude reason. You thought to kill fne wi' your bits o' shabbies o' swords I '

' In the first place, then,' said he, ' ken that we wadna hae shed ae drap o'
your blood, nor wranged a hair o' your head — all that we wanted was to get
quit of ye, to keep ye out o' danger and scaith. Ye hae made a bonny day's
wark on't truly, we had naething in view but your ain safety — but sin' ye will
ken ye maun ken ; we belang to a poor proscribed remnant, that hae fled from
the face of a bloody persecution. We have left all, and lost all, for the cause
of our religion, and are driven into this dismal wilderness, the only miser-
able retreat left us in our native land.'

' Od, sir I he hadna wecl begun to speak till the light o' the truth began to
dawn within me like the brek o' the day-sky, an' I grew as red too, for the
devil needna hae envied me my feelings at that time. I couldna help saying
to mysel', ' Whow, whow, Wat Laidlaw I but ye hae made a bonny job o't this
morning I — Here's twa puir creatures, worn out wi' famine and watching, come
to seek a last refuge amang your hags and mosses, and ye maun fa' to and be
pelting and threshing on them like an incarnate devil as ye are.- Oh, wae's
me ! wae's me ! ' — Lord, sir, 1 thought my heart wad burst — There was a kind
o' yuke came into my een that 1 could hardly bruke ; but at length the muckle
tears wan out wi' a sair faught, and down they came ower my beard, dribble
for dribble. The men saw the pliskie that I was in, and there was a kind o'
ruefu' benevolence i' their looks I never saw ouy thing like it.'

' Dinna be wae for us, honest man,' said they ; *we hae learned to suffer —
we hae kend nought else for this mony a lang and bloody year, an' we look
for nought else for the wee while we hae to sojourn in this weary world-- we
hae learned to suffer patiently, and to welcome our sufferings as mercies.'

* Ye've won a good length, man,' quo' I, ' but the>''re mercies that I'm
never ver)' fond o'— I wish ye had suffered under ony hand but mine, sin' it
be your lot.'

' Dinna be sorry for us, honest man; there never was :m act o' mair justice
than ihii, that )c hae inflicted. Last night tlieic wcic fifteen o' us met at

THE BROWMt. OF BODSBECK. il

evening worship— we hadna tasted meat for days and nights; to preser\e ivir
miserable lives, we stole a sheep, dressed, and ate it; and wi' this ver) aim
that you hae disabled, did I grip and kill that sheep. It was a great sin. ii.>e
doubt, but the necessity was also great— I am sae far punished, and 1 hope
the Lord will forgie the rest.'

Then he bc;,'an a lang serious harangue about the riches o' free grace, and
about the wickedness o' our nature; and said, that we could dae naething o' our-
sells but sin. I said it was a hard construction, but I couldna argy the point ava
wi' him— I never was gude at these lang- winded stories. Then they cam on
about prelacy and heresies, and something they ca'd the act of abjuration.
I couldna follow him out at nae rate ; but 1 says, ' I pit nae doubt, callants.
but yeVe right, for ye hae proven to a' the warlcl that ye think sae ; and when
a man feels conscious thai he's right, I never believe he can be far wrang in
sic matters. But that's no the point in question ; let us consider what can be
done for ye e'en now — Poor souls ! God kens, my heart's sair for ye ; but
this land's mine, an' a' the sheep around ye, an' yc're welcome lo half-ado2en
o' the best o' them in sic a case.'

'Ah ! lack-a-day, lack-a-day I If ye be the gudeman o' the Chajxilhopc,
yell rue the day that ever ye saw us. If it's kend that ye countenanced us in
word or deed, ye're a rumed man ; for the blood-hounds are near at hand,
and the\''ll herry ye out an' in, but and ben— Lack-a-day ! lack-a-day ! in a
wee while we may gang and come by the Chapelhope. and nouther sec
a lum reek, nor hear a cock craw ; for Clavers is on the one hand and
Lagg on the other, and they're coming nearer and nearer us every day,
and hemming us in sairer and sairer — renounce us and deny us, as ye wish
to thrive.'

'Na, na, lads, let them come — let them come their ways! Gin they should
take a' the ewes and kye on the Chapelhope, 1 can stock it o'er again. I
dinna gie a bawbee about your leagues, and covenants, and associations, for
I think aye there's a good deal o' faction and dourness in them ; but or I'll
desert a fellow-creature that's oppressed, if he's an honest man, and lippens
t'^ me. od, I'll gie them the last drap o' my heart's bluid.'

" When they heard that, they took me out to the tap of a knowe, and
began to whistle like plovers— nae herd alive could hae kend but they were
plovers — and or ever I wist, ilka hag, and den, and tod-hole round about,
seemed to be fu' o' plovers, for they fell a' to the whistling an' answering ane
another at the same time. I had often been wondering how ihev staid sae
lang on the heights that year, for 1 heard them aye whewing e'en and morn ;
but little trowed I they were a' twa-handed plovers that I heard. In half-an-
hour they had sic a squad gathered thegither as e'e never glimed on. There
ye might hae seen auld grey-bearded ministers, lairds, weavers, and poor
hinds, a' sharing the same hard fate. They were pale, ragged, and hungry, and
several o' them lame and wounded ; and they had athcgither sic a haggard
severity i' their demeaner. Lord forgie me, gin I wasna feared to look at
them ! There was ane o' them a doctor blade, wha soon set the i>oor
chield's arm ; and he said that after a' it wasna broken, but only dislockit and
sair brizzed. That doctor was the gabbiest body ever I met wi' ; he spake
for them a', and I whiles feared that he sclented a wee. He tried a' that he
could to make me a Camcronian. but I wadna grip ; and when I was coming
away to leave him, ' Laidlaw, quo' he, ' we ken ye to be an honest, honourable
man ; here you see a remnant of poor, forlorn, misrepresented creatures, who
have thrown themselves on your mercy ; if ye betray us. it will be the won>e
for ye both here and hereafter ; if you save and protect us, the prayers of the
just win their way to Heaven, though fiends should be standing by to op|)ose
them — Ay, there's naething can stop their jouiney. l^iidlaw ! The winds
canna blaw them aside, the clouds canna drown tliem. and the lights u'
Heaven ranna burn them; and vour name will stand at th.tt bar where there s
nae rruel and partial judge— What ye gie to us, \r \\\v ui vuui M.ikct. .ind he
will repay >ou seven-fold.' (Jd, the body was like lu gar me play Uic bouOy

12 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

and greet even out. Weel, I canna mind the half that he said, but he endit
wi' this : — ' We have seen our friends all bound, banished, and destroyed ;
they have died on the field, on the scaffold, and at the stake ; but the reek o'
their blood shall drive the cruel Stuarts frae the land they have disgraced,
and out of it a church of truth and liberty shall spring. There is still a
handfu' remaining in Israel that have not yet bowed the knee to Baal, nor yet
kissed him — That remnant has fled here to escape the cruelty of man ; but a
worse fate threatens us now — we are all of us perishing with famine — For
these three days we have tasted nothing but the green moss, save a few
wretched trouts, eels, and adders.' ' Ethers, man !' quo' I, — ' For the love o'
God, take care how ye eat the ethers — ye may as weel cut your throats at
aince as eat them. Na, na, lad, that's meat that will never do.' I said nae
mair, but gae jist a wave to my dog. 'Reaver,' quo' I, ' yon's away.' In
three minutes he had ten score o' ewes and wedders at my hand. I grippit
twa o' the best I could wale, and cut aflf their heads wi' my ain knife. ' Now,
doctor,' quo' I, ' take these and roast them, and part them amang ye the best
way ye can — ye'U find them better than the ethers — Lord, mar, it will never
do to eat ethers.'"

After a hearty laugh, in which his guests generally joined, Walter con-
cluded thus : — " That meeting cost me twa or three hunder round bannocks,
and mae gude ewes and wedders than I'll say ; but I never missed them, and
I never rued what I did. Folk may say as they like, but I think aye the
prayers out amang the hags and rash bushes that year did me nae ill — It is
as good to hae a man's blessing as his curse, let him be what he may."

Walter never went further with his story straight onward than this ; for it
began to involve family concerns, which he did not much like to recount.
He had a number of abstract stories about the Covenanters and their perse-
cutors ; but as I must now proceed with the narrative as I gathered it from
others, these will be interwoven in their due course.

CHAPTER IV.
Walter visited them next day at the time and place appointed, taking with
him a dozen of bannocks and a small cheese. These he was obliged to steal
out of his own pantry, for he durst not by any means trust his wife and
family with the discovery he had made, knowing that he might as well have
confided it with the curate himself, the sworn enemy of his motley protegees.
They gathered around him with protestations of gratitude and esteem ; for
the deserted and oppressed generally cling to the first symptoms of friendship
and protection with an ardency that too often overshoots its aim. Walter
naturally felt an honest pride, not so much in that he had done, as that
he intended to do ; but before he produced his repast, he began in a
most serious way to question them relating to some late incidents already
mentioned.

They all with one assent declared, and took God to witness, that they knew
nothing at all about the death of the five soldiers ; that it was not perpetrated
by them, nor any connected with them ; nor could they comprehend, in the
least degree, how it was effected, if not by some supernatural agency — a judg-
ment sent down from Heaven for their bloody intent. With regard to the
murder of the priest, they were sorry that they knew so much. It was perpe-
trated by a few rash men of their number, but entirely without their concur-
rent assent, as well as knowledge ; that though his death might have been
necessary to the saving of a great number of valuable lives, they had
nevertheless unanimously protested against it ; that the perpetrators had
retired from their body, they knew not whither ; and that, at that very time,
the Rev. Messrs. Alexander Shiels and James Renwick were engaged in
arranging for publication a general protest against many things alleged
against them by their enemies, and this among others.*

•Tliis curious protest is still extant, and shows tlie true spirit of the old Covenanters or
Cameronians, as they have since been called, better than any work remaining. It is called

THE BROWNIE OF BODS BECK. 13

There was a candour in this to which Walter's heart assented. He feasteu
them with his plentiful and homely cheer — promised to visit them every day,
and so to employ his shepherds that none of them should come into that
quarter to distress them. Walter was as good as his word. He visited them
every day — told them all the news that he could gather of the troops that
beleaguered them — of the executions that were weekly and daily taking place
— and of everything else relating to the state of the country. He came loaden
with food to them daily ; and when he found it impossible to steal his own
bread, butter, and cheese, he supplied their wants from his flock. The num-
bers of the persecuted increased on his hands incalculably — The gudewife of
Chapelhope's bannocks vanished by scores, and the unconscionable, insatiable
Brownie of Bodsbeck was blamed for the whole.

Some time previous to this, a young vagrant, of the name of Kennedy,
chanced to be out on these moors shooting grouse, which were extremely
plentiful. He tarried until the twilight, for he had the art of calling the
heath-fowl around him in great numbers, by imitating the cry of the hen.
He took his station for this purpose in one of those moss-hags formerly
described ; but he had not well begun to call ere his ears were saluted by
the whistling of so many plovers that he could not hear his own voice. He
was obliged to desist, and he lay for some time listening, in expectation
that they would soon cease crying. While lying thus he heard distinctly the
sound of something like human voices, that spoke in whispers hard by him ;
he likewise imagined that he heard the pattering of feet, which he took for
those of horses, and, convinced that it was a raid of the fairies, he became
mortally afraid ; he crept closer to the earth, and in a short time heard a swell
of the most mellifluous music that ever rose on the night. He then got up,
and fled with precipitation away, as he thought, from the place whence the
music seemed to arise ; but ere he had proceeded above a hundred paces, he
met with one of the strangest accidents that ever happened to man.

That same night, about, or a little before, the hour of midnight, two of
Laidlaw's men, who happened to be awake, imagined that they heard a slight
noise without ; they arose, and looked cautiously out at a small hole that was
in the end of the stable where they slept, and beheld to their dismay the
appearance of four men, who came toward them canying a coffin ; on their
coming close to the corner of the stable, where the two men stood, the
latter heard one of them say distinctly in a whisper, " Where shall we lay
him r

" We must leave him in the barn," said another.

" I fear," said a third, " the door of that will be locked," and they past on.

The men were petrified ; they put on their clothes, but they durst not move,
until, in a short time thereafter, a dreadful bellowing and noise burst forth

in the title page, ".,4« informaiory Vindication of a poor, wasted, misrepresented Hemn ant
of the suffering Anti-popish, Anii-prelatic, Anti-erastian Anti-sectarian, true Presbyterian
Church of Christ in Scotland." It is dated at Leadhills in 1687, and is the conjoint work
of Mr. James Renwick, and Mr. Alexander Shiels, author of The Hind let loose. The fol-
lowing is an extract from it, p. 107 : —

"And in like manner we do hereby disclaim all unwarrantable practices committed by
any few persons reputed to be of us, whereby the Lord hath been offended, his cause
wronged, and we all made to endure the scourge of tongues ; for which things we have
desired to make conscience of mourning before the Lord, both in public and private. As
the unwarrantable manner of killing that curate at the Corsephaim, though he was a man
of death both by the laws of God and man, and the fact not materially murder ; it being
gone about contrary to our declaration, common or competent consent (the conclusion and
deed being known only to three or four persons), in a rash and not a Christian manner, and
also other offences being committed at the time ; which miscarriages have proven a
mean to stop and retard lawful, laudable, and warrantable proceeding, both as to matter
and manner."

These other offences committed at the time unquestionably refer to the slaughter of the
Highland soldiers ; about which there was great stir and numerous conjectures in the
country ; although, owing to tlie revolution that immediately followed, the perpetnators
were never taken, nor the cause tried in a court of justice, nor indrrd was the incident ever
gfenrrally known.

14 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

about the door of the farm house. The family was alarmed, and gathered
out to see what was the matter ; and behold ! there lay poor Kennedy in a
most piteous plight, and, in fact, stark staring mad. He continued in a high
fever all the night, and the next morning ; but a little after noon he be-
came somewhat more calm, and related to them a most marvellous tale
indeed.

He said, that by the time he arose to fly from the sound of the music, the moor
was become extremely dark, and he could not see with any degree of accuracy
where he was running, but that he still continued to hear the sounds, which,
as he thought, came still nigher and nigher behind him. He was, however,
mistaken in this conjecture ; for in a short space he stumbled on a hole in the
heath, into which he sunk at once, and fell into a pit which he described as
being at least fifty fathom deep ; that he there found himself immediately
beside a multitude of hideous beings, with green clothes, and blue faces, who
sat in a circle round a small golden lamp, gaping and singing with the most
eldrich yells. In one instant all became dark, and he felt a weight upon his
breast that seemed heavier than a mountain. They then liff'd him up, and
bore him away through the air for hundreds of miles, amid regions of
utter darkness ; but on his repeating the name of Jesus three times, they
brought him back, and laid him down in an insensible state at the door of
Chapelhope.

The feelings depicted in the features of the auditors were widely different
on the close of this wonderful relation. The beauteous Katharine appeared
full of anxious and woful concern, but no marks of fear appeared in her lovely
face. The servants trembled every limb, and declared with one voice, that
no man about Chapelhope was now sure of his life for a moment, and that
nothing less than double wages should induce them to remain there another
day. The goodwife lifted up her eyes to Heaven, and cried, " O the vails !
the vails ! — the vails are poured, and to pour ! "

Walter pretended to laugh at the whole narration ; but when he did, it was
with an altered countenance, for he observed, what none of them did, that
Kennedy had indeed been borne through the air by some means or other ;
for his shoes were all covered with moss, which, if he had walked, could not
have been there, for the grass would have washed it oft' from whatever quarter
he had come.

Kennedy remained several days about Chapelhope in a thoughtful, half
delirious frame ; but no entreaties could prevail with him at that time to
accompany the men of the place to where he supposed the accident had ha]j-
pened, nor yet to give them any account where it was situated, for he averred
that he heard a voice say to him in a solemn tone, " If you wish to live long,
never tell what you have seen to-night, nor ever come this way again."
Happy had it been for him had he attended all along to this injunction. He
slipped away from Chapelhope in a few days, and was no more seen until the
time that Copland and his men appeared there. It was he who came as
guide to the soldiers that were slain, and he tell with them in the strait linn
of the South Grain of Chapelhope.

These mysterious and unaccountable incidents by degrees impressed the
minds of the inhabitants with terror that cannot be described ; no woman or
boy would go out of doors after sunset, on any account whatever, and there
was scarcely a man who durst venture forth alone after the fall of evening. If
they could have been sure that brownies and fairies had only power to assume
the human shape, they would not have been nearly in such peril and per-
plexity ; but there was no form of anything animate or inanimate, save thai
of a lamb, that they were sure of ; they were of course waylaid at every turn,
and kept in continual agitation. An owl was a most dangerous and suspicious-
looking fellow — a white glede made them quake, and keep a sharp look-out
upon his course in the air — a hare, with her large intelligent eyes and equivocal
way of walking, was an object of general distrust -and a cat, squalling after
dark, was the devil. Many were the ludicrous scenes that occurred, among

THE BROWNIE OF BODSBECK. 15

which I cannot help mentioning those which follow, as being particularly
whimsical.

Jasper, son to old John of the Muchrah, was the swiftest runner of his
time ; but of all those whose minds were kept in continual agitation on
account of the late inundation of spirits into the country, Jasper was the
chief. He was beset by them morning and evening ; and even at t/fgh noon,
if the day was dark, he never considered himself as quite safe. He depended
entirely upon his speed in running to avoid their hellish intercourse ; he
essayed no other means — and many wonderful escapes he effected by this
species of exertion alone. He was wont to knit stockings while tending his
flock on the mountains ; and happening to drop some yarn one evening, it
trailed after him in a long ravelled coil along the sward. It was a little after
the sun had gone down that Jasper was coming whistling and singing over
the shoulder of the Hermon-Law, when, chancing to cast a casual glance
behind him, he espied something in shape of a horrible serpent, with an
unequal body, and an enormous length of tail, coming stealing along the
bent after him. His heart leapt to his mouth, (as he expressed it,) and his
hair bristled so that it thrust the bonnet from his head. He knew that no
such monster inhabited these mountains, and it momently occurred to him
that it was the Brownie of Bodsbeck come to seize him in that most question-
able shape. He betook him to his old means of safety in great haste, never
doubting that he was well qualified to run from any object that crawled on
the ground with its belly ; but, after running a considerable way, he perceived
his adversary coming at full stretch along the hill after him. His speed was
redoubled ; and, as he noted now and then that his inveterate pursuer gained
no ground on him, his exertion was beyond that of man. There were two
shepherds on an opposite hill who saw Jasper running without the plaid and
the bonnet, and with a swiftness which they described as quite inconceivable.
The cause set conjecture at defiance ; but they remarked, that though he
grew more and more spent, whenever he glanced behind he exerted himself
anew and strained a little harder. He continued his perseverance to the last,
as any man would do who was running for bare life, until he came to a brook
called the Ker Cleuch, in the crossing of which he fell down exhausted ; he
turned on his back to essay a last defence, and, to his joyful astonishment,
perceived that the serpent likewise lay still and did not move. The truth
was then discovered ; but many suspected that Jasper never overcame that
heat and that fright as long as he lived.

Jasper, among many encounters with the fairies and brownies, had another
that terminated in a manner not quite so pleasant The Brownie of Bodsbeck,
or the Queen of the Fairies, (he was not sure which of them it was,) came to
him one night as he was lying alone, and wide awake, as he conceived, ana
proffered him many fine things, and wealth and honours in abundance, if he
would go along to a very fine country, which Jasper conjectured must have
been Fairyland. He resisted all these tempting offers in the most decided
manner, until at length the countenance of his visitant changed from the
most placid and bewitching beauty to that of a fiend. The horrible form
grappled with him, laid hold of both his wrists, and began to drag him oft' by
force ; but he struggled with all the energy of a man in despair, and at length,
by a violent exertion, he disengaged his right hand. The enemy still con-
tinuing, however, to haul him off with the other, he was obliged to have
recourse to a desperate expedient. Although quite naked, he reached his
the clothes with one hand and drew his knife ; but, in endeavouring to cut
^ff those fingers which held his wrist so immovably fast, he fairly severed
Ihe thumb from his own left hand.

This was the very way that Jasper told the story to his dying day, denying
stoutly that he was in a dream ; and, singular as it may appear, 1 can vouch
for the truth of it. Jasper Hoy died at Gattonside at a good old age, in the
year 1739 > '^"^ t^^)' ^''^ Y^*^ alive who have heard him tell those stories, and
seen him without the thumb of the left hand.

i6 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

Things went on in this distracted and doubtful manner until the time whcfs
Walter is first introduced. On that day, at the meeting place, he found na>
fewer than 1 30 of the poor wanderers, many of them assembled to see him fo?
the last time, and take an affectionate leave of him ; for they had previously
■^solved to part, and scatter themselves again over the west country, even
Jiough certain death awaited them, as they could not in conscience longer
remain to be the utter ruin of one who was so generous and friendly to them.
They saw, that not only would his whole stock be wasted, but he would him-
self be subjected to confiscation of goods, and imprisonment, if to nothing
worse. Walter said, the case seemed hard either way ; but he had been
thinking, that perhaps, if they remained quiet and inoffensive in that seclusion,
the violence of the government might in a little relax, and they might then
retire to their respective homes in peace. Walter soon heard with vexation
that they made conscience oi not living in peace, but of proclaiming aloud to
the world the grievous wrongs and oppression that the church of Christ in
Scotland laboured under. The doctor chap, as Walter always called him,
illustrated at great length the sin that would lie to their charge, should they
remain quiet and passive in a time like that, when the church's all was at
stake in these realms. " We are but a remnant," added he, "a poor despised
remnant ; but if none stand up for the truth of the reformed religion, how are
ever our liberties, civil or ecclesiastical, to be obtained ? There are many
who think with us, and who feel with us, who yet have not the courage to
stand up for the truth ; but the time must ere long come, when the kingdoms
of the land will join in supporting a reformation, for the iniquity of the
Amorite is wearing to the full."

Walter did not much like disputing about these matters ; but in this he
felt that his reason acquiesced, and he answered thus : " Ye speak hke a true
man, and a clever man. Doctor; and if I had a desperate cause by the end,
and wanted ane to back me in't, the deil a step wad 1 gang ayont this moss
hag to find him ; but, Doctor, tliere's a time for every thing. I wadna hae
ye to fling away a gude cause, as I wad do a rotten ewe, that winna baud ony
langer. But dinna ye think that a fitter time may come to mak a push .''
ye'll maybe sell mae precious lives for nae end, wi' your declarations ; take-
care that you, and the like o' you, haena these lives to answer for. — I like nae
desperate broostles — od, man, it's like ane that's just gaun to turn divour,
taking on a' the debt he can."

" Dinna fear, gudeman ! dinna fear ! There's nae blood shed in sic a
cause that can ever be shed in vain. Na, na ! that blood will argue belter at
the bar o' Heaven for poor distressed Scotland than all the prayers of all the
living. We hae done muckle, but we'll do mair yet — muckle blood has been
wantonly and diabolically shed, and our's may rin wi' the rest — we'll no
throw't wantonly and exultingly away ; but, when our day comes, we'll gie it
cheerfully — as cheerfully, gudeman, as ever ye paid your mail to a kind land-
lord, even though the season had been hard and stormy. We had aincc
enough of this warld's wealth, and to spare ; but we hae naething now but
our blood, and we'll part wi' that as cheerfully as the rest. And it will tell
some day ! and ye may live to see it yet. But enough, gudeman ; we have
all resolved, that, whatever the consequence may be, to live no more on your
bounty — therefore, do not urge it — but give us all your hand — Farewell ! —
and may God bless you in all your actings and undertakings ! — There is little
chance that we shall ever meet again — We have no reward to give but our
blessing and good wishes ; but, whenever a knee here present is bowed at
the footstool of grace, you will be remembered."

Walter could not bear thus to part with them, and to give them up as it
were to certain destruction. He argued as well as he could on tlie imprudence
of the step they were going to take — of the impossibility of their finding a
retreat so inaccessible in all the bounds of the south of Scotland, and the
prospect that there was of the persecution soon relaxing. But when he had
so ill all that he could say, a tlnn spare old man, with grey dishevelled locks,

THE BROWNIE OF BODS BECK. ly

and looks, Walter said, as stern as the adders, that he had lately been eating,
rose up to address him. There was that in his manner which commanded
the most intense attention.

" Dost thou talk of our rulers relaxing > ' said he. " Blind and mistaken
man ! thou dost not know them. No ; they will never relax till their blood
shall be mixed with their sacrifices. That insatiate, gloomy, papistical tyrant
and usurper, the Duke of York, and his commissioner, have issued laws and
regulations more exterminating than ever. But yesterday we received the
woeful intelligence, that, within these eight days, one hundred and fifty of our
brethren have suffered by death or banishment, and nearly one-half of these
have been murdered, even without the sham formality of trial or impeach-
ment, nor had they intimation of the fate that awaited them. York hath
said in full assembly, ' that neither the realm nor the mother church can ever
be safe, until the south of Scotland is again made a hunting forest ; ' and his
commissioner hath sworn by the living God, ' that never a whig shall again
have time or warning to prepare for Heaven, and that hell is too good for them.'
Can we hope for these men relaxing? No! The detestable and bloody
Clavers, that wizard ! that eater of toads ! that locust of the infernal pit,
hems us in closer and closer on one side, and that Muscovite beast on the
other ! They thirst for our blood ; and our death and tortures are to them
matter of great sport and amusement. My name is Mackail ! 1 had two
brave and beautiful sons, and 1 had but two ; one of these had his brains
shot out on the moss of Monyhive without a question, charge, or reply.
1 gathered up his brains and shattered skull with these hands, tied them in
my own napkin, and buried him alone, for no one durst assist me. His
murderers stood by and mocked me, cursed me for a dog, and swore if I
howled any more that they would send me after him. My eldest son, my
beloved Hev/, was hung like a dog at the Market-cross of Edinburgh. I con-
versed with him, I prayed with him in prison, kissed him, and bade him
farewell on the scaffold ! My brave, my generous, my beautiful son ! 1 tell
thee, man, thou who preachest up peace and forbearance with tyrants, should
ever the profligate Charles, or his diabolical brother — should ever the mur-
derer Clavers, or any of his hell-hounds of the north, dare set foot in Heaven,
one look from the calm benignant face of my martyred son would drive them
out howling ! "

All this time the old man shed not a tear ; his voice was wildly solemn, but
his looks were mixed with madness. He had up his hand to swear, to pray,
or to prophesy, Walter knew not which, but he was restrained by his asso-
ciates, and led aside, so that Walter saw no more of him ; but he said he
could not get him out of his mind for many a day, for sic another desperate
auld body he had never seen.

Thcbc harangues took up much of the time that they had to spare, but ere
they parted Walter persuaded them, probably by his strong homely reason-
ing, to remain where they were. He said, since they persisted in refusing to
take more of his flock, there was an extensive common beyond the height,
called Gemsope, which had been a royal forest, where many gentlemen and
wealthy farmers had sheep that fed promiscuously ; and considering their
necessitous circumstances, he thought it no evil, and he advised them to go
and take from that glen as many as would serve to support nature for a time;
— that for his part he had many a good wedder and dinmont there, and was
willing to run his risk, which would then fall equal on a number, and only on
such as were rich and could well bear it. In this plan, after some scruples
which were overborne by the majority, they at length fully and thankfully
acquiesced.

That same day, on his way homeward, Walter heard the wonderful relation
of the apparition of his beloved daughter in the 'Hope at midnight ; he
learned that Clavers would be there in a few days, and he had sent above loo
men to steal sheep^all these things made him thoughtful and uneasy after
he had reached his home, wcl and fatigued.— " ll will be a bloody night in

1. 2

iS THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

Gemsope this," he said, bighing, not recollecting what he said or to whom he
said it. He could trust his wiie with any of his tamily concerns, but as long as
she continued to be so much influenced by the curate Clerk, the sworn enemy
of his poor persecuted liock, he durst not give her a hint of their retreat.

Walter became still more and more perplexed from all that he heard from
his wife, as well as from every one else — he found that, in truth, there was
some mysterious thing about his house — the whole family seemed convinced
of it — there were many things seen, heard, and done there that he could in no-
wise account for in a rational way, and though he resisted the general belief for
a good while, that the house was haunted, circumstances at length obliged him
to yield to the torrent, and he believed as failhtuUy in the Brownie of Bods-
beck as any of them all.

CHAPTER V.
The house which Walter occupied was on the very spot where a remnant of
an old house still stands about a bowshot above the new elegant farm-house
of Chapelhope, but it was twice as long ; indeed, a part of the house that is
still standing, or was lately so, is the very one that was built for Laidlaw when
he tirst entered that large farm. There was likewise an outshot from the
back of the house, called the Old Room, which had a door that entered from
without, as well as one from the parlour within. The end of this apartment
stood close to the bottom of the steep bank behind the house, which was then
thickly wooded, as was the whole of the long bank behind, so that, conse-
quently, any one, with a little caution, might easily have gone out or come in
there, without being seen by any of the family. It contained a bed, in which
any casual vagrant, or itinerant pedlar slept, besides a great deal of lumber ;
and as few entered there, it had altogether a damp, mouldy, dismal appear-
ance. There was likewise a dark closet in one corner of it, with an old rusty
lock, which none of the family had ever seen opened.

The most part of the family soon grew suspicious of this place. Sounds,
either real or imaginary, were heard issuing trom it, and it was carefully
shunned by them all. Walter had always, as I said, mocked at the idea of
the Old Room being haunted, until that very night when we began with him,
and where, after many round-abouts, we have now found him again.

It will be recollected that the conversation between Walter and his wife,
which is narrated in the first chapter o^ this book, terminated with a charge from
him never more to mention the mysterious story relating to their daughter and
these five men that were destroyed. After this she retired about some house-
wife business, and left Walter by himself to muse on what he had seen and
heard. He was sitting musing, and that deeply, on the strange apparition of
his daughter that old John had seen, when he thought he heard something
behind him making a sound as if it growled inwardly. He looked around
and saw that it was his dog Reaver, who was always an inmate of every place
that his master entered ; he was standing in an attitude of rage, but at the
same time there was a mixture of wild terror in his appearance — His eyes,
that gleamed like red burning coals, were pointed directly to the door that
opened from the corner of the parlour into the Old Room. — Walter was
astonished, for he well knew his acuteness, but he kept his eyes on him, and
said not a word. - The dog went forward with a movement scarce perceptible,
until he came close to the door, but on putting his nose and ear to the bottom
of It. he burst out with such a bay and howl as were truly frightful, and ran
about the apartment as if mad, trying to break through tbs walls and window
boards. — Walter was fairly overcome ; there is nothing frightens a shepherd
so much as the- seeing of his dog frightened. The shepherd's dog of the true
breed will boldly attack any animal on earth in defence of his master, or at
his command ; and it is no good sig^ indeed when he appears terrified, for
the shepherd well knows that his dog can discover spirits by the savour
of the wind, when he himself is all unconscious that any such beings are

THE BROWNIE OF BODSBECK. 19

Walter fled into the kitchen with precipitation— he found all the family
standing in alarm, for they had heard the hideous uproar in the room.

" What's the matter ? " said half-a-dozen at once.

" What's the matter ! " said Walter, churlishly, " nothing at all is the matter.
Tell me who of you were in the Old Room, and what you were seekine
there.?"

No— none of them had been in the Old Room — the whole of the family
were present, nor had one of them been away.

Walter's countenance changed— he fixed his eyes on the ground for the
space of a minute.

"Then I am sure," said he emphatically, "something worse is there."

A breathless silence ensued ; save that some groans and muttered prayci s
issued from the lips of the goodwife, who sat in a posture of deep humility ;
with her brow leaning on both hands.

" Some of you go and see," added Walter, " what it is that is in the Old
Room."

Every eye in the house turned on another, but no one spoke or offered to
move. At length Katharine, who seemed in great anxiety lest any of them
should have had the courage to go, went lightly up to her father, and said, " I
will go, sir, if you please."

" Do, my dear, and let some of the men go with you."

" No, sir ; none of the men shall go with me.''

" Well then, Keatie, make haste ; light a candle, and I will go with you
myself."

" No — with your leave, father, if I go, I go alone ; no one shall go with me."

"And why, my love, may not I, your father, accompany you }"

" Because, should you go with me into the Old Room just now, perhaps you
might never be yourself again."

Here the goodwife uttered a smothered scream, and muttered some inarti-
culate ejaculations, appearing so much affected, that her daughter, dreading
she would fall into a fit, flew to support her ; but on this she grew ten times
worse, screaming aloud, " Avoid thee, Satan ! avoid thee, Satan ! avoid thee,
imp of darkness and despair ! avoid thee, avoid thee ! " And she laid about
her violently with both hands. The servants, taking it for granted that she
was bewitched, or possessed, fled aloof ; but Walter, who knew better how
matters stood with her mind that they, ran across the floor to her in such
haste and agitation, that they supposed he was going to give her sii-etigth of
arm (his great expedient when hardly controlled), but in place of that, he
lifted her gently in his arms, and carried her to her bed, in the further end of
the house.

He then tried to soothe her by every means in his power ; but she continued
in violent agitation, sighing, weeping, and praying alternately, until she
wrought herself into a high nervous fever. Walter, growing alarmed for her
reason, which seemed verging to a dangerous precipice, kept close by her bed-
side. A little before midnight she grew calm ; and he, thinking she had
fallen asleep, left her for a short time. Unfortunately, her daughter, drawn
toward her by filial regard and affection, softly then entered the room. Maron
Linton was not so sound asleep as was supposed ; she instantly beheld the
approach of that now dreaded sorceress, and sitting up in her bed, she
screamed as loud as she was able. Katharine, moved lay a natural impulse,
hasted forward to the couch to calm her parent ; but the frenzied matron
sprung from her bed, threw up the window, and endeavoured to escape ;
Katharine flew after her, and seized her by the waist. When Maron found
that she was fairly in her grasp at such an hour, and no help at hand, she
deemed all over with her, both body and soul ; which certainly was a case
extreme enough. She hung by the sash of the window, struggled, and yelled
out, " Murder 1 murder! murder !—0 Lord! O Lord !— save ! save! save!
save ! — Murder ! murder ! " ti:c. At length Walter rushed in and seized her,
ordering his weeping di'ughtcr instantly to bed.

20 THE ETTRTCK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

Maron thanked heaven for this wonderful and timely deliverance, and per-
suaded now that Providence had a special and peculiar charge over her, she
became more calm than she had been since the first alarm ; but it was a
dreadful certainty that she now possessed, that unearthly beings inhabited
the mansion along with her, and that her daughter was one of the number, or
in conjunction with them. She spent the night in prayer, and so fervent was
she in her devotions, that she seemed at length to rest in the hope of their
final accomplishment. She did not fail, however, to hint to Walter that
something decisive ought to be done to their daughter. She did not actually
say that she should be burnt alive at a stake, but she spake of the trial by fire
— or that it might be better to throw her into the lake, to make the experiment
whether she would drown or not ; for she well expected, in her own mind,
that when the creature found itself in such circumstances, it would fly off with
an eldritch laugh and some unintelligible saying to its own clime ; but she
was at length persuaded by her husband to intrust the whole matter to her
reverend monitor, both as to the driving away the herd of Brownies, and the
exorcism of her daughter.

Never was man in such a predicament as Walter now found himself with
regard to his family. Katharine had never been a favourite with her mother,
who doated on her boys to the detriment of the girl, but to him she was all in
all. Her demeanour of late completely puzzled him — The words that she had
said to him the preceding evening had no appearance of jocularity ; besides,
seriousness and truth formed her natural character, and she had of late become
more reserved and thoughtful than she had ever been before.

The bed that she slept in faced into the parlour before mentioned ; that
which Walter and his spouse occupied entered from another apartment — their
backs, however, were only separated by a thin wooden partition. Walter
kept awake all that night, thoughtful, and listening to every sound. Every
thing remained quiet till about the second crowing of the cock ; he then heard
something that scratched like a rat, but more regularly, and in more distinct
time. After the noise had been repeated three times at considerable intervals,
he thought he heard his daughter rising from her bed with extraordinary soft-
ness and caution. He laid his ear to a seam, and distinctly heard the sound
of words uttered in a whisper, but of their import he could make nothing. He
then heard his daughter return to her bed with the same caution that she left
it, utter some sighs, and fall sound asleep.

After serious deliberation, Walter thought his best expedient was to remove
his daughter from home for some time ; and ne.\t morning he proposed to her
to go and spend a week or two with her maternal uncle, Thomas Linton,
farmer at Gilmanscleuch. To this she objected on several pretences ; but at
length, when urged to it, positively refused to leave her father's house at that
time. He never in his life could say a harsh word to her, but that day he
appeared chagrined, and bade her, with some asperity, keep away from her
mother's presence, as her malady, which was a nervous complaint, required
the utmost quietness. This she promised with her accustomed cheerfulness,
and they parted. During the day she was absent for several hours, none
knowing whither she went, or by what way she returned.

On the same day the servants, who had spent a sleepless night, packed up
bag and baggage, and went off in a body, all save one elderly woman, who
had lately come to the house, and was a stranger to them all. Her name, she
said, was Agn--*^ Alexander, but she was better known by the familiar one of
Nanny Elshinticr ; her former history and connections were doubtful, but she
was of a cheerful, complaisant temper, and always performed what she was
ordered to do without any remarks. Walter had hired her at Moffat, in the
fair called The Third Friday; and told Maron when he came home, that " he
had hired a wastlin auldish quean, wha, he believed, was a wee crackit i' the
head, but, poor thing, she wasna like to get a place, and was sic a good soul
he couldna think to leave her destitute ; and whanever he begoud to parley
wi' her, od, she brought him to the neb o' the miresnipe directly." Saving

THE BROWNIE OF BODS BECK. 21

this good woman, all the house servants, man, woman, and boy, deserted their
service, and neither promises nor threats could induce them to stay another
night about the town. They said, '" they might as weel bide i' hell ; they wad
gang afore Gibby Moray, the king's shirra, whanever he likit, about it ; or,
gin he buid rather hae brawer burlymen, they wad meet him face to face in
the Parliament Close."

Walter was now obliged to bring Jasper, his young shepherd, down from
the Muchrah, to assist him in the labour of the farm — the most unfit man in
the world for a haunted house. He knew that the Old Room was frequented
by his old adversary, the Brownie of Bodsbeck. He likewise knew that his
young mistress was a witch, or something worse, for the late servants had
told him, so that he had now a dangerous part to act. Nevertheless, he came
determined to take the bull by the horns ; for as he and his father had stocks
of sheep upon the farm, they could not leave their master, and he was never
wont to disobey him. He had one sole dependance — his swiftness ot foot —
that had never yet failed him in eschewing evil spirits, save in the solitary
instance of the serpent.

On the first day of his noviceship as a labourer, he and his master were
putting some ropes on the dwelling-house, to keep on the thatch. Jasper
wanting something whereon to stand, for that purpose, and being within a few
) ards of the door of the Old Room, and knowing that the tubs stood there,
thoughtlessly dashed into it to bring out one to stand on ; but he had not
taken two steps within the door till he beheld a human face, and nothing but
a tace and a head, looking deliberately at him. One would have thought that
such a man, seeing such a sight, would have cried out, fled to his master on
the other side of the house, or into the kitchen to old Nanny. Jasper did
none of them all. He turned round with such velocity that he fell — hasted
out at the door on all fours, and took to the Papper-hill like a wild deer, praying
fervently all the way. His master saw him from the ladder where he stood,
and called aloud after him, but he deigned not to heed or look behind him—
the head without the body, and that at an ordinary distance from the ground,
was alone impressed on his mind, and refused a share to any other considera-
tion. He came not back to the Chapelhope that night.

Katharine, the young and comely friend of the Browrae, having discovered
that Jasper had been introduced to her familiar, and knowing his truth and
simplicity of heart, earnestly desired to sound him on the subject. She knew
he would return to assist her father and brothers with the farm labour, in their
present strait, by a certain hour next morning, and she waited on him by the
way. He came accordingly ; but he knew her and her connections better
than she imagined. He tried to avoid her, first by going down into the
meadow, then by climbing the hill ; but seeing that she waylaid him both
ways, and suspecting her intentions to be of the very worst nature, he betook
him to his old expedient — fled with precipitation, and returned to the
Muchrah.

Katharine could by no means comprehend this, and was particularly con-
cerned about it at this time, as she had something she wished to reveal to
him. Walter appeared gloomy and discontented all that day. The corn was
ripe, but not a sheaf of it cut down ; — the hay was still standing on the
meadow, the lint was to pull, the potatoes to raise, the tar to bring home, and
the sheep to smear ; and there was no one left to do all this but he and his
two boys. The gudcwife, who used to bustle about and do much household
work, was confined to her room. His daughter's character, her demeanour,
and even her humanity, were become somewhat doubtful. Walter was tnily
in what he termed a pickled pri)niiieary.

Katharine being still debarred all access to her motJier, began to dread that
she would be obliged to leave licr father's house ; and, in case of a last extremity,
she bethought her of sounding the disposition of old Nanny. She was a
character not easily to be comprehended. She spoke much to herself, but
little to any other person — worked so hard that she seldom looked up, and all

22 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

the while sung scraps of old songs and ballads, the import of which it was
impossible to understand ; but she often chanted these with a pathos that
seemed to llow from the heart, and that never failed to affect the hearer. She
wore a russet worsted gown, clouted shoes, and a quoif, or mutch, upon her
head, that was crimped and plaited so close around her face that very little of
the latter was visible. In this guise was Nanny, toiling hard and singing
her mournful ditty, when Katharine came in and placed herself on a seat by
her side.

" Nanny, this seems to be more than ordinary a busy day with you ; pray,
what is all this baking and boiling for ? "

" Dear bairn, dear bairn, what do 1 ken — the like o' me maun do as we're
bidden— guests are coming, my bairn — O, ay— there's mony a braw an' bonny
lad coming this way — mony a ane that will gaur a youn;.^ thing's een stand i'
back water —

" They are coming ! they are coming !
Alak ! an' wae's me !
Though the sword be in the hand,

Yet the tear's in the e'e.
I look to yon mountain,

And I look to yon muir.
For the shield that they trust in

Is mighty and sure.
Is there blood in the moorlands
Where the wild burnies rin .-'
Or what gars the water

Wind reid down the lin ?
O billy, dear billy,

Your boding let be,
For it's nought but the reid lift

That dazzles your e'e.
For I ken by yon bright beam

That follows the sun,
That our Covenant heroes

The battle shall won.
Then away with your bodings

Of sorrow and scorn,
Fcr the windows of heaven

Stand open this morn.
Let them rear their proud standard

Of vengeance and wrath.
And pour on their columns

Of darkness and death,
Yet around our poor number

Stand hosts in array,
Unseen by our foemen,
But stronger than they."
" Prithee go on, Nanny ; let me hear what it was that reddened the
water ? "

" Dear bairn, wha kens ; some auld thing an' out o' date ; but yet it is sae
like the days that we hae seen, ane wad think the poeter that made it had the
second sight. Mony a water as weel as the Clyde has run reid wi' blude, an*
that no sae lang sin' syne ! — ay, an' the wild burnies too ! I hae seen them
mysel leave a reid strip on the sand an' the grey stanes — but the hoody craw
durstna pick there ! — Dear bairn, has the Chapelhope burn itsell never had
the hue .'' ''

Here Katharine's glance and Nanny's met each other, but were as quickly
withdrawn, for they dreaded one another's converse ; but they were soon
relieved from that dilemma by Nanny's melancholy chime —

THE BROW NT E OF BODS BECK. 23

* In yon green houm there sat a knight, —
An' the book lay open on his knee,
An' he laid his hand on his rusty s^vord,
An' turned to Heaven his watery e'e.

But in yon houm there is a kirk,

An' in that kirk there is a pew,
An' in that pew there sat a king,

Wha sign'd the deed we maun ever rue.

He wasna king o' fair Scotland,

Though king o' Scotland he should hae been, —

And he lookit north to the land he loved,
But aye the green leaves fell atween.

The green leaves fell, an' the liiver swell'd,

An' the brigg was guardit to the key ;
O' ever alak ! said Hamilton,

That sic a day I should ever see !

As ever ye saw the rain down fa',

Or yet the arrow gae from the bow,
Our Scottish lads fell even down,

And they lay slain on every knowe.

As ever ye saw the drifting snaw.

Drive o'er the ripe flower on the lea,
Our Scottish lads fell even down,

An' wae to Scotland an' tae me."

— " No, that's not it— my memory is gane wi' my last warldly hope — Hech !
dear bairn, but it is a sad warld to live in, without hope or love for ony that's
in't — I had aye some hope till now ! but sic a dream as I had last night ! — I
saw him aince again — Yes, I saw him bodily, or may I never steer aff this
bit." — Here Nanny sobbed hard, and drew her arms across her eyes. — " Come,
come," continued she, " gie me a bit sang, dear bairn, an' let it be an auld
thing — they do ane's heart gude thae bits o' auld sangs."

" Rather tell me, Nanny — for we live in ignorance in this wild place —
what you think of all that blude that has been shed in our country since
the killing-time began ? Do you think it has been lawfully and rightfully
shed .? "

" Wha doubts it, dear bairn ? — Wha doubts that ? — But it will soon
be over now — the traitors will soon be a' strappit and strung — ay, ay —
the last o' them will soon be hackit and hewed, an' his bloody head
stannin' ower the Wast Port — an' there will be braw days than — we'll be a'
right than."

Katharine sat silent and thoughtful, eyeing old Nanny with fixed attention ;
but the expression of her contracted face and wild unstable eye was unsatis-
factory. She therefore, with a desponding mien, went out, and left the crazy
dame to discourse and sing to herself Nanny ceased her baking, stood
upright, and listened to the maid's departing steps, till she concluded her to
be out of hearing ; she then sung out, in what is now termed the true bravura
style,

" Then shall the black gown flap
O'er desk and tiaie man ;
Then shall the horny cap

Shine like the new moon ;
All' the kist fu' o' whistles
That maks sic a cleary,
Lool away, bool away,
Till we grow wcnry.

Till we grow weary, S:c.

24 THE ETTRTCK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

Charlie, the cypher-man,

Drink till ye stew dame ;
Jamie, the wafer-man,

Eat till ye spue them ;
Lauderdale lick-my-fud,

Binny and Geordie,
Leish away, link away,

Hell is afore ye.

Hell is afore ye, &c.

Graeme will gang ower the brink,

Down wi' a flaughter ;
Lagg an' Drumlandrick

Will soon follow after ;
Johnston and Lilligow,

Bruce and Macleary,
Scowder their harigalds,

Deils, wi' a bleery,

Till ye grow weary," &c.

In the mean time, Katharine, on hearing the loud notes of the song, had
returned within the door to listen, and heard the most part of the lines and
names distinctly. She had heard it once before, and the singer reported it to
be a new song, and the composition of a young man who had afterwards been
executed in the Grass-Market. How Nanny came to sing such a song, with
so much seeming zest, after the violent prelatic principles which she had so
lately avowed, the maid could not well comprehend, and she began to sus-
pect that there was more in Nanny's mind than had yet been made manifest.
Struck with this thought, and ruminating upon it, she continued standing in
the same position, and heard Nanny sometimes crooning, and at other times
talking rapidly and fervently to herself. After much incoherent matter, lines
of psalms, &c., Katharine heard with astonishment the following questions
and answers, in which two distinct voices were imitated —

" Were you at the meeting of the traitors at Lanark on the 1 2th of
January ? "

" 1 ne\er was amang traitors that I was certain of till this day " — Let them
take that ! bloody gruesome beasts.

" Were you at Lanark on that day ? "

" If you had been there you would have seen."

" Confound the old b — ! Burn her with matches — squeeze her with pincers
as long as there's a whole piece of her together — then throw her into prison,
and let her lie till she rot — the old wrinkled hag ! Good woman, I pity you ;
you shall yet go free if you will tell us where you last saw Hamilton and your
own goodman."

" Ye sail hing me up by the tongue first, and cut me a' in coUops while I'm
hingin."

" Burn her in the cheek, cut baith her lugs out, and let her gae to h— her
own way."

After this strange soliloquy, the speaker sobbed aloud, spoke in a sup-
pressed voice for some time, and then began a strain so sweet and melancholy,
that it thrilled the hearer, and made her tremble where she stood. The tune
was something like the Broom of Cowdenknowes, the sweetest and most plain-
tive of the ancient Scottish airs ; but it was sung so slow, as to bear with it a
kind of solemnity.

" The kye are rowting in the lone,
The ewes bleat on the brae,
O, what can ail my auld gudeman,
He bides sae lang away ?

An' aye the Robin sang by the wud,
An' his note had a waesome fa' ;

THE BROWNIE OF BODS BECK. 25

An' the corbie croupit in the clud,

But he durstna light ava ;
Till out cam the wee grey moudiwort

Frae neath the hollow stane,
An' it howkit a grave for the auld grey head,

For the head lay a' its lane !
But 1 will seek out the Robin's nest,

An' the nest of the ouzel shy,
For the siller hair that is beddit there

Maun wave aboon the sky."*

The sentiments of Old Nanny appeared now to her young mistress to be
more doubtful than ever. Fain would she have interpreted them to be such
as she wished, but the path which that young female was now obliged to
tread required a circumspection beyond her experience and discernment to
preserve, while danger and death awaited the slightest deviation,

CHAPTER VI.
Next morning Clavers, with fifty dragoons, arrived at Chapelhope, where
they alighted on the green ; and putting their horses to forage, he and Sir
Thomas Livingston, Captain Bruce, and Mr. Adam Copland, before men-
tioned, a gentleman of Clavers' own troop, went straight into the kitchen.
Walter was absent at the hill. The goodwife was sitting lonely in the east
room, brooding over her trials and woes in this life, and devising means to get
rid of her daughter, and with her of all the devouring spirits that haunted Chapel-
hope ; consequently the first and only person whom the gentlemen found in
the kitchen was old Nanny. Clavers, who entered first, kept a shy and sullen
distance, for he never was familiar with any one ; but Bruce, who was a
jocular Irish gentleman, and well versed in harassing and inveighng the
ignorant country people to their destruction, made two low bows (almost to
the ground) to the astonished dame, and accosted her as follows : " How are
you to-day, mistress? — I hope you are very well ?"

^Thanic ye kindly, sir," said Nanny, curtseying in return ; "deed I'm no
sae weel as I hae been ; I hae e'en seen better days ; but I keep aye the
heart aboon, although the achings and the stitches hae been sair on me the
year."

* It seems necessary hert to premise, that all the songs put into the mouth of old Nanny
relate to events of that period ; this to a most painful one at which the heart shudders to
this day. It is supposed to have been sung by Mrs. Finlay of Lathrisk, on finding that
her husband did not return from the hill.— As Thomas Dalziel of Binns was once pursuing
some covenanters on the braes above Kilmarnock, being completely baffled by them, and
in extremely bad humour, he quitted the pursuit, and returned so far on his way, cursing
the whigs most dreadfully. While in this querulous humour he came upon Mr. John
Finlay, tenant of a place called Upper Lathrisk. He was an old man, and though
a sincere Christian, was never in any of the risings on account of religion. When Dalziel
came upon him, he was setting stakes in the field whereat to milk his cows ; for the place
was not at his own house, but at a wild shelling to which he drove his cows and calves in
summer. When Dalziel came down the hill, Finlay was in custody of two soldiers, who
said to their general, "Sir, here is an old fellow, who, though he says he has never
been up in any rebellion, yet acknowledges he has been at several sermons in the fields."

'' Well then," said Dalziel, " that at all events subjects him to banishment."

" Alas, sir," said Finlay, " it is scarcely worth your while to banish me for all the time I
have to live. I am too old for banishment."

" Then I am sure you are not too old for being hanged,'' said Dalziel, " or shot — either
of the two : suppose, then, we should make the experiment on an old hypocritical rebel
for once ! " And without one further interrogatory, he caused him to be tied to one of
his own cow-stakes and shot. He then cut off his head, which some of his men kicked
away to a distance.

The judgment of heaven was very visibly executed upon these men ; for that same even-
ing, as Dalziel was drinking a cup of wine to a profane and blasphemous toast, he fell
down and expired. This was on the night of the 22d of August, and on the a4th one of
the soldiers who seized, accused, and shot the old farmer, died in great terror of mind, ex-
claiming to the last, " O for tlie life ol John I'inlay ! " Wodrow, vol. li., p. 6j.

36 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

" Lack-a-day 1 I am so very sorry for that ! — Where do they seize you ?
about the heart, I suppose ? — Oh, dear soul ! to be sure you do not know how
sorry I am for your case — it must be so terribly bad ! You should have the
goodness to consult your physician, and get blood let."

" Dear bairn, I hae nae blude to spare — an' as for doctors, I haena muckle
to lippen to them. To be sure, they are whiles the means, under Pro-
vidence"

" Oho !'" said he, putting his finger to his nose, and turning to his associate!
with a wry face, — " Oho !" the means under Providence ! — a whig, I avow !
Tell me, my dear and beautiful Mistress Stitch-aback, do you really believe
in that blessed thing Providence ?"

" Do I believe in Providence ! — Did ever ony body hear sich a question as
that ? Gae away, ye muckle gouk — d'ye think to make a fool of a puir
body?"

So saying, she gave him a hearty slap on the cheek ; at which his com-
panions laughing, Bruce became somewhat nettled, and drawing out his
sword he pointed at the recent stains of blood upon it. " Be so good as to
look here, my good lady," said he, " and take very good note of all that I say,
and more ; for harkee, you must either renounce Providence, and all that 1
bid you renounce, — and you must, beside that, answer all the questions that
I shall ever be after asking, — or, do you see, I am a great doctor — this is my
very elegant lance — and Pll draw the blood that shall soon ease you of all
your stitches and pains."

" I dinna like your fleem ava, man — 'tis rather ower grit for an auld body's
veins. But ye're surely some silly skemp of a fallow, to draw out your sword
on a puir auld woman. Dinna think, howanabee, that I care for outher you
or it. I'll let ye see how little I mind ye ; for weel I ken your comrades
wadna let ye fash me, e'en though ye were sae silly as to offer. Na, na ; d'ye
ever think that little bonny demure-looking lad there wad suffer ye to hurt a
woman .'' — I wat wad he no ! He has mair discretion in his little finger than
you hae i' your hale bouk. — Now try me, master doctor — I'll nouther renounce
ae thing that ye bid me, nor answer ae question that ye speer at me."

•^ In the first place, then, my good hearty dame, do you acknowledge or
renounce the Covenant ?"

" Aha ! he's wise wha wats that, and as daft that speers."

" Ay, or no, in a moment — No juggling with me, old Mrs. Skinflint."

" I'll tell ye what ye do, master — if ony body speer at ye, gin auld Nanny
i' the Chapelhop>e renounces the Covenant, shake your head an' say ye dinna
ken."

" And pray, my very beautiful girl, what do you keep this old tattered book
for?"

" For a fancy to gar fools speer, an' ye're the first — Come on now, sir, wi'
your catechis — Wally-dye man ! gin ye be na better a fighter than ye're an
examiner, ye may gie up the craft."

Bruce here bit his lip, and looked so stern that Nanny with a hysterical
laugh, ran away from him, and took shelter behind Clavers.

" You are a fool, Bruce," said he, " and constantly blundering. — Our busi-
ness here, mistress, is to discover, if possible, who were the murderers of an
honest curate, and some of our own soldiers that were slain in this neighbour-
hood while discharging their duty ; if you can give us any information on
that subject, you shall be well rewarded."

" Ye'U hear about the curate, sir — ye'U hear about him — he was found out
to be a warlock, and shot dead. — But ah, dear bairn ! nane ahve can gie you
information about the soldiers ! — It was nae human hand did that deed, and
there was nae e'e out o' heaven saw it done — There wasna a man that day in
a' the Hope up an' doun — that deed will never be fund out, unless a spirit rise
from the dead an' tell o't — Muckle fear, an' muckle grief it has been the
cause o' here ! — But the men war a' decently buried ; what mair could be
done?"

THE BROWNIE OF BODSBECK. 27

** Do you say that my men were all decently buried ?"

" Ay, troth, I wat weel, were they, sir, and wi' the burial-service, too.— My
master and mistress are strong king's folk."

'■ So you are not the mistress of this house ?"

" A bonny like mistress I wad be, forsooth — Na, na, my mistress is sittin be

hersel ben the house there." With that, Nanny fell a working and singing

full loud— ,j T v..! ^ u 1- !

Little wats she wha s commg,

Little wat's she wha's coming,

Strath and Correy's ta'en the bent

An' Terriden an' a's coming ;

Knock and Craigen Shaw's coming,

Keppoch an' Macraw's coming,

Clan-Mackinnon's ower the Kyle,

An' Donald Gun an' a's coming."

Anxious now to explore the rest of the house, they left Nanny singing her
song, and entered the little parlour hastily, where finding no one, and dread-
ing that some escape might be effected, Clavers and Livingston burst into the
Old Room, and Bruce and Copland into the other. In the Old Room they
found the beautiful witch Katharine, with the train of her snow-white joup
drawn over her head, who looked as if taken in some evil act by surprise, and
greatly confounded when she saw two gentlemen enter her sanctuary in
splendid uniforms. As they approached, she made a slight curtsey, to which
they deigned no return ; but going straight up to her, Clavers seized her by
both wrists. " And is it, indeed, true," said he, " my beautiful shepherdess,
that we have caught you at your prayers so early this morning.?"

" And what if you have, sir .'"' returned she.

" Why, nothing at all, save that I earnestly desire, and long exceedingly to
join with you in your devotional exercises," laying hold of her in the rudest
manner.

Katherine screamed so loud that in an instant old Nanny was at her side,
with revenge gleaming from her half-shaded eyes, and heaving over her
shoulder a large green-kale gully, with which she would doubtless have
silenced the renowned Dundee for ever, had not Livingston sprung forward
with the utmost celerity, and caught her arm just as the stroke was descend-
ing. But Nanny did not spare her voice ; she lifted it up with shouts on
high, and never suffered one yell to lose hearing of another.

Walter, having just then returned from the hill, and hearing the hideous
uproar in the Old Room, rushed into it forthwith to see what was the matter.
Katharine was just sinking, when her father entered, within the grasp of the
gentle and virtuous Clavers. The backs of both the officers were towards
Walter as he came in, and they were so engaged amid bustle and din that
neither of them perceived him, until he was close at their backs. He was at
least a foot taller than any of them, and nearly as wide round the chest as
them both. In one moment his immense fingers grasped both their slender
necks, almost meeting behind each of their windpipes. They were rendered
powerless at once — they attempted no more struggling with the women, for so
completely had Walter's gripes unnerved them, that they could scarcely lift
their arms from their sides ; neither could they articulate a word, or utter any
other sound than a kind of choked gasping for breath. Walter wheeled them
about to the light, and looked alternately at each of them, without quitting or
even slackening his hold.

" Callants, wha ir ye ava .? — or what's the meanin' o' a' tlais unmensefu'
rampaging '^. "

Sir Thomas gave his name in a hoarse and broken voice ; but Clavers,
whose nape Walter's right hand embraced, and whose rudeness to his
daughter had set his mountain blood a-boiling, could not answer a word
Walter, slackening his hold somewhat, waited for an answer, but noi)#
coming —

28 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

"Will ir yc, I say, ye bit useless wcazel-blawn like urf that ye're?"

The hau};hty and insolent Clavers was stung with rage ; but seeing no
immediate redress was to be had, he endeavoured to pronounce his dreaded
name, but it was in a whisper scarcely audible, and stuck in his throat —
"Jo— o — o Ciraham," said he.

"Jock CJraham do they ca' ye? — Ye're but an unmannerly whalp, man.
And ye're baitli king's olliccrs too ! — Wccl, I'll tell yc what it is, my dcnty
clever callants ; if it warna for the blood that's i' your master's veins, 1 wad
nite your twa bits o' ])Ows tlicgilher."

lie then threw them from him ; the one the one way, and the other the other,
and lifting his huge oak staff, he strode out at the door, saying, as he left
them,— " llcch ! arc free men to be guidit this gate?- I'll step down to the
green to your commander, an' tell him what kind o' chaps he keeps about
him to send into folk's houses. Dirty unmcnsefu' things !"

Clavers soon recovering his breath, and being ready to burst with rage and
indignation, fell a cursing and fuming most violently ; but Sir T. Livingston
could scarcely refrain from breaking out into a convulsion of laughter,
Clavers had already determined upon ample revenge, for the violation of all
the tender ties of nature was his delight, ami wherever there was wealth to be
obtained, or a private jjiijue to be revenged, there never was wanting suflicient
pretext in those days for cutting off individuals, or whole families, as it suited.
On the very day previous to that, the lOarl of Traquair had complained, in
company with Clavers and his officers, of a tenant of his, in a place called
15olci, who would neither cultivate his farm nor give it up. Captain Bruce
asked if he prayed in his family? The ICarl answered jocularly, that he
believed he did nothing else. Bruce said that was enough ; and the matter
passed over without any farther notice. But next morning. Bruce went out
with four dragoons, and shot the farmer as he was going out to his work.
Instances of this kind arc numerous, if either history or tradition can be in
aught believed ; but in all the annals of that age, there is scarcely a single
instance recorded of any redress having been granted to the harassed country
people for injuries received. At this time, the word of Argyle's rising had
already spread, and Clavers actually traversed the country more like an exter-
minating angel, than a commander of a civilized army.

Such arc the men with whom Walter had to do ; and the worst thing of all,
he was not aware of it. lie had heard of such things, but he did not believe
them ; for he loved his king and country, and there was nothing that vexed
him more than hearing of aught to their disp.vragcment ; but unluckily his
notions of freedom and justice were far above what the subjects of that reign
could count upon.

When Clavers and Livingston entered the Old Room, it will be remem-
bered that Bruce and Copland penetrated into the other. There they found
the goodwife of Chapclhope, neatly dressed in her old-fashioned style, and
reading on her Bible, an exercise in which she gloried, and of which she was
I'cry proud.

Bruce instantly desired her " to lay that very comely and precious book on
the hottest place of all the beautiful fire, that was burning so pleasantly with
long crackling peat ; and that then he would converse with her about things
that were, to be sure, of far greater and mightier importance."

" llout, dear sir, ye ken that's no consistent wi' natural reason. Can any
thing be o' greater importance than the tidings o' grace an' salvation, an' the
joys o' heaven ? "

" Oho !" cried Bruce, and straddled around the room with his flice turned
to the joists. " My dear Copland, did you ever hear such a thing in all the
days that ever you have to live? Upon my soul, the old woman is talking of
grace and salvation, and the joys of heaven too, by Saint George and the
Dragon. My dearest honey and darling, will you be so kind as stand u])
upon the soles of your feel, and let me see what kind of a figure you will be
in heaven. Now, by the cross of Saint l'atri(k, I would lake a journey there

THE BROW Nil-: OF BOlKSliliCK. 29

to see you go bwinmiing through heaven in that same form, with your long
waist, and plaitted quoif, and tliat same charming face of yours. Och ! och !
nic ! what a \ilc she whig we have got in tiiis hcic corner?- Copland, my dear
soul, I foresee that all the ewes and kinc of Ch;ii)clhope will soon be rouped
at the cross of Selkirk, and then what blessed lawings wc shall have ! Now
my dear mistress (^racc and Salvation, yt)u must be after renouncing the joys
of heaven immediately ; for u|)on my honour, the very sight of your face would
spoil the joys of any place whatever, and the first thing you must do is to lay
that delightful old book with the beautiful margin along the side of it, on the
coals ; but before you do that we shall sing to his praise and glory from the
7th verse of the 149th psalm."

He then laid aside his helmet and sung the psalm, giving out cac h line
with a whine that was truly ludicrous, after which he put the liible into the
goodwife's hand, and desired her, in a serious tone, instantly to lay it on the
fnc. The captain's speech to his companions about the ewes and kine of
Chapclhopc was not altogether lost on the conscience of Maron Linton. It
was not, as she afterwards said, like water spilt upon the ground, which can-
not be gathered up again. " Why, dear sir," said she, " ye ken, after a', that
the beuk's naething but paper an' ink, an' three shillings an' aughtjjence will
buy as gude a ane frae Geordy Dabson, the morn, an' if there be ony sin in't
it will lye at your door, an' no at mine. I'll ne'er haigel wi' my king's officer
about three and aughtpence."

So saying, Maron laid the Hible on the fire, which soon ( onsumed it to ashes.

"Now, may the devil take me," said Bruce, " if 1 do not believe that you
are a true woman after all, and if so, my purse is lighter by one half than it
was ; but, my dear honey, you have the very individual and genuine seeds of
whiggism in your constitution You have, 1 will swear, been at many a harm-
less and innocent conventicle."

"Ye ken little about me, sir. — Gude forbid that ever I countenanced sic
traitors to the kirk and state ! "

"Amen ! say I ; but I prophesy and say unto thee, that the (irst iield-mcet-
ing into which thou goest in the beauty of holiness, thou shalt be established
for ever with thy one foot in Dan and the other in Heersheba, and shalt return
to thy respective place of abode as rank a whig as ever swung in the (Jrass-
Market."

A long dialogue next ensued, in which the murder of the priest, Mass John
Binram, was discussed at full length, and by which Bruce and Copland dis-
cerned, that superstitious as Maron w.is, she told them what she deemed to
be the truth, though in a strange round-about way. Just as they were begin-
ning to talk over the mysterious nunder of the soldiers, Claverhouse and Sir
Thomas joined them, and Hruce, turning rouiul to them, said, " My lord, this
veiy honest woman assures me, that she believes the two principal murderers
of the curate are lying concealed in a linn not far hence, and there seems to
be little doubt but that they must likewise have been concerned in the murdei
of our soldiers."

Clavers, the horrors of whose execrations arc yet fresh in the memory of
our peasants, burst out as follows, to the astonishment of IJriice, who was not
aware of his chagrin, or of aught having befallen him.

" May the devil confouirl and d n them to hell ! — May he make a brandei
of their ribs to roast their iouls on ! '

Maron Linton, hearing herself called a good woman, and finding that she
was approven of, could not refrain from interfering here.

" Dear sir, my lord, ye sudna swear that gate, for it's unco ill-faur'd, ye
ken — an' at ony rate the deil canna damn naebody— if ye will swear, swear
sense."

The rage of the general, and the simplicity of the goodwife, was such an
amusing contrast, that the three attendants laughed aloud. Clavers turned
his deep grey eye upon them, which more th.m the eye of any human being
rtsembled that of a serpent-offence gleamed in it.

30 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

" Gentlemen," said he, " do you consider where you are, and what you are
about? Sacre ! am I always to be trysted with boys and fools?"

He then began and examined the goodwife with much feigned deference
and civility, which so pleased her that she told him every thing with great
readiness. She was just beginning to relate the terrible, but unfortunate
story of the Brownie of Bodsbeck, and his train of officious spirits ; of the
meat which they devoured, and in all probability would have ended the
relation with the woeful connection between the Brownie and her daughter,
and the part that she had taken in the murder of the soldiers, when Walter
entered the room with a discomposed mien, and gave a new turn to the con-
versation. But that eventful scene must be left to the next chapter.

CHAPTER VIII.
Walter, on coming to the troopers and asking for their leader, soon
discovered how roughly he had treated Clavers ; and it being so much the
reverse of the reception he meant to have given him, he was particularly
vexed about it. Still he was conscious that he had done nothing that was
wrong, nor any thing that it did not behove a parent and a master of a family
to have done in the same circumstances ; therefore there was nothing farther
from his intention than offering any apology. He entered his own room, as
he supposed he had a good right to do, bluntly enough. He indeed touched
the rim of his bonnet as he came in ; but seeing all the officers covered, he
stalked into the midst of them with that immense circle of blue woollen on
his head, which moved over their helmets like a black cloud as he advanced.
Bruce, who was well used to insult the peasantry with impunity, seeing
Walter striding majestically by his general in this guise, with his wonted
forwardness and jocularity lifted up his sword, sheathed as it was, and with
the point of it kicked off Walter's bonnet. The latter caught it again as it
fell, and with his fist, he made Bruce's helmet ring against the wall; then
again fitting on his bonnet, he gave him such an indignant and reproving
look, that Bruce, having no encouragement from the eye of Clavers, resented
it no farther than by saying good-humouredly, " 'Pon my body and shoul,
but the carle keeps his good-looking head high enough."

" Copland,'' said Clavers, " desire Sergeant Daniel Roy Macpherson, with
eleven troopers, to attend." They were instantly at the door. " Seize and
pinion that haughty rebel, together with all his family," said he, " and then
go and search every corner, chest, and closet in the house ; for it is apparent
that this is the nest and rendezvous of the murdering fanatics who infest this
country. Let the rest of the soldiers guard the premises that none escape to
the mountains with tidings of our arrival. This good dame we will first
examine privately and then dispose of her as shall seem most meet.''

The command was promptly obeyed. Walter and all his family were taken
into custody, pinioned, and a guard set on them ; the house was ransacked ;
and in the mean time the general and his three associates continued the
examination of the goodwife. Clavers observed that, on the entrance of
Walter before, she seemed to be laid under some restraint, stopped short in
her narration, and said, " But there's the gudeman ; he 11 tell ye it wi' mair
preceesion nor me;" and he had no doubt, if she were left to herself, of
worming as much out of her as would condemn her husband, or at least
furnish a pretext sufficient for the forfeiture of his wealth. Clavers had
caused to be sold, by public roup, the whole stock on the farm of Phillhope,
which belonged to Walter's brother-in-law, merely because it was proven that
the farmer's wife had once been at a conventicle.

In the present instance, however, Clavers was mistaken, and fairly overshot
his mark ; for poor Maron Linton was so overwhelmed with astonishment
when she saw her husband and family taken prisoners and bound, that her
speech lost all manner of coherence. She sobbed aloud — complained one
while, entreated another ; and then muttered over some ill-sorted phrases
from the Scripture. When Clavers pressed his questions, she ajiswered him,

THE BROWNIE OF BODSBECK. 31

weeping, " O dear sir, my lord, ye ken I caana do naething, nor think nae-
thing, nor answer naething, unless ye let Watie loose again ; I find as I war
naebody, nor nae soul, nor naething ava wantin' him, but just like a vacation
or a shadow. O my lord, set my twa bits o' callants an' my puir auld man
loose again, and I'll say ony thing that ever ye like."

Threats and proffers provoked alike in vain. Maron's mind, which never
was strong, had been of late so much unhinged by the terrors of superstition,
that it wavered in its frail tenement threatening to depart, and leave not a
wreck behind. Clavers told her that her husband's life depended on the
promptness and sincerity of her answers, he having rendered himself amenable
to justice by rescuing his daughter by force, whom they had taken prisoner
on their arrival, having found her engaged in a very suspicious employment.
This only increased Maron's agony ; and at length Clavers was obliged to
give up the point, and ordered her into custody.

The soldiers had by this time taken old John of the Muchrah and another
of Laidlaw's shepherds prisoners, who had come to assist their master with
the farm-work that day. All these Clavers examined separately ; and their
answers, as taken down in short-hand by Mr. Adam Copland, are still extant,
and at present in my possession. The following are some of them, as
decyphered by Mr. J. W. Robertson, whose acquaintance with ancient
manuscripts is well known.

John Hoy, shepherd in Muchrah, aged fifty-six, sworn and examined.

'* Do you know such a man as the Rev. James Renwick ? "

"Yes. I once heard him pray and preach for about the space of two
hours."

" Was it on your master's farm that he preached .''*

" No, it was on a linn on the Earl Hill, in the march between two laird's
lands, that he preached that day."

" How durst you go to an unlawful conventicle?"

" I didna ken there was a law against it till after — it's a wild place this —
we never hear ony o' the news, unless it be twice a year frae the Moffat fairs.
But as soon as I heard him praying and preaching against the king 1 cam
aff an' left him, an' brought a' my lads an' lasses wi' me ; but my wife wadna
steer her fit — there she sat, shaking her head and glooming at me ; but I
trow 1 cowed her fort after."

" What did he say of the king ?"

" O, I canna mind — he said nae muckle gude o' him.'

" Did he say that he was a bloody perjured tyrant .-* "

" Ay, he said muckle waur nor that. He said some gayan ill-faur'd things
about him. But I cam away and left him ; I thought he was saying mair than
gude manners warrantit."

" Were you in the Hope, as you call it, on that day that the king's soldiers
were slain 1 '

" Ay, that I was ; I was the first wha came on them whan they war just
new dead, an' a' reeking i' their warm blude — Gude keep us a' frae sic sights
again 1 — for my part, 1 never gat sic a confoundit gliff sin' I was born o' my
mother."

" Describe the place where the corpses were lying."

" It is a deep cleuch, wi' a sma' sheep rodding through the linn not a foot
wide ; and if ye war to stite aff that, ye wad gang to the boddom o' the linn
wi' a flaip."

" Were the bodies then lying in the bottom of that linn .-"'

" Od help ye, whar could they be lying elsei* — D'ye think they could lie on
the Cleuch-brae ? Ye micht as weel think to lie on the side o' that wa' gin ye
war dead."

" How did it appear to you that the) had been slain ? were they cut with
swords, or pierced with bullets.'"'

" I canna say, but they were sair hashed."

" How do you mean when you say they were hashed ? "

32 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

" Champit like ; a' broozled and jurmummled, as it war."

" Do ye mean that they were cut, or cloven, or minced ? "

•' Na, na — no that ava But they had gotten some sair doofs— They had
been terribly paiket and daddit wi' something."

" I do not in the least conceive what you mean."

" That's extrordnar, man — can ye no understand folk's mother-tongtie ? —
I'll mak it plain to you. Ye see, whan a thing comes on ye that gate, that's a
dadd — sit still now. Then a paik, that's a swap or a skelp like^when a thing
comes on ye that way, that's a paik. But a doofs warst ava — it's "

" Prithee hold ; I now understand it all perfectly well. — What, then, is your
opinion with regard to these men's death? How, or what way do you think
they were killed .'"'

" O, sir, there's nacbody can say. It was some extrordnar judgment, that's
out of a' doubt. There had been an unyerdly raid i' the Hope that day."

" What reason have you for supposing such a thing ? "

" Because there wasna a leevin soul i' the hale Hope that day but theirsels
— they wadna surely hae felled ane another — It's by an' atlour, an awsome
bit where they war killed ; there hae been things baith seen and heard about
it ; and 1 saw an apparition there mysel on the very night before."

" You saw an apparition at the place the night before, did you? And pray,
what was that apparition like ? "

" It was like a man and a woman."

" Had the figure of the woman no resemblance to any one you had ever seen
before? Was it in any degree, for instance, like your master's daughter?"

"No unlike ava."

"Then I think 1 can guess what the other form was like — Had it a
bonnet on its head ? "

" Not a bonnet certainly, but it had the shape o' ane."

" I weened as much^And was it a tall gigantic figure?"

" Na, na, sir ; the very contrair o' that."

" Are you certain of that you say ? Was it not taller than the apparition of
the woman ? "

" Nc half sae tall, sir."

" Had it not some slight resemblance to your master, little as it was? Did
that not strike you ? "

" Na, na, it was naething like my master, nor nae yerdly creature that ever
was seen ; indeed it was nae creature ava."

*' W^hat then do you suppose it was ? "

" Lord kens ! — A wraith, I hae little doubt. My een rins a' wi' water whan
I think about it yet."

" Wraiths are quite common here, are they ? "

" O yes, sir ! — oure common. They appear aye afore death, especially if
the death be to be sudden."

" And what are they generally like ? "

" Sometimes like a light — sometimes like a windin-sheet— sometimes like
the body that's to dee, gaen mad— and sometimes like a coffm made o' moon-
light"

" Was it in the evening you saw this apparition ? "

" It was a little after midnight."

"And pray, what might be your business in such a place at that untimely
hour? — Explain that fully to me if you please."

•' I shall do that, sir, as weel as I can : — Our ewes, ye see, lie up in the twa
Grains an' the Middle a' the harst — Now, the Quave Brae again, it's our hogg-
fence, that's the hained grund like ; and whenever the wind gangs easterly
about, then whan the auld luckies rise i' the howe o' the night to get their rug,
aff they come, snouckin a' the way to the Lang Bank, an' the tither end o'
them round the Papper .Snout, and into the Quave Brae to the hained grund;
an' very often they think naething o' landing i' the mids o' the corn. Now I
never mindit the corn sae muckle ; but for them to gang wi' the hogg-fence I

THE BROWNIE OF BODSEECK. 33

coudna bide that ava ; for ye ken, sir, how could we turn our hand wi' our
pickle hoggs i' the winter if their bit foggage war a' riven up by the auld raikin
hypalts ere ever a smeary's clute clattered on't ? "

Though Clavers was generally of an impatient temper, and loathed the
simplicity of nature, yet he could not help smiling at this elucidation, which
was much tlie same to him as if it had been delivered in the language of the
Moguls ; but seeing the shepherd perfectly sincere, he suffered him to go on
to the end.

" Now, sir, ye ken the wind very often taks a swee away round to the east
i' the night-time whan the wather's gude i' the hairst months, an' whanever this
was the case, and the moon i' the lift, I had e'en aye obliged to rise at mid-
night, and gang round the hill an' stop the auld kimmers — very little did the
turn — just a bit thraw yont the brae, an' they kend my whistle, or my tike's
bark, as weel as I did mysel, still they wadna do wantin't. Weel, ye see, sir,
1 gets up an' gangs to the door — it was a bonny night — the moon was hingin
o'er the derk brows o" Hopertoody, an' the lang black scaddows had an eiiy
look — I turned my neb the tither gate, an' I fand the air was gane to the
eissel; the se'en starns had gaen oure the lum, an" the tail o' the king's elwand
was just pointin Ko the Muchrah cross. It's the very time, quo' I to mysel, I
needna think about lying down again — I maun leave Janet to lie doverin by
hersel for an hour or twa — Keilder, my fine dog, where are ye .'' — He was as
ready as me — he likes a ploy i' the night-time brawly, for he's aye gettin a
broostle at a hare, or a tod, or a foumart, or some o' thae beasts that gang
snaikin about i' the derk. Sae tae mak a lang tale short, sir, off we sets,
Keilder an' me, an' soon comes to the place. The ewes had been very
mensefu' that night, they had just come to the march and nae farther ; sae, I
says, puir things, sin' ye hae been sae leifu', we 11 sit down and rest a while,
the dog an' me, an' let ye tak a pluck an' fill yerscls or we turn ye back up to
your cauld lairs again. Sae down we sits i' the scaddow of a bit derksome
cleuch-brae — naebody could hae seen us ; and ere ever 1 wats, 1 hears by the
grumblin o' my friend that he outher saw or smelled something mair than
ordinar. I took him in aneath my plaid for fear o' some grit brainyell of an
outbrik, thinkin it some sheepstealer ; but when I lookit, there was a white
thing and a black thing new risen out o' the solid yird ! They cam' close by
me ; and whan I saw the moon shinin on their cauld white faces, I lost my
sight an' swarfed clean away. Wae be to them for droichs, or ghaists, or
whatever they war, for aye sin' sine the hogg-fence o' the Quave Krae has
been harried an' traisselled till its little better nor a drove road— 1 darna gang
an' stop the ewes now for the saul that's i' my bouk, an' little do 1 wat what's
to come o' the hoggs the year."

" Well now, you have explained this much I believe to your own satisfac-
tion— Remember then, you are upon oath — Who do you think it was that
killed these men?"

" I think it was outher God or the deil, but whilk o' tliem, I coudna say."

"And this is really your opinion.''"

" Yes, it is."

" Have you seen any strangers about your master's house of late?"

" I saw one not long ago.'

" What sort of a man was he ? "

" A douse-looking man wi' a brown yaud ; I took him for some wool-
buyer."

" Was he not rather like a preacher .'' "

" The man might hae preached for aught contrair tiU't in his appearance —
1 coudna say."

" Are you certain it was not Mr. Renwick .'' "

" I am certain."

" Is your master a very religious man ?"

"He's weel eneugh that way — No that very reithe on't ; but tlie gudewife
bauds his neb right sair to llie grindstane about it."

I. 3

34 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

" Does he perform family worship ? "

" Sometimes."

" Is he reckoned a great and exemplary performer of that duty?"

" Na, he's nae great gun, I trow ; but he warstles away at it as wee) as ho
can.

" Can you repeat any part, or any particular passage of his usual prayer ? "

" I'm sure I might, for he gangs often aneuch oure some o' them. Let me
see— there's the still waters, and the green pastures, and the blood of bulls
and of goats ; and then there's the gos-hawk, and the slogy riddle, and the
tyrant an' his lang neb ; I hae the maist o't i' my head, but then I canna
mouband it."

" What does he mean by the tyrant and his lang neb ? "

" Aha ! But that's mair nor ever I could find out yet. We whiles think he
means the Kelpy — him that raises the storms an' the floods on us, ye ken, and
gars the waters an' the burns come roarin down wi' bracks o' ice an' snaw, an'
tak away our sheep. But whether it's Kelpy, or Clavers, or the Deil, we can
never be sure, for we think it applies gay an' weel to them a'."

" Repeat the passage as well as you can."

" Bring down the tyrant an' his lang neb, for he has done muckle ill this
year, and gie him a cup o' thy wrath ; and gin he winna tak that, gie him
kelty."

" What is meant by kelty ?"

" That's double — it means twa cups — ony body kens that."

" Does he ever mention the king in his prayer ? "

" O yes : always."

" What does he say about him ?"

" Something about the sceptre of righteousness, and the standard of trutk
I ken he has some rhame about him."

"■ Indeed ! And does he likewise make mention of the Covenant ? '

" Ay, that's after — that's near the end, just afore the resurrection. O yes,
he harls aye in the Covenant there. ' The bond o' the everlasting Covenant,'
as he ca's it, ' weel ordered in all things, and sure.' "

"Ay, that's very well ; that's quite sufficient. Now, you have yourself con-
fessed, that you were at an unlawful and abominable conventicle, holding
fellowship with intercommuned rebels, along with your wife and family. You
7iiust be made an example of to the snarling and rebellious hounds that are
lurking in these bounds ; but as you have answered me with candour, though
I might order you instantly to be shot, I will be so indulgent as to give you
your choice, whether you go to prison in Edinburgh, and be there tried by the
Council, or submit to the judgment which I may pronounce on you here ? "

'' O, sir, I canna win to Edinbrough at no rate — that's impossible. What
think ye wad come o' the sheep? The hogg-fence of the Quave Brae is
maistly ruined already ; and war I to gae to the prison at Edinbrough, it wad
be mair loss than a' that I'm worth. I maun just lippen to yoursel ; but ye
m.iunna be very sair on me. I never did ony ill designedly ; and as for ony
rebellion against the Bruce's blood, I wad be hangit or I wad think o' sic a
thing."

" Take the old ignorant animal away — Burn him on the check, cut off his
ears, and do not part with him till he pay you down a fine of two hundred
merks, or value to that amount. And, do you hear, make him take all the
oaths twice ; and a third oath, that he is never to repent of these. If either
Monmouth or Argyle get him, they shall have a perjured dog of him."

As John was dragged off to this punishment, which was executed without
any mitigation, he shook his head and said, '"Ah, lak-a-day? I fear things
are muckle waur wi' us than I had ony notion o' ! I trowed aye that even-
down truth an' honesty bure some respect till now^I fear our country's a'
wrang the^ither." Then looking back to Clavers, he added, "Gude sooth,
iad, but ye'll mak mae whigs wherever ye show your face, than a' the hill
preachers o' Scotland put thegither."

THE BROWNIE OF BODSBECK. 35

CHAPTER IX.
It has been remarked by all the historians of that period, that the proceedings
of Clavers about this time were severe in the extreme. The rising, both Tn
the north and south at the same time, rendered the situation of affairs some-
what ticklish. Still the Lowlands were then perfectly peaceable ; but he
seemed determined, lest he should be called away, to destroy the Covenanters,
and all that hankered after civil and religious liberty, root and branch.
Certainly his behaviour at Chapelhope that morning was sufficient to stamp
his character for ever in that district, where it is still held in at least as great
detestation as that of the arch-fiend himself.

When the soldiers, by his order, seized and manacled Walter, he protested
vehemently against such outrage, and urged the general to prove his fidelity to
his sovereign by administering to him the test oath, and the oath of abjuration ;
but this Clavers declined, and said to him, with a sneer, that " they had other
ways of tr>'ing dogs beside that."

When those who had been appointed to search the house came before him,
and gave in their report, among other things, they said they had found as
much bread new baked, and mutton newly cooked, as would be a leasonable
allowance for a hundred men for at least one whole day. Clavers remarked,
that in a family so few in number, this was proof positive that others were
supported from that house. " But we shall disappoint the whigs of one hearty
meal," added he ; and with that he ordered the meat to be brought all out
and set down upon the green— bid his troopers eat as much as they could —
feed their horses with the bread which they left, and either destroy the
remainder of the victuals or carry them away.

It was in vain that W^ alter told him the honest truth, that the food was pro-
vided solely for himself and his soldiers, as he knew they were to come by
that road, either on that day or the one following ; nay, though all the family
avouched it, as they well might, he only remarked, with a look of the utmost
malignity, that " he never in his life knew a whig who had not a lie ready on
his tongue, or some kind of equivocation to save his life, but that they must
necessarily all be taught who they were dealing with." He then made them
all swear that they were to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but tlie
truth, and to utter the most horrid imprecations on themselves and their souls
for ever, if they deviated in one single item ; and beginning with old John as
before related, he examined them all separately and out of hearing of one
another.

The interrogations and answers are much too long to be inserted here at
full length ; but the only new circumstances that came to light were these
two. One of the young men deponed, that, when the bodies of the soldiers
were found in the Hope, their muskets were all loaded, which showed that
they had not fallen in a regular skirmish ; and the other boy swore that he
had lately seen eighty large thick bannocks baked in one day in his father's
house, for that he had counted them three times over as they stood cooling.
This was another suspicious circumstance, and Clavers determined to search
it to the bottom. He sifted the two youths backward and forward, trying to
get the secret out of them by every wile in his power; and because they were
unable to give him any satisfactory account who consimied all that store of
bread, he caused his dragoons to take hold of the joungest and gird his head
with a cord, twisting it with a horse pistol, until in some places it cut him to
the skull. The eldest he hung up to the beam by the thumbs until he fainted
through insufferable pain ; but he could get nothing more out of them, for
they had at first told him all that they knew, being quite unconscious of any evil.

Still bent, as it seemed, on the full conviction and ruin of the family, he
told the boys that they were two of the most consummate knaves and rebels
that he had in all his life seen ; and that if they iiad any hopes at all of going
to Heaven, they should say their prayers, for in a few minutes he would order
fhom hnth to be shot.

36 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

John, the eldest, who possessed a good deal of his mother's feebleness of
character, and was besides but newly recovered from a faintinj:: fit, was seized
with a stupor, appeared quite passive, and acted precisely as they bade him,
without seeminj^ to know what he did ; but the youngest, whose name was
William, preserved an interesting firmness, in such a trial, for a considerable
time. On being advised by Clavers to tell all he knew rather than die, and
asked if he was not afraid of death ? He answered, with the tear in his eye,
" I'm nouther feared for you nor death, man. I think if fock may be guidit
this way at their ane hames, the sooner they're dead the better." Then turn-
ing his looks to his brother, who kneeled according to the general's order on
the green beside him, he added, with convulsive sobs, "But poor Jock's gaun
to be shot too — I wonder what ye need kill him for — What ill hae we ever
done t'ye .''--Jock's a very good callant — I canna pray weel, but if ye'U let my
billy Jock gang, I'll pray for ye as I can, and kiss ye too."

Happy was it for the wits of poor Maron that she saw nothing of this
touching scene ; she, as well as Walter, being then with the rest under a
strong guard in the Old Room. Clavers paid no regard to the kneeling boy's
request. He caused his troopers to draw up around them, present their fire-
locks, and then an executioner, who was always one of his train, tied up both
their eyes. He gave the word himself, and instantly ten or twelve carabines
were discharged on them at once. John fell flat on the earth ; but William,
with a violent start, sprung to his feet, and, being blindfolded, ran straight on
the files of soldiers.

Clavers laid hold of him. " My brave little fellow," said he, " the soldiers
have all missed you, bungling beasts that they are ! and since so wonderful a
thing hath befallen you, you shall yet have your life, though a most notorious
rebel, if you will tell me what people frequent your father's house."

"What's comed o' Jock?" said the boy, " O tell me what's comed o' Jock,
for I canna see."

" Jock is lying dead on the green there, all bathed in his blood," said Clavers ;
" poor wretch ! it is over with him, and unless you instantly tell me who it
was that consumed all that store of bread that has been baked in your father s
house for the last month, you must be sent after him."

William withdrew backward a few paces, and kneeling a second time dowm
on the sward with great decency and deliberation, " Shoot again," said he ;
"try me aince mair ; an' O see to airch a wee better this time. I wad rather
dee a hunder times or I saw poor Jock lying a bloody corp."

Clavers made a sign to one of his dragoons, who unbound William, and
took the bandage from his eyes. Regardless of all else, he looked wildly
around in search of his brother, and seeing his only companion lying flat on
his face, he at first turned away, as if wishing to escape from a scene so
dismal ; but his helpless and forlorn situation staring him in the face, and the
idea doubtless recurring that he was never to part with his brother, but forth-
with to be slaughtered and carried to the grave with him, he returned, went
slowly up to the body, kneeled down beside it, and pulling the napkin farther
down over the face to keep the dead features from view, he clasped his arms
about his brother's neck, laid his cheek to his, and wept bitterly.

The narrator of this part of the tale was wont to say, that the scene which
followed had something more touching in it than any tongue could describe,
although Clavers and his troops only lau;;hcd at it. William had now quite
relinquished all sensations of fear or danger, and gave full vent to a flood of
passionate tenderness and despair. He clasped his brothers neck closer and
closer, steeped his cheek with his tears, and seemed to cling and grow to the
body with a miserable fondness. While he was giving full scope in this
manner to the affections of his young heart, his brother made a heave up
with his head and shoulder, saying at the same time, like one wakening from
a dream. " Little Will, is that you ? — Haud aff, — What ails ye? '

"William raised up his head, — fixed his eyes on vacancy, — the tears dried
on his cheek, and his ruby lips were wide apart,— the thing wa«; bo^-onrt h^s

THE BROWNIE OF BODS BECK. 37

comprehension, and never was seen a more beautiful statue of amazement
He durst not turn his eyes towards his brother ; but he uttered in words
scarcely articulate, '' Lord ! I believe they hae missed Jock too ! "

Clavers had given private orders to his dragoons to fire over the heads of
the two boys, his intent being to intimidate them so much as to eradicate
every principle of firmness and power of concealment from their tender
minds ; a scheme of his own fertile invention, and one which he often prac-
tised upon young people with too sure effect. When William found that his
brother was really alive, and that both of them were to be spared on condition
that he gave up the names and marks of all the people that had of late been
at Chapelhope ; he set himself with great earnestness to recount them, along
with every mark by which he remembered them, determined that every hidden
thing should be brought to light, rather than that poor Jock should be shot
at again.

" Weel, ye see, first there was Geordie the flesher, him that took away the
crocks and the paulies, and my brockit-iamb, and gae me a penny for setting
him through atween the lochs. Then there was Hector Kennedy the tinkler,
him that the bogles brought and laid down at the door i' the ni.t,dit-tinie — he
suppit twa bickerfu's o' paritch, an' cleekit a hantle o' geds an' perches wi'
his toum out o' the loch. Then there was Ned Huddersfield the woo-man,
wi' the leather bags and the skeenzie thread — him that kissed our byre-woman
i' the barn in spite o' her teeth, — he had red cheeks and grit thees, and wasna
unlike a glutton ; he misca'd my father's woo, an' said aye, * Nay, it's nane
clean, howsomever,- it's useless, that's its worst fault.' Then there was wee
Willie the nout-herd, him that had the gude knife an' the duddy breeks ; but
the Brownies put him daft, an' his mither had to come an' tak him away upon
a cuddy."

In this manner went he on particularizing every one he remembered, till
fairly cut short with a curse. John continued perfectly stupid, and when
examined, answered only Yes^ or No, as their way of asking the question
dictated.

" Are there not great numbers of people who frequent your father s house
during the night.?"
" Yes."

" Do you see and hear them, after you go to bed .-' "
" Yes."

"What are they generally employed in when you hear them .-^ Do they
read, and pray, and sing psalms ? "
" Yes."

" Do your father and mother always join them?"
" Yes."

Here William could restrain himself no longer. '' Gude faith, Jock, man," said
he, " ye're just telling a hirsel o' eindown lees. It canna be lees that the man
wants, for that maks him nae the wiser ; an' for you to say that my father
rises to pray i' the night-time, beats a', when ye ken my mither has baith to
fleitch an" fight or she can get him eggit on tillt i' the Sabbath e'enings. He's
ower glad to get it foughten decently by, to rise an' fa' till't again. O fye,
Jock ! I wad stand by the truth ; an', at ony rate, no just gaung to hell open
mouth."

When the volley of musketry went off, all the prisoners started and stared
on one another ; even the hundred veterans that guarded them appeared by
their looks to be wholly at a loss. Macpherson alone ventured any remark on
it. " Fat she pe pluff pluffing at now ? May the teal more pe her soul's sal-
vation, if she do not believe tc man's pe gone out of all reason."

The women screamed ; and Maron, whose tongue was a mere pendulum to
the workings of the heart within, went on sighing and praying ; asking t|ues-
tions, and answering them alternately ; and, at every pause, looked earnestly
to her husband, who leaned against the corner of the room, ashamed that his
bound hand should be seen.

38 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

" Och ! Aigh me ! '' cried Mai on— Dear sirs, what's the folk shootin at? —
Eh ? — I'm sure they hae nae battlers to fight wi' there ? — No ane — I wat, no ane.
Aigh-wow, sirs ! the lives o' God's creatures ! — They never shoot nae callants,
do they ? Oh, na, na, they'll never shoot innocent bairns, puir things !
They'll maybe hae been trying how weel they could vizy at the wild ducks ;
there's a hantle o' cleckins about the saughs o' the lake. Hout ay, that's a'. —
He hasna forgotten to be gracious, nor is his mercy clean gane."

Thus poor Maron went on, and though she had but little discernment left,
she perceived that there was a tint of indignant madness in her husband's
looks. His lips quivered— his eyes dilated — and the wrinkles on his brow
rolled up to the roots of his dark grizzled hair. " Watie,' cried she, in a shrill
and tremulous voice — " Watie, what ails ye .'' — Oh ! tell me w hut ails ye
Watie ? — What's the fock shooting at ? Eh ? Ye'll no tell me what they're
shooting at, Watie .^— Oh, oh, oh, oh ! "

Walter uttered no word, nor did his daughter, who sat in dumb astonish-
ment, with her head almost bent to her feet ; but old Nanny joined in full
chorus with her mistress, and a wild unearthly strain the couple raised, till
checked by Sergeant Roy Macpherson.

" Fat too-whooing pe tat.'' Do you tink that should the lenamh begpe shot
trou te poty, tat is te son to yourself — Do you tink, you will too-whoo him up
akain ? — Hay ? — Cot tamn, pe holding your paice."

CHAPTER X.
Upon the whole, there was no proof against Walter. Presumption was
against him, but the evidence was rather in his favour. Military law, how-
ever, prevailed ; and he found that there was no redress to be had of any
grievance or insult, that this petty tyrant, in his caprice, thought fit to inflict.
His drivers were ordered to lake the whole stock from the farms of Riskin-
hope belonging to David Bryden, who lived at a distance, because it was
proventhat Mr. Renwick had preached and baptized some children on the bounds
of that farm. That stock he caused to be taken to Selkirk, and sent orders to
the sheriff to sell it by public roup, at the cross, to the highest bidder ; but with
Walter's stock he did not meddle at tliat time ; so far did justice mark his
proceedings. He strongly suspected him, and wished to have him convicted;
and certainly would have taken all the family with him prisoners, had not the
curate Clerk arrived at that critical time. Him Clavers consulted apart, and
was soon given to understand the steadfast loyalty of the gudewife, daughter,
and all the family, save Walter, whom he said, he suspected of a secret con-
nivance with the Cameronians. This was merely to serve a selfish purpose,
for Clerk suspecteil no such thing at that time. It had the desired effect.
Clavers set all the rest of the family free, but took the goodman with him
prisoner ; put two of his best horses in requisition ; mounted liimself on a
diminutive pony, with the thumbikins on his hands, and his feet chained be-
low its belly. In this degrading situation, he was put under the care of Ser-
geant Roy Mac]iherson and five troopers ; and Clavers with the rest of his
company, hasted, with great privacy and celerity, into that inhospitable wild,
which forms the boundary between Drummelzicr's ancient property and the
Johnstons of Annandale. The greater part of the fugitives had taken shelter
there at that time, it being the most inaccessible part in the south of Scotland,
and that where, of all others, they had been the least troubled. No troops
could subsist near them ; and all that the military could do was to set watches
near every pass to and from these mountains, where a few stragglers were
killed, but not many in proportion to the numbers that had there sought a
retreat

The Covenanters knew that Clavers would make a sweeping and extermi-
nating circuit about that time — incidents, which were not to be overlooked
had been paving the way for it — incidents with which the main body of that
people were totally unconnected. But it was usual at that time, and a very
a fnir practice it was, that whatever was s^iid, or perpetrated, by any intem-

THE BROWNIE OF BODS BECK. 39

perate fanatical individual, or any crazy wight, driven half mad bv ill usage-
whatever was said or done by such, was always attributed to the wh no seel a*
a body. It is too true that the Privy Council chose, invariably, men void of
all feeling or remorse to lead these troops. A man had no thing to study but
to be cruel enough to rise in the army in those days ; yet, because there was
a Dalziel, a Graham, a Creighton, and a Bruce among the king's troops, it
would be unfair to suppose all the rest as void of every principle of feeling
and forbearance as they. In like manner, because some of the Covenanters
said violent and culpable things, and did worse, it is hard to blame the whole
body for these ; for, in the scattered prowling way in which they were driven
to subsist, they had no control over individuals.

They had been looking for the soldiers appearing there for several days,
and that same morning had been on the watch ; but the day was now so far
advanced that they were waxen remiss, and had retired to their dens and
hiding places. Besides, he came so suddenly upon them that some parties,
as well as several stragglers, were instantly discovered. A most determined
pursuit ensued. Clavers exerted himself that day in such a manner, gallop-
ping over precipices, and cheering on his dragoons, that all the country people
who beheld him believed him to be a devil, or at least mounted on one. The
marks of that infernal coursei-'s feet are shown to this day on a steep hill
nearly perpendicular, below the Bubbly Craig, along which he is said to have
ridden at full speed, in order to keep sight of a party of the flying Covenan-
ters. At another place, called the Blue Sklidder, on the Merk side, he had
far outrode all his officers and dragoons in the pursuit of five men, who fled
straggling athwart the steep. He had discharged both his pistols without
effect ; and just as he was making ready to cleave down the hindmost with his
sabre, he was attacked by another party, who rolled huge stones at him from
the precipice above, and obliged him to make a hasty retreat.

Tradition has preserved the whole of his route that day with the utmost
minuteness. It is not easy to account for this. These minute traditions are
generally founded on truth ; yet though two generations have scarcely passed
away since the date of this tale, tradition, in this instance, relates things
impossible, else Clavers must indeed have been one of the infernals. Often
has the present relater of this tale stood over the deep green marks of that
courser's hoof, many of which remain on that hill, in awe and astonishment,
to think that he was actually looking at the traces made by the devil's foot, or
at least by a horse that once belonged to him.

Five men were slain that day ; but as they were all westland men, very
little is known concerning them. One of them was shot at a distance by some
dragoons who were in pursuit of him, just as he was entering a morass, where
he would certainly have escaped them. He is buried in a place called the
Watch Knowe, a little to the south-east of Loch Skene, beside a cairn where
he had often sat keeping watch for the approach of enemies, from which
circumstance the height derived its name. When he fell, it being rough
broken ground, they turned and rode off without ever going up to the body.
Four were surprised and taken prisoners on a height called Ker Cleuch-Ridge,
who were brought to Clavers and shortly examined on a little crook in the
Erne Cleuch, a little above the old steading at Hopertoudy.

Macpherson kept the high road, such as it was, with his prisoner ; but
travelled no faster than just to keep up with the parties that were scouring
the hills on each side ; and seeing these unlortunate men hurled in from the
hill, he rode up with his companions and charge to see the issue, remarking
to Walter that " he wools not pe much creat deal te worse of seeing fwat te
fwigs would pe getting."

How did Walter's heart smite him when he saw that one of them was the
sensible, judicious, and honourable fellow with whom he fought, and whose
arm he had dislocated by a blow with his stick ! It was still hanging in a
sling made of a double rush rope.

They would renounce nothing, confess nnthin;y, nor yield, in the slightest

40 THE ET TRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

degree, to the threats and insulting questions put by the general. They
expected no mercy, and they cringed for none ; but seemed all the while to
regard him with pity and contempt. Walter often said that he was an ill
judge of the cause for which these men suffered ; but whatever might be said
of it, they were heroes in that cause. Their complexions were sallow, and
bore mark^ of famine and other privations ; their beards untrimmed ; their
apparel all in rags, and their hats slouched down about their ears with sleep-
ing on the hills. All this they had borne with resignation and without a
murmur ; and, when brought to the last, before the most remorseless of the
human race, they showed no symptoms of flinching or yielding up an item of
the cause they had espoused.

When asked, if they would pray for the king,

They answered, ''that they would with all their hearts ; — they would pray
for his forgiveness in time and place convenient, but nut when every profligate
bade them, which were a loathful scurillity, and a mockery oi Cod."

" Would they acknowledge him as their right and lawful sovereign ? '

" No, that they would never do ! He was a bloody and designing papist,
and had usurped a prerogative that belonged not to him. To acknowledge
the Duke of York for king, would be to acknowledge the divine approbation
of tyranny, oppression, usurpation, and all that militates against religion or
liberty, as well as justifying the abrogation of our ancient law relating to the
succession ; and that, besides, he had trampled on every civil and religious
right, and was no king for Scotland, or any land where the inhabitants did not
choose the most abject and degrading slavery. For their parts, they would
never acknowledge him ; and though it was but little that their protestations
and their blood could avail, they gave them freely. They had but few left to
mourn for them, and these few might never know of their fate ; but there was
One who knew their hearts, who saw their sufferings, and in Him they trusted
that the days of tyranny and oppression were wearing to a close, and that
a race yet to come might acknowledge that they had not shed their blood in
vain."

Clavers ordered them all to be shot. They craved time to pray, but he
objected, sullenly alleging, that he had not time to spare. Mr. Copland said,
— " My lord, you had better grant the poor wretches that small indulgence."
On which Clavers took out his watch, and said he would grant them two
minutes, provided they did not howl. When the man with the hurt ann
turned round to kneel, Walter could not help crying out to him in a voice
half stifled with agony —

" Ah ! lack-a-day, man ! is it come to this with you, and that so soon ,''
This is a sad sight ! "

The man pretended to put on a strange and astonished look towards his
benefactor.

" Whoever you are," said he, " that pities the sufferings of a hapless
stranger, I thank you. May God requite you ! but think of yourself and apply
for mercy where it is to be found, for you are in the hands of those whose
boast it is to despise it."

Walter at first thought this was strange, but he soon perceived the policy
of it, and wondered at his friend's readiness at such an awful hour, when any
acknowledgment of connection would have been so fatal to himself. They
kneeled all down, clasped their hands together, turned their faces to Heaven,
and prayed in a scarce audible whisper. Captain Bruce, in the meantime,
kneeled behind the files, and prayed in mockery, making a long face, wiping
his eyes, and speaking in such a ludicrous whine, that it was impossible for
the gravest face to retain its muscles unaltered. He had more to attend to
him than the miserable sufferers. When the two minutes were expired, Clavers,
v.ho held his watch all the time, made a sign to the dragoons who were drawn
up, without giving any intimation to the sufferers, which, perhaps, was merci-
ful, and in a moment all the four were launclicd into eternity.

The soldiers, for what reason Waller never understood, stretched the bodies

THE BROWNIE O. BODSBECK. 41

all in a straight line on the brae, with their faces upwards, and about a yard
distant from one another, and then rode off as fast as they could to get another
hunt, as they called it. These four men were afterwards carried away by the
fugitives, and some country people, and decently interred in Ettrick church-
yard. Their graves are all in a row a few paces from the south-west corner
of the present church. The goodman of Chapelhope, some years thereafter,
erected a head-stone over the grave of the unfortunate sufferer whose arm he
had broken, which, with its rude sculpture, is to be seen to this day. His
name was Walter Biggar. A small heap of stones is raised on the place where
they were shot.

The last look which Walter took of the four corpses, as they lay stretched
on the brae, with the blood streaming from them, had nearly turned his brain.
His heart sunk within him. For years and days the scene never left his
mind's eye, sleeping nor waking. He always thought he saw them lying on
the green sloping brae, with their pale visages, blue open lips, clasped hands,
and dim steadfast eyes still fixed on the heavens. He had heard Clavers
and his officers called heroes : he wished those who believed so had been
there that day, to have judged who were the greatest heroes.

" There ! let them take that ! " said Captain Bruce, as he mounted his
horse.

" Poor misled unfortunate beings ! " said Copland, and mounted his.

" Huh ! Cot t — n ! " said Roy Macpherson, in a voice that seemed to
struggle for an outlet ; and Walter, to his astonishment, saw a tear glistening
on his rough weather-beaten cheek, as he turned to ride away !

The pursuit continued unabated for the whole of that day. There was a
great deal of firing, but the hills of Polmoody were inaccessible to cavalry
There was no more blood shed. They lodged that night at a place called
Kepplegill, where they put every thing in requisition about the house, and
killed some of the cattle. Clavers was in extremely bad humour, and Walter
had no doubt that he once intended to have sacrificed him that night, but
seemed to change his mind, after having again examined him. He was very
stern, and threatened him with the torture, swearing that he knew him to be
the supporter of that nest of miscreants that harboured around him, and that
though he should keep him prisoner for a dozen years, he would have it
proven on him. Walter made oath that there had never one of them been
within his door, consistent with his knowledge ; that he had never been at a
conventicle ; and proffered to take the test, and oath of abjuration, if allowed
to do so. All this would not satisfy Clavers. Walter said he wondered at
his discernment, for, without the least evil or disloyal intent, he found he had
rendered himself liable to punishment, but how he could be aware of that he
knew not.

That night Walter was confined in a cowhouse, under the same guard that
bad conducted him from Chapelhope. The soldiers put his arms round one
of the stakes for the cattle, and then screwed on the thumbikins, so that he
was fastened to the stake without being much incommoded. When Mac-
pherson came in at a late hour, (for he was obliged likewise to take up his
abode in the cowhouse over night), the first word he said was, —

" She no pe liking to see an honest shentleman tied up to a stake, as she
were peing a poollock."

He then began to lecture Walter on the magnitude of folly it would be in
him to run away, " when he took it into consideration that he had a ponny
fhamily, and sheeps, and horses, and bheasts, that would all pe maide
acchountable."

Walter acknowledged the force of his reasoning ; said it was sterling com-
mon sense, and that nothing would induce him to try such a dangerous
experiment as attempting to make his escape. Macpherson then loosed him
altogether, and conversed with him until he fell asleep. Walter asked him,
what he thought of his case with the general 1 Macpherson shook his head
Walter said there was not the shadow of a proof against him ! *' No.'*" said

42 THE tLTTRiCK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

Macpherson ; " but there surely is ! There is very much deal of proof. Was
not there my countrymen and scholdiers murdered on your ghrounds ? Was
not there mhore scoans, and prochin, and muttons in your house, than would
have peen eaten in a mhonth by the fhamily that pelongs to yourself? By
the pode more of the ould deol, but there is more proof than would hang
twenty poor peoples."

"That's but sma' comfort, man ! But what think ye I should do?"

" How can I know !— Who is it that is your Chief?"

"Chief:— What's that?"

" Tat is te head of te clan — Te pig man of your name and fhamily."

" In troth, man, an' there isna ane o' my name aboon mysel'.''

" Fwat? Cot's everlasting plissing ! are you techief of te clan, M'Leadle?
Then, sir, you are a shentleman indeed. Though your clan should pe never
so poor, you are a shentleman ; and you must pe giving me your hand ; and
you need not think any shame to pe giving me your hand ; for hersel pe a
shentleman pred and porn, and first coosin to Cluny Macpherson's sister-in-
law. Who te deol dha more she pe this clan, M'Leadle? She must be of
Macleane. She once pe prhother to ourselves, but fell into great dishunity by
the preaking off of Finlay Gorm More Machalabin Macleane of Ilanterach
and Ardnamurchan."

Walter having thus set Daniel Roy Macpherson on the top of his hobby-
horse by chance, there was no end of the matter! He went on with genealo-
gies of uncouth names, and spoke of some old freebooters as the greatest of
all kings. Walter had no means of stopping him, but by pretending to fall
asleep, and when Macpherson weened that no one was listening farther to
him, he gave up the theme, turned himself over, and uttered some fervent
sentences in Gaelic, with heavy moans between.

" What's that you are saying now," said Walter, pretending to rouse him-
self up.

" Pe sad works this," said he. " Huh ! Cot in heaven aye ! Hersel would
be fighting te Campbells, sword in hand, for every inch of the Moor of
Rhanoch ; but she does not like to pe pluffing and shooting through te podies
of te poor helpless insignificant crheatures. T — n'd foolish ignorant people !
Cot t — n, if she pe having the good sense and prhudence of a bheast."

Walter commended his feeling, and again asked his advice with regard to
his own conduct

'•' Who is te great man tat is te laird to yourself?" asked he.

" Mr Hay of Drummelzier," was answered.

" Then lose not a mhoment in getting his very good report or security. All
goes by that. It will do mhore good than any stock of innocence ; and you
had need to look very sharp, else he may soon cut you short. It's a very good
and a very kind man, but she pe caring no more for the lives of peoples, tan
I would do for as many ptarmigams."

Walter pondered on this hint throughout the night ; and the more he did
so the more he was convinced, that, as the affairs of the countiy were then
conducted, Macpherson's advice was of the first utility. He sent for one of
the shepherds of Kepplegill next morning, charged him with an express to his
family, and unable to do anything further for himself, submitted patiently to
his fate.

Clavers having been informed that night that some great conventicles had
been held to the southward, he arose early, crossed the mountains by the
Pennera Corse, and entered that district of the south called Eskdale. He had
run short of ammunition by the way, and knowing of no other supply, dis-
patched Bruce with 20 men by the way of Ettrick, to plunder the aisle where
the ancient and noble family of the Scotts of Thirlstane were enshrined in
massy leaden chests. From these he cut the lids, and otherwise damaged
them, scattering the bones about in the aisle ; but the Scotts f:>^ Daventon
shortly after gathered up the relics of their ancestors, which they ag.iin de-
posited in the chests, — closed them up with wooden lids, and buried them

THE BROWNIE OF BODSBECK. 43

deep under the aisle floor, that they might no more be discomposed by the
hand of wanton depravity.

At a place called the Steps of Glenderg, Clavers met with Sir James John-
ston of Westeraw, with fifty armed men, who gave him an exaggerated
account of the district of Eskdale, telling him of such and such field-meetings,
and what inflammatory discourses had there been delivered, insinuating all
the while that the whole dale ought to be made an example of. Clavers
rejoiced in his heart at this, for the works of devastation and destruction were
beginning to wear short. The Covenanters were now so sorely reduced, that
scarcely durst one show his face, unless it were to the moon and stars of
heaven. A striking instance of this I may here relate by the way, as it hap-
pened on the very day to which my tale has conducted me.

A poor wanderer, named, I think, Matthew Douglas, had skulked about
these mountains, chiefly in a wild glen, called the Caldron, ever since the
battle of Both well-bridge. He had made several narrow, and, as he thought,
most providential escapes, but was at length quite overcome by famine, cold,
and watching ; and finding his end approaching, he crept by night into a poor
widow's house at Rennelburn, whose name, if my informer is not mistaken,
was Ann Hyslop. Ann was not a Cameronian, but being of a gentle and
humane disposition, she received the dying man kindly — watched, and even
wept over him, administering to all his wants. But the vital springs of life
were exhausted and dried up : He died on the second day after his arrival,
and was buried with great privacy, by night, in the churchyard at Westerkirk.

Sir James Johnston had been a zealous Covenanter, and at first refused the
test with great indignation ; but seeing the dangerous ground on which he
stood, and that his hand was on the lion's mane, he renounced these prin-
ciples ; and, to render his apostasy effective, became for a time a most violent
distresser of his former friends. He knew at this time that Clavers was com-
ing round ; and, in order to ingratiate himself with him, he had for several
days been raging up and down the country like a roaring lion, as they termed
it. It came to his ears what Ann Hyslop had done ; whereon, pretending
great rage, he went with his party to the burial ground, digged the body out
of the grave, and threw it over the churchyard wall for beasts of prey to
devour. Forthwith he proceeded to Rennelburn — plundered the house of
Ann Hyslop, and then burnt it to ashes ; but herself he could not find, for
she had previously absconded. Proceeding to the boundary of the county,
he met and welcomed Clavers to his assistance, breathing nothing but
revenge against all non-conformists, and those of his own district in par-
ticular.

Clavers knew mankind well. He perceived the moving cause of all this,
and did not appear so forward and hearty in the business as Sir James
expected. He resolved to ravage Eskdale, but to manage matters so that the
whole blame might fall on Johnston. This he effected so completely, that he
made that knight to be detested there as long as he lived, and his memory to
hie abhorred after his decease. He found him forward in the cause ; and still
tlic more so that he appeared to be, the more shy and backward was Clavers,
appearing to consent to everything with reluctance. They condemned the
stocks of sheep on Fingland and the Casways on very shallow grounds.
Clavers proposed to spare them ; but Sir James swore that they should not
be spared, that their owners might learn the value of conventicles.

" Well, well," said Clavers, '" since vou will have it so, let them be driven
off."

In this manner they proceeded down that unhappy dale, and at Craik-
haugh, by sheer accident, lighted on Andrew Hyslop, son to the widow of
Kennelbum, above mentioned. Johnston apprehended him, cursed, threat-
ened, and gnashed his teeth at him with perfect rage. He was a beautiful
youth, only nineteen years of age. On his examination, it appeared that he
had not been at home, nor had any hand in sheltering the t'c rnscd ; but he
knew, iie said, that his mother had done so, aiv n doing it, had done well ;

44 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

and he was satisfied that act of hers would be approven of in the eye of
the Almighty.

Clavers asked, " Have you ever attended the field conventicles ? "

" No."

" Have you ever preached yourself? "

" No."

" Do you think that you could preach ? "

" I am sure I could not."

" I'll be bound but you can pray then," said he.

He then proftered him his liberty if he would confess that his mother had
done wrong, but this he would in no wise do ; for, he said, it would be a sin-
ful and shameful lie, he being convinced that his mother had done what
was her duty, and the duty of every Christian to do towards his fellow-
creatures.

Johnston swore he should be shot. Clavers hesitated, and made some ob-
jections ; but the other persisting, as Clavers knew he would, the latter
consented, as formerly, saying, " Well, well, since you will have it so, let it be
done— his blood be on your head, I am free of it. — Daniel Roy Macpherson,
draw up your file, and put the sentence in execution."

Hyslop kneeled down. They bade him put on his bonnet, and draw
it over his eyes ; but this he calmly refused, saying, " He had done nothing
of which he was ashamed, and could look on his murderers and to Heaven
without dismay."

When Macpherson heard this, and looked at him as he kneeled on the
ground with his hands pinioned, his beautiful young face turned toward the
sky, and his long fair ringlets hanging waving backward, his heart melted
within him, and the great tears had for some time been hopping down his
cheeks. When Clavers gave the word of command to shoot the youth, Mac-
pherson drew up his men in a moment — wheeled them off at the side —
presented arms — and then answered the order of the general as follows, in a
voice that was quite choked one while, and came forth in great volleys at an-
other— Now, Cot t — n sh — sh — she'll rather be fighting Clavers and all her
draghoons, pe — pe — pefore she'll pe killing tat dear good Ihad."

Captain Bruce burst out into a horse-laugh, leaping and clapping his
hands on hearing such a singular reply ; even Clavers had much ado to
suppress a smile, which, however, he effected by uttering a horrible curse.

" I had forgot, Sir James," said he ; " Macpherson is as brave a man as
ever strode on a field of battle ; but in domestic concerns, he has the heart of
a chicken."

He then ordered four of his own guards to shoot him, which they executed
in a moment. Some of his acquaintances being present, they requested
permission of Clavers to bury him, which he readily granted, and he was
interred on the very spot where he fell. A grave-stone was afterwards
erected over him, which is still to be seen at Craikhaugh, near the side of the
road, a little to the north of the Church of Eskdale-muir.

Clavers and his prisoner lodged at Westeraw that night. Johnston wanted
to have him shot : but to this Clavers objected, though rather in a jocular
manner.

Walter said, he was sure if Sir James had repeated his request another
lime, that Clavers' answer would have been, " Well, well, since you will have
it so,"&c. ; but, fortunately for Walter, he desisted just in time.

These two redoubted champions continued their progress all next day ;
and on the third, at evening, Clavers crossed Dryfe, with nine thousand
sheep, three hundred goats, and about as many cattle and horses in his train,
taken from the people of Eskdale alone. He took care to herry Sir James's
tenants, in particular, of everything they possessed, and apparently all by
their laird's desire, so that very little of the blame iittached to the general.
He was heard to say to Sir Thomas Livingston that night, •' I trow, we hae
left the silly turn-coat a pirn to wind. "—But we must now leave them to con-

THE BROWNIE OE BODSBECK. 45

tinue their route of rapine and devastation, and return to the distressed
family of Chapelhope, in order that we may watch the doings of the Brownie
of Bodsbeck.

CHAPTER XL
For all Maron Linton's grievous distresses, the arrival of Clerk, the curate
proved an antidote of no small avail. It was a great comfort to her, in the
midst of her afflictions ; and after she had been assured by him of Walter's
perfect safety, she became apparently more happy, and certainly more
loquacious, than she had been for a great while bygone. She disclosed to
him the dreadful secret, that her child was possessed of an evil spirit, and
implored his influence with Heaven, and his po^ver with hell, for its removal.
This he readily undertook, on condition of being- locked up with the maiden
for a night, or two at most. She was to be left solely to his management ;
without the interference of any other human being ; and with the help only
of the Bible, the lamp, and the hour-glass, he declared that he would drive
the unclean spirit from its tabernacle of clay.

To these conditions Maron Linton gladly assented ; and, with grateful and
fond acknowledgments, called him their benefactor and 'spiritual guide, their
deliverer and shield ; but he checked her, and said, that there was still one con-
dition more on which she behoved to condescend. It was likely that he might
be under the hard necessity of using some violent measures in exorcising her,
for it would be hard to drive the malignant spirit from so sweet a habitation ;
but whatever noises might be heard, no one was to interfere, or even listen,
upon pain of being delivered up to the foul spirit, soul and body ; and it was
ten to one that any who was so imprudent as to intrude on these awful and
mysterious rites, might be torn in pieces.

Maron blest herself from all intei'ference, and gave Nanny directions to
the same purport ; as for the two boys, they slept out of hearing. She like-
wise gave him the key, that he might lock both the doors of the Old Room in
the inside, and thus prevent all intrusions, should any be offered. He said
prayers in the family, to which Katharine was admitted ; and then taking the
lamp and the hour-glass in his hand, and the Bible below his arm, he de-
parted into the Old Room, where, in about half an hour afterwards, the maiden
was summoned to attend him. He took her respectfully by the hand, and
seated her on a chair at the side of the bed, saying that he was commissioned
by her worthy mother to hold a little private conversation with her. Then
locking the door, and putting the key in his pocket, he added, " You are my
prisoner for this night, but be not alarmed ; I have undertaken to drive an evil
spirit away from you, but both my exorcisms and orisons shall be adapted to
the feelings of a young maiden, and as agreeable to one whom I so much
admire, as it is in my power to make them."

Katharine grew as pale as death as he uttered these words, placing himself
at the same time cordially by her side.

It is unmeet to relate the conversation that ensued ; but the worthy curate
soon showed off in his true colours, and with unblushing front ventured a pro-
posal that shocked the innocent and modest Katharine so much that she could
only reply to it by holding up her hands, and uttering a loud exclamation of
astonishment. His further proceedure soon convinced her that she was in
the hands of a man who was determined to take every advantage of the op-
portunity thus unwarrantably afforded him, and to stick at no atrocity for the
accomplishment of his purposes.

She neither descended to tears nor entreaties, but resisted all his approaches
with a firmness and dignity that he never conceived to have formed any part
of her character ; and, when continuing to press her hand she said to him,
" You had better keep your distance. Mass John Clerk, and consider what be-
fits your character, and the confidence reposed in you by my unsuspecting
parent ; but I tell you, if you again presume to touch me, though it were but
with one of your fingers, 1 will, in a moment, bring those out of the chink of

^6 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

the wall, or from under that hearth, that shall lay you motionless at my feet m
the twinkling of an eye, or bear you off to any part of the creation that I shall
name."

He smiled as she said this, and was about to turn it into a jest ; but on
looking at her face, he perceived that there was not one trait of jocularity in
It. It beamed with a mystical serenity which sent a chillness through his
whole frame ; and, for the tirst time he deemed her deranged, or possessed in
some manner, he wist nol how. Staunch, however, to his dishonourable pur-
pose, he became so unequivocal, that she was obliged to devise some means
of attaining a temporary cessation ; and feigning to hesitate on his proposal,
she requested a minute or two to spealc.

" I am but young, Mass John," said she, " and have no experience in the
ways of the world ; and it seems, from what you have advanced, that I attach
more importance to some matters than they deserve. But 1 beg of you to give
me a little time to reflect on the proposal you have made. See that hour-glass
is half run out already : I only ask of you not to disturb or importune me until
it run out a second time."

" And do you then promise to do as I request .'"' said he.

" 1 do,' returned she, " provided you still continue of the same mind as you
are now."

" My mind is made up," said he, " and my resolution taken in all that re-
lates to you ; nevertheless it would be hard to refuse a maid so gentle and
modest a request — 1 grant it — and should you attempt to break off your
engagement at the expiry of the time, it shall be the worse for you."

■' Be it so," replied she : " in the meantime let me be undisturbed till then."
And so saying, she arose and went aside to the little table where the Bible
and the lamp were placed, and began with great seriousness to search out,
and peruse parts of the sacred volume.

Clerk liked not this contemplative mood, and tried every wile in his power
to draw her attention from the Scriptures. He sought out parts which he de-
sired her to read, if she would read ; but from these she turned away without
deigning to regard them, and gently reminded him that he had broken one of
his conditions. " Maids only impose such conditions on men," said he, "as
they desire should be broken." At this she regarded him with a look of
ineffable contempt, and continued to read on in her Bible.

The hour of midnight was now past, — the sand had nearly run out for the
second time since the delay had been acceded to, and Clerk had been for a
while tapping the glass on the side, and shaking it, to make it empty its con-
tents the sooner. Katharine likewise began to eye it with looks that manifested
some degree of perturbation : she clasped the Bible, and sate still in one posi-
tion, as if listening attentively for some sound or signal. The worthy curate
.It length held the hourglass up between her eye and the burning lamp, — the
last hngering pile of sand fell reluctantly out as he shook it in that position, —
anxiety and suspense setded more deeply on the lovely and serene face of
Katharine ; but instead of a flexible timidity, it assumed an air of sternness.
At that instant the cock crew, — she started, — heaved a deep sigh, like one
that feels a sudden relief from pain, and a beam of joy shed its radiance over
her countenance. Clerk was astonished, — he could not divine the source or
cause of her emotions, but judging from his own corrupt heart, he judged
amiss. True however to his point, he reminded her of her promise, and
claimed its fulfilment. She deigned no reply to his threats or promises, but
kept her eye steadfastly fixed on another part of the room. He bade her re-
member that he w.is not to be mocked, and in spite of her exertions, he lifted
her up in his arms, and carried her across tlie room towards the bed. She
uttered a loud scream, and m a moment the outer door that entered from the
bank was opened, and a being of such unearthly dimensions entered, as no
pen may ever wholly define. It was the Brownie of Bodsbeck, sometimes
mentioned before, small of stature, and its whole form utterly mis-shaped.
Its beard was long and grey, while its look, and every lineament of its face,

THE BROWNIE OF BODS BECK. 47

were indicative of agony — its looks were thin, dishevelled, and white, and its
back hunched up behind its head. There seemed to be more of the same
species of haggard beings lingering behind at the door, but this alone advanced
with a slow majestic pace. Mass John uttered two involuntary cries, some-
what resembling the shrill bellowings of an angry bull, mixed with inarticulate
mumblings, — sunk powerless on the floor, and, with a deep shivering groan,
fainted away. Katharine, stretching forth her hands, flew to meet her un-
earthly guardian ; — " Welcome, my watchful and redoubted Brownie," said
she ; " thou art well worthy to be the familiar to an empress, rather than an
insignificant country maiden."

" Brownie's here. Brownie's there,
Brownie's with thee everywhere,"

said the dwarfish spirit, and led her off in triumph.

Having bethought herself after she went out, she returned lightly, took the
keys from the pocket of the forlorn priest, extinguished the lamp, and again
disappeared, locking the door on the outside.

Mass John's trance threw him into a heavy and perturbed slumber, which
overpowered him for a long space, and even after he awaked, it was long
before he could fathom the circumstances of his case, for he imagined he had
only been in a frightful and oppressive dream ; till, beginning to grope about,
he discovered that he was lying on the damp floor with his clothes on ; and at
length, without opening his eyes, he recovered by degrees his reasoning
faculties, and was able to retrace the circumstances that led to his present
situation. He arose in great dismay — the daylight had begun to shine into
the room, and finding that both doors were locked, he deemed it unadvisable
to make any noise, and threw himself upon the bed. The retrospect of his
adventure was fraught with shame and astonishment He had acted a con-
siderable part in it, but he had dreamed of a great deal more, and with all
his ingenuity he could not separate in his mind the real incidents from those
that were imaginary. He arose with the sun, and rapped gently at the inner
door, which, to his still farther astonishment, was opened by Katharine, in
her usual neat and cleanly morning dress. He stared in her face, to mark if
he could read any meaning in it : he could distinguish none that spoke a
language to him either good or bad ; it was a face of calm decent serenity,
and wore no shade of either shame nor anger — somewhat paler than it was the
evening before, but still as lovely as ever. The curate seemed gasping for
breath, but not having courage to address her, he walked forth to the open air.

It was a beautiful morning in September ; the ground was covered with a
slight hoar frost, and a cloud of light haze (or, as the country people call it,
the blue oiider,) slept upon the long valley of water, and reached nearly mid-
way up the hills. The morning sun shone full upon it, making it appear hke
an ocean of silvery down. It vanished by imperceptible degrees into the
clear blue firmament, and was succeeded by a warm sun and a southerly
breeze. It was such a morning as could not fail to cheer and re-animate
every heart and frame, not wholly overcome by guilt and disease — Clerk's
were neither — he was depraved of heart, but insensible to the evil of such a
disposition ; he had, moreover, been a hanger-on from his youth upward, and
had an effrontery not to be out-faced. Of course, by the time he had finished
a three-hours' walk, he felt himself so much refreshed and invigorated in mind,
that he resolved not to expose himself to the goodwife, who was his princi[)al
stay and support among his straggled and dissatisfied flock, by a confession
of the dreadful fright he had gotten, but to weather out the storm with as lolly
and saintly a deportment as he could.

He had not well gone out when the lad of Kepplegill arrived, and delivered
to Katharine her father's letter. She saw the propriety of the injunction
which it bore, and that an immediate application to their laird, Drunimelzit-r,
\yho was then high in trust and favour with the party in power, was tlie
likeliest of all ways to procure her father's relief, neither dare she trust the

48 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

mission to any but herself. But ah ! there was a concealed weight that
pressed upon her spirit — a secret circumstance that compelled her to stay at
home, and which could not be revealed to mortal ear. Her lather's fate was
at present uncertain and ticklish, but that secret once revealed, tortures,
death, and ruin were inevitable— the doom of the whole family was sealed.
She knew not what to do, for she had none to advise with. There was but
one on earth to whom this secret could be imparted ; indeed there was but
one in whose power it was to execute the trust which the circumstances of the
case required, and that was old Nanny, who was crazed, fearless, and alto-
gether inscrutable. Another trial, however, of her religious principles, and
adherence to the established rules of church government in the country, was
absolutely necessary ; and to that trial our young and mysterious heroine
went with all possible haste, as well as precaution.

Whosoever readeth this must paint to themselves old Nanny, and they
must paint her aright, with her thin fantastic form and antiquated dress,
bustling up and down tlie house. Her fine stock of bannocks had been all
exhausted — the troopers and their horses had left nothing in her master's
house that could either be eaten or conveniently carried away. She had been
early astir, as well as her sedate and thoughtful young dame, had been busy
all the morning, and the whole time her tongue never at rest. She had been
singing one while, speaking to herself another, and every now and then inter-
mixing bitter reflections on Clavers and his troops.

" Wae be to them for a pack o' giectiy gallayniels — they haena the mence
o' a miller's yaud ; for though she'll stap her nose into everybody's pock, yet
when she's fou she'll carry naething wi' her. Heichow 1 wae's me, that I sude
hae lived to see the day ! That ever I sude hae lived to see the colehood
take the laverock's place ; and the stanchel and the merlin chatterin' frae
the cushat's nest ! Ah ! wae's me ! will the sweet voice o' the turtle-doo be
nae mair heard in our land ! There was a time when 1 sat on the bonny
green brae an' listened to it till the tears dreepit frae my een, an' a' the hairs
o' my head stood on end!— The hairs o' my head.''^ — Ay, that's nae lie!
They're grey now, an' will soon be snaw-white if heart's care can alter
them ; but they will never be sae white as his war. I saw the siller-grey lock
o' age, an' the manly curls o' youth wavin' at my side that day ! — But where
are they now ? A' mouled ! a' mouled 1 — But the druckit blood winna let
them rot."* I'll see them rise fresh and bonny! I'll look round to my right
hand and ane will say, 'Mother! my dear mother, are you here with us?'
Ill turn to my left hand, another will say, ' Nanny ! my dear and faithful wife,
are you too here with us.'" — I'll say, 'Ay, John, I'm here; I was yours in life;
I have been yours in death ; an' I'll be yours in life again.' — Dear bairn, dear
bn.irn, are you there," continued she, observing Katharine standing close
behind her ; " what was I saying, or where was I at .'' I little wat outher
what I was saying or doing. — Hout aye ; I was gaun ower some auld things,
but they're a' like a dream, an' when I get amang them I m hardly myseL
Dear bairn, ye maunna mind an auld crazy body's reveries."

There was some need for this apology, if Nanny's frame, air, and attitude
are taken into account. She was standing with her back to the light, mixing
meal with water, whereof to make bread— her mutch, or night-bussing, as she
called it, was tied close down over her cheeks and brow as usual ; her grey
locks hanging dishevelled from under it ; and as she uttered the last sentence,
immediately before noticing her young mistress, her thin mealy hands were
stretched upwards, her head and body bent back, and her voice like one in a
paroxysm. Katharine quaked, although well accustomed to scenes of no
ordinary nature.

" Nanny," said she, "there is something that preys upon your spirit — some
great calamity that recurs to your memory, and goes near to unhinge your
tranquillity of mind, if not your reason. Will you inform me of it, good
Nanny; that I may talk and sympathize with you over it ?"

" Dear bairn, nae loss ava A' profit I a' profit i' the main! I haena biggit

THE BROWNIE OF BODSBECK. 49

a bield o' the windlestrae, nor lippened my weight to a broken reed ! Na, na.
dear bairn ; nae loss ava."

" But, Nanny, I have overheard you in your most secret hours, in your
prayers and self-examinations."

At the mention of this Nanny turned about, and after a wild searching
stare in her young mistress's face, while every nerve of her frame seemed to
shrink from the recollection of the disclosures she feared she had made, she
answered as follows, in a deep and tremulous tone : —

" That was atween God and me — There was neither language nor sound
there for the ear o' flesh ! — It was unfair! — It was unfair! — Ye are mistress
here, and ye keep the keys o' the aumbry, the kitchen, the ha', an' the hale
house ; but wi' the secret keys o' the heart and conscience ye hae naething to
do !— the keys o' the sma'est portal that leads to heaven or hell are nane o'
yours ; therefore, what ye hae done was unfair. If I chose, sinful and miser-
able as I am, to converse with my God about the dead as if they war living,
an' of the living as if they war dead, what's that to you ? Or if I likit to take
counsel of that which exists only in my own mind, is the rackle hand o' steel-
rife power to make a handle o' that to grind the very hearts o' the just and
the good, or turn the poor wasted frame o' eild and resignation on the wheel?
— Lack-a-day, my dear bairn, I'm lost again ! Ye canna an' ye maunna
forgie me now. Walth's dear, and life's dearer — but sin' it maun be sae, twal
o'clock sanna find me aneath your roof— there shall naebody suffer for har-
bouring poor auld Nanny — she has seen better days, an' she hopes to see
better anes again : but it's lang sin' the warld's weel an' the warld's wae came
baith to her alike. I maun een bid you fareweel, my bonny bairn, but I
maun tell ye ere I gae that ye're i' the braid way. Ye hae some good things
about ye, and O, it is a pity that a dear sweet soul should be lost for want o'
light to direct ! How can a dear bairn find the right way wi' its een tied up?
But I maun haud my tongue an' leave ye — I wad fain greet, but I hae lost
the gate o't, for the fountain-head has been lang run dry — Weel, weel— it's a'
ower ! — nae mair about it — How's this the auld sang gaes?

When the well runs dry then the rain is nigh,

The heavens o' earth maun borrow.
An' the streams that stray thro' the wastes the day,

May sail aboon the morrow.

Then dinna greet, my bonny bird,

I downa bide to hear ye ;
The storm may blaw, and the rain may fa'.

But nouther sal come near ye.

There s an eye that sees, there's an arm uprears,

There's an ear that hears our mourning,
There's an edict pass'd out frae the sky.

From which there's no returning.

Then dinna greet for the day that's gane,

Nor on the present ponder.
For thou shalt sing on the laverock's wing,

An' far away beyond her.

This Nanny sung to an air so soothing, and at the same time so melancholy,
it was impossible to listen to her unaffected, especially as she herself was
affected in a very peculiar manner— a beam of wild delight glancing in her
eye, but it was like the joy of grief (if one may be allowed the expression), if
not actually the joy of madness. Nothing could be more interesting than her
character was now to the bewildered Katharine— it arose to her eyes, and
grew on her mind like a vision. She had been led previously to regard her
as having been crazed from her birth, and her songs and chaunts to be mere
ravings of fancy, strung in rhymes to suit favourite airs, or old scraps of
i 4

50 THE ET TRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

ballads void of meaning, that she had learnt in her youth. But there was a
wild elegance at times in her manner of thinking and expression — a dash of
sublimity that was inconsistent with such an idea. "Is it possible" (thus
reasoned the maiden with herself), " that this demeanour can be the effect of
great worldly trouble and loss ? — Perhaps she is bereft of all those who were
near and dear to her in life — is left alone as it were in this world, and has lost
a relish for all its concerns, while her whole hope, heart, and mind, is fixed
on a home above, to which all her thoughts, dreams, and even her ravings
insensibly turn, and to which the very songs and chaunts of her youthful days
are modelled anew. If such is really her case, how I could sympathize with
her in all her feelings !"

" Nanny," said she, " how wofuUy you misapprehend me ; I came to ex-
change burdens of heart and conscience with you — to confide in you, and love
you : Why will not you do the same with me, and tell me what loss it is that
you seem to bewail night and day, and what affecting theme it is that thus
puts you beside yourself? — If I judge not far amiss, the knowledge of this is
of greater import to my peace than aught in the world besidj, and will lead
to a secret from me that deeply concerns us both."

Nanny's suspicions were aroused, not laid, by this speech ; she eyed her
young mistress steadfastly for a while, smiled, and shook her head.

" Sae young, sae bonny, and yet sae cunning !" said she. " Judas coudna
hae sic a face, but he had nouther a fairer tongiie nor a fauser heart ! — A
secret frae you, dear bairn ! what secret can come frae you, but some bit
waefu' love story, enough to mak the pinks an' the ewe gowans blush to the
very lip ? My heart's wae for ye, ae way an' a' ways ; but its a part of your
curse — woman sinned an' woman maun suffer — her hale life is but a succession
o' shame, degradation, and suffering, frae her cradle till her grave."

Katharine was dumb for a space, for reasoning with Nanny was out of the
question.

" You may one day rue this misprision of my motives, Nanny," rejoined

she ; " in the mean time, I am obliged to leave home, on an express that con-

erns my father's life and fortune ; be careful of my mother until my return,

nd of everything about the house, for the charge of all must devolve for a

space on you."

" That I will, dear bairn — the thing that Nanny has ta'cn in hand sanna
be neglected, if her twa hands can do it, and her auld crazed head com-
prehend it."

" But, first, tell me, and tell me seriously, Nanny, are you subject to any
apprehension or terror on account of spirits !"

" Nae mair feared for them than I am for you, an' no half sae muckle, wi'
your leave. — Spirits, quoth I !

Little misters it to me

Whar they gang, or whar they ride ;

Round the hillock, on the lea,

Round the auld borral tree.

Or bourock by the burn side ;

Deep within the boglc-howe,

Wi' his haffats in a lowe,

Wons the waefu' wirricowe.

" Ah ! noble Cleland ! it is like his wayward freaks an' whimsies ! Did ye
never hear it, you that speaks about spirits as they war your door neighbours?
It's a clever thing; his sister sung it ; I think, it rins this gate — hum! but
then the dialogue comes in, and it is sae kamshachlc 1 canna word it, though
I canna say it's mislcared either."

" Dear Nanny, that is far from my question. You say you are nothing
afraid of spirits.'"'

*' An' why should I ? If they be good spirits, they will do me nae ill ; and
if they be evil spirits, they hae nae power here. Thinkna ye that He that

THE BROWNIE OF BODS BECK. 51

takes care o' lue throughout the day, li as able to do it by night? Na, na
dear bairn, I hae contendit \vi' the vvarst o' a' spirits face to face, hand to
hand, and breast to breast ; ay, an' for a' his power, an' a' his might, I dang
him; and packed him off baffled and shamed! — Little reason hae I to be
feared for ony o' his black emissaries."

" Should one appear to you bodily, would you be nothing distracted or
frightened ?''

" In my own strength I could not stand it, but yet I would stand
it/'

" That gives me joy. — Then, Nanny, list to me : You will assuredly see one
in my absence ; and you must take good heed to my directions, and act pre-
cisely as I bid you."

Nanny gave up her work, and listened in suspense. " Then it is a' true
that the fock says !" said she, with a long-drawn sigh. " His presence be
about us !"

" How sensibly you spoke just now ! Where is your faith fled already .^
I tell you there will one appear to you every night in my absence, precisely
on the first crowing of the cock, about an hour after midnight, and you must
give him everything that he asks, else it may fare the worse with you, and all
about the house. '

Nanny's limbs were unable to support her weight — they trembled under her.
She sat down on a form, leaned her brow upon both hands, and recited the
63rd Psalm from beginniiig to end in a fervent tone.

" I vvasna prepared for this," said she. " I fear, though my faith may stand
it, my wits will not. Dear, dear bairn, is there nae way to get aff frae sic a
trial!"

" There is only one, which is fraught with danger of another sort ; but
were I sure that I could trust you with it, all might be well, and you would
rest free from any intercourse with that unearthly visitant, of whom it seems
you are so much in terror."

" For my own sake ye may trust me there : Ony thing but a bogle face to
face at midnight, an' me a' my lane. It is right wonderfu', though I ken I'll
soon be in a warld o' spirits, an' that I maun mingle an' mool wi' them for
ages, how the nature within me revolts at a' communion wi' them here. Dear
bairn, gie me your other plan, an' trust me for my own sake."

" It is this — but if you adopt it, for your life an' soul let no one in this place
know of it but yourself: — It is to admit one or two of the fugitive whigs, —
these people that skulk and pray about the mountains, privily into the house
every night, until my return. If you will give me any test of your secrecy and
truth, I will find ways and means of bringing them to you, which will effectu-
ally bar all intrusion of bogle or Brownie on your quiet ; or should any such
dare to appear, they will deal with it themselves."

"An' can the presence o' ane o' thetn do this?" said Nanny, starting up and
speaking in a loud eldrich voice. " Then Heaven and hell acknowledges it,
an' the earth maun soon do the same ! I knew it ! — I knew it ! — I knew it !
— ha, ha, ha, I knew it !— Ah ! John, thou art safe ! — Ay ! an' mae than thee;
an' there will be mae yet ! It is but a day ! an' dark an' dismal though it be,
the change will be the sweeter ! Blessed, blessed be the day ! None can
say of thee that thou died like a fool, for thy hands were not bound, nor thy
feet put into fetters." Then turning close round to Katharine, with an
expression of countenance quite indescribable, she added in a quick maddened
manner,—" Eh ? Thou seekest a test of me, dost thou ? Can blood do it } —
Can martyrdom do it ? — Can bonds, wounds, tortures, and mockery do it i* —
Can death itself do it ? All these have / suffered for that cause in this same
body ; mark that ; for there is but one half of my bone and my flesh here.
But words are nothing to the misbelieving — mere air mouthed into a sound.
Look at this for a test of my sincerity and truth.'' So saying, she gave her
hand a wild brandish in the air, darted it at her throat, and snapping the tie
of her cap that she had always worn over her face, she snatched it off, and

52 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

turning her cheek round to her young mistress, added, '' Look there for your
test, and if that is not enough, I will give you more I "

Katharine was struck dumb with astonishment and horror. She saw that
her ears were cut out close to the skull, and a C. R. indented on her cheek
with a hot iron, as deep as the jaw-bone. She burst out a crying — clasped
the old enthusiast in her arms — kissed the wound and stecj^ed it with her
tears, and witliout one further remark, led her away to the Old Room, that
they might converse without interruption.

The sequel of this disclosure turned not out as desired ; but this we must
leave by the way, until we overtake it in the regular course of the narrative.

CHAPTER XII.
As soon as her father's letter was put into her hands, Katharine sent oflf one
of her brothers to Muchrah, to warn old John and his son to come instantly
to Chapelhope. 'I'hey both arrived while she and Nanny were consulting in
the Old Room. She told them of her father's letter, of the jeopardy he was
in, and of her intended application to Drummelzier without loss of time.
" One of you," said she, '' must accompany me ; and I sent for you both, to
learn which could, with least inconvenience, be wanted from your flocks."

" As for me," said John, " it's out o' the question to ihink about me winning
away. The ewes wad gang wi' the bit hog-fence o' the Quave Brae, stoup
and roup. What wi' ghaists, brownies, dead men, an' ae mischief an' other,
it is maistly gane already ; an' what's to come o' the poor bits o' plottin baggits
a' winter, is mair nor I can tell. They may pike the woo aff ane another i'or
aught that I see."

Katharine was grieved to hear this remonstrance, for she was desirous of
having old John as a guide and protector, who well knew the way, and was
besides singular for strength and courage, if kept among beings of this world.
She represented to him that the hogg-fence of the Quave Brae could not
possibly be of equal importance with his master's life, nor yet with the loss of
his whole stock, both of sheep and cattle, which might be confiscated if
prompt measures were not adopted. Nothing, however, could persuade John,
that ought could be of equal importance to him with that which he had the
charge of, and on which his heart and attention were so much set both by
day and night. He said he had lost his lugs, and been brunt wi' the king's
burn, for the hog-lence of the Ouave Brae ; and when he coudna get away to
the prison at Edinburgh for fear o't, but suffered sae muckle in place o' that,
how could he win away a' the gale to Dunse Castle.''

Jasper liked not the journey more than he; for being convinced of Katharine's
power over spirits, he was very jealous of her taking undue advantages of him,
but he was obliged to submit. He refused a horse, saying "it would only
taigle him, but if she suffered him to gang on his feet, if he was hindmost at
Dunse, he should gie her leave to cut the lugs out o' his head too, and then
he wad hae the thief's mark on him like his father."

Away they went ; she riding on a stout shaggy poney, and Jasper running
bei'ore her barefoot, but with his hose ami shoo n bound over his shoulder. He
took the straight line for Dunse, over hill and dale, as a shepherd always
does, who hates the witnplcs, as he calls them, of a turnpike. He took such
a line as an eagle would take, or a tlock of wild geese journeying from the one
side of the country to the other, never once reflecting on the inconvenience of
riding on such a road. Of course, it was impossible his young mistress could
keep up with him— indeed she had often enough to do in keeping sight of
him. They met with some curious adventures by the way, particularly one
near Thirlestane Castle on Leader, with some stragglers of a troop of soldiers.
But these things we must hurry over as extraneous matter, having nothing
more to do with them than as connected with the thread of our tale. They
slept that night at a farm-house in Lammermoor, which belonged to Drum-
melzier, and next day by noon arrived at Dunse Castle.

Drummelzier, being one of the Committee of Public Safety, was absent from

THE BROWNIE OE BODSBECK. 53

home, to which he did not return for several days, to the great perplexity of
Katharine, who was in the utmost distress about her father, as well as her
affairs at home. She was obliged, however, to wait with patience, as no one
knew in what part of the country he was. The housekeeper, who was an
Englishwoman, was kind to her, and bade her not be afraid, for that their
master had much more power with the government than Claverhouse, the one
being a moving spring, and the other only a tool.

Drummeizier was a bold and determined royalist — was, indeed, in high
trust with the privy council, and had it in his power to have harassed the
country as much, and more, than the greater part of those who did so ; but,
fortunately for that south-east division of Scotland, he was a gentleman of
high honour, benevolence, and suavity of manners, and detested any act of
injustice or oppression. He b)' these means contributed materially to the
keeping of a large division of Scotland (though as whiggishly inclined as any
part of it, Ayrshire perhaps excepted,) in perfect peace. The very first dash
that Clavers made among the Covenanters, while he was as yet only a captain
of a company, was into this division of the country over which Drummeizier
was appointed to keep an eye, and it was in consequence of his intrepid and
decided behaviour there, that the Duke of York interested himself in his
behalf, and procured him the command of a troop of horse. At a place called
Bewly, on the confines of Roxburghshire, he surprised a large conventicle
about eleven o'clock on a Sabbath morning. Having but a small band, as
soon as he appeared a crowd of the hearers gathered round the preacher to
defend him, or to further his escape. Clavers burst in upon them like a
torrent ; killed and wounded upwards of an hundred ; took the preacher
prisoner, and all such of the hearers as were the most respectable in appear-
ance. He would have detained many more had his force been sufficient for
his designs, for that very day, about five o'clock in the afternoon, he surprised
another numerous conventicle, at a place called Helmburn Linn, in Selkirk-
shire, where he acted over the same scene that he had done in the morning.
The people, it is true, did not get time to rally round their pastor as at the
former place, for the first intelligence they had of his approach was from
a volley of musketry among them from the top of the linn, which took too
sure effect.

The congregation scattered in a moment ; and as there were strong
fastnesses near at hand, none were taken prisoners, save some old men, and
a number of ladies ; unfortunately all these were ladies of distinction ; the
preacher likewise was taken, who suffered afterwards. The soldiers related
of this man, that when they came upon the crowd, and fired among them, he
was in the middle of his afternoon prayer, and all the people standing
uncovered around him ; and that for all the shots, and the people flying and
falling dead about him, he never so much as paused, nor took down his hands,
nor even opened his eyes, but concluded a sentence in the same same fervent
tone, after they had dragged him from the tent.

At one or other of these unfortunate conventicles, a part of all the chief
families of the Pringles, such as Torwoodlee, Whitebank, Fairnillie, and
others, were taken prisoners ; as well as some of the Scotts of Harden, and
the Douglasses of Cavers and }3oonjeddart ; rich prizes for Clavers, who bore
them all in triumph prisonei^s to F.dinburgh.

Drummeizier put his whole interest to the stretch to get these leading and
respectable families freed from such a disagreeable dilemma, and succeeded
in getting the greater part of ihem set at liberty, on giving securities. From
that time forth, there existed a secret jealousy between him and Clavers ; but
as their jurisdiction lay on different sides of the country, they had no further
interference with one another.

When Kath.irinc informed him, that his fanner, whom lie .^o much esteemed,
was taken away a prisoner, and by whom, he bit his lip. shook his head, and
seemed highly incensed. He then questioned her about ail the charges
against him, and the evidence; requesting her. at the same time, to tell him

54 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

the truth, in all its bearings, to the most minute scruple; and when he had
heard all, he said, that his lordship had other motives for his capture besides
these. He lost no time in setting about the most coercive measures he could
think of, to procure his liberty. He sent an express to the privy council, and
wrote to sundry other gentlemen, whom Katharine knew nothing of; but the
destination of Walter being utterly unknown to either of them, the laird was
at a loss how to proceed.

He gave her, moreover, a bond of security, signed with his name, and
without a direction, to a great amount, for her father's appearance at any
court, to answer such charges as were brought against him ; and with this she
was to haste to the place where her father was a prisoner, and present it to
the sheriff of the county, or chief magistrate of the burgh of such place, unless
it was at lldinburgh, and in tliat case she was to take no farther care or con-
cern about him.

She hasted home with her wild guide, where she arrived the fourth or fifth
day after her departure ; and found, to her astonishment, the Chapelhope
deserted by man, womnn, and boy I Not a living creature remained about
the steading, but her father's dog and some poultry ! The doors were locked,
and the keys away ; and, hungry and fatigued as she was, she could find no
means of admittance. At length, on looking about, she perceived that the
cows were not about the house, nor anywhere in the corn, and concluding that
some one must be herding them, she went up the side of the lake to their
wonted walk, and found her two brothers attending the cattle.

They toUi her that the town (so they always denominate a farm-steading
in that district), had been so grievously haunted in her absence, both by
Brownie and a ghost, that they were all obliged to leave it ; that their mother
was gone all the way to Gilmanscleuch to her brother, to remain there until
she saw what became of her husband ; Mass John was taken away by the
fairies ; and old Nanny was at Riskinhope, where they were also residing and
sleeping at night ; that the keys of the house were to be had there, but nothing
would induce Nanny to come back again to Chapelhope, or at least to remain
another night under its roof.

One mischief came thus upon poor Katharine after another ; and she was
utterly unable to account for this piece of intelligence, having been satisfied
when she went away, that she had put everything in train to secure peace and
order about the house, until her return. She rode to Riskinhope for the key,
but not one would accompany her home, poor Nanny being lying moaning
upon a bed. Jasper sat on the side of the hill, at a convenient distance from
the house, until her return ; but then took her horse from her, and put it away
to the rest, refusing to enter the door. Thus was she left in her father's house
all alone. Nanny came over, and assisted her in milking the kine evening and
morning ; but Katharine remained the rest of the day, and every night, by
herself, neither did she press any one much to bear her company. She had
no one to send in search of her father, and deliver Dnimmelzier's bond, at
least none that any one knew of, yet it was sent, and that speedily, although
to little purpose ; for though Walter was sent to Dumfries jail, he remained
there but two nights ; a party of prisoners, of ten men and two women, being
ordered for Edinburgh, under a guard of soldiers, he was mixed indiscriminately
with the rest, and sent there along with them.

He always said, that though he was disposed to think well of Clavers before
he saw him, yet he never was so blithe in his life as when he got from under
his jurisdiction ; for there was an appearance of ferocity and wantonness, of
ri-uelty in all his proceedings, during the time that he rode in his train a
prisoner, that m:ide the heart of any man, not brutified by inurement to such
scenes, revolt at the principles that induced, as well as the government that
v.'arranted them. He saw him and his troopers gather the whole vale of
Annandale, as a shepherd gathers hi«i sheep in droves, pricking the inhabitants
with their swords to urge their speed. When he got thus all the people of a
parish, or division of a parish, driven together, he surrounded them with his

THE BROWNIE OF BODSBECK. 55

soldiers, made them kneel by dozens, and take the oath of abjuration, as well
as one acknowledging James Duke of York their rightful lord and sovereign ;
and lastly, made them renounce their right and part in heaven, if ever they
repented them of that oath. The first man of such a group, who refused
or objected to compliance with this dreadful measure, he took him forthwith
behind the ranks and shot him, which summary way of proceeding generally
induced all the people to comply. Moreover, the way in which he threatened
and maltreated children, and mocked and insulted women, not to mention
more brutal usage of them, proved him at once to be destitute of the behaviour
and feelings becoming a man, far less those of a gentleman. He seemed to
regard all the commonality in the south and west of Scotland as things to be
mocked and insulted at pleasure, as beings created only for the sport of him
and his soldiers, while their mental and bodily agonies were his delight. The
narrator of this tale confesses that he has taken this account of his raid through
the vales of Esk and Annan solely from tradition, as well as the attack made
on the two conventicles, where the Pringles, &c., were taken prisoners ; but
these traditions are descended from such a source, and by such a line, as
amounts with him to veracity, while other incidents recorded by Wodrow and
Huie fully corroborate them.

Far different were Walter's feelings on parting with the commander of his
guard, Serjeant Daniel Roy Macpherson, a noble block from the genuine
quarry of nature — rude as it was taken thence, without the mark of hammer
or chisel. When he heard that his prisoner was to be taken from under his
charge, he made up to him when out of the eye of his commander, and treated
him with a parting speech ; which, on account of its singularity, is here
preserved, though, doubtless, woefully garbled by being handed from one
southland generation to another.

" Now he'll pe tahaking you away from mhe pefore as it were ycsterdhay ;
and he'll pe putting you into some vhile dark hole with all te low tamn fwigs
that come from te hills of Gallochee and Drummochloonrich, which is a
shame and a disgrhace to shut up a shentleman who is chief of a clan among
such poor crhazy maniachs, who will pe filling your ears full of their rejoicings
in spirit ; and of Haiven ! and Haiven ! just as if they were all going to
Haiven ! Do they suppose that Haiven is to pe filled full of such poor
insignaificant crheatures as they? But I'll pe giving you advice as a friend
and prhother ; when you come pefore the couhnsel, or any f>f their commis-
sioners, do not you pe talking of Haiven, and Haiven, and o!' conscience and
covenants. And do not you pe pragging and poasting of one to pe your
chief, or to pe of a clan that has not a friend at court ; but tell ihem your own
clan, and your claims to be its chief; and if you do not know her true descent,
you had better claim Macpherson ; she pe as ould and as honourable a clan
as any of them all, and more."

Walter said, he trusted still to the proofs of his own loyalty, and the want
of evidence to the contrary.

"Pooh! pooh!" said Macpherson; "I tell you the evidence you want is
this, if any great man say you ought to live, you will live ; if not, you will
die. Did not I was telling you that the soholdiers that were found dead in
the correi, on the lands that belong to yourself, was evidence enough and
more ; I would not pe giving a curse for your evidence after that, for the one
is much petter than te other. And it is veiy well thought !" continued he,
smiling grimly, " if you will pe preaking out into a rage, and pe cursing and
lamning them all, you will get free in one moment."

Walter said, that would be an easy ransom, and though it was an error he
was too apt to fall into when angry, he could see no effect it could have in
this case, but to irritate his prosecutors more and more against him.

" You sec no effect ! Cot t — n, if you ever can see any effect peyond the
top that is on your nose ! and you will not pe advised by a man of experience,
who would do more for you than he would pe commending of; and if you
trust to what you can sec, you will pe dancing a beautiful Highland shig in

56 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TAEES.

the air to a saulm tune, and that will have a very good effect. I tell you,
when you come again to be questioned, I know my Lord Dundee is to be
there to pe adducing his proof; take you great and proud offence at some ot
their questions and their proofs ; and you may pe making offer to fight them
all one by one, or two by two, in the king's name, and send them ail to hell
in one pody ; you cannot pe tamning them too much sore. By the soul of
Rory Alore Macpherson ! I would almost give up this claymoie to be by and
see that effect. Now you are not to pe minding because I am laughing like
a fool, for I'm perfectly serious; if matters should pe standing hard with you,
think of the advice of an ould friend, who respects you as the chief of the
clan MacLeadle, supposing it to pe as low, and as much fallen down as it
may. — Farewell ! she pe giving you her hearty Cot's blessing.'

Thus parted he with Daniel Roy Macpherson, and, as he judged, an un-
fortunate change it was for him. 1 he wretch who now took the command of
their guard had all the ignorance and rudeness of the former, without any
counterbalance of high feeling and honour like him. His name was Patie
Ingles, a temporary officer, the same who cut off the head of tne amiable Mr.
White with an a.\e, at Kilmarnock, carried it to Newmilns, and gave it to his
party to play a game with at foot-ball, which they did. Ingles was drunk
during the greater part of the journey, and his whole delight was in hurting,
mortifying, and mimicking his prisoners. They were all bound together in
pairs, and driven on in that manner like coupled dogs. This was effected by
a very simple process. Their hands were fastened behind, the right and left
arm of each pair being linked within one another. Walter was tied to a little
spare Galloway weaver, a man wholly prone to controversy ; he wanted to
argue ever)' point, on which account he was committed. Yet, when among
the Cameronians, he took their principles as severely to task as he did those
of the other party when examined by them. He lived but to contradict.
Often did he try Walter with different points of opinion regarding the Christian
Church. Walter knew so little about them that the weaver was astonished.
He tried him with the apologetical declaration. Walter had never heard of
it. He could make nothing of his gigantic associate, and at length began a
sly inquir}' on what account he was committed ; but even on that he received
no satisfactory information.

Ingles came staggering up with them. " Weel, Master Skinflint, what say
you to it the day .'' This is a pleasant journey, is it not ? Eh ? — 1 say,
Master, what do they call you ! Peal-an -eat, answer me in this — you see — 1
say— Is it not delightful ? Eh ? "

" Certainly, sir," said the weaver, who wished to be quit of him ; " very
delightful to those who feel it so."

" Feel it so ! — D — n you, sirrah, what do you mean by that ? Do you
know who you are speaking to .'' Eh ? — Answer me in this — What do you
mean by Feel it so f Eh .'' '

" 1 meant nothing," returned the weaver, somewhat snappishly, " but that
kind of respect which I always pay to gentry like you.''

" Gentry like me ! — D — n you, sir, if you speak such a — Eh ? — Gentry like
me ! — I'll spit you like a cock pheasant — Eh.-* Have you any of them in
Galloway ? Answer me in this, will you ? Eh ? "

" I'll answer any reasonable thing, sir," said the poor weaver.

" Hout ; never head the creature, man," said Walter ; " its a poor dnmken
senseless beast of a thing."

Ingles fixed his reeling unsteady eyes upon him, filled with drunken rage —
walked on, spitting and looking across the way for a considerable space —
" What the devil of a whig camel is this ?" said he, crossing over to Walter's
side. "Drunken senseless beast of a thing! Holm, did you hear that .^ —
Macwhinny, did you .'' — Eh .'' I'll scoi n to shoot the cusser, though I could
do it— Eh.^ But I'll kick him like a dog— Eh ?— Take that, and that, will
you } Eh.-"' And so saying, he kicked our proud-bearted and independent
Goodman of Chapelhope with his foot, staggering backward each time he struck.

THE BROWNIE OE BODS BECK. 57

Walter's spirit could not brook this ; and, disregardful of all consequences,
lie wheeled about with his face toward him, dragging the weaver round with
a jerk, as a mastiff sometimes does a spaniel that is coupled to him ; and, as
Ingles threw up his foot to kick him on the belly, he followed up his heel with
his foot, giving him such a fling upwards as made him whirl round in the air
like a reel. He fell on his back, and lay motionless ; on which, several of
the party of soldiers levelled their muskets at Walter. " Ay, shoot," said
he, setting up his boardly breast to them — " Shoot at me if you dare, the best
0' ye."

The soldiers cocked their pieces.

" Your Colonel himsel durstna wrang a hair o' my head, though fain he
wad hae done sae, without first gieing me ower to his betters — Let me see if
a scullion amang ye a' dare do mair than he. '

The soldiers turned their eyes, waiting for the word of command ; and the
weaver kept as far away from Walter as the nature of his bonds would let
him. The command of the party now devolved on a Serjeant Douglas; who,
perhaps nothing sorry for what had happened, stepped in between the soldiers
and prisoner, and swore a great oath, that, " what the prisoner said was the
truth ; and that all that it was their duty to do was, to take the prisoners safe
to Edinburgh, as at first ordered ; and there give their evidence of this
transaction, which would send the lousy whig to hell at once, provided there
was any chance of his otherwise escaping.'

They lifted Ingles, and held him up into the air to get breath, loosing mean-
time his cravat and clothes ; on which he fell to vomit severely, owing to the
fall he had got, and the great quantity of spirits he had dnank. They waited
on him for about two hours ; but as he still continued unable either to speak
or walk, they took him into a house called Granton and proceeded on their
destination.

This Douglas, though apparently a superior person to the former com-
mander of the party, was still more intolerant and cmel than he. There was
no indignity or inconvenience that he could fasten on his prisoners which
he did not exercise to the utmost. They lodged that night at a place called
Tweedshaws ; and Walter used always to relate an occurrence that took
place the next morning, that strongly marked the character of this petty
officer, as well as the licensed cruelty of the times.

Some time previous to this there had been a fellowship meeting, at a place
called Tallo-Linns, of the wanderers that lurked about Chapelhope and the
adjacent mountains. About eighty had assembled, merely to spend the
night in prayer, reading the Scriptures, &c. The curate of Tweedsmuir, a
poor dissolute wretch, sent a tlaming account of this in writing to the privy
council, magnifying that simple affair to a great and dangerous meeting
of armed men. The council took the alarm, raised the hue and cry, and
offered a reward for the apprehending of any one who had been at the meet-
ing of Tallo-Linns. The curate, learning that a party of the king's troops was
lodged that night in his parish and neighbourhood, came to Tweedshaws at a
late hour, and requested to speak with the captain of the party. He then
informed Douglas of the meeting, showed him the Council's letter and pro-
clamation, and finally told him that there was a man in a cottage hard by
whom he strongly suspected to have formed one at the meeting alluded to in
the proclamation. There being no conveniency for lodging so many people
at Tweedshaws, Douglas and the curate drank together all the night, as did
the soldiers in another party. A number of friends to the prisoners had
given them money when they left Dumfries for Edinburgh, to supply as well
as they might the privations to which they might be subjected ; but here the
military took the greater part of it from them to supply their intemperance.
About the break of day, they went and surrounded a shepherds cottage
belonging to the farm of Corehead, having been led thither by the curate,
where they found the shepherd an old man, his d;iughtcr, and one Edward
M'Cane, son to a merchant in Lanarkshire, who was courting this shep-

58 THE ETTRICK SHEPFTERD'S TALES.

herdess, a beautiful young maiden. The curate having got intelligence that a
btranger was at that house, immediately suspected him to be one of the
wanderers, and on this surmise the information was given. The curate
acknowledged the shepherd and his daughter as parishioners, but of M'Cane,
he said, he knew nothing, and had no doubt that he was one of the rebellious
whigs. They fell to examine the youth, but they were all affected with the
liquor they had drunk over night, and made a mere farce of it, paying no
regard to his answers, or. if they did, it was merely to misconstrue or mock
them. He denied having been at the meeting at Tallo-Linns, and all
acquaintance with the individuals whom they named as having been there
present. Finding that they could nicdce nothing of him whereon to ground a
charge, Douglas made them search him for arms ; for being somewhiit drunk,
he took it highly amiss that he should have been brought out of his way for
nothing. M'Cane judged himself safe on that score, for he knew that he had
neither knife, razor, bodkin, nor edged instrument of any kind about him ;
but as ill luck would have it, he chanced to have an old gun-flint in his waist-
coat pocket. Douglas instantly pronounced this to be sufficic.it, and ordered
him to be shot. M'Cane was speechless for some time with astonishment,
and at length told his errand, and the footing on which he stood with the
young girl before them, offering at the same time to bring proofs from his
own parish of his loyalty and conformity. He even condescended to kneel to
the ruflian, to clasp his knees, and beg and beseech of him to be allowed time
for a regular proof ; but nothing would move him. He said, the courtship
was a very clever excuse, but would not do with him, and forthwith ordered him
to be shot. He would not even allow him to sing a psalm with his two
friends, but cursed and swore that the devil a psalm he should sing there.
He said, "It would not be singing a few verses of a psalm in a wretched and
miserable style that would keep him out of hell ; and if he went to heaven, he
might then lilt as much at psalm-singing as he had a mind." When the girl,
his betrothed sweetheart, saw the muskets levelled at her lover, she broke
through the file, shrieking most piteously, threw herself on him, clasped his
neck and kissed him, crying, like one distracted, " O Edward, take me wi' ye
— take me wi' ye ; a' the warld sanna part us."

*•' Ah ! Mary," said he, " last night we looked forward to long and happy
years — how joyful were our hopes ! but they are all blasted at once. Be
comforted, my dearest, dearest heart ! — God bless you ! — Farewell for
ever."

The soldiers then dragged her backward, mocking her with indelicate
remarks, and while she was yet scarcely two paces removed, and still stretch-
ing out her hands towards him, six balls were lodged in his heart in a
moment, and he fell dead at her feet. Deformed and bloody as he was, she
pressed the corpse to her bosom, moaning and sobbing in such a way as it
every throb would have been her last, and in that condition the soldiers
marched merrily off and left them. For this doughty and noble deed, for
which Serjeant Douglas deserved to have been hanged and quartered,
he shortly after got a coronetcy in Sir Thomas Livingston's troop of
horse.

Two of the prisoners made their escape that morning, owing to the drunk-
enness of their guards, on which account the remainder being blamed, were
more haughtily and cnielly treated than ever. It is necessary to mention all
these, as they were afterwards canvassed at Walter's trial, the account of
which formed one of his winter evening tales as long as he lived. Indeed, all
such diffuse and miscellaneous matter as is contained in this chapter, is a
great incumbrance in the right onward progress of a tale ; but we have
done with it, and shall now haste to the end of our narrative in a direct
uninterrupted line.

THE BROWNIE OF BODS BECK. 59

CHAPTER XII.
The sudden departure of Katharine from home, after the extraoi dinar}*
adventure of the curate Clerk in the Old Room, at the crowing of the cock,
was a great relief to him, as it freed him from the embarrassment of her com-
pany, and gave him an opportunity of telling his ov/n story to the gudewife
without interruption, of the success he had in freeing her daughter from the
power and fellowship of evil spirits. That stor)' was fitted admirably to suit
her weak and superstitious mind ; it accorded with anything nearer than the
truth, and perhaps this finished hypocrite never appeared so great a character
in the eyes of Maron Linton as he did that day. He spoke of going away to
Hendciland in the evening, but she entreated him so earnestly to stay and
protect her from the power of the spirits thai haunted the place, that he
deemed it proper to acquiesce, for without the countenance of the family of
Chapelhope he was nothing — he could not have lived in his puny cure. She
depended on him, she said, to rid the town of these audacious (or, as she
called them, mislcared) beings altogether, for without his interference the
family would be ruined. Their servants had all left them — the work re-
mained unwTOught; and everything was going to confusion — she had given
Brownie his accustomed wages again and again, and still he refused to leave
the house ; and without the holy man's assistance in expelling him and his
train, their prospects in life were hopeless.

The curate promised to use his highest interest with Heaven, and assured
her that no further evil should come nigh unto her, at least while he remained
under her roof; "for were it not,' said he, " for the conjunction which they
are in with one of the family, they should have been expelled long ere now.
That unnatural bond, I hope, by a course of secret conferences, to be able to
break assunder, but be not thou afraid, for no evil shall come nigh thy dwell-
ing." He talked with the goodwife in the style that pleased her ; flattered
her high and pure notions of religion, as well as her piety and benevolence ;
said evening prayers in the family with zeal and devotion ; but how was he
startled when informed that he was to sleep again in the Old Room ! He
indeed knew not that it was haunted more than any other part of the house,
or that it was the favourite nightly resort of the Brownie of Bodsbeck, but
the apparition that he had seen, and the unaccountable rescue that he had
witnessed the night before, preyed on his mind, and he hinted to the good-
wife that he had expected to be preferred to her daughter's room and bed that
night, as she was absent ; but Maron, too, was selfish ; for who is without
that great ruling motive ? She expected that Brownie would appear ; that
Mass John would speak to it ; and thenceforward to be freed from its unwel-
come intrusions. To the Old Room he was shewn at a late hour, where the
lamp, the Bible, and the sand-glass were placed on the little table, at the
bed's head, as usual.

It was past eleven when the curate went to sleep. Old Nanny, who was
dressed more neatly than usual, sat still at the kitchen fire, expecting every
minute the two Covenant men, whom her young mistress had promised to
send to her privily, as her companions and protectors through the dark and
silent watches of the night until her return. Still nothing of them appeared ;
but, confident that they would appear, she stirred the embers of the fire, and
continued to keep watch with patient anixety. When it drew towards mid-
night, as she judged, she heard a noise without, as of some people entering or
trying to enter, by the outer door of the Old Room. Concluding that it was
her expected companions, and alarmed at the wrong direction they had taken,
she ran out, and round the west end of the house, to warn them of their mis-
take, and bring them in by the kitchen door. As she proceeded, she heard two
or three loud and half stifled howls from the interior of the Old Room. The
door was shut, but, perceiving by the seam in the window shutters that the
light within was still burning, she ran to the window, which directly faced ihc
curate's bed ; and there being a small aperture broken in one of the panes.

6o THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

she edged back the shutter, so as to see and hear the n^ost part of wliat was
poing on within. She saw four or five figures standing at the bed, resembhng
human figures in some small degree -their backs towards her; but she saw a
half face of one that held the lamp in its hand, and it was of the hue of a smoked
wall. In the midst of them stood the deformed little Brownie, that has often
been mentioned and described in the foregoing part of this tale. In his right
hand he brandished a weapon, resembling a dirk or carving-knife. The other
hand he stretched out, halt raised over the curate's face, as if to command at-
tention. " Peace ! " said he, " thou child of the bottomless pit, and minister
of unrighteousness ; another such sound from these polluted lips of thine, and
1 plunge this weapon into thy heart. We would shed thy blood without any
reluctance- -nay, know thou that we would rejoice to do it, as thereby we
would render our master acceptable sei-vice. Not for that intent or purpose
are we now come ; yet thy abominations shall not altogether pass unpunished.
Thou knowcst thy own heart — its hypocrisy, and licentiousness — Thou
knowest, that last night, at this same hour, thou didst attempt by brutal force
to pollute the purest and most angelic of the human, race — we rc^^cued her,
from thy hellish clutch, for we are her servants, and attend upon her steps.
Thou knowest, that still thou art cherishing the hope of succeeding in thy
cursed scheme. Thou art a stain to thy profession, and a blot upon the
cheek of nature, enough to make thy race and thy nation stink in the nose of
thv Creator ! — To what thou deservest, thy doom is a lenient one — but it i^
fixed and irrevocable ! '

There was something in that mis-shapen creature's voice that chilled
Nanny's very soul while it spoke these words, especially its pronunciation of
some of them ; it sounded like something she had heard before, perhaps in a
dream, but it was horrible and not to be brooked. The rest now laid violent
hold of Mass John, and she heard him mumbling in a supplicating voice, but
knew not what he said. As they stooped forward, the lamp shone on the
floor, and she saw the appearance of a coffin standing behind them. Nanny
was astonished, but not yet overcome ; for, cruel were the scenes that she had
beheld, and many the trials she had undergone !— but at that instant the de-
fornied and grizly being turned round, as if looking for something that it
wanted — the lamp shone full on its face, the lineaments of which when Nanny
beheld, her eyes at once were darkened, and she saw no more that night.
How she spent the remainder of it, or by what means she got to her bed in
the kitchen, she never knew ; but next morning when the goodwife and her
sons arose, poor old Nanny was lying in the kitchen bed delirious, and talk-
ing of dreadful and incomprehensible things. All that could be gathered
from her frenzy was, that some terrible cstastrophe had happened in the Old
Room, and that Clerk, the curate, was implicated in it. The goodwife judg-
ing that her fa\ourite had been at war with the spirits, and that Heaven had
been of course triumphant, hasted to the Old Room to bless and pay the
honour due to such a divine character ; she called his name as she entered,
but no one made answer ; she hasted to the bed, but behold there was no
one there ! The goodwife's sole spiritual guide had vanished away.

The curate Clerk was never more seen or heard of in these bounds ; but
it may not be improper here to relate a circumstance that happened some
time thereafter, as it comes no more within the range of this stor)'.

In the month of October, and the memorable year i6S8, it is well known
that Clavers hasted southward, with all the troops under his command to as-
sist King James against the Prince of Orange and the protestant party of
Rngland, or to sell himself to the latter, any of the ways that he found most
convenient. In the course of this march, as he was resting his troops at a
place called Ninemilc-lirac, near the Border, a poor emaciated and forlorn-
iooking wretch came to him, and desired to speak a word with him. Mr.
Adam Copland and he were sitting together when this happened ; Clavers
asked his name and his business, for none of the two recognised him— It was
Clerk, the curate (that had been) of Chapelhope and Kirkhope ! Clavers said, as

THE BROWNIE OE BODSBECK. 6l

there were none present save a friend, he might say out his business. This
he declined, and took Clavers a short way aside. Copland watched their
motions, but could not hear what Clerk said. When he began to tell his
story Clavers burst into a violent fit of laughter, but soon restrained himself,
and Copland beheld him knitting his brows, and biting his lip, as he seldom
failed to do when angry. When they parted, he heard him saying distinctly,
" It is impossible that I can avenge your wrongs at this time, for I have mat-
ters of great import before me ; but the day may come ere long when it will
be in my power, and d — n me if I do not do it ! "

The spirits of the wild having been victorious, and the reverend curate, the
goodwife's only stay, overcome and carried off bodily, she was impatient, and
on the rack every minute that she staid longer about the house. She caused
one of her sons take a horse, and conduct her to Gilmanscleuch that night, to
her brother Thomas's farm, determined no more to see Chapelhope till her hus-
band's return ; and if that should never take place, to bid it adieu for ever.

Nanny went to the led farm of Riskinhope, that being the nearest house to
Chapelhope, and just over against it, in order to take what care she was able
of the things about the house during the day. There also the two boys re-
mained, and herded throughout the day in a very indifferent manner ; and in
short, every thing about the farm was going fast to confusion when Katharine
returned from her mission to the Laird of Drummelzier. Thus it was that
she found her father's house deserted, its doors locked up, and its hearth cold.

Her anxiety to converse privately with Nanny was great ; but at her first
visit, when she went for the key, this was impossible without being overheard.
She soon, however, found an opportunity ; for that night she enticed her into
the byre at Chapelhope, in the gloaming, after the kine had left the lone,
where a conversation took place between them in effect as follows :

" Alas, Nanny ! how has all this happened? Did not the two Covenanters,
for whom 1 sent, come to bear you company ? "

" Dear bairn, if they did come I saw nae them. If they came, they were
ower late, for the spirits were there afore them ; an' I hae seen sic a sight.
Dear, dear bairn, dinna gar me gang ow^r it again — I hae seen a sight that's
enough to turn the heart o' flesh to an iceshoglc, an' to freeze up the very
sprmgs o' life ! Dinna gar me gang ower it again, an' rake up the ashes o'
the honoured dead — But what need I say sac ? The dead are up already 1
Lord in heaven be my shield and safeguard ! "

" Nanny, you affright me ; but, be assured, your terrors have originated in
some mistake — your sight has deceived you, and all shall yet be explained to
your satisfaction."

" Say nae sae, dear bairn ; my sight hasna deceived me, yet I have been
deceived. The world has deceived me — hell has deceived me— and heaven
has winked at the deed. Alack, an' wae's me, that it should sae hae been
predestined afore the world began 1 The day was, an' no sae lang sin'
syne, when 1 could hae prayed wi' confidence, an' sung wi' joy ; but
now my mind is overturned, and I hae nouther stay on earth, nor hope in
heaven ! The veil of the Temple may be rent below, and the ark of the
testimony thrown open above, but their ioxra's, will not be seen within the one,
hor their names found written in the other."

" Peace, peace, for Heaven's sake ! — You are verging on blasphemy, and
know not what you say."'

" Do the reprobate know what they say, or can they forbear saying it .-'
How then can I ? I, who am in the bond of iniquity, and the jaws of death
eternal .'' — Where can I fly ? When the righteous are not saved, where shall
the ungodly and the sinner appear ? — Ay, dear bairn, weel may ye stare and
raise up your hands that gate, but when ye hear my tale, ye winna wonder
that my poor wits are uprooted. Suppose sic a case your ain — suppose you
had been the bosom companion o' ane for twenty years— had joined wi' him
in devotion, e'ening and morning, for a' that time, and had never heard a sigh
but for sin, nor a complaint but of the iniquities of the land —If ye had witnessed

62 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

him follow two comely sons, your own fleah and blood, to the scaffold, and
bless his God who put it in their hearts to stand and suffer for his cause, and
for the crown of martyrdom he had bestowed on them, and bury the mangled
bodies of other two witii tears, but not with repining — If, after a' this, he had
been hunted as a partridge on the mountains, and for the same dear cause,
the simplicity of the truth as it is in Jesus, had laid down his life — If you
knew that his grey head was hung upon the city wall for a spectacle to gaze
at, and his trunk buried in the wild by strangers — Say you knew all this, and
had all these dear ties in your remembrance, and yet, after long years of hope
soon to join their blest society above, to see again that loved and revered form
stand before your eyes on earth at midnight, shrivelled, pale, and deformed,
and mixed with malevolent spirits on dire and revengeful intent, where wad
your hope — where wad your confidence — or where wad )uur wits hae been
tlown ? ■ Here she cried bitterly ; and seizing the astonished Katharine's
hand with both hers, and pressing it to her brow, she continued her impas-
sioned and frantic strain. — " Pity me, O dear bairn, pity me ! For man hasna
piiicd me, an' Cod hasna pitied me ! I'm gaun down a flo^-dy water, down,
down ; an' I wad fain grip at something, if it were but a swoomin strae, as a
last hope, afore I sink a' thegither. '

•• rhese are the words of delirium," said Katharine, " and I will not set
them down in my memory as spoken by you. Pray the Almighty that they
may never be written in his book of remembrance against you ; for the veriest
downfallen fiend can do no more than distrust the mercy of God in a Re-
deemer. I tell you, woman, that whatever you may fancy yuu have seen or
heard in the darkness of night, when imagination forms fantasies of its own,
of all those who have stood for our civil and religious liberties, who, for the
sake of a good conscience, have yielded up all, and sealed their testimony
with their blood, not one hair of their heads shall fall to the ground, for their
names are written in the book of life, and they shall shine as stars in the
kingdom of their Father. You have yourself suffered much, and have rejoiced
in your sufferings — So far you did well — Do not then mar so fair an eternal
harvest — so blest a prospect of a happy and everlasting community, by the
sin of despair, that can never be forgiven. Can you, for a moment, while in
possession of your right senses, doubt of the tender mercies of your Maker
and Presener 'i Can you for a moment believe that he has hid his face from
the tears and the blood that have been shed for his cause in Scotland ? As
well may you doubt that the earth bears or the sun warms you, or that he
never made a revelation of his will to man."

All the while that Katharine spoke thus, Nanny's eyes were fixed on her, as
if drinking every word she uttered into a soul that thirsted for it A wild and
unstable light beamed on her countenance, but it was still only like a sunbeam
breaking through the storm, which is ready to be swallowed up by the rolling
darkness within. Her head shook as with a slight paralytic affection, and she
again clasped the hand which she had never quitted.

" Are ye an angel o' light,' said she, in a soft tremulous voice, " that ye gar
my heart prinkle sae wi' a joy that it never thought again to taste.' It isna
then a strae nor a stibble that 1 hae grippit at for my last hope, but the tap of
a good tow-widdy saugh ; an' a young sapling though it be, it is steevely.
rootit in a good soil, and sprung frae a seed o' heaven, an' will maybe help
the poor drowning wretch to the shore 1— An' hae I thought sae muckle ill o'
you .' Could I deem that mild heavenly face, that's but the reflection o' the
soul within, the image o' sin and o' Satan, an' a veil o' deceit thrawn ower a
hiind prone to wickedness 'i Forgie me, dear, dear saint, foigie me, an' help
me better out yet. It surely canna be condemned spirits that ye arecon-
nectit wi' ? Ah, ye're dumb there ! — ye darna answer me to that ! Na, na !
the spirits o' the just made perfect wad never leave their abodes o' felicity to
gabble amang derksome fiends at the dead hour o' the night, in sic a world o'
sin and sorrow as this. But I saw him, an' heard him speak, as sure as I see
your face an' hear the tones o' my ain voice ; an', if I lookit nae wrang, there

THE BROWNIE OF BODS BECK. 63

were mac risen frae the dead than ane. It is an awfu' dispensation to think
o' ! But there was a spirit o' retaliation in him that often made me quake,
though never sae as now. O wad ye but tell me what Idnd o' spirits ye are in
conjunction wi' ? "

" None but the blest and the happy — None but they who have come out of
great tribulation, and washed their robes white in the blood of the Lamb —
None that would harbour such a thought, or utter such a doubt, as you have
done to-night, for the empire of the universe^ — More I may not tell you at
present ; but stay you here with me, and I will cherish you, and introduce
you to these spirits, and you shall be happier with them than ever you have
been."

" Will I sae "i — Say nae mair !— I wad pit hand to my ain life the night, a n'
risk the warst or I again met wi' them face to face in the same guise as 1 saw
them at midnight last week. Ye're a wonderfu' creature ! But ye're ayont
mv depth ; therefore I'll love ye, an' fear ye, an' keep my distance. Sit down,
dear, dear bairn, an' join me in singing a hymn afore we part."

SANG SIXTH.

0 Father Almighty, O Father of light,
I kneel and I tremble before thee,

For darkness surrounds the throne of thy might.
And with terror I fear and adore thee.

1 have seen, I have heard, what I not comprehend,
Which has caused my poor reason to waver,

The bodies or spirits of martyred men,
Who shrunk from thy standard, O never,

O never !— O never !
But bled for their God and forgiven

II.
In the darkness of midnight I saw them appear,

With faces unearthly and sallow.
Their forms were all shrivelled, their features severe,

Their voices unearthly and hollow.
And yet, O great God ! it was they, it was they,

Put down by a sinful blasphemer,
They laid down their lives in the moorland away,

And bled for their God and Redeemer,
O Saviour ! — Dear Saviour,

Preserve from despondence for ever.

III.
But where can I turn my bewildered eye,

Or where can I fly but to Thee,
Since all the long vales of eternity lie

Concealed in deep darkness from me ?
Then here at thy footstool of mercy I bow,

Imploring thy grace to deliver ;
For shadows of darkness beleaguer me now,

^Vnd I fly to my God and forgiven
For ever !— O ever !

rU cling to my Saviour for ever.

Thus they parted : Katharine into her long vacant house, and Nanny over
to Riskinhope. The farmer of Riskinhopc (David Bryden of Eldin-hope),
was ruined by the sequestration of his stock by Clavers, but the shepherds
and other servants still lingered about the house for better or for worse.
There was not a sheep on that large farm, save about five score of good ewes,
that Davie Tait, the herd of Whithope, had turned slyly over into the hags of
the Yokeburn-head, that day the drivers took away the stock. When Clavers
made his last raid up by Chapclhope, all the family of Riskinhope lied to the

64 THE ET TRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

hills, and betook them to cover, every one by himself; and there, with beating
hearts, peeped through the heath and the rash-bush, to watch the motions of
that bloody persecutor. Perilous was their case that day, for had any of them
been found in that situation, it would have been enough : but Davie well
knew it was good for him to keep out of the way, for Mr. Renwick, and Mr.
Shields, as well as other wanderers, had been sheltered in his house many a
night, and the latter wrote his Hind let Loose in a small house at the side of
Winterhopeburn. Yet Davie was not a Cameronian, properly speaking, nor
a very religious man neither; but the religious enthusiasm of his guests had
broke him a little into their manner, and way of thinking. He had learned
to make family exercise, not however to very great purpose, for the only thing
very remarkable in it was the strong nasal Cameronian whine of his prayer,
and its pastoral allusions ; but he was grown fond of exhibiting in that line,
having learned the Martyr's tune, and the second part of the Dundee, which
formed the whole range of his psalmody ! Yet Davie liked a joke as well as
ever he did, and perhaps as well as any part of divine worship. When one
remarked to him that his family music was loud enough, but v^ry discordant,
— " Ay,'' quoth Davie, "but it's a lang gate atween here an' heaven ; a' music's
good i' the distance ; I hae strong faith in that."

That night after Nanny came over, Davie had prayed as usual, and among
other things, had not forgot the Brownie of Bodsbeck, that '• he might be
skelpit wi' the taws o' divine wrath, an' sent back to hell wi' the sperks on his
hips ; and that the angel of presence might keep watch over their couches
that night, to scare the howlaty face o' him away, an' learn him to keep his
ain side o' the water."

After prayers the family were crowded round the fading ingle, and cracking
of the Brownie and of Davie's prayer. Davie had opened his waistcoat, and
thrown off his hose to warm his feet, and, flattered with their remarks on his
abilities, began to be somewhat scurrilous on Brownie. " I think 1 hae cowed
him the night," said he ; " he 11 fash nane o' us — he may stay wi' his Keatie
Laidlaw yonder, an' rin at her biddin. He has a sonsy weel-faur'd lass to
bide wi' — he's better aff than some o' his neighbours, Maysey ;" and, saying
so, he cast a look to his wife that spoke unutterable things ; but finding that
his joke did not take, after so serious a prayer, he turned again on Brownie,
and, as his own wife said, " didna leave him the likeness of a dog." He said
he had eaten sax bowes o' good meal to the goodman, an' a' that he had done
for't, that ony body kend o', was mending up ;in auld fail-dyke round the corn
ae night. In short, he said he was an unprofitable guest— a dirty droich, an'
a menseless glutton — an' it was weak an' silly in ony true Christian to be eiry
for him." He had not said out the last words, when they heard a whispering
at the door, and shortly after these words distinctly uttered :

" There's neither blood nor rown-tree pin,
At open doors the dogs go in."

The size of every eye's orbit was doubled in a moment, as it turned towards
the door. The light of the fire was shining bright along the short entry
between the beds, and they saw the appearance of a man, clothed in black,
come slowly and deliberately in, walk across the entry, and go into the apart-
ment in the other end of the house. The family were all above one another
in beyond the lire in an instant, and struggling who to be undermost, and
next the wall. Nanny, who was sitting on the form beyond the fire, pondering
on other matters, leaning her brow on both hands, and all unconscious
of what had entered, was overborne in the crush, and laid flat underm.ost
of all.

" Dear, dear bairns, what's asteer? Hout fy ! Why troth, yell crush the
poor auld body as braid as a bloodkercake."

•'Ah! the Brownie !— the Brownie !— the Brownie o' Bodsbeck!" was
whispered in horror from ever) tongue.

Davie Tait luckily recollecting that there was a door at hand, uiat led to a

THE BROIVNIE OF BODS BECK. 65

little milk-house in the other end of the house, and still another division farther
from Brownie, led the way to it on all four, at full gallop, and took shelter in
the farthest corner of that. All the rest were soon above him, but Davie bore
the oppressive weight with great fortitude for some time, and without a
murmur. Nanny was left last ; she kept hold of the Bible that she had in
her lap when she fell, and had likewise the precaution to light the lamp before
she followed her affrighted associates. Nothing could be more appalling than
her own entry after them— never was a figure more calculated to inspire
terror, than Nanny coming; carrying a feeble glimmering lamp, that only
served to make darkness visible, while her pale raised-like features were bent
over it, eager to discover her rueful compeers. The lamp was half covered
with her hand to keep it from being blown out ; and her face, where only a
line of light here and there was visible, was altogether horrible. Having dis-
covered the situation, and the plight of the family, she bolted the door behind
her, and advanced slowly up to them. " Dear bairns, what did ye see that
has putten ye a' this gate ? "

" Lord sauf us ! " cried Davie, from below, "we hae forespoke the Brownie
— tak that elbow out o' my guts a wee bit. They say, if ye speak o' the deil,
hell appear. 'Tis an unsonsy and dangerous thing to— Wha's aught that
knee? slack it a little. God guide us, sirs, there's the weight of a millstane
on aboon the links o' my neck. If the Lord hae forsaken us, an' winna heed
our prayers, we may gie up a' for tint thegither ! — Nanny, hae ye boltit
the door .? "

" Ay hae I, firm an' fast."

"Than muve up a wee, sirs, or faith I'm gane — Hech-howe ! the weight o*
sin an' mortality that's amang ye."

Davie's courage, that had begun to mount on hearmg that the door was
bolted, soon gave way again, when he raised his head and saw the utter
dismay that was painted on each countenance. " Hoot, Maysey woman,
dinna just mak sic faces — ye are eneuch to fright fock, foreby aught else,"
said he to his wife.

" O Davie, think what a wheen poor helpless creatures we are ! — Does
Brownie ever kill ony body .f"'

" I wish it be nae a waur thing than Brownie," said Dan.

" Waur than Brownie ? Mercy on us ! Waur than Brownie ! — What was
it like.''" was whispered round.

" Ye mind poor Kirko, the bit Dinscore laird, that skulkit hereabouts sae
lang, an' sleepit several nights ben in that end ? — Didna ye a' think it was
unco like him ?"

" The very man ! — the very man 1 — his make, his gang, his claes, an' every
thing," was echoed by all.

"An' ye ken," continued Dan, "that he was shot on Dumfries sands this
simmer. It is his ghaist come to haunt the place whar he baid, an' prayed
sae aften."

" Ower true ! Ower true ! it's awsome to think o'," was the general
remark.

" Let us go to prayers," said Nanny : " it isna a time to creep into nooks
on aboon other, an' gie way to despair. There is but Ane than can guard or
protect us, let us apply there."

" Something has been done that way already," said Davie Tait ; " we
canna come to handygrips wi' him, an' force him to stand senter at our door
a' night."

Davie's matter was exhausted on the subject, and he did not much relish
going over the same words again, which, he acknowledged, were rather ken-
speckle j nor yet to venture on composing new ones out of his own head : this
made him disposed to waive Nanny's proposal.

" Ay," answered she, " but we maunna baud just wi' saying, gie us this an'
gie us that ; and then, because we dinna just get it aff loof, drap the plea
an' despair. Na, na, dear bairns, that's nae part <>' tlie Christian warfare!

66 I HE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

we maun plead \vi' humility, and plead again, an' never was there niair cause
for roiising to exertion than now. The times are momentous, and some great
cliangc IS drawing near, for the dead are astir — 1 have seen them mysel'.
Vcs, the several members that were scattered, and buried apart, are come
thegither again — joined, an' gaun aboon the grund, niuulhing the air o'
heaven. 1 saw it mysel — Can it be that the resurrection is begun \ It is a
far away thought for the thing itscl to be as near ; but il"s a glorious ane, an'
there's proof o't. But then the place an' the time are doubtfu' — had it been
sun proof 1 wad hae likit it better. We little wot what to say or think under
sic visitations. Let us apply to the only source of light and direction. David,
be you a mouth to us."

" A mouth ?" said Davie ; but recollecting himself, added^" Hum, 1 under-
stand you ; but I hae mouthed mair already than has come to ony good. I
like fock to pray that hae some chance to be heard ; some fock may scraugh
themsels horse, and be nae the better."

" Oh fie, David ! speak wi' some reverence," said his wife Maysey.

" 1 mintit at naething else," said he, "but 1 hae an unre.erent kind o'
tongue that nought ever serous-like fa's frae, let my frame o' mind be as it
will ; an' troth 1 haena command o' language for a job like this. 1 trow the
prelates hae the best way aiter a', for they get prajcrs ready made to their
hands, an' disna need to affront their Maker wi' blunders."

" How can ye speak sae the night, David.'' or how can sic a thought hover
round your heart as to flee out at random that gate .'' If ye will rcaii prayers,
there's a book, read them out o' that ; if the words o' God vvinna suit the cases
o' his ain creatures, how can ye trow the word.>i o' another man can do it ?
But pray wi' the heart, an' pray in humility, and learna being accepted. '

" That's true ; but yet ane maks but a poor figure wi' the heart by itsel."

" Wow, Davie, man," <;uoth Ma\ ^ey, his wife, " an' ye mak but a poor
figure indeed, when we're a' in sic a plight ! \ e hear the woman speaks gude
truth ; an' ye ken yoursel ye frnmrl us p;''ainst the Brownie afore, but no
against Kiiky's ghaist ; lak the beuK nke a man, an' p't the fence o' scripture
faith round us lor that too."

Stupid as Maysey was, she knew the way to her husband s heart. Davie
could not resist such an appeal — he took the Bible ; sung the 143rd Psalm,
from beginning to end, at Nanny's request ; and likewise, by her direction,
read the 20th of Revelation ; then kneeling down on his bare knees, legs, and
feet, as he fled from the kitchen, on the damp miry floor of the milk-house, he
Cbsayed a strong energetic prayer as a fence against the invading ghost. But
as Davie acknowledged, he had an irreverent expression naturally, that no
effort could overcome (and by the bye, there is more in this than mankind are
generally aware of), and the more he aimed at sublimity, the more ludicrous
he grew, even to common ears. There is scarcely a boy in the country who
cannot recite scraps of Davie Tait's prayer ; but were 1 to set all that is pre-
served of it down here, it might be construed as a mockery of that holy ordin-
ance, than which nothing is so far from my heart or intention ; but, convinced
as I am that a rude exhibition in such a divine solemnity is of all things the
most indecent and unbecoming, 1 think such should be held up to ridicule, as
a warning to all Christians never to ask igno'P.in c or absurdity to perform
tins sacred duty in public. The sublime pan of it therefore is given, which
was meant as a fence against the spirit that had set up his rest so near. To
such as are not acquainted with the pastoral terms, the meaning in some
pans 1... y be cquivo*^;;! ; to those who are, the train of thinking will be
obvious.

• «««««

" But the last time we gathered ourselves before thee, we left out a wing o'
the hirsel b) mistake, an' thou hast paid us hame i' our ain coin. Thou wart
sae gude then as come to the sheddin thysel, an clap our heads, an' whisper
i' our lugb, ' Dinna be diihearltiied, my puir Mis o' uaefu' things, for though
ye be the shotts o' my hale fauld, I'll take care o' ye, an' herd ye, and gie ye

THE BROWNIE OF BODSBECK. 67

a' that ye hae askit o' me the night.' It was kind, an' thou hast done it ; but
we forgot a principal part, an' maun tell thee now, that we have had another
visitor sin' ye war here, an' ane wha's back we wad rather bee than his face.
Thou kens better thysel than we can tell thee uhat place he has made his
escape frae ; but we sair dread it is frae the buddomless jjit, or he wadna hae
ta'en possession but leave. Ye ken, that gang tried to keep vilent leasehaud
o' your ain fields, an' your ain ha', till ye gae them a killiroup. If he be ane
o' them, O come thysel to our help, an' bring in thy hand a bolt o' divine
vengeance het i' the furnace o' thy wrath as reed as a nailstring, an' bizz him
an' scouder him till ye dinna leave him the likeness of a paper izel, until he
be glad to creep into the worm-holes o' the earth, never to see sun or sterns
mair. But, if it be some puir dumfoundered soul that has been bumbased
and stoundit at the view o' the lang Hopes an' the Downfa's o' Eternity,
corned daundering away frae about the laiggen girds o' heaven to the waefu'
gang that he left behind, like a lost sheep that strays frae the rich pastures o'
the south, and comes bleating back a' the gate to its cauld native hills, to the
very gair where it was lambed and first followed its minny, ane canna help
haeing a fellow-feeling wi' the puir soul after a', but yet he'll find himsel here
like a cow in an unco lone. Therefore, O furnish him this night wi' the wings
o' the wild gainner or the eagle, that he may swoof away back to a better
hame than this, for we want nane o" his company. An' do thou give to the
puir stray thing a weel-hained heii" and a bieldy lair, that he may nae mair
come straggling amang a stock that's sae unlike himsel, that they're frightit
at the very look o' him.

" Thou hast promised in thy Word to be our shepherd, our guider, an'
director. Therefore gather us a' in frae the cauld windy knowes o' self-
conceit — the plashy bogs an' mires o' sensuality, an' the damp flows o' worldly-
mindedness, an' wyse us a' into the true bught o' life, made o' the flakes o'
forgiveness and the door o' loving-kindness ; an' never do thou suffer us to
be heftit e'ening or morning, but gie lashin' meals o' the milk o' praise, the
ream o' thankfu'ness, an' the butter o' good works. An' do thou, in thy good
time an' way, smear us ower the hale bouk wi' the tar o' adversity, wecl
mixed up wi' the meinging of repentance, that we may be kiver'd ower wi'
gude bouzy shake-rough fleeces o' faith, a' run out on the hips, an' as brown
as a tod. An' do thou, moreover, fauld us ower-night, an' every night, in within
the true sheep-fauld o' thy covenant, weel buggen wi' the stanes o' salvation,
an' caped wi' the divots o' grace. An' then wi' sic a shepherd an' sic a
sheep-fauld, what hae we to be feared for } Na, na ! we'll fear naething but
sin ! — We'll never mair scare at the poolly-woolly o' the whaup, nor swirl at
the gelloch o' the ern ; for if the arm of our Shepherd be about us for good, a'

the imps, an' a' the powers o' darkness, canna wrang a hair o' our heads."
******

All the family arose from their knees with altered looks. Thus fenced, a
new energy glowed in every breast. Poor Maysey, proud of her husband's
bold and sublime intercession, and trusting in the divine fence now raised
around them, rose with the tear in her eye, seized the lamp, and led the way,
followed by all the rest, to retake the apartment of Kirky's ghost by open
assault. Nanny, whose faith wont to be superior to all these things, lagged
behind, dreading to see the sight that she had seen on the Saturday night
before ; and the bold intercessor himself kept her company, on pretence of a
sleeping leg ; but, in truth, his faith in his own intercession and fence did not
mount very high. All the apartment was searched— every chest, corner, and
hole that could be thought of — eveiything was quiet, and not so much as a
mouse stirring ! — not a bed-cover folded down, nor the smallest remembered
article missing ! Ail the family saw Kirky's ghost enter in his own likeness,
and heard him speak in his wonted tongue, except old Nanny. It was a
great and wonderful victory gained. Tliey were again in full possession of
theii' own house, .1 iiglit vviiich iliey ne\cr sccnieil betoic to h.ivc dul) aj^pieti-
ated. They felt grateful and happy ; and it was hinted by Maysey, Dan, and

68 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

uncle Nicholas, that Davie Tait would turn out a burning and a shining light
in these dark and dismal times, and would supersede Messrs Renwick, Shields,
and all the curates in the country. He had laid a visible ghost, that might
be the devil for aught they knew to the contrary; and it was argued on all hands
that " Davie was nae sma' drink."

The whole of the simple group felt happy and grateful ; and they agreed to
sit another hour or two before they went to sleep, and each one read a chapter
from the Bible, and recite a psalm or hymn. 'Ihey did so until it came to
Nanny's turn. She laid her hands across each other on her breast, turned
in the balls of her half-closed eyes so that nothing was seen but the white, and,
with her face raised upwards, and a slow rocking motion, she sung the fol-
lowing hymn, to a strain the most solemn that ever was heard.

O thou, who dwell'st in the heavens high,
Above yon stars, and within yon sky,
Where the dazzling fields never needed light
Of the sun by day, nor the moon by night !

Though shining millions around thee stand,
For the sake of one that's at thy right hand,
O think of them that have cost him dear,
Still chained in doubt and in darkness here 1

Our night is dreary, and dim our day :
And if thou turnest thy face away,
We are sinful, feeble, and helpless dust,
And have none to look to, and none to trust

The powers of darkness are all abroad,
They own no Saviour, and fear no God ;
And we are trembling in dumb dismay,
O turn not thus thy face away !

Our morning dawn is with clouds o'erspread.
And our evening fall is a bloody red ;
And the groans are heard on the mountain swarth ;
There is blood in heaven, and blood on earth.

A life of scorn for us thou did'st lead,
And in the grave laid thy blessed head ;
Then think of those who undauntedly
Have laid down life and all for thee.

Thou wilt not turn them forth in wrath.
To walk this world of sin and death,
In shadowy dim deformity .''
O God, it may not — cannot be !

Thy aid, O mighty One, we crave !
Not shortened is thy arm to save-
Afar from thee we now sojourn ;
Return to us, O God, return !

This hymn affected the family group in no ordinaiy degree ; it made the
hairs of their head creep, and thrilled their simple in-arts, easily impressed by
divine things, while their looks strongly expressed their feelings. None of
them would read or recite anything farther, but entreated Nanny to say it
over again, affirming, with one voice, that " it was an t-xtrodnar thing."

" Ah ! dear, dear bairns ! I dinna ken about it," said she ; " he was a good
cannic lad that made it, but he mi.xed wi' the scoffers, and turned to hae his
doubts and his failings like mony anc, (Lord forgie us a' for our share in tliem ;)
he seems even to have doubted o' the Omnipresence when he penned that,
which was far far wrang."

And thus I nmst close this long and eccentric chapter.

THE BROWNIE OF BODSBECK. 69

CHAPTER XIII.

Next morning Davie Tait was early astir, and not having anything better to
do, he took his plaid and staff and set out towards Whithope-head, to see
what was become of his five scores of ewes, the poor remains of a good stock.
Davie went slowly up the brae towards Riskinhope-swire, for the events of
last night were fresh in his mind, and he was conning a new prayer to suit
some other great emergency ; for Davie began to think that by fervent prayer
very great things might be accomplished — that perhaps the floods of the earth
and the winds of heaven might be restrained in their course ; and that even
the Hermon Law might be removed out of its place. He had, therefore, his
eye fixed on a little green gair before him, where he was determined to try
his influence with heaven once more ; for his heart was lifted up, as he after-
wards confessed, and he was hasting to that little gair to kneel down and ask
a miracle, nothing doubting.

Let any one guess, if he can, what Davie Tait was going to ask. It was not
that the rains and storms of heaven might be restrained, nor that the moun-
tains might be removed out of their places ; but Davie was going to pray, that
" when he went over at the Hewn-gate-end, as soon as he came in sight of
Whithope, he might see all his master's ewes again ; all his old friends, every
one of which he knew by head-mark, going spread and bleating on their old
walk from the Earl Hill all the way to the Braid-heads." So intent was
Davie on this grand project, that he walked himself out of iDreath against the
hill, in order to get quickly at the little gair to put his scheme in execution ;
but, as he sagely observed, it had been graciously fore-ordained that he should
not commit this great folly and iniquity. He paused to take his breath ; and
in pausing he turned about, as every man does who stops short in climbing a
hill. The scene that met Davie's eye cut his breath shorter than the steep —
his looks were rivetted on the haugh at Chapelhope — he could scarcely believe
his own eyes, though he rubbed them again and again, and tried their effects
on all things around. — " Good Lord ! " said Davie, " what a world do we live
in ! Gin a hale synat had sworn, I coudna hae believed this ! My sooth,
but the Brownie o' Bodsbeck has had a busy night ! "

Walter of Chapelhope had ten acres of as good corn as ever grew in a
moorland district. Davie knew, that when he went to his bed the evening
before, that corn was all growing in the field, dead ripe, and ready for the
sickle ; and he had been lamenting that very night that such a crop should be
lost for want of reapers, in a season when there was so much need for it. But
now Davie saw that one half of that crop at least was shorn during the night,
all standing in tight shocks, rowed and hooded, with their ends turned to the
south-west. — Well might Davie exclaim, " My sooth, but the Brownie of
Bodsbeck has had a busy night !"

Davie thought no more of his five scores of ewes, nor of his prayer, nor the
miracle that was to take place in consequence of that, but turned and ran
back to Riskinhope as fast as his feet would carry him, to arouse the rest of
the people, and apprise them of this wonderful event that had occurred be-
neath their noses, as he called it. He did so, and all of them rose with won-
der and astonishment, and agreed to go across the lake and look at the
Brownie's workmanship. Ar'ay they went in a body to the edge of the
stubble, but durst not set foot thereon for fear of being affected by enchant-
ment in some way or another ; but they saw that the corn had been shorn
exactly like other corn, except that it was rather more neat and clean than
ordinary. The sheaves Avcre bound in the same way as other bandsters bind
them ; and in the shocking, the corn-knots were all set outermost. " Wcel,
is not he a most unaccountable fellow that Brownie of Bodsbeck?" said
Davie Tait.

While they were thus standing in a row at the side of the shorn field, won-
dering at the prowess and agility of Brownie, and trying to make some
random calculations of the thousands of cuts thut he had made with his hook

ye THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

iliat night, Katharine went by at a little distance, di ivus her father's cows
aneld. and at the same time directing her father's doj; lar up the hill to turn
the ewes from the Quave Brae. She was dressed in her usual neat mu: ning
habit, with a white short-gown, green petticoat, and her dark locks bound up
with a scarlet snood ; she was scolding and cajoling the dog in a blithesome
and good-humoured way, and scarcely bestowing a look on the workmanship
of her redout)ted Brownie, or seeming to regard it

" Ay, ye may speel the brae, Keatie Laidlaw," said Davie Tait, apostrophis-
ing her, but shaking his head all the while, and speaking in a low voice, that
his fellow-servants only might hear — " Ay, ye may speel the brae, Keatie
Laidlaw, an' drive your ewes an' your kye where ye like ; but wae's me for
ye ! Ye hae a weel-faurd face o' your ain, an' a mak that's likcr to an angel
than a thing o' llcsh an' blude ; but och I what a foul heart ye boud to hae
within ! -And liow are ye to stand the aftcrcome ? There will be a black
reckoning with you some day. I wadna that my fit were i' your shoe the
night for a' the ewes on the Lang Bank."

Old Nanny went over, as usual, and assisted her to milk tliC cows, and
make the butter and cheese, but spoke no word that day to her young mis-
tress, good or bad. She regarded her with a kind of awe, and often took a
long stolen look of her as one does of a dog that he is afraid may be going
mad.

As the people of Riskinhope went home, Dan chanced to say jocularly,
" He's a clever fellow the Brownie — I wish he would come and shear our
croft too."

■' Foul fi' the tongue that said it," quoth Davie. " an' tlie heart that thought
the ill ! Ye think na how easily he's forespoken. It was but last night I said
he hadna wrought to the gudeman for half his meat, an' ye see what he has
done already. I spake o' him again, and he came in bodily. Ye should take
care what ye say here, for ye little ken wha's hearing. Ye're i' the very same
predicament, billy Dan, as the tod was in the orchard,^' Afore I war at this
speed,' quo' he, ' I wad rather hae my tail cuttit off,' — he hadna the word weel
said before he stepped into a trap, which struck, and snapt off his tail — ' It's
a queer place this,' quo' he ; * ane canna speak a word but it is taen in nettle-
earnest.' I' the same way is Brownie likely to guide you ; an' therefore, to
prevent him taking you at your word, we'll e'en gang an' begin the shearing
oursels."

Davie went in to seek out the hooks; he knew there were half-a-dozen lying
above the bed in the room where the spirit had been the night before. They
were gone ! not a sickle was there ! — Davie returned, scratching his head,
biting his lip, and looking steadily down to the ground. " It hasna been
Kirky's ghost after <a'," said he : " it has been Brownie, or some o' his gang,
borrowing our hooks."

Davie lost all hope of working any great change in the country by dint of
prayer. His faith, which never was great, gave way ; but yet he always said,
that when he was hasting up to the rash-bush in the little green gair that
morning, to pray for the return of his master's ewes, it was at least equal to a
grain of mustard-seed.

About eight days after that, when the moon was in the wane, the rest of
Walter's corn was all cut down in one nii^ht, and a part of the first safely
stowed in the barn-yard. About the same time, too, the shepherds began to
smear their flocks at a small sheep-house and fold, built for the purpose near
to the forkings of the Chapelhope-burn. It is the custom with them to mix
as much tar with grease before they begin as they deem sufficient to smear
all the sheep on the farm, or at least one hirsell of tlicm. This the herds of
Chapelhope did ; but, on the very second morning after they began, they per-
ceived that a good deal of th-^ir tar was wanting ; and judging that it had
been stolen, they raised a terrible affray about it with their neighbours of
Riskinhope and Corse-cleuch. Finding no marks of it, old John Hoy said,
" We must give it up, callants, for lost ; there is nae doubt but some of the

THE BROWNIE OF BODS BECK. 71

fishers about Dryhope has stown it for fish-lights. There are a set of ihc
terriblest poachers live there that's in all the Forest."

In the afternoon John went out to the O.x-cleuch-head, to bring in a house-
ful of white sheep, and to his utter astonishment saw that upwards of an
hundred ewes had been smeared during the night, by the officious and un-
wearied Brownie of Bodsbeck. " The plague be in his fingers," quoth old
John to himself, " gin he haena smeared crocks an' fat sheep, an' a' that ha;>
come in his way. This will never do."

'i'hough the very hairs of John's head stood, on coming near to the sheep
that had been smeared by Brownie, yet seeing that his sensible dog Keilder
was nothing afraid of them, but managed them in the same way as he did
other sheep, John grew by degrees less suspicious of them. He confessed,
hoAvever, as he was shedding tliem from the white ones, that there was a ewe
of Brownie's smearing came running by very near him, and he could not help
giving a great jump out of her way.

All shepherds are accused of indolence, and not, perhaps, without some
reason. Though John dreaded as death all connexion with Brownie, yet he
rejoiced at the progress they were likely to make in the smearing, for it is a
dirty and laborious business, and he was glad by any means to get a share of
it off his hands, especially as the season was so far advanced. So John took
into the fold twice as many sheep as they needed for their own smearing, put
the crocks and the fat sheep out from among them, and left them in the house
to their fate, taking good care to be out of sight of the place before dark
Next morning a certain quantity of tar was again gone, and the sheep were
all neatly smeared and keeled, and set to the hill. This practice the shep-
herds continued throughout smearing-time, and whether they housed many or
few at night, they were still all smeared and set to the hill again next morn-
ing. The smearing of Chapelhope was finished in less than one-third of its
wonted time. Never was the labour of a farm accomplished with such
expedition and exactness, although there were none to work, to superintend,
or direct it, but one simple maiden. It became the wonder and theme of the
whole country, and has continued to be a standing winter evening tale to this
day. Where is the cottager, dwelling between the Lowthers and Cheviot,
who has not heard tell of the feats of the Brownie of Bodsbeck.?

CHAPTER XIV.

Walter was hardly used in prison for some time, but at last Drummelziei
found means of rendering his situation more tolerable. Several of his asso-
ciates that were conducted with him from Dumfries died in jail ; he said they
seemed to have been forgotten both by the Council and their friends, but they
kept up so good a heart, and died with such apparent satisfaction, that he
could scarcely be sorry for their release by death, though he acknowledged,
that a happiness beyond the grave was always the last kind of happiness that
he wished to his friends. His own trial was a fire-side theme for him as long
as he lived, but he confounded names, and law terms, and all, so much through
other, that, were it given wholly in his own words, it would be unintelligible.
It took place on the 12th of November, and Sir George Lockhart and Mr.
Alexander Hay were his counsel. His indictment bore, that he had sheltered
on his farm a set of the most notorious and irreclaimable rebels in the whole
realm ; that sundry of his majesty's right honest liege subjects had been
cruelly murdered there, very nea: to the jirisoner's house, and a woithy curate
in the immediate vicinity. It stated the immense quantity of victuals found
in his house, and the number of fugitive whigs that were seen skulking in the
boundaries of his farm ; and also how some false delinquents were taken and
executed there.

Clavers was present, as he had a right to be when he desired it, and gave
strong and decided evidence against him. The time had been, and not long
agone, when, if the latter had manifested surh sentiments against any one,
it had been sufficient for his death-warrant ; but the killing time was now

72 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

nearly over, and those in power were only instituting trials in order to impose
heavy fines and penalties, that they might glean as much of the latter vintage
of that rich harvest as possible, before the sickle was finally reft from their
grasp. Several witnesses were e.\amincd to prove the above accusations, and
among the rest Daniel Roy Macpherson, whose deposition was fair, manly,
and candid. As soon as his examination was over, he came and placed him-
self near to Walter, who rejoiced to see him, and deemed that he saw in him
the face of a friend.

Witnesses were next called to prove his striking Captain Bruce with his
fist, and also tripping the heels from Ingles, and tossing him over a steep,
while in the discharge of his duty, whereby he was rendered unable to pro-
ceed in the king's business. Walter, being himself examined on these points,
confessed both, but tried to exculpate himself as well as he could.

"As to Bruce, my masters," said he, " I didna ken that he was a captain,
or what he was ; he pu'd up his bit shabble of a sword an' dang aff my bonnet,
when I was a free man i' my ain ben-end. I likit nac sic freedoms, as I had
never been used wi' them, s.ae l took up my neive an' gae him a yank on the
haffat till I gart his bit brass cap rattle against the wa'. I wonder ye dinna
ceete me too for nippin' Jock Graham's neck there, as he ca'd himsel, that
dav, an' his friend Tam Liviston— There's nae word o' that the day ! — Nah !
but I could tell an I likit what I hae been put to a' this plague for."

Here the advocate stopped him, by observing that he was wandering from
the point in question, and his own counsel were always trembling for him
when he began to speak for himself. Being asked what defence he had to
offer for kicking and maltreating a king's officer in the discharge of his
duty ?

" If it was that drunken dirt Ingles that ye mean," said Walter, " I dinna
ken what ye ca' a man's duty here, but it surely coudna be a duty, when my
hands war tied ahint my back, to kick me i' the wame ; an' that's what he
was doing wi' a' his pith^ whan I gart him flee heels-ower-head like a batch
o' skins."

Sir George MacKenzie and Dalrymple of Stair both laughed outright at
this answer, and it was sometime before the business could proceed. Sir
George Lockhart, however, compelled them to relinquish these parts of the
indictment on account of the treatment olTered to the prisoner, and the trial
proceeded on the charges previously mentioned, which were found relevant.
Walter was utterly confounded at the defence made for him by Sir George
Lockhart. He was wont to say, " Aih, but he's a terrible clever body yon
Geordie Lockie : od, he kent mair about me, and mair that was in my favour,
than I did mysel."

The conclusion of this trial must be given in Walter's own phrase. " I pre-
tendit to be very crouse, an' no ae bit fear'd — aha ! I was unco fear'd for a'
that — 1 coudna swally my spittle for the hale day, an' I fand a kind o' foost,
foost, foostin about my briskit that I coudna win aneath ava. But when the
chield MacKenzie began to clink thegither the evidence against me, gude
faith I thought it was a' ower wi' me then ; I saw nae outgate, an' lost a' hope;
mair than aince I tried to think o' auld Maron Linton an' the bairns, but I
could think about naething, for I thought the house was heaving up i' the tae
side, an' gaun to whommel a' the judges and jurymen on the tap o' me. He
revertit aye to the evidence of Clerk the curate, wha had said that I had a
j)rivate correspondence wi' the whigs, an' then he brought a' the ither proof
to bear upon that, till he made my guilt perfectly plain ; an' faith I coudna
say that the chield guessed far wrang. Then my Lord Moray, wha was head
judge that day, was just gaun to address the jurymen, and direct them to
hang me, when up gat Geordie Lockie again for the hindmost time ; (he had
as mony links and wimples in his tail as an eel, that body,) an' he argyed
some point o' law that gart them a' glowr ; at last he said, that it was hard,
on a point of life an' death, to take the report of a man that wasna present
to make oath to the information he had gi'cn, which might be a slander

THE BROWNIE OF BODS BECK. 7^

to gain some selfish end ; and he prayed, for the satisfaction o' the jury, that
his client might be examined on that point, (he ca"d me aye a client, a name
that I abhorred, for I didna ken the meaning o't, but I trowed it meant nae
good,) for, says he, he has answered very freely, and much to the point, a'
that ye hae speered at him. I was just considering what I should say, but I
could get nought to say ava, when I was startit wi' a loud Hem ! just amaisc
at my elbow. I naturally liftit up my een, very stupit-like, I dare say, to see
what it was ; and wha was it but the queer Hi;.';hland chap, Roy Macpherson,
makin' sic faces to me as ye never saw. I thought he was wanting to mak
me recollect something, but what it was I coudna tell. I was dumfoundered
sae, that when the judge put the question to me about Clerk I never answered
a word, for I was fore-foughten wi' another thought. At length I mindit the
daft advice that honest Macpherson gae me at parting with me in Dumfries,
which was sic a ridiculous advice I had never thought o't mair. But now,
thinks I to mysel, things canna be muckle waur wi' me ; the scrow's come
fairly to the neb o' the miresnipe now ; an' never had I better reason to be
angry than at the base curate whom I had fed an' clad sae aften. Sae I
musters a' my wrath up into my face, and when the judge, or the advocate,
put the question again, I never heedit what it was, but set up my birses an'
spak to them as they had been my herd callants. 'What the deil are ye a' after?'
quoth I. 'Curse the hale pack o' ye, do you think that auld Wat Laidlaw's a
whig, or wad do aught against his king, or the laws o' his countiy .'' They
ken little about him that say sae ! I aince fought twa o' the best o' them
armed wi' swords, an' wi' nought but my staff I laid them baith flat at my
feet ; an' had I ony twa o' ye on Chapelhope-flow thcgither, if ye dared to
say that I was a whig or a traitor to my king, I wad let ye find strength o'
airm for aince.' Here the wily chap Geordie Lockie stappit me in great agita-
tion, and beggit me to keep my temper and answer his lordship to the point,
what defence I had to make against the information given by Clerk the
curate ? 'He, the wretch ! ' said I : 'he kens the contrair o' that ower weel ; but
he kend he wad be maister an' mair when he gat me away frae about the
town. He wantit to wheedle my wife out o' ilk thing she had, an' to kiss my
daughter too, if he could. Vile brock! gin I war hame at him I'll dad his
head to the wa' ; ay, an' ony twa 0' ye forby, quo' I, raising my voice,'an'
shaking that neive at them, — ony twa o' ye that dare set up your faces an' say
that I'm a whig or a rebel. — A wheen d — d rascals, that dinna ken what ye
wad be at ! '

"The hale court was thunnerstruck, an' glowred at ane anither like wuU-
cats. I gae a sklent wi' my ee to Daniel Roy Macpherson, an' he was leaned
ower the back o' the seat, an' fan into a kink o' laughing. The hale crowd
ahint us got up wi' a great hurrah ! an' clappit their hands, an' I thought the
fock war a' gaen mad thegither. As soon as there was a wee quiet, my lord
the Earl 0' Moray he speaks across to Clavers, an' he says : 'This winna do,
my lord ; that carl's nae whig, nor naething akin to them. Gin that be nae a
sound worthy man, I never saw ane, nor heard ane speak.' An' wi' that the
croud shoutit an' clappit their hands again. I sat hinging my head then, an'
looking very blate, but 1 was unco massy for a' that. They then spak amang
themsels for five or sax minents, and they cried on my master Drummelzier,
an' he gaed up an' crackit wi' them too ; an' at last the judge tauld me, that
the prosecution against me was drappit for the present, an' that gin I could raise
security for twa thousand merks, to appear again if cited before tlie first of June,
1686, I was at liberty to go about my business. I thankit his lordship ; but
thinks I to mysel, yere a wheen queer cha|)s ! Ye shoot fock for praying an'
reading the bible, an' Avhan ane curses an' damns ye, ye ca' him a true honest
man! I wish ye be nae the deil's bairns, the hale wort o' ye! Urummclzier
an' Lockie cam' security for me at aince, an' away I sets for hame, as weel
satisfied as ever I was a' my life, that I mind o'.

" Weel, when I came out to the closs at the back o' the prison, a' the fock
croudit about me ; an' he shook hands wi' me ; an' the young chaps they

74 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

hurra'd an waved their caps, an' cried out, iittnck Foreai for ever!--Auld
Braid-Bonnet for ever,— hurra ! An' I cam up the Lawn-Market, an' down
the Bow, wi sic an army at my tail, as 1 had been gaun away to light
Boddeil-Brigg ower again.

" I now begoud to think it wad be as weel to gie the lads the slip, for my
army was gathering like a snaw-ba', an' 1 little wist how sic a hobbleshue
might end ; sae 1 jinkit into Geordie Allan's, at the West-Port, where I hnd
often been afore, when selling my ei!d ewes and chasers ; an' I whispered to
them to keep out my sodgers, for there were too many of them for the house
to haud ; but they not perfectly understanding my jest, I was not well entered
ere 1 heard a loud altercation at the head o' the stair, an' the very first aith
*that 1 heard I knew it to be Macpherson."

" By Cot's preath, put she shall pe coing in ; were not she her friend and
counshel ?"

" You his counsel ? A serjeant of dragoons his counsel ? That winna do.
He charged that nae sodgers should get in. Get aff wi' your Hieland
impudence — brazen-faced thief ! "

'' Fat .'' Tief ? Cot t— n y' mack-en dhu na bhaish ! M'Leadle ! — Trocho !
—Hollo ! Crcsorst ! ''

" I ran to the door to take the enraged veteran in my arms, and welcome
him as my best friend and adviser, but they had bolted the inner door in his
face, through which he had run his sword amaist to the hilt, an' he was tugging
an' pu'ing at it to get it out again, swearing a' the time like a true dragoon.
1 led him into my room, an' steekit the door o't,but there he stood wi' his feet
asperr, and his drawn sword at arm's length ahint his back, in act to make
a lounge at the door, till he had exhausted a' his aiths, baith in Gaelic an'
English, at the fock o' the house, and then he sheathed his sword, and there
was nae mair about it.

" I speered what I could do to oblige him ? "

" Hu, not creat moach at hall, man ; only pe kiffing me your hand. Py
McTavish, More, put if you tit not stonish tern ! Vas not I peen telling
you tat him's hearty curse pe to cood ? "

" My certy," quo' I, " but ye did do that, or I wad never hae thought o't ;
ye're an auld-tarrant honest chiel ! I am sorry that I canna just now make
ye sic a present as ye deserve ; but you man come out an' see me."

" Present ! I'oo, poo, poo ! Teoi more take te present tat pe coing between
friends, and she may have sharper works tan pe coing visits ; put not te more,
she pe haifing small favour to seek."

" Ud, man," says 1, "ye hae been the mean o' preserving my life, an' ye
sanna ax a thing that I'll refuse, e'en to my ain doughter. An' by the by,
Serjeant, gin ye want a good wife, an' a bonny ane, I'll gie ye sic a tocher wi'
my Katie, as never was gi'en wi' a farmer's lassie i' the Forest."

" Hu ! Cot pe plessing you ! She haif cot wife, and fery hexcellent
boddach, with two childs after him."

" What is it, then, serjeant ? Gin the thing be in my power, ye hae naething
ado but to say the word."

" Do you know tat her nainsell pe coosin to yourself.'' "

" Od, man,' quo' 1, "that's hardly possible, or else the taen o' us has come
o' the wrang side o' the blanket."

" Now do you just pe holding your paice for a fery less time, for you must
halways pe spaik spaiking, without knowing fat to say, unless I were putting
it into your haid. I haif tould ould Simon (jlas Macrhimmon, who knows
all the pedigrees from the creation of the world, and he says that te Lheadles
are Macphersons ; for, in the days of Kory More of Ballindalloch and
Invereshie, teie was te Gordons, who would pe making grheat prhogress on
te Sassenach, and tere went down wit Strabogie of te clan Ahnderson, and te
clan Grhaham, and one Lctulloch Macpherson of Strathneshalloch, vit as
bould a clan after her as any and mhore ; and they would pe toing creat
might upon the Sassenach, and they would pe killing her in tousands, and

THE BROWNIE OF BODS BECK. 75

ten she cot crheat Ihands out of King Robert on te Biiorder, and Lc'.ul')' Ii
he had a whouln country to himself. But te people could not pe putting her
nhame into worts, and instead of Letulloch tey called her Leadlea, and te
Sassenach she called her Little, so that all tese are of Macpherson, and you
may pe te chief, ann te forward son of te crheat Strathneshalloch himself.
Now tat I would pe te tog, and te shame, and te tisgrhace, not to help my
owhn poor clansman and prhother out of te evil, tat would pe worse eneuch ;
and te ting tat I would pe asking of you is tis, tat you will always look upon
a Macpherson as a prhother until te end of te world, and pe standing py her
as long as tere is peing one trop of plood in your whole poty."

" Gude faith, serjeant," says I, " I never was sae happy as to find, lliat
the man to whom 1 hae been sae muckle obliged is sic a noble disinterested
chiel ; an' there's my hand, I'll never gie up the cause of a Macpherson, if
he's in the right."

" Hu ! Never mind your right! a clansman speak of the right! Any man
will stand py me when I am in te right, put wit a prhother I must always pe
in te right. No right or wrong tere ! — Poo, poo ! "

" Od, man," quo' I, "that's a stretch o' billyhood that I was never up to
afore, but sin' ye say't, may I never see the Hermon Law again gif I winna
stand by it. Come, then, we'll hae a stoup o' brandy, or a bottle o' wine
thegither, for a parting cup."

" Hu ! — no, no ! None of your prandies or your wines for me! — I must pe
on duty in less than an hour, and I would not pe tasting any of your tamn
prandies or wines. No, no ! — Cot pless you !— And should she never pe seeing
your face again, you will pe "

" He could say nae mair, for the muckle round tears were coming hopping
down ower his weather-beaten cheek, but he gae my hand a hard squeeze an' a
shake, an' brak out at the door ; an' that was my last sight of honest Daniel
Roy Macpherson, a man that I hae met few like ! I was tauld lang after,
that he fell fighting like a lion against the Campbells, at the battle o'
Killiecranky, and that, to the last day o' his life, he spake o' his kinsman,
ould MacLeadle."

CHAPTER XV.

It was on the inauspicious night of All- Hallow-eve, that Walter arrived again
at his own house, after so long an absence ; but some of the farmers of
Manor- Water, his acquaintances, were so overjoyed at seeing him again, that
they persuaded him to go in, taste of their cheer, and relate his adventures
and his trial to them ; and so long was he detained in this way, that it was dark
before he left Dollar-Burn ; yet so anxious was he to get home to his family,
and all unconscious that it was Hallow-E'en, the great jubilee of the fairies
and all the spirits of these mountain regions, he set out on his journey home-
ward, across the dreary moors of Meggat-dale. Walter found his way full
well, for he knew every brae, height, and declivity by the way, and many de-
lightful little dreams was he cherishing in his heart, how he would surprise
Maron an' the bairns by his arrival, and how extravagantly delighted his ex-
cellent and generous dog Reaver would be ; for he often said, " he had mair
sense about him than what was a beast's good right ;" but, above all, his
mind dwelt most on his dear lassie Kate, as he called her. He had been in-
formed by Drummelzier of all that she had done for him, who gave her a
character so high before some friends of his who were present, that Walter
never was so proud in his life, and he longed with all a father's fondness, to
clasp " his bit dear kind-heartit lassie" again in his arms.

With all these delightful and exhilarating thoughts glowing in his breast,
how could that wild and darksome road, or indeed any road, be tedious to our
honest goodman ? For, as to the evil spirits with whom his beloved Kcatic
was in conjunction, the idea had died away like a thing of the imagination,
and he barely spent a thought upon it. He crossed the Meggat about eleven
o'clock in the night, just as the waning moon began to peep over the hills to the

76 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

Louth-east of the lake, — but such scenes, and such adventures, are not worth a
farthing, unless described and related in the language of the country to which
they are peculiar.

•' I fand I was come again into the country o' the fairies an' the spirits,"
said Walter ; " an' there was nae denying o't ; for when I saw the bit crookit
moon come stealing o'er the kipps o' Bowerhope-Law, an' thraw her dead
yellow light on the hills o' Meggat, I fand tlie very nature an' the heart
within me changed. A' the hills on the tae side o' the loch war as dark as
pitch, an' the tither side had that ill-hued colour on't, as if they had been a'
rowed in their winding sheets; an' then the shadow o' the moon it gaed bobbing
an' quivering up the loch foment me, like a street o' cauld fue. In spite o'
my teeth I turned eiry, an' the mair I feucht against it I grew the eiryer, for
whenever the spirits come near ane, that kind o' feeling comes on.

" Weel, just as 1 was gaun round the end o' the Wedder-Law, a wee bit
aboon the head o' the Braken Wood, I sees a white thing on the road afore
me. At the first it appeared to be gaun away, but at length I saw it coming
nearer an' nearer mc, keeping aye a little aboon the road till I came amaist
close to it, an' then it stood stane-still an' glowered at me. What in the wide
world can it be that is here at sic an untimely time o' night as this .'' thinks I
to mysel. However, I steps aye on, an' wasna gaun to mak or meddle wit
ava, till at last, just as I was gaun by, it says in a soft low voice, — " Wow,
friend, but ye gang late the night ! "

" Faith, no muckle later than yoursel," quo' I, "gin it be your will."

" O'er late on sic a night ! " quoth the creature again ; " ocr late on
Hallow-E'en, an' that ye will find."

" It elyed away o'er the brow, an' I saw nae mair o't. " Lord sauf us ! "'
quo' I to mysel, " is this Hallow-E'en ? I wish 1 war safe at hame, or in
amang Christian creatures o' ony kind I — Or had I but my fine dog Reaver wi'
me, to let me ken when the fairies are coming near me- Goodness to the day!
I may be amang the mids o' them ere ever I ken what I'm doing." A' the
stories that ever I heard about fairies in my life came linkin into my mind
ane after anither, and I almaist thought I was already on my road to the fairy-
land, an' to be paid away to hell, like a kane-cock, at the end o' seven years.
I likit the boding o' the apparition I bad met wi' unco ill, but yet I had some
hopes that I was oe'r muckle, an' oe'r heavy metal for the fairies. Hout, thinks
I, what need I be sae feared ? They'll never take away ane o' my size to be
a fair}' — Od, I wad be the daftest-like fairy ever was seen.

" I had naething for't but to stride on as fast I could, an' on I comes till I
comes to the bit brae at the side o' the Ox-Cleurh-Lca, an' there I heard
something fistling amang the brakens, an' making a kind o' whecnge, whecngc,
wheenging, that gart a' my heart loup to my mouth; an' what was this but my
poor dog Reaver, coming creeping on his wame, an' sae fain to meet me again
that he hardly kend what he was doing. I took him up in my arms an'
clappit him, an' said a' the kind things to him that I could, an' O sic a wark
an' fidgeting as he made ! But yet 1 couldna help thinking there was a kind o'
doufness and melancholy in his looks. What ails ye, Reaver m;in? quo' I.
I wish a' may be weel about Chapclhope the night; but ye canna tell me that,
poor fallaw, or else ye wad. He sometimes lickit my stocking wi' his tongue,
an' sometimes my hand, but he wadna gang away aiore me as he used to do,
cocking his tail sae massy-like ; an' I feared sair that a' wasna right about
hame, an' can hardly tell ony body how I felt,— fock's ain are aye their ain !

" At length I cam' amaist close to the bit brow o' the Lang Bank that
brought me in sight o' my ain house, but when I lookit ower my shoulder
Reaver was fled. I grew fcardcr than ever, an' wistna what to think ; an' wi'
that I sees a queer-like shapen thing standing straight on the road afore me.
Now, thinks I, this is the Brownie o' Bodsbcck ; I wadna face him for a' the
warld ; I maun try to gie him the slip. Sae I slides aff the road, an' down a
bit howe into the side o' the loch thinking I wad get up within the brae out o'
sicrht o' him — But aha ! there was ho standing straight afore me on the shore.

THE BROWNIE OF BODSBECK. 77

I clamb the brae again, and sae did he. Now, thinks I, his plan is first to pit
me out o' my reason, an' then wear me into the loch and drown me ; I'll keep
an open side wi' him. Sae up the hill I scrambles wi' a' my speed,
an' doun again, and up again, five or six times ; but still he keepit
straight afore me. By this time I was come by degrees very near him, an
waxed quite desperate an' desperation made me crouse. ' In the name o' God,'
cries I, ' what are ye that winna let me by to my ain house .'' "

" Did you see a woman on your way .'' " said the creature in a deep solemn
voice.

" Yes, I did," answered I.

" Did she tell you any thing? " said the apparition again.

" No," said I.

"Then I must," said the creature. "You go no nearer to your own house
to-night."

" Say you sae? " said I ; "but I'll gang to my ain house the night, though
sax like you stood atween me an' it."

" 1 charge you," said the thing again, " that you go not nearer to it. For
your own sake, and the sakes of those that are dearest to you, go back the
gate you came, and go not to that house."

" An' pray wha may you be that's sae peremptory ? " said I.

" A stranger here, but a friend to you, Laidlaw. Here you do not pass to-
night."

I never could bide to be braved a' my life. " Say you sae, friend ? "
quo' I ; " then let me tell ye, stand out o' my way ; or, be ye brownie or fairy
— be ye ghaist, or be ye deil — in the might o' Heaven, I sail gie ye strength
o' arm for aince ; an' here's a cudgel that never fell in vain."

" So saying, 1 took my stick by the sma' end wi' baith my hands, an' heaving
it ower my shoulder I cam' straight on to the apparition, for I hardly kend
what I was doing ; an' my faith it had gotten a paik ! but it had mair sense
than to risk it; for when it saw that I was dcmentit, it e'en steppit cpietly aff
the road, and said, wi' a deep grane, " Ye're a wilfu' man, Laidlaw, an' your
wilfu'ness may be your undoing. Pass on your ways, and Heaven protect
your senses."

" I dredd sair I was doing wrang, but there was something in my nature
that wadna be contrair'd ; sae by I went, an' lookit full at the thing as I past.
It had nouther face nor hands, nor head nor feet ; but there was it standing
like a lang corn sack. L — d tak me, (as Serjeant Macpherson said,) if I kend
whether I was gaun on my feet or the crown o' my head.

'' The first window that I came to was my ain, the ane o' that room where
Maron and I slept. I rappit at it wi' a rap that wont to be weel kend, but it
was barred, an' a' was darkness and vacancy within. I tried every door and
window alang the foreside o' the house, but a' wi' the same effect. I rappit
an' ca'd at them a', an' named every name that was in the house when I left
it, but there was nouther voice, nor light, nor sound. ' Lord have a care o'
me ! ' said I to mysel, ' what's come o' a' my fock ? Can Clavers hae been
here in my absence an' taen them a' away ? or has the Brownie o' Bodsbeck
eaten them up, stoop an' roop? For a' that I hae wearied to see them, here
I find my house left unto me desolate. This is a waesome welcome hame to
a father, an' a husband, an' a master ! — O what will come o' puir auld Wat
now ? '

" The Auld Room was a place I never thought o' ganging to : but no
kenning what to m.ik o' myscl, round the west end o' the house I gaes towards
the door o' the Auld Room. I soon saw through the seam atween the shutters
that there was a light in it, an' kenning wecl that there was a broken lozen, I
edged back the shutter naturally to see what was gaun on within — May never
a father's e'e again see sic a sight as mine saw ! — There was my dear, my
only daughter Katharine, sitting on the bed wi' a dead corpse on her knee,
and her hands round its throat ; and there was the Brownie o' Bodsbeck, the
ill-faurd, runkled, withered thing, wi' its eildron form and grey beard, slandin

78 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

at the bed side haudin the pale corpse by the hand. It had its tither hand
liftit up, and was mutter, muttering some horrid spell, while a crew o' the
same kind o' grizly bearded phantoms were standing round them. I had nae
doubt but there had been a murder committit. and that a dissection was neist
to take place ; and I was sae shockit that 1 was just gaun to roar out. I
tried it twice, but 1 had tint my voice, and could do naething but gape.

" 1 now land there was a kind o' swarf coming o'er me, for it came up, up,
about my heart, an up, up o'er my temples, till it darkened my een ; an' I
fand that if it met on the crown o' my head I was gane. Sae I thought it
good, as lang as that wee master bit was sound, to make my escape, an' aff I
ran, an' fell, an' fell, an' rase an' ran again. As Riskinhope was the nearest
house, I fled for that, where I wakened Davie Tail out o' his bed in an unco
plight. When he saw that I was a' bcdaubit wi' mire o'er head an' ears, (for
1 had faun a hunder times,) it was impossible to tell wha o' us was maist
frightit.

'' ' Lord sauf us, goodman,' quo' he, ' are ye hangit ? '
" ' Am 1 hangit, ye blockhead ! ' says I ; ' what do ye mean ?'
"' I m-m-mean,' says Davie, ' w-w-war ye ek-ek-execute.'"
" ' Dinna be feard for an auld acquaintance, Davie,' quo' I, 'though he
comes to you in this guise.'

" ' Guise !' said Davie, staring, and gasping for breath — ' Gui-gui-guise !
Then it se-e-e-eems ye at-e dead.'"'

•''Gin 1 were dead, ye fool,' quoth I, 'how could I be here? Give me
your hand.'

'' ' Uh-uh-uh-uuuh ! ' cried Davie, as I wore him up to the nook, and took
haud o' his hand by force. ' Uh, goodman, ye are flesh and blude yet ! But
O ye're cauld an' ugsome ! '

'" Davie,' quoth I, ' bring me a drink, for I hae seen something o'er-bye,
an' I'm hardly just mysel.'

" Davie ran and brought me a hale bowie-fu' o' milk. 'Tak a gude waught,
goodman,' quo' he, 'an' dinna be discouraged. Ye maun lay your account to
see and hear baith, sic things as ye never saw or heard afore, gin ye be gaun
to bide here. Ye needna wonder that 1 thought ye war dead, — the dead are
as rife here now as the living — they gang amang us, work amang us, an' speak
to us ; an' them that we ken to be half-rotten i' their graves, come an' visit
our fire-sides at the howe o' the night. There hae been sad doings here sin
ye gaed away, goodman ! '

" ' Sad doings I fear, indeed, Davie ! ' says I. ' Can ye tell me what's
become o' a' my family .? '

" ' Troth can I, goodman. Your family are a' weel. Keatie's at hame her
lievahlane, an' carrying on a' the vvark o' the farm as weel as there war a
hunder wi' her. Your twa sons an' auld Nanny bide here ; an' the honest
gudewife hersel she's away to Gilmanscleuch. But oh, gudeman, there are
sad things gaun on o'er-by yonder ; an' mony a ane thinks it will hae a black
an' a dreadfu' end. Sit down an' thraw aff your dirty claes, an' tell us what
ye hae seen the night.'

" ' Na, na, Davie ! unless 1 get some explanation, the thing that I hae seen
the night maun be lockit up in this breast, an' be carried to the grave wi' it.
But, Davie, I'm unco ill ; the cauld sweat is brekking on me frae head to foot.
I'm feared I gang away athegither.'

" ' Wow, gudeman, what can be done ? ' quo' Davie. ' Think ye we sudna
tak the beuk ? '

" ' 1 was sae faintish I couldna arguy wi' the fool, an' ere ever I wist he has
my bonnet whuppit aff, and is boding at a sawm ; and when that was done,
to the prayin' he fa's, an' sic nonsense I never heard prayed a' my life. I'll
be a rogue gin he wasna speakin' to his Maker as he had been his neighbour
herd ; an' then he was bailh lleetching an' fighting wi" him. However, 1
caiue something to mysel again, an' Davie he thought proper to ascribe it a'
to his bit ragabash prayer.' "

THE BROWNIE OF BODS BECK. 79

Walter spent a restless and a troubled morning till daylight, and Davie
said, that wearied as he was, he believed he never closed his een, for he heard
him frequently turning in the bed, and moanin'j to himself; and he heard him
once saying, with deep sighs, as if weeping,^" U my poor Keatie Laidlaw !
what is to become o' her ' jMy poor lost, misled lassie 1 Wa'es my heart
for her ! I fear she is ruined for this world — an' for the afteicome, i dare
hardly venture to think about it ! — O wae's me for my poor luckless bairn !"

CHAPTER XVI.
Next morning Walter and his two sons, and old Nanny, went all over to
Chapelhope together, just as the cows came to the lone ; and the farmer was
sundry times remarking by the way that '' daylight had mony een ! ' The
truth was, th.it the phantoms of superstition had in a measure fled with the
shadows of the night, which they seldom fail to do. They, indeed, remain in
tlie bosom, hid, as it were, in embryo, ready to be embodied again at the fall
of the long shadow in the moon-light, or the evening tale round the fading
embers ; but Walter at this time, perhaps, regarded tne visions of last night
as dreams scarcely remembered, and less believed, and things which in open
day he would have been ashamed to have acknowledged.

Katharme had begun a milking, but when she beheld her father coming
across the meadow, she left her leglen and ran home. Perhaps it was to put
his little parlour in order, for no one of the family had set foot within that
house but herself for three weeks — or perhaps she did not choose that their
meeting should be witnessed by other eyes. In short, she had something of
importance to put to rights — for home she ran with great haste ; and Walter,
putting his sons to some work to detain them, followed her all alone. He
stepped into the parlour, but no one being there, he sat down on his elbow
chair, and be^an to look about him. In a few seconds his daughter entered
— flung herself on her fathei-^s knee and bosom — clasped her arms about his
neck — kissed him, and shed a flood of tears on his breast. At first he felt
somewhat startled at her embrace, and his arms made a feeble and involuntary
eftbrt to press her away from him ; but she grew to him the closer, and
welcomed him home with such a burst of filial afi'ection and tenderness, that
nature in a short time regained her empire over the father's heart ; and there
was to be seen old Walter with his large hands pressing her slender waist,
keeping her at a little distance from him on his knee, and looking stedfastly
in her lace, with the large tear rolling in his eye. It was such a look as one
sometimes takes of the corpse of one that was dearly beloved in life. Well
did she read this look, for she had the eye of the eagle for discernment ; but
she hid her face again on his shoulder, and endeavoured, by familiar enquiries,
to wean him insensibly from his reserve, and draw him into his wonted freedoro
of conversation with her.

'' Ye ken o'er weel," said he at length, " how deep a baud ye bae o' this
heart, Keatie. Ye're my ain bairn still, and ye hae done muckle for my life —
but ''

'■ Muckle for your life ! " said she, interrupting him — " I have been but too
remiss. I have regretted every hour that 1 was not with you attending you
in prison, administering to all my father's wants, and helping to make the
time of bondage and suspense pass over more lightsomely ; but grievous cir-
cumstances have prevented me. I have had sad doings here since you went
away, my dear father — there is not a feeling that can rack the human
heart has not been my share. But I will confess all my errors to my
father, fall at his knees, and beg his forgiveness — ay, and I hope to receive
it too.'

" The sooner ye do sae the better then, Keatie," said he — " I was here
last night, an' saw a sight that was enough to turn a father's heart to stanc."

•' You were lieie last nigni /" said she emphatically, whilst her eyes were
H-\c un the ground — " You were here last night ! Oh ! what shall become
ot me.''

go THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

" Ay, weel may ye say sae, poor lost and undone creature ! I was here last
night, though worn back by some o' your infernals, an' saw ye in the mids o'
your drcadfu' game, wi* a' your bike o' hell round about ye. I watna what
your contession and explanation may do ; but without these I hae sworn to
myself, and I'll keep my aith, that you and I shall never night thegiiher
again in the same house, nor the same part o' the country— ay, though
it should bring down my grey hairs wi' sorrow to the grave, I'll keep that
aith."

" I fear it will turn out a rash vow," said she, " and one that we may all
repent to the last day that we have to live. There is danger and jeopardy in
the business, and it is connected with the lives and souls of men ; therefore,
before we proceed further in it, relate to me all the circumstances of your
trial, and by what means you are liberated."

" I'll do that cheerfully,' said Walter, " gin it war but to teach you compli-
ance."

He then went over all the circumstances of his extraordinary trial, and the
conditions on which he was discharged ; and ended by rCvjuiring her posi-
tively to give him the promised explanation.

" So you are only then out on bail," said she, " and liable to be cited again
on the same charges .'' "

" No more," was the reply.

"It is not then time yet for my disclosure," said she, "and no power on
earth shall wring it from me ; therefore, my dear father, let me beg of you to
urge your request no farther, that I may not be under the painful necessity of
refusing you again."

" 1 hae tauld ye my determination, Keatie," returned he ; " an' ye ken I'm
no very apt to alter. If I should bind ye in a cart wi' my ain hands, ye shall
leave Chapelhope the night, unless ye can avert that by explaining your con-
nections to me. An' why should ye no t — Things can never appear waur to
my mind than they are just now — If hell itself had been opened to my e'e an'
I had seen you ane o' the inmates, I couldna hae been mair astoundit than I
was yestreen. I'll send ye to Edinburgh, an' get ye safely put up there, for i
canna brook things ony langer in this state. I winna hae my family scattered,
an' made a byeword and an astonishment to the hale country this gate —
Outher tell me the meaning o t, or lay your account to leave your father's
house this day for ever."

" You do not know what you ask, father — the thing is impossible. Was
ever a poor creature so hard bestead .'' Will not you allow me a few days to
prepare for such a departure .'' "

" No ae day, nor ae hour either, Kate. Ye see this is a situation o' things
that canna be tholed ony langer."

She sat down as if in deep meditation, but she neither sobbed nor wept.
" You are only out on bail," said she, " and liable to be tried again on the
same grounds of charge ? "

" Ay, nae mair," said Walter, " but what need ye harp on that } I'm safe
enough. I forgot to tell you that the judges were sae thoroughly convinced
of my loyalty and soundness (as they ca'd it) that they wadna risk me to the
vote of a jury ; an' that the bit security they sought was naelhing but a mere
sham to get honouralDly quit o' me. I was likewise tauld by ane that kens
unco weel, that the king has gotten ither tow to tease than persecuting whigs
ony langer, an' that there will soon be an order put out of a very different
nature. There is never to be mair blood shed on account of the covenanted
reformation in Scotland."

When Walter began his speech, his daughter lifted up her downcast eyes,
and fixed them on his face with a look that manifested a kind of hopeless
apathy ; but as he advanced, their orbs enlarged, and beamed with a radiance
as if she had been some superior intelligence. She did not breathe — or, if she
did, it stole imperceptibly from between her parted ruby lips. " What did you
say, my dear father .'' " said she.

THE BROWNIE OF BODS DECK. 8l

" What did I say ! " repeated Walter, astonished and nettled at the question
— " What the deil was i' your lugs, that ye didna hear what I said. I'm sure
I spake out. Ye are thinking o' something else, Kate."

" Be so good as repeat every word that you said over again," said she,
" and tell me whence you drew your intelligence."

Walter did so ; repeating it in still stronger and more energetic language
than he had done before, mentioning at the same time how he had his infor-
mation, which could not be doubted.

" It is enough, my dear father," said she. " Say not another word about it.
I will lay open all my errors to my father this instant — come with me, and I
will show you a sight ! "

As she said this she put her arm in her father's to lead him away ; but
Walter looked about him with a suspicious and startled eye, and drew some-
what back.

" You must go instantly," continued she, " there is no time so fit ; and
whatever you may see or hear, be not alarmed, but follow me, and do as I bid
you."

" Nane o' )our cantrips wi' me, Kate," said Walter — " I see your drift wecl
eneugh, but ye'U find yourscl disappointit. I hae lang expeetit it wad come to
this ; but I'm determined against it."

" Determined against what, my dear father ? "

" Ye want to mak a warlock o' me, ye imp o' mischief," said Walter ; " but I
hae taen up my resolution there, an' a' the temptations o' Satan sanna shake
it. Nah ! Gudefaith, auld Wat o' the Chapelhope's no gaun to be led away
by the lug an' the horn to the deil that gate."

Katharine's mien had a tint of majesty in it, but it was naturally seri-
ous. She scarcely ever laughed, and but seldom smiled ; but when she did
so, the whole soul of delight beamed in it. Her tace was like a dark summer
day, when the clouds are high and majestic, and the lights on the valley
mellowed into beauty. Her smile was like a fairy blink of the sun shed
through these clouds, than which, there is nothing in nature that I know of so
enlivening and beautiful. It was irresistible ; — and such a smile beamed
on her benign countenance, when she heard her father's wild suspicions
expressed in such a blunt and ardent way ; but it conquered them all — he
went away with her rather abashed, and without uttering another word.

They walked arm in arm up by the side of the burn, and were soon out of
sight of Nanny and the boys. Walter was busy all the way trying to form
some conjecture what the girl meant, and what was to be the issue of this
adventure, and began to suspect that his old friends, the Covenant men, were
some way or other connected with it ; that it was they, perhaps, who had the
power of raising those spirits by which his dwelling had been so grievously
haunted, for he had heard wonderful things of them. Still there was no co-
indication of circumstances in any of the calculations that he was able to
make, for his house had been haunted by Brownie and his tribe long ere he
fell in with the fugitive Covenanters. None of them had ever given him the
least hint about the matter, or the smallest key to it, which he believed they
would have done ; nor h iJ he ever mentioned a word of his connection with
them to one of his family, or indeed to any one living. Few were the words
that passed between the father and daughter in the course of that walk, but it
was not of long duration.

They soon came to the precipitate linn on the South Grain, where the
soldiers had been slain. Katharine being a little way before, began to scramble
across the face of the rock by a path that was hardly perceptible. Walter
called after her, "Where are ye gaun, Keatie ? It's impossible to win yont
there- -there's no outgate for a mouse."

" We will try," answered she ; " it is perhaps not so bad as it looks — Follow
me — you have nothing to fear."

Walter followed ; for however much he was affrighted for brownies, and
fairies, and dead corpses, and all these awful kind of things, he was no coward
L 6

82 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

among rocks and precipices. They soon reached a little dass in the middle
ol the linn, or what an Englishman would call a small landing-place. Here
she paused till her father reached her, and pointed out to him the singularity
of their situation, with the burn roaring far below their feet, and the rock fairly
overhanging them above.

" Is it not a romantic and tremendous spot?" said she.

" It is that !" said Walter, "an' I believe you and I are the first that ever
stood on it.'

" Well, this is the end of our journey," said she ; and, turning about, she
began to pull at a bush of heath that grew between two rocks.

" What can she be gaun to do wi' the heather .'' " thought Walter to himself,
when instantly a door opened, and showed a cavern that led into the hill. It
was a door wattled with green heath, with the lops turned outward so exactly,
that it was impossible for any one to know but that it was a bush of natural
heath growing in the interstice. " Follow me, my dear father," said she, " you
have still nothing to fear;" and so saying she entered swiftly in a stooping
posture. Walter followed, but his huge size precluded the possibility of his
walking otherwise than on all fours, and in that mode he fairly essayed to
follow his mysterious child ; but the path winded — his daughter was quite
gone — and the door closed behind him, for it was so constructed as to close
of itself, and as Walter expressed it, — " There was he left, gaun boring into
the hill like a moudiwort, in utter darkness." The consequence of all this
was, that Walter's courage fairly gave way, and by an awkward retrograde
motion, he made all the haste he was able back to the light. — He stood on
the shelve of the rock at the door for several minutes in confused consterna-
tion, saying to himself, "What in the wide world is com'd o' the wench.'' I
believe she is gane away down into the pit bodily, an' thought to wile me after
her ; or into the heart of the hill, to some enchantit cave, amang her brownies,
an' fairies, an' hobgoblins. Gudeness have a care o' me, gin ever I saw the
like o' this ! " Then losing all patience, he opened the door, set in his head,
and bellowed out, — " Hollo, lassie ! — What's com'd o' ye .'' Keatie Laidlaw —
Hollo!" He soon heard footsteps approaching, and took shelter behind the
door, with his back leaning to the rock, in case of any sudden surprise, but it
was only his daughter, who chided him gently for his timidity and want of
confidence in her, and asked how he could be frightened to go where a silly
girl, his own child, led the way? adding, that if he desired the mystery that
had so long involved her fate and behaviour to be cleared up, he behoved to
enter and follow her, or to remain in the dark for ever. Thus admonished,
Walter again screwed his courage to the sticking place, and entered in order
to explore this mysterious cave, following close to his daughter, who led him
all the way by the collar of the coat as he crept. The entrance was long and
irregular, and in one place very narrow, the roof being supported here and
there by logs of birch and alder. They came at length into the body of the
cave, but it was so dimly lighted from above, the vent being purposely made
among rough heath, which in part overhung and hid it from view without, that
Walter was almost in the middle of it ere ever he was aware, and still creep-
ing on his hands and knees. His daughter at last stopped short, on which he
lifted his eyes, and saw indistinctly the boundaries of the cave, and a number
of figures standing all around ready to receive him. The light, as I said,
entered straight from above, and striking on the caps and bonnets which they
wore on their heads, these shaded their faces, and they appeared to our
amazed goodinan so many blackamoors, with long shaggy beards and locks,
and their garments as it were falling from their bodies piece-meal. On the
one side, right over against him, stood a coffin, raised a little on two stones ;
and on the other side, on a couch of rushes, lay two bodies that seemed
already dead, or just in the last stage of existence ; and, at the upper end, on
a kind of wicker chair, sat another pale emaciated figure, with his feet and
legs wrapt up in fiannel, a napkin about his head, and his body wrapped in
an old duffel cloak that had once belonged to Walter himself. Walter's

THE BROWNIE OF BODSBECK. 83

vitals were almost frozen up by the sight, — he uiicied a hollow excl-imation,
something like the beginning of a prayer, and atteaipted again to make his
escape, but he mistook the entrance, and groped against the dark corner of
the cavern. His daughter pulled him by the arm, entreating him to stay, and
addressing the inmates of that horrid den, she desired them to speak to her
father, and explain the circumstances of their case, for he was still bewildered,
and the scene was too much for him to bear.

"That we will do joyfully," said one, in a strong intelligent voice.
Walter turned his eyes on the speaker, and who was it but the redoubted
Brownie of Bodsbeck, so often mentioned before, in all his native deformitv ;
while the thing in the form of a broad bonnet that he wore on his head, kept
his features, grey locks and beard, wholly in the shade ; and, as he approached
Walter, he appeared a being without any definite lorm or feature. The latter
was now standing on his feet, with his back leaning against the rock that
formed the one side of the cave, and breathing so loud, that every whiff
sounded in the caverned arches like the rush of the winter wind whistling
through the crevices of the casement.

Brownie approached him, followed by others.

" Be not alarmed, goodman," said the creature, in the same solemn and
powerful voice ; " you see none here but fellow-creatures and Christians —
none who will not be happy to bestow on you their blessing, and welcome you
as a father."

He stretched forth his hand to take hold of our goodman's. It was bent
to his side as by a spasm, and at the same time a volley of breath came forth
from his capacious chest with such a rush, that it was actually like the snort
of a horse that is frightened in the dark. The Brownie, however, laid hold of
it, stiff as it was, and gave it a squeeze and a hearty shake. "You are welcome,
sir ! " continued the shapeless mass, " to our dismal habitation. May the
God of heaven particularly bless you in your family, and in all your other
concerns ! "

The naming of this name dispelled Walter's wild apprehensions like a charm,
for though he was no devotee, yet his mind had a strong bias to the super-
stitions of the country in which he was bred ; therefore this benediction, pro-
nounced in such a tone of ardour and sublimity of feeling, had a powerful
effect on his mind. But the circumstance that proved the most effective of all,
wasperhaps the sensible assurance gained by the shaking of hands, that Brownie
was really and truly a corporeal being. Walter now held out his hand to all
the rest as they came forward one by one, and shook hands heartily with them
all, while every one of them blest V\\\ in the name of their Maker or Redeemer.
Walter was still involved in myster^, , and all this while he had never uttered
a word that any man could make meaning of; and after they had all shook
hands with him, he looked at the cofiin ; then at the figures on the couch ;
then at the pale wretch on the wicker-seat, and then at the coffin again.

" Let us fully understand one another," said Katharine. '' Pray, Brown, be
so good as detail the circumstances of this party as shortly as you can to my
father, for, as is natural, he is still perplexed and bewildered."

"You see here before you, sir," said the little hunch-backed figure, "a
wretched remnant of that long persecuted, and now nearly annihilated sect,
the covenanted reformers of the west of .Scotland. We were expelled from
our homes, and at last hunted from our native mountains like wolves, for none
of our friends durst shelter any of us on their grounds, on pain of death. Even
the rest of the persecuted disowned us, and became our adversaries, because
our tenets were more stern and severe than theirs ; for we acted on the
principle of retaliation as far as it lay in our power, holding that to be in
consistency with the laws of God and man ; therefore were we expelled from
their society, which indeed we disdained.

" We first came to liodsbeck, where we got shelter for a few weeks. Ft was
there that I was first supposed by the menials, who chanced to see mc, to be
a Brownie, and that superstitious idea the tenant thought meet to improve fo'

84 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

our safety, but on the approach of Lagg's people he dismissed us. We then
tier! to Leithenhall, from whence in a few days we were again compelled to lly ;
and at last came to this wild, the only place in the south the soldiers had never
searched, or could search with any degree of success. After much labour we
completed this cave, throwing the stuff into the torrent below, so that the
most minute investigator could not distinguish the smallest difference in the
linn or face of the precipice ; anil here we deemed we might live for years
without being discovered ; and here we determined to live, till God should
see fit, in his own good time, to send some relief to his persecuted church in
these lands.

" But alas, the worst evil of all awaited us ! We subsisted for a consider-
able time by bringing victuals over night from a great distance, but even the
means of obtaining these failed us ; so that famine, and the dampness of the
air here, we being compelled to lie inactive in the bowels of the earth for days
and nights together, brought on us a malignant and pestilential fever. In
three days from its first appearing, one half of our number were lying unable
to move or lift an eye. What could we do ? The remnant could not fly, and
leave their sick and wounded brethren to perish here unseen. We were unable
to carry them away with us, and if we had, we had no place to which we could
have conveyed them. We durst not a])ply to you, for if you had taken pity
on us we knew it would cost you your liTe, and be the means of bereaving your
family of all your well-earned wealth. In this great extremity, as a last
resource, I watched an opportunity, and laid our deplorable case before that
dear maid, your daughter — Forgive these tears, sir ; you see every eye around
fills at the mention of her name — She has been our guardian angel — She
has. under Almighty Providence, saved the lives of the whole party before
you — has supplied us with food, cordials, and medicines : with beds, and with
clothing, all from her own circumscribed resources. For us she has braved
every danger, and suffered every privation ; the dereliction of her parents,
and the obloquy of the whole country. That young man, whom you see
sitting on the wicker chair there, is my only surviving son of five — he was
past hope when she found him — fast posting to the last goal — her unwearied
care and attentions have restored him ; he is again in a state of convalescence
— O may the Eternal God reward her for what she has done to him and us !

" Only one out of all the distressed and hopeless party has perished, he whose
body lies in that coffin. He was a brave, noble, and pious youth, and the son
of a worthy gentleman. When our dear nurse and physician found your
house deserted by all but herself, she took him home to a bed in that house,
where she attended him lor the last seven days of his life with more than filial
care. He expired last night at midnight, amid our prayers and supplications
to heaven in his behalf, while that dear saint supported his head in his dying
moments, and shed the tear of affliction over his lifeless form. She made the
grave-clothes from her own scanty stock of linen — tied her best lawn napkin
round the head ; and"

Here Walter could contain himself no longer ; he burst out a crying, and
sobbed like a child.

" An' has my Keatie done a' this ?" be said, in a loud broken voice — " Has
my woman done a' this, an' yet me to suspect her, an' be harsh till her? I
might hae kend her better !" continued he, taking her in his arms, and kissing
her check again and again. " But she shall hae ten silk gowns, an' ten satin
anes, for the bit linen she has bestowed on sic an occasion, an' a' that she has
wared on ye I'll make up to her a hunder an' fifty fauld."

" O my dear father," said she, " you know not what I have suffered for fear
of having ofTcnded you ; for I could not forget that their principles, both
civil and religious, were the opposite of yours — that they were on the adverse
side to you and my mother, aij well as the government of the country."

" Deil care what side they war on, Kate !" ( ried Walter, in the same vehe-
ment voice ; " ye hae taen the side o' human nature ; the suffering and the
humble side, an' the side o' feeling, my woman, that bodes best in a young

THE BROWNIE OF BODS BECK. * 85

unexperienced thing to tak. It is better than to do like yon bits o' gillflirts
about Edinburgh ; poor sliilly-shally milk-an'-water things ! Gin ye but saw
how they cock up their noses at a whig, an' thraw their bits o' gabs ; an'
downa bide to look at aught, or hear tell o' aught, that isna i' the tap fashion.
Ye hae done very right, my good lassie— od, I wadna gie ye for the hale o'
them, an' they war a' hung in a strap like ingans.'

'• Then, father, since you approve, 1 am happy. I have no care now save
for these two poor men on that couch, who are yet far from being out of
danger."

" Gudeness guide us !" said Walter, turning about, " I thought they had
been twa dead corpse. But now, when my een are used to tlie light o' the
place, 1 see the chaps are living, an' no that unlifc-like, as a body may say.'

He went up to them, spoke to them kindly, took their wan bleached sinewy
hands in his, and said, he feared they were still very ill .''

" Better than we have been," was the reply — " Better than we have been,
goodman. Thanks to you and yours."

" Dear father," said Katharine, " I think if they \\ ere removed down to
Chapelhope, to dry comfortable lodgings, and had more regular diet, and
better attendance, their health might soon be re-established. Now that you
deem the danger over, will you suffer me to have them carried down there?"

" Will I no, Kate ? My faith, they shall hae the twa best beds i' the house,
if Maron an' me should sleep in the barn ! An' ye sal hae naething ado but
to attend them, an' nurse them late an' aire; an' I'll gar Maron Linton attend
them too, and she'll rhame o'er bladds o' scripture to them, an' they'll soon
get aboon this bit dwaum. Od, if outlier gude fare or drogs will do it, I'll hae
them playin' at the pennystane wi' Davie Tait, an' prayin' wi' him at night, in
less than twa weeks."

" Goodman," said old Brown, (for this celebrated Brownie was no other
than the noted Mr. John Brown, the goodman of Caldwell) — '■ Goodman, well
may you be proud this day, and well may you be uplifted in heart on account
of your daughter. The more I see and hear of her, the more am 1 struck with
admiration ; and I am persuaded of this, that, let your i)ast life have been
as it may, the Almighty will bless and prosper you on account of that maid.
The sedatcness of her counsels, and the qualities of her heart have utterly
astonished me — She has all the strength of mind, and energy of the bravest
of men, blent with all the softness, delicacy, and tenderness of feminity —
Neither danger nor distress can overpower her mind for a moment — tender-
ness does it at once. If ever an angel appeared on earth in the form of a
woman, it is in that of your daughter."

" I wish ye wad baud your tongue," said Weaker, who stood hanging his
head, and sobbing aloud. The large tears were not now dropping from his
eyes — they were trickling in torrents. '' I wish ye wad baud )Our tongue,

an' no make me ower proud o' her. She's weel eneugh, pair woman 1 'ts

a— It's a shame for a great muckle auld fool like me to be booin an' greetin
like a bairn this gate ! — but deil tak the doer gin I can help it ! — I watna
what's ta'en me the day !— She's weel eneugh, puir lassie. I daresay I never
learned her ony ill, but I little wat where she has gotten a' the gude qualities
ye brag sae muckle o', unless it hae been frae Heaven in gude earnest ; for I
wat weel, she has been brought up but in a ramstamphish hamely kind o'
way wi' Maron an' me. — But come, come ! let us be done wi' this fuffmg
an' blawing o' noses, an' makin' o' wry faces. Row the twa puir sick
lads weel up, an' bring them down in the bed-claes to my house. An' d'ye
hear, callants — gudesake get your beards clippit or shaven a wee, an' be
something warld-like, an' come a' down to Chapelhope ; I'll kill the best
wedder on the Hermon-Law, an' we shall a' dine heartily thcgithcr for ance ;
I'll get ower Davie Tait to say the grace, an' we'll be as mcrr> as the times
will allow."

They accepted the invitation, with many expressions of [gratitude and
thankfulness, and the rays of hope once more enlightened the dejected

86 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

countenances that had so long been overshadowed with the gloom of
despair.

" But there's ae thing, callants," said Walter, " that has astonished me, an'
I canna help speering. Where got ye the colfin sae readily for the man that
died last night?"

" That coffin," said Brown, " was brought here one night by the friends of
one of the men whom Clavers caused to be shot on the other side of the
ridge there, which you saw. The bodies were buried ere they came ; it
grew day on them, and they left it ; so, for the sake of concealment, we brought
it into our cave, It has been useful to us ; for when the wretched tinker fell
down among us from that gap, while we were at evening worship, we pinioned
liim in the dark, and carried him in that chest to your door, thinking he had
belonged to your family. That led to a bloody business, of which you shall
hear anon. And in that coffin, too, we carried off your ungrateful curate so far
on his journey, disgraced for ever, to come no more within twenty miles of
Chapelhope, on pain of a dreadful death in twenty-four hours thereafter ; and
I stand warrandice that he shall keep his distance. In it we have now de-
posited the body of a beloved and virtuous friend, who always foretold this,
from its first arrival in our cell. — But he rejoiced in the prospect of his disso-
luiion, and died as he had lived, a faithful and true witness ; and his memory
shall long be revered by all the just and the good."

CHAPTER XVII.
I HATE long explanations, therefore this chapter shall be very short ; there
are, however, some parts of the foregoing tale, w-hich require that a few words
should be subjoined in elucidation of them.

This John Brown was a strenuous and desperate reformer. He was the
son of a gentleman by a second marriage, and half-brother to the Laird of
Caldwell. He was at the battle of Pentland, with five brave sons at his back,
two of whom were slain in the action, and he himself wounded. He was
again at Bothwell Bridge with the remaining three, where he was a principal
mover of the unhappy commotions in the army that day, owing to his violent
irreclaimable principles of retaliation. A little before the rout became general,
he was wounded by a musket bullet, which grazed across his back, and de-
prived him of all power. A dragoon coming up, and seeing him alive, struck
him again across the back with his sword, which severed the tendons, and
cut him to the bone. His sons had seen him fall, and knowing the spot pre-
cisely, they returned overnight, and finding him still alive, they conveyed him
to a place of safety, and afterwards to Glasgow, where he remained concealed
in a friend's house for some months ; and, after great sufferings in body and
mind, recovered of his wounds ; but, for want of surgical assistance, he was
so crooked and bowed down, that his nearest friends could not know him ;
for in his youth, though short in stature, he was strong and athletic. At
length he reached his ow-n home, but found it ransacked and desolate, and
learned that his wife was carried to prison, he knew not whither. His
powerful eloquence, and wild Cameronian principles, made him much dreaded
by the other party ; a high reward was offered for apprehending him, so that
he was driven to great straits, yet never failed to wreak his vengeance on all
of the persecuting party that fell within his power, and he had still a number
of adherents.

At length there was one shot in the fields near Kirkconnel that was taken
for him, and the promised reward actually paid ; on which the particular
search after him subsided. His two youngest sons both died for the same
cause with the former, but James, his third son, always kept by his father,
until taken prisoner by Clavers as he was fishing one day in Coulter Water.
Clavers ordered him to be instantly shot, but the Laird of Coulteralloes being
present, interceded for him, and he was detained a prisoner, carried about
hum place to place, and at length confined in ihe jail ai .^elkiik. iiy the
assistance of his father and friends he effected his escape, but not before being

THE WOOL-GATHERER. 87

grievously wounded ; and, by reason of the hurts he received, and the fever
that attacked them in the cave, when Katharine was first introduced there, he
was lying past hope ; but by her unwearied care and attention, he, with
others, was so far recovered as to be able to sit up, and walk about a little.
He was poor Nanny's own son ; and this John Brown was her huAand,
whom she had long deemed in another and a happier state — No wonder that
she was shocked and affrighted when she saw him again in such a form at
midnight, and heard him speak in his own natural and peculiar voice. Their
meeting that day at Chapelhope must be left to the imagination ; it is impos-
sible for any pen to do it justice.

It is only necessary to add, that Walter seems to have been as much
respected and beloved by his acquaintances and domestics, at least as any
neighbour or master of the present day, as will appear from the few following
remarks. The old session-clerk and precentor at Ettrick said, "It was the
luckiest thing that could have happened that he had come home again, for
the poor's ladle had been found to be a pund Scots short every Sunday since
he and his family had left the church." And Sandy Cunningham, the con-
forming clergyman there, a very honest inoffensive man, remarked, " that he
was very glad to hear the news, for the goodman always gave the best dinners
at the visitations and examinations of any farmer in his parish ; and one
always felt so comfortable in his house." Davie Tait said, that '' Divine
Providence had just been like a stell dike to the goodman. It had bieldit him
frae the bitter storm o' the adversary's wrath, an' keepit a' the thunder-bolts
o' the wicked frae brekking on his head ; that, for his part, he wad sit down
on his knees an' thank Heaven, Sunday and Saturday, for his return, for he
could easily lend his master as muckle siller as wad stock a' Riskinhope
ower again, an' there was little doubt but he wad do it." Even old John of
the Muchrah remarked, "that it was just as weel that his master was come
back, for he had an unco gude e'e amang the sheep when ought was gaun
wrang on the hill, an' the ewes win nae mair into, the hogg fence o'the Quave
Brae, i' the day time at ony rate."

If there are any incidents in this Tale that may -^till appear a little mys-
terious, they will all be rendered obvious by turning to a pamphlet, entitled,
A CaiMERONIAn's Tale, or The Life of JoIdi Brown, written rv himself.
But any reader of common ingenuity may very easily solve them all.

THE

WOOL-GATHERER:

TALE OF A LOST HEIR.

Love is a passion so capricious, so violent, and so productive of whimsical
expedients, that there is no end of its varieties. Dramas may be founded,
plots arranged, and novels written on the subject, yet the simple truth
itself generally outlasts them all. The following story, which relates to an
amiable family still existing, is so like a romance, that perhaps the word of a
narrator is insufficient to stamp it with that veracity to which it is entitled.
The principal incidents, however, are set down precisely as they were related
to me ; only I have deemed it meet to change the designations of the indi-
viduals, so far that they cannot be recognized by any one not ])reviously
acquainted with the circumstances.

The late Laird of Earlhnll dying in the fiftieth year of his age, as his grave-
Stone intimates, left behind him a widow, and two sons both in their minority

8S THE Err RICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

The eldest was of a dashing impatient character— he had a kind and affec-
tionate heart, but his actions were not always tempered with prudence. He
entered at an early age into the army, and fell in the Peninsular war when
scarcely twenty-two years of age. . The estate thus devolved wholly on the
youngest, whose name for the present shall be Lindscy, that being his second
Christian name, and the one by which his mother generally called him. He
had been intended for the law, but on his brothers death gave up the studv,
as too laborious for his easy and careless disposition. He was attached to
literature ; and after his return home his principal employment consisted in
jtoring over his books, and managing a little llower-garden in which he took
great delight He was studious, absent, and sensible, but paid litde attention
to his estate, or the extensive farm which he himself occupied.

The old lady, who was a stirring, talkative, industrious dame, entertained
him constantly with long lectures on the ill effects of idleness. She called it
the blight of youth, the grub of virtue, and the mildco} of happiness ; ami
sometimes, when roused into energ)-, she said it was the dcviPs iangsettU on
which he plotted all his devices against human weal. Linds'^y bore all with
great patience, but still continued his easy and indolent way.

The summer advanced — the weather became peculiarly fine — labourers
were busy in ever)- field, and the shepherds voice, and the bleating of his
fiooks, sounded from the adjacent mountains by break of day. This lively
a. id rousing scene gave a new edge to the old lady's remonstrances ; they
came upon poor Lindsey thicker and faster, like the continued dropping of
a rainy day, until he was obliged in some degree to yield. He tried to
reason the matter with her, in somewhat near to the following words ; but
there, lawyer as he was, he had no chance. He was fairly overcome.

"My dear mother," said he, "what does all this signify.? — Or what is it
that I can efi'ect by my superintendence .' Our farmers are all doing well,
and pay their rents regularly ; and as for our fann-servants, they have each
of them filled the same situation so long and so creditably, that I feel quite
awkward when standing looking over them, — it looks as if I suspected their
integrity, which has been so often proved. Besides, it is a leading ma.xim
with me, that if a man, and more* particularly a woman, know and believe
that trust is reposed in them, they will, in ten out of eleven instances, deserve
it ; but if once they see that they are suspected, the feeling towards you is
changed, and they will in a little time as likely deser\-e the one as the other.
Our wealth is annually increasing, at least as fast as necessar)', and it is my
principal wish, that ever)- one under us may be as easy and comfortable as
possible."

This was true, for the old lady being parsimonious in the extreme, their
riches had increased rapidly since the death of the late laird. As for Lindsey,
he never spent anything, save some trifle that he laid out yearly in payment
of Reviews, and new books, and in relieving some poor families in the neigh-
bourhood. The article of dress he left entirely to his mother : whatever she
bought or made for him he approved of, and w hatever clothes or linen she
laid down in his chamber, he put on without any obser\ ations. He acted
upon the same principle with regard to his meals, but he sometimes was
obliged to insist on a little addition being made to the comforts of the family
servants, all of whom loved him as a friend and benefactor. He could at
any time have swayed his mother so far as to make her a little more liberal
towards the men-ser\ants, but with regard to the maids he had no such
power. She and they lived at constant variance, — an irreconcileable jeal-
ousy seemed always to subsist between them, and woe to them if the
young laird interested himself in their favour ! Matters being in this state,
he was obliged to witness this mutual animosity ; this tyranny on the one
hand, and discontent on the other, without having the power to amend it.

'• But then, my dear Lindsey,'' returned she to his foi-mer remonstrance,
" making allowance for a' that you say — allowing that your weel-spoken argu-
ments are a' foundit in truth, for lailh wad you be to say an untruth, an' I

THE WOOL-GATHERER. 89

never heard an argument that wasna sound come out o' your mouth, — but
then 1 say, what's to hinder you to gang a fishinp like otlicr gentlemen, or
shooting moor-cocks, an' paetricks, an' black-cocks, as a' ilhc-r countrymen o'
your age an' station do ? Some manly exercise in the field is absolutely neces-
sary to keep your form robust, your colour fresh, and your mind active ; an',
indeed, you maunna be discontentit, nor displeased, if I insist on it, while the
weather is so fine."

" With regard to fowling, my dear mother, I am perfectly ignorant ; I know
nothing about the sport, and I never can deli;^lit in it, for often has it given
me pain to see others pursuing it. I think the pleasure arising from it can
scarcely originate in any thing else than a principle of cruelty. Fishing is
little better. I never regret the killing of an ox, or sheep, by which we have
so much necessary food for one life, but I think it hard to take a precious life
for a single mouthful."

"His presence be about us! Lindsey ! what's that ye say? Wha heard
ever tell of a trout's precious life ? Or a salmon's precious life ? Or a ged's
precious life? Wow, man, but sma' things are precious i' your cen ! Or wha
can feel for a trout? Acauldrife creature that has nae feeling itsel; a greedy
grampus of a thing, that worries its ain kind, an' eats them whenever it can
get a chance. Na, na, Lindsey, let me hear nae mair o' sickan lang-nebbit
fine-spun arguments : but do take your father's rod, like a man, and a gentle-
man, and gang a-fishing, if it were but an hour in the day ; there are as many
hooks and lines in the house as will serve you for seven years to come ; an' it
is weel-kend how plenty the trouts are in your ain water. I hae seen the day
when we never wanted plenty o' them at this time o' the year."

" Well, well," said Lindsey, taking up a book, " I shall go to please you,
but I would rather be at home."

She rung the bell, and ordered in old John the barn-man, one well skilled
in the art of angling. " John," said she, " put your master's fishing-rod and
tackle in order, he is going a-fishing at noon."

John shrugged up his shoulders when he heard of his master's intent, as
much as to say, " sic a fisher as he'll mak ! " however, he went away in
silence, and the order was quickly obcyedT

Thus equipt, away trudged Lindsey to the fishing for the first time in his
life ; slowly and indifferently he went, and began at the first pool he came to.
John offered to accompany him, to which he assented, but this the old lady
resisted, and bid him go to his work ; he, however, watched his master's
motions slyly for some time, and on joining his fellow labourers remarked,
that " his master was a real saft hand at the fishing."

An experienced angler certainly would have been highly amused at his pro-
cedure. He pulled out the line, and threw it in again so fast, that he appeared
more like one threshing corn than angling ; he, moreover, fixed always upon
the smoothest parts of the stream, where no trout in his right senses could
possibly be inveigled. But the far greater part of his employment consisted
in loosening the hook from different objects with which it chanced to come in
contact. At one time he was to be seen stooping to the arm-pits in the
middle of the water, disengaging it from some ofiicious twig that had inter-
cepted its progress ; at another time on the top of a tree tearing off a branch
on which it had laid hold. A countryman happening to pass by just as he
stood stripped to the shirt cutting it out of his clothes, in which it had fastened
behind, observed, by way of friendly remark, that "they were fashous tilings
them hooks." Lindsey answered, that " they certainly had a singular knack
of catching hold of things."

He went through all this without being in the least disconcerted, or showing
any impatience ; and towards dinner-time, the trouts hieing abundant, and
John having put on a fly that answered the weather, he caught some excellent
fish, and might have caught many more had he been diligent ; but every
trout that he brought ashore took him a long time to contemplate. He sur-
veyed his eye, his mouth, and the structure of his gills with tedious curiosity;

90 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

then again laid him down, and fixed his eyes on him in deep and serious
meditation.

The next day he needed somewhat less persuasion from his mother to try
the same amusement ; still it was solely to please her that he went, for about
the sport itself he was quite careless. Away he set the second day, and pru-
dently determined to go farther up the water, as he supposed that part to be
completely emptied of fish where he had been the day before. He sauntered
on in his usual thoughtful and inditi'erent mood, sometimes throwing in his
line without any manner of success. At length, on going over an abrupt
ridge, he came to a clear pool where the fanners had lately been washing
their flocks, and by the side of it a most interesting female, apparently not
exceeding seventeen years of age, gathering the small tlakes of wool in her
apion that had fallen from the sheep in washing ; while, at tiie same time, a
beautiful well-dressed child, about two years old, was playing on the grass.
Lindsey was close beside her before any of them were aware, and it is hard
to say which of the two were most surprised. She blushed like scarlet, but
pretended to gather on, as if wishing he would pass without ta'ang any notice
i)f them ; but Lindsey was rivetted to the spot ; he had never in his life seen
any woman half so beautiful, and at the same time her array accorded with
the business in which she was engaged. Her form was the finest symmetry ;
her dark hair was tucked up behind with a comb, and hung waving in ringlets
over her cheeks and brow, " like shadows on the mountain snow ; " and there
was an elegance in the model of her features, arms, and hands, that the youth
believed he had never before seen equalled in any lady, far less a country
girl.

" What are you going to do with that wretched stufl, lassie, ' said Lindsey :
" it has been trampled among the clay and sand, and is unfit for any human
use."

" It will easily clean again, sir," said she, in a frank and cheerful voice,
" and then it will be as good as ever."

" It looks very ill ; I am positive it is for no manner of use."

" It is certainly, as you say, not of great value, sir ; but if it is of any, I may
as well lift it as let it lie and rot here."

" Certainly, there can be no harm in it ; only I am sorry to see such a girl
at such an employment."

" It is better doing this than nothing," was the reply.

The child now rolled himself over to get his face turned towards them ;
and, fixing his large blue eyes on Lindsey, looked at him with the utmost
seriousness. The latter observing a striking likeness between the girl and the
child, had no doubt that she was his sister; and, unwilling to drop the con-
versation, he added, abruptly enough, " Has your mother sent you to gather
that stuff.?"

" 1 have neither father nor mother, sir."

" But one who supplies both their places, I hope. You have a husband,
have not you .' "

" Not as yet, sir ; but there is no time lost."

She blushed ; but Lindsey coloured ten times deeper when he cast his eyes
on the child. His heart died within him at the thoughts that now obtruded
themselves ; it was likewise wrung lor his imprudence and indelicacy. What
was his business whether she was married or not, or how she was connected
with the child? She seemed likewise to be put into some confusion at the
turn the conversation was taking ; and, anxious to bring it to a conclusion as
soon as possible, she tucked up the wool in her apron below one arm, and
was lifting up the child with the other to go away, when Lindsey stepped for-
ward, saying, " Will not you shake hands with me, my good little fellow, before
you go?"

"Ay," said the child, stretching out his little chubby hand; "how d'ye
doo, sil?"

Lindsey smiled, shook his hnnd heartily, anci put a crown piece into it.

THE WOOL-GATHERER. 91

** Ah, sir, don't give him that," said she, blushing deeply.

" It is only a play-thing that he must keep fur my sake."

" Thank you sil," said the child. " Great niuckle shilling, mamnn."

This last appellation, viamma, struck Lindsey motionless; — he ii.id not
another word to say ; — while the two went away prattling to one another.

" Vely lalge tine-looking shilling, mamma.'

" Ay, it is a very bonny shilling, dear," said she, kissing him, and casting a
parting look at the petrified fisher.

" Mamma, mamma ! " repeated Lindsey to himself an hundred times, tn,'ing
it with every modulation of his voice. " This is the most extraordinary circum-
stance I ever witnessed. Now. who in the world can comprehend that thing
called woman .?— Who would not have sworn that that mral beauty there was
the most pure, innocent, and untainted of her sex 1- And yet, behold ! she
has a fine boy running at her side, and calling her 7namma / — Poor girl, is
she not to be pitied? — When one thinks how some tender parent might rejoice
over her, anticipating so much better things of her ! It is plain she has been
very indifferently used by the world— most cruelly used — and is she the less
interesting on that account.'' I wish I knew how to make her some amends."

Thus reasoned our moral fisher with himself, keeping all the while a side-
long glance towards her, till he saw her enter a little neat white-washed
cottage not far from the side of the stream ; there were sundry other houses
inhabited by cottagers in the hamlet, and the farm-house stood at the head
of the cluster. The ground belonged to Lindsey, and the farmer was a quiet
sober man, a widower, with a large family. Lindsey now went up the water
a-fishing every day ; and though he often hovered a considerable while at the
washing-pool, and about the crook opposite to the cot, pretending all the
while to be extremely busy fishing, he cuuld never get another sight of the
lovely Wool-gatherer, though he desired it above all present earthly things ;
for, some way or other, he felt that \\& pitied her exceedingly ; and though he
was not greatly interested in her, yet he was very much so in the iliild — he
was certain it was the child that interested him so much — nevertheless, he
was sorry too on account of the mother, for she seemed very gentle, and -ery
amiable, and must have been abominably used ; and therefore he could not
help feeling very sorry for her indeed, as well as deeply interested in the child.
On the second and third day that he went up, little George came out paddling
to meet him at the water side, on which he always sent him in again with a
fish in one hand, and some little present in the other : but after that, he
appeared no more, which Lindsey easily perceived to originate in the \\ ool-
gatherer's diffidence and modesty, who could not bear the idea of her little
man receiving such gifts.

The same course was continued for many days, and always with the same
success, as far as regarded the principal motive, for the trouts were only a
secondary one — the beauteous Wool-gatherer was thenceforward invisible.
After three weeks" perseverance, it chanced to come on a heavy rain one day
when he was but a little way above the farm-house. Robin the farmer,
expecting tiiat he would fly into his house until the shower abated, was stand-
ing without his own door to receive him ; but he kept aloof, passed by, and
took shelter in the Wool-gatherer's cottage ; though not without some scruples
of conscience as to the prudence of the step he was taking. When he went
in she was singing a melodious Scottish air, and plying at her wheel. " What
a thoughtless creature she must be," said he to himself ; " and how little
conscious of the state to which she has fallen." He desired her to go on witli
her song, but she quitted both tliat and her wheel instantly, set a ciiair for
him, au'l sitting down on a low form herself, lighted sticks on the fire to warm
and dry him, at the same time speaking and looking with the utmost clu-erful-
ness, and behaving with all that ease and respect as if she had been his equal,
a id an old intimate acquaintance. He had a heart of the greatest integrity,
and this was tlic very manner that delighted him ; and intlecil he Icll tli.it he
was delighted in the highest degree by this fair mystery. He would j^ladly

02 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

have learned her story, but durst not hint at such a thing for fear of giving
her pain, and he had too much delicacy to incjuire after her at any other
person, or even to mention her name. He observed thai though there was
but little furniture in the house, yet it was not in the least degree like any
other he had ever seen in such a cottage, and seemed very lately to have
occupied a more respectable situation. Little George was munching at a
lump of dry bread, making very slow progress. He kept his eyes fi.xed on
his benefactor, but said nothing for a considerable time, till at length he
observed him sitting silent as in pleasing contemplation ; he then came
forward with a bounce upon his knee, and smiled up in his face, as much as
to say, " You are not minding little George ? "

" Ah, my dear little fellow, arc you there ? Will you have a muckle shilling
of me to-day.'"'

" Na, na ; be vely soUy. Mamma quite angly. She scold me."

" Well, but since you have never come to help me to catch the fish for so
long a time, I will only give you a very little one to-day."

" Dear sir, if you would not distress me, dont mind him , he is a little
impudent fellow. — Go off from the gentleman, George."

Cieorge clapped both his hands upon his head, and went back without
hesitation, gloomed at his mamma, and took again up his luncheon of dry bread.

" Nay, pardon me," continued Lindsey; "but you must always suffer me
to give my little new acquaintance something." So saying, he put a guinea
into the child's hand.

" Hank you, sil," said George. — "O no be angy, mamma — only ittle wee
halfpenny — ook ye, mamma."

" Oh sir," said she, " you distress me by these presents. I have no need of
money, and what can he do with it but throw it away ? "

" Nay, nay ; pray don't notice it ; that is nothing between two friends like
George and me."

Lindsey dried himself; talked of indifferent matters, and then took the
child on his knee and talked to him. The conversation had as yet been as
free and unrestrained as possible, but Lindsey, by a blunder cjuite natural to
a studious and absent man, cut it short at once. " Tell me your name, good
lad } " said he to the child. " Let me hear you say your name .-' "

" George,'' was the reply.

" But what more than George 'i Tell me what they call you more than
George .'' "

" Just Geoge, sil. Mamma's Geoge."

" Pray, what is my young friend's surname .'' " said Lindsey, with the greatest
simplicity.

The Wool-gatherer stooped to the floor as if hfting something, in order
that she might keep her face out of the light ; two or three times an answer
seemed trembling on her tongue, but none came. There was a dead silence
in the cot, which none had the courage to break. How our unfortunate
lisher'b heart smote him ! He meant only to confer happiness, in place of
which he had given unnecessary p.iin and confusion. The shower was past ;
he arose abruptly, said, " Goodbye, I will call and sec my little George to-
morrow," and home he went, more perplexed than ever, and not overmuch
pleased with himself But the thing that astonished him most of all was, the
cheerful serenity of her countenance and manners under such grievous mis-
fortunes. He did not know whether to blame or approve of her for this ; how-
ever, he continued to go up the water for the most part every day, and seldom
failed to call at the cot. He meant no ill — he was certain he meant no harm
to any one— it was only to sec the cliihi that he went, and why should any
man be ashamed to go and see a child .? Very well reasoned, gentle fisher !
but beware that this is not the reverse of what you feel within. At all events,
it is the world that must judge of your actions and mine, not we ourselves.
Scandal is a busy vixen, and Hone can make fame fly so fast on an errand
as she.

THE WOOL-GATHERER. 93

Robin, the farmer, was hurt in the tcndeiest part that day when his laird
went by his door, and took shelter in the Wool-gatherer's cot ; and, on going
in, he mentioned it in such a way, that his old-maiden sister, Mef:^, took note
of it, and circulated it among the men-servants, with strong injunctions of
secrecy. The continuation of his visits confirmed their worst suspicions ; it
was now no longer a matter of doubt with them what was going on, but an
obvious certainty. The shameful and sudden attachment was blabbed from
tongue to tongue, until every ear in the parish had drunk the delicious draught,
save those of the parties implicated, and the old lady, the original cause of all.
When he was seen go into the cot, an event that was strictly watched, the
lasses would smile to each other, — the ploughmen broke jests upon it, — and Meg
would hold up both her hands and say, — " Hech wow, sirs ! I wonder what
our young gentles will turn to by an' by. It winna be lang till marriage be
out o" the fashion a' thegither, an' the fock that pretend to be Christians a'
living through other like the wild Tartarers."

Lktle wist the old lady of what was going on ! She dreamed not once of a
beautiful stranger among the cottagers at Todburn (the name of Robin's
farm), that was working such deray, else woe would have been to her and all
concerned ; for there was nothing short of the sin not to be forgiven, that she
dreaded so much as her son forming any attachment or connexion with the
country maidens. She had been congratulating herself mightily on the suc-
cess of her expedient, in making him take such delight in a manly and
healthful exercise, and one which led him insensibly to be acquainted with his
people, and every part of his estate. She had even been boasting aloud of it to
every one with whom she conversed ; indeed her conversation with others was
mostly about her son, for he being her only surviving child, she loved him
with her whole heart, and her cares were all for him.

It happened one day that a little pert girl had come down from one of the
cottages at Todburn to buy some milk, which the lady supplied to them from
her dairy, and while skimming and measuring it, she fell into conversation
with this little sly and provoking imp.

" Did you see my son fishing in the water as you came down ? "

" Na, na, mim ; he was safe landit or I came away. He was fishing wi'
Hoy's net."

" Safe landit ? Fishing wi' Hoy's net ?— How do you mean ? "

" He was gane in to take a rest, mim, — that's a'."

" Oh, that was a'--was it ? I'm glad to hear o' that. I never knew he had
called upon his tenants, or looked after them at all ! "

" I trow he disna look mucklc after them, mim. He's keener o' lookiu'
after something else."

" Oh ay, thetrouts ! To be sure they hae almaist gane between him an'
his wits for some time ; but he'll aye be seeing something o' his land, an'
something o' his fock. It was I that persuaded him to it. There are some
lucky hits in life."

" Ay, an' some lucky misses too, mim, that some think he likes as weel."

" He's sae tender-hearted, I believe he may be as happy oft to miss the fish
as to hit them ; but that will soon wear away, as I tell him. He's tender-
hearted to a fault.'

" An' there's mae tender-heartit nor him. There's some other kind o'
misses forbye trouts up the water."

" What is it you say .? "

" I'll say nae mair about it — ane may very easily speak muckle non-
sense."

" Didna ye say that my son was gane into Robin's house afore ye came
away ? "

" I never said sic a word, begging you pardon, mim. He wadna gang into
Robin's, llioui'li it war raining auld wives and Jcddart slaves."

" What house has he gone into liica '{ '

'• into Jeany's, mim."

94 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

" Jeany's I What Jeany ? '

'' I dinna ken what they ca' her mair than Jeany. Little George's mother,
ye ken, that hves at the head o' the Washing-^reen."

'' Jeany ! — Little George's mother ! — That lives at the head o' the Washing-
green ! Wha is she? Where comes she frae? Has she a husband?"

" Na, na, mim — nae husband."

The lady breathed as short as if in the heat of a fever — hasted out to the
air, and then returned with equal haste into the house, without being able to
accomplish anything, for her hands trembled like the aspen leaf ; and, finally,
after ordering the girl to send Robin down to her immediately, she took to
her bed, and lay brooding over the great calamity of her son's shameful
attachment. These low-bred women were her bane ; especially if they were
beautiful, she loathed, she hated, and, if she could, would have cleared the
country of them. This, therefore, was a great trial ; and before Robin
arrived, she had made out to herself a picture of as many disagreeable objects
as ever a distempered imagination conceived. Instead of a genteel respected
wife, the head of a lovely family, a disgraceful connexion, and an illep:itimate
offspring ! Ills followed on ills, a dreadful train ! Shccouldtlunk of nothing
else, and the more she thought of it the worse did the consequences appear.
Before her messenger reached Robin, she had regularly determined on
the young woman's dismissal from the estate, and, if possible, from the
district.

We will pass over a long conversation that took place between the old dame
and Robin. It was maintained with great bitterness on the one hand and
servility on the other ; but the final resolution was, that Jane should be
ordered to depart from Todburn that night, or early the next morning ; and
if she refused, Robin was to bribe her to a compliance with any moderate sum
of money, rather than that she should be suffered to remain longer ; for the
lady sagely observed, she might corrupt and lead astray all the young men in
the country side, and would likely, at the long run, cost the parish more than
if it were to maintain a company of soldiers. Last of all, it was decreed that
their proceedings should be kept a profound secret from Lindsey.

Robin went home ; and waiting upon Jane, told her abruptly to prepare for
her immediate departure from the house that she occupied, for that she could
not be longer there ; and that he would be answerable for her furniture until
she sent for it, or otherwise disposed of it ; that she needed not to ask any

Siestions as to his motives, fur that he was obliged to do as he did, and the
ing was decided that she was not to remain longer there.

She answered not a word ; but, with the tears in her eyes, and many a half-
smothered sob, she packed up a small bundle of clothes, and, taking that
below her arm, and little George on her back, she went away, having first
locked the door and given the key to the farmer. " Farewell, Robin," said
she ; " you are turning two very helpless and friendless creatures out to
the open fields ; but think you, you may not rue this on a day when you
cannot help it ? "

Robin was affected, but he was obliged to do as he was desired, and there-
fore made no defence, but said simply, " Farewell ! Farewell ! — God help
thee, poor thing ! "— He then kept an eye on her, that she might not com-
municate with any of the rest until she was fairly across the end of the
Todburn-Law, and he was agreeably surprised at seeing her take that
direction.

As soon as she got out of sight of her late dwelling, she sought a retired
spot by the side of a clear mountain rivulet, where she sat down and gave free
vent to her trars. " My poor child,' said she, clasping little George to her
breast, " what is now to become of us, and where will our sorrows terminate?
Here we are turned out on the wide world, and have neither house nor home
to cover our heads ; we have no bed now, George, but the cold earth, and no
covering but that sky that you see over us.''

" (J no geet, mamma— no gcet ; Geoge vely wae," said the child, clasping

THE WOOL-GATHERER. 95

her neck in return, and sobbing aloud ; " no geet, else Geoge tun bad chud,
and geet too."'

•' :\o. for your sake, my dear, I will not greet ; therefore ciiccr up thy iiiiic
kuui heart, for there is One who will provide for us still, and will not suffer
two helpless inexperienced beings like you and I to perish.''

•' Geoge like 'at man.'

" It is no man that we must now depend on, my dear ; we must depend on
God, who will never forsake us."

" Geoge like God. '

Here she kissed him and wept anew, yet was all the while trying to console
him. " Let us be of good cheer, Cleorge ; while 1 have health I will work t(ir
you, for you have no one else on earth that cares for you."

" But no geet, mamma, I tell you ; Cieorge wulk too. When George tuln
geat big man, Geoge wulk mole an two mans."

Here their tender prattle was interrupted by a youth named -Barnaby, who
was close at their side before they observed him. He was one of Robin's ser-
vants, who herded a few young sheep at the back of the hill where Jane was
sitting. He was fifteen years of age, tall and thin, but had fine features
somewhat pitted with the small-pox. He had an inexhaustible fund of good
humour and drollery, ;)nd playing the fool among the rest of the servants to
keep them laughing was his chiefest delight ; but his folly was all afferted,
and the better part of his character lay concealed behind the screen of a fan-
tastic exterior. He never mended his clothes like the rest of the servant lads,
but suffered them to fall into as many holes as they inclined ; when any ex-
postulated with him on the subject, he said, "he likit them nae the waur o'
twa or three holes to let in the air;" and, in truth, he was as ragged a youth
as one would see in a summer day. His hat was remarkably broad-brimmed
and supple, and hung so far over his eyes, that, when he looked any person in
the face, he had to take the same position as if looking at a vertical star.
This induced him often, when he wanted to see fairly about him, to fold in
the fore part of the brim within the crown, which gave it the appearance of
half a hat, and in this way was he equipped when he joined Jane and little
George. They had been intimately acquainted from the first; he had done many
little kind omces for her, and had the sagacity to discover that there was some-
thing about her greatly superior to the other girls about the hamlet; and he had
never used the same freedom with her in his frolics that he was wont to do
with them.

" What ails you, Jeany .'' " said he; " I thought I heard you greeting."

"No, no, Barnaby; I do not ail any thing; 1 was not crying."

" Why, woman, you're crying yet, as you call it; tell me what ails you, and
whar ye're gaun this wild gate.-*"

" I'm going to leave you, Barnaby. I am going far from this.''

" I fear ye're gaun awa frae us a'thegither. Hae ye been obliged to leave
your ain wee house for want o' meat.-"'

" I had plenty of meat; but your master has turned me out of my cot at an
hour's warning; he would not even suffer me to remam overnight, and I know
of no place to which I can go."

" O, deil be i' the auld hard-heartit loon ! Heard ever ony body the like o'
that.-" — What ailed him at ye.-" Hae ye done ony thing, Jeany, or said ony thing
wrang 1 "

" It is that which distresses me. I have not been given to know my offence,
and I can form no conjecture of it."

" If 1 had a hame, Jeany, ye should hae a share o't. I dinna ken o' ane I
wad make mair welcome, even though 1 should seek a bed for mysd. War
ye at my father's cottage, I could insure ye a month's good hamcly lodging,
but it is far away, an' a wild road till't. 1 hae indeed an auld aunt about twa
miles frae this, but she's no muckle to lippen to, unless it come frae her ain
side o' the house; and then she's a hinny and joe. if ye like I'll ijang that
length with ye, an' try if she'll put ye up a while till we see how mailers luia.'*

96 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

Jane was now so much confused in her mind, that, not being able to form
any better measure for the present, she arose and followed her ragged con-
ductor, and they arrived at his aunt's house before sunset.

" My dear aunt,"' said Barnaby, "here is a very good an' a very helpless
lassie turned away frae her hame this same day, and has nae place to gang to;
if ye'U be sac good, nn' sae kind, as to let her slay a while wi' you, I will do
ten times as muckle for you again some ither day."

" My faith, stirra !" said she, setting up a face like a firebrand, and putting
her arms a-kimbo — " My faith, man, but ye're soon begun to a braw trade ! —
How can ye hae the assurance, ye brazen-faced rascal, to come running to
me wi' a hizzy an' bairn at your tail, an' desire me to keep them for ye 7 I'll
sooner see you an' her, an' that little limb, a' hung up by the links o' the neck,
than ony o' ye sal crook a hough or break bread wi' me.'

" There's for't now ! There's for't ! When the deil gets in, the fire maun
flee out I — But, aunt, I ken the first word's aye thp warst wi' ye ; ye're never
sae ill as ye say. Think like a Christian. How wad ye hae likit, when ye war
as young, to hae been turned out to the open hills wi' a bairn in your arms .'"'
" Hear to the tatterdemallion ! — Christian ! Bairn i' jr.y arms ! — ye impu-
dent, hempy-looking tike that ye are ! Pack out o" my house, I say, or I'll
gar the bluid blind your een — ay, an' your bit toastit pie to ! Gang after your
braw gallaunt, wi' your oxterfu' ket ! — A bonny pair, troth ! — A light head
makes a heavy fit.?"

Barnaby retired with his back foremost, facing up to his aunt all the way
till fairly in the open fields, for fear of actual violence; but the epithets he be-
stowed on her there in the bitterness of his heart cannot here be set down.
Jane trembled, yet was obliged to smile at his extravagance, for it had no
bounds; while his aunt stood in her door, exulting and calling after him every
thing that she could construe to mortify and provoke him. Tears for a space
choked his utterance; at length he forced out the following sentence in volleys.
" Wae — wae be to the — the auld randy witch ! — Had 1 but the — owrance o'
the land for ae day — I — I should gar some look about them. My Master an'
she hae this wark to answer for yet; they'll get their dichens for't some day
— that's ae comfort ! Come away, Jeany — they'll squeal for this — let them
tak it ! — Come away, Jeany."

** Where would you have me to go now, Barnaby .'' "

" Oul-by aff that auld witch at ony rate ! I'll hae ye put up though I should
travel a hunder mile."

" Let me beseech you to return to your flock, and trouble yourself no farther
about my infant and me. Heaven will take care of us.''

" It disna look very like it just now. I dinna arguy that it is wrang to trust
in Heaven — only gin we dinna use the means. Heaven's no obliged to work
miracles for us. It is hard upon the gloamin', an' there is not another house
near us; if we sit down and trust, ye'U hae to sleep in the fields, an' then baith
you an' that dear bairn may get what ye will never cast. Let us make a wee
exertion the night, and I hae resolved what ye shall do to-morrow."
"And what shall 1 do to-morrow, Barnaby.'"'

" Go with me to my parent?; they hae nae doughter o' their ain, an' my
mither will be muckle the better o' your help, an' they will baith be very glad
to see you, Jeany. Ciudeness be thankit ! the warld's no just a' alike. I'
the mean time my pickle gimmers dinna need muckle at my hand just now,'
sae I'll gae an' ax my master for a day to see my fock, and gang fit for fit wi
ye the morn."

She fixed her humid eyes on him in pleasing astonishment; she had never
before witnessed such earnest and disinterested benevolence ; the proposal
was made in such a way that she could not refuse it, else she saw that she
would give a kind and feeling heart pain. " I have a great mind to make
trial of your expedient, good Barnaby, ' said she; all parts of the country are
now alike to me; I must go somewhere; and as it is but a hard day's journey,
1 will go and see the parents of so good a lad."

THE WOOL-GATHERER. 97

"Now that's spoken like yoursel, an' I'm glad to hear ye say't— But what's
to come o' ye the night ? "

" I have some victuals with me, and I can lie in the fields this pleasant
night; it is a good one to begin with, for who knows what's before one?"

" I canna think o' that ava. If ye war to lay that bonny red cheek on the
cauld dew, an' the wind blawin' i' little George's face, there wad some sleep
nane the night; but there is a little snug sheep-house in our Hope, a wee bit
frae this; let us gang there, an' I will take little George in my bosom, an' hap
yoii wi' my plaid. — O, but I forgot — that will never do," continued he, in a
melancholy tone, and looking at his ragged doublet and riven clothes. Away,
however, to the sheep-cot they went, where they found plenty of old hay, and
Jane instantly proposed that he should go home and leave them alone, get
leave of his master, and join them next morning.

" But I dinna ken about it," said Barnaby, hanging his head and looking
serious ; " that linn's an unco uncanny place for bogles ; an' by this time o'
night they'll be kecking ower the black haggs o' the Cairny Moss to see
what's gaun on. If ony o' them war to come on ye here, they might terrify
you out o' your wits, or carry ye baith aff, lith and limb — Is the callant
baptized?"

Jane answered in the affirmative, smiling ; and farther assured him, that he
needed to be under no apprehensions on account of spirits, for she was per-
fectly at ease on that score, having a good assurance that no spirit had power
over her.

" Ay, ye are maybe a gospel minister's bairn, or an auld Cameronian ; that
is, I mean, come o' the saints and martyrs— they had unco power — I hae
heard o' some o' them that fought the deil, hand to fist, for an hour and forty
minutes, and dang him at the last — yethered him and yerked him till he
couldna mou' another curse. But these times are gane ! yet it's no sae lang
sin' auld Macmillan (ye hae heard o' auld Macmillan .-') was coming through
that linn i' the derk wi' twa o' his elders, an' they spak o' the bogle, but
Macmillan jeered at it ; an' when they came to the tap o' yon steep brae they
stoppit to take their breath, and there they heard a loud nichering voice come
out 0' the how o' the linn, an' it cried,

" Ha, ha, Macky ! had ye been your lane,
Ye should never hae crackit through either wood or water again."

" Say ye sae, fause loon," quo' the auld hardy veteran ; " than be at your
speed, for I'll gang through that wood my lane in spite o' your teeth, an' a'
hell at your back."

An' what does the carl do, but leaves his twa elders yonder, standin glowrin
i' the howe night, an' trodges his way back through the linn to the very farrest
side o't — said the hunder-an'-ninth psalm against him, an' came back wi'
never a turned hair on his head. But yet for a' that, Jeany, dinna lippen
ower muckle to bygane things; there have been fairy raids i' the Hope, an'
mony ane ill fleyed. I could tell ye sic a story of a wicked laird here !

Jane entreated him not to tell it that night, but amuse them with it to-morrow
as they journeyed. He was passive — left them his plaid — went home and got
leave of absence from his master for two days, but hinted nothing of what had
passed in the Hope. He was again back at the sheep-house by the time the
sun rose ; and, early as it was, he found Jane walking without, while little
George was sleeping soundly on the hay, wrapped in the plaid. She said she
had got a sound and short sleep, but awakening at dawn she had stepped out
to taste the fresh mountain air, and see the sun rise. When they lifted the
child he was somewhat fretful — a thing not customary with him ; but he was
soon pai ified, and they proceeded without delay on their journey.

Until once they had cleared the boundaries of the farm of Todburn, Barnaby

was silent, and looked always around with a jealous eye, as if dreading a

surprise. When his fellow traveller asked the reasons of his anxiety, he

remained silent ; but as soon as they got fairly into the next glen he became

1. 7

98 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

as gay and talkative as ever. She deemed it to be some superstitious dread
that discomposed him, but was left to guess the cause.

" Jeany," said he, " you said you had a short and sound sleep last night —
so had I. Pray, did you dream ony .'"'

" Not that I remember of ; but 1 put no faith in dreams."

" Weel, how different fock's bodies, or their souls, or something about them
maun be frae ane anither ! For I'm come this length in the warld, an' I
never yet dreamed a regular dream, in a sound sleep, that I didna get as
plainly read to me as the A, B, C. 1 had a strange dream last night, Jeany,
an' it was about you. I am sure I'll live to see it fulfilled ; but what it means
even now, I canna in the least comprehend."

" Well, Barnaby, suppose you give us it. I have read the Book of Know-
ledge, and may lend you a hand at the interpretation."

" 1 thought 1 saw ye lying in a lonesome place, an' no ane in the wide world
to hclj) or heed ye, till there was a poor bit black mootit-like corby came
down frae the hills an' fed ye. I saw it feeding ye, an' 1 thought ye war as
contentit, an' as bonny, an' as happy as ever. But ere ever I wist, down
comes there a great majestic eagle some gate frae about the e'e-bree o' the
heavens, an' cleeks ye away up to the lowne bieldy side o' a sunny hill, where
ye had a' braw things. An' 1 dinna ken how it was, I thought ye war a she
eagle sitting among your young, an' I thought aye ye war a woman too, an' I
coudna separate the tane frae the tither ; but the poor bit plottit forefoughen
corby gacd alang wi' ye, an' ye war kind to him, an' fed him in your turn, an'
I saw him hoppin, an' pickin, an' dabbin round about ye, as happy as ever I
saw a beast, an' the eagle didna chase him away, but was kind to him ; but
somehow, or I wakened, I thought it was the confusedest thing I ever saw.
Na, ye needna laugh nor smile, for we'll baith live to see it read."

" Believe me, Barnaby, it will never be apparent ; you may force circum-
stances to agree with it, but these will not be obvious ones."

" It's needless for me to arguy wi' you unless I can bring things hame to
your ain conscience ; but can ye say that ye never got a dream read.?"

" Never that I noted ; for I never thought of them."

" Or, for instance, have ye never, when you saw a thing for the first time,
had a distinct recollection of having seen it sometime afore?"

" Never."

" How wondcrfu' ! I have done so a thousand an' a thousand times. I have
remembered of having seen exactly the same scene, the same faces, the same
looks, and heard the same words, though I knew all the while that I never
had seen them in reality ; and that 1 could only have seen them in some
former vision, forgotten, or perhaps never remembered."

She now saw clearly that dreams, visions, and apparitions, were Barnaby's
region of existence — His very thoughts and language seemed elevated when-
ever he entered on the subject ; and it being a trait in the shepherd's character
that she had never thought of before, she resolved to encourage it, and asked
for a single instance of that strange foresight alluded to.

" You'll surely acknowledge," said Barnaby, " that it is impossible I could
ever have come up that strait swire before with a bairn on my back, an' a
young woman gaun beside me exactly like you ; an' that while in that condi-
tion, I should have met wi' a bull an' a cow coming out o' the path by them-
sels, an' thought o' yon rraig for a shelter to the bairn that I was can-ying ;
yet when that happened about an hour ago, I remembered so distinctly of
having gone through it some time long before, that I knew every step that
would next be taken, and every word that would next be said. It made me
very thoughtful ; but I can remember nothing of where or when I dreamed it,
or what was the issue.

" There was another instance that I'll never forget. The winter afore last,
I gaed out wi' my father in the morning to help him to gather the sheep ; for
the rime had sitten down, an' tlie clouds war creepin, and we kend the drift
wad be on. Weel, away we sets, but a' the hills were wrappit i' the clouds o'

THE WOOL-GATHERER. 99

rime as they had been rowed in a fleece o' frosty-woo, an' we couldna see a
stime ; we were little better than fock gaun ^raiptng for sheep ; an' about
twal o'clock (I mind it weel,) just when 1 was in the very slraitcst and steepest
part o' the Shielbrae-Hope, the wind gae a swirl, an' I lookit up an' saw the
cloud screwing up to heaven — the brow o' the hill cleared, an' I saw like a
man cringing and hanging ower the point o' the rock, an' there was seven
white ewes an' a black ane gaun bleetin in a raw yont aneath him. That was
a' ; but the sight struck me motionless. I mindit that I had seen the very
thing afore ; the very clouds — the very rocks— an' the man standing courin'
and keekin' ower, wi' the white rime hingin' about his lugs like feathers ; an'
I mindit that it ended ill — it endit awsomely .'—for I thought it endit in death.
I could speak nae mair a' that day ; for I expectit that either my father or I
wad never gang hame living. He aften said to me, 'What ails ye callant?
Are ye weel eneugh .-' Od, ye're gane stupid.' We saved some sheep, an'
lost some, like mony ane, for it was a dreadfu' afternoon ; however, we wan
baith safe hame. But that night, afore we gaed to bed, our neighbour, auld
Robin Armstrong, was brought into our house a corp. Our fock had amaist
gane out o' their judgment ; but the very features, the white rime frozen about
the cauld stiff een, and the ice-shogles hangin' at the grey hair, war nae new
sight to me : I had seen them a' before, I kendna when. Ah, Jeany ! never
tell me that we haena some communication wi' intelligences, far ayont our
capacity to comprehend."

The seriousness of Barnaby's manner made it evident to his fellow
traveller that he believed in the reality of every word he had said ; there was
an inconceivable sublimity in the whole idea, and she fancied herself going
to reside, perhaps for a season, in the regions of imagination and romance,
and she asked him if his father and mother had faith in dreams an'
apparitions ?

" Aye, that they hae," answered he ; " ye had need to take care how ye
dispute the existence of fairies, brownies, and apparitions there ; ye may
as weel dispute the gospel o' Sant Matthew. We dinna believe in a' the
gomral fantastic bogles an' spirits that fley light-headed fock up an' down
the country, but we believe in a' the apparitions that warn o' death, that save
hfe, an' that discover guilt. I'll tell ye what we believe, ye see.

" The deil an' his adgents, they fash nane but the gude fock ; the Came-
ronians, an' the prayin' ministers, an' sic like. Then the bogles, they are a
better kind 0' spirits, they meddle wi' nane but the guilty ; the murderer, an'
the mansworn, an' the cheater o' the widow an' fatherless, they do for ihem.
Then the fairies, they're very harmless ; they're keener o' fun an' frolic than
aught else ; but if fock neglect kirk ordinances, they see after them. Then
the brownie, he's a kind o' half-spirit half-man ; he'll drudge an' do a' the
wark about the town for his meat, but then he'll no work but when he likes
for a' the king's dominions. That's precisely what we a' believe here awa',
auld an' young ; an' I'll tell ye twa or three stories that we a' ken to be true,
an' which I wadna misbelieve for a' that I'm worth.

" Sandy Shiel, the herd o' the Birky-Cleuch, was standing afore his sheep
ae fine day in winter. The snaw had been drifted ower the brae-head to the
size of another hill, but it was blawn bare aneath ; an' there was Sandy
standin" i' the sun afore his sheep whistling an' singing, and knitting a
stocking. Ere ever he wist there comes a broken Icggit hare by his very
foot — Every Scotsman's keen of a hunt — Sandy flings the plaid frae him, an'
after the hare what he can streik, hallooing, and crying on his dog to kep.
As he gaed o'er the brow he was close upon her, an' had up his stick just to
knock her dead — Tut! the hare vanished in a moment! Sandy jumpit
round about an' round about — ' What the devil's come o' my hare now } Is
she santit? or yirdit ? or flown awa'.''' — Sandy lookit up into the air, but she
wasna to be seen there neither. She was gane, an' for ever ! Sandy was
amaist swarf d, the cauld sweat brak on him, an' he clew his head. ' Now,
gude faith, I hae seen muckle,' quo' Sandy, 'but the like o' that I saw never."

lOO THE ET TRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

Sandy trodged back, wantin' his hare, to hft his plaid. But what think ye?
The hale volume o' snaw on the hill aboon had shot away and buried the
plaid fifty feet deep ; it was nae mair seen till the month o' May. Sandy
kneeled down amang the snaw and thankit his Maker ; he saw brawly what
the hare had been.

" I'll tell you another that I like still better. The shepherd's house at
Glen-Tress, in Tweeddale, had aince been a farm-steading, but it was at the
time this happened inhabited by an honest respectable shepherd, his wife
and six children. One evening after the sun had set, the eldest girl came
running in, crying, ' Bless me, sirs, come here — Here is the grandest lady
coming to the house that ever was seen in the world.' They all ran to the
door, young and old, and they every one saw her coming at the distance of
only about twenty paces — She was never more seen ! But that very moment
the house fell in, gable and all, with a dreadful crash ; and thus a worthy
family was saved from momentary destruction. Ah ! 1 wadna hae given that
man's feelings of gratitude that night toward his Maker and Preserver, for a'
the dogmas of a thousand cauld-heartit philosophers !"

" Nor would I," said Jane ; and they walked on in deep silence.

Barnaby always carried the child one half of the way as nearly as they
could agree, but after carrying him often two miles, he would contend that it
was but one ; they got plenty of bread and milk at the farm-houses and
cottages as they passed, for there was no house of accommodation near
the whole of their track. One time, after they had refreshed and rested
themselves, Jane reminded her conductor that he had promised the evening
before to entertain her on their journey with the story of the profligate
laird.

"That's an awfu' story," said Barnaby, but it is soon tauld. It was the
Laird o' Ettrickhaw ; he that biggit his house amang the widow's corn, and
never had a day to do weel in it. It isna yet a full age sin' the foundation-
stane was laid, an' for a' the grandeur that was about it, there's nae man at
this day can tell where the foundation has been, if he didna ken afore. He was
married to a ver\- proud precise lady, come o' high kin, but they greed aye
weel enough till bonny Molly Grieve came to the house to serve. Molly was
as light-hearted as a kid, an' as blithe as a laverock, but she soon altered.
She first grew serious, then sad, an unco pale at times : an' they whiles came
on her greeting by hersel. It was ower weel seen how matters stood, an'
there was nae mair peace about the house. At length it was spread ower a'
the parish that the lady had gotten Molly a fine genteel service in Edinburgh,
an' up comes hurkle-backit Charley Johnston, the laird's auld companion in
wickedness, wi' a saddle an' a pad to take her away. When they set her on
ahint him, Molly shook hands wi' a' the servants, but couldna speak, for she
little kend when she would see them again. But, instead o' taking her away
i' the fair daylight, i' the ee o' God an' man, he took her away just when the
lave war gaun to their beds : an' instaed o' gaeing the road to Edinburgh,
they were seen riding ower the Cacra-cross at twal o'clock at night. Bonny
Molly Grieve was never seen again, nor heard of mair in this world ! But
there war some banes found about the Alemoor Loch that the doctors said
had belanged to a woman. There was some yellow hair, too, on the scull,
that was unco like Molly's, but naebody could say.

" Then there was a fine strapping lass came in her place, a farmer's
daughter, that had mony a lad running after her, but it wasna a year and a
half till a service was to provide in Edinburgh for her too. Up came hurkle-
backit Charley to take her away, but no gin they should a' hae sutten down
on their knees wad she gae wi' him ; she grat an' pray'd, an' they fleeched an'
flait ; but she stayed in the parish in spite o' their teeth, an' shamed them a'.
She had a son, but Charley got him to take to the nursing, far away some
gate, an' there was naebody ony mair fashed wi' him.

*' It wad be endless to tell ye ower a' their wickedness, for it can hardly be
believed. Charley had mony sic job to do, baith at hame and at a distance.

THE WOOL^GATHERER. loi

They grew baith odious in the country, for they turned aye the langer the
waur, and took less pains to hide it ; till ae night that the laird was walking
at the back o' his garden, in the moonlight. It was thought that he was
waiting for a woman he had some tryste with, but that was conjecture, for he
never said sae. At length he saw ane coming towards him, and hasted to
meet her, but just as he approached, she held up her hand at him, as it war
to check him, or make him note who she was ; and when he lookit in her
face, and saw what it was like, he uttered a loud cry, and fell senseless on the
ground. Some fock heard the noise, and ran to the place, and fand him
lying streckit in a deep dry seuch at the back of the garden. They carried
him in, and he soon came to himself ; but after that he was never like the
same man, but rather like ane dementit. He durst never mair sleep by
himsel while he lived : but that wasna lang, for he took to drinking, and
drank, and swore, and blasphemed, and said drcadfu' things that folk didna
understand. At length, he drank sae muckle ae night out o' desperation, that
the blue lowe came burning out at his mouth, and he died on his ain heartb-
stane, at a time o' life when he should scarcely have been at his prime.

" But it wasna sae wi' Charley ! He wore out a lang and hardened life ;
and, at the last, when death came, he couldna die. For a day and two nights
they watched him, thinking every moment would be the last, but always a few
minutes after the breath had left his lips, the feeble cries of infants arose
from behind the bed, and wakened him up again. The family were horrified ;
but his sons and daughters were men and women, and for their ain sakes they
durstna let ane come to hear his confessions. At last, on the third day, at
two in the morning, he died clean away. They watched an hour in great
dread, and then streekit him, and put the dead-claes on him, but they hadna
weel done before there were cries, as if a woman had been drowning, came
from behind the bed, and the voice cried, ' O, Charlie, spare my life ! — Spare
my life ! For your own soul's sake and mine, spare my life !' On which the
corpse again sat up in the bed, pawled wi' its hands, and stared round wi' its
dead face. The family could stand it nae langer, but fled the house, and rade
and ran for ministers, but before any of them got there, Charley was gane.
They sought a' the house and in behind the bed, and could find naething ;
but that same day he was found about a mile frae his ain house, up in the
howe o' the Baileylee-linn, a' torn limb frae limb, an' the dead-claes beside
him. There war twa corbies seen flying o'er the muir that day, carr)'ing
something atween them, an' fock suspectit it was Charley's soul, for it was
heard makin' a loud maen as they flew o'er Alemoor. At the same time it
was reportit, that there was to be seen every morning at two o'clock, a naked
woman torfelling on the Alemoor loch, wi' her hands tied behind her back,
and a heavy stane at her neck. It's an awsome story. I never dare tell it
but in the middle o' the day, and even then it gars a' my flesh creep ; but the
hale country has heard it, and God only kens whether it be true or no. It
has been a warning to mony ane."

Our fair wanderer asked for no more ghost stories. The last had sufficed
her, — it having been even more shocking than the former ones were delightful ;
so they travelled on, conversing about common or casual events, save that
she gave him a short sketch of her history, whereof to inform his parents, with
strong injunctions of secrecy. They came in view of his father's cottage be-
fore sunset. It was situated in the very wildest and most romantic glen in
the shire of Peebles, at the confluence of two rough but clear mountain
streams, that ran one on each side of the house and kailyard, and mingled
their waters immediately below these. The valley was level, green, and
beautiful, but the hills on each side, high, steep, and romantic ; and while
they cast their long blai.1: shadows aslant the glen, the beams of the sun were
shed over these like streamers in the mitldle air. It was a scene of traiuiuiility
and rei)Ose, if not indeed the abode of the genii and fairies. Jane's he.irt
danced within her when her eye turned to the varied scener>' of the moun-
tains, but again sunk when it fell on the cottage at which she was going to

102 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

seek a retreat. She dreaded her reception, knowing how equivocal her
appearance there must be ; but she longed and thirsted for such a retreat,
and as she was not destitute of money, she determined to proffer more for
her board than she could well afford to pay, rather than be refused. Barnaby
also spoke less as they advanced up the glen, and seemed struggling with a
kind of dryness about his tongue which would not suffer him to pronounce
the words aright. Two fine shaggy healthy-looking collies came barking down
the glen to meet them, and at a timid distance behind them, a half grown
puppy, making more noise than them both. He was at one time coming
brattling forward, and barking fiercely, as if going to attack them, and at
another, running yelping away from them with his tail between his legs.
Little George l.iughed as he had been tickled at him. When the dogs came
near, and saw that it was their old fire-side acquaintance and friend, they
coured at his feet, and whimpered for joy ; they even licked his fair com-
panion's hand, and capered around her, as if glad to sec any friend of
Barnaby's. The whelp, perceiving that matters were amicably made up,
likewise ventured near ; and though he had never seen any ot them before,
claimed acquaintance with all, and was so kind and officious that he wist not
what to do ; but at last he fell on the expedient of bearing up the corner of
Jane's mantle in his mouth, which he did all the way to the house. — George
was perfectly delighted.

" 1 think,' said Jane, " the kindness of these creatures betokens a hearty
welcome within !"

" Ay, that it docs." answered Barnaby ; "a dog that is brought up with a
man in a wild place, is always of the very same disposition with himself."

Strangers seldom approached that sequestered spot — passengers never.
They observed, while yet at a good distance, Barnaby's mother standing amid
her burly boys at the end of the cottage, watching their approach, and they heard
her calling distinctly to her husband, " Aigh ! Geordie, yon's our ain Barny,
I ken by auld Help's motions ; but wha she is that he's bringing wi' him, is
ayont my comprehension."

She hurried away in to put her fire-side in some order, and nought was then
to be seen but two or three bare-headed boys, with their hair the colour of
peat ashes, setting their heads always now and then by the corner of the
house, and vanishing again in a twinkling. The old shepherd was sitting on
his divot-seat, without the door, mending a shoe. Barnaby stole up to him.
" How are ye the night, father V

" No that ill, Barny lad — is thnt you ? How are ye yoursel ?" said a decent-
looking middle-aged man, scratching his head at the same time with the awl,
and fixing his eyes, not on his son, but the companion that he had brought
with him. When he saw her so young, so beautiful, and the child in her
arms, the inquiring look that he cast on his son was unutterable. Silence
reigned for the space of a minute. Barnaby made holes in the ground with
his staff — the old shepherd began again to sew his shoe, and little George
prattled to his mamma, " It's a very good bonny halp, mamma ; Geoge nevel
saw sic a good halp."

" An' how hae ye been sin* we saw ye, Barny ?''

"Gaylys!"

" I think ye hae brought twa young strangers wi' ye?"

" I wat have 1."

"Wharfellyeinwi'them?"

" 1 want to speak a word to you, father."

The old shepherd flung down his work, and followed his son round the corner
of the house. It was not two minutes till he came back. Jane had sat down
on the sod-seat.

" This is a pleasant evening," said he addressing her.

" It is a very sweet evening,'" was the reply.

" Ye'll be weary ; ye had better i:;ang in an' rest ye."

She thanked him, and was preparing to go.

THE WOOL-GATHERER. 103

" It's a muckle matter," continued he, " when fock can depend on their ain.
My Bamy never deceived me a' his Hfe, an' you are as welcome here as heart
can mak ye. The flower in May is nae welcomer than ye are to this bit
shieling, and your share of a' that's in it. Come your ways in, my bonny
woman, an' think nae shame. Ye shall never be lookit on as either a beggar
or borrower here, but just ane o' oursels." So saying he took her hand in both
his, and led her into the house.

" Wife, here's a young stranger our son has brought to bide a while wi'
ye ; mak her welcome i' the mean time, and yc'U be better acquainted by
and by."

*' In troth I sal e'en do sac. Come awa in by to the muckle chair — \Vhar
is he himsel, the muckle duddy feltered gouk.'"'

" Ah, he's coming, poor fellow — he's takin a tune to himsel at the house-end
— there's a shower i' the heads wi' Barny — his heart can stand naething — it is
as saft as a snaw-ba', an' far mair easily thawed, but it's aye in the right place
for a' that."

It was a happy evening ; the conversation was interesting, and kept up till
a late hour ; and when the old couple learned from Jane of the benevolent
and disinterested part that their son had acted, their eyes glowed with delight,
and their hearts waxed kinder and kinder. Before they retired to rest, the
old shepherd performed family worship, with a glow of devotional warmth
which Jane had never before witnessed in man. The psalm that he sung, the
portion of Scripture that he read, and the prayer that he addressed to the
throne of grace, savoured all of charity and benevolence to our fellow crea-
tures. The whole economy of the family was of that simple and primitive
cast, that the dwellers in a large city never dream of as existing. There was
to be seen contentment without affluence or ambition, benevolence without
ostentation, and piety without hypocrisy ; but at the same time such a mixture
of gaiety, good sense, and superstitious ideas, blent together in the same
minds, as was altogether inscrutable. It was a new state of existence to
our fair stranger, and she resolved with avidity to improve it to the best
advantage.

But we must now leave her in her new habitation, and return with Barnaby
to the families of Earlhall and Todburn. Lindsey went up the water every
day fishing as he had done formerly, but was astonished at observing from
day to day, that his fair Wool-gatherer's cottage was locked, and no smoke
issuing from it. At first he imagined that she might have gone on a visit, but
at length began to suspect that some alteration had taken place in her cir-
cumstances ; and the anxiety that he felt to have some intelligence, whether
that change was favourable or the reverse, was such that he himself wondered
at it. He could not account for it even to his own mind. It was certainly
the child that so much interested him, else he could not accoimt for it.
Lindsey might easily have solved the difficulty had he acquiesced freely in
the sentiments of his own heart, and acknowledged to himself that he was in
love. But no ! — all his reasoning, as he threw the line across the stream and
brought it back again, went to disprove that. " That I can be in love with
the girl is out of the question — there is no danger of such an event ; for, in
the first place, I would not wrong her, or abuse her affections, for tlie whole
world ; and in the next, I have a certain rank and estimation to uphold in
society. I am a proprietor to a large extent — a frcehokler of the county —
come of a good family, at least by the f;ither's side, and that 1 should f.dl in

love with and marry a poor Wool-gatherer, with a" ! He was going to

pronounce a word, but it stuck, not in his tliroat, but in the very utmost per-
ceptible avenues that lead to the heart. " It is a very fine child, however, —
I wish I had him under my protection, then his mother miglit (H)me and see
him; but I care not for that, provided 1 had the child. I'll h.ivc tiiat child,
and for that purpose I will inquire after the mother directly.''

He went boldly up to the < ot, and peeped in at the iiltlc window. The
hearth was cold, and the furniture n' atly arranged. He examined the door,

104 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

but the step and threshold had not been swept as they wont for many days,
and ilie green grass was beginning to peep up around them. "There is some-
thing extremely melancholy in this!' said he to himself. "I could not
endure the veriest wretch on my estate to be thus lost, without at least inquir-
ing after him."

fie turned his eyes to the other cottages, and to the farm-house, but lacked
the courage to go boldly up to any of them, and ask after the object of bis
thoughts. He returned to the fishing, but caught no fish, or if he did it was
against his will.

On IJarnaby's return he made some sly inquiries about the causes that
induced to Jane's removal without elfect, the farmer had kept all so snug.
But havercl Meg, (as they called her for a nick-name,) his sister, knew, and
though she was an excellent keeper of secrets among her own sex, yet she
could not help blabbing them sometimes to the young fellows, which her
brother always accounted a very ridiculous propensity ; — whether or not it is
a natural one among old maids, the relater of this tale does not pretend to
decide ; he is induced to think it is, but is not dogmatic ca that side, not
having bestowed due consideration on the subject.

One day, when IJarnaby came home to his breakfast rather later than usual,
and while he was sitting hewing away at a good stiff bicker of paritch, mixed
with butter-milk, his excellent dog Nimrod all the time sitting with his head
leaned on his master's knee, watching the progress of every spoonful, thinking
the latter was rather going near him that day in their wonted proportions —
while Barnaby, 1 say, was thus delightfully and busily employed, in comes
Meg, bare-footed, with a clean white wrapper and round-eared cap on.
" Barny, will ye hae time to help me to the water wi' a boucking o' claes ?
Ye'U just only hae to carry the tae end o' the hand-barrow to the water, wait
till I sinde up the sarks, an' help me hame wi' them again."

" That I will. Miss Peggy, wi' heart an' hand."

"Miss Peggy! Snuffs o' tobacco ! Meg's good enough ! Troth, I'm nane
o' your molloping, precise flegaries, that want to be ?niss'd, an' beckit, an'
bowed to. Na, sooth ! Meg's good enough ; plain downright Meg o' the
Todburn."

" Weel, wecl, baud your tongue ; I'll do a' that ye bid me, an mair, Meg,
my bonny woman."

" How war a' your focks, Barny, when ye war ower seeing them?"

" Unco weel, an' they're muckle behadden to you for your kind speering."

" I kend your father weel ; he's a good cannie man."

" I wish he had beltit your shoulders as aft as he has done mine, ye maybe
wadna hae said sae muckle for him."

" Ay, it'c weel o' you to say sae ; but he's a douse, respectable man, and he's
no disgraced in his son."

Barnaby rose with his bicker in his hand ; gave it a graceful swing, as a
gentleman does his hat when he meets a lady, made a low bow, and set down
Kimrod his share of the paritch.

When they went to the river Barnaby sat him down on the bank, and Meg
went into the running stream, and began with great agility, and much splash-
ing, to wash up her clothes. Barnaby perceived her smiling to herself, and
was sure that a volley of some stuff or other was forthcoming. She cast her
eyes towards the laird's house, then looked tip the water, then down, in case
any one might be angling on it ; and after perceiving that there was nobody
within a mile of them, she spoke as follows to Barnaby, in a half whisper, lest
any one should overhear her.

" Guid sauf us to the day, Barny man ! What think ye o' our laird?"

" Very muckle. I think iiiin a decent worthy lad."

" Decent ! Shame fa' his decency ! — I watna what will be countit K«decent
soon ! Sae ye haena heard o' his shamcfu' connexion wi' the bit prodigal,
dinnagood lassie, that was here?"

" Never."

THE WOOL-GATHERER. 105

'• It's a' ower true, though ; but say nae a word about it. My billy Rob
was obliged to chase her out o' the country for it ; an' a burnin shame an'
a disgrace it was to the laird to take up wi' the likes 0' her. — Deil a bit o' her
has the pith o' a pipe-stapple ! — Fich, fy ! Away wi' your spindle-shankit
babyclouts — they're no the gear."

" As ye say, Meg. I like nane 0' the women that stand port triJUs"

" Stand on trifles ! — Ha ! ha ! that's real good ! that's devilish clever for a
— young man ! Ha ! ha ! — Tut! that water's wectin a' my claes. — Wad ye
hae made sic a choice, Barny } "

" D'ye think that I'm blind ? or that I dinna ken what's what ? — Na, na,
Meg ! let me alane ; I'm no sae young a cat but I ken a mouse by a
feather."

" If a' our young men had the sense 0' you, Barny, some o' them might get
a pock an' a wheen rustit nails to jingle in't; they might get something better
than a bit painted doll, wi' a waist like a thread-paper, an' hae nought ado
foreby but to draw in the chair an' sit down: but they II rin after a wheen
clay-cakes baken i' the sun, an' leave the good substantial ait-meal bannocks
to stand till they moul, or be pouched by them that draff an' bran wad better
hae mensed ! — Tut ! I'm ower deep into the stream again, without ever
thinkin' o't."

" That's a' ower true that ye hae been sayin', Meg — ower true, indeed ! But
as to your news about the laird and Jane, I dinna believe a word o't."

" Oh ! it's maybe no true, ye ken ! It's very likely a lee ! There's nae-
thing mair likely, than that a' their correspondence was as pure as the morn-
ing snaw. For a laird, ye ken, worth three thousand pund o' yearly rental to
frequent the house o' a bit lassie for an hour ilka day, an' maybe ilka night
toowha kens; ye ken it's a' fair ! there's nought mair likely than that they're
very innocent ! An' sic a ane too as she is ! little better, I trow, than she
should be, gin a' war kend. To be sure she has a son, that may arguy some-
thing for her decency. But after a', I dinna blame her, for I ken by
mysel "

" Haud your tongue now, Meg, my bonny quean; for I ken ye are gaun to
lee on yoursel, an' speak nonsense into the bargain."

"Ah! Barny! but ye are a queer ane!" (then in a whisper.) "I say
— Barny — What do ye think o' the bit farm o' Hesperslack.? How wad ye
like to be tenant there yoursel, an' hae servants o' your ain } "

" I haena thought about that yet ; but yonder's my master keekin ower the
knowe; he'll be thinkin I'm stayin unco lang frae my sheep."

" Ah ! is my billy Rob yonder .'' — No a ixjord ye ken now, Barny. No a
cheip aboon your breath about yon."

Sad and heavy were Barnaby's reflections that day as he herded his sheep
all alone. " And this is the girl that I have taken and recommended so
warmly to my parents ! 1 do not believe the hateful slander; but I will go
and inform them of all. It is proper they should know all that I know, and
then let them judge for themselves. Poor luckless Jeany ! I fear she is a
ruined creature, be she as innocent and harmless as she will ! "

Barnaby was resolved to go, but day past on after day, and still he had not
the heart to go and tell his parents, although every whisper that he heard
tended rather to strengthen suspicion than dispel it.

On the very day that we left Lindsey in such distress for the loss of his
amiable Wool-gatherer, ]5arnaby and he met by the side of the stream at the foot
of the Todburn-Hope. They were both alike anxious to speak to one another,
but neither of them' had the courage to begin, although both were burning to
talk on the same theme. Lindsey fished away, swimming the fly across the
ripple as dexterously and provokingly as he was able. Barnaby stood and
looked on in silence ; at length a ycllowfin rose. " Aigh, that was a great
chap ! I wish your honour had hookit that ane.''

"It was better for him that I did not. Do you ever fish any?"

" O yes. I gump them whiles."

to6 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

" Gump them ? pray what mode of fisliing is that ? '
"I giiddle them in ancatli the stanes an' the braes hke."

" 1 do not exactly understand the terms nor the process. Pray will you be
so jjood," continued he, holdin>( out the fishing-rod to Barnaby, " as give me a
specimen how you j^itiitp the fish ? "

" Od bless you, sir, I can do naething wi' that goad; but if ye'U gang \v\' me
a wee piece up the Todburn-IIope, or up to the Rowantrce Linn, 111 let ye see
gumping to perfection."

On being assured that it was not above half a mile to either of the places,
the laird accompanied Barnaby without hesitation, to witness this pastoral
way of fishing. By the way their converse became very interesting to both
parties, but we cannot interrupt the description of such a favourite rural sport
just now. Let it suffice that their discourse was all concerning a fair unfor-
tunate, of whom the reader has heard a good deal already, and of whon\ he
shall hear more in due time.

They crossed over a sloping ground, at the bottom of a green steep hill, and
soon came into the Todljurn- Mope. It was a narrow level valley between
two high hills, and terminated in the haunted linn, above the sheep-house
formerly mentioned. Down this narrow vale the Tod Burn ran with a
thousand beautilul serpentine windings, and at every one of these turns there
were one or two clear deep pools, overhung by little green banks. Into the
first of these pools Barnaby got with his staff, plunging and poaching to make
all the fish take into close cover; then he threw olT his ragged coat, tucked up
the sleeves of his shirt to the shoulders, tying them together behind, and into
the pool he got again, knees and elbows, putting his arms in below the green
banks, into the closest and most secret recesses of the trouts. There was no
eluding him ; he threw them out one after another, sometimes hitting the as-
tonished laird on the face, or any other part of the body without ceremony, for
his head being down sometimes close with the water, and sometimes below it,
he did not see where he fiung them. The trouts being a little startled at this
momentary change from one element to another, jumped about on the grass,
and cast so many acute somersets, that the laird had greater difficulty in get-
ting hold oi them the second time to put them into his basket than ISarnaby
had at first; and when the latter had changed the scene of plunder to a new
pool, Lindsey was commonly to be seen beside the old one, moving slowly
about on his hands and knees. " I think ye're pinched to catch them on the
dry grund, sir," said Barnaby to him."

" No, no," returned he with the utmost simplicity; "but I was looking lest
some of them had made their way among the long grass and eluded me; and
besides they are so very active and slippery that 1 seldom can keep the hold
of them that I get."

As they were going from one of these little pools to another, he said to our
shepherd, '* So this is what you ci\\\ ginnpiiii^f"

" Yes, sir, this is gumping, ox _s;uddliug^ ony o' them ye like to ca't."

" I do not tliink this is altogether a fair way of fishing."

" Now, I think it is muckle fairer than the tither way, sir. Your way is
tnunded on the lowest artifice and deceit, but I come as an avowed enemy,
and let them escape me if they can. I come into a family as a brave moun-
tain robber, or freebooter: but you come as a deceitful friend, promising to treat
the family with all good things, that you may poison them every one unawares.
A mountaineer's sports are never founded on cunning ; it's a' sheer and main
force wi' us."

Lindsey confessed that the shepherd's arginnents had some foundation in
nature and truth, but that they savoured of a period exempt from civilization
and the fine arts. " At all events," said he, " it is certainly the most downright
way of fishing that I ever beheld." In short, it was not long till the laird was
to be seen wading in the pools, and gutnpim^ as busily as the other ; and,
finally, he was sometimes so intent on his prey, that the water was running
over his back, so that when he raised himself up it poured out torrents from

THE WOOL-GATHERER. 107

his fine Holland shirt and stained cambrick ruffles. "Ye hae settled the
pletts o' your sark/' said Barnaby. Never did the family of Earl-hall behold
such a basket of trouts; and never had its proprietor such a day's sport at the
fishing, as he had at \X\q gianping ox guddlini^ the trouts among the links of
the Todburn-Hope.

Though the sport occupied their minds completely during the time they
were engaged in it, yet it was only a relaxation from concerns of a more serious
nature. From Barnaby's information the laird now saw exactly how the land
lay; and though he got no hint of the part that his mother had acted in it, yet
he rather suspected, for he well knew her sentiments regarding all the young
and beautiful part of her own sex. Barnaby gave him no notice that he hacl
ever seen the girl after her dismissal, or that he knew to what part of the world
she had retired; and before they parted he desired him to tell his master to
come down and speak with him that night.

Robin came as appointed ; Lindsey and his mother were sitting by them-
selves in the parlour when the servant announced him ; he was ordered to join
them, and as soon as he came in, Lindsey said, " Come away, Robin, I had a
piece of information within these few days of you, that has somewhat distressed
me, and I sent for you to make inquiry concerning it. What reasons had you
for turning away the poor stranger girl and child from her cot before the term
of your agreement expired .''"

Robin looked to the window, then to the lady, and then to the window again,
and finally looked down to the carpet, twirled his bonnet with both hands, and
remained silent.

Though a strong and speaking look of appeal was turned on the old lady by
Robin from time to time, yet she, hearing her son speak in that determined
manner, likewise sat still without opening her lips.

" Why don't you answer me .'"' continued Lindsey. " I ask you simply what
were your reasons for turning her away .-' you certainly must be able to state
them."

" Hem ! We war feared, sir— we war feared that she was a bad ane."

"You were afraid she was bad .-* Had you no other proofs of her badness
farther than your own fears ? "

" Indeed, sir, I never saw ony ill behaviour about the lassie. But ye ken
weel enough that ane wha had forsaken the paths o' virtue and honesty sae
early as it appears she had done, wi' sic an enchanting manner, an' weelfaured
face into the boot, was rather a dangerous neighbour for sae mony young
chiels."

" I think what Robin says is very true, and good sense," said the old lady.

" You certainly ought to have taken all these things into consideration before
you bargained with her at first, Robin," said Lindsey. " I suppose you cannot
argue that she is either grown younger or more beautiful since that period .'' I
rather suspect, Robin, that you have used this young woman extremely ill ;
and if you cannot give any better reasons for your severity towards her, I can
find out a method of forcing you to make an ample retribution."

" Indeed then, sir, sin' I maun tell the truth, I will tell the truth ; it was my
lady, your worthy mother there, that persuaded, and ofde7-fd me to turn her
away ; for we had observed how great a favourite she was with you, and
dreaded the consequences."

" It is then exactly as I suspected. You two have done me a great injury,
and one that will not be easily wiped away. I hope neither of you intended
it ; but I would gladly know wiiat trait in my character justified the conclusion
you made ; I think you might both have known my dispositions better than to
have so readily believed that I would injure youth and beauty, that had
already been unfortunate in the world ; that I would add to her state of wretched-
ness, by annihilating for ever that innate principle of virtue and modesty,
inherent in every young female's breast, which never man loved more, or
delighted more to view, exerting all its primitive and untainted sway. If you
had retlccted at all, you could not have believed me capable of it. You have

lo8 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

taken the readiest means in your power of injuring my character in the eyes
of the world. It must naturally be concluded, ihat there was a profligate and
criminal intercourse subsisting between us, which rendered such an act of
cruelty and injustice necessary. You have hurt my honour and my feelings,
and wronged a defenceless and amiable young woman. It is on my account
that she is thus innocently suffering, and I am determined, for my own satis-
faction, to see her righted, as far as redress is in my pow er, though equivalent
for an injured reputation there is none; but every vile insinuation on my
account shall be fairly dispelled. To make, therefore, an end of all reflec-
tions at once, 1 warn you, Robin, that if she is not found and restored to her
rights in less than a fortnight at farthest, you need not be surprised \i you are
some day removed on as short notice as you gave to her."

The old lady and farmer had an inward view of matters in a different light.
They perceived that the world would say he had brought her back to keep
her there as his mistress, but this elegant and inflated harangue they were
unable to answer. The young man's conscience was hurt, and they were no
casuists. The lady, it is tme, uttered some involuntary sounds as he was
speaking, but it was not easy to determine whether they were groans or hems
of approbation. If one might have judged from her countenance, they were
like the former, but the sounds themselves were certainly modulations of the
latter. She was dependent on her son ! Robin was studying a friendly reply,
by way of remonstrance, all the time of the speech ; but Robin was a widower,
had a good farm, a large family, and was a tenant at will, and the conclusion
of the said speech was a stumbling-block to Robin.

Pray, gentle reader, did you ever see a country maiden baking pease-meal
bannocks ? If you ever did you must have noted, that before she committed
them one by one to the gridiron, she always stood straight up, with her head
gracefully turned to one side, and moulded them with her two hands to an orb,
as nearly resembling the full moon as she could. You must likewise have re-
marked, that while engaged in this becoming part of her avocation, she was
never once looking at her work, but that while her head had that sly cast to
the one side, her eyes were ever and anon fixed on the window, noting what
was going on without, looking perhaps for her lad coming from the hill, or
whistling at the plough. If you have ever seen this, you can easily compre-
hend the attitude I mean — if you have never, it is a great pity !

Exactly in such a situation stood our honest farmer, Robin Muckerland,
plying his bonnet round with both hands in the same way — his head was like-
wise turned to one side, and his eyes immoveably fixed on the window — it was
the girl's position to a hair. Let any man take his pen and describe the two
attitudes, there is not the slightest shade of difference to be discerned — the
one knee of both is even slackened and bent gently forward, the other upright
and firm, by its own weight made steadfast and immoveable. Yet how it
comes I do not comprehend, and should like much to consult my friend,
David Wilkie, about it — it is plain that the attitudes are precisely the same,
yet the girl's is quite delightful — Robin's was perfectly pitiable. He had not
one word to say, but baked his bonnet, and stood thus.

"This is my determination," continued Lindsey, " and you may pay what
attention to it you please."

" Od, sir, I'm excessively vexed at what has happened, now when ye hae
letten me see it in its true light, an' I sal do what 1 can to find her again, an'
mak her what amends I am able. But, od ye see, nacbody kens where she's,
ye see. She may be gane into the wild Highlands, or away to that outlandish
country ayont the sea that they ca' Fife, an' how am I to get her 1 therefore,
if I canna an' dinna get her, 1 hope you will excuse me, especially as neither
the contrivance nor the act was mine."

" You and my honoured mother settle that betwixt you. I will not abate a
tittle of that I have said ; but to encourage your people in the search, or whom-
soever you are pleased to employ, I shall give ten guineas to the person who
finds her and restores her to her home."

THE WOOL-GATHERER. 109

" Aweel, son Lindsey," said the lady, moving her head like the pendulum of
a clock, " your mother meant you good, an' nae ill, in what she has done ; but
them that will to Coupar maun to Coupar. For the sake o' Robin and his
family, and no for the neighbourhood o' this whilly-wha of a young witch, I
shall gi'e the body that tinds her half as muckle."

" And I," said Robin, " shall gie the same, which will make up the reward
to twenty guineas, an' it is mair than I can well spare in sic hard times. I
never saw better come o' women's schemes, as I say whiles to my titty Meg."

The company parted, not on the most social terms ; and that night, before
Robin dismissed his servants to their beds, he said, " Lads, my master informs
me that I am to be plaguit wi' the law for putting away that lassie Jeany an'
her bit brat atween term days. I gie ye a' your liberty frae my wark until the
end o' neist week, if she be not found afore that time, to search for her ; and
whoever finds her, and brings her back to her cottage, shall have a reward o'
twenty guineas in his loof."

A long conversation then ensued on the best means of recovering her ; but
Barnaby did not wait on this, but hasted away to the stable loft, where his
chest stood at the head of his bed, dressed himself in his Sunday clothes, and
went without delay to the nearest stage where horses were let out for hire,
got an old brown hack equipped with a bridle, saddle, and pad, and off he
set directly for his father's cottage, where he arrived next morning by the time
the sun was up.

To describe all Barnaby's adventures that night would take a volume by
itself, for it was the very country of the ghosts and fairies that he traversed.
As his errand was, however, solely for good, he was afraid for none of them
meddling with him, save the devil and the water-kelpie ; yet so hardly was
he beset with these at times, that he had no other resource but to shut his
eyes close, and push on his horse. He by this resolute contrivance, got on
without interruption, but had been so near his infernal adversaries at times,
that twice or thrice he felt a glow on his face as if a breath of lukewarm air
had been breathed against it, and a smell exactly resembling (he did not like
to say brimstone, but a coal _fire just gaun out! — But it is truly wondeiful
what a man, with a conscience void of offence towards God and towards his
neighbour, will go through !

When the daylight began to spring up behind the hills of Glenrath, what a
blithe and grateful man was Barnaby ! " The bogles will be obliged to thraw
aff their black claes now," said he, " an' in less than half an hour the red an'
the green anes too. They'll hae to pit on their pollonians o' the pale colour
0' the fair daylight, that the e'e o' Christian maunna see them ; or gang away
an' sleep in their dew-cups an' foxter-leaves till the gloaming come again.
O, but the things o' this warld are weel contrived ! "

Safely did he reach the glen, at the head of which his father's cottage
stood, with its little kail-yard in the forkings of the burn ; there was no dog,
nor even little noisy pup, came out to give note of his approach, for his
father and canine friends had all gone out to the heights at a very early hour
to look after the sheep. The morning was calm and lovely ; but there was
no sound in the glen save the voice of his mother's grey cock, who was
perched on the kail-yard dyke, and crowing incessantly. The echoes were
answering him distinctly from the hills ; and as these aerial opponents were
the only ones he ever in his life had to contend with, he had learned to value
himself extremely on his courage, and was clapping his wings, and braving
them in a note louder and louder. Barnaby laughed at him, although he him-
self had been struggling with beings as unreal and visionary during the whole
night ; so ready we are to see the follies of others, yet all the while to over-
look our own !

The smoke was issuing from his mother's chimney in a tall blue spire that
reached to the middle of the hill : but when there, it spread itself into a soft
hazy cloud, and was resting on the side of the green brae in the most still and
moveless position. The rising sun kissed it with his beams, which gave it a

no THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

light wooly appearance, something like floating down ; it was so like a vision
that Barnaby durst scarcely look at it. " My mither s asteer," said he to him-
self, " I ken by her morning; reek ; she'll be hking up and down the house,
an' putting a' things to rights ; an' my billies they 11 be lying grumphing and
snoring i' their dens, an' Jeany will be lying waking, listening what's gaun on,
an' wee George will be snitiing and sleeping sound in her bosom. Now I
think, of a' things i' the warld a young mother an' her hrst son is the maist
interesting — if she has been unfortunate it is ten times mair sae — to see how
she'll sit an' look at him ! — (here Barnaby blew his nose.) — I was my mother's
first son ; if she'd been as bonny, an' as gentle, an' as feeble as Jeany, aih ! but
1 wad hae likit wecl!"

No one being aware of Barnaby's approach, he rode briskly up to the door
and rapped, causing at the same time his horse's feet make a terrible clamping
on the stones. His mother, who had been sweeping the house, came loinning
out with the heather besom in her hand. " Bless my heart, callant, is that
you? Sic a gliff as I hae gotten wiye! What's asteer wi'ye.-* or whar ir ye
gaun sae early i' the morning on that grand cut-luggit beas; ?"

" I'm turned a gentleman now, mother, that's a'; an' I thought I wad g'ye
a ca' as I gaed by for auld lang syne — Hope you're all well.'"'

" Deed we're a' no that ill. But, dear Barny, what ir ye after ? — Hae ye a'
your senses about ye.'"'

" I thank ye, 1 dinna miss ony o' them that I notice. I'm come for my
wife that I left w'ye — How is she.'"

" Your wife ! Weel I wat ye'U never get the like o' her, great muckle
hallanshaker-like guff."

" Maud your tongue now, mother, ye dinna ken wha I may get ; but I can
tell ye o' something that Tm to get. If 1 take hame that lassie Jeany safe to
her house, ony time these ten days, there's naebody kens where 1 hae her
hidden, an' I'm to get twenty guineas in my loof for doing o't."

"Ay, I tauld ye sae, my dear bairn."

" Ye ne\er tauld me sic a word, mother."

" I hae tauld ye oft, that ae good turn never misses to meet wi' another, an'
the king may come i' the beggar's way."

" Ramsay's Scots Proverbs tells me that."

" It will begin a bit stock to you, my man ; an' I sal say it o' her, gin I sude
never see her face again, she's the best creature, ae way an' a' ways, that
ever was about a poor body's house. Ah, God bless her ! — she's a dear
creature ! — Ye'll never hae cause to rue, my man, the pains ye hae ta'en
about her."

Jane was very happy at meeting with her romantic and kind-hearted
Barnaby again, who told her such a turn as affairs had taken in her favour,
and all that the laird had said to him about her, and the earnest inquiries he
had made ; and likewise how he had put Robin to his shifts. She had lived
very happy with these poor honest people, and had no mind to leave them ;
indeed, from the day that she entered their house she had not harboured a
thought of it ; but now, on account of her furniture, which was of considerable
value to her, and more particularly for the sake of Barnaby's reward, she
judged it best to accompany him. So after they had all taken a hearty
breakfast together at the same board, the old Shepherd returned thanks to
the Bestower of all good things, and then kissing jane, he lifted her on the
horse behind his son. " Now fare-ye-weel, Jeany my woman," said he ; "I
think you will be happy, for I'm sure you deserve to be sae. If ye continue
to mind the thing that's good, there is Ane wha will never forsake ye ; I come
surety for him. An' if ever adversity should again fa' to your lot, ye shall be
as welcome to our bit house as ever, and to your share o' ilka thing that's in
it ; an' if I should see you nae mair, I'll never bow my knee before my Maker
without remembering you. God bless you, my bonny woman ! Fareweel."

Jane dropped a tear on her benefactor's hand, for who could stand such
unaffected goodness ? Barnaby, who had folded his plaid and held little

THE WOOL-GATHERER. m

George on it before him, turned his face towards the other side of the horse,
and contracted it into a shape and contortion that is not often seen, every
feature being lengthened extremely the cross way ; but after blowing his nose
two or three times he recovered the use of his rod, with which he instantly
began a thrashing his nag, that he might get out of this flood of tenderness
and leave-taking. It is not easy to conceive a more happy man than he was
that day, he was so proud of his parent's kindness to Jane, and of the good
he thought he was doing to all parties, and, besides, the twenty guineas was
a fortune to him. He went on prating to George, who was quite delighted
with the ride on such a grand horse ; yet at times he grew thoughtful, and
testified his regret for the horse, lest he should be tired with carrying them
all. " Geoge vely solly fol poole holse, Balny 1 Geoge no like to be a
holse."

Many were the witch and fairy tales that Barnaby related that day to
amuse his fellow-travellers. He set down Jane and George safe at their
cottage before evening, and astonished Robin not a little, who was overjoyed
to see his lost gimmer and lamb (as he termed them) so soon. He paid
Barnaby his twenty guineas that night in excellent humour, making some
mention, meantime, of an old proverb, " They that hide ken where to seek,"
and without delay sent information to the mansion-house that Jane was
found, and safely arrived at her own house, a piece of news which created no
little stir at Earlhall.

The old lady had entertained strong hopes that Jane would not be found ;
or that she would refuse to return after the treatment she had met with, and
the suspicions that were raised against her ; in short, she wished her not to
return, and she hoped she would not, but now all her fond hopes were
extinguished, and she could see no honourable issue to the affair. It was like
to turn out a love intrigue ; a low and shameful business, her son might pre-
tend what he chose. She instantly lost all command of her temper, hurried
from one part of the house to another, quarrelled with every one of the maid
servants, and gave the two prettiest ones warning to leave their places.

Lindsey was likewise a little out of his reason that night, but his feelings
were of a very different kind. He loved all the human race ; he loved the
Httle birds that sang upon the trees almost to distraction. The deep blue of
the heavens never appeared so serene — the woods, the fields, and the fiowers
never so delightful ! such a new and exhilarating tone did the return of this
beautiful girl (child, I mean) give to his whole vital frame. " What a delight-
ful world this is ! " said he to himself ; " and how happy might all its
inhabitants live, if they would suffer themselves to do so !" He did not
traverse the different apartments of the house with the same hasty steps as his
mother did, but he took many rapid turns out to the back garden, and in again
to the parlour.

In the middle of one of these distant excursions his ears were assailed by
the discordant tones of anger and reproach — Proud and haughty contumely on
the one side, and the bitter complaints of wronged but humble dependence on
the other.

" This is some one of my mother's unreasonable imputations," said he to
himself; "it is hard that the fairer and more delicate part of my servants,
who are in fact 7ny servants, receiving meat and wages from me, and whom I
most wish to be happy and comfortable in their circumstances, should be thus
harassed and rendered miserable — I will interfere in spite of all obloquy." He
went in to the fore-kitchen, " What is the matter ? What is the meaning of
all this disturbance here .'"'

" Matter, son ! The matter is, that I will not be thus teased and wronged
by such a worthless scum of menials as your grieve has buckled on me. I am
determined to be rid of them for the present, and to have no more servants of
his hiring."

So saying, she bustled away by him, and out of the kitchen. Sally, one of
the maidens that wrought a-field, whose bright complexion and sly looks had

112 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

roused the lady's resentment, was standing sobbing in a corner. " What is
this you have done, Sally, thus to irritate my mother?"

" I hae done naething ava that's wrang, sir ; but she's never aflf my tap ;
an' I'm glad I'm now free frae her. Had she tauld me my fault, an' turned
me away, I wad never hae regrettit ; but she's ca'd me sic names afore a'
these witnesses, that I'll never get mair service i' the country. I see nae
right ony body has to guide poor servants this gate."

" Nor I either, Sally ; but say no more about it ; I know you to be a very
faithful and conscientious servant, for I have often inquired ; remain in your
place, and do not go away — remember I order it— give no offence to my
mother that you can avoid — be a good girl, as you have heretofore been, and
here is a guinea to buy you a gown at next fair."

" Oh, Ciod bless him i'or a kind good soul ! " said Sally, as he went out, and
the benediction was echoed from every corner of the kitchen.

He rambled more than half-way up the river side to Todburn ; but it was
too late to call and see l/u dear child that night, so he returned — ^joined his
mother at supper ; was more than usually gay and talkative, and at last pro-
posed to invite this fair rambler down to Earlhall to breakfast with them
next morning. The lady was almost paralyzed by this proposal, and groaned
in spirit.

" Certainly, son ! certainly ! your house is your ain ; invite ony body to it
you like ; nane has a better right ! a man may keep ony company he
chooses. Ye'U hae nae objections, I fancy, that I keep out o' the party ? "

" Very great objections, mother ; I wish to see this girl, and learn her his-
tory ; if I call privately, you will be offended ; is it not better to do this
before witnesses .'' And I am likewise desirous that you should see her, and
be satisfied that she is at all events worthy of being protected from injury.
Let us make a rustic party of it, for a little variety — we will invite Robin and
his sister Miss Margaret, and any other of that class you choose."

" O certainly ! invite them ilk ane, son — invite a' the riff-raff i' the parish ;
your mother has naething to say."

He was stung with this perversity, as well as with his love for the child on
the other hand — he did invite them, and the invitation was accepted. Down
came Robin Muckerland, tenant of the Todburn, dressed in his blue and gray
thread-about coat, with metal buttons, broader than a Queen Anne's half-
crown, dark corduroy breeches, and drab-coloured leggums (the best things,
by the bye, that ever came in fashion) : and down came haverel Meg, his
sister, alias Miss Peggy, for that day, with her cork-heeled shoon, and long-
waisted gown, covered with broad stripes, like the hangings of an ancient
bed. She had, moreover, a silken bonnet on her head for laying aside in the
lobby, under that a smart cap, and under that, again, an abundance of black
curly hair, slightly grizzled, and rendered more outrageously bushy that morn-
ing by the effects of paper-curls over night. Meg was never seen dressed in
such style before, and I wish from my heart that any assembly of our belles
had seen her. She viewed the business as a kind of show of cattle before the
laird, in the same way as the young ladies long ago were brought in before
King Ahasuerus ; and she was determined to bear down Jane to the dust, and
carry all before her. The very air and swagger with which she walked was
quite delightful, while her blue ribbon-belt, half a foot broad, and proportion-
ally long, having been left intentionally loose, was streaming behind her, like
the pennon of a ship. "It's rather odd, billy Rob," said she, "that we
should thus be invited alang wi' our ain cottar — However the laird's ha'
levels a' — if she be fit company for him, she maunna be less for us — fock maun
bow to the bush that they seek beild frae."

" E'en sae, Meg ; but let us see you behave yoursel like a woman the day,
an' no get out wi' ony o' your volleys o' nonsense."

" Deed, Rob, I'll just speak as I think ; there sail naething gyzen i' my
thrapple that my noddle pits there. I like nane o' your kind o' fock that dare
do naething but chim chim at the same thing ower again, like the gouk

THE WOOL-GATHERER. 113

in a June day. Meg maun hae out her sav, if it sude burst Powbeit on her
head."

As they came down by the washing-f^reen, Jane joined them, dressed in a
plain brown frock, and leading little George, who was equipt like an earl's
son ; and a prettier boy never paddled at a mother's side.

The old lady was indisposed that day, ;ind unable to come down to break-
fast ; and it was not till after the tliird visit from her son, who found he was
like to be awkwardly situated with his party, that she was prevailed on to
appear. Robin entered first, and made his obeisance. Meg came in with a
skip and a courtesy, very like that of the water-owzel when she is sitting on a
stone in the middle of the stream. Poor Jane appeared last, leading her boy ;
her air was modest and diffident, yet it had nothing of that awkward timidity,
inseparable from low life, and a consciousness that one has no right to be
there. The lady returned a slight nod to her courtesy, for she had nearly
dropt down when she first cast her eyes upon her beauty, and elegance of
form and manner. It was the last hope that she had remaining, that this girl
would be a vulgar creature, and have no pretensions to that kind of beauty
admired in the higher circles ; now that last hope was blasted. But that
which astonished every one most was the brilliancy of her eyes, which all her
misfortunes had nothing dimmed ; their humid lustre was such, that it was
impossible for any other eye to meet their glances without withdrawing
abashed. The laird set a seat for her, and spoke to her as easily as he could,
but of that he was no great master ; he then lifted little George, kissed him,
and, setting him on his knee, fell a talking to him. " And where have you
been so long away from me, my dear little fellow .'' Tell me where you have
been all this while."

" Fal away, at auld Geoldie's little Davie's falel, ye ken ; him 'at has 'e fine
bonny 'halp wi' a stipe down hele, and anolel down hcle. — Little Davie vely
good till Geoge, an vely queel callant."

Every one laughed aloud at George's description of the whelp, and his
companion little Davie, save Jane, who was afraid he would discover where
their retreat had been, rather prematurely. Breakfast was served ; the old
lady forced a complaisance and chatted to Meg, who answered her just with
what chanced to come uppermost, never once to the point or subject on
which she was previously talking ; for all the time the good old dowager was
addressing her, she was busied in adjusting some part of her dress — looking
at the shape of her stays— casting a glance at the laird, and occasionally at
Jane — then adjusting a voluptuous curl that half-hid her grey eye. She like-
wise occasionally uttered a vacant hem ! when the lady paused ; and, as soon
as she ceased, began some observation of her own. Rooin was quite in the
fidgets. " Dear Meg, woman, that's no what her ladyship was speaking about
That's no to the purpose ava."

" Speak ye to the purpose then, Rob. Ye think naebody can speak but
yoursel, hummin an' hawin. Let us hear how weel ye'll speak to the purpose.
— Whisht, sirs ! baud a' your tongues ; my billy Rob's gaun to mak a
speech."

" Humph !" quoth Robin, and gave his head a cast round.

" Humph ! " returned Meg, " what kind of a speech is that .^ Is that to the
purpose.'' If that be to the purpose, a sow could hae made that speech as
weel as you, and better. The truth is, mem, that our Rob s aye waiitin to be
on his hich horse afore grit folk ; now I says till him, Rob, says I, for you to
fa' to afore your betters, and be trying to speak that vile nicky-nacky language
they ca' English, instead o' being on your hich horse then, ye arc just like a
heron walkin on stilts, an' that's but a daft-like beast. Ye sudc mind, says I,
— Rob, man, says I, that her ladyship's ane o' our ain kind o' fock, an' was
bred at the same herk an' manger wi' oursels ; an' although ^hc has lightit on
a good tethering, ye're no to tliiiik that she's to gi'e hcrscl airs, an' forget the
good auld haemilt blude that rins in her veins. '

The lady's cheek was burning with indignation, for, of all topics, Meg was
1. S

fi4 The ETfkicK shepherd's tales.

fallen on the most unlucky ; nothing- hurt her foelin:j;s half so much as hints
of her low extraction. Lindsey, though %exed, could not repress a laugh at
the proud offence on the one side, and the untameable vulj^arity on the other.
Meg discerned nothing wrong, and, if she had, would not have regarded it.
She went on. " Ah, Meg, woman ! quo' he, yc ken little thing about it, quo'
he ; when the sole of a shoe's turned uppermost, it maks a\e but an unbow-
some overleather ; if ye corn an auld glide aver weel, she'll soon turn about
her heels, and fling i' your f;ice."

Robin's whole visage changed ; his eyes were set on Meg, but his brows
were screwed down, and his cheeks pursed up in such a manner, that those
were scarcely discernible ; his mouth had meanwhile assumed the form and
likeness of one of the long S's on the belly of a fiddle. Meg still went on.
"Dear Rob, says 1, man, says 1, that disna apply to her ladyship ava, for
every thing that she does, an' everything that she says, shows her to be a
douse hamely body ; the very way that she rins bizzin through the house, an'
fliting on the servants, proves that she maks nae pretensions to high
gentility."

Lindsey, who now dreaded some explosion of rage subversive of all decorum,
began and rallied Meg, commended her flow of spirits and fresh looks, and
said she was very much of a lady herself.

" I wat, laird," said she, " I think aye if a body behaves wi' ease, an' without
ony stiffness an' precision, that body never behaves ill ; but, to be sure, you
grand fock can say an' do a hantle o' things that winna be ta'en aff our hands.
For my part, when the great fike rase about you an' Jeany there, I says —
says I "

This was a threatening preface. Lindsey durst not stand the sequel. " I
beg your pardon for the present, Miss Peggy," said he ; "we shall attend to
your observations on this topic after we have prepared the way for it some-
what. I was, and still am convinced, that this young woman received very
harsh and unmerited treatment from our two families. I am desirous of
making her some reparation, and to patronise her, as well as this boy, if I
find her in any degree deserving of it. This protection shall, moreover, be
extended to her in a manner that neither suspicion nor blame shall attach to
it ; and, as we are all implicated in the wrong, I have selected you as judges
in this matter. — It is impossible," continued he, addressing himself to Jane,
"to be in your company half an hour, and not discern that your education
has been much above the sphere of life which you now occupy ; but I trust
you will find us all disposed to regard you with the eye of friendship, if you
will be so good as relate to us the incidents of your life which have contributed
to your coming among us."

" The events of my life, sir," said she, " have been, like the patriarch's days,
few and evil, and my intention was, never to have divulged them in this
district — not on my own account, but for the sake of their names that are
connected with my history, and are now no more. Nevertheless, since you
have taken such an interest in my fortunes, it would both be ungrateful and
imprudent to decline giving you that satisfaction. Excuse me for the present
in withholding my family name, and I will relate to you the incidents of my
short life in a very few words.

" My father was an eminent merchant. Whether ever he was a rich one or
not I cannot tell, but he certainly was looked upon as such, for his credit and
dealings were very extensive. My mother died twelve years ago, leaving my
father with no more children than another daughter and myself I received
my education in Edinburgh along with my sister, who was two years older
than I. She began to manage my father's household affairs at thirteen years
of age, and 1 went to reside with an aunt in East-Lothian, who had been
married to a farmer, but was now a widow, and occupied a fami herself

" Whether it originated in his not finding any amusement at home, or in
consciousness of his affairs getting into confusion, 1 know not, but our father
about thib time fell by degrees from attending to his business in a great

THE WOOL-GATHERER. 115

measufe, and sunk into despondency. My sister's letters to me were full of
regret ; my aunt being in a declining state of health I could not leave her for
some months. At last she died, leaving me a legacy of five hundred pounds,
when I hastened home, and did all in my power to assist my sister in com-
forting our father, but he did not long survive, and dying insolvent, we not
only lost our protector, but had nothing to depend on save my little legacy
and our own industry and exertions. \\'e retired to a small lodging ; none of
our friends thought proper to follow us to our retreat ; and now, bereaved as
we were of our natural protector, we could not help perceiving that we were a
friendless and helpless pair. My sister never recovered her spirits ; a certain
dejection and absence of mind from this time forth began to prey upon her,
and it was with real sorrow and concern that 1 perceived it daily gaining
ground, and becoming more and more strongly marked. I tried always to
console her as much as I could for our loss, and often, to cheer her, assumed
a gaiety that was foreign to my heart ; but we being quite solitary, her
melancholy always returned upon her with double weight. About this time I
first saw a young officer with my sister, who introduced him carelessly to me
as the captain. She went out with him, and when she returned I asked who
he was. "Bless me, Jane," said she, "do you not know the Captain?" I
was angry at the flippancy of her manner but she gave me no further
satisfaction."

At the mention of this officer Lindsey grew restless and impatient, changing
his position on the seat every moment.

" Things went on in this manner," continued Jane, " for some time longer,
and still my sister grew more heartless and dejected. Her colour grew pale,
and her eyes heavy, and I could not help feeling seriously alarmed on her
account.

" For nine or ten days sh^ went out by herself for an hour or so every day,
without informing me where she had been. But one morning, when I arose
my sister was gone. I waited until noon before I took any breakfast ; but
nothing of my sister appearing, I became distracted with dreadful apprehen-
sions. I went about to every place where I thought there was the least chance
of hearing any news of her, yet durst I not ask for her openly at any one for
fear of the answer I might receive ; for, on considering the late dejected state
of her mind, I expected nothing else than to hear that she had put an end to
her existence. My search was fruitless ; night came, and still no word of my
sister; I passed it without sleep; but, alas ! the next night, and many others,
came and passed over without bringing a trace of her steps, or throwing a
gleam of light on her fate. I was now obliged to set on foot a strict and
extensive search, and even to have her advertised ; yet still all my exertions
proved of no avail.

" During this long and dreadful pause of uncertainty I thought there could
not be conceived a human being more thoroughly wretched than I was.
Only seventeen years of age ; the last of all my father's house ; left in a
lodging by myself ; all my neighbours utter strangers to me, and not a friend
on earth to whom I could unbosom my griefs ; wretched I was, and deemed
it impossible to be more so ; but I had over-rated my griefs, and was punished
for my despondency.

" When some months had passed away, one spring morning, I remember
it well ! after a gentle rap at the door, the maid entered, and said, a man
wanted to see me. ' A man !' said I ; ' What man wishes to speak to me ?'

" ' I don't know, mem, he is like a countryman.'

" He was shown in ; a pale man, of a dark complexion, and diminutive size.
I was certain I had never seen him before, for his features were singularly
marked. He asked my name, and seemed at a loss to deliver his message,
and there was something in his air and manner that greatly alarmed me.
' So you said your name is so so 1 ' said he again.

" ' I did ; pray, tell me what is your business with me ?'

*' ' There is a lady at our house, who 1 suppose wishes to speak with ) ou.

ii6 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

'What lady wishes to see me? Where is your house?'

"He mmicd some place on the London road towards Benvick.

" ' What lady can possibly be there,' said 1, ' that knows any thing of me?'

" Me looked at me again — ' Pray, mem, have you a sister, or had you ever
any that you know of?'

" This query paral\ zed me. I sunk down on the sofa ; but as soon as I
could speak, I asked how long the lady had been with him ?

" ' Only since Friday evening last,' said he. ' .She was taken ill at the inn
on her way to Edinburgh, from whence she was conveyed to my house, for
the sake of better and more quiet accommodation ; but she has been very ill,
— very ill, indeed. There is now hope that she will >ecover, but she is still
very ill. I hope you are the lady she named when all was given over; at all
events you must go and see.'

" Scarcely knowing what I did, I desired the man to call a post-chaise.
We reached the place before even. I entered her apartment, breathless and
impatient; but how shall I relate to you the state in which 1 found her!
My heart bleeds to this day, when remembrance presents me with the woful
spectacle ! She was lying speechless, unable to move a hand or lift an eye,
and posting on, with rapid advances, to eternity, having some days before
given birth to this dear child on my knee."

At this moment the eyes of all the circle were fixed on Jane, expressing
strongly a mixture of love, pity, and admiration. Lindsey could contain him-
self no longer. He started to his feet — stretched his arms toward her, and,
after gasping a little for breath, — " VVh— wh — what ! " said he, sighing, " are
you not then the motlicr of little George?"

" A poor substitute only for a better, sir ; but the only parent he has ever
known, or is likely to know."

" And you have voluntarily suffered all these privations, trouble, and shame,
for the sake of a poor little orphan, who, it seems, is no nearer akin to you
than a nephew? If ever the virtuous principles and qualities of a female
mind deserved admiration — But proceed. I am much to blame for interrupt-
ing you."

" I never for another moment departed from my sister's bed-side until she
breathed her last, which she did in about thirty hours after my arrival.
During that time, there was only once that she seemed to recollect or take
the slightest notice of me, which was a little before her final exit ; but then
she gave me such a look ! — .So full of kindness and sorrow, that language
could not have expressed her feelings half so forcibly. It was a farewell look,
which is engraven on the tablets of my mind, never to be obliterated while
that holds intercourse with humanity.

" The shock which my feelings received by the death of the only friend of my
heart, with the mysterious circumstances which accompanied it,deprived me for
some time of the powers of recollection. My dreams by night, and my reflec-
tions during the day, were all so much blent and intermingled, and so wholly of
the same tendency, that they became all as a dream together ; so that I could
not, on a retrospect, discover in the least, nor ever can to this day, what part
of my impressions were real, or what were mere phantasy, so strongly were
the etchings of fancy impressed on my distempered mind. If the man I
mentioned before, who owned the house, had not looked after the necessary
preparations for the funeral, I know not how or when it would have been set
about by any orders of mine. They soon enticed me away from the body,
which they sutTered me to visit but seldom, and, it seems, I was perfectly
passive. That such a thing as my sister's funeral was approaching, occurred
but rarely to my mind, and then, it in a manner surprised me as a piece of
unexpected intelligence was wont to do, and it as suddenly slipped away,
leaving my imagination again to wander in a maze of inextricable confusion.

" The first thing that brought me to myself was a long fit of incessant
weeping, in which I shed aljundance of tears. I then manifested an ardent
desire to see the child, which I recollect perfectly woU. I considered him as

THE WOOL-GATHERER. 117

the only remembrance left to me of a respectable and well-descended family,
and of the dearest friend ever I remembered upon earth. When 1 first saw
him, he was lying on an old woman's knee ; and when I stooped o look at
him, he, with a start of his whole frame, fixed his young unstable eyes on me,
and stretched out his little spread hands toward me, in which j osition he
remained steadily for a considerable time. This was so marked and un-
common, that all the standers-by took notice of it ; and the woman who heJc
him said, ' See ! saw ye ever the like o' that ? I never saw the lik o' that a-
my life ! It is surely impossible he can ken ye .'*'

" It was, without doubt, an involuntary motion of the babe, but I could
not help viewing it as a movement eftected by the Great Spirit o universal
nature. I thought I saw the child beseeching me to protect his helpless inno-
cence, and not to abandon him to an injurious world, in which he had not
another friend remaining, until he could think and act for himself. I adopted
him that moment in my heart as my son — I took him into my arms as a part
of myself ! — -That simple motion of my dear child fixed my resolu ion with
respect to him at once, and that resolution never has been altered nor injured
in the smallest part.

" I hired a nurse for him ; and, it being term time, gave up my house, an(
sold all my furniture, save the little that I have still, and retired to a cottage
at Slateford, not far from Edinburgh. Here I lived frugally with the nurse
and child ; and became so fond of him, that no previous period of my life,
from the days of childhood, was ever so happy ; indeed, my happiness was
centred solely in him, and if he was well, all other earthly concerns vanished.
I found, however, that after paying the rent of the house, the expenses of
the two funerals, and the nurse's wages, that my little stock was reduced
nearly one-third ; and fearing that it would in a little while be wholly ex-
hausted, I thought the sooner I reconciled myself to hardships the better ; so
leaving the remainder of my money in the bank as a fund in case of sickness
or great necessity, I came and took this small cottage and garden Irom your
farmer. I had no ambition but that of bringing up the child, and educating
him, independent of charitable assistance ! and I cannot describe to you how
happy I felt at the prospect, that the interest of my remaining property, with
the small earnings of my own industry, was likely to prove more than an
equivalent to my yearly expenses. I have from the very first acknowledged
little George as my own son. I longed for a retirement, where I should never
be recognised by any former acquaintance. In such a place I thought my
story might gain credit ; nor could I think in any degree to stain the name
of my dear departed sister by any surmises or reflections that might in future
attach to it by telling the story as it was. How I should have felt had he
really been my son I cannot judge ; but instead of feeling any degradation at
being supposed his mother, so wholly is my existence bound up in him, that I
could not bear the contrary to be supposed.

" Who his father is, remains a profound, and, to me, unaccountable mys-
tery. I never had the slightest suspicion of the rectitude of her behaviour,
and cannot understand to this day how she could possibly carry on an amour
without suftering me to perceive any signs of it. She had spoke but little to
the people with whom I found her ; but their impressions were, that she was
not married, and I durst not inquire farther ; for, rather than have discovered
his father to be unworthy, I chose to remain in utter ignorance concerning it,
and I could not think favourably of one who had deserted her in such circum-
stances. There was no man whom I had ever seen that I could in the least
suspect, if it was not the young officer that I formerly mentioned, and he was
the least likely to be guilty of such an act of any man I ever saw."

Here Lindsey again sprang to his feet. " Good God.?" said he, "there is
something occurs to my mind — the most extraordinary circumstance — if it be
really so. You wished to be excused from giving your surnnmc, but there is
a strange coincidence in your concerns with my own, which lenders it abso-
lutely necessary that I should be informed of this,"

Ii8 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

Jane hesitated, and said she could not think of divulging that so as to make
it public, but that she would trust his honour, and tell it him in his ear. She
then whispered the name M' y.

" What !"said he aloud, forgetting the injunction of secrecy, "of the late
firm M' y and Reynolds?"

" The same, sir,"

The positions into which he now threw himself, and the extravagant exclama-
tions that he uttered cannot here be all described. The other three personages
in the room all supposed that he was gone out of his reason. After repeating,
till quite out of breath, " It is she ! it is she ! it is the same ! it is the same !"
and, pressing both her hands in his, he exclaimed, "Eternal Providence!
how wonderful are thy ways, and how visible is thy superintendence of
human affairs, even in the common vicissitudes of life .'' but never was it so
visible as in this ! My dear child," continued he, taking little George in his
arms, who looked at him with suspicion and wonder, " by how many fatal and
untoward events, all seemingly casual, art thou at last, without the aid of
human interference, thrown into the arms of thy natural guardian ! and how
firmly was my heart knit to thee from the very first moment I saw thee ! But
thou art my own son, and shalt no more leave me ; nor shall your beautiful
guardian either, if she will accept of a heart that her virtues have captivated.
This house shall henceforth be a home to you both, and all my friends shall
be friends to you, for you are my own."

Here the old lady sprang forward, and laying hold of her son by the
shoulder, endeavoured to pull him away. " Consider what you are saying,
Lindsey, and what you are bringing on yourself, and your name, and your
family. You are raving mad — that child can no more be yours than it is
mine. Will you explain yourself, or are we to believe that you have indeed
lost your reason .? I say, where is the consistency in supposing that child can
be yours ? "

" It is impossible," said Robin.

" I say it's nae sic a thing as unpossible, Rob," quoth Meg. " Haud your
tongue, ye ken naething about it — it's just as possible that it may be his as
another's — I sal warrant whaever be aught it, it's no corned there by sym-
pathy ! Od, if they war to come by sympathy"

Here Meg was interrupted by Lindsey, who waved his hand for silence, —
a circumstance that has sorely grieved the relater of this tale,— for of all things
he would have liked to have had Meg's ideas, at full length, of children being
produced by sympathy.

" I beg your pardon," said Lindsey, " I must have appeared extravagant in
my rapturous enthusiasm, having forgot but that you knew all the circum-
stances as well as myself. The whole matter is, however, very soon and very
easily explained."

He then left the room, and all the company gazing upon one another.
Jane scarcely blushed on receiving the vehement proffer from Lindsey, for
his rhapsody had thrown her into a pleasing and tender delirium of amaze-
ment, which kept every other feeling in suspense.

In a few seconds he returned, bringing an open letter in his hand. — " Here
is the last letter," said he, " ever I received from my brave and only brother ;
a short extract from which will serve fully to clear up the whole of this very
curious business."

He then read as follows : " Thus you see, that for the last fortnight the
hardships and perils we have encountered have been many and grievous ;
but TO-MORROW will be decisive one way or another. I have a strong pre-
possession that I will not survive the battle ; yea so deeply is the idea
impressed on my mind, that with me it amounts to an absolute certainty;
therefore I must confide a secret with you whicli none in the world know, or
in the least think of, save another and myself I was privately married
before I left Scotland, to a young lady, lovely in her person, and amiable in
her manners, but without any fortune. We resolved, for reasons that must

THE WOOL-GATHERER. 119

be obvious to you, to keep our marriage secret, until I entered to the full pos-
session of my estate, and if possible till my return ; but now (don't laugh at
me, my dear brother), being convinced that I shall never return, 1 entreat
you, as a last request, to find her out and afford her protection. It is proba-
ble, that by this time she may stand in need of it. Her name is Amelia

M' y, daughter to the late merchant of that name of the firm of

\r y and Reynolds. She left her home with me in private, at y

earnest request, though weeping with anguish at leaving a younger sister, a
little angel of mercy, whom, like the other, you will find every way worthy of
your friendship and protection. The last letter that 1 had from her was dated
from London, the 7th of April, on which day she embarked in the packet for
Leith, on her way to join her sister, in whose house, near Bristo-Port, you
will probably find her. Farewell, dear brother. Comfort our mother ; and
O, for my sake, cherish and support my dear wife ! We have an awful pros-
pect before us, but we are a handful of brave determined friends, resolved to
conquer or die together."

The old lady now snatched little George up in her arms, pressed him to her
bosom, and shed abundance of tears over him. — "He is indeed my grandson!
he is ! he is !" cried she. " My own dear George's son, and he shall hence-
forth be cherished as my own."

" And he shall be mine, too, mother," added Lindsey ; " and heir of all the
land which so rightly belongs to him. And she, who has so disinterestedly
adopted and brought up the heir of Earlhall, shall still be his mother, if she
will accept of a heart that renders her virtues every homage, and beats in
unison with her own to every tone of pity and benevolence."

Jane now blushed deeply, for the generous proposal was just made while
the tears of joy were yet trickling over her cheeks on account of the pleasing
intelligence she had received of the honour of her regretted sister, and the
rank of her child. — She could not answer a word — she looked stedfastly at
the carpet, through tears, as if e.\amining how it was wrought — then at a little
pearl ring she wore on her finger, and finally fell to adjusting some of little
George's clothes. They were all silent — It was a quaker meeting, and might
have continued so much longer, had not the spirit fortunately moved
Meg.

" By my certy, laird ! but ye hae made her a good offer ! an' yet she'll pre-
tend to tarrow at taking't ! But ye're sure o' her, tak my word for it. — Ye
dinna ken women. Bless ye ! the young hizzies mak aye the greatest fike
about things that they wish maist to hae. I ken by myscl ; — when Andrew
Pistolfoot used to come stamplin in to court me i' the dark, I wad hae cried
(whispering), ' Get away wi' ye ! ye bowled-like shurf ! — whar are ye comin
pechin an' fuffin to me ? ' Bless your heart ! gin Andrew had run away when
I bade him, I wad hae run after him, an' grippit him by the coat-tails, an'
brought him back. Little wist I this morning, an' little wist mae than I, that
things war to turn out this way, an' that Jeany was to be our young lady !
She was little like it that night she gaed away greetin wi' the callant on her
back ! Dear Rob, man, quo' 1 to my billy, what had you and my lady to do
wi' them .'' Because her day and yours are owcr, do ye think they'll no be
courting as lang as the world stands ; an' the less that's said about it the better
— I said sae ! "

" And you said truly, Meg," rejoined Lindsey. " Now pray. Miss Jane, tell
me what you think of my proposal .'' "

"Indeed, sir," answered she, "you overpower me. I am every way un-
worthy of the honour you propose for my acceptance ; but as I cannot part
with my dear little George, with your leave I will stay with my lady and take
care of hini."

" Well, I consent that you shall stay with my mother as her companion.
A longer acquaintance will confirm that affection, which a concurrence of
events has tended so strongly to excite."

It was not many months until this amiable pair were united in the bonds of

I20 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

matrimony, and they are still living, esteemed of all their acquaintances.
Barnaby is the laird's own shepherd, and overseer of all his rural affairs, and
he does not fail at times to remind his yciitlc miblress of his dream about the
ea<:le and the corbie.

A TAI,F, OF THE

BATTLE OF PENTLAND.

WoDROW mentions the following story, but in a manner so confused and
indetinite, that it is impossible to comprehend either the connexion of the
incidents with one another, or what inference he wishes to draw from them.
The facts seem to have been these. Mr. John Haliday having been in hiding
on the hills, after the battle of Pentland, became impatient to hear news con-
cerning the suffering of his brethren who had been in arms, and in particular
if there were any troops scouring the district in which he had found shelter.
Accordingly, he left his hiding-place in the evening, and travelled towards the
valley until about midnight ; when, coming to the house of (Gabriel John-
stone, and perceiving a light, he determined on entering, as he knew him to
be a devout man, and one much concerned about the suficrings of the church
of Scotland.

Mr. Haliday, however, approached the house witn great caution, for he
rather wondered why there should be a light there at midnight, while at the
same time he neither heard psalms singing nor the accents of prayer. So,
casting off his heavy shoes, for fear of making a noise, he stole softly up to
the little window from whence the light beamed, and peeped in, where he
saw, not Johnstone, but another man, whom he did not know, in the very act
of cutting a soldier's throat, while Jolmstone's daughter, a comely girl, about
twenty years of age, was standing deliberately by, and holding the candle
to him.

Haliday was seized with an inexpressible terror ; for the floor was all blood,
and the man was struggling in the agonies of death, and from his dress he
appeared to have been a cavalier of some distinction. .So completely was the
covenanter overcome with horror, that he turned and fled from the house with
all his might ; resolved to have no participation in the crime, and deeply
grieved that he should have witnessed such an act of depravity, as a private
deliberate murder, perpetrated at such an hour, and in such a place, by any
who professed to be adherents to the reformed religion of the Scottish church.
So much had Haliday been confounded, that he even forgot to lift his shoes,
but fled without them ; and he had not run above half a bowshot before he
came upon two men hasting to the house of Gabriel Johnstone. As soon as
they perceived him running towards them they fled, and he pursued them,
for when he saw them so ready to take alarm, he was sure they were some of
the persecuted race, and tried eagerly to overtake them, exerting his utmost
speed, and calling on them to stop. All this only made them run the faster,
and when they came to a fealdyke they separated, and ran different ways, and
be soon thereafter lost sight of them both.

This house, where Johnstone lived, is said to have been in a lonely concealed
dell, not far from West Linton, in what direction I do not know, but it was towards
that village that Haliday fled, not knowing whither he went, till he came to
the houses. Having no acquaintances here whom he durst venture to call up,
and the morning having set in frosty, he began to conceive that it was abso-
lutely necessary for him to return to the house of Gabriel Johnstone, and try

A TALE OF THE BATTLE OF PENTLAND. 121

to regain his shoes, as he little knew when or where it might be in his power
to get another pair. Accordingly he hasted back by a nearer path, and com
ing to tlie place before it was day, found his shoes. At the same time he
heard a fierce contention within the house, but as there seemed to be a watch
he durst not approach it, but again made his escape.

Having brought some victuals along with him, he did not return to his
hiding-place that day, which was in a wild height, south of 15iggar, but
remained in the moss of Craigengaur ; and as soon as it grew dark descended
again into the valley, determined to have some communication with his
species, whatever it might cost. Again he perceived a light at a distance,
where he thought no light should have been. But he went toward it, and as
he approached, he heard the melody of psalm-singing issuing from the place,
and floating far on the still breeze of the night. The covenanter's spirits were
cheered, he had never heard anything so sweet ; no, not when enjoying the
gospel strains in peace, and in their fullest fruition. It was to him the feast
of the soul, and rang through his ears like a hymn of paradise. He flew as
on hinds' feet to the spot, and found the reverend and devout Mr. Livingston,
in the act of divine worship, in an old void barn on the lands of Slipperfield,
with a great number of serious and pious people, who were all much affected
both by his prayers and discourse.

After the worship was ended, Haliday made up to the minister, among
many others, to congratulate him on the splendour of his discourse, and
implore " a further supply of the same milk of redeeming grace, with which
they found their souls nourished, cherished, and exalted." Indeed, it is
quite consistent with human nature to suppose, that the whole of the cir-
cumstances under which this small community of Christians met, could not
miss rendering their devotions impressive. They were a proscribed race,
and were meeting at the penalty of their lives ; their dome of worship a
waste house in the wilderness, and the season, the dead hour of the night,
had of themselves tints of sublimity which could not fail to make impressions
on the souls of the worshippers. The good man complied with their request,
and appointed another meeting at the same place on a future night.

Haliday having been formerly well acquainted with the preacher, convoyed
him on his way home, where they condoled with one another on the hardness
of their lots ; and Haliday told him of the scene he had witnessed at the house
of Gabriel Johnstone. The heart of the good minister was wrang with grief,
and he deplored the madness and malice of the people who had committed
an act that would bring down tenfold vengeance on the heads of the whole
persecuted race. At length it was resolved between them, that as soon as it
was day, they would go and reconnoitre ; and if they found the case of the
aggravated nature they suspected, they would themselves be the first to
expose it, and give the perpetrators up to justice.

Accordingly, next morning they took another man into the secret, a
William Rankin, one of Mr. Livingston's elders, and the three went away to
Johnstone's house, to investigate the case of the cavalier's murder ; but there
was a guard of three armed men opposed them, and neither promises, nor
threatenings, nor all the minister's eloquence, could induce them to give way
one inch. They said they could not conceive what they were seeking there,
and as they suspected they came for no good purpose, they were determined
that they should not enter. It was in vain that Mr. Livingstone informed
tiiem of his name and sacred calling, and his friendship for the honour of the
house, and the cause which he had espoused ; the men continued obstinate ;
and when he asked to speak a word to Gabriel Johnstone himself, they shook
their heads, and said, " he would never see him again." The men then
advised the intruders to take tiiemselves off without any more delay, lest a
worse thing should befall them ; and as tliey continued to motion them away,
with the most impatient gestures, the kind divine ami his associ.itcs tliought
meet to retire, and leave the matter as it was ; and thus was this mysterious
affair hushed up in silence and darkness for that time, no tongue having been

122 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

heard to mention it further than as above recited. The three armed men
were all unknown to the others, but Haliday observed, that one of them
was the very youth whom he saw cutting off the soldiers head with a
knife.

The rage and cruelty of the popish party seemed to gather new virulence
every day, influencing all the counsels of the king; and the persecution of the
nonconformists was proportionably severe. One new act of council was
issued after another, all tending to root the covenanters out of Scotland, but
it had only the ctfect of making their tenets still dearer to them. The
longed-for night of the meeting in the old hay-barn at length arrived, and it
was attended by a still greater number than that on the preceding. A more
motley group can hardly be conceived than appeared in the barn that night,
and the lamps being weak and dim, rendered the appearance of the assembly
still more striking. It was, however, observed, that about the middle of the
service, a number of fellows came in with broad slouch bonnets, and watch
coats or cloaks about them, who placed themselves in equal divisions at the
two doors, and remained without uncovering their heads, two ^f them being
busily engaged in taking notes. Before Mr. Livingston began the last prayer,
however, he desired the men to uncover, which they did, and the service went
on to the end, but no sooner had the minister pronounced the word Atmn,
than the group of late comers threw off their cloaks, and drawing out swords
and pistols, their commander, one General Drummond, charged the whole
congregation, in the king's name, to surrender.

A scene of the utmost confusion ensued ; the lights being extinguished,
many of the young men burst through the roof of the old barn in every
direction, and though m.my shots were fired at them in the dark, great
numbers escaped ; but Mr. Livingston, and other eleven, were retained
prisoners and conveyed to Edinburgh, where they were examined before the
council, and cast into prison ; among the prisoners was Mr. Haliday, and the
identical young man whom he had seen in the act of murdering the cavalier,
and who turned out to be a Mr. John Lindsay from Edinburgh, who had been
at the battle of Pentland, and in hiding afterwards.

Great was the lamentation for the loss of Mr. Livingston, who was so highly
esteemed by his hearers : the short extracts from his sermons in the barn, that
were produced against him on his trial, proved him to have been a man
endowed with talents somewhat above the greater part of his contemporaries.
His text that night, it appears, had been taken from Genesis: ''And God
saw the wickedness of man that it was great in the earth, and that every
imagination of the thoughts of his heart was only evil continually." One of
the quoted passages run thus :

" And while we have thus ample experience of the effects of sin, we have
also abundance of examples set before us of sin itself, yea, in its most hideous
aspect ; for behold how it abounds among us all, but chiefly among the rulers
and nobles of the land ! Dare I mention to you those crimes of theirs which
cause the sun of heaven to blush and hide his head as ashamed of the sight
of their abominations ? Dare I mention to you the extent of their blas-
phemies against that God who made them, and the Saviour who died to
redeem them.' 1 heir cursing, and swearing. Sabbath-breaking, chambering,
and wantonness ; and, above all, their trampling upon the blood of the
covenant, and pouring out the blood of saints and martyrs like water on the
face of the earth. Because of those the land mourneth, and by these,
multitudes, which no man can number, are plunging their souls into irre-
trievable and eternal ruin. But some say, O these are honourable men !
Amiable, upright, and good moral men — though no great professors of
religion. But I say, my brethren, alack and well-a-day for their uprightness
and honour ! which, if ever they come to be tried by the test of the Divine
law, and by the example of him who was holiness itself, will be found
miserably short-coming. So true it is that the kings of the earth have
combined to plot against the Lord and his anointed. Let us, therefore

A TALE OF THE BATTLE OF PENTLAND. 123

join together in breaking their bands and casting their cords from us. As
for myself, as a member of this poor persecuted Church of Scotland, and an
unworthy minister of it, I hereby call upon you all, in the name of God, to
set your faces, your hearts, and your hands against all such acts, which are
or shall be passed, against the covenanted work of reformation in this
kingdom ; that we here declare ourselves free of the guilt of them, and pray
that God may put this in record in heaven."

These words having been sworn to, and Mr. Livingstone not denying them,
a sharp debate arose in the council what punishment to award. The kin<^s
advocate urged the utility of sending him forthwith to the gallows ; but some
friends in the council got his sentence commuted to banishment ; and he was
accordingly banished the kingdom. Six more, against whom nothing could
be proven, farther than their having been present at a conventicle, were
sentenced to imprisonment for two months ; among this number Haliday was
one. The other five were condemned to be e.xecuted at the cross of Edin-
burgh, on the 14th of December following ; and among this last unhappy
number was Mr. John Lindsay.

Haliday now tried all the means he could devise to gain an interview with
Lindsay, to have some explanation of the extraordinary scene he had witnessed
in the cottage at midnight, for it had made a fearful impression upon his
mind, and he never could get rid of it for a moment ; having still in his
mind's eye a beautiful country maiden standing with a pleased face, holding
a candle, and Lindsay in the mean time at his horrid task. His endeavours,
however, were all in vain, for they were in different prisons, and the jailor
paid no attention to his requests. But there was a gentleman in the privy
council, that year, whose name, I think, was Gilmour, to whose candour
Haliday conceived, that both he and some of his associates owed their lives.
To this gentleman, therefore, he applied by letter, requesting a private inter-
view with him, as he had a singular instance of barbarity to communicate,
which it would be well to inquire into while the possibility of doing so
remained, for the access to it would soon be sealed for ever. The gentleman
attended immediately, and Haliday revealed to him the circumstances pre-
viously mentioned, slating that the murderer now lay in the Tolbooth jail,
under sentence of death.

Gilmour appeared much interested, as well as astonished at the narrative,
and taking out a note-book, he looked over some dates, and then observed ;
" This date of yours tallies exactly with one of my own, relating to an incident
of the same sort, but the circumstances narrated are so different, that 1 must
conceive, either that you are mistaken, or that you are trumping up this story
to screen some other guilty person or persons."

Haliday disclaimed all such motives, and persevered in his attestations.
Gilmour then took him along with him to the Tolbooth prison, where the two
were admitted to a private interview with the prisoner, and there charged him
with the crime of murder in such a place and on such a night ; but he denied
the whole with disdain. Haliday told him that it was in vain for him to deny
it, for he beheld him in the very act of perpetrating the murder with his own
eyes, while Gabriel Johnstone's daughter stood deliberately and held tlie
candle to him.

" Hold your tongue, fellow !" said Lindsay, disdainfully, "for you know not
what you are saying. What a cowardly dog you must be by your own account!
If you saw me murdering a gentleman cavalier, why did you not rush in to
his assistance.''"

" I could not have saved the gentleman then," said Haliday, "and I ihuught
it not meet to intermeddle in sue h a scene of blood."

" It was as well for you that you did not," said Lindsay.

"Then you acknowledge being in the cottage of the dell that night.'" said
Gilmour.

"And if I was, what is tliat to you? Or what is it now to me or any
person? 1 ivas there on the night specified ; but I am ashamed of the part |

124 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

there acted, and am now well requited for it. Yes, requited as I ought to be,
so let it rest ; for not one syllabic of the transaction shall any one hear
from mc."

Thus they were obli;:^cd to leave the prisoner, and forthwith Gilmour led
Haliday up a stair to a lodging in the Parliament Square, where they found a
gentleman lying sick in bed, to whom Mr. Gilmour said, after inquiring after
his hcallh, '' IJrother Ivobcrt, I conceive that we two have found out the young
man who saved your life at the cottage among the mountains."

" I would give tlie half that I possess that this were true," said the sick
gentleman, " who or where is he.'"'

" If 1 am right in my conjecture," said the privy councillor, "he is lying in
the Tolbooth jail, there under sentence of death, and has but a few days to
live. But tell me, brother, could you know him, or have you any recollection
of his appearance.'"'

" Alas ! I have none ! " said the other mournfully, " for I was insensible,
through the loss of blood, the whole time I was under his protection ; and if
I ever heard his name I have lost it : the whole of tliat period being a total
blank in my memory. But he must be a hero of the tirst rank ; and therefore,

0 my dear brother, save him whatever his crime may be."

" His life is justly forieited to the laws of his country, brother," said Gilmour,
"and he must die with the rest."

" He shall not die with the rest if I should die for him," cried the sick man,
vehemently, " I will move heaven and earth before my brave deliverer shall
die like a felon."

" Calm yourself, brother ; and trust that part to me," said Gilmour, " I
think my inlluence saved the life of this gentleman, as well as the lives of
some others, and it was all on account of the feeling of respect I had for the
party, one of whom, or, rather 1 should say two of whom, acted such a noble
and distinguished part toward you. But pray undeceive this gentleman by
narrating the facts to him, in which he cannot miss to be interested." The
sick man, whose name it seems, if 1 remember aright, was Captain Robert
Gilmour, of the volunteers, then proceeded as follows : —

"There having been high rewards offered for the apprehension of some
south-country gentlemen, whose correspondence with ^Ir. Welch, and some
other of the fanatics, had been intercepted, 1 took advantage of information I
obtained, regarding the place of their retreat, and set out, certain of appre-
hending two of them at least.

"Accordingly 1 went off one morning about the beginning of November,
with only five followers, well armed and mounted. We left Gilmerton long
before it was light, and having a trusty guide, rode straight to their hiding-
place, where we did not arrive till towards the evening, when we started them.
They were seven in number, and were armed with swords and bludgeons :
but, being apprized of our approach, they fled from us, and took shelter in a
morass, into which it was impossible to follow them on horseback. But per-
ceiving three men more, on another hill, 1 thought there was no time to lose ;
so giving one of my men our horses to hold, the rest of us advanced into the
morass with drawn swords and loaded horse pistols. I called to them to
surrender, but they stood upon their guard, determined on resistance ; and
just while we were involved to the knees in the mire of the morass, they broke
in upon us, pell-mell, and for about two minutes the engagement was very
sharp. There was an old man struck me a terrible blow with a bludgeon,
and was just about to repeat it wlien 1 brought him down with a shot from
my pistol. A young fellow then ran at me with his sword, and as I still stuck
in the moss, 1 could not ward the blow, so that he got a fair stroke at my
neck, meaning, without doubt, to cut off my head ; and he would have done
it had his sword been sharp. As it was, he cut it to the bone, and opened
one of the jugular veins. I fell, but my men firing a volley in their faces, at
that moment, they fled. It seems we did the same, without loss of time ; for

1 must now take my narrative from the report of others^ as I remember np

A TALE OF THE BATTLE OF PENTLAXD. 125

more that passed. My men bore me on their arms to our horses, and then
mounted and fled ; trying all that they could to stanch the bleedin;; of my
wound. But perceivini,^ a party coming running down a hill, as with the
intent of cutting off their retreat, and losing all hopes of saving my life, they
carried me into a cottage in a wild lonely retreat, commended me to the care
of the inmates, and, after telling them my name, and in what manner I had
received my death wound, they thought proper to provide for their own safety,
and so escaped.

" The only inmates of that lonely house, at least at that present time, were
a lover and his mistress, both intercommuncd whigs ; and when my men left
me on the floor, the blood, which they had hitherto restrained in part, burst out
afresh and deluged the floor. The young man said it was best to put me out
of my pain, but the girl wept and prayed him rather to render me some assist-
ance. ' Oh Johnny, man, how can ye speak that gate.'*' cried she, 'suppose
he be our mortal enemy, he is ay ane o' God's creatures, an' has a soul to be
saved as well as either you or me ; an' a soldier is obliged to do as he is
bidden. Now Johnny, ye ken ye war learned to be a doctor o' physic, wad ye
no rather try to stop the blooding and save the young officers life, as either
kill him, or let him blood to death on our floor, when the blame o' the murder
m.ight fa' on us t '

" ' Now, the blessing of heaven light on your head, my dear Sally ! ' said
the lover, ' for you have spoken the very sentiments of my heart ; and, since
it is your desire, though we should both rue it, I here vow to you that I will
not only endeavour to save his life, but I will defend it against our own party
to the last drop of my blood.'

" He then began, and in spite of my feeble struggles, who knew not either
what I was doing or suffering, sewed up the hideous gash in my throat and
neck, tying every stitch by itself ; and the house not being able to produce a
pair of scissars, it seems that he cut off all the odds and ends of the stitching
with a large sharp gully knife, and it was likely to have been during the opera-
tion that this gentleman chanced to look in at the window. He then bathed
the wound for an hour with cloths dipped in cold water, dressed it with plaster
of wood-betony, and put me to bed, expressing to his sweetheart the most vivid
hopes of my recovery.

" These operations were scarcely finished, when the maid's two brothers
came home from their hiding-place ; and it seems they would have been
there much sooner had not this gentleman given them chase in the contrary
direction. They, seeing the floor all covered with blood, inquired the cause
with wild trepidation of manner. Their sister was the first to inform them
of what had happened ; on which both the young men gripped to their
weapons, and the eldest, Samuel, cried out with the vehemence of a maniac,
' Blessed be the righteous avenger of blood ! Hoo ! Is it then true that the
Lord hath delivered our greatest enemy into our hands!' 'Hold, hold,
dearest brother !' cried the maid, spreading out her arms before him, 'Would
you kill a helpless young man, lying in a state of insensibility.'' What,
although the Almighty hath put his life in your hand, will he not require the
blood of you, shed in such a base and cowardly way.'"

" ' Hold your peace, foolish girl,' cried he, in the same furious strain, ' I
tell you if he had a thousand lives I would sacrifice them all this moment !
Wo be to this old rusty and fizenless sword, that did not sever his head froni
his body, when 1 had a fair chance in the open field ! Nevertheless he shall
die ; for you do not yet know that he hath, within these few hours, murdered
our father, whose blood is yet warm around him on the bleak hci;.^lit.'

'" Oh ! merciful heaven ! killed our father !' screamed the girl, and fling-
ing herself down on the resting-chair, she fainted away. The two brothers
regarded not, but, with their bared weapons, made towards the closet, intent
on my blood, and both vowing I should die if I hatl a thousand lives. The
stranger interfered, and thrust himself into the closet door before tlu-m,
swearing that, before they committed so cowardly a murder, they should iirst

126 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

make their way through his body. A long scene of expostulation and bitter
altercation then ensued, which it is needless to recapitulate ; both parties
refusing to yield. Samuel at the last got into an ungovernable rage, and
raising his weapon, he said, furiously, ' How dare you, sir, mar my righteous
vengeance when my father's blood calls to me from the dreary heights } Or
how dictate to me in my own house? Either stand aside this moment, or
thy blood be upon thine own head !'

'' ' I'll dictate to the devil, if he will not hearken to reason,' said the young
surgeon, ' therefore strike at your peril.'

'* Samuel retreated one step to have full sway for his weapon, and the fury
depicted on his countenance proved his determination. But in a moment,
his gallant opponent closed with him, and holding up his wrist with his left
hand, he with the right bestowed on him a blow with such energy, that he fell
tlat on the floor, among the soldier's blood. The youngest then ran on their
antagonist with his sword, and wounded him, but the next moment he was
lying beside his brother. He then disarmed them both, and still not thinking
himself cjuite safe with them, he tied both their hands behind tneir backs, and
had then time to pay attention to the young woman, who was inconsolable
for the loss of her father, yet deprecated the idea of murdering the wounded
man. As soon as her brothers came fairly to their senses, she and her lover
began and expostulated with them, at great length, on the impropriety and
unmanliiiess of the attempt, until they became all of one mind, and the two
brothers agreed to join in the defence of the wounded gentleman, from all of
their own party, until he was rescued by his friends, which they did. But it
was the maid's simple eloquence that finally prevailed with the fierce coven-
anters, in whom a spirit of retaliation seemed inherent.

" ' O my dear brothers,' said she, weeping, 'calm yourselves, and think like
men and like Christians. There has been enough o' blood shed for a'e day,
and if ye wad cut him a' to inches it coudna restore our father to life again.
Na, na, it coudna bring back the soul that has departed frae this weary scene
o' sin, sorrow, and suffering ; and if ye wad but mind the maxims o' our
blessed Saviour ye wadna let revenge rankle in your hearts that gate. An'
o'er an' aboon a', it appears that the young ofticer was only doing what he
conceived to be his bounden duty, and at the moment was actually acting in
defence of his own life. Since it is the will of the Almighty to lay these
grievous sufferings on our covenanted church, why not suffer patiently, along
with your brethren, in obedience to that will ; for it is na like to be a private
act of cruelty or revenge that is to prove favourable to our forlorn cause.'

" When my brothers came at last, with a number of my men, and took me
away, the only thing I remember seeing in the house was the corpse of the
old man whom I had shot, and the beautiful girl standing weeping over the
body ; and certainly my heart smote me in such a manner that 1 would not
experience the same feeling again for the highest of this world's benefits.
That comely young maiden, and her brave intrepid lover, it would be the
utmost ingratitude in me, or in any of my family, ever to forget ; for it is
scarcely possible that a man can ever be again in the same circumstances as
I was, having been preserved from death in the house of the man whom my
hand had just deprived of life."

Just as he ended, the sick-nurse peeped in, which she had done several
times before, and said, " Will your honour soon be disengaged d'ye think ? for
ye see because there's a lass wanting till speak till ye."

" A lass, nurse ? what lass can have any business with me .-^ what is she
like .? "

" Oo 'deed, sir, the lass is weel enough, for that part o't, but she may be
nae better than she should be for a' that ; ye ken, I's no answer for that, for
ye see because like is an ill mark : but she has been aften up, speering after
ye, an' gude troth she's fairly in nettle-earnest now, for she winna gang awa
til! she see your honour."

The nurse being desired to show her in, a comely girl entered, with a timid

A TALE OP THE BATTLE OE PENTLAXD. 117

step, and seemed ready to faint with trepidation. She had a mantle on, and
a hood that covered much of her face. The privy councillor spoke to her,
desiring her to come forward, and say her errand ; on which she said that
" she only wanted a preevat word wi' the captain, if he was that weel as to
speak to ane." He looked over the bed, and desired her to say on, for that
gentleman was his brother, from whom he kept no secrets. After a hard
struggle with her diffidence, but, on the other hand, prompted by the urgency
of the case, she at last got out, " I'm unco glad to see you sae weel corned
round again, though I daresay ye'U maybe no ken wha I am. But it was me
that nursed ye, an' took care 0' ye in our house, when your head was amaist
cuttit off."

There was not another word required to draw forth the most ardent
expressions of kindness from the two brothers ; on which the poor girl took
courage, and, after several showers of tears, she said, with many bitter sobs,
" There's a poor lad wha, in my humble opinion, saved your life ; an' wha is
just gaun to be hanged the day after the morn. I wad unco fain beg your
honour's interest to get his life spared."

" Say not another word, my dear, good girl," said the Councillor, " for
though I hardly know how I can intercede for a rebel who has taken up
arms against the government, yet for your sake and his, my best interest shall
be exerted."

" Oh, ye maun just say, sir, that the poor whigs were driven to desperation,
and that this young man was misled by others in the fervour and enthusiasm
of youth. What else can ye say ? but ye're good ! oh, ye're very good ! and
on my knees I beg that ye winna lose ony time, for indeed there is nae time
to lose ! "

The Councillor lifted her kindly by both hands, and desired her to stay
with his brother's nurse till his return, on which he went away to the presi-
dent, and in half-an-hour returned with a respite for the convict, John
Lindsay, for three days, which he gave to the girl, along with an order for her
admittance to the prisoner. She thanked him with the tears in her eyes, but
added, " Oh, sir, will he and I then be obliged to part for ever at the end of
three days ? "

" Keep up your heart, and encourage your lover," said he, " and meet me
here again on Thursday, at this same hour, for, till the Council meet, nothing
further than this can be obtained."

It may well be conceived how much the poor forlorn prisoner was
astonished, when his own beloved Sally entered to him, with the reprieve in
her hand, and how much his whole soul dilated when, on the Thursday fol-
lowing, she presented him with a free pardon. They were afterwards
married, when the Gilmours took them under their protection. Lindsay
became a highly qualified surgeon, and the descendants of this intrepid youth
occupy respectable situations in Edinburgh to this present day.

EWEN M'GABHAR:

A HIGHLAND LEGEND.

In my peregrinations through the North highlands, I came upon a large and
romantic lake, in the country of the M'Kcnzies, called Loch Mari, or St.
Mary's Loch, the same designation with that of my own bclovcil Like, but
originating in a different language. It is one of the most romantic places in
the world ; speckled with beautiful islets, and overhung by tremendous

128 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

mountains, some of them quite spiral and white as snow. I spent a number of
davs about this enchanting lake, saihn;^s fishin;^, and shooting RuUs, with the
M'Kenzies of Ardlair, and M-lntire of Luiterewc. With this hitter gentleman
1 made a days excursion towards the north part of the Lutterewe estate, and
certainly was highly gratified ; for such groups of grandeur, horror, and
sublimity, I have never yet seen. Sequeslcrcd dells, surrounded by inacces-
sible cliffs ; vistas of grim, vast, and yawning caverns, were everywhere
opening upon us, so that we were soon entangled in a wilderness of
wonders, out of which none but a well experienced guide could have
extricated us.

At length he said he would show me the greatest curiosity of all ; and led
me a long way to the south-west, to see a remarkable cavern, it was a place
of horrid grandeur, and most diUicult of access, and is called Uadha-na Kigh,
»r the King's Son's Cave. I asked at Mr. M'lntire how it came to receive
that dignified title. " I will tell you that," said he, " once we have got our
dinner eaten and our whisky drunk ; " and I saw by the quick and silent way
in which he despatched his meal, that he weened he had recollected a theme
which would please and interest me ; for a more i)bliging little fellow never
breathed than John iM'lntire. Before I had half done eating, he returned
thanks very shortly in Gaelic, and thus began : —

" Well, do you know, sir, that you are now sitting in a place where some of
the most remarkable events have happened that ever took place since the
world was made .'' Do you remember the steading grown green with age
which I bade you pay particular attention to ? " I answered that 1 did, and
never would forget it. " Well, in that sequestered home there lived, some
time long ago, a young man and his mother, whose subsistence depended
chiefly on hunting and fishing ; but they had also a few goats, and among
others, a large and most valuable one, called Earba. She was the colour of a
hind, a dim chestnut, and almost invisible ; and tradition says she gave more
than any cow. She was a pet and well fed, and some of these animals will
give more milk than could well be believed by a Sassenach. Well, but all at
once Earba begins to give less and less milk, to the great consternation of old
Oighrig, who fed and better fed her favourite to no purpose. She complained
to her son Kenet of the astounding circumstance, but he only laughed at her,
and said she was not very easily pleased of the quantity of milk, that
she had not fed poor Earba well enough, or the good creature had perhaps
been unwell.

" The next day, when Kenet came in from the hills, his mother says,
* I tell you, Kenet, something must be done about Earba, else we may all
starve. I declare she has not given me a green-horn spoonful of milk this
morning.'

" ' That is very extraordinaiy, mother,' said Kenet, ' but how can I
help it?'

" ' Why, the truth is. Kenet, that I am sure the fairies milk her ; or else she
has picked up some poor motherless fawn, for it is a kindly creature ; and
that either some fairy or this motherless fawn suck her evening and morning.
For, do you know, Kenet, that though she comes evening and morning for
her meals, yet she gives me nothing in return for them. Besides, she shows
a sort of impatience to get away, and does not lick my hand as she was wont
to do ; and then she takes always one path, up through the middle of these
rocks, and I hear her often bleating as she ascends ; — but, plague on her,
nobody can keep sight of her.'

'" It is very singular, indeed,' says Kenet ; 'we must tether her.'

" ' No, no, son Kenet, 1 cannot consent to that. Were we to put a rope
about poor Earba's neck and tether her, it would break her heart, and she
would never come home to us again. I'll tell you what you must do, Kenet,
you must watch her the whole day, and never let her know that you see her,
for it is a cunning beast ; and if she knows that you see her, she will not go
near her fairy or her fawn, but wait till it be dark and then give us the slip.'

EWEN M'GABHAR. 129

"Kenet promised that he would ; and early next morning went and hid
himself among the rocks that overhung his cottage, to cheat Earba. He also
took a lump of dried salmon with him, that he might not be hungry for a
whole day, determined to find out Earba's secret. Nevertheloes, for all his
precaution, she cheated him ; she went by paths on which he could not follow
her, and before he got round by passable parts of the rock he had lost sight of
her ; and, when once lost sight of, it was almost impossible to discover her
again, owing to her invisible colour. She actually appeared often to vanish,
when scarcely a bow-shot off, among the rocks.

" ' It will be as well for us to keep on good terms with you, Earba,' said
Kenet to himself ; ' for if it should come into your head to absent yourself,
long would it be before we found you again. But I'll be about with you ! for
I'll watch till you return, and see where you come from, for you will pay us a
visit for your meal.'

'' Kennet watched and watched ; but he might as well have watched for a
spirit. The first sight that he saw of her she was with his mother on the
green at the cottage-door. Kenet was terribly chagrined at being thus out-
witted ; and more so when he returned to his mother and learned that
Earba had not given a green-horn spoonful of milk, having been newly
sucked.

" They could ill subsist without Earba's milk : further exertion was neces-
sary ; so Kenet went higher up among the rocks next day. He saw her pass
by him, but again lost her. He went farther and farther on the track till at
the last he saw her enter this very cavern. Kenet, quite overjoyed, came
posting to the foot of the rock there, where we began to climb, and called out,
in his native tongue, ' Hilloa, dear Earba ! are you in? come out ! come out !'
Earba came farward, and looked over at him from this very spot, uttering a
kindly bleat, and then posted down the rock to her owner. 'What have you
got in there, dear Earba .-' I must see what you have got in there' Earba
looked up in his face with a countenance of the utmost distress. He began
to climb, Earba mounted the rock like lightning before him, and placed her-
self there on the verge, and with a decided inveteracy defended the mouth of
the cave. She popped her master on the forehead as it reared above the
verge, gently at first ; but when he tried to force himself up she smote hini
hard, letting him know that there he should not come ; and as he had no
footing he was obliged to retreat.

" As soon as he got fairly down upon the greensward there beneath, she
came at his call, and accompanied him on his way home, but left him. Her
secret was now discovered, and she did not choose to trust herself any more
in the power of her owners. What was to be done .^ Their darling and chief
support was lost to them, and that by a sort of mystery which they could not
comprehend. They slept none all that night, consulting what was best to be
done ; and at length came to the resolution to go together and storm the
cave. Kenet hesitated ; but the curiosity of his mother prevailed, though she
attributed it all to necessity. So, after stuffing her lap with all the herbs and
good things that Earba loved, the two sallied out at dawn, and reached this
cave by sunrising. They had resolved to take Earba by surprise ; but a
woman's tongue, even in a whisper, long as it is, proved not longer than a
goat's ears. Before they were half-way up, by different routes, the one com-
ing by that step there, and the other by this one here, Earba appeared on the
verge with looks of great uneasiness. She answered to her name by a shrill
bleat ; but when Oighrig held out kail-blades to her, and the finest herbs, she
would not taste them, but stood there tramping with her foot and whistling
through her nostrils, determined to resist all encroachments on her premises
to the death.

" But instinct is unfairly opposed to reason : by throwing a noose oyer her
horns, and holding down her head, Kenet succeeded in mounting to this plat-
form where we sit. Till that instant all had been (|uict ; l)ut, when the go.it
fell a struggling and hlcitin;', there issurd from tii.it (i.itU inrner tlicre .1
I. V

I30 THE ETTKICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

beautiful little child, creeping with great velocity, and crying out * mam-
mam, mam-niaiii.'

" ' Sirre gkidh Dia more ! ' roared Kenet, and half threw himself o\er that
precipice, not taking two steps on the whole. Oighrig still held by the rope
that kept down Earba's head ; and abusing her son for his cowardice in no
very measured terms, ordered him to come and hold Earba, and she would
enter the cave herself ' Silhichc, sithiche ! le mair Dia ! " shouted Kenet,
and made signs for his mother to run for her life.

" ' What, you fool ! ' cried Oighrig, in her native tongue, ' and do you think
a fairy would be so unreasonable as to wreak any \ engeance on us for claim-
ing our own? Come and hold down the rope here, and keep that perverse
beast in order, and I'll face the fairy.'

" Kenet took a long grip of the rope at the bottom of the rock, and Earba,
fmding that he now had it in his power to pull her headlong over, stood quiet,
siill bleating always in answer to tlie child's ' mam-mam.' But when Oighrig
succeeded in getting up here, where my foot is placed, there the goat was
standing with her head held down, and there on that spot, wis the loveliest
boy sucking her that ever the eye of woman beheld ; so Oighrig said, and so
1 believe she thought. She started back as she saw, and held up her hands
at such an extraordinary sight, crying out — ' Did not I tell you, Earba, that
you were sucked by the fairies 1'

" Oighrig, 1 believe, never told her any such thing; but, though convinced
in her own mind that the lovely child was a fairy, there is something in
woman's feeling heart that clings to a fellow-creature in extremity. It is out
of her ])ower to abandon such a being, whatever privations she may suffer in
her efforts to mitigate human suflering. But let a helpless infant once come
in her way, then all the sympathies of her generous nature overflow, as with a
sj)ring-tide. A lovely boy sucking a goat in a cave of the wilderness, was
more than p<ior Oighrig's heart could stand — she flew to him, snatched him
up in her arms, and shed a flood of tears over him, exclaiming—* Be you a
Jairy, or be you a fiend, you shall lie in my bosom and have good Earba for
your nurse still. Blessings on you, poor and kind-hearted Earba, for pre-
serving the life of this dear child ! " ' Anam bhur ceaduich comhnuich
neamhuidh.'*

" The child held out his hands to Earba, wept, and continued to cry out
* mam-mam,' while poor Earba answered even,- cry with a bleat. Oighrig
caressed the child and blessed him, and promised him that he should lie in
her bosom and be fed with Earba's milk, and ride upon her back on a pretty
level green. The boy would not be comforted nor soothed, but screamed to
be at Earba ; and so Oighrig set him down, when he instantly clasped his
little arms round the animal's neck and laid his cheek to hers ; she muttered
sounds of kindness over him and licked his hands. Kenet now ascended into
the cave, but was in utter terror for the fairy, and kept wildly aloof, threaten-
ing, at the same time, to fling the creature headlong over the rocks.

" ' But you shall first fling the mother that bore you over the rocks,' cried
Oighrig. 'Would you take the life that God has preserved by a miracle, or
dash an innocent babe to pieces that a brute beast has taken pity on and
saved ? '

" ' Do you think that being would dash to pieces ? ' said Kenet. ' A fairy
dash to pieces ! You may throw him over therfr, he will light on a bed of
down. You may throw him into the flame, he will mount up into the air like

* I am not sure if this is the very expression used by Mr. M'Intire, not being a Gaelic
scholar, but it is somethii.g hke it ; for he used in his narrative some strong short Gaelic
sentences, which he buore would not translate, and I believe it. One time I was with a
party of gentlemen in Balquhidder, and after dinner, the reverend clergyman of the parish
told us a story of a Balquhidder lad and a young game cock. It was no story at all. I
wondered at it. "It is impossible to tell it in English," said he, and told it shortly in
Gaelic, with a triumphant look. The effect was like electricity. The Highland gentlemen
rolled iijion the flour and laughed at it.

EWEN M'GABHAR. 131

a living spark, and laugh at you. You may throw him into the sea, he will
swim like a marrot. Do you not see his green dress, his tlaxcn hair, and
light blue eyes ? — a fair>-, as I breathe !'

" ' He is no such thing, hind, but as good flesh and blood as you ; and a
great deal better,' cried a voice from that darksome den, right behind Kenet
who almost jumped out of his skin with fright. And instantly there rushed'
forth a comely girl to the heart of the stage here as we may call it. Her air
was wild, her apparel torn, and famine painted in her youthful features, which
nevertheless, bore decisive traces of youth and beauty. 'The child is mine !'
cried she. ' The dear babe is mine ! in woe and in weakness have I watched
over him ; and journeyed both by sea and land to save his dear life, until
now that my strength is exhausted, and had it not been for this dear creature
which I wiled and bribed into the cave for our assistance, we should both long
ago have perished of want.'

" ' Your child, dear heart !' said Oighrig, ' If he had been your child,
would you not have nursed him yourself, and not set him out to nurse on a
poor old woman's goat, wliich is her principal dependence .-* Your son
indeed ! Now, I wish I were as sure of living in heaven as that you never
had a child in your life.'

" The girl blushed exceedingly, and hid her face and wept. But the sight
of this youthful and half-famished beauty wnnight a great change in Kenet's
mind with regard to the child of the fairies. He now perceived a glimmer of
human nature to beam through the mystery, or rather through the eyes of a
lovely female, which often convey powerful arguments to the hearts of youno-
men.

" ' Come, come now, mother, don't be going too strictly into your researches ;
for though you be exceedingly wise in your own conceit, yet you may be mis-
taken. Many a mother has had a child who could not nurse it, and so young
a one as she is may well be excused. One thing only is certain at present,
and that is, that the helpless couple must go home with us for we cannot
leave them to perish here.'

" ' And that is most certain, indeed,' sighed Oighrig, wiping her eyes ; ' and
God be blessing you for a dear lad for first making the proposal : for if you
had left them here I would have stayed with them. And now I know that
when mercy, and kindness, and necessity require it, you will hunt double and
fish double, and we shall live more sumptuously than ever we did before.'

" ' Ay, and that I will, mother. And now, M'Gabhar (son of the goatj, come
you on my back, and we'll march in grand battle array home.'

" Kenet had now got a new stimulus. His success in hunting and fishing
astonished even old Oighrig herself, who daily declared, that if Kenet had
ten of a family it would be all the same to him, for he would maintain them
all, and more. The girl's name was Flora ; and she told them that the boy's
Christian name was Ewan, but she would not say the patronymic name of
either, so the boy got the name of M'Gabhar until his dying day.

" They lived as happily together as ever a little group did in such a wilder-
ness ; Earba got kids of her own, and Ewan herded and fed them, with a
daily acknowledgment of their fraternity. Flora grew as plump as a doe in
autumn, and far, far too lovely for the peace of poor Kenet's heart. From
the moment that he first saw her in the cavern here, when she came out of
that dark hole, with her ragged array and dishevelled locks, there was a
spontaneous leaning of affection towards her, which at once disarmed him of
his rancour against the child of the fairies : but now, when well fed and living
at ease, and in the full blow of her beauty, Kenet found himself fairly her
slave. Though he had never spoken of love to her, there were, nevertheless,
a kindness and suavity of manner expressed towards him, in all their lield-
labours and daily transactions, which made him hope and believe that the
affection between them was mutual. But before entering t)n such a serious
concern as a life-rent lease of Flora, he, like a dutiful son, ihouj^lit piupcr to
consult his mother about it.

132 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

" ' Do you think Flora is really the mother of little Ewan? because, if she
is, it is not f.iir to call him M'Gabhar — he should be called M'Aillaidh (son of
the beautifuli. Tell me truly wliat you think of this, mother.'

" ' Do 1 think that you are the mother of the boy, son Kenet ? That would
not be a very natural thought for mc to take up, would it? Then you are just
as much the mother of the boy as mai;;hdean Flora is. Do you think I have
lived so long in the world and not know oigh neochirramach from bean
muither.'' Just as well as you know a red deer from a goat, Kenet ; and you
may take my word for it that I-'lora is a virgin as pure as on the day that she
was born.'

" ' 1 rejoice to hear you say so, my dear old mother ; for I am going to take
Flora for a wife to me, and I should not have much liked to take another
man's wife, or his mistress, in that capacity.'

" ' You take Flora for a wife, son Kenet ! You may as well think of taking
the queen of heaven for a wife, which is the moon. Cannot you perceive that
Flora is a great-born lady, and doubtless the daughter of a king ; and for a
poor young forester to think of marrying a king's daughter is a vain thought.
That sword and mantle, which she preserves with sucli care for the boy, and
which were his father's, show that /:e is at least the son of a king ; and 1 have
no doubt that she is his sister, who has fled with the boy from some great and
imminent danger — for she has told me that both their lives depend on the
strictest concealment. Let us therefore be kind to them and protect them in
close concealment, and our fortunes, by and by, will be made. But, as I said
before, you may as well e.xpect that the moon will stoop down to be your wife
as that Flora will ; so never bring your kind heart into any trouble about
that.'

'* This was a cutting speech to Kenet, and made his spirit sink within him,
for he had calculated on the beauty as his own, thrown as she was on his
special protection. But he bowed to his mother's insinuation, and remained
respectful and attentive, sighing for love in secret, and cherishing the
dangerous passion more and more, but never made mention of it to Flora.
Young Ewan grew apace, was a healthy and hardy boy, of a proud, positive
disposition ; and though clad in the homeliest mountain array, had an eye, a
fonn, and an expression of features, which could never be mistaken for a
peasant's child ; for over all this country the two classes are a distinct species.

" They were surprised and greatly deranged one day by the great Lord
Dovvnan, the chief, coming to their cottage with his train ; nor did they ever
see him till he alighted at the door ; and Kenet being one of his own foresters,
he entered without ceremony, and jocosely blamed him for not being out with
them at the hunt. Kenet excused himself in an embarrassed, confused way,
as not knowing of it ; but Lord Downan, casting his eyes on the beautiful and
blushing Flora — ' Ah, Kenet ! I excuse you, I excuse you,' exclaimed he ; ' 1
did not know you had brought a wife home to Corry-dion ; and, upon my
word, Kenet, a prettier one never tripped over the hills of Lutterewe. How
comes it that I knew nothing of this .'' '

" ' Oh, you do not know the half that is done among your mountains and
forests, my lord,' said Kenet.

" 'But I ou'-^ht to have known, and to have been at the wedding, too, you
know, Kenet ; said Lord Downan. ' You have not recognised your chiefs
right there. But pray tell me where you got that flower ; for I am sure she
was not a Kenetdale maiden, else my eye would have caught her before now.'

" ' No ; I got her not so far from home,' said Kenet, terribly perplexed, and
changing colours.

"' 1 perceive there is some secret here, Kenet,' said Downan ; 'but with
your chief there ought to be none. Tell me, then, where you found this
maiden, for I do not think she is of my vassals ; and I have a peculiar reason
for wishing to know where you got her, and who she is.'

" ' I got her on your own lands, my lord. She is of your own clan, for any
thing I know to tlie contrary; and you know my wife must be your vassal.'

EWEN iWCABHAR. 133

"'Your wife, Kenet? No, that gem cannot be your wile ; she was formed
for the chamber of a lord or a king.'

" ' Then, where is this boy come from, my lord, if she is not my wife ?'

"' Not from you. It is a mystery, I perceive that well enough; a runaway
story — a matter of deep concealment; but I'll probe it, as it may concern my-
self perhaps too nearly; and to make sure of coming to the real truth, I shall
take the maiden along with me; so you may make ready, my pretty dear, for
your immediate journey to Dowan castle.'

"' O no, no my good lord and chief, do not speak of a thing so unjust and
cruel. If you take her, you shall take me too; for you shall never part Flora
and I.'

"' Flora ! Flora !' cried Lord Downan; that is no name of our clan ; no,
but a polite one among our enemies. Why won't you tell me the truth, hind.''
I charge you to do it, then, before I sever your head from your body at one
stroke.'

" Kenet trembled, for he had nothing to tell, and knew not what to say; but
Flora sprung forward, and kneeling, with tears in her eyes, she implored him
to leave her with her poor husband and child, for that her life was bound up
in them; and for him to take the wife of a poor forester of his own to his lordly
halls would bring disgrace upon himself, and ruin her own peace of mind for
ever.'

" Lord Downan raised his eyes with astonishment. ' I cannot comprehend
this ! ' exclaimed he. ' Your address proves it to me beyond a doubt that you
are of the best blood of the land, or of some other land, for your tongue dift'crs
from ours. But the avowal from your own lips, that you are the wife of my own
young forester, confounds me. Yet I do not believe it; women are deceitful.
Go with me, Flora, I will be kind to you ; and whatever has been your fate,
you may confide in my honour.'

'' Then all the little group set up a lamentation ; and Kenet, in the plenti-
tude of his misery, exclaimed, 'And poor little M'Gabhar, what will become
of you ! '

"At the name, Lord Downan started again to his feet. 'M'Gabhar!
What is the meaning of that name?' cried he. 'There is something ominous
to our family and name in that patronymic; for there is a legend of a thousand
years which bears that —

' The son of the goat shall triumphantly bear —
The mountain on flame and the horns of the deer —
From forest of Loyne to the hill of Ben-Croshen —
From mountain to vale, and from ocean to ocean.'

'Thou art a stem worthy to be looked after, little blue-eyed M'Gabhar; the
first, I am sure, who ever bore the name. So thou and thy lovely protectress
shall both go with me.'

"' I will not go, my lord, that is peremptory,' said Flora. ' If you take me
you shall force me ; and if you proffer force, I'll die before I yield. So take
your choice — to leave me at peace, or kill both me and my dear boy.'

'"I yield for the present,' said Lord Downan, 'for forcibly on a woman
shall my hand never be laid. But, Kenet, I trust the beautiful pair with you,
and keep them safe till my return, as you shall answer with your head. I will
make inquiries and see them soon again ; and, lovely Flora, whatever your
secret may be, you may depend on my honour. I make a present to you of
the best stag of my quarry, to help your fare, and hope soon to place you in a
situation that better becomes your rank and condition ;' and then kissing her,
he bade her adieu ; but left a bold kinsman with them as a guard upon both,
being a little jealous of their future movements.

" Their situation was now most critical, and Flora's distress extreme; yet she
showed no signs of it before Hector, Lord Downan's friend, who .\c(ompanied
Kenet to the fishing and hunting, and both were e(|ually well received when
they came home, and kindly treated. J he tircumst.mcc uf having been

134 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

acknowledged as the husband of Flora, by her own lips, had raised the poof
fellow's spirits, so that, for all their jeopardy, he perhaps never was so happy.
But one evening when they came home, all the three were aniissing. Kenet
called here and called there; and then, with troubled looks said ' They will be
out milking the goats and will be home anon. God grant they may not have
wandered among the rocks.'

" ' Is this not some stratagem, Kenet? ' said Hector : ' for it appears strange
to me that two women and a boy should desert by themselves, without any to
protect them; therefore, take you care and do not you desert too, else the best
shaft that I have shall overtake you.'

" ' As I live and breathe,' said Kenet, ' any intention of desertion was utterly
unknown to me; and, thcrefore^l am certain, that if they are gone, they must
have been carried off by force. We will search to-morrow, and if we find them
not we will both haste to my lord for assistance. If my wife, my child, and
my parent, are lost, what is to become of me 1 '

The two young men went to no bed, nor slept they any that night. They
went often to the door and called, but they were only mocked by a hundred
echoes from the rocks that surrounded them. Even Earba answered not to
her name; and that was the first circumstance which made Kenet suspect
some deep-laid and desperate plot.

" Ne.xt morning they were standing ready at break of day to begin the
search. Kenet had strong hopes that he should find them once more here in
Tol-au-Kigh: but Hector was sulky and ill-humoured, suspecting that he was
duped, and likewise that his neck might suffer on account of his remissness.

" Kenet knew that no living man was aware of the cave, and there were many
hundreds of \awning openings among the rocks much liker a cave than it, he
was therefore very cautious how he approached it in view of Hector; but found
means in the course of the day, to niake a signal, which was answered, and
then he knew all was right. The only remaining difficulty now was to get quit
of Hector; but that proved easier than was apprehended, for he vanished that
very day on the hill, and hasted home with the news to his lord, convinced
that he was duped, and that the party had planned an escape to another
country.

" What to do the party knew not. They could not abide in the cave, for
Kenet durst not go out either to fish or to hunt, and they were terrified for the
sloth-hounds; so they decamped that night and went down to the shore,
where they hid themselves, and waited the appearance of some boat to take
them from Lord Downan's dominions, that being their chief concern for the
present. Flora having imbibed a terror for that family which was to the rest
quite unaccountable. Earba followed them with her two remaining kids, she
being still as much attached to Ewan as any of them.

"The next day, towards evening, a vessel approached as from the coast of
Skye, and came into Pool-ewe, where she cast anchor, and a boat came to-
wards the shore. Kenet and Flora went down, hand in hand, to ask for a
passage to the islands, old Oighrig remaining on the top of the promontory,
with the boy, the goats, and the stuff, until the two returned to help her to re-
move them. But never, till the barge's prow was within iialf a stone-cast of
the land, did Kenet and Flora know or suspect that this was a party of Lord
Downan's men, sent for the express purpose of preventing their escape; while
another party, with the sloth-hounds, were behind them. The two took to
their heels and fled like two deers taken by surprise; but the roughness of the
ground entangled the maiden; they were soon overt. ikcn, seized, and carried
to the vessel, with loud rejoicings of the crew for their instant success; but,
oh ! what a grievous scene it was to the two captives, as well as to Oighrig
and little Ewan, to be separated from them and know not to what quarter of
the world they were taken. Flora's distress it is impossible to describe; she
wept incessantly, and called on the name of the boy; and had Lord Downan
been there, he doubtless, would have caused his men to ruturn for Oighrig and
the boy; but as their lord's great an.xiety seemed to be the attainment of the

EWEN M'GABHAR. 135

young lady and his disingenuous forester, the men returned with their prize,
looking for nothing further.

" Oighrig, aUogether forlorn and destitute, wist not what to do. She thought
of returning to her cot, but, with her baggage, was not able ; neither had she
any mode of subsistence when there. All places were now alike to her, only
she wished to sail or to travel southward after her son and darling Flora.
Some of her poor clansmen on the shore protected her and her little store,
consisting of three goats, three baskets, and a small locked chest or cage, in
which were the boy's sword, mantle, and some jewels, for several days ; and
at length they spoke a vessel, which promised to take tliem to Castle Downan,
where Oighrig was sure she would hear some news of her t^on, cither good or
bad. But, whether by chance or design, certain it is they took the hapless pair
into the country of a great chief, plunderer, and freebooter, called Colin
Gillespick.

" Oighrig and Ewan, with their little store, were taken by the captain of the
vessel, and deposited in one of his out-houses, with their three goats ; but
before he left them he searched all their baggage ; and what was his astonish-
ment when he found the scarlet velvet mantle of state, all fringed and bound
with pure gold, and the sword with a handle of gold and ivory, and some mystic
characters on it ! The captain then adjured Oighrig to tell him who this boy
was ; and she for herself having no secret to keep, told him all — that he was
the king's son, and that she found him in a cave with that same old goat nursing
him.

" The man was amazed, as may well be supposed. He made straight to
his chief, Colin More, with the story and the trophies, who was no less amazed
than he ; and being certain that he had a great prize in his powder, he lost no
time in providing liberally for the boy. He placed Oighrig in a little hut
beside his castle, provided well for her goats, and gave her a cow ; and Ewan
he took into his own family, and brought him up \vilh his own sons in all tiie
liberal and warlike arts, with liberty to visit his old protectress daily.

" But, as the proverb goes, ' blood is thicker than water.' Oighrig grew
restless and impatient to learn something of the fate of her own son Kenct ;
and finding that the great Colin disapproved of it, for fear of the secret of the
illustrious boy being discovered to a rival chief who appeared to have prior
claims, the poor old matron decamped by herself ; and what became of her,
or whether she reached Castle Downan or not, tradition has brought down no
record.

" But young Ewan, in the mean time, grew in strength and in favour with
all. There was none who could match him in warlike exercises, though these
were practised every day at the castle of Colin.

"A great and bloody war now commenced between Colin More and the
king of the country that should have been Ewan's own, of which he knew
nothing. Lord Downan was joined with Colin More in this great enterprise,
which they hoped to accomplish easily, a (|ueen (lady) only being at the head
, of the enemy's affairs. They took one whole kingdom from her, which they
plundered and burned (probably Mull) ; and then, proceeding to the main
kingdom with a lleet under which the ocean groaned, they went into a long
bay which winded twenty miles into the country, and there they landed 20,000
men, who immediately began to burn and plunder, without opposition.

"At night, the chiefs and a few followers went to their ships for the night,
as a safe and comfortable retreat. Their army was encamped at from ten to
twenty miles distance, having seen no appearance of a foe. But before day-
break the chiefs and their attendants got a disagreeable wakening by the lady's
captains, who had come c(uietly up the loch by night, and enclosed the licet of
their enemies with few on board to defend it. The conquest was easy. They
boarded, ;ind took every man of liicm prisoners, not above twenty being slain
in a fruitless attempt at defence. Colin More was taken, with two of his sons
and Ewan M'Gabhar. Lord Downan also, and three of his brothers, with
sixty gentlemen besides, were made prisoner". The k.nd forces were allackcd

136 THE ETTRfCK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

at the same time, and, though taken by surprise, they defended themselves
stoutly, retreating towanis their ships. Klost of their captains were slain ; and
when the rctreaters reached the head of the bay, expecting encouragement
and aid from their chiefs, they were saluted with the hurras of their enemies.
They had no more power ; they were pursued and slaughtered like sheep, and
those who escaped were hunted from day to day, till few of all that puissant
army were Icfl alive.

" When the orders came from the Scottish court for the prosecution of this
war, and the great clans began to arise, Ewan was all fire and eagerness for
the glorious enterprise, having got the command of a thousand men. During
the bustle one morning, a Highlander came to him, and proffered himself as
his page. He was of middle age, rather small of stature, and not like a form
calculated for the battle-field, which Ewan told him by way of rejection. But
every subsequent day the young hero found this page in waiting, and ready to
assist with everything, whether called or not ; so that he soon contrived to
establish himself in the good graces of his master, who felt his services and
manner peculiarly agreeable to him, and finally he gave hi;a the charge of
making up his baggage and attending to it.

" The nobles and chiel's were conducted prisoners before that gallant and
ruthless queen. They found her seated on high beneath a canopy of ermine,
supported by great numbers of her chiefs and kinsmen. She arose, and made
a long and vehement speech to them, accusing them as the slaves of a tyrant,
and of having persecuted, hunted, and destroyed every remnant of her royal
race ; but she said that now the judgment of heaven had overtaken them, and
her word was, Vengeance for vengeance !

" She then gave orders that the next morning, beginning at nine of the clock,
the whole of the prisoners should be brought again into her presence, and
hanged by sevens at a time, beginning with the youngest, that the fathers
might have the pleasure of beholding the dying throes of their sons, and that
the old men should be reserved for the last.

" Her guards and executioners were then ordered to begin, who, selecting
the seven youngest, led them across the court to make their obeisance to the
queen before they were hung up. No sooner had they made their appearance
than the queen's hands began to move slowly upwards, her colour went and
came, her bosom palpitated, her lips quivered, and at length she shrieked out,
* O God of heaven ! what do I see ? Stop the execution — stop ! ' and down
she fell in a swoon. Her maids came to her assistance, and now a hundred
shouts rent the air — ' A M'Olaw More ! a M'Olaw More ! ' (a son of Olavv the
Great) — and instantly all the queen's chiefs and kinsmen were kneeling around
one of the condemned prisoners. This was a tall, goodly, and graceful youth,
who approached at the head of the other six, clothed in his father's scarlet
robe of state, and his ancient sword of state by his side. It was Ewan.
There was no mistaking his identity by any one who had seen his father in the
days of his prosperity and glory. His mother's heart at once acknowledged
her son ; and ere our young hero could comprehend what was in the wind,
his hands were loosed, and he was borne on the arms of kinsmen, seated on
his father's throne, and acknowledged as sole lord and governor of the country ;
while the shouts of ' A M'Olaw More ! ' still increased, till all the rocks round
the castle of Dunskaigh rang, and the firmament was rent.

"This great noise and hubbub brought the queen to herself, who again
mounted the temporary throne. ' Give place, young stranger 1' cried she : I
yield not the throne of my husband's ancient house on the shallow ground of
a mere personal likeness, with those of a pilfered robe and sword. That you
are my husband's son my own heart tells me ; but my own son you cannot be,
for my child, my beloved Ewan, was foully murdered in his bed by hired ruf-
fians and conspirators, whom I had blindly trusted ; and with his innocent
life the last lineal heir of the great M'Olaw perished. Therefore declare your
lineage and your name, or dare not to approach this honoured and dangerous
seat !' And, saying this, she again seated herself on the regal chair.

EWEN M'GABHAR. 137

" Madam, I was hurried, I know not why, from the foot of the gallows to
that dignified chair/ said he, ' to which I claim no pretensions. I am called
Ewan M'Gabhar. Of my linenge I know nothing, nor is there any one here
who can prove it. My lot has been a strange one ; but 1 know, from one who
has long been lost, that this robe and that sword were my father's.'

" The assembled crowd once more began to shout. ' A M'Olaw More !' Hut
the queen ordered silence, and declared that though lier senses convinced her
of the truth that the youth was a son of M'Olaw, yet unless he was her own
son, he could not be the heir of his father, and no illegitimate should ever
sway that ancient sceptre.

" A lady clothed in dark silk was now admitted, who, kneeling at the queen's
knee, said, in a vehement voice, so loud that all the vassals might hear,
* Madam, 1 appear as an important witness here to-day. 1 am Flora — your
own youngest sister Flora ! and that gallant youth who stands by your side
is your own son Ewan, the only surviving son of the great M'Olaw.'

"The queen then embraced her son and sister alternately, and placed
Ewan on his fathers throne amid the most extravagant shouts of approbation.
Flora then related, in their hearing, how that love had whispered to her that
the conspirators were in the castle who had undertaken, for a great bribe, to
murder at night that last remaining stem of a dangerous house ; and how she
gave up her bed to the wife and child of one of the conspirators, whose cruel
deaths satisfied the ruffians and procured them their reward, while at the same
time it prevented any pursuit or subsequent search after Flora and her precious
charge ; though of that circumstance she remained long ignorant, which kept
her in great alarm. The rest of her story has already been related, saving the
last scene. When she heard that Ewan was going to engage in that unnatural
and exterminating war against his mother and kinsmen, she left her husband
and family, and, in the habit of a page, had accompanied her young hero on
the enterprise. She had taken care to bring the precious proofs along with
her, and, as a page, her own hands had arrayed him in the very mode in which
his father was wont to wear them, certain of the effect.

" Ewan's first act of authority was to go and loose all his condemned asso-
ciates with his own hands. Their joy and astonishment may well be conceived.
He entertained them gallantly at his castle for many days, and there a friendly
league was framed, which has preserved the peace and tranquillity of those
realms to this day. Ewan afterwards married Mary, Lord Downan's youngest
daughter, and by his bravery and policy greatly increased the dominions of
that potent house ; so that the old prophecy relating to the ' son of the goat,'
was literally fulfilled."

THE

BRIDAL OF POLMOOD:

A TALE OF THE TIMES OF THE STUARTS.

CHAPTER L
Norman Hunter of Polmood, the ninth of that name, and chief forester to
the king of Scotland in all those parts, was a gentleman of high courage and
benevolence, much respected by his Majesty, and all the nobles of the court
who frequented the forests of Frood and Meggat-dale for the purpose of
hunting. He had repeatedly entertained the king himself at his little castle
of Polmood ; and during the harvest months, while the king remained at his
hunting seat of Crawmelt, Norman of Polmood was never absent from his
side ; for besides his other qualifications, he was the best marksman then in
Scotland; and so well could his eye have measured distances, tliat when the

138 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

deer was running at full speed, and the arrows of all the courtiers flying like
metecii 3, some this way, and some that, whenever Polmood's arrow reached
its destination, she was seen to founder.

While the king and his nobles were enjoying the chase on Meggat-dale and
the mountains of the Lowes, the queen, with her attendants, remained at the
castle of Nidpath, where his Majesty went to visit her once a week ; but
when the weather was fine, and the mountains of the forest clear, the queen
and her maidens frequently made excursions to the hunting quarters, and
spent a few days in diversions with the king and his nobles.

It was during one of those excursions, that the laird of Polmood fell
desperately in love with one of the queen's maidens, a very young lady, and
supposed to have been the greatest beauty of her time. Her name was
Elizabeth Manners ; she was of English extraction ; having followed the
queen of Scots from her native home when only a little girl. Many of the
young courtiers admired the glow of her opening charms, which were every
day ripening into new beauties ; and some of them were beginning to tease
and (latter her ; but she being an orphan from a strange cour.'.ry, destitute of
titles or inheritance, and dependent on the bounty of the queen, by whom she
was greatly beloved, none of them had the generosity to ask her in marriage.
The principal of these her admirers were the young Baron Carmichael, and
the Duke of Rothesay, brother to the king. They were both goodly knights.
Carmichael admired and loved her with all his heart ; but diffidence, or want
of opportunity, had prevented him from making his sentiments known to her,
otherwise than by his looks, which he had always flattered himself were
returned in a way that bespoke congeniality of feeling. As for Rothesay, he
had no other design than that of gaining her for his mistress, a scheme on
which his heart had for some time been ardently intent. But no sooner had
Norman of Polmood seen her, than he fell violently in love with her, and
shortly after asked her of the king and queen in marriage. Polmood being
at that time a man of no small consequence, both with regard to possessions
and respectability, the royal pair, judging this to be a good offer, and an
advantageous settlement for their beauteous ward, approved readily of the
match, provided that he gained the young lady's consent. The enamoured
forester, having so successfully started his game, lost no time /// the chase j
and by the most determined perseverance, to use his own expression, he ran
her down in the course of one week. He opened his proposals in presence
of the king and queen, and encouraged by their approbation, pressed his suit
so effectually, that the young Elizabeth, not being able to offer any plausible
reason why she could not consent, and weening that it would be bad manners
to give a disinterested lover an absolute refusal, heard him at first in thoughtful
silence, and in a few days finally acquiesced, though Polmood was consider-
ably past the bloom of youth.

Every young lady is taught to consider marriage as the great and ultimate
end of her life. It is that to which she looks forward for happiness, and in
which she hopes to rival or excel her associates ; and even the first to be
married in a family, or court, is a matter of no small consideration. These
circumstances plead eloquently in favour of the first lover who makes the
dear proposal. The female heart is naturally kind and generous — it feels its
own weakness, and its inability to encounter singly the snares and troubles of
life; and in short, that it must lean upon another, in order to enjoy the de-
lights most congenial to its natural feelings, and the emanation of those
tender affections, in the exercise of which the enjoyments of the female mind
chiefly consist. It is thus that the hearts of many young women become by
degrees irrevocably fixed on those whom they were formerly wont to regard
with the utmost indifference, if not with contempt ; merely from a latent
principle of generosity existing in the origin;il fr.ime of their nature ; a prin-
ciple which is absolutely necessary towards the proper balancing of our
respective rights and pleasures, as well as the regulation of the conduct of
either sex to the other.

THE BRIDAL OF POLMOOD. 139

It will readily be conjectured, that it was the power of this principle over
the heart of young Elizabeth, that caused her to accept with such apparent
condescension, the proposal of marriage made to her by the laird of I'ohnoud ;
and this, without doubt, influenced her conduct in part ; but it was only to
her mind like the rosy streaks of the morning, that vanish before a brighter
day. From the second day after the subject was first proposed to her, Pol-
mood was of all things the least in her mind. She thought of nothing but
the gaiety and splendour of her approaching nuptials, and the deference and
respect that would be paid by all ranks to the lovely bride, and of the mighty
conquest that she was about to have over all her titled court associates, every
one of whom she was told by the queen would have been blithe to have been
the wife of Polmood. Elizabeth had been brought up an eye witness to the
splendour of a court, and learned to emulate, with passionate fondness, every
])ersonaI qualification, and every ornament of dress, which she had there so
often seen admired or envied. Her heart was as yet a stranger to the tender
passion. If she felt an impatience for any thing, she knew not what it was,
but believed it to be the attainment of finery and state ; having never
previously set her heart upon anything else, she thought the void which she
began to feel in her heart, was in consequence of such privations. Of course
her bridal ornaments — the brilliant appearance she would make in them — the
distinguished part that she was to act in the approaching festivity — her uncon-
tested right of taking place of all those court ladies, to whom she had so long
stooped, and even of the queen herself^the honour of leading the dance in
the hall and on the green, as well as the procession to the chapel of St. Mary
of the Lowes, and the more distant one to the shrine of St. Bothans, — these
gay phantoms wrought so powerfully upon the mind of the fair Elizabeth,
that it eagerly set aside all intervening obstacles which placed themselves
in array before the wedding, and the tract beyond it vanished from lier
mind's eye, or only attracted it occasionally by a transient meteor ray, which
like the rainbow, retired when she approached it, refusing a nearer inspection,

Polmood became every day more and more enamoured of his betrothed
bride ; and indeed, though she was little more than arrived at woman's estate,
it was impossible to converse with her without considering her as a model of
all that was lovely and desirable in women. She played upon the lute, and
sung so exquisitely, that she ravished the hearts of those that heard her ; and
it is even reported, that she could chai)n the wild beasts and birds of the
forest to gather around her at even-tide. Her air and countenance were full
of grace, and her form displayed the most elegant symmetry. Her colour
outvied the lily and the damask rose ; and the amel of her eye, when she
smiled, it was impossible to look steadfastly on.

Instead of any interchange of fond endearments, or any inquiries about
the mode of life they were in future to lead, in all their short conversa-
tions, she only teased Polmood about such and such articles of dress and
necessary equipage, and with proposals for plans of festivity and pleasure of
such a nature as had never before entered our forester's head. He however
yielded to everything with cheerful complacency, telling her, that, as she had
been bred at court, and understood all those matters, and as the king and
court were to be their guests on that occasion, everything should be provided
and executed according to her directions. He would then kiss her hand in
the most warm and affectionate manner, while she would in return take her
leave with a courtesy, and smile so bewitchingly, that Polmood's heart was
literally melted with feelings of soft delight, and he congratulated himself as
the happiest of men. At one time, in the height of his ardour, he attempted
to kiss iier lips, but was astonished at seeing her shrink involuntarily from his
embrace, as if he had been a beast of prey ; but as she instantly recovered
her gaiety, this was no more thought of, and everything went on as usual

140 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

CHAPTER II.
When the news came to the courtiers' ears, that EHzabeth was instantly to
be given away by the Icin;^, into the arms of Polmood, they were all a httle
startled. For even those who had never deigned to take any particular
notice of her, could not bear the thought of seeing such a flower cropped by
the hand of a country baron, and removed from their circle for ever. Even
the lords who had spouses of their own were heard to say, " that they wished
her well, and should rejoice at seeing her married, if it turned out conducive
to her happiness ; but that indeed they should have been glad of her company
for a few years longer, for, upon the whole, Polmood could not have taken
one from them who would be as much missed." These remarks drew the
most sharp retorts from their ladies. They wondered what some people saw
about some people — there were some people in the world who were good for
nothing but making a Hash, and there were others so silly as to admue those
people. Happy at getting quit of so formidable a rival, the news of her
approaching marriage were welcome news to them— they tossed up their
heads, and said, " it was the luckiest occurrence that could have happened to
her ; there was no time to lose. — If Polmood had not taken her from the
court in that manner, possibly no other would, and she would in all probability
soon have left it in some other way — there were some who knew, and some
who did not know about those things."

Alexander, duke of Rothesay, was not at that time along with the court,
though he arrived shortly after, else it is conjectured that his violent and
enterprising spirit would never have suffered the match to go on. Having
had abundance of opportunities, he had frequently flattered and teased
Elizabeth, and from her condescending, and, as he judged, easy disposition,
he entertained no doubts of gaining his dishonourable purpose. Young
Carmichael was with the king ; and when he was told, that in a few days his
dear Elizabeth was to be given in marriage to his kinsman Polmood, together
with the lands of Fingland, Glenbreck, and Kingledoors, as her dowry, it is
impossible to describe his sensations. He was pierced to the heart, and
actually lost for a time all sense of feeling, and power of motion. On
recovering a little, he betook himself to the thickest part of the wood, in order
to ponder on the best means of preventing this marriage. Elizabeth had
before appeared to his eyes a gem of the hrst water ; but when he heard of
the sovereign's favour, and of the jointure lands, which lay contiguous to his
own, he then saw too late the value of the jewel he was about to lose. He
resolved and re-resolved — formed a thousand desperate schemes, and aban-
doned them again, as soon as suggested, for others more absurd. From this
turmoil of passion and contrivance, he hastened to seek Elizabeth ; she was
constantly surrounded by the queen and the court ladies ; and besides,
Polmood was never from her side ; therefore, though Carmichael watched
every moment, he could not once find an opportunity of imparting his
sentiments to her in private, until the very day previous to that which was
fi.xed for the marriage ceremony. About noon that day, he observed her steal
privately into the linn, to wash her hands and feet in the brook— sure such
hands and such feet were never before, nor since that time, bathed in the
Crawmelt burn ! — Thither Carmichael followed her, trembling with pertur-
bation ; and, after begging pardon for his rude intnision, with the tear rolling
in his eye, he declared his passion in the most ardent and moving terms, and
concluded by assuring her, that without her it was impossible for him to
enjoy any more comfort in this world. The volatile and unconscionable
Elizabeth, judging this to be matter of fact, and a very hard case, after eyeing
him from head to foot, observed carelessly, that if he got the king's consent,
and would marry her to-morrow, she had no objection. Or, if he chose
to ( arry her off privately that night, she hinted, that she was willing to
accompany him. " Either of those modes, my dear JClizabeth," said he, "is
utterly impossible. The king cannot and will not revoke his iigrcement with

THE BRIDAL OF POLMOOD. 141

Polmood ; and were it possible to cairy you away privately to-night, which it
is not : to do so in open defiance of my sovereign, would infallibly procure me
the distinguished honour of losing my head in a few days ; but you have
everything in your power. Cannot you on some pretence or other delay the
wedding ? and I promise to make you my own wife, and lady of my extensive
domains, as soon as circumstances will permit." Elizabeth turned up her
blue eyes, and fixed them on the summit of the dark Clokmore, in a kind of
uneasy reverie ; she did not like that permission 0/ circumstances — the term
was rather indelinite, and sounded like something at a distance. Upon the
whole, the construction of the sentence was a most unfortunate one for
Carmichael. The wedding had taken such absolute possession of Elizabeth's
mind, that she thought of nothing else. The ardent manner and manly
beauty of Carmichael had for a moment struggled for a participation in the
movements of her heart, which even in its then fluctuating state never lost its
hold of the favourite object. But the mentioning of the wedding brought all
the cherished train of delightful images with it at once ; nor could she connect
it along with that hated word delay — a verb which, of our whole vocabulary, is
the most repugnant to every sense and feeling of woman. The wedding
could not be delayed ! — All was in readiness, and such an opportunity of
attracting notice and admiration might never again occur; it was a most
repulsive idea ; the wedding could not be delayed ! Such were the fancies
that glanced on Elizabeths mind during the time that she sat with her feet
in the stream, and her lovely eyes fixed on the verge of the mountain. Then
turning them softly on Carmichael, who waited her decision in breathless
impatience, she drew her feet from the brook, and retiring abruptly, said with
considerable emphasis, " I wish you had either spoken of this sooner or not
at all."

Carmichael was left standing by himself in the linn like a statue ; regret
preying on his heart, and that heart the abode of distraction and suspense.
The voice of mirth, and the bustle of preparation, soon extinguished in the
mind of Elizabeth any anxiety which her late conversation had excited there ;
but the case was widely different with regard to Carmichael. The lady's
visible indifference for Polmood, in preference to any other man, while it
somewhat astonished him, left him assured that her affections were yet
unengaged ; and the possession of her maiden heart appeared now to him an
attainment of such inestimable value, that all other earthly things faded from
the comparison. The equivocal answer with which she had left him, puzzled
him most of all ; he could gather nothing from it unfavourable to himself, but
to his hopes, everything, as she went away, seemingly determined to follow
the path chalked out to her by her royal guardians. He stalked up the glen,
at every two or three steps repeating these words, '' 1 wish you had mentioned
this sooner or not at all." He could at first decide upon nothing, for his
ideas were all in confusion, and the business was of so delicate a nature that
he durst not break it to any of the courtiers ; the resolutions which he at last
came to were therefore of a hasty and desperate nature ; but what will not
love urge a man to encounter.

On his return to the castle, he found orders had been given, to spend the
remainder of the day in such sports as in that country they were able to prac-
tise, by way of celebrating the bridal eve. They first had a round of tilting at
the ring, from which King James himself came off victorious, owing, as was
said, to the goodness of his charger. Polmood's horse was very untractable,
and when it came to his turn to engage with Carmichael, the latter unhorsed
him in a very rough and ungracious manner. Polmood said he was nothing
hurt ; but when he rose, the ladies being all on-lookcrs, his check was burning
with vexation and anger. There were no plaudits of approbation from the
ring, as Carmichael expected there would be, for all the company wccnctl that
he had acted rather unhandsomely. He, however, won tlie race fairly, timugh
there were nine lords and knights started for the prize, and held him at very
haril play Marr, in particular, kej)l bO stoutly by his side, that in tlie end hi"

142 THE ETTRICK SHErHEKDS TALES.

lost only by one step. When Caimichael received the prize from the fair hand
of Elizabeth, he kissed it, pressed it hard, and, with a speaking eye, pointed
to a pass among the mountains of the forest, pronouncing at the same time in
a low whisper, the words, "to-night.'" Elizal^eth courtscyed smiling, but in so
easy and careless a manner, that he doubted much if she comprehended his
meaning.

The sports went on. A number were by this time stripped in order to
throw the mall. Each candidate was to have three throws. When the
rounds were nearly exhausted, his Majesty continued foremost by a foot only ;
but Carmichacl, by his last throw, broke ground a few inches before his mark.
It was then prt)claimed, that, if there were no more competitors, Carmichael
had gained tiie prize.

Polmood had declined engaging in the race, though strongly urged to it.
He had taken some umbrage at the manner in which Carmichael had used
him in the tournament. He likewise refused to enter the lists on this occa-
sion ; but when he saw the king beat by Carmichael, and that the latter was
about to be proclaimed victor a second time, his blood warmed — he laid hold
of the mall — retired in haste to the footing post, and threw it with such
violence that he missed his aim. The mall took a direction exactly on a right
angle from the line he intended ; flew over the heads of one-half of the spec-
tators, and plunged into the river, after having soared to an immense height.
The incensed forester, having, at the same time, by reason of his exertion,
fallen headlong on the ground, the laughing and shouting were so loud that
the hills rang again, while some called out to measure the altitude, for that
the bridegroom had won. He soon recovered the mall ; came again to the
footing post ; threw oft' his blue bonnet ; and, with a face redder than crim-
son, tlung it a second time with such inconceivable force, that, to the astonish-
ment of all the beholders, it went about one-third further than any of the rest
had cast it. Polmood was then proclaimed the victor with loud and reiterated
shouts. His heart was a prey to every passion in its fiercest extreme. If he
was affronted before, he was no less overwhelmed with pleasure when pre-
sented with the prize of honour by his adorable Elizabeth.

But here a ridiculous circumstance occurred, which however it is necessary
to relate, as it is in some measure connected with the following events.

The gray stone on which Queen Margaret and the beautiful Elizabeth sat,
during the celebration of those games, is still to be seen at the bottom of the
hill, a small distance to the eastward of the old castle of Crawmelt. The
rest of the ladies, and such of the nobles as did not choose engaging in
those violent exercises, are said to have leaned on a bank below ; but the
situation which the queen and the bride held, fairly overlooked the field where
the sports were. For lack of a better seat, on this stone was placed a small
pannel or sack filled with straw. Now it so happened, that the prize for the
victor in this exercise, was a love knot of scarlet ribbon, and two beautiful
plumes, which branched out like the horns of a deer. When Polmood went
up to receive the prize from the hands of his betrothed and adoi-ed bride, she,
in a most becoming manner, took his blue bonnet from his hand, and fixing
the knot and the plumes upon it, in a most showy and tasteful mode, placecl
it upon his head. Polmood, in the most courtly style he was master of, then
kissed her hand, bowed to the queen, and placed Elizabeth by her side on the
seat of straw. But when he faced about, the appearance which he made
struck every one so forcibly, that the whole company, both men and women,
burst out into a roar of laughter ; and Carmichael, in Avhose heart a latent
gmdge was still gaining ground, valuing himself upon his wit, cried out, " It
is rather a singular coincidence, Polmood, that you should place Elizabeth
upon the straw, and she a pair of horns on your head, at the same instant."
The laugh was redoubled— Polmood's cheek burned to the bone. He could
noi for shame tear off the ornaments which his darling had so lovingly and so
recently placed in his bonnet, but he turned them to one side, at which the
laugh was renewed. He was any thing Ixit pleased at Carmichael.

THE BRIDAL OF POLMOOD. 143

CHAPTER III.
The next trial of skill was that of shooting at a mark ; but in this the com-
petition was of no avail. Polmood struck the circle in the middle of the
board each time with so much exactness, that they were all utterly astonished
at his dexterity, and unanimously yielded him the prize. It was a silver
arrow, which he also received from the hands of Elizabeth. Carmichael,
having been successful in his former philippic, took occasion to break some
other jests on that occasion, too coarse to be here repeated, although they
were not in those days considered as any breach of good manners.

Sixteen then stripped themselves to try their skill in wrestling, and it having
been enacted as a law, that he who won in any one contest, was obliged to
begin the next, Polmood was of course one of the number. They all engaged
at once, by two and two, and eight of them having been overthrown, the other
eight next engaged by two and two, and four of these being cast, two couples
only remained.

Some of the nobles engaged were so expert at the exercise, and opposed to
others so equal in strength and agility, that the contests were exceedingly equal
and amusing. Some of them could not be cast until completely out of breath.
It had always been observed, however, that Polmood and Carmichael threw
their opponents with so much ease, that it appeared doubtful whether these
opponents were serious in their exertions, or only making a sham wrestle ;
but when it turned out that they two stood the last, all were convinced that
they were superior to the rest either in strength or skill. This was the last
prize on the field, and on the last throw for that prize the victory of the day
depended, which each of the two champions was alike vehemently bent to
reave from the grasp of the other. They eyed each other with looks askance,
and with visible tokens of jealousy ; rested for a minute or two, wiped their
brows, and then closed. Carmichael was extremely hard to please of his hold,
and caused his antagonist to loose his grip three or four times, and change his
position. Polmood was however highly complaisant, although it appeared to
every one beside, that Carmichael meant to take him at a disadvantage. At
length they fell quiet; set their joints steadily, and began to move in a circular
direction, watching each other's motions with great care. Carmichael ven-
tured the first trip, and struck Polmood on the left heel with considerable
dexterity. It never moved him ; but in returning it, he forced in Carmichael's
back with such a squeeze, that the by-standers affn-med they heard his ribs
crash ; whipped him lightly up in his arms, and threw him upon the ground
with great violence, but seemingly with as much ease as if he had been a boy.
The ladies screamed, and even the rest of the nobles doubted if the knight
would rise again. He however jumped lightly up, and pretended to
smile; but the words he uttered were scarcely articulate ; his feelings at that
moment may be better conceived than expressed. A squire who waited the
king's commands then proclaimed Norman Hunter of Polmood the victor of
the day, and consequently entitled, in all sporting parties, to take his place
next to the king, until by other competitors deprived of that prerogative. This
distinction pleased Elizabeth more than any thing she had yet seen or heard
about her intended husband, and she began to regard him as a superior char-
acter, and one whom others were likely to value. The ruling passions of her
heart seem to have been hitherto levelled only to the attainment of admiration
and distinction, an early foible of the sex, but though a foible, one that leads
oftener to good than evil. For when a young female is placed in a circle of
acquaintances who know how to estimate the qualities of the heart, the graces
of a modest deportment and endearing address, how then does this ardent
and amiable desire of rendering herself agreeable stimulate to exertions in the
way of goodness ! But, on the contrary, when she is reared in a circle, where
splendour is regarded as the badge of superiority, and title as the compendium
of distinction, it is then, as in the case of the beauteous Elizabeth, that this
inherent principle " leads to bewilder and dazzles to bliml." I lie (lowers of

144 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

the forest and garden are not more indicative of the different soils that pro-
duce them, than the mind of a young woman is of the company she keeps.
It takes its impressions as easily and as tnic as the wax does from the seal,
if these impressions are made while it is heated by the fire of youth ; but
when that fire cools, the impressions remain, and good or bad remain indehble
for ever. A\'ith how much caution these impressions ought at first to be
made, let parents then consider, when on them depends, not only the happi-
ness or misery of the individual in this life, but in that which is to come ; and
when thousands of the same stock may be affected by them from generation
to generation.

\\hen I'olmood went up and received tlie final prize from the hand of
EHzabeth, she delivered it with a smile so gracious and so bewitching, that
his heart was almost quite overcome with delight ; some even aflirmed that
they saw the tears of joy trickling from his eyes. Indeed, his love was, from
the beginning, rather like a frenzy of the mind than a passion founded on
esteem, and the ciucen always remarked, that he loved too well to enjoy true
conjugal felicity.

When Carmichael perceived this flood of tenderness and endearment, his
bosom was ready to burst, and he tried once more to turn the laugh against
Polmood by cutting jests. The prize was a belt with seven silver buckles ;
and when he received it from Elizabeth, Carmichael cried out, that it was of
sufficient length to go about them both ; and that Polmood could not do
better than make the experiment ; and when he once had her buckled fairly
in, he would be wise to keep the hold he had, else they would not be one
flesh.

The sports of the evening were closed with a dance on the green, in which
the king and cjueen and aJl the nobles joined. The king's old harper was
then placed on the gray stone and the sack of straw, and acquitted himself
that evening so well, that his strains inspired a hilarity quite unusual. It
being so long since such a scene was seen in Scotland, scarcely will it now be
believed, that a king and queen, with the lords and ladies of a court, ever
danced on the green in the wild remote forest of Meggat-dale ; yet the fact is
well ascertained, if tradition can be in aught believed. Nay, the sprightly
tunes which the king so repeatedly called for that night, O'er the boggy, and
Cutty's wedding, remain, on that account, favourites to this day in that
country. Crawmelt was then the most favourite hunting retreat of the Scot-
tish court, on account of the excellent sport that its neighbourhood, both in
hunting and angling, afforded; and it continued to be the annual retreat of
royalty, until the days of the beauteous and unfortunate Queen Mary, who
was the last sovereign that visited the forest of Meggat, so long famed for the
numbers and fleetness of its deer.

James and EHzabeth led the ring, and the double octave that evening; and
so well did she acquit herself, that all who beheld her were delighted. Pol-
mood made but an indifferent figure in the dance. The field on which he
appeared to advantage was overpast, that of Elizabeth's excellence was only
commencing. She was dressed in a plain white rail ; her pale ringlets were
curled and arranged with great care, yet so, that all appeared perfectly natural.
Her movements were so graceful, and so easy, that they looked rather like
the motions of a fairy or some celestial being, than those of a mortal com-
posed of flesh and blood. The eyes of the nobles had certainly been dazzled
while they gazed at her, for they affirmed that they could not convince them-
selves that the grass bent beneath her toe. The next to her among the court
ladies, both in beauty and accomplishments, was unc Lady Ann Gray, a great
favourite with the king, and of whom it was supposed the queen had good
reason to have been jealous ; but she being a lady of an easy and unassuming
character, never showed any symptoms of suspicion. During the dance, how-
ever, it was apparent that the king's eyes were oftener fixed upon her than
either his partner or his queen. They continued tlieir frolics on the green till
after the setting of the sun and then, re'iring into the pavilion before the

THE BRIDAL OF POLMOOD. 145

castle, they seated themselves promiscuously in a circle, and drank lar;,'e
bumpers to the health of Polmood and Elizabeth, and to other appropriate
toasts given by the king ; the ladies sung — the lords commended them— and
all became one flow of music, mirth, and social glee.

Carmichael alone appeared at times absent and thoughtful, which by the
king, and all the rest, was attributed to the defeats he received in the spurts
of the day ; but his intents towards his kinsman Polmood were evil and
dangerous, and there was nothing he desired more than an occasion to chal-
lenge him, but no such occasion offering, as the mirth and noise still con-
tinued to increase, he slipped away to his chamber in the castle without being
missed. He lay down on his bed, dressed as he was, and gave himself up to
the most poignant and tormenting reflections. The manner in which he had
been baffled by Polmoud in the sports hung about his heart, gnawing it in
the most tender part, and much he feared that circumstance had lessened
him in the eyes of the young Elizabeth, and exalted his more fortunate rival.
Polmood had not only baffled and dishonoured him in presence of all the
court, but was moreover on the very eve of depriving him of one he believed
more dear to him than life— it was too much to be patiently borne. In short,
love, envy, revenge, and every passion of the soul were up in arms, exciting
him to counteract and baffle his rival, with regard to the possession of Eliza-
beth. The night was short, it was the last on which she was free, or could
with any degree of honour be taken possession of; that opportunity once lost,
and she was lost to him for ever. The result of all those reflections was, a
resolution to risk every thing, and rather to die than suffer himself to be
deprived of her without an effort.

CHAPTER IV.
The Castle of Crawmelt was fitted up in such a manner as to accommodate a
great number of lodgers. In the uppermost story were twelve little chambers,
all distinct from one another; and in each of these a bed laid with rushes, and
above these, by way of mattress, a bag filled with a kind of light feathery bent,
which they gathered on the hills in abundance, and which made a bed as soft as
one of down. When the queen and her attendants visited the hunting (|uarters
that floor was given wholly up by the gentlemen, who then slept in the
pavilion or secondary castle ; and each lady had a little chamber to herself,
but no curtains to their beds, nor any covering, save one pair of sheets and a
rug. The rushes were placed on the floor between a neat seat and the wall,
and this was all the furniture that each of these little chambers contained, the
beds being only intended for the accommodation of single individuals. The
king's chamber was on the second floor. In it there was a good bed, well
fitted up, and on the same flat were five other little chambers, in one of which
lay Carmichael, with his bosom in a ferment.

Shortly after his retreat from the pavilion, the queen and ladies, judging
from the noise which the wine had excited, that it was proper for them to re-
tire, bade the jolly party good-night. The king, the lord chamberlain, and a
few others having conveyed them to the bottom of the staircase, they com-
pelled them to return to the rest of the company in the tent, which they knew
they would gladly comply with, and proceeded in a body to their attic
story.

In the mean time, Carmichael, hearing their voices approach, began to
quake with anxiety; and placing his door a little open, he stood by it in such
a way that he could both see and hear them without being seen. When ihcy
arrived at the door of the king's apartment, which was hard by his own, tlicy
halted for a considerable time, giggling and speaking very freely of the gen-
tlemen they had just left; and at last when they offered to take leave of the
queen for the night, she said, that as his majesty seemed inclined to enjoy
himself for some time with his lords, she would leave him his apartment by
himself, that he might not be restrained in his mirth, nor have the opportunity
of disturbing her. Some of the others rallied licr, saying, if they liid \\\\i\\ a
1. 10

146 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

privilege, they would know better what use to make of it. She however went
up with the rest to one of the little chambers in the upper story.

rhtmgh Carmichael had taken pains previously to ascertain in which of the
chambers Elizabeth slept, he nevertheless followed quietly after them, and,
from a dark corner, saw her enter it. That was the decisive moment — he had
no resource left but to attempt an intcr\ icw; the adventure was attended with
imminent danger, both of bhame and disgrace, but he hoped that the ardour
of his passion would plead some excuse for his intrusion in the eyes of
Elizabeth.

Judging it necessary that he should surprise her before she undressed,
though not one of the other ladies was yet gone to sleep, he hfted the latch
softly, and entered behind her ; for there was not one of the chambers, save
the king's, that bolted on the inside. Elizabeth bore no similitude to a num-
ber of our ladies, who are so squeamish as to fall into fits when any thing sur-
prises or affects them. On the contrary, she was possessed of uncommon
calmness and equanimity of temper, which sometimes savoured not a little of
insensibility; and instead of being startled, and screaming out, when she saw
a knight enter her chamber at that time of night, she being busied in putting
up her ringlets, did not so much as discontinue her employment, but only re-
primanded him in a calm whisper for his temerity, and desired him to with-
draw instantly, without any further noise. But, falling on his knees, he seized
both her hands, and, in the most passionate manner, besccched her by all the
endearments of love, and by the estimation in which she held the life of one who
adored her, and who was willing to sacrifice his life for her, instantly to elope
with him, and become his through life, for good or for evil. " This is the last
and the most favourable moment," said he; "the ladies are gone to their
ch.imbers ; the king and nobles are drinking themselves drunk ; 1 know all
the passes of the forest; we shall easily elude them to-night ; if indeed we are
once missed, which I do not conceive we will. To-morrow perhaps we may
be able to reach a place of safety." Elizabeth was about to reply, but
he interrupted her. " Consider, my dearest Elizabeth," continued he, " before
you answer me finally ; consider that Polmood is nowise worthy of you ; his
years will outnumber yours three times," added he ; " his manners are blunt
and uncourtly; and it is well known that his estates, honours, and titles, can-
not once be compared with mine."

These were weighty considerations indeed. Elizabeth hesitated, and looked
him stedfastly in the face, while a ray of joyful anticipation seemed to play on
her lovely countenance. " It will make a great noise," said she ; " the ladies
will be terribly astonished." "Yes, my dear Elizabeth, they will be all aston-
ished indeed ; and some, without doubt will be highly displeased. But if we
can escape to the court of England, or France, until the first fury of the blast
is overblown, your kind god-mother, the queen will be happy to receive you
again into her arms and household, as Lady Hyndford." — That title sounded
charmingly in Elizabeth's ears — she smiled — Carmichael, obser\'ing it, pursued
the theme. " Consider," continued he, " which of the two titles is most likely
to command respect at court — the plain, common, vulgar designation. Dame
Elizabeth Hunter of Polmood; or, Lady Carmichael of Hyndford.' — The right
honourable Countess of Hyndford.'" It was all over with Polmood — Elizabeth
uttered a sigh of impatience — repealed the title three or four times to herself,
and forthwith asked what course he proposed for their procedure. " Come
directly with me to my chamber," said he ; "1 will furnish you with a suit of
my clothes— I have a couple of good horses and a trusty squire in readiness
- -we shall pass the steps of (ilendearg before the rising of the sun, and
disappoint Polmood, the king, and all his court, of a wedding for once." —
" Wedding ! — Disappoint the king and all his court of a wedding for once ! "
— unfortunate and rash ex[)rKssion ! — It had no business there. The term wed-
ding was itself enough and too much. It glanced on Elizabeth's mind like
electricity, and came not alone, but with all its concatenation of delights. " We
shall have no wedding then ? " said slie, — " Perhaps we may contrive to hav<

THE BRIDAL OF POLMOOD. 147

one by and by," said Carmichael. Elizabeth sighed deeply, and rcbtcd her
rosy cheek upon her left shoulder, while the pressure of her chin dimpled the
polish of her fair breast.

Whether she was at that time balancing the merits of each side of the alter-
native which she had in her offer has never yet been thoroughly ascertained ;
for at that instant they were alarmed by hearing the king tapping at some of
the adjoining chamber doors, and asking who slept in each of them ; and
besides, adding inquiries, in which of them he would tind Elizabeth. The
door of the apartment in which they stood not being quite close, they were
greatly alarmed, as they knew not what was the matter, but, as they had good
reason, dreaded the worst — The light and the footsteps were fast approaching;
there was not a moment to lose ; and if Elizabeth had not been more alert
than her lover, they would certainly have been caught in that questionable con-
dition. L)Ut the mind of woman is ever fruitful in expedients. It is wonder-
ful to behold with what readiness they will often avert the most sudden and
fatal surprises, even before the other sex have leisure to think of their danger.
With regard to all love alfairs, in particular, if a woman does not fall upon
some shift to elude discovery, the e.xigencies are desperate indeed. This in-
ventive faculty of the fair sex, which is so manifest on all sudden emergencies,
is most kindly bestowed by the Creator of the universe and of man. The more
we contemplate any of his works, whether these works are displayed in the
productions of nature, or the formation of the human soul, the more will we
be satisfied of his kind intentions towards all his creatures, of his regards for
their happiness, and the provisions he has made for their various natures and
habits. The most pure and delicate vesture under heaven, nay the virgin
snow itself, is not more easily sullied than female reputation; and when once
it is sullied, where is the fountain that will ever wa,sh out the stain ? In pro-
portion with the liability of censure to which they are exposed, and the
dangerous effects of that censure on their future respectability and moral con-
duct, is bestowed that superior readiness and activity in managing all the little
movements and contingents of life. If it were not for this inventive faculty,
many thousands of female characters would be ruined in the eyes of the world,
that are fair and unblameable, and which this alone enables the lovely wanderer
among snares and toils, to preserve without blemish, till the dangerous era of
youth and inexperience is overpast.

There being, as was observed, not a moment to lose, so neither was there
a moment lost, from the time that Elizabeth was fully apprized of the danger
to which they were both exposed. She flung off her rail, uncovered her
bosom, and extinguished the light in her chamber, all ere Carmichael could
once move from the spot. Determined to make one effort for the preservation
of her honour, and the life of a lover who, at all events, had treated her with
respect, she placed herself close behind the door, awaiting the event with
firmness and resolution. But here we must leave them for a few minutes, till
we explain the cause of this indecorous invasion.

CHAPTER V.

The party that conveyed the queen and her ladies from the pavilion to the
castle, on the way to their chambers, having returned to the rest, they all, at
the king's request, joined in drinking a bumper to the bride's health. I'ol-
mood, in return, proposed one to the queen, which was likewise drunk off;
the health of all the ladies was next drunk, and afterwards several of them by
name, and amongst others the beautiful Madam Gray. By that time the most
steady amongst them all were affected by the funics of the wine, and some of
them were becoming considerably drunk. The battles of the bygone day, in
their various sports, were all fought over again, and every man was stouter
and swifter in his own estimation than his compeers. Many bets were offered,
and as readily accepted, without ever being more thought of ; even llie lurtl
Chamberlain Hume, who was by no means a strong man, piotlcied to wrestle
with Tolmood for 1000 meiks. 'he latter paid little attention to all these

148 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

rhodomontades, having entered into a close and humorous argument with his
Majesty, who was rallying him most unmercifully about his young wife ; and
who at length, turning to him with a serious countenance, " Polmood," said
he, "you have forgot one particularly important and necessary ceremony, and
one which, as far as I know, has never been dispensed with in this realm. It
is that of asking the bride, at parting with her on the bridal eve, if she had
not rued. Many a bridegroom has been obliged to travel far for that very
purpose, and why should you neglect it when living under the same roof."
Polmood acknowledged the justice of the accusation ; and likewise the fact
that such a custom was prevalent ; but excused himself on the grounds, that
if she had relented, she had plenty of opportunities to have told him so. His
.Majesty, however, persisted in maintaining, that it was an omission of a most
serious nature, and one that gave her full liberty to deny him to-morrow even
befurc the priest, which would prove an awkward business ; and that therefore
he ought, in conformity to the good old custom, to go and ask the question
even though the lady was in bed. Polmood objected to this on account that
it was a manifest breach of decorum ; but that only excited farther raillery
against him ; for they all cried out, " he dares not, he dares not.' Polmood
was nettled, and at that instant offered to go if his Majesty would accompany
him as a witness.

Whether or not the king had any sinister motives fur this procedure cannot
easily be ascertained ; but certain it is, that he went cheerfully along with
Polmood on the expedition, carrying a lighted torch in his hand, and leading
the way. Every chamber door that he came to, he tapped, asking at the same
time, who slept there, until he came to that behind which Elizabeth stood
with her lover at her back ; and observing it not to be quite shut, instead of
tapping, he peeped in, holding the torch before him. Elizabeth at that
moment put her face and naked bosom bye the edge of the door full in his
view, and instantly pushed the door in his face, exclaiming, " What does your
Majesty mean ? I am undressed, you cannot come in now." And having by
this manoeuvre, as she particularly intended, put out the light, she waited the
issue ; but instead of being agitated with terror, as most women would have
been in the same situation, she could scarcely refrain from indulging in
laughter ; for the king, instead of returning her any answer, fell a puffing and
blowing at the wick of the flambeau, thinking to make it rekindle ; but, not
being able to succeed, he fell a groping for his companion, " Confound her,
Polmood," said he, " she has extinguished our light ; what shall we do now?^
" We had better ask the question in the dark, if it please your Majesty,'" said
Polmood. " No," said the king, " come along with me, we will try to get it
relumined ; " then, groping his way along, with Polmood at his back, he
tapped at ever)' chamber door he came at around the circle, asking each of
the ladies, if she had any light. Several denied, but at length he came to
one, below which, on stooping, he espied a little glimmering light, and having by
this time learned what lady was in each chamber, he called at that too, but
was not a little startled at hearing the voice of her within — It was the queen
— but, affecting not to know, he lifted the latch, and pretending great modesty,
did not so much as look in, but only held in tlic torch with the one hand,
begging of her to relight it, which she did, and returned it to his hand.

Carmichael, having by these means escaped quietly, and with perfect
deliberation, to his own chamber, Elizabeth laid herself down, not a little
pleased at the success of her expedient, but somewhat astonished what could
have occasioned this extraordinary scrutiny. The two champions returned to
Elizabeth's door — the king tapped gently, and asked if she was in undress
still. She begged a thousand pardons of his royal Majesty for the trouble
which she had caused him, which happened solely from the circumstance of
his having surprised her in deshabille, that he might now enter, and let her
know what his royal pleasure was with her. James entered cautiously, but
took care to keep his (lamljc.ni behind him in rase of further accidents, and
then began by asking pardon in his turn of Elizabeth for his former abrupt

THE BRIDAL OF POLMOOD. 149

entrance ; but seeing that her door was not altogether shut, he said, he judged
the chamber to be unoccupied — that he had come at her lover's request, in
order to be a witness to a question he had to propose to her. He then desired
Polmood to proceed, who, stepping forward much abashed, tnkl her bluntly,
that all he had to ask was, whether or not she had repented of the promise
she had made him of marriage? Elizabeth, not having been previously
instructed of any such existing ceremony in Scotland, did not readily compre-
hend the meaning or drift of this question ; or else, thinking it proper to avail
herself of it, in order to provide for certain subsequent arrangements which
had very lately been proposed to her, answered with perfect good humour,
that she understood Pohnood had himself relented, and wished to throw the
blame upon her. " I therefore tell you, sir," said she, " that I have rued our
agreement, and that most heartily." — " Bravo !" cried the king, as loud as he
could shout, pushing Polmood out at the door before him. He then closed
it, and without waiting a moment, ran down the stair laughing and shouting
aloud " Hurra ! hurra ! The bride has rued ! the bride has rued ! Polmood
is undone." He hasted to the pavilion, and communicated the jest to his
nobles, who all laughed abundantly at Polmood s expense.

The staircase of the Crawmclt castle was in one of the turrets, and from that
there were doors which opened to each of the floors. The upper story which con-
tained the twelve chambers in which the queen and ladies were that night lodged,
was fitted up so that it formed a circle. All the chamber doors were at equal dis-
tances, and the door which led to the staircase was exactly in the circle with
the rest, and in every respect the same. Now Polmood, not being at all satis-
fied with the answer he had received from Elizabeth, and unwilling to return
to the company without some farther explanation, turned round as the king
departed, dark as it was, and putting his mouth to the latch hole of the door,
began to e.xpostulale on the subject. Elizabeth, perceiving that he was some-
wiiat intoxicated, desired him to withdraw ; for that it was highly improper
for him to remain there in the dark alone, and added, that she would tell him
all about it to-morrow.

Now Polmood was not only half drunk, but he was, beside, greatly stunned
with the answer he had received ; and moreover, to add to his misfortune, the
king had, either in the midst of his frolic, shut the door behind him, or else it had
closed of itself. The consequence of all this was, that when Polmood turned
about to depart, he soon discovered that it waslike to be avery intricate business.
\\ : means of going round the circle, with one hand pressed against the wall,
liL- found that the doors were all shut, and that there was no possibility of dis-
tinguishing one of them from another. He could easily have opened any of
them, because none of them were bolted ; but in doing so, he had no assur-
ance that he would not light upon the queen, or some sleeping countess, which
might procure him much disgrace and ridicule. He was a modest bashful
gentleman, fearful of giving offence, and would not have been guilty of such a
piece of rudeness for the world ; he knew not what to do ; to call was in vain,
for the apartment was vaulted below, therefore he could alarm none save the
ladies. He had but one chance to find the right door for twelve to go wrong ;
the odds were too great for him to venture. He would gladly have encroached
again upon Elizabeth, but he knew no more of her door than the others.

There is every reason to believe that the fumes of the wine tended greatly
to increase Polmood's dilemma ; for it is well known liow much that impairs
the reasoning faculties of some men, and what singular fancies it creates in
tlicir minds. Be that as it may, Polmood could think only of one expedient
whereby to extricate himself from his whimsical situation, and the idea had
no sooner struck him than he proceeded to put it in practice. It was to listen
at each door, if there was any person breathing within ; and if there was no
person breathing within, he thought he might conclude that to be the door he
wanted. In order to effect this with more certainty, he kneeled softly on the
floor, and laid his ear close to the bottom of each door, creeping always to the
next, as soon as he had certified that a lady was within. It was .i long tune

ijo THE ETTRICK S HEP HERD'S TALES.

ere he could be satisfied of some, they breathed so softly — he kept an account
in his memory of the doors he past, and had nearly got round them all when
he he.ud, as he tb.ought, a door softly and cautiously opened. No light appear-
ing, I'uhnood judged that he was overheard ; and that this was one of the
ladies listening what he was about, lie was on the point of speaking to her,
and begging for pardon and assistance, when he heard the sound of footsteps
approaching behind him. Me was resting on his hands and knees at a
chamber door, witli his head hanging down in the act of listening — he kept
his position, pricking up his ears, and scarcely able to hear for the palpitations
of his heart ; but it was not long ere a man stumbled on his feet, fell above
him, and cnibhcd his face against the tloor. Polmood swore a loud oath, and
being irritated, he laid furiously hold of the stranger's heel, and endeavoured
to detain him, but he wrenched it from his grasp, and in a moment was gone.
Tohnood then judging that it must have been some one of the courtiers steal-
in;; to his mistress, and hearing the door close behind him, hasted to his feet,
and followed to the sound, hoj)ing to escape after him - opened the same door,
as he thought, and rushed forward, but at tlie third step he foundered over
something that interposed his progress; and, to his utter confusion, found
that he had alighted with all his weight across a lady in her bed, who was
screanjing out murder, fire and ravishment, in a voice so loud and so cldrich,
tliat Tolmood's ears were deafened, and his joints rendered utterly powerless
through vexation and dismay. He tried to get up and escape, but the injured
fair laid hold of his coat, pulled it over his head, and as he scorned to hurt her,
or resist her frantic violence by violence in return, in that manner she held
him fast, continuing all the while her violent outcries. The rest of the ladies
awakening, set up one universal yell of murder— sprang from their beds, and
endeavoured to escape, some one way and some another, running against each
otiicr, and screaming still the louder. — Their cries alarmed the guards, and
these the courtiers, who all rushing in promiscuously with lights, beheld one
of the most ludicrous scenes that ever was witnessed by man — A whole circu-
lar apartment full of distressed dames, skipping into their holes as the light
appeared like so many rabbits ; and in one apartment, the door of which was
shut, but to which they were directed by the cries, the right honourable Lady
Hume, holding the worthy bridegroom, the bold, the invincible Norman of Pol-
moud ! with his coat drawn over his head, in her own bed-chamber, and abusing
liim all the while, as a depraved libertine and a ravisher. Polmood was ren-
dered quite speechless, or at least all that he attempted to advance by way of
palliation was never once heard, so loud was the mixed noise of laughter,
ridicule, and abuse ; and the king, with a grave face, observed, that unless he
could give security for his future good behaviour, he would be obliged to con-
fine him in the keep until such time as he could be got married, that then
perhaps the virtue of other men's wives might be preserved from his out-
rageous violence.

CHAPTER \T.
The transactions of that night were not brought to a conclusion by the unlucky
adventure which befel the I.aird of Polmood. On the contrary, that was only
a prologue to further mistakes, of greater atrocity, and of consequences more
serious.

The king did not again return to the pavilion, but retired to his chamber as
they came down stairs. The Earl of Hume, having got extremely drunk, and
fallen into an argument with another knight, who was much in the same con-
dition, about some affair of border chivalry, of which their ideas totally differed,
they were both become so warm and so intent upon the subject, that they never
once perceived when the late alarm was given, nor when the company left
them, in order to succour the distressed ladies. But when they returned with
Polmood guarded as a prisoner in jest, and related the circumstances, the earl
got into a furious passion, and right or wrong insisted on running Polmood
through the bodv. "What. Sir," said he ; "because you cannot get a wifeof your

THE BRIDAL OF POLMUOD. 151

own, docs that give you a right to go and take violent possession of mine ?
No, sir ! draw out your sword, and I'll give you to know the contrary ; 111
carve you, sir, into a great number of pieces, sir."

When the earl was in the height of this passion, and had stripped off a part
of his clothes to fight a duel with Polmood by torch light, one of the lords
whispered in his ear, that Polmood only mistook the bed, that was all ; and
that Lady Hume had acquitted herself in such a manner, bytaking him prisoner,
that it reflected immortal honour upon her and all her connexions.

This pleased the lord chamberlain so well, that he was never weary of shaking
hands with Polmood, and drinking to him ; but he did not forget to observe
each time, that he thought Polmood would take care in future how he mistook
Lady Hume for another. The earl grew every minute more and more pleased
on account of his lady's resolute and intrepid behaviour, and being a sprightly
ingenious gentleman, began singing a song, which he swore was extempore,
and which was indeed believed to be so by all present, as none of them had
ever heard it before. It is said to be still extant, and to be yet sung in several
parts of Scotland, which certainly is not very probable. It began " I haeane
wyffe o' mi ain." In short his enthusiasm ana admiration of his lady arose to
such a height, that he took up a resolution to go and spend the remainder of
the night in her company. A number of his merry associates encouraged this
proposal with all the plausible arguments they could suggest, reminding liim
that the chamber was in sooth his own — that he had only given it up in favour
of her ladyship for a few nights, and she could in nowise grudge him a share
of it for one night, especially as there was no rest to be had in the pavilion.
Thus encouraged, the earl arose and went towards the castle, singing with
great glee

1 hae ane wyffe o' mi ain ;

I'll be behaddcn til nae bodye ;
I'll nowther borey nor lenne,
Swap nor niffer wi' nae bodye.

The porter and guards at the gate objected strongly to his admission, and
began to remonstrate with his lordship on its impropriety ; but he drew his
sword, and swore he would sacrifice them, every mother's son, if they offered to
debar his entrance to his own wife. It was in vain that they reminded him
there was no room in her ladyship's apartment for any person besides herself,
which they said he himself well knew. He d— d them for liars and officious
knaves, who meddled with matters about which they had no business : said
it was his concern to find room, and theirs to obey his orders, or abide the
consequences ; at the same time he spit upon his hand and squared, in order
forthwith to begin the slaughter of the porters ; and as they were afraid of
resisting the determined resolution of the lord chamberlain, they suffered him
to pass, after leaving his sword behind him, and promising on his honour to
make no noise.

The earl, by dint of determined perseverance, found his way, amid utter
darkness, to the upper story of the castle, where his beloved lady and her fair
associates were all enjoying sweet repose after the sports and merriment of
the late day — He entered with great caution — counted the doors to tlie right
hand with accurate exactness, in order to ascertain his lady's chamber —
opened the door softly, and advanced stooping, in search of her lowly but
desirable couch — but when he proceeded to clasp her in his arms in a transport
of love and admiration— " O horrible! most horrible!" he found that she
was already lying fast locked in the arms of a knight, whose cheek was
resting upon hers, and his long shaggy beard flowing round her soft neck. It
is impossiljle to conceive the fury into which this discovery threw the
enamouriHl earl. He entertained not the slightest doubt but th.it it was Pol-
mood, and resolving to make an example of him, he laid hold of him l>y the
beard with one hand, and by the throat with the otlier, determined to stranj^le
him on the spot. Hut the despfiate in nnorata s|)riin;- ttpnn his assail.uil like

152 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

a tiger from his den — struck the lord chamberlain violently on the head —
overturned him on the floor, and forthwith escaped. The earl -followed as
fast as he was able to the door — gave the alarm with a loud voice, and hastily
returned to secure the other accomplice in wickedness and shame. He llung
himself upon the bed — laid violent hands upon her — swearing that she too
should not e.->cape, and that he would inflict upon her the most condign pun-
ishment. The lady bore all with silence and meekness, until she heard the
rest of the courtiers approaching, and then she took hold of him by the hair
of the head with both hands, held him down thereby, and screamed as loud
as she was able.

The waggish lords, who had excited the earl to this expedition, certain that
in the state he tlicn was, he was sure to breed some outrage in the castle, were
all in waiting witliout the gate, ready to rush in on the least alarm being
given. Consequently, it was not long before they entered with lights, and
among the rest the king in his night-gown and slippers. They entered the
chamber from which the cries proceeded ; and, to their no small astonish-
ment, discovered the lord chamberlain engaged in close combat — not with his
own lady, as he had unwarrantably supposed — but with the beauteous Lady
Ann Grey, who was weeping bitterly, and crying out to revenge her on that
wicked and barbarous lord.

The merriment of the party at this discovery would have been without
bounds, had not the king appeared to be seriously displeased. He ordered
Lord Hume to be carried down stairs instantly, and confined in the keep until
he should answer for his conduct. The earl attempted to remonstrate ;
assuring his majesty that he had only mistaken the bed; but his ebriety Leing
ai)j)arent, that had no effect upon the king, who declared he could not sufler
such liberties to be taken with any lady under their royal protection with
impunity, and that perhaps the lord chamberlain might have yet to atone for
his rudeness and temerity by the loss of the head.

The courtiers were all astonished at this threatening, and at the king's per-
emptory manner and resentment, as no one could for a moment suppose that
the earl had indeed any designs upon the person of Lady Ann Grey ; and
when at length he protested, in mitigation of the crime alleged against him,
that he actually caught another man in the chamber with her, the king was
still more wroth, asserting that to be impossible, guarded as the castle then
was, unless it were himself who was there, which he hoped Lord Hume did
not mean to insinuate in the presence, or at least in the hearing, of his royal
consort — that, as far as he knew, there was not another knight within the
walls of the castle, and that such a malicious attempt to asperse the young
lady's honour was even worse than the other crime. " Let the castle be
instantly searched,' cried he, "and if there is no other person found in it,
save the ladies and those now admitted, I shall order the head to be taken
from this uncourtly and slanderous earl early in the morning. Was it not
enough that he should attempt the violation of a royal ward, of the highest
birth and respect, but that, when frustrated, he should endeavour to affix an
indelible stain upon her honour, and in the accusation implicate his sovereign,
to the lessening of his respectability in the eyes of his queen and his whole
nation. Let the castle be searched strictly and instantly."

The earl was confined in the keep — the castle gate was double guarded —
the castle was searched for men throughout, and at last Carmichael was
found concealed in his own chamber, and half dressed. No doubt then
remained with the courtiers but that he was the guilty person with regard to
Madam Grey.

The king appeared visibly astonished when Carmichael was discovered,
but affecting to be of the same opinion as the rest, he accompanied them
down stairs — locked Carmichael in the keep beside the Lord Chamberlain-
dismissed the rest to the pavilion, charging them on pain of death not to
attempt entering the gate of the castle again, till once they received his orders ;
and having caused it to be locked, he retired to his apartment.

THE BRIDAL OF POLMOOD. 153

The displeasure of the kin^r acted hke electricity on the minds of the
hitherto jovial party. Their organs of sensation were benuniLcd at once, and
their risibility completely quashed. They durst not even speak their minds
freely to one another on the subject, afraid of having their remarks overhauled
at next day's examination ; but they all judged Carmichael to be in a bad pre-
dicament, considering how great a favourite Lady Anne was with the king. It
was then discovered, that Carmichael had been absent from the pavilion, from
the time that the ladies retired, and how long previously to that could not be
recollected ; consecjuently, they were all satisfied that they were two lovers,
and that the meeting had been preconcerted, although their passion had
hitherto been concealed from the eyes of all the court. 'Jhe whole matter
appeared to them now perfectly obvious ; whereas there was not a single
incident save one, on which they put a right construction.

A short and profound sleep ushered that group of noble sportsmen into the
healthful morning breeze of the mountain, and the beams of the advancing
sun, and fmished the adventures of that memorable night, but not their
consequences. The examination which follows in the next chapter, will
assist somewhat in the explication of the one, and the subsequent narrative
of the other.

CHAPTER VIII.
The animal spirits have certainly a natural medium level, at which, if suf-
fered to remain, they will continue to flow with a constant and easy motion.
But if the spring be drained to the sediment for the supply of a lengthened
and frenzied hilarity, it must necessarily remain some time low before it can
again collect force sufficient to exert its former energy.

Fair and lovely rose that morning on the forest of Meggat-dale — it was the
third of September — the day destined by the king and queen for the marriage
of their beloved Elizabeth. Ihe dawning first spread a wavy canopy of
scarlet and blue over all the eastern hemisphere ; but when the sun mounted
from behind the green hills of Yarrow, the fairy curtain was updrawn into the
viewless air. The shadows of the mountains were then so beauteously etched,
and their natural tints so strongly marked, that it seemed as if the mountains
themselves lay cradled in the bosom of the lovely lake — but while the eye
yet rested on the adumbrated phenomenon, the spectre hills with all their
inverted woods and rocks, melted away in their dazzling mirror.

It was a scene that might have stirred the most insensate heart to raptures
of joy ; yet the queen of Scotland and her ladies were demure and sullen, even
though their morning walk was over a garnish of small but delicate mountain
flowers, belled with the dews of heaven — though fragrance was in every step,
and health in every gale that strayed over the purple heath.

The king and his nobles were even more sullen than they. The king took
his morning walk by himself — his nobles sauntered about in pairs, but they
discoursed only to their hounds, whose gambols and mimic hunts were
checked by the unwonted gloom on the brows of their masters. The two
aggressors were still lying in the dismal keep, both in the highest chagrin ;
the one at his disappointment in love, the other at his disgrace. Such are
the motley effects of intemperance, and such the importance by the inebriated
fancy attached to trifles, which, in moments of calm reflection, would never
have been regarded.

The king returning, threw himself into his easy chair ; the queen paid her
respects to him, and interceded for the imprisoned lords — he ordered them to
be brought before him, and summoned all the rest of the nobles to attend.
When the news of the examination spread, the ladies came running together,
some of them dressed, and some only half-dressed, to hear it. A trial of a
delinquent who has come under any suspicions with respect to their sex is to
them a most transcendent treat. Hut the king rising, bcseeched them kincfly
to withdraw, because, in the course of elucidating the matter, some things
might be expresseil offensive to their modesty. I'hey assuied his majesty

154 THE F.TTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

that there was no danger of such a circumstance occurring ; but he persisted
in his request, and they were obliged reluctantly to retire.

The king first called on Polmood to gi\c an account of all that befell him in
the vault of the twelve chambers ; and how he came to make the unmannerly
attack on the Lady Hume, all which he was required to answer on oath. The
speeches which follow are copied literally from the hand-writing of yirr^^rw-
daid Quhttclaw airtshdeiken of LoiL>dcn and cclcretcr to kinge jfames. The
MSS. are now in the possession of Mr. J. Brown, Edin., and fully conrtrm the
authenticity of the story, if any doubts remain of the tradition. The lirst, as
being the most original, is given at full length ; it is entitled, Ane spcclsh and
defenns maide by Norvtaund Hutityr of Foomoodi on ane wyte of royet and
Lmanrye with EJcnir Ladye oj JIunu.

" Mucht it plciz mai sovrayne lege, not to trowe sikkan euil and kittel
dooins of yer ain trcw ccrvente, and maist lethfu Icgcman ; nor to lychtlefye
myne honcr sa that I can ill bruke ; by eynclling, that, withoutten dreddour I
shulde gaung til broozle ane fayir deme, ane honest mannis wyffe, and mynnie
to twa bairnis ; and that in the myddis of ane loflful of queenes. 1 boud
haife bein dementyde to kicke ane stoure, to the skaithinge of hir preclair
pounyis, and haiishill\ ngc myne ayin kewis. Nethynge mai lege was ferder
fra myne hcid thanne onye sikkan wylld siicckdrawinge and pawkerye. But
quhan yer Maigcstyc jinkyt fra me in the bau.x, and left me in the darknesse,
1 was baiss to kum again wi' sikkan ane ancere ; and stude summe tyme
swutheryng what it avysat me neiste to doo in thiike barbulye. At the launge,
I stevellit backe, and lowten downe, set mai nebb to ane gcll in the dor, and
fleechyt Eleesabctt noorc to let us torfell in the wairtyme of owir raik. But
scho skyrit to kiuiifc lownly or siccarlye on thiike sauchning, and heiryne
that scho was wilsum and glunchye, I airghit at keuillyng withe hirr in that
thraward paughty moode, and baidna langer to haigcl. But ben doitrifyed
with thiike drynke and sachless and dizzye with lowtyn, and thiike lofte as
derke as pick, 1 tint ilka spunk of ettlyng quhair the dor laye. And thaun I
staupyt and gavit about quhille I grewe pcrfitlye donnarit, and trowit the
castil to be snuiffyng and birlyng round ; foreby that it was heezing upon the
tae syde, and myntyng to whommil me. I had seendil watherit a selwyn
raddour, but boddin that I wad coup, that I muchtna gie a dooffe, I hurklit
litherlye down, and craup ferret alang on myne looffis and myne schynes,
herkyng at ilka dorlief gyfle ther was onye ane snifteryng withyn side. Uuthir
I owirharde, or thocht I owirhardc slicpyng soughs ahynte thiike haile, and
bcgoudc to kiep sklenderye houpes of wynning out of myne revellet fank un-
sperkyt with scheme or desgrece. Ben richt laith to rin rashylye, with ane
posse, on the kyttes or the chaftis of thiike dcir eichil kimmers, that war lying
doveryng and snuffyng, and spelderyrg, rekelessc and mistrowyns of all
harmis, 1 was eidentlye hotteryng alang with muckle paishens. I was lyinge
endslang at ane dor, quhan I harde ane chylde unhaspe thiike sneck, as
moothlyc as ane snail cjuhun scho gaungs snowking owir thilk droukyt swaird ;
but thilk dor gyit ay thilk lothor whesk, and thilk tother jerg, and oore 1 gatt
tyme til syne myscl, ane grit man trippyt on myne ieit, and fell belly tlaught
on me with ane dreadful noozle, quhille myne curpin was jermummlyt, and
myne grunzie knoityd with ane cranch against thiike lofte. 1 cursyt him in
wraith, and mynding to taigel him, claught baud of his koote whilke 1 gyit
ane hele of ane nibble. Oore I gatt to myne kync he elyit, garryng thilk door
clashe ahynt him. I strifflit till thiike samen plesse as gypelye as I cukle —
puit up thilk samen dor as I thoucht and ran on— but Cryste quhair suld I
lichte ! but on thiike dafte syde of ane feil madame ! Myne heid mcllyt
thilk biggyng. and I was klien stoundyt and daveryt. Myne ledde sychit and
niummlyt, pittyng me in ane drcidfuUe fyke ; and sae fummylyng til ryse,
sciio trowit I ha'l bein gumpyng, and sett up sic ane yirlich skrighe that my
verie sennyns sluomyt and myne teith chackyt in myne heid. Scho brain-
zcllyt up in ane foor\'e and dowlicappyd me, and ben richt laithe to lay ane
laitiess fmger on her, 1 bra;.k\t m myne gnun. .iiul laye smnoryng quhille ye

THE BRIDAL OF POLMOOD. 155

claum fia the bannjkene and ledde us. This is thilke hale and leil troothe,
as I houpe for merse bye ouir blissyt ladye."

The king then asked him if he was certain it was a man that stumbled over him
in the dark? Polmood swore he was certain, for it was weightier and stronger
tlian any three women in the forest, and besides he was farther certified by
feeling his clothes and leg. The king still continued to dwell on that subject,
as seeming to doubt of it alone ; but Polmood having again sworn to the
certainty of the whole, he was dismissed and forgiven, on condition that he
asked pardon of Lady Hume, her Majesty, and all tiie ladies.

The Lord Chamberlain was then called up, and being accused of " Mis-
leeryt racket and grtiesotne assault on thilke body of Lady Anne Grey, he
began as follows :

" Mai maist grashous and soveryne lege, I do humblye besectsh yer
pardonne for myne grit follye and mismainners, and do intrete you til
attrybute thatn haiie frolyke to yer Majestye's liberalitye, and no til nae
roode and wuckit desyne. I hae nae pley to urge, only tliat in fayth and
troothe I mystukc thilke bed, as myne ayin guid dcme, and Lady Grey well
baith weil allow ; and gin I didna fynde ane man in thilke bed "

Here it appears the king had interrupted him ; for there is no more of this
speech in Whitlaw's hand, save some broken sentences which cannot be
connected. His majesty is said to have called out angrily, '' Hold, hold, no
more of that : we have heard enough. Carmichael," continued he, turning
about to him, " tell me on your honour, and tell me truly ; were you in the
room of the twelve chambers last night in the dark, or were you not ? "
Carmichael answered, with great promptness, that he was. "Was it you who
stumbled over Polmood?" " It was indeed." "Then tell me, sir, what was
your business there ? " Carmichael bowed, and begged to be excused,
assuring his majesty that though he would willingly yield his life for him,
that secret he would not yield at that time. " I thank you," said the king, " 1
know it all. I am glad you have some honour left ; had you publicly diviilg -d
your motives, you should never have seen the noon of this day. Carmichael !
you have been ungrateful, unwary, and presumptuous ! I have trusted you
near my person for three years, but we must take care that you shall never
insult royalty again. Conduct him to the keep, till our farther pleasure is
manifested. My Lord Chamberlain, you must ask pardon of Madam Grey,
the queen, and all the ladies." The nobles did not comprehend the king's
awards, but he knew more and saw farther into the matter than they did.

CHAPTER LX.
The lords having, by desire, retired, the ladies were next sent for, and
examined one by one, after being informed that none of them were required
to divulge anything relating to themselves, but only what they heard passing
with regard to others.

There was such a flood of mystery and surmise now poured in upon the
king, that he felt himself utterly at a loss to distinguish trutli from hction.
According to their relations there had been great l:)att]es — men cursing and
swearing, and occasionally falling down upon the floor with such a shock as
if the roof of the castle had fallen in. There were besides whisperings heard
and certain noises which were well described, but left to the judge for inter-
pretation. In a word, it appeared from the relations of the fair enthusiasts,
that all the nobles of the court had been there, and the king himself among
them ; and that every lady in the castle had been engaged with one ])aramour
at least — the narrator always excepted. James would gladly have put a stop
to this torrent of scandal and insinuation, but, having once begun, he was
obliged to hear them all out ; each being alike anxious to vindicate herself by
fixing the guilt upon licr neighbours.

There was, however, one circumstance came out, which visibly affected

iames. It was aflirmed by two diU'erent ladies, one of whom, at least, he
ad good reason for believing, that there was actu.iily one in the rliauiijcr

156 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

willi Eliz.ibclh, when he and I'olmood came up in their frohc, and when
she contrived so artfully to exlin>;uish the liKht. Several circumstances
occurred to his mind at once in contirmation of this accusal, but he affected
as much as he was able to receive it with the same indifference that he
received the rest. He cast one look at Elizabeth, but he was too much of a
gentleman to sufier it to remain — he withdrew his piercing eye in a moment
— smiled, and asked questions about something else. When they had done,
Elizabeth rose to explain, and had just begun by saying, "My dear lord, it
is very hard indeed, that 1 cannot pay my evening services to the virgin, but

I must be suspected of." Here she paused, and the lively and petulant

Ann Grey, springing up, and making a low courtesy, said, in a whimpering
tone, " My dear Lord ! it is very hard indeed that Carmichael cannot pay his

evening services to a virgin but he must be suspected of.'' The manner

in which she pronounced this, and in particular the emphasis which she
laid uj)on the concluding preposition, set all the ladies a giggling ; and
the king, being pleased with the sly humour of his favourite, and seeing
Elizabeth put to the blush, he started up, and clasping he*- in his arms,
kissed her, and said, " There is no need of any defence or apology,
my dear Elizabeth, I am too well convinced of your purity to regard
the insinuations of that volatile imp. We all know whereto her sar-
casms tend ; she has the Earl of Hume in her mind, and the gentleman
who knocked him down last night ; she wishes you to be thought like herself,
but it will not do. We shall soon see you placed in a situation beyond the
power of her wicked biting jests, and of court scandal ; while she may continue
to sigh and ogle with knights, wreck her disappointment on all her acquain-
tances, and sigh for that she cannot have." '' Heigh-ho ! " cried the shrewd
minx, in a tone which again set all the party in a titter.

After this, the king, having dismissed them, sent for Carmichael, and said
unto him, "Carmichael, 1 am shocked at your behaviour. The attempt
which you have made on a royal ward, on the very eve of her marriage with
a man of honour and integrity, whom we esteem, manifests a depravity of
mind, and a heart so dead to every sense of gratitude, that 1 am ashamed at
having taken such a knight into my household. Whatever were your motives
for this disgraceful and clandestine procedure, whether the seduction of her
person or of her affections from the man who adores her, and who has
obtained our sanction to her hand, they must have been wrong, and far from
that line of respect which, in return for our confidence, it was your bounden
duty to pursue. 1 therefore will, that you immediately quit for the space of
three years, the society of which you have been an unworthy member ; and if
at any time within that period you are found within twenty miles of our
residence, your hfe shall answer for it — this I shall cause to be proclaimed to
the country at large. I desire to hear no intreaty or excuse."'

Carmichael bowed, and retired from the presence in the utmost trepidation.
He and his groom, the only attendant he had, were both ready mounted in
less than ten minutes ; and being driven, in some degree, to a state of des-
peration, he rode boldly up to the castle-gate, and desired a word with
Elizabeth. This was a most imprudent action, as it in some degree divulged
the cause of his expulsion from the court, which it was the king's chief design
to conceal, or gloss over with some other pretence.

When the squire in waiting carried up his demand, Elizabeth was sitting
between the queen and the Lady Hamilton ; and acting from the impulse of
the moment, as she too often did, she was rising to comply with the request,
when a look from the king, which she well knew how to interpret, caused her
to sink again into her seat, like a deer that has been aroused by a false alarm.
" What answer shall I return .'"' said the squire, who had only witnessed her
spontaneous motion, but received no order; "That Elizabeth has nothing to
say to him," said the king. The squire returned down stairs. " Elizabeth
has nothing to say to you, my lord." Carmichael turned his horse slowly
around, as if not knowing what he did. "Was it she that returned me this

THE BRIDAL OF POLMOOD. \yj

answer? " said he ; '" Yes, sir," said the man, walking carelessly back into the
castle. That word pierced Carmichael to the heart ; he again turned his
horse slowly around, and the porter said he seemed as if he had lost sight of
the ground. He appeared desirous of leaving some message, but he rode off
without uttering another syllable, and instead of shaping his course homeward
as was expected, he crossed the Meggat, went round the Breakcn Hill, and
seemed bound for the border.

Though it is perhaps perfectly well understood, it may not be improper to
mention here by way of explanation, that when Carmichael escaped from
Elizabeth's chamber in the dark, and had slunk quietly down to his own, in a
few minutes he heard the king come running down the stair, laughing, and
calling out the bride had rued ; and not having the slightest suspicion that
Polmood would remain among the ladies in the dark, he judged him to have
gone along with the king. He was extremely happy on hearing the king
exclaiming that Elizabeth had taken her word again, not doubting but that it
was in consequence of the conversation he had with her ; and in order to
strengthen her resolution, or prevail upon her instantly to elope with him, he
took the opportunity of stealing again to her apartment before any other
irruption of the revellers into the castle should take place ; but in his way,
and when at the very point at which he aimed, he stumbled upon the forlorn
Polmood, whose voice and grasp he well knew, and from whom he narrowly
escaped.

Carmichael was now gone, and Elizabeth did not believe that any person
knew of her amour with him. She thought that the king was merely jealous
of him and Lady Ann Grey, yet she could not help considering herself as the
cause of the noble youth's disgrace, and for the first time in her life felt her
heart interested in the person or concerns of another. Perhaps her passion
for admiration prompted the feeling, for the circumstance had deprived her of
a principal admirer ; but it is probable that a sentiment more tender mixed
with the regret she felt at his departure.

The king, who perceived well how matters stood, was considerably alarmed
for his fair ward, both on account of her bewitching beauty and accomplish-
ments, and her insatiable desire of excelling all others of her sex ; but more
on account of her rash thoughtless manner of acting. He entertained no
doubt of her stainless purity, but he knew that a great deal more was required
in order to maintain her character uncontaminated in the eyes of the world —
that caution and prudence were as requisite as the others, and that purity of
heart, and innocency of intention, instead of proving shields against the
aspersions of calumny, often induce to that gaiety and freedom of demeanour,
which attaches its most poignant and venomous shafts. Of this caution and
prudence Elizabeth seemed destitute. Her own word, with that of both her
royal guardians, was pledged to Polmood, yet notwithstanding all this, he
dreaded that she had admitted a knight into her chamber at midnight, and
had artfully effected his escape, within nine hours of the time appointed for
her nuptials. He could not judge Carmichacl's pretensions to have been
honourable from his manner of proceeding, and he trembled for the impres-
sions he might have made upon her inexperienced heart, subversive of honour,
faith, and virtue ; especially when he considered the .inswcr she had returned
to Polmood the very minute after Carmichael had left her.

As for Polmood, he had, as yet, no suspicions of Carmichael nor any man
living; but the answer he had received sunk dc -p into his heart, for he
absolutely adored Elizabeth, and feared he had ollcnded her by some part of
his behaviour, and that she had actually repented of her promise to him on
that account. He knew not to whom first to address himself, and wandered
about all that morning, with a countenance so rueful that nothing in this age
will ever compare with it.

The king put his arm within Elizabeth's, and led her to the Balcony. Tiic
day was clear, and the scene on wjiich they looked .uound, wild and romantic.
The high mountains, the stragv;Iing woods, the distant lake, and the linii)ij

158 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'^ TALES.

river, with its hundred branches, winding through valleys covered with brake
and purple heath, whose wild variety of light and shade the plough never
marred ; — the kid, the Iamb, the leveri*, and the young deer, feeding or sport-
ing together in the same green holt, formed altogether a scene of rural
simplicity, and peaceful harmony, such as the eye of a Briton shall never again
look upon.

" We shall have a sweet day for your wedding, Elizabeth," said the king.
Elizabeth cast her eyes towards the brow of the hill, where Carmichael had
but a few minutes before vanished, and remained silent. The king was
agitated. " It was an effectual rub you gave the bridegroom last night,"
continued he ; "1 owe you a kiss, and a frock of purple silk beside for it. I
would not have missed the jest for a hundred bonnet pieces, and as many
merks to boot ; you are a most exquisite girl." Never was flattery lost on the
ear of a woman ! especially if that woman was possessed of youth and beauty.
Elizabeth bmiled and seemed highly pleased with the compliment paid to her
ingenuity. *' What a loss it is," continued James, " that we cannot push the
jest a little farther. Suppose we should try.''"

" Oh : by all means !" said IClizabcth, " let us carry the jest a. little farther. '

" Polmood is in sad taking already," said the king, " were you to persist
in your refusal a little longer he would certainly hang himself." Elizabeth
smiled again. " Ihit the worst of it is, he will take it so heinously amiss. 1
know his proud heart well, that all the world will not persuade him ever to
ask you again ; and then, if the match is in our vain humour broke off, it is
irretrievable niin to you."

" Ruin to me ! what does your Majesty mean ?"

" Yes, certain ruin to you ; for the court and all the kingdom will say that
he has slighted and refused you, and you know wc cannot help what people
say. You know they will say it was because l.c and I surprised a man in
your chamber at midnight, and much more than that they will say. They
know that you could not, and would not resist our will, and therefore they
will infallibly regard you as an offcast, and you will be flouted and shunned
by the whole court. It would almost break my heart to see those who now
envy and imitate you, turning up their noses as you passed them."

" But I will inform them ; I will swear to them that it was not so," said
Elizabeth, almost crying.

"That is the readiest way to make them believe that it was so," said the
king. "We shall, besides, lose an excellent and splendid wedding, in which
I hoped to see you appear to peculiar advantage, the wonder ami admiration
of all ranks and degrees ; but that is nothing." Elizabeth gave him a glance
of restless impatience. "After all, I think we must venture to give Polmood
a farther refusal for the joke's sake ; even in the worst case, I do not know
but an old maid is as happy as many a married lady."

These few, seemingly spontaneous sentences, presented to the mind of
Elizabeth a picture altogether so icpulsive, that she scarcely had patience to
listen until the king concluded ; and when he had done, she remained silent,
first turned round the one bracelet, then the other, fetched a slight sigh, and
looked the king in the face.

" I think that for the huinour of the jest you ought to persist in your refusal,"
continued James.

" 1 have often heard your Majesty say, that we should never let the plough
stand to kill a mouse," said Elizabeth. " I never saw long jokes come to
much good."

" Upon my soul I believe you are right after all," returned the king ; " you
have more sense in your little finger than most ladies have in all. It is not
easy to catch you in the wrong ; 1 suppose the weilding must go on.-'" " I
suppose it must," said Elizabeth, pleased with the idea of her acuteness and
discernment. She was again turning her eyes toward the brow of the Breakcn
hill, but the king changed sides with her, linking his left arm in her right, and
led her at a sharp walk round the balcony, commending her prudence and

THE BRIDAL OF POLMOOD. 159

discretion as much above her years, and expatiating on the envy and spleen
of the court ladies, and the joy they would have manilested if the marriage
agreement had been finally dissolved. From that he broke of, and descanted
on the amusements and processions in which they were to be engaged, and
even on the dresses and jewels in which such and such ladies were likely to
appear ; until he had winded up Elizabeth's fancy to the highest pitch ; for it
was always on the wing watching for change of place, and new treasures of
vain delight. Without giving her time for any further quiet rellection, he
hurried her away to the great hall, where the queen and her attendants re-
mained. " Make haste, make haste, my ladies," said he ; " you seem to
forget that we have this day to ride to the Maiden chapel, and from thence to
the castle of Nidpath, where I have ordered preparations to be made for the
ensuing festival. Falseat is high, and the braes of Hundleshope steep ; make
haste, my ladies, make haste."

The order of the day seemed hitherto scarcely well understood, but when
the king had thus expressed his will, in such apparent haste and good humour,
away tripped she, and away tripped she, each lady to her little wardrobe and
portable mirror. The king ran down stairs to issue the same orders in the
pavilion, where a plentiful breakfast of cakes, venison, and milk was set in
order, and where the nobles had begun to assemble ; but on his way he per-
ceived Polmood walking rapidly by the side of the burn, with his hands
clasped behind his back, and his bonnet over his brow ; he heard not, nor
saw what was going on. The king accosted him in a hasty careless manner.
" Polmood, why are you sauntering there ? the ladies are quite ready ! the
bride is ready for mounting her horse ! f y ! f y ! Polmood, the laiHes will
all be obliged to wait for you." Polmood ran towards the burn to wash his
face ; but recollecting something else, he turned, and ran towards the tent ;
then, stopping short all of a sudden, he turned back again, and ran towards
the burn, " I'll be shot to dead with an arrow if I know what to do," said he,
as he passed the king this last time with his bonnet on. " And I'll be shot
too," said the king, " if you know what you are doing just now — make haste,
make haste, Polmood ! you have not time to be sauntering and running to
and fro in this manner, — fy ! fy ! that the ladies should be obliged to wait for
the bridegroom ! "

The king was highly diverted by Polmood's agitation and embarrassment,
which he attributed to his violent passion, with its concomitant hopes and
fears ; and having thus expelled at one moment his dread of losing Elizabeth,
and at the same time, while his senses were all in a flutter, put him into such
a terrible hurry, he retired within the door of the tent, and watched his motions
for some time without being observed. Polmood washed his hands and face
in the stream without delay, and perceiving that he had nothing wherewith to
dry them, he tried to do it with the tail of his coat, but that being too short,
though he almost doubled himself, he could not bring it in contact with his
face. He then ran across the green to the servant's hall, stooping and wink-
ing all the way, while the water poured from his beard. In his hurr>- he left
his fine plumed bonnet by the side of the burn, which the Icing lifted and hid,
and afterwards warned his nobles to prepare for the cavalcade ; telling them,
that the marriage of Polmood with Elizabeth was to be celebrated at Nidpain
for several days.

CH.\PTER X.
Thk rural breakfast over, our noble party mounted and rode away from the
castle of Crawmelt. The lightness of the brec/.e, tiie presence of so nun h
beauty, royalty, and respect, together with the joyous occasion, completely
eradicated from their minds the efl'ects of last night's intemperance and mis-
nile. They were again all in high spirits, and scoured the links of Mcggat, so
full of mirth and glee, that every earthly care was tlung to the wind, in whicli,
too, many a lovely lock and streaming ribbon floated.

If there is any one .;dventitious circumstam e in life which invariably exhil-

l6o THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

aiates the mind, and buoys up the spirits to the highest pitch, it is that of a
lar{^e party of men and women setting out on an expedition on horseback.
Of this party, excluding grooms, pages, and other attendants, there were up-
wards of forty, the flower of the Scottish nation. The followers scarcely
amounted to that number, so little was James afraid of any harm within the
realm.

On their way they came to the castle of Pcarcc Cockburn, who then accom-
panied the king. He compelled them all to halt and drink wine at his gate ;
but \shen the foremost twelve had taken their glasses, and were about to drink
to the health of the bride and bridegroom, they looked around in vain for one
of them ; the bridegroom was lost no one knew liow ; they were all dumb with
astonishment how they had lost I'olmood ; or how they came to travel so far
without missing him ; but he was at last discovered, nigh to the rear, sitting
silently on his horse, dressed in an old slouch hat, which had lately been cast
by one of the grooms. Mis horse was a good one, his other raiment was costly
and elegant, and the ludicrous contrast which the old slouch hat formed to
these, with the circumstance of the wearer being a bridegroom, and just going
to be married to the most beautiful, elegant, and fashionable lady in the king-
dom, altogether struck every one so forcibly, that the whole company burst
out in an involuntary shout of laughter. I'olmood kept his position without
moving a muscle, which added greatly to the humour of the scene. The king,
who never till that moment recollected his having hid Polmood's bonnet, was
so much tickled, that he was forced to alight from his horse, sit down upon a
stone, hold his sides, and laugh.

" What, Polmood !" said he, when he recovered breath to speak. " What,
Polmood ! do you prefer that courch'e to your own elegant bonnet?"

"No, sire," said Polmood, "but I preferred it to a bare head; for when
ready to mount, I found that I had mislaid my bonnet, or lost it some way, I
do not know how."

" I have been somewhat to blame in this, Polmood, but no matter : you
cannot and shall not appear at your own nuptials in such a cap as that ; there-
fore let us change for a day — no excuses ; 1 insist on it." Polmood then put
on his royal master's bonnet, which was beset with plumes, gold, and
diamonds. That new honour made him blush deeply, but at the same time
he bluntly remarked, that his majesty was the greatest wag in all liis domin-
ions. The humour of the party was greatly heightened when they beheld
James, the fourth of that name, tlie greatest and the best of all the Stuart line,
riding at the head of his nobles, and by the side of his queen, with the old
greasy slouched hat on his head. They were mightily diverted, as well as
delighted, with the good humour of their sovereign, and his easy con-
descension.

In a short time they reached the virgin's chapel, where they were met by
the prior, and two monks of St. Mary's, dressed in their robes of office. There
Polmood was married to the lovely Elizabeth Manners, by the abbot of Inch-
afferie, chaplain to the king. The king himself gave her in marriage, and
during the ceremony Polmood seemed deeply atlccted, but the fair bride was
studious only how to demean herself with proper ease and dignity, which she
eftected to the admiration of all present. Her beauty was so transcendent,
that even the holy brothers were struck with astonishment ; and the abbot,
in the performance of his office, prayed fervently, as with a prophetic spirit,
that th.it beauty which, as he expressed it, *' outvied the dawn of the morning,
and dazzled the beholders, might never prove a source of uneasiness, either to
her husband or her own breast. May that lovely bloom," said he, " long
dwell on the face that now so well becomes it, and blossom again and again
on many a future stem. May it never be regarded by the present possessor
as a cause of exultation, or self-esteem ; but only as a transient engaging
varnish over the more precious beauties of the mind ; and may her personal
and mental charms be so blended, that her husband may never perceive the
decay of the one, save only by the growing beauties of the other." liic tear

THE BRIDAL OF POLMOOD. i6i

rolled in Polmood's eye. Elizabeth was only intent on the manner in wliich
she stood, and on ordering her downcast looks and blushes aright ; she
thought not of the petition, but of the compliment paid to her beauty.

Soon were they again on horseback, and ascending the high hill of Falseat,
they dined on its summit, by the side of a crystal spring. From that elevated
spot they had an immense and varied prospect, which, on all hands, was in-
tercepted only by the blue haze, in which distance always screens herself from
human vision. The whole southern part of the kingdom, from sea to sea, lay
spread around them as on a map, or rather like one half of a terrestrial
globe,—

Where oceans rolled and rivers ran,

To bound the aims of sinful man.
Man i^ver looked on scene so fair

As Scotland from the ambient air ;

O'er valleys clouds of vapour rolled.

While others beamed in burning gold ;

And, stretching far and wide between, >

Were fading shades of fairy green.

The glossy sea that round her quakes ;

Her thousand isles and thousand lakes ;

Her mountains frowning o'er the main ;

Her waving fields of golden grain ;

On such a scene, so sweet, so mild,

The radiant sunbeam never smiled !

But though the vales and frith of Lothian lay stretched like a variegated car-
pet below his feet on the one side, while the green hills and waving woods of
Kttrick Forest formed a contrast so noble on the other, it was remarked, that
the king fixed his eyes constantly on the fells of Cheviot, and the eastern borders
of England. Did he even then meditate an invasion of that country.'* or did
some invisible power, presiding over the mysteries of elicitation and sympathy,
draw his eyes and cogitations irresistibly away to that very spot where his
royal and goodly form was so soon to lie in an untimely grave ?

Towards the evening, in endeavouring to avoid a morass, the whole party
lost their way; and the king, perceiving a young man at a little distance, rode
briskly up to him in order to make inquiries. The lad, who was the son of a
farmer, and herding his father's sheep, seeing a cavalier with a slouched hat
galloping towards him, judged him to be one of a troop of foragers, and
throwing away his plaid and brogues, he took to his heels, and fled with pre-
cipitation.

It was in vain that the king shouted and called on him to halt; he only fled
the faster; and James, who delighted in a frolic, and was under the necessity
of having some information concerning the way, seeing no better would, drew
his sword, and pursued him full speed. As the youth ran towards the steepest
part of the hill, the king, who soon lost sight of his company, found it no easy
matter to come up with him. But at last the hardy mountaineer, perceiving
his pursuer h ird upon him, and judging that it was all over with him, faced
about, heaved his baton, and prepared for a desperate defence.

Whether tlie king rode briskly up in order to disarm him at once, or wliether,
as he pretended, he was unable to stop his liorse on the steep, could not be
determined, owing to the difference of the relation, when told by the king .uul
the shepherd; but certain it is, that at the first stroke the shepherd stunnni the
king's Spanish bay, who foundered on tiie heath, and threw his riticr forward
among the feet of his antagonist. The slicphcrd, who deemed himself liglit-
ing fi)r life and salvation, plied his blows so thick upon the king's hick and
shoulders, that, if the former iiad not jjrcviously been c[uite e.xhaubted by run-
ning, he liad certainly maimed the knig. But James, feeling by experience
tliat there was no time to parley, sprung upon his assailant, whom he easily over-
threw and disarmed, as being completely out of bre.ilh '" W'iiat does liie lool
I. M

i62 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

mean? " said the king. '' All that I wanted of you, was to put us on our way
to I 'cobles, for we have entirely lost both our path and our aim."

" But you must first tell me who you are," said the youth ; I fear you have
no good design on Peebles."

" We are a wedding party going there to make merry. The king and queen
are to meet us, and honour us with their company; and if you will go along
and direct us the way, you too shall be our guest, and you shall see the king and
all his court."

" I can see plenty o' fools without ganging sae far," said the shepherd. " I
account that nae great favour ; I have often seen the king."

"And would know him perfectly well, I suppose ? "

" Oh, yes. 1 could ken him amang a thousand. But tell me are you indeed
Scotsmen.?"

'' 1 ndeed we are, did you not see many ladies in company ? "

" I am sorry lor putting you to sae muckle trouble, sir ; but wha the devil
ever saw a Scot wear a bonnet like that !"

" Come, mount behind me, and direct us on our way, which seems terribly
intricate, and you shall be well rewarded."

The youth mounted, bare-legged as he was, behind the stalwart groom,
without farther hesitation. They soon came in sight of the company, who
were waiting the issue of the pursuit ; the king waved his slouched hat, and
called on them to follow, and then rode away at a distance before, conversing
with his ragged guide. The eminence where the party dined is called the
Ki/tiji's Sfiii, and the glen where they found the shepherd, the VVeddini^ers
Hope to this day.

CHAPTER XL
The road which they were now obliged to follow was indeed intricate ; it
winded among the brakes and woods of Grevington in sucli a manner, that, if
it had not been for the shepherd, the royal party could not have found their
way to tlie town of Peebles or the castle of Nidpath that night. James and
the shepherd led the way, the latter being well acquainted with it, while the
rest followed. The two foremost being both on the same horse, conversed
freely as they went. There being a considerable difference in the relation
which the parties gave of the particulars of this conversation, the real truth
could not be fully ascertained; but the following is as near a part of it as could
be recovered.

Kinc;. '' So you know the king well enough by sight, you say ? "

Slu^p.—'' Perfectly well.''

" Pray, what is he like .? "

" A black looking, thief-like chrip, about your ain size, and somewhat like
you, but a great deal uglier."

" I should like of all things to see him and hear him speak."

"You would like to see him and hear him speak, would you? Well, if you
chance to see him, I will answer for it, you shall soon hear him speak. There's
naething in the hale warld he delights sae muckle in, as to hear hi7nsel/ s^e.ak
— if you arc near him, it will gang hard if you hear ony thing else; and if you
do not see him, it will not be his fault ; for he takes every opportunity of
showing his goodly person."

" So you have no great opinion of your king, I perceive."

" 1 have a greai opinion that he is a silly fellow; a bad man at heart; and a
great rascal."

1 am sorry to hear tliat, from one who knows him so well, for I have heard
on the contrary, that he is accounted generous, brave, and virtuous."

"Ay, but his generosity is a' ostentation^his bravery has never yet been
weel tried ; and for his virtue — God mend it."

" Well, shepherd, you know we may here speak the sentiments of our hearts
freely, and whatever you say — "

" Whatever I say ! I have said nothing which I would not i epeat if the king

THE BRIDAL OF POLMOOD. 163

were standing beside me. I only said his courage has not yet been tried — I
say sae still — And I said, for his virtue, God mend it. Was that wrong ? I
say sae still too — 1 would say as muckle for any person ; of you, or even my
own father. The truth is, I like James Stuart weel enough as my king, and
would fight for him to my last breath against the Englishmen .-' but I am unco
angry at him for a' that, and would as willingly fight ivi' him. If I had got
him amang my feet as I had you lately, mercy ! how I would have laid on ! "

" The devil you would V

" That I would ! But by the by, what makes you wear an iron chain ?
you have not killed your father too, have you ? Or is it only for the purpose
of carrying your master's wallet ?"

" No more ; only for carrying my master's wallet."

" Ay, but the king wears ane sax times as big as that of yours, man — Was
not that a terrible business .'' How can we expect any blessing or good
fortune to attend a king who dethroned and murdered his father ? for ye ken
it was the same thing as if he had done it wi' his ain hand."

" It is well known that his father was much to blame ; and I believe the
king was innocent of that, and is besides very sorry for it."

" Though he was to blame, he was still his father- — There's nae argument
can gang against that ; and as to his being sorry, it is easy for him to say sae,
and wear a bit chain over his shoulder, as you do ; but I firmly believe, if the
same temptation, and the same opportunity, were again to occur, he would do
the same over again. And then, what a wicked man he is with women ! He
has a very good queen of his ain, even though she be an Englishwoman,
which is certainly wonderful ; nevertheless, she's a very good queen ; yet, he
is so indifferent about her, that he is barely civil, and delights only in a
witching minx that they ca' Grey — Grey by name and Grey by nature, I wad
reckon What a terrible sin and shame it is to gallaunt as they do ! I won-
der they two never think of hell and purgatory."

" We must allow our king a little liberty in that way."

" Yes ; and then he must allow it in others, and they in others again — you
little think what a wicked prince has to answer for."

"Are such things indeed reported of the king !"

" Ay, and in everybod/s mouth. Fy ! fy ! what a shame it is ! if I were in
his place I would ' shu the Herone away,' as the auld song says — Pray did you
never hear the song of i/ie Herone, which one of our shepherds made, a strange
chap he is ?"

" Never."

" Well, it is the sweetest thing you ever heard, and I will sing it to you
when I have time. I would give the best wedder in my father's flock that
King James heard it ; I am sure he would love our old shepherd, who well
deserves his love, for there is no man in Scotland that loves his king and
nation so well as he. But to return to our king's faults : the worst of the
whole is his negligence in looking after the rights and interests of the common
people. It is allowed on all hands, that James is a good-natured and merci-
ful prince ; yet the acts of cruelty and injustice which every petty lord and
laird exercises in his own domain, are beyond all sufferance. If his majesty
knew but even the half that I know, he would no more enjoy his humours and
pleasures so freely, till once he had rectified those abuses, which it has always
been the chief study of his nobles to conceal frae his sight. I could show him
some scenes that would convince him what sort of a king he is."

The shepherd, about this time, observing that one of the troop behind
them continued to sound a bugle at equal intervals, with a certain peculiar
lilt, asked the king what the fellow meant. The king answered, "That he
was only warning Mess John and the weddingcrs to be ready to receive
them. And you will soon see them," continued he, "coming to meet us, and
to conduct us into the town." " And will the king indeed be there ?" " Yes,
the king will indeed be there." " W^ell, I wish 1 had my hose, brogues, and
Sunday ''lothes on ; liiit it is all one, nobody will mind me."

1 64 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

Now it so happened that James had, a short time previous to that, conferred
a grant of the lands of Caidmoor on the town of Peebles, on account of its
great attachment and good will towards him ; and the news of his approach
having been brought there by some of the servants, who had been despatched
to provide accommodations at Nidpath, the townsmen had dressed them-
selves in their best robes, and were all prepared to receive their royal bene-
factor with every demonstration of joy ; and, on hearing the well-known
sound of his bugle, they repaired to meet him on a moor south of the river.
The king being still foremost, rode up into the midst of his loyal burgesses
without being discovered, and indeed without being regarded or looked at ;
then, wheeling about his horse, he made a halt until his train came up ; the
bare-legged youth was still riding at his back on the same horse.

The shepherd could perceive no king, nor anything like one, save Polmood,
on whom the eyes of the townsmen were likewise fixed as he approached ; yet
they could not help thinking their king was transformed.

The courtiers with their attendants soon came up, and after arranging
themselves in two rows before the king and the queen, who had now drawn
up her horse close by his side, they uncovered their heads, and all bowed
themselves at once. The shepherd likewise uncovered his head, without
knowing to whom, but he understood some great affair to be going on. " For
God sake ! neighbour, tak aff that ugly slouched hat of yours, man," said he
to his companion, and at the same time pushed it off with one of his arms.
The king catched it between his hands as it fell. "To whom shall 1 take it
off, sirrah .-' — to you, I suppose," said he, and put it deliberately on again.
This incident discovered his majesty to all present, and a thousand shouts,
mi.\ed with a thousand bonnets, scaled the firmament at once.

The dreadful truth now glanced upon the shepherd's mind all at once, like
the bolt of heaven that preludes a storm. The station which his companion
held in the middle of the ring — the queen by his side — the heads uncovered,
and the iron chain, all confirmed it. — He sprung from his seat, as the marten
of the Grampians springs from his hold when he smells the fire — darted
through an opening in the circle, and ran across the moor with inconceivable
swiftness. " Hold that rascal," cried the king, " lay hold of the villain, lay
hold of him." The shepherd was pursued by man, horse, and hound, and
soon overtaken and secured. Their majesties entered the town amid shouts
and acclamations of joy ; but the unfortunate shepherd was brought up a
prisoner in the rear by four officers of the king's guard, who were highly
amused by the different passions that agitated his breast. At one time he
was accusing himself bitterly of folly and stupidity — at another, laughing at
his mistake, and consoling himself after this manner : " Weel, the king will
hang me the morn, there is no doubt of it ; but he canna dae it for naething,
as he does to mony ane, that is some comfort ; by my faith, I gae him a
hearty loundering, he never gat sic dadds in his life — let him tak them."
Again, when he spoke or thought of his parents, his heart was like to burst.
After locking him into the tolbooth of Peebles, they left him to darkness and
despair ; while all the rest were carousing and making merry, and many of
them laughing at his calamity.

The king, whose curiosity had been aroused, made inquiries concerning
the name, occupation, and qualities of this youth, and was informed that his
name was Moray (the same it is supposed with Murray) ; that he was a great
scholar, but an idle, useless fellow ; that the old abbot had learned him to
sing, for which every one valued him ; but that, unfortunately, he had like-
wise taught him the unprofitable arts of reading and writing, in which alone
he delighted ; and it was conjectured he would end in becoming a warlock,
or studying the black art.

The king, though no profound scholar himself, knew well the value of
education, and how to estimate it in others. He was, therefore, desirous of
trying the youth a little further, and of being avenged on him for galling him in
su( h a merciless manner, and sent a messenger to him that night, informing

THE BRIDAL OF POLMOOD. 165

him that he would be brought to the scaffold next day ; but that il he had any
message or letter to send to his father, the king would despatch a courier
with it. The youth replied, that if the kin^,' would send a messenger with the
letter who could read it to his father, he would certainly write one instantly ;
but that his father could not read. The messenger, knowing that the king
was particularly desirous of seeing the writing and composition of a shepherd,
and of comparing it with those of his clerks, promised that such a messenger
should be sent with it. The shepherd wrote one without delay, which the
man took, and carried straight to the king. This letter is likewise inserted
in Mr. Brown's book of ancient manuscripts, but it seems to have been
written at a much later period than many others that are there ; the spelling
is somewhat more modern, and the ink scarcely so yellow. The following is
a literal copy : —

" Dr faythr, im to be hangit the morn, for daddinge of the kingis hate ; for
miskaing him to his fes ahynt his bak ; for devering his whors, and layinge
on him with ane grit stick, i hope el no be vext, for im no theefe ; it was a
sayir battil, an a bete him doune wis dran sorde ; for I miskent him. if it
hadna bin krystis merse, ad kild him. me muthr 1 be wae, but ye men pleis
her, an il be gled to see ye in at the deth, for i wonte er blissying. im no
feirit, but yit its ane asom thynge ; its no deth it feirs me, but the eftir-kuni
garis my hert girle. if kryste an his muthr dinna do sumthin for me ther, i

maye be ill im er lukles sonne, Villem mora to Villem mora of

kreuksten."

When this letter was read to the king and his courtiers, instead of laughing
at it, as might have been expected, they admired it, and wondered at the
shepherd's profound erudition ; a proof that learning, in those days, was at a
very low ebb in Scotland.

The messenger was despatched to his father, and the old man and his wife,
on receiving the news, repaired instantly to Peebles in the utmost consternation.
They were however denied access to their son, until such time as he appeared
on the scaffold. A great crowd was by that time assembled ; for besides the
court, all the towns people, and those of the country around, were gathered
together to see poor William hanged. When his father and mother mounted
the steps, he shook each of them by the hand, smiled, and seemed anxious to
console them ; but they both turned about and wept, and their utterance was
for some time quite overpowered. They had been given to understand that
the king would listen to no intercession ; for that their son had uttered sen-
tences of a most dangerous and flagrant nature, in which they were likely to
be involved, as having instilled such sentiments into his young mind. But
when they learned from his own mouth that he had committed the assault on
the person of his majesty under a mistake, and knowing how justly their son
had blamed his conduct and government, they could not help considering it
extremely hard, to bring a valuable youth thus to a shameful and public
execution for such an offence. The mother cried downright, and the old man
with difficulty restrained himself He did not fall at the king's feet, nor
attempt speaking to him, as judging it altogether vain and unprofitable ; but
he turned on him a look that said more than any words could express ; and
then, as if hopeless of mercy or justice from that (quarter, he turned them to
heaven, uncovered his grey head, and sinking on his knees, invoked the justice
and forgiveness of the Almighty in strong and energetic terms. This was the
language of nature and of the heart ; and when he prayed, there was no cheek
in the assembly dry, save those of the king and courtiers. " What hard hearts
tliese great folks have," said the country people one to another.

The usual ceremonies being all got over, William's face was at length
covered — the executioner was just proceeding to do his duty — thousands of
burgesses and plebeians were standing around with bare heads and open
mouths holding in their breath in awful suspense - tiie women had turned
their backs to the scaffold, and were holding down their faces and weeping —
the p.irents of the youth had taken a long farewell of him, when the king

i66 THE F.TTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

sprung forward to the scene of action. " Hold ! " said he, " this fellow, traitor
as he is, has behaved himself throuj^hout with some degree of spirit, and there-
fore he shall not die like a common felon — No," continued he, unsheathing his
sword, " he shall die by the hand of a king. Kneel dov. n, William, I command
you !" William, whose senses were all in confusion, and who felt the same
kind of sensations as he sometimes wont to do in a dream, kneeled implicitly
down on the boards, and held forward his head, making a long neck that his
majesty might get a fair blow at it. The king, either inadvertently or in a
frolic, laid the cold blade of his sword for a moment upon his neck. William
imagined his head was off, and fell lifeless upon the scaffold. The king then
crossed him with his sword —" Rise up. Sir William Moray," said he ; "I
here create you a knight, and give to you, and yours, the lands of Crookston
and Ncwbey, to hold of me for ever." The old farmer and his wife uttered both
an involuntary cry, between a sigh and a shout ; it was something like that
which a drowning person utters, and they were instantly at the king's feet,
clasping his knees. The crowd around hurled their caps into the air, and
shouted until the hills rang again ; " Long live our gracious king I — long live
our good king James I

When the tumult of joy had somewhat subsided, it was observed that
William was lying still upon his face. They unbound his hands, and desired
him to rise ; but he neither answered nor regarded ; and on lifting him up,
they saw with astonishment that he was dead in good earnest. His parents,
in the utmost despair, carried him into a house, and for a long time every art
to restore suspended animation proved fruitless. When the king laid the cold
sword upon his bare neck, it was observed that he gave a violent shiver. The
poor youth imagined that his head was then struck off, and to think of living
longer in such circumstances was out of the question, so he died with all
manner of decorum ; and it is believed he would never more have revived, if
the most vigorous measures had not been resorted to. King James, who was
well versed in everything relating to the human frame, was the best surgeon,
and the most skilful physician then in the realm, succeeded at last in restor-
ing him to life. But even then, so strongly was his fancy impressed with the
reality of his dissolution, that he could not be convinced that he was not in a
world of spirits, and that all who surrounded him were ghosts. When he came
to understand his real situation, and was informed of the honours and lands
conferred on him by the king, he wept out of gratitude, and sagely observed,
that, " a/ier all, the truth told aye best."

CHAPTER XII.

WiLLTAM, the shepherd, being now metamorphosed into Sir William Moray,
was equipped in proper habiliments, and introduced at court by his new title.
He often astonished the courtiers, and put them quite out of countenance, by
his blunt and cutting remarks, and of course soon became a great favourite
with James, who delighted in that species of entertainment, as all the Stuarts
were known to do, but he more than any of them. No sooner had William
arisen into favour, than he was on the very point, not only of losing it again,
but of incurring the king's serious displeasure.

On the third or fourth evening after their arrival at Nidpath, when the feast
and the dance were over, the king reminded William of the song which he had
promised to sing to him on their way to Peebles. William hesitated, blushed,
and tried to put it off; but, the more averse he seemed to comply, the more
clamorous the company grew for his song.

This practice is too frequent even to this day, and it is one which neither
betokens generosity nor good sense. It often puts an unoffending youth, or
amiable young lady, to the blush, and lays them under the necessity of either
making a fool of themselves, or of refusing those whom they wish to oblige, and
to ajipear prudish, when in fact nothing is farther from their hearts. '1 lie
custom can never be productive of any good ; and, in the instance above
alluded to, it was the cause of much shame and dissatisfaction ; for William,

THE BRIDAL OF POLMOOD. \(^j

pressed as he was, and unable to hold longer out, began, and with a face
glowing with shame, a palpitating heart, and a faltering tongue, sung the
following old ballad.

The writer of this tale is particularly happy at having it in his power to
present his readers with a genuine and original copy of this celebrated
ancient song, save that he cannot answer precisely for having read, or copied
it exactly. He refers them, however, to the original manuscript in the pos-
session of Mr. J. Brown, now living in Richmond Street, the perusal of which
they will find no easy matter. It has been quoted by different living autliors,
or compilers rather, from tradition, and quoted falsely ; but the meaning of it,
like that of many an ancient allegory, seems never to have been at all under-
stood. It may not be improper here to mention, that the only account that
can be obtained of these ancient MSS. is, that they belonged to the house of
March, and were found in the castle of Drumlanrig.

THE HERONE.
A VERY ANCIKNT SONG.

Lkt.STIF. the hunde on the tassilyt moore !

Grein growis the birke in the coome so mcllo!
Strewe the tyme in the greinwude bouir;

For the dewe fallis sweite in the mune-beim yello!
For owir gude kyngis to the greinwude gene, <S:c.
And bonie queue Jeanye lyis hirre lene, &c.
Weil mot scho siche, for scho wetis weil,
He sleipis his lane in the foreste sheile!

Aleke ! and alu ! for ouir gude kynge !
He sleipis on the fogge, and drinkis the sprynge!
Ne lorde, ne erl, to be his gyde,
But ane bonnye pege to lye by his syde :
And, O ! that pegis weste is slim ;
And his ee wad garre the dey looke dim ;
And, O ! his breiste is rounde and fayir;
And the dymend lurkis in hys revin hayir
That curlis se sweitlye aboune his brye,
And rounde hys nek of eivorye!
Yet he mene sleipe on a bedde of lynge,
Aleke ! and alu ! for ouir gude kynge !
Weile mot Queue Jeanye. siche and mene,
For scho kennis he sleipis his leiva lane!

The kreukyt kraine cryis owir the flode,
The capperkayle clukkis in the wode;
The swanne youtis lythelye ouir the lowe;
The bleiter harpis aljune the Howe ;
The cushey flutis amangis the firris ;
. And aye the murccokke biks and birris;
And aye the ouirvvurde of ther sange,
"What ailis ouir kynge, he lyis se lange."

Gae huntc the gouke ane uther myle,
Its no the reid eed capperkayle;
Its ne the murekokke birris at morne.
Nor yitte the deire withe hirre breakine hornc;
Its nowthir the hunte, nor the murelan game,
Hes brung ouir kynge se ferre fre heme;
The gloomynge gcle, norre the danyng dewe,
He is gene to hunte the //rro'ir blue.

Ne burde withe hirre mucht evir compairc,
Hirre nekkc se tapper, sc tall, and fayir!
Hirre breiste se softe, and hirre ee sc greye,

ibS THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

Hes stouin ouir gude kyngis herte awaye,
But in that nckke ther is ane linke,

And in that breiste ther is ane brier,
And in that ee ther is ane blink,

Will penne the deidis of vvae and weir,
But the graffe shall gepe, and the korbe llee ;
And the bourik ryse qulKiir ane kynge sulde bee.

The Hcronc flewe eist, the Hcronc tlewe wesle
The Herone tlewe to the fayir foryste !
And ther scho sawe ane gudelye bouir,
Was all kledde ouir with the lille tlouir :
And in that bouir ther was ane bedde,
With silkine scheitis, and weile dune spredde;
And in thilke bed ther laye ane knichte,
Hos oundis did bleidc bcth day and nicghte ;
And by the bcdde-syde ther stude ane stene,
And thereon sate ane Icil maydene,
Withe silvere nedil, and silkene threde,
Stemmynge the oundis quhan they did blede.

The Ilerone scho tiapp)!, the Herone scho tlewe,
And scho skyrit at bogge quheryn scho grewe.
By leke, oi tarne, scho douchtna reste,
Nor bygge on the klofte hirre dowye este;
Scho culdnae see ane fyttyng schedde,
But the lille bouir and the silkene bedde !
And aye scho pifyrit, and aye scho leerit.
And the bonny May scho jaumphit and jeerit,
And aye scho turnit hirre bosim fayir.
And the knichte he Unit to see hirre there;
For, O ! hirre quhite and kumlye breiste,
Was soft as the dune of the sulanis neste !

But the maydene that wachit him nichte and daye,
She shu'd and shu'd the Herone awaye ;
Leil Virtue was that fayir maydis neme.
And sayir scho gratte for the knichtis bleme !
But the Herone scho flappyt, and the Herone scho flew,
And scho dabbyt the fayir mayde blak and blewe ;
And scho pykkit the fleche fre hirre bonny breiste-bene,
And scho pykkit out hirre cleir blewe ene ;
Till the knichte he douchtna beire to see
The maydene that wonte his meide to bee !

Swith Herone ! swith Herone! liyde yer heide,
The Herringden haque will be your deide !
The boue is bente withe ane silkene strynge.
And the airrowe fledgit with ane heronis wynge.
O I quhae will werde the wefoue day !
O I quhae will shu the Herone awaye !

Now the blak kokke mootis in his fluthir deipe;
The rowntre rokis the reven to sleipe ;
The sei-mawe couris on his glittye stene.
For its greine withe the dewe of the jaupyng maine ;
The egill maye gaspe in his yermite riven,
Amiddys the mystis and the raynis of hevin;
The swanne maye sleike hirre breist of mi Ike,
But the Herone sleipis in hirre bedde of silke.

The gude knichtis wytte is fledde or feye.
By pithe of wyrde and glamurye ;
For aye he kissit hirr bille se fayir,
Tho' vennim of eskis and tedis was there.

THE BRIDAL OF POLMOOD. 169

He skyrit to trowe bethe dule and payne,
That his hertis blude shulde paye the kene;
But the threidis fre ilka ound scho drewe,
And aye the reide blude runne anewe ;
The ether hes leyne in the lyonis laire,
And that blude shall flowe for evcrmaire.
Now, loose the hunde on the tassilit moore,

Grein growis the birke in the coome so mello !
And bedde with rewe the greinwude bouir,

Quhan the dewe fallis softe in the mune-beime yello.

CHAPTER Xin.

The youth sung this ballad to a wild melody, that was quite ravishing, though
it might be said that he chanted rather than sung it ; but he had proceeded
only a short way with the second sentence, which relates to the page, when
Madam Grey began to look this way and that way, and to talk flippantly,
first to one person, then to another; but seeing that no one answered, or
regarded her, and that all were attentive to the song, she rose hastily and
retired. As the song proceeded, the king made sundry signs for William to
desist ; but he either did not, or would not understand them, and went on.
At length his majesty rose, and commanded, with a loud voice, that the song
should be stopped, for that it was evidently oftensive. " I am astonished at
your majesty,' said the queen, "it is the sweetest and most inoffensive song
I ever listened to. It is doubtless a moral allegor)-, to which the bard has
been led by a reference to some ancient tale. I beseech your majesty, that our
young friend may, at my request, be permitted to go on with it.'"' The queen
pretended thus not to understand it, that she might have the pleasure of
hearing it out, and of witnessing the triumph of truth and virtue, over a heart
subject indeed to weaknesses and wanderings, but whose nature was kind,
and whose principles leaned to the side of goodness. Indeed, she hoped that
the sly allusions of the bard, and his mysterious predictions of some great
impendmg evil, might finally recall her lord from his wanderings, and reunite
his heart to her whose right it was. And, moreover, she did not wish that
the courtiers should perceive the poet's aim, although that was too apparent
to be easily mistaken.

James, who was a notable judge of the perceptions of others, knew, or at
least shrewdly suspected, that the queen understood the song, even couched
and warped as it was ; but he could not, with a good grace, refuse
her request, so he consented, and sat in a sullen mood till the song
was concluded, when he flung out of the saloon with precipitate steps.

It was several weeks before William was again admitted to the king's
presence ; but the queen gave him a diamond ring, and many rich presents ;
and having been informed by him, privately, who was the author of the song,
she settled upon the old shepherd 100 merks a year, which she paid out of
the rents of her own dowry lands.

The king, who was always prone to justice, upon due consideration, and
taking a retrospect of all that had passed, became convinced that William
wished him well ; and that the obstinacy he manifested with regard to the
song, in persisting in it, and refusing to leave any part of it out, originated in
his good-will, and the hopes he entertained of reclaiming his sovereign to
virtue.

The result of these reflections was, that William was one day sent for to his
majesty's closet, and admitted to a private conversation with him. The king,
without once hinting at any fomier displeasure or misunderstanding, addressed
him to the following purpose : " My worthy and ingenuous young friend, do
not you remember, that on the first day of our acquaintance, while on our way
to Peebles, you hinted to me, that great injuries were frequently done to the
common people under my government, by some of their chicftnirs and feudal
barons ? This information has preyed upon my heart ever since ; lor there is

I70 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

nothing that so much concerns me as the happiness of my people, and T am
determined to see them righted. In the mean time, it is necessary that I
should have some evidences of the truth of your statement, and for that pur-
pose I have formed a resolution of taking a journey in disguise over a part of
the realm, that I may be an eye-witness to the existing grievances of which
you complain so bitterly. It is not the first time 1 have made such excursions,
unknown to any of my courtiers ; and though it appears that they entertained
suspicions that I was othenvise, and worse employed, the consciousness of my
own good intentions, and the singular adventures 1 met with, fully compen-
sated me for their mistaken notions. Vou little know, Sir William, how the
actions of sovereigns are wrested by the malicious and discontented ; 1 am
fully persuaded, that the wily insinuations thrown out in the old bard's song
of the Herone, are founded on reports, which were then circulated." William
would fain have asked him, if he had not a pretty page who travelled in his
company ; but he feared it would be presuming too much, and touching the
king upon the sore heel ; so he said nothing, but only looked him in the face,
and the king went on. — " Now, as you seem concerned about the welfare of
the commonalty, and are conversant with their manners and habits, I purpose
to take you as my only attendant and travelling companion. We will visit the
halls of the great and the cottages of the poor, and converse freely with all
ranks of men, without being known. I have been puzzled in devising what
character to assume ; but amongst them all, I am partial to that of a travelling
bard or minstrel." William assured his majesty, there was no character so
suitable, as it would secure them a welcome reception both with the rich and
poor ; "and I can touch the harp and sing," said he ; "your majesty sings
delightfully, and plays the violin ; therefore no other disguise, unless we be-
come fortune-tellers, will answer us so well ; and the latter we can assume
occasionally as we find circumstances to accord." He was delighted with the
project ; promised all manner of diligence and secrecy, and extolled his
sovereign's ingenuity and concern about liis people's welfare.

It would be far too tedious to relate circumstantially all the feasts, revels,
and tournaments, which prevailed at Peebles and Nidpath, during the stay of
the royal party, and likewise at the castle of Polmood, where the festival and
the hunt closed for that season ; suffice it, that they were numerous and
splendid ; and while they continued, the vanity of Elizabeth was fully gratified ;
for she was the admiration of all who beheld her, both high and low.

It may likewise be necessary to mention in this place, that Alexander, duke
of Rosay, having joined the party shortly after their arrival at Nidpath, his
attentions to Elizabeth were instantly renewed, and were indeed so marked,
that they were obvious to the eyes of all the court. Rosay was a gallant and
goodly young man, and full brother to the king ; and it was too apparent, that
Elizabeth was highly pleased with his attentions and unbounded flattery, and
that she never seemed so happy as when he was by her side.

In all their walks and revels about the banks of the Tweed, Polmood was
rather like an odd person — like something borrowed, on which no account was
set, rather than he who gave the entertainment, and on whose account they
were all met When every lady had her lord or lover by her side, Elizabeth,
instead of walking arm in arm with Polmood, as was most fitting, was always
to be seen dangling and toying with Rosay. Well could Rosay flatter, and
trifle, and talk a great deal about nothing — he could speak of jewels, rings,
and laces, their colour, polish, and degrees of value. Polmood cared for none
of those things, and knew as little about them. He did not know one gem
from another, nor could he distinguish a gold chain or ring from one that was
only gilt ! What company was he for Elizabeth, in a circle where every one
was vying with another in jewels ? To flattery he was an utter stranger, for
never had one sentence savouring of that ingredient passed his lips ; nor
could he in any way testify his love or respect, save by his attention and good
offices. Alas ! what company was he for Elizabeth? Rosay was a connoisseur
in music— he understood the theory so far, that he was able to converse on

THE BRIDAL OF POLMOOD. 171

the subject— knew many of the quaint, borrowed phrases, even to andante,
grazioso, and affettuosaJ He hung over Elizabeth while she played and sung,
expressing his raptures of delight in the most impassioned terms — sighed,
shook his head, and laid both his hands upon his breast at each thrilling
melody, and dying fall ! Polmood loved a song that contained a tale— farther
perceptions of music he had none ! Alas 1 what company was he for Eliza-
beth ? Man is always searching for hajipiness here below ; but blindfolded by
passion, he runs headlong after the gilded shadow, until he either falls into a
pit, or sticks so fast in the mire that he is unable to return. Polmood had got
a wife, and with her he thought he had got all the world — all that mortal
could wish for, or desire ! So lovely ! so accomplished ! so amiable ! — and so
young ! The first week of wedlock — the next — the honey-moon past over — and
Polmood did not remember of once having had his heart cheered by a smile
from his beloved Elizabeth. In the hall, in the bower, and in the rural excur-
sion, every knight had his consort, or mistress hanging on his arm, sitting on
his knee, or toying with him ; but Polmood had nobody ! He saw his jewel
in the possession of another, and was obliged to take himself up with any
solitary gentleman like himself, whom he could find, to talk with him about
hunting and archery ; but even on these subjects his conversation wanted its
usual spirit and fervour, and all the court remarked that Polmood was become
an altered tnan.

The season for rural sports drew to a close — the last great hunt was held
that year in the forest of Meggatdalc — the tinkell was raised at two in the
morning, all the way from Blackdody to Glengaber, and the Dollar-law — up-
wards of 400 men were gathered that day, to " drive the deer with hound and
horn." The circle of gatherers still came closer and closer, until at last some
hundreds of deers and roes were surrounded on the green hill behind the castle
of Crawmelt, which is named the Hunter-hill to this day. Around the skirts
of that, the archers were placed at equal distances, with seventy leash of
hounds, and one hundred grey-hounds. At one sound of the horn the w^hole
dogs were loosed, and the noise, the hurry, and the bustle, was prodigious.
Before mid-day sixty deers were brought in, twenty-four of whom were fine
old stags, and the rest yearlings and does.

The royal party then dispersed. The queen retired to Holyrood-house,
being constrained to remain in privacy for some time — the courtiers to their
respective homes, and King James and William to put their scheme in execu-
tion. Elizabeth was left with her husband in his lonely and heieditary
castle.

As so many curious traditions relating to the adventures of the king, dis-
guised as a minstrel, are still extant in the several districts through which he
travelled, I have been at some pains to collect these, and slinll give them in
another part of this work.

CHAPTER XIV.

The manner in which Polmood and Elizabeth spent the winter is not gener-
ally known. In the remote and lonely castle of Polmood they lived by them-
selves, without any of the same degree near them, with whom they could
associate. In such a scene, it may well be conceived, that Elizabeth rather
dragged on existence than enjoyed it. The times were indeed wofully altered
with her. Instead of the constant routine of pleasure and festivity in which
she had moved at court, there was she placed, in a wilderness, among rocks
and mountains, snows and impetuous torrents ; and instead of a crowtl of gay
flatterers, who were constantly testifying their admiration of her tine form,
beautiful features, and elegant accomplishments, there was she left to vegetate
beside a man who was three times her age, and to whose person she was per-
fectly indifferent, if not averse. Their manners and habits of life were totally
dissimilar, and even in the structure of their minds no congenialitv rould he
traced. She never behaved towaid, him in a rude or uncivil manner, though

172 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

uniforrnly in a way that marked the sentiments of her heart, and therefore it
was apparent to all the domestics, that their master enjoyed none of the corn-
torts, delights, or privileges of the married state.

On parting with the queen at Nidpath, Elizabeth had promised to visit her
at Holyrood-house during the winter ; and the hopes of this visit to the court,
where she intended to prolong her stay as long as it was possible, kept up her
spirits during the tirst months of her exile ; but this journey Polmood han pre-
viously resolved not to permit. He had got enough of courtiers for the
present ; and he well knew, if he could not engage the affections of Elizabeth,
when neither rout, revel nor rival was nigh to attract her mind, he would never
gain them by hurrying her again into the midst of licentiousness and dissi-
pation. He perceived that, at the long nm, he made rather an awkward
figure among King James's voluptuous courtiers ; nor could he maintain his
consequence among them in any other scene save the mountain sports. He
was deemed a most gallant knight among the savage inhabitants of the forest;
but, in the polished circle of James's court, he was viewed as little better than
a savage himself.

Elizabeth had long been making preparations for her intended journey, and
about the close of December, she proposed that they should set out ; but
Polmood put it off from day to day, on one pretence or other, until the Christ-
mas holy-days arrived, when he was urged and entreated by Elizabeth, to
accompany her to Edinburgh, or suffer her to go by herself Though that
was the first time Elizabeth had ever deigned to entreat him for any thing, he
remained obstinate ; and at last gave her a mild but positive refusal. It was
a death-blow to the hopes of Elizabeth — her heart sunk under it ; and before
the evening she retired to her chamber, which she kept for upwards of a fort-
night, seldom rising out of her bed. Polmood testified the greatest uneasiness
about her health ; but sensible that her principal ailment was chagrin and
disappointment, he continued firm to his purpose. When he went to see her,
she seldom spoke to him ; but when she did so, it was with every appearance
of equanimity.

During the remainder of the winter she continued in a state of moping
melancholy, and this was the season when her heart first became susceptible
of tender impressions. When all gaiety, hurry, and bustle, were removed far
from her grasp, she began to experience those yearnings of the soul, which
mutual endearments only can allay. The source of this feeling Elizabeth had
not philosophy sufficient to discover ; but it led her insensibly to bestow
kindnesses, and to court them in return. She was one week attached to a
bird with the most impatient fondness, the next to a tame young doe, and the
next to a lamb, or a little spaniel : but from all these her misguided affections
again reverted, untenanted and unsatisfied. If there had not been something
in her husband's manner repulsive to her very nature, she must at that time
have been won ; for there is nofliing in the world more natural, than two of
different sexes, who are for the most part confined together, becoming attached
to each other. When this cannot be effected even when desired, it argues a
total dissimilarity between the parties in one respect or other. Two or three
times did Elizabeth manifest a slight degree of attachment, if not of fondness
for her husband ; but whenever he began to return these by his homely
endearments, her heart shrunk from a closer familiarity, with a feeling of dis-
gust which seems to have been unconquerable. How unfortunate it was, that
neither should have reflected on the probability of such a circumstance, until
it was too late to retrieve it !

About the turn of the year, there came an idle fellow into that part of the
country, who said that his name was Conncl, and that he was a native of
Gallow'ay, He was constantly lounging about the servants' hall in the castle
of Polmood, or in the adjacent cottages. Polmood, having frequently met
and conversed with this fellow, found that his answers and observations were
always pertinent and sensible, and on that account was induced to tnke him
into the family as his gardener ; for Polmood was fond of gardening, and he

THE BRIDAL OF POLMOOD. 173

had obsen'cd that Elizabeth seemed to take dehght in the various flowers as
they sprang.

The appearance of this fellow was whimsical beyond conception ; he wore
a coarse russet garb, and his red carroty locks hung over his ears and face in
a manner that was rather frightful. His beard had a yellowish tint, corres-
ponding with the colour of his hair, both of which seemed unnatural, for his
eye and his features were fine, and his form tall and athletic, but he walked
with a loutish stoop, that rendered his deportment altogether ludicrous.
Elizabeth had often observed him, but she never took any further notice of
him than to turn away with a smile.

One day, while sitting in her apartment alone, pensive and melancholy, she
cast her blue eyes around on the dark mountains of Herston. She saw the
lambs racing on the gare, and the young deers peeping from the covert of the
wood ; but this view had no charms for her. The casement was open, and
Connel the gardener was busy at work immediately before it. Slic sat dcnvn
to her lute, and played one of her favourite and most mournful old airs,
accompanying it with her voice. She had begun it merely to amuse herself,
and scarcely thought of what she did, till she was surprised at seeing Connel
give over working, and lean fonvard upon his spade, in the attitude of listen-
ing attentively. But how much more was she astonished on perceiving, that
when she ceased, he wiped a tear from his eye — turned round, and strode
with a hurried pace to the angle of the walk, and then turned and fell again
to his work ; all the while appearing as if he knew not what he was doing.
There is no motive works so powerfully upon the female mind, as the desire
of giving delight to others, and thereby exciting their admiration. This
marked attention of the humble gardener, encouraged Elizabeth to proceed —
she sung and played several other airs with an animation of tone, which had
never before been exerted within the walls of Polmood, and which raised her
own languid spirits to a degree from which they had long been estranged. —
Her curiosity was excited— she flung on a dress that was rather elegant, and
before the fall of the evening, went out to walk in the garden, resolved to
have some conversation with this awkward but interesting gardener.

When she first entered the walk at a distance, Connel stole some earnest
looks at her ; but when she approached nigher, he never once looked up, and
continued to delve and break the clods with great assiduity. She accosted
him in that easy familiar way, which those in power use toward their
dependants — commended hi3 skill in gardening, and his treatment of such
and such plants — Connel delved away, and gathered the white roots, flinging
them into a basket that stood beside him for the purpose, but opened not his
mouth. At length she asked him a question which he could not avoid
answering. He answered it ; but without turning his face about, or looking
up. When he ceased speaking, Elizabeth fo..j:d herself in a deep reverie —
her mind had wandered, and she felt as if striving to recollect something
which her remembrance could not grasp. At considerable intervals she
brought him to converse again and again ; and as often did slic experience
the same sensations; these sensations had something painful as well as
pleasing in them ; but the most curious thing that attended them was, that
they were to her altogether unaccountable.

From that time forward the garden seemed to have become Elizabeth's
home ; and Connel, the clownish but shrewd gardener, her only companion.
— She played and sung every day at her window to delight him, and ceased
only on purpose that she might descend into the garden to hear him converse,
and commend the works of his hands. She was indeed drawn toward him
by an irresistible impulse, that sometimes startled her on reflection ; but her
heart told her that her motives were not cjuestionable. — Love she was sure it
could not be ; but whatever it was, she began to cxi)eriencc a faint ray of
happiness. Polmood perceived it, and was delighted : while Connel the
gardener, on account of his inestimable art in administering pleasure to «
desponding beauty, shared his master's esteem and bounty.

174 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES,

Things passed on in this manner, or with little variety, until the end of
summLT. On the 14th of August, a guest arrived at the castle of Pohnoood
unexpectedly, and not altogether welcome — welcome indeed to Elizabeth, but
not so to her husband, who heard him announced with the most galling
vexation. — This was no other than Alexander, duke of Rosay, with his suite,
who announced the king's intention of being there by the end of the next
week. Elizabeth was literally frantic with joy ; she scarcely knew either
what she was doing or saying, when Rosay alighted in the court, and saluted
her with his own and ro> al brother's kindest respects. Polmood received the
duke as became his high dignity, and his own obligations to the royal family;
but in his heart he wished him at the distance of a thousand miles. His
discernment of human character was not exquisite, but he foresaw a part of
what was likely to ensue, and the precognition foreboded nothing good to any
one. He felt so much chagrined at the ver)' first rencounter, that he found he
could not behave himself with any degree of propriety ; and the consequence
was, that Rosay and Elizabeth were soon left by themselves. Her complexion
had become a little languid, but the sudden flow ot spirits whic^" she experi-
enced, lent a flush to her cheek, a fire to her eye, and a rapid ease and grace
to her manner, which were altogether bewitching.

Rosay was a professed libertine, and of course one of those who felt little
pleasure in aught save self-gratification ; but he had never in his life been so
transported with delight, as he was at beholding Elizabeth's improved
charms, and seeming fondness of him ; for so he interpreted the feelings of
her heart, which gave birth to this charming vivacity — these, however, had
their origin from a source quite different from that which he supposed.

As soon as they were left alone, in the first transports of his passion he
caught her in his arms, and kissed her hand again and again. She chided
him— she was indeed angry with him — but what could she do .'' Situated as
they were, she could not come to a professed and open rupture, on account
of any little imprudences which his passionate admiration had induced him
inadvertently to commit ; so all was soon forgot and forgiven. But whatever
freedoms a man has once taken with one of the other se.x, he deems himself
at liberty to venture on again whenever occasion serves. A lady ought by all
means to be on her guard against a lover's first innovations ; the smallest
deviation from the path of rectitude is fraught with incalculable danger to
her ; one imprudence, however slight she may deem it, naturally, and almost
invariably, leads to a greater ; and when once the tale is begun, there is no
mathematical rule by which the final sum may be computed, even though the
aggressor should advance in the most imperceptible gradation. The maiden
that ventures, in any way, to dally with a known libertine in morals, ventures
to play around the hole of the asp, and to lay her hand on the snout of the
lion.

The reader must by this time be so well acquainted with the character of
Elizabeth, as to perceive, that in this fondness displayed for Rosay, there was
no criminality of intention — not a motion of her soul that cherished the idea
of guilty love— nor a thought of the heart that such a thing was intended on
his part. — A thirst for admiration was what had hitherto chiefly ruled all her
actions — that passion was now, for a season, likely to be fully gratified in the
court circle, whose hostess she would be ; and, considering the wearisome
season she had passed, was it any wonder that she felt happy at seeing the
polished Rosay again, or that his adulations and amorous enticements should,
from their novelty, be grateful to her volatile heart .''

Polmood viewed the matter in a very different light, and in the worst hght
which it was possible for a husband to view it. He had long had some faint
unformed apprehensions of Elizabeth having been the duke's mistress previous
to his marriage with her, and thought it was owing to that circumstance, that
the king had got the marriage put suddenly over in the absence of Rosay,
and had given him so large a dowry with her. It is easy to conceive how
galling such an idea must have been to his proud but honest heart. Their

THE BRIDAL OF POLMOOD.

175

behaviour at Nidpath, immediately after the wedding, first engendered these
injurious ideas, and this visit of Rosay's went far to confirm them. That the
king and his nobles should come into the forest for a lew weeks, to enjoy the
hunt, without any other sinister motive, was natural enough ; but why, or for
wh It purpose, Rosay should have come a fortnight earlier, he could not
divine. Perhaps these suspicions were not without foundation, so far as
they regarded Rosay ; but they were quite groundless with regard to Eliza-
beth ; yet every part of her conduct and behaviour, tended to justify the
ungracious surmise. Polmood had felt, with silent regret, her m.uked cold-
ness and disaffection ; but when he saw those smiles and caresses, which he
languished for in vain, bestowed so lavishly upon a gay and tlippaiu courtier,
his patience was exhausted, and from the hour of Rosay's arrival, the whole
frame and disposition of his mind was altered. The seeds of jealousy, which
had been early sown in his bosom, had now taken fast root ; his vigilance was
on the alert to ascertain the dreadful truth, and every pang that shook his
frame, whispered to his soul the most deadly revenge on the destroyers of his
peace. His conversation and manners were, at best, not very refined ; but
the mood and temper of mind in which he then was, added to his natural
roughness a degree of asperity that was hardly bearable. Polmood's company
was of course little courted by Rosay and Elizabeth ; he discovered this, and
set himself only to keep a strict watch over all their motions, and that with
every degree of cunning and diligence that he was master of. They were
always together ; they toyed, they sung, conversed in the arbour, walked into
the wood, and sat by the side of the river. In some of their excursions,
Polmood could not follow them with his eyes without being seen by them,
and therefore desired Connel the gardener to keep a strict watch over their
conduct. He needed not have given him this charge ; for Connel was more
an.xious on the watch than Polmood himself ; he perceived the snare into
which his young mistress was likely to be led, and trembled to think of the
consequences. When they sat in the arbour, he contrived to work at some-
thing or other, directly in front of it ; when they walked, or sat by the side of
the river, he was angling there for fish to the table ; and when they retired
into the wood, he was there, cutting off twigs to make baskets, or birches
wherewith to dress his garden. He resolved to watch them at all events, and
haunted them like their evil genius. Rosay often cursed him ; but I'.lizabeth
seemed always very glad to see him, and took every occasion of conversing
with him, as she and her gallant passed. If Connel ever perceived any
improprieties in their conduct, he concealed them ; for his report to his
master was always highly favourable, as far as they regarded Elizabeth ; but
he once or twice ventured to remark, that he did not consider Rosay a
character eminently calculated to improve the morals of any young lady.
Polmood bit his lip and continued silent — he was precisely of the same
opinion, but could think of no possible expedient by which they might
be separated. His jealousy had increased his ingenuity ; for he had devised
means by which he could watch all their motions in the hall, the parlour,
and the arbour, without being seen. This was rather an undue advantage,
for who would wish to have all their motions and actions subjected to such a
scrutiny.

The time of the king's arrival approached, and Polmood, with all his vigi-
lance, had not hitherto discovered anything criminal in their intercourse. He
had, however, witnessed some familiarities and freedoms, on the part of
Rosay in particular, which, if they did not prove, still led him shrewdly to sus-
pect the worst. liut now a new and most unexpected discovery was effected,
which enkindled the ignitable pile of jealousy into the most furious and fatal
flame.

CHAPTER XV.
From the time that Rosay arrived, poor Connel the gardener seemed to labour
under some grievous malady, and became thoui^htful and absent, lie took

176 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

pleasure in nothing save herding his fair mistress and her spark ; and it was
evident to all the menials, that some great anxiety preyed upon his mind.
Elizabeth, too, had observed this change in her humble but ingenuous de-
pendant, and had several times inquired the cause, without being able to draw
from him any definite answer.

One day Klizabeth had left for a while the delightful treat of flippancy, ban-
ter, and adulation, for the more sober one of holding a little rational conversa-
tion with Connel, and the following dialogue passed between them. " I have
long had a desire to hear your history, Connel. You once told me that your
parents were in good circumstances ; why, then, did you leave them?" " It
was love that occasioned it, madam." This answer threw Elizabeth into a fit
of laughter; for the ludicrous idea of his having run away from the object of
his aftection, together witii the appearance of the man, combined in present-
ing to her mind an image altogether irresistible. " So you really have been
seriously in love, Connel .''" " Yes, madam, and still am so seriously in love,
that I am firmly convinced no living man ever loved so well, or with such un-
alterable devotion, as 1 do. Pray, were you ever in love, if it please you
madam?" "A pretty question that, considering the state in which you find
me placed." Connel shook his head. " But if you, who are a lover, will de-
scribe to me what it is to be in love, I may then be able to answer your ques-
tion with certainty." " Between two young people of similar dispositions, it
is the most delightful of all scnsaVons ; all the other generous feelings of the
soul are not once to be compared with it— Please, dear madam, did you never
see any man of your own age whom you could have loved ? " Elizabeth ap-
peared pensive — her mind naturally turned upon the young Baron Carmichael.
In her wearisome days and nights she had often thought of him, and of what
she might have enjoyed in his company; for though Elizabeth had little or no
foresight, but acted, for the most part, on the impulse of the moment, or as
contingent circumstances influenced her, she had nevertheless a clear and dis-
tinct memory, and was capable of deep regret. She made no answer to
Connel's query, but at length accosted him as follows : " 1 should like to hear
the history of your own love, Connel ; that is the chief point at which I aim."
" Alas ! it is nearly a blank, my dear lady. I love the most sweet, the most
lovely creature of her sex ; but fate has so ordered it, that she can never be
mine." " If you love her so dearly, and she return that love, one would think
you might hold fate at defiance." " She did affect me, and, I am convinced,
would soon have been won to have loved me with all her heart : but that heart
was inexperienced^it was over-ruled by power, and swayed by false
argument ; and before ever she got leisure to weigh circumstances aright, she
was bestowed upon another." " And do you still love her, even when she is
the wife of another man ? " " Yes, madam, and more dearly than I ever loved
her before. I take no delight in anything with which she is not connected. I
love to see her — to hear her speak ; and, O, could I but contribute to her
happiness, there is nothing on earth that I would not submit to." " Now, you
tell me what is impossible ; such pure disinterested love does not exist between
the sexes as that you pretend to.' " Indeed, but it does, madam." " 1 can-
not believe it." "Yes, you will soon believe it; and I can easily convince
you of that." On saying this, he loosed a small tie that was behind his neck,
and pulling his red beard, and wig over his head, there stood Connel, the
clownish gardener, transformed into the noble, the accomplished, young Baron
CarmichaeL

Elizabeth was singular for her cool unmoved temper and presence of mind ;
but in this instance, she was overcome with astonishment, and for about the
space of two minutes, never was statue cast in a mould so striking. Mer fine
form leaned for\vard upon the air in a declining posture, like an angel about
to take leave of the dwellings of men — her hands upraised, and her cyesfixed
upon her lover, who had sunk on his knees at her feet — from him they were
raised slowly and gradually up to heaven, while a smile of astonishment played
upon her countenance that quite surpassed all description — " Carmi< liael 1 "

THE BRIDAL OF POLMOOD. 17?

exclaimed she " Good God of heaven ! is it possible ! " He attempted to
speak and explain his motives, but she interrupted him : " Make haste and
resume your impenetrable mask," said she ; '' for if you are discovered, we are
both undone." So saying, she hurried away from him, agitated in such a
manner as she had never been before. She posted from one part of the castle
to another, tried an hundred different postures and positions, and as often
changed them again. She tried to ponder, but she was not used to it — she
could reflect on what was past with a hurried restless survey, but no scheme
or mode of procedure could she fix on for the future. It was, upon the whole,
a sweet morsel ; but it was mixed with an intoxicating and pungent ingredient.
The adventure had something pleasingly romantic in it ; yet she feared— she
trembled for some consequence — but did not know what it was that she
feared.

In this mood she continued about two hours, shifting from place to place —
rising, and as hastily sitting down again, till at last she sunk upon a couch
quite exhausted, where she fell into a profound sleep. She had, all this while of
restlessness, been endeavouring to form a resolution of banishing Carmichael
instantly from her presence, but had not been able to effect it.

There is nothing on which the propriety and justice of any action so much
depends, as the temper of mind in which the rcsolver to do it is framed. And
there is, perhaps, no general rule more unexceptionable than this, that when
a woman awakens out of a sound and guiltless sleep, her heart is prone to
kindness and ind'.dgence. The lover, who had before grieved and wronged
her, she will then forgive, and shed a tear at the remembrance of former kind-
nesses. The child, that had but lately teased and fretted her almost past
endurance she will then hug with the fondest endearment ; and even if an
inferior animal chance to be nigh, it will then share of her kindness and
caresses.

In such a soft and tender mood as this was Elizabeth's resolution formed
with regard to her behaviour towards Carmichael. She had dreamed of him
in her late sleep, and her fancy had painted him all that was noble, kind, and
generous in man — every reflection in which she indulged terminated favour-
ably for Carmichael— every query that she put to her own mind was resolved
upon the most generous principles, and answered accordingly. The conse-
quence of all this was, that long before evening, she was again in the garden,
and spent at least an hour in the company of the enamoured and delighted
gardener.

From that hour forth was Elizabeth estranged from Rosay ; for the
delineation of his character now formed a principal theme of conversati^a
between her and Carmichael. It was on purpose to prevent her, if possibly
from falling into Rosay's snares, that Carmichael had at that time discovered
himself ; for he saw that her conditioai and state of mind peculiarly subjected
her to danger, if not to utter ruin. Rosay being now deprived of his lovely
companion all at once, was left by himself to reflect on the cause, and Polmood
and he were frequently left together, although they were not the most social
companions in the world. Elizabeth had flowers to examine — she had berries
to pull — she had arbours to weave — and, in short, she had occasion to be
always in the garden. Polmood perceived this change, and was glad, while
Rosay was ch;igrined beyond measure.

What this sudden and complete change in Elizabeth's behaviour proceeded
from, Rosay was utt rly at a loss to guess — nor knew he on whom to fix the
imputation. Her husband it could not be, for she was less in Polmood's
company than in his own. Me could not be jealous of the comical red-
headed gardener ; but he shrewdly suspected that it was owing to some
insinuation of his that he was thus baulked in his amour, when he conceived
the victory as certain as if it had been already won.

Jealousy has many eyes, and is ever on the watch. Rosay Ic.irned one
day that Elizabeth and her g.irdcner, who were seldom asunder, were to be
employed in gathering wood-rasps for a delicate preserve, which she was
I. la

178 THE KT TRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

busied in preparing ; and having observed a brake near the castle, wlieie
these berries were peculiarly abundant, he was assured they would seek
that spot ; so he went previously and hid himself in the heart of a bush,
in the middle of the thicket, where he heard, without being observed or
suspected, a lull half hour s conversation between the lovers. He heard his
own character very freely treated, and besides, discovered the whole secret ;
at least, he discovered that Connel the gardener was no other than Elizabeth's
former lover, the banished Baron Carmichacl. Chagrined at his utter dis-
appomtmcnt, and full of revenge at hearing his character and motives
painted in their true colours, he hastened to ajjprize Polmuod of the circum-
stance.

When he arrived at the castle, Polmood was gone out ; but impatient of
i!clay, and eager for sudden vengeance, he followed to seek him, that he
niigiit kindle in his breast a resistless flame, disregarding any other conse-
quences than the hurl it was likely to bring upon his rival. It chanced that
they took different directions, and did not meet, until they encountered each
other on the green before the castle.

Elizabeth was then sitting at her lattice, and perceiving the unusual eager-
ness with wliich Rosay came up and accosted Polmood, she dreaded there
w.is somelhmg in the wind. She observed them strictly, and all their gestures
tended to confirm it. After they had exchanged a few sentences, Rosay, as
if for the sake of privacy, took his host by the hand, and led him to an
inner-chamber.

The apartments of these old baronial castles were not sealed up so close as
chambers are now ; and, if one set himself to accomplish it, it was not diffi-
cult to overhear anything that passed in them.

Whether it was fears for her adventurous lover, the natural curiosity in-
herent in the sex, or an over-ruling providence that prompted Elizabeth at
that time to go and listen, it is needless here to discuss. Yet certainly she
did go, and, with trembling limbs and a palpitating heart, heard the secret
fully divulged to her husband, with many aggravations, ere it had been many
days revealed to herself. Easily foreseeing what would be the immediate
consequence, she hastened back to the garden, warned Carmichael instantly
to make his escape, and mentioned a spot where he would lind all the neces-
saries of life by night, provided he thought it safe to hide in the vicinity,
Carmichael, expecting from this hint that he might sometimes meet herself at
that spot, without waiting to make any reply, took her advice — slipped into
the wood, and continued his flight with all expedition, till he was out of
danger of being overtaken. The spot which the baron chose for a hiding-
place is well known, and is still pointed out by the shepherds and farmers of
the Muir : for so that district is called. It is a httle den near the top of
Herston-hill, from which he could see all that passed about the castle of
I'olmood ; where no one could ai)proach him without being seen at the
distance of half a mile, and if danger appeared on either side, he could retire
into the other side of tlie hill with all deliberation, and without the smallest
risk of being discovered. Here we will leave him to linger out the day, to
weary for the night, and, when that arrived, to haunt the lanes and boor-
tree-bush above I'olmood, in hopes to meet his lovely, misguided Elizabeth,
who would just return to the scenes of violence and mystery at the castle of
Polmood.

CHAPTER XVI.
Rosay had no sooner informed Polmood of the singular circumstance, that
Connel the gardener was young Carmichael of Hyndford in disguise, than he
formed resolutions of the most signal vengeance on the impostor, on Eliza-
beth, and on Rosay also. The tnith of Rosay's statement he could not doubt,
as a thousand things occurrtd to his mind in testimony of it ; but he viewed
this anxious and acrimonious act of divulgement merely as the effect of
jealousy and rivalship ; for with him no doubt remained but that Elizabeth

THE BRIDAL OF POLMOOD. 170

was alike criminal with both. He had, both now and on a former occasion,
witnessed her open dalliances with Rosay ; and when he considered how
long he had been duped by her and another paramour, by his former in-
veterate rival in disguise, it must be acknowledged, it was not without some
reason that he now viewed his wife in the worst light in which it was possible
any man could view a wife.

He pretended to treat Rosay's information with high contempt, but the
emotions of his heart could not be concealed. — In a short time thereafter he
sallied forth into the garden with a frantic impatient mien, and having liis
sword drawn in his hand. What might have been the consec[uences cannot
now be positively determined, but it was certainly fortunate for Connel, the
gardener, that he was out of the way ; as the enraged baron sought every
part where he was wont to be emplcycd, and every lane where he used to
stray, to no purpose ; but having no sa> jJicions of his flight, he hoped to meet
with him before the evening, and resolved to restr.iin his burning rage till
then.

On that very evening King James and his nobles arrived at the castle of
Polmood, with all their horses, hounds, hawks, and other hunting appurte-
nances. All was hurry, noise, bustle, and confusion. Polmood received his
royal master with all the respect, kindness, and affability which he was master
of at the time; but James, whose discernment of character was unequalled
m that age, soon perceived the ferment of his mind.

Elizabeth did all that lay in her power to entertain her guests, and to render
them comfortable ; and she succeeded to a certain degree. Polmood com-
plained of a severe illness — left the banquet again and again — walked about
with his sword in his hand, watching for the base, the unprincipled gardener,
resolving to wreak the first effects of his fury on him ; but he was nowhere to
be found, nor could any of the menials give the smallest account of him.
Elizabeth's gaiety and cheerfulness he viewed as the ebullitions of a mind
callous to every sense of moral obligement and innate propriety ; like one who
views a scene with a jaundiced eye, everything appears with the same blem-
ished tint ; so to his distempered fancy a crime was painted in every action of
his unwary and careless spouse, however blameless that action might be.

He returned to the hall, sat down, drank several cups of wine in a kind of
desperation, and, like a well-bred courtier, laughed at his majesty's jests as
well as he could ; but he neither listened to them, nor regarded them for all
that, because the fury of his heart grew more and more intolerable, and most
of all on learning the arrangements which were made in the castle for the
lodging of their guests. These were such, as he deemed the most complete
imaginable for preventing him from all command of, or watch over, his faith-
less spouse while the company remained, and such as appeared the most con-
venient in the world for an uninterrupted intercourse between her and Rosay.
Jealousy reads everything its own way, and so as to bear always upon one
point ; although, as in the present instance, that way is generally the one
farthest from truth.

Elizabeth never acted from any bad motive ; her actions might be fraught
with imprudence, for she acted always as nature and feeling directed, without
considering farther of the matter. Thoughtless she certainly was, but a mind
more chaste and unblemished did not exist. Her ( hamber was situated in the
upper storey, and was the best in the castle ; but (though with the utmost
good humour) she had always declined passing a night in the same chamber
with her husband, from the day after their marriage to the present moment ;
and at the present time she had given up her apartment for the accommofla-
tion of two of the royal family. Polmood, who did not know of this circum-
stance, was appointed to sleep among twelve or fourteen others in temporary
beds in the middle flat, and Eliz.ibetli took up her lodging with her waiting-
maids, on a flock bed on the ground floor.

Several of the nobles ilid not uiiclress, of which number i'olniood was one,
who supposed Elizabeth to be in her own chamber, on the same flat wiiJi tlie

l8o THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

king, Rosay, and others of the royal line. Strong as evidences had hitherto
been against her, he had never been able to discover her in any very blameable
situation ; yet he had not the least doubt, but that she was that night sleeping
in the arms of the Duke of Rosay. Everything, he thought, seemed to be so
well devised for the accomplishment of this wished-for and wicked purpose —
whereas they were only so in the distempered brain of the jealous husband,
who was now too visibly in a state of derangement.

I'olmood could not sleep, but flounced, groaned, and wandered about like a
troubled ghii>t. The more he pondered on recent discoveries and events, the
more he became convinced of his disgrace ; and judging that it was highly
improper in him to suffer them longer to go on in their wickedness under his
own roof, he resolved to be assured of it, and then cut them both off at a blow.
He arose from his couch, on which he had lately thrown himself — left the
ap.irtment, telling those who were awake that he was extremely ill, and was
obliged to walk out — went straight to the chamber of Elizabeth— opened the
door, and entered. The nobles, fatigued with their long journey and mellowed
with wine, either did not hear the slight noise he made, or did not regard it,
being all wrapped in a profound sleep. He soon discovered that there were
two in the bed ; that the one next him was a man, whom he judged to be
Rosay, and he judged aright ; and, in the tirst transport of rage, he would
doubtless have run him through the body, if any weapon had been in his hand.
He stood some minutes listening to their breathing, and soon began to suspect
that the other, who breathed uncommonly strong, was not Elizabeth. Deter-
mined, however, to ascertain the truth, he put over his hand and felt his bearded
chin. It was the Lord Hamilton, the constant companion of Rosay, and
as great a rake as himself. On feeling Polmood's hand, he awoke ; and think-
ing it was Rosay who had thrown his arm over him, he pushed it away, bidding
him keep his hands to himself, and at the same time giving him a hearty box
or two with his elbow.

It unfortunately happened, that the amorous Rosay had, at that very moment,
been dreaming of Elizabeth ; for the first word that he pronounced on waking
was her name. Some, indeed, allege that Rosay was not asleep, and that he
understood all that was going on ; but that he was chagrined at the reception
he had experienced from Polmood, and much more at being frustrated in all
his designs upon Elizabeth ; and that he studied revenge upon both. This is
perhaps the most natural suggestion, for there is none so apt to brag of favours
from the fair sex as those who have been disappointed. Be that as it may,
when Lord Hamilton threw back Polmood's hand, and began, in jocular mood,
to return the salute upon his companion's ribs, Rosay winced, pretending to
awake, and said with a languid voice, " Elizabeth, what do you mean, my

jewel.? Be quiet, I tell you, Elizabeth." "What the d 1," said Hamilton,

" is he thinking of? I suppose he imagines he is sleeping with Polmood's
lady." It would be improper to relate all the conversation that passed between
them ; suffice it to say that the confession which Rosay made was untrue, like
that of every libertine. He said to Lord Hamilton that he had but judged too
rightly, and lamented he should have unfortunately discovered the amour in
his sleep. O ! how fain Polmood would have wrested his soul from his body ;
but he commanded his rage, resolving to give him fair play for his life, and to
kill him in open day, with his sword in his hand. " Ah ! how happy a man
you are," said Hamilton ; " but your effrontery outgoes all comment ; who
else would have attempted the lovely and chaste Elizabeth?" "Not alto-
gether so chaste as you imagine," said Rosay ; " besides her husband and my-
self, she has kept another paramour in disguise ever since her marriage."
" The devil she has," returned Hamilton ; " then I shall never trust to
appearances in woman more."

Polmood groaned in spirit — but unable to contain himself longer, he,
hastening down slair.s, took a sword from the aiiH(niry,and sallied out in hopes
of meeting the licentious gardener. The ferment of his mind was such, that
he did not know what he was about However, when he got into the lields

THE BRIDAL OF rOI.MOOD. 18 1

and open air, he grew better ; and roved about at will, uttering his moans and
com]ilaints to the trees and the winds, without disturbing any one but himself.
But, what he little dreamed of, Carniichael overheard some of his lamentations
and threatenings that very night.

The morning came, and the party mounted, and rode forth in high spirits
to the hunt. From knowing the miserable niyht which Polniood had passed,
the generality of the company supposed that he would decline being of the
I arty that day, but he made no such proposal ; on the contrary, he was among
the first that appeared, dressed in the uniform which all those who joined the
royal party in the chase were obliged to wear. He had other schemes in con-
templation than that of lingering and pining at home — schemes of vengeance
and of blood. The king asked kindly for his health, and how he had passed
the night — he thanked his majesty, and said he had been but so so. The king
bade him not be cast down, for that the ardour of the chase would soon restore
hun to his wonted health and cheerfulness. Polmood shook his head, and
said he feared it never would.

Early as it was when they departed, Elizabeth was up, and stirring about,
seeing that every one had what necessaries he required. Every one seemed
more anxious than another to compliment her, and pay her all manner of
attention ; while she, on her part, appeared to be exceedingly cheerful and
happy. It was not so with Polmood : he was so thoughtful and absent, that
when any one spoke to him, he neither heard nor regarded, and his hunting-
cap was drawn over his eyes — When his new liberated hounds fawned upon
him, he struck them ; and when his hawk perched upon his arm, he flung him
again into the air.

The tinckell had been despatched the evening before to the heights around
the forest of Frood. The place of rendezvous, to w^hich the deers were to be
driven, was a place called the Quarter-hill, somewhere in that neighbourhood,
and thither the king and his lords repaired with all expedition. But the
tinckell was then but thin, the country not having been sufficiently apprized
of the king's arrival ; the ground was unmanageable, and the deers shy, and
the men found it impossible to circumscribe them. The consequence was,
that when the dogs were let loose, it was found that there were not above a
dozen of deers on the Quarter-hill. The king himself shot one fine stag as
he was endeavouring to make his escape ; other two were run down by the
dogs at a place called Carterhope ; and these were all the deers that were
taken that day, at least all that were got. The greater number made their
way by a steep rocky hill called the Ericle, where they left both the riders
and the dogs far behind. But it being the first day of the chase that year,
they were all in high mettle, and the hunt continued with unabated vigour —
many new de©rs were started, which drew off the ardent hounds in every
direction, and the chase at last terminated around the heights of a wild
uncouth glen, called Gameshope. When the straggling parties came severally
to these heights, they found that the deers had taken shelter among rocks and
precipices, from which it was not in their power to drive them.

Before they got the hounds called in, it was wearing towards the evening.
They were, as I said, greatly scattered — so also were the men, who had
followed the sound of the hounds and the echoes, until there scarcely remained
above two of them together ; and, to add to their confusion, a mist settled
down upon the heights ; and it was so close, that they could not see one
another, even at the distance of a few yards. Long did they sound the bugle.
— long did they shout and whistle, endeavouring to assemble, but the confusion
still grew the greater ; and the issue ultimately was, that every one was
obliged to find his way back to the castle of Polmood, in the best way he
could, where they continued to arrive in twos and threes, until near midnight ;
others did not appear that night, and some never arrived again.

It was natural enough to suppose, that some of the knights, being strangers
on those mountains, would wander in the fog and lose their way ; but the
company were somewhat startled, when it was reported to them a little befoie

l82 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

midnight, that Polmood's steed had come home without his mnstcr. This
liad rather a suspicious ajpcarance ; for of all men, it was the least likely
that I'olinood would lose his way, who knew e\ cry pass and ford in the forest
as well as the walks in his own garden. Elizabeth appearing to be a little
alarmed, some of the party went out to the stalls to ascertain the truth. What
was their astonishment, when, on a close examination, they found that the
steed was wounded with a sword ; and, besides, that his bridal, mane, and
saddle, were bathed in blood— fiom the latter, it appeared that a slight effort
.seemed to have been made to clean it. When they bore this report into the
hall, the company were all in the greatest consternation, and Elizabeth grew
pale as death. The king trembled ; for his suspicions fixed instantly on his
brother Rosay; yet, after watching him for sometime with the greatest atten-
tion, he coulci discover not even the most distant symptoms of guilt in his
looks or behaviour, as far as he could judge. The reports of individuals
were greatly at variance with regard to the time and place where Polmood
was last seen ; so also were their proposals with regard to wliat was most
proper to be done. At last it was agreed to call a muster of all who had left
the castle of Polmood in the morning, and who were expected there that
night.

Un taking the muster it appeared that other four were wanting besides
Polmood. These were — the Lord Hamilton, Lord James Douglas of Dalkeith,
Sir Patrick Hepburn, and his friend the Laird of Lamington. Some of these,
it was conjectured, might have lost their way; but that Polmood should have
lost his there was no probability.

All remainetl in doubt and perplexity until the morning. When the morning
came, a great number of people from all quarters arrived at the castle, in
order to assist the king and his nobles in driving the deer ; but he told them
that he meant to give his horses and hounds some rest, until he saw what had
occasioned the present unaccountable defection ; and in the mean time,
ordered that every house in the country adjacent, and every part of the forest,
should be searched with all diligence, and every inquiry made concerning the
knights who were missing; and, likewise, that the Icashmen should exert
themselves in recovering their scattered hounds, many of whom were still
missing.

All this was promptly obeyed, and parties of men were sent off in every
direction. The two lords, Douglas and Hamilton, were soon found. They
had completely lost their way in the mist the evening before, and were con-
ducted by a shepherd to the castle of Hackshaw, on the border of the forest,
where they had received a curious entertainment from an old churlish and
discourteous knight named Hugh Porteous, but the others they had not seen,
nor did they know any thing concerning them.

At length, after mucli searching to no purpose, one of the parties, in return-
ing homeward, at the very narrowest and most impassable ford of Gameshope,
found the bodies of two knights lying together ; but the heads were severed
from tliem, and carried away, or so disposed of, that they could not be found.
Both their swords were drawn, and one was gras[)ed so tlrm in a cold bloody
hand, that it could scarcely be forced from it ; and, from the appearance of
the blood ujjon that sword, it was evident almost to a certainty, that some
deadly wounds had been given with it.

All this was perfectly unaccountable ; and as the uniform which the king's
party wore was precisely the same on every one, even to the smallest item,
they could not distinguish whose bodies they were which had been found ;
and after they were borne to Polmood, and subjected to the most minute
examination, there were not three present who could agree in opinion con-
cerning them. The one, from the slenderness of the form, was judged to be
that of Sir I'atrick Hepburn ; but whether the other was the remains of
Noinian of Polmood or Donald of Lamington, no one of the company could
possiljly determine. At length, when they had almost despaired of deter-
n»ining the matter absolutely, Polmood's page swore to the identity of his

THE BRIDAL OF POLMOOD. 183

mastei^'s sword, and likewise his sandals, or hunting brogues, which ended all
debates on the subject. The bodies were buried at Drummelzier, as those of
Pohnood and Sir Patrick Hepburn, and great mourning and lamentation was
made for them by all ranks. The Laird of Lamington was blamed for the
murder, and a high reward was offered by the king for his apprehension, but
all was in vain ; he could never be either seen or heard of.

The more this mysterious business was discussed afterwards, the more
unaccountable and inci edible it appeared. Hepburn and Lamington were
known to be relations, as well as most intimate and loving friends, and no
previous contention e.xisted, or was likely to exist between them ; and as to
Polmood, Lamington had never before seen him, so that no grudge or ani-
mosity could, with any degree of consistency, be supposed to have actuated
either of them in such a bloody business, as to seek the life of the other.

In Rosay's heart, no doubt remained but that Carmichael was the perpetrator
of this horrid deed : and he secretly rejoiced that it had so fallen out ; for he
had no doubt but that the sense of his guilt would cause him to abandon the
country with all possible speed ; and, if he dared to remain in it, his crime
would eventually bring him to the block. In either of tliese cases, all
obstruction to his own designs upon Elizabeth was removed. The gaining
of her love was now an acquisition of some moment, as she was likely to
inherit the extensive and valuable estate of Polmood, as well as her own
dowrylands.

Now that her husband was out of the way, no one living knew of Carmichael
having lurked there so long disguised, save Rosay ; therefore, in order that he
might not affront Elizabeth, and thereby alienate her affections still the more,
and, likewise, that the object of his intended conquest might still retain all
her value and respectability in the eyes of the world, he judged it proper to
keep that circumstance from being made public. 13ut, that the king's ven-
geance might be pointed aright, and that Carmichael might not escape justice,
if he dared to remain in the country, he disclosed the whole to his majesty in
confidence.

James, on hearing the particulars of this singular adventure, likewise con-
ceived Carmichael to be the assassin ; yet still there was somctliing remaining
which rec]uired explanation. If Carmichael was the assassin, what had
become of the Laird of Lamington ? On what account had he absented him-
self? or how was it that he could neither be fuund dead nor alive? There
was still something inexplicable in this.

From the ver)' first moment that the rumour of this fatal catastrophe
reached the castle of Polmood, the suspicions of Elizabeth pointed to Car-
michael, and to him alone. She knew he was still lurking in the neighbour-
hood, for the provisions and the wine, which she had left in the appointed
den, had been regularly taken away ; and she had likewise found a note there,
written with the juice of berries, begging an interview with her, a request
which she had even resolved to comply with ; but the thought that he was a
murderer now preyed upon her mind. The more the affair was developed,
the more firmly was she convinced that he had slain her husband in hopes of
enjoying her love ; and she was shocked with horror at the idea.

She went to the den, which she knew he would visit if still in the country,
and left a note below the stone to the following purport :

" Wretch ! thou hast slain my husband, and I know it Let me never see
thy face again — fly this place, and for what thou hast done, may'st thou be
pursued by the curses of Heaven, as thou shalt be by those of the
wronged ! "

She scarcely expected that he would get this letter ; for, like Rosay, she
imagined he would instantly flee the laiul ; but on examining the spot next
day she found that it was gone.

As soon as the funeral was over, the king withdrew with bis suite from tiie
castle, that Elizabeth might be suffered to spend the days appointed for
mourning, in quietness and peace. I'ut just as they were about to dep.irt,

1 84 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

Rosay besought of his royal brother to suffer him to stay and keep Elizabeth
company lor some time, representing to him, that Elizabeth had many im-
portant family concerns to look after, fur which she was but ill fitted, and
would be much the belter of one to assist her. Ihc king did not thoroughly
comprehend the nature of Rosay's designs upon Elizabeth ; but he judged
that her beauty, qualifications, and foriuae, now entitled her to the best
nobleman's hand in the realm. He was likewise himself an amorous and
exceedingly g.dlant knight, and knew well enough, whatever the women might
pietend, that their real joy and happiness were so much connected with the
other se.\, that without them, they need not be said to exist. On the ground
of these considerations, he agreed at once to his brother's request, on condition
that Elizabeth joined in it ; but not otherwise.

Rosay sought out Elizabeth without delay, and represented to her, in as
strong terms as he could, how lonely and frightsome it would be for her to be
left by herbelf, in a place where such foul murders had lately been perpetra-
ted, and where, as was reported, the ghost of the deceasctl had already been
sjcn : That though it was incumbent on her to stay a while at the castle of
I'olmood, in order that she might put her late husband's afi'airs in such a pos-
ture, as to enable her to leave ihem, and live with her natural protectress, the
queen, still no decorum or etiquette forbade the retaining of a friend and pro-
te^'tor, who had experience in those matters : That he begged of her to accept
of his services fur that purpose, and he would wait upon her with all due
respect, during the time she remained at her castle, and afterwards conduct
her to court, where she might be introduced, either as dame Elizabeth Hunter,
or as Elizabeth duchess of Rosay, whichever she had a mind to. Elizabeth
did not at first much relish the projiosal, but yet was unwilling to be left
alone ; and Carmichael having forfeited her esteem for ever, by the foulest of
murders, she found that her heart was vacant of attachments, and she gave a
ready, but cold consent to Rosay's request, there being no other in the land
whom, on consideration, she could choose in preference.

CHAPTER XVII.
On the day that the king and his suite departed, there came an old palmer to
the castle of Polmood, a monk of the order of Saint John of Jerusalem, who
craved an asylum in the castle for a few days, with much singularity and
abruptness of manner. It was well known, that tlie reign of James the IV,
was not more singular for its gaiety than its devotion, and that the court
took the lead in the one as well as the other. Pilgrimages to the shrines of
duierent saints were frequent, and all those in holy onlcrs were reverenced
and held in high estimation ; therefore the request of the old monk was
readily complied with, uncouth as his manner seemed ; and a little dark
chamber, with only one aperture, in the turret of the castle, was assigned to
him for a lodging. He was a man of melancholy and gloom, and he shunned,
as much as p(jbsible, all intercourse with the inhabitants of the castle and
places adjacent. He ate little — kept closely shut up in his chamber by day —
but in the twilight was often seen walking about the woods ; and then, his
manner, even at a dist.ince, bespoke a distempered mind. His step was at
one time hurried and irregular ; at ano.her, slow and feeble ; and again all of
a sudden he would pause and stand as still as death. He was looked upon
as a fanatic in religion ; but, as he offered harm to no living, he was pitied
and loved, rather than feared. He was often heard conversing with himself,
or with some unseen being beside him ; but if any one met or approached
him, he started like a guilty person, and slunk away into the wood, or among
the deep banks of the river.

It is now time to mention, that Carmichael did not fly the country, as
Elizabeth expected ; but, as no more victuals or wine were deposited in the
appointed den, he found that to remain longer there in entire concealment
wa^ impracticable, ami, therefore, that some new ex|jetlient was absolutely
necessary. He was by the king's express command, and under the forfeiture

THE BRIDAL OF POLMOOD. 185

of his life, banished twenty miles from court, wherever the court nii^lit be,
and so long were the miles in those days, that Carniichael durst not approach
his own hereditary domains when the court was at Edinburgh ; but as the
court was now at Crawmelt, and within five miles of him, the danger of being
discovered at that time was redoubled ; besides which, the jircjudice of the
country was likely to run strongly against him, on account of the late murders.
But notwithstanding all this, so rooted were his afTections upon Elizabeth,
that, maugre all danger and opposition, he determined to remain near her.

Some other disguise being now necessary, he threw away his red wig and
beard, and, without any farther mask, equipped himself as an humble shep-
herd, with a gray plaid about his shoulders, and a broad blue bonnet on his
head. He went and offered his services to one of his own tenants, who held
the farm of Stenhope, in the immediate vicinity of Polmood.

His conditions were so moderate, that his services were accepted of, and he
set about his new occupation with avidity, in hopes of meeting with his be-
loved Elizabeth — of being again reconciled to her, and perhaps of wrapping
her in his gray plaid, in the green woods of Polmood — but wo the while ! she
had again subjected herself to the guidance and the snares of the unprincipled
Kosay.

He watched the woods and walks of Polmood with more assiduity than his
flock ; but so closely was Elizabeth haunted in these walks by Rosay, that he
could never once encounter or discover her alone ; he nevertheless continued
to watch her with increased constancy, for he loved her above every other thing
on earth.

Had Rosay been any other person than the king's own brother, he would
have challenged him instantly ; but, as it was, had he done so, complete ruin
to him and his house would have ensued. However, rather than be completely
battled, he seems to have half determined on doing it. It is perhaps un-
warrantable to assert, that he really formed such a resolution, but it is certain
he kept always his broad sword hid in a hollow tree, at the entrance into the
wood of Polmood, and whenever he strayed that way, he took it along with
him below his plaid, whatever might happen.

A dreadful sensation was by this time e.xcited about the castle of Polmood.
A rumour had circulated, even before the burial ot the two murdered chieftains,
that the ghost of the late laird had been seen in the environs of the castle ;
which report was laughed at, and, except by the peasantry, totally disregarded.
But, before a week had elapsed, the apparition had been again and again seen,
and that by persons whose veracity could not be disputed. The terror
became general in the family, particularly over the weaker individuals. It
reigned with such despotic sway, that even the stoutest hearts were somewhat
appalled. The menials deserted from their service in pairs — horror and
sleepless confusion prevailed every night — comments and surmises occupied
the day, and to such a heij^ht did the perturbation grow, that Elizabeth, and
her counsellor Rosay, were obliged to come to the resolution of a sudden de-
parture. An early tl.iy was fixed on for the disposing of the costly furniture,
or sending it away, and the castle of Polmood was to be locked up, and left
desolate and void, for an habitation to the owlets and the spirits of the
wilderness.

The report at first originated with the old housekeeper, who averred that
she had heard her late master's voice ; that he spoke to her distinctly in the
dead of the night, and told her of some wonderful circumstance, which she
could not remember, from having been so overpowered by fear ; but that it
was something about her lady. She delivered this relation with apparent
seriousness ; but there was so much incongruity and contradiction in it, that
all who were not notoriously superstitious disbelieved it.

Shortly after this, a young serving man and a maiden, who were lovers, had
gone out after the labours of the dav into the covert of the wood, to whi^ijcr
their love-sick tale. They were sittmg in a little semicircular den, more tlian
half surrounded by flowery broom, which had an opening in Ironl to an

i86 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

avenue in the wood ; and the maid was leaning upon her lover's bosom, while
he was resting against the bank, with his arms around her waist. Otten
before had they conversed on their little plans of future life, which were un-
ambitious, and circumscribed within a narrow sphere. Tlicy were that night
recapitulating them ; and as much of their dependence had been on the
bounty and protection of their late master, they could not dwell long on the
subject without mentioning him, which they did with the deepest regret, and
with some significant and smothered exclamations. From one thing to
another, so serious and regretful was their frame of mind, that it led to the
following dialogue, a singular one enough to have taken place between two
young lovers, and at that hour of the evening, as the daylight was just hanging
with a dying languishment over the verge of the western hill.

" It is a sad thing that 1 cannot give over dreaming, William," said the fair
i-ustic. " Do you think there is any other person so much trouljled with their
dreams as I am }" — '" Your dreams must be always good and sweet, like your-
self, Anna." — " They are always sweet and delightful when I dream about j'ou,
William ; but I have had some fearsome dreams of late ; heavy, heavy dreams!
Ah ! such dreams as 1 have had ! I fear that they bode no good to us. What
is it to dream of the dead, William ?" — "It generally betokens good to the
dreamer, or to those who are dreamed of, Anna." — " Ah, William, I fear not !
I have heard my mother say, that there was one general rule in dreaming, which
might always be depended on. It was this, that dreams never bode good
which do not leave grateful and pleasing impressions on the mind ;— mine
must be bad, very bad indeed ! How comes it, \Villiam, that whenever we
dream of the dead, they are always living.'" — " God knows, Anna ! it is a curious
reality in the nature of dreaming. We often dream of the living as being
dead ; but whenever we dream of those that are dead, they are always alive
and well." — "Ay, it is indeed so, William ; and we never then remember that
they are departed this life — never once recollect that the grave separates us
and them." — " All these things have a language of their own, Anna, to those
who understand them ; but they arc above our comprehension, and therefore
we ought not to think of them, nor talk of them ; for thinking of them leads
us into error, and talking of them makes us sad ; and to obviate both these
I will reave a kiss from your sweet lips my Anna, and compel you to change
the subject." — " O no, William, do not ; I love to talk of these things, for I
am much concerned about them ; and whatever concerns n^e 1 love to talk of
to you." — " And, pray, what may those dreams have been which have given
my Anna so much concern ?"

" I have been dreaming, and dreaming of our late master, William ! Ah,
such dreams I have had ! I fear there has been foul play going on." — " Hush,
hush, my Anna ! we must not say what we think about that ; but. for my part,
I know not what to think." — " Listen to me, William, but don't be angry, or
laugh at me ; I believe, that Alice the housekeeper's tale aljout the ghost that
spoke to her, is every word of it true." — " Do not believe any such thing, my
dear Anna ; believe me, it is nothing more than the workings of a distempered
imagination. Because the late events are wrapt in mystery, the minds of in-
dividuals are oppressed by vague conjectures, and surmises of dark infamous
deeds, and in sleep the fancy turns to these images, and is frightened by
fantasies of its own creation. 1 would not have you, nor any woman, to be-
lieve in the existence of ghosts." — " Ah, William, I couUl reason with you on
that point for ever, for 1 must, and will always believe in it. That belief gives
one a pleasing idea of an over-niling Providence, of a just God, who will not
suffer the guilty and the murderer to escape ; nor those of his creatures, who
are innocent, to be destroyed. 15ut I know, William, that you will not disbe-
lieve my word, therefore 1 will tell it to you, though 1 would not to any other.
I said 1 dreamed of our late master — but, William, I believe as truly as I be-
lieve that I am lying in your arms, that I heard him speaking and lamenting
last night." — " Hut that was only in your sleep — it was only through your slee]),
niy dear Anna, that you heard him."—" No, William ; as far as I ran judge,

THE BRIDAL OF POLMOOD. 187

I was as fully awake as I am at this moment' — "My dear Anna, you must
think no more of dreams and apparitions, there are really no such things in
nature as apparitions. 1 could tell you a talc, that would '

Here Anna laid her hand upon her lover's mouth to stop him, for she heard
something that alarmed her. " Hush ! " said she, in a low whisper ; " what
is that .'' 1 hear something coming. Great God 1 wliat can it possibly be that
is here at this time of night?" They held in their breath and listened, and
distinctly heard a slight rustling among the branches, whicli they at length
distinguished to be the sound of something approaching them with soft and
gentle steps. It came close to the side of the bush where they lay, and then
stood still. They were lying as still as death ; but they could see nothing for
the broom, while their hearts were beating so, that their repressed breathing
was almost cut short. After a considerable pause, it uttered a long deep groan ;
— terror thrilled their whole frames ;~every hair on their heads crept as with
life, and their spirits melted within them. Another pause ensued,— after
which they heard it utter these words, in a tone of agony, and just loud enough
to be distinctly heard : — " Yes, yes ! it was she — it was she ! — O wicked,
wicked Elizabeth ! " So saying, it came forward to the opening in the broom,
where it stood before their sight. It had one hand upon its breast, and its
eyes were fixed on the ground. In that position it remained for about half a
minute, and then, in the same voice as before, said, "The torments of hell
are slight to this ! " On uttering these words, it shook its head with a slow
swimming motion and vanished from their sight. It might have passed into
the air — it might have sunk into the earth— it might have stood still where it
was, for any thing they knew, as their senses were benumbed, and a darkness
deeper than that of the midnight dungeon, seemed to have fallen upon
them.

For a considerable time did they lie panting in each other's arms, without
daring to utter a word. William first broke silence : " Great God of heaven !"
said he ; "what is the meaning of this?" — "Did you see the figure that
passed, William?" — "Yes, Anna." — "And did you not know the voice and
the stride?" said she. — "Yes, yes ! it is needless, it is sinful to deny it ! I
knew them too well — my mind is mazed and confounded ! Eternal God !
this is wonderful ! " — " Is it not, William ? I'm sure we saw him nailed in the
coffin and laid in his grave." — " We did, Anna ! we did ! " — " And we saw him
lying a lifeless, headless trunk ; and the streams of blood were crusted
black upon his arms and upon his breast! did we not, William?"
— "It is true, Anna! it is all true!" — "Yet here he is again, walking
in his own real form and manner, and speaking in his own voice." The
horror which these reflections occasioned, together with what she had just
seen, were too much for the mind of the poor girl to brook : she crept closer
and closer to her lover's bosom with a kind of frantic grasp, uttered one or two
convulsive moans, and fainted away in his arms.

Agitated as the young man was, his fears for her got the better of his
trepidation, or at least gave it a different bias ; he sprang up and ran towards
the river, which was nigh, to bring her some water. When he came near it,
he found he had nothing to carry water in ; but, as the only substitute within
his reach for such a purpose, by an involuntary impulse, he pulled off his
bonnet, and rushed to the side of a pool in order to fill it. But, when he
stooped for that purpose, his hurry and agitation was such, that he slipped his
foot and fell headlong into the pool. This accident was not unfortunate, for
the sudden immersion brought him better to his senses than any thing else
could at that time have done, lie soon regained his feet, filled his bonnet
with water, and ran towards his beloved Anna. Tiie bonnet would hold no
water — so it was all gone in two seconds — however, he ran on, carrying it as
if still full to the brim. When he came to her, and U)und that he could not
^ive her a drink, as the next best resourc e, he clap[)cd the wet lionnet upon
her fare, and nresscd it with both his hands. If she had been capable of
bre 'thing, ho would certainly have suffocated her in a short lime; but the

IS8 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

streams of water, that ran down her neck and bosom from the saturated
bonnet, soon proved effective in restoring animation.

As soon as she was again able tospeakdistinctly, they fell both upon their knees,
committed themselves to the care and protection of Heaven, and then walked
home together, the maiden supported by her aficctionate lover.

That very night was the chcadfii! intclligenre circulated among the vassals
and menials about the castle, and before noon, next day, it had gained ground
exceedingly, and was indeed become a terrible story. It was in every one's
mouth, that the ghost of the late laird had appeared to the two lovers in his
own natural form and habit ; that he had conversed familiarly with them, and
told them that he was condemned to hell, and suffering the most dreadful
torments ; and that Elizabeth, his own lady, had murdered him.

That their laird should have been condemned to hell astonished the natives
very much indeed ; for they had always looked upon him as a very good man,
and true to his king and country. However, some acknowledged that the
spirit had belter means of information than they had, and could not possibly
be wrong ; while others began to make the sage remark, that " otople were iU
to know."

But that Elizabeth should have been the murderer of her lord appeared far
more unaccountable, as it was well known that she was at home during the
whole of that day on which he was slain, and had spent it in the utmost gaiety
and bustle, making preparations for the accommodation of her guests in the
evening. That she could have suborned the Laird of Lamington to murder
him was as improb:ible ; for, saving a slight salute, she had never once ex-
changed words with him ; and it was utterly impossible that she could have
held any converse with him, without the rest of the company having known it.

It would have been blasphemy to have said the ghost was lying ; yet, though
none durst openly avow it, some went the unwarrantable length of thinking,
in their own hearts, that it was misinformed, or had some way taken up the
story wrong.

The story reached the ears of Elizabeth. She was far from being naturally
superstitious, and had, moreover, associated but little with the country people
of Scotland, consequently, was not sufficiently initiated into the truth and
mystery of apparitions, nay, she was not even a proselyte to the doctrine,
which was a shameful error in her. But, instead of being displeased, as some
would have been, at being blamed for the murder of her husband, she only
laughed at it, and stated that she wished the ghost would appear to her, and
tell her such a story ; that she would walk in the wood every night, in hopes
of meeting it, that she might confront, and give it the lie in its teeth.

In this manner did the graceless Elizabeth sport and jeer about the well-
attested and sublime ti-uths, so long and so fondly cherished by our forefathers,
even after she had heard the two young lovers relate their tale of wonder with
the greatest simplicity, and after she had seen the young woman lying ill of a
fever, into which her agitation had thrown her. — But mark the consequence: —

On that very night, or the one following, as Elizabeth was lying awake in
her chamber, between twelve and one o'clock of the morning, she heard the
sound of footsteps coming hastily up the stair. Her heart beat with a
strange sensation ; but the door of her apartment being locked in the inside,
and the key taken out, she knew that it was impossible for any thing to enter
there.

However, it came close to her door, where it stopped, and she saw some
glimmerings of light, which entered by the key-hole and frame of the door.
The door was strong, and the bolt was fast ; but, at the very first touch of
that mysterious and untimely visitant, the massy lock opened with a loud jerk,
and the door flew back to the wall with such violence, that the clash made all
the vaults of the castle to resound again ; — when, horrid to relate ! who should
enter but the identical form and figure of her late husband ! and in such a
guise ! — Merciful Heaven ! was there ever a temale heart, but that of Eliza-
beth, which could have stood the shock ! He was half-naked, with his head

THE BRIDAL OF POLMOOD. 1S9

and legs quite bare — his colour was pale as death — his hair bristled upon his
crown — and his unearthly eyes rolled like those of one in a frenzy, or fit of mad-
ness ; he had a li;^hted torch in the one hand and a naked sword in the other,
and in this j^ise he approached the bed where lay, all alone, the beauteous
and helpless Elizabeth.

I have often had occasion to mention the cool unmoved temper of Elizabeth's
mind ; still it was the mind of a woman, and anyone will readily suppose that
this was too much for the heart of any woman to bear. It was not. Some
may term it insensibility, and certainly it bore a resemblance to it occasionally ;
but it is an old established maxim among the inhabitants of the mountains,
that "he who is unconscious of any crime, is incapable of terror ;" and such
maxims must always be held sacred by the collector of legends. May we not
then, in charity, suppose that it was this which steeled the heart of Elizabeth
against all sudden surprises and qualms of terror. Some readers may think
that Elizabeth's conduct was not quite blameless — grant that it was not, still her
heart was so — her errors were errors of nature, not of principle ; and on the
great basis of self-approval must all actions be weighed ; for how can
criminality be attached to an action, when by that action no evil whatever
was intended .-* Certainly by no rule in which justice is predominant. Ehza-
beth was conscious of no guilt, and feared no evil.

When the dreadful spectre approached her bed, she was lying in such an
attitude (when her extraordinary personal beauty is considered) as might have
made the heart of the iriost savage fiend relent. Her face was turned towards
the door, the bedclothes were flung a little back, so that her fair neck and
bosom, like the most beautiful polished ivory, were partly seen, while one of
her arms was lying carelessly outstretched above the coverlet, and the other
turned back below her cheek.

Almost any other woman, placed in the same circumstances, would have
swooned away, or raised such an hideous outcry and disturbance, as would
have alarmed all within the castle. Elizabeth did neither — she kept her eyes
steadily fixed on the horrid figure, and did not so much as move, or alter her
position, one inch. The apparition likewise kept its looks bent upon her,
came onward, and stared over her in the bed ; but in those looks there was
no softness, no love, nor the slightest shade of pity, but a hellish gleam of
disappointment, or something resembling it. He approached, turned round,
strode to the other corner of the room, and she heard it pronounce, with great
emphasis, the word " Again ! " After which it walked hastily out at the door,
which it closed, and left locked as before.

Elizabeth neither arose herself, nor did she call up any of her household,
until it was day, though she lay in a state of the greatest uneasiness. She
was neither terrified nor chilled with dread, but she was utterly astonished, and
what she had seen was to her quite unaccountable.

Next day she told it to her waiting-maid, who was a great favourite with
her, and who implicitly believed it ; and she afterwards related the whole to
Rosay,who used all his rhetoric inorder topersuadeherthatit wasadream; but
she assured him, with the greatest calmness, that it was not, and requested that
both he and the maid would watch with her in the same chamber the night
following. Rosay consented, but pleaded hard that the company of t'nc maid-
servant might be dispensed with ; and though his suit was listened to with
the utmost complacency, it was not granted.

It is necessary, before proceeding farther, to state some particulars of
Rosay's behaviour to Elizabeth during the time that had elapsed of her
widowhood ; for the motives which led to such behaviour cannot now be
ascertained. He talked now often to her of marriage, as soon as dcCt-ncy
would permit^ and had even gone so far as to press her to consent, but this
was only when she appeared to take offence at his liberties, and when he
could not find aught else to say. He was nevertheless all the while using his
most strenuous endeavours to seduce her morals and gain possession of her
peisun J and, as the time of their retirement at Polmood was now speedily

igo THE ETTKICK ^HttHERD'S TALES.

drawing to a conclusion, he determined to avail himself of every opportunity
wliich his situation afforded, in order to accomplish his seltish purpose. He
veil knew, that if he could not prevail upon her to yield to his wishes while
they lemamod in that solitude, and while Elizabeth had no other person to
amuse or alti nd to her save himself, he could never be able to accomplish it
at court, wliere she would be surrounded by such a number of admirers.
These considerations brought him to the resolution of leaving no art or
stratagem unattcmpted.

The truth is, that Elizabeth seems to have admitted of freedoms and
familiarities from Rosay, which she ought not to have admitted ; but such
being tlie court fashions in those days, she attributed these freedoms to
the great admiration in which he held her person and accomplishments,
and not only forgave, but seemed pleased with them. He was accustomed to
toy with her, and kiss her hand right frequently; and, indeed, she maybe
said to have granted him every freedom and indulgence that he could with
proprietv ask. Hut either from exalted notions of the dignity of the sex, or
out of rci^^ard for her exquisite beauty and form, she seems tc have hitherto
maintained the singular resolution of never subjecting her person to the will
of any man living ; — if she did so to her late husband, it was more than those
wl.o were acquainted with them had reason to suppose. She had always
repulsed Rosay sharply when he presumed to use any undue freedoms with
her, but with so much apparent gaiety and good humour, that the amorous
duke knew not what to make of her sentiments. His frequent proposals of
marriage she did not much regard or encourage ; for perhaps she was aware,
that it was only a specious pretence, a piece of courtly gallantry, when he
could not find aught better to say. He haunted her evening and morning —
led her into the thickest parts of the wood, by day, and harassed her every
night at parting, so that she was always obliged to lock her chamber door,
and refuse every kind of converse after a certain hour And one evening,
having gained admission before it was late, he absolutely refused to go away;
on which she arose with much archness as if to seek something — walked off
and left him, locking him up fast until the morning. Such was their behaviour
to one another, and such their pursuits, when they began to be alarmed with
the appearance of the ghost.

It having been agreed, as formerly stated, that Rosay, Elizabeth, and the
waiting maid, should all three watch together in Elizabeth's apnrtment, on the
night following that on which the mysterious guest had first visited her ; the
scheme was accordingly put in execution. Elizabeth said she believed it
would appear again ; but Rosay mocked at the idea, and assured her that it
would not ; for he was convinced Elizabeth had only had a frightful dream.
He said, if it had the effrontery to come and face them all three, that, in the
first place, he would endeavour to deter it from entering, until it had first
declared its errand and business there ; and if it did enter without being
announced, he should soon make it glad to withdraw. With such a
redoubted champion at their head, the women began to muster not a little
courage.

Accordingly, they went up all three to the apartment between the hours of
ten and eleven at night, and placed themselves in a row at the farthest corner
of it, with their faces turned toward the door. Elizabeth was employed in sew-
ing a piece of rich tapestr)-, which had for a long time engaged her at leisure
hours. — She was dressed in her mourning apparel, and the duke sat on the
one side of her, and her woman on the other.

Some time passed away in unmeaning and inanimate chat, which still grew
more and more dull as midnight approached. Clocks were then very rare in
Scotland, but the hours by night were rung upon the great bell in the porch ;
at least this was the custom at the castle of Polmood. The warder had an
hour-glass, which he was bound to watch with great punctuality and tell each
hour upon the bell.

The iwefth hour was rung, and still nothing appeared ; nor was anything

THE BRIDAL OF FOLMOuJJ. 191

unusual heard. About half an hour afterwards, they thought they heard a
door open at some distance, and with great caution — it was somewhere wuhin
the castle, but in wliat part they could not cert.iinly distinguish — the noise soon
ceased, and they heard 1:0 more of it. The fire had fallen away, and the embers
and pale ashes fairly presided over the few live coals that remained, while the
cricket was harping behind them without intermission — the lamps burnt dim,
for no one remembered to trim them — all was become sullen and eerie, and
the conversation was confined to the eyes alone. The bell rung one ! There
is something particularly solemn in the tone of that little hour at any time-
it is no sooner heard than it is gone — the ear listens to hear further, but
the dying sounds alone reach it. That night it was peculiarly solemn, if
not awful ; for the bell was deep toned, and the night dark and still. As the
last vibrations of the tone were dying away, Elizabeth happened to cast her
eyes upon Rosay, and she thought there was something so ghastly in his
looks, that she could not forbear smiling. She was proceeding to accost him,
when, just as the first sounds passed her lips, she slopped short, and raised
herself up on the seat, as in the act of listening ; for, at that moment, she
heard the footsteps of one who seemed approaching the back of the door
with great softness and caution. " There it is now," said she to Rosay, in a
low whisper. Rosay's heart seemed to have started into his throat — he was
literally choked with terror — he had, however, so much mind remaining, as
to recollect something of his proposed plan of operations, and rising, he
stammered towards the door, in order to prevent it from entering ; but ere he
reached the middle of the floor, the door flew open, and the same dreadful
being entered, in the very guise in which it had come the preceding night.

It was enough for Rosay — much more than he could bear. He uttered a
stifled cry, like that of a person drowning, and fell lifeless at full length upon
the floor. The waiting-maid took refuge behind her lady, and howled so
incessantly, that she never suffered one shriek to lose hold of another.
Elizabeth sat motionless, like a statue, with her eyes fi.\ed upon the apparition.
It paused, and gazed at them all with an unsteady and misbelieving look —
then advanced fonvard — stepped over the forlorn duke, and looked at the
bed. The bed was neatly spread down, without a fold or wrinkle. It took
another look of Elizabeth, but that was a look of rage and despair — and
turning to Rosay, it put itself in the attitude of striking — laid the edge of its
sword upon his neck, in order to take a surer aim— then rearing the weapon
on high, it raised itself to the stroke, as if intent on severing his head from
his body at a blow ; but just when the stroke was quivering to its descent,
the vengeful sprite seemed to relent — its ann relaxed, and it turned
the sword to the left shoulder — mused for a few seconds, and gave the
prostrate duke such a toss with its loot, as heaved him almost to the other
side of the room, and, without uttering a word, hastily retired, locking the
door behind it.

The loud and reiterated cries of the waiting-woman at length brought all
within the castle to the door of the haunted chamber. Elizabeth took down
the key, and admitted them with the greatest deliberation ; but so wrapt was
she in astonishnient, and so bewildered in thought, that she did not once
open her lips to any of them. She retired again to her seat, where she sat
down and leaned her cheek upon her hand, paying no regard to the horror of
the group, nor to the bustle they made.

The first thing they did was to lift the forlorn duke, who had already
begun to manifest signs of returning animation. When they raised him up,
they found that his face and breast were all bathed in blood, and conjectured,
with great reason, that some foul and murderous work had been going on.
They were for some time confirmed in this suggestion, by the asseverations of
the duke, who assured them that he was a dead man, and run through the
body in a great number of places. On examining his body all over, Ijowever,
they could discover no mark or wound whatever ; and they all agreetl in the
conclusion, that he had only been bleeding plentifully at the nose. He

192 THE ETTRJCK ^/lEPHERD'S TALES.

complained of grievous hurts and pains about his loins ; but as Eliz.ibeth
never thought proper to inform him how he en me by these hurts when in a
state of insensibility, he was almost persuaded of what the vassals were
endeavouring to impress upon him, namely, that it was all owing to the effects
of fear. Rosay had, however, got enough of watching for gliosts — more th.in
he approved of, and frankly declared off; taking at the same time a solenm
oath that he would never lodge another night within the castle of Tolmood.
Klizabeth rallied him, and said, that he would surely never abandon her in
such an unheard-of dilemma, but continue to sleep in the castle as heretofore
— that she was perfectly willing to sleep in her own chamber still, for all that
was come and gone, and why might not he as well keep to his, in which he
had never been disturbed, liut he said, that the spirit seemed to have a
particular malevolence against him, and he would on no consideration risk
another encounter with it. Alas ! the next encounter that he had with it was
nut far distant, and terminated in a more fatal manner, as will be seen in the
sequel.

From that time forth, Rosay mounted his horse every night, and rode to
the castle of John Twecdie of brummelzier, returning always to Polmood in
the morning ; but he never told that chief the real cause why he changed his
lodgings. On the contrary, he said, that he did not judge it altogether
consistent with decency and decorum, for him to stay in the castle with the
young and beautiful Klizabeth every night, now that she had no husband to
protect her — that the tongue of scandal might blast her beauty and future
fortunes, and therefore he was resolved that no infamy should attach to
her on his account. Drummelzier was much astonished at this instance of
self-denial ; but, as Rosay contin;ied to persist in the plan, he took no notice
of it.

CHAPTER ;:viii.

Elizabeth remained in the same state as b'^fore, without any seeming
alarm. During the time of the spectre's late appr-irance, she had carefully
observed and noted everything that passed, which no one else had done ; and
the more she considered of it, the more fully was she convinced, that the
apparition was a mortal man, made up of flesh, blood, and b.-"os, like other
people. Certain that this disguise was assumed to answer some ^-irpose, her
suspicion fell on Carmichael as the author of the whole plot, from knowing
how expertly he could assume characters, and how he had lately di'Ded
herself, the laird, and all the country, as Connel the gardener, even when thej'
were conversing with him daily face to face. Her husband it could not be !
then who could it be else, if it was not Carmichael .'-Polmood and he were
nearly of the same form and stature — but how he was enabled to counterfeit
Polmood's looks so well, she could not comprehend ; — still, she thought it
was some artifice, and that Carmichael must be at the bottom of it.

She had likewise noticed, that the spectre opened the door with a key,
which it left in the lock during the time it remained in the room, and then, on
retiring, locked the door and took the key with it. She had thought much of
that circumstance since it first appeared, and determined to pay particular
attention to it : but, as usual, she kept her thoughts to herself She knew
that, when the laird lived, they had each a key to that chamber, and some
other places of importance in the castle ; and what was become of these keys
now she could not discover. However, she resolved to make trial of the
spirit's ingenuity by a simple expedient, with which she had often balked the
laird's designs of entering when alive, and she weened that he could not have
gained much additional skill in mechanics, nor muscular strength, since he
was consigned to the grave. This expedient was no other than suffering her
own key to remain in the lock, and turning it half round, so that no key could
possibly enter from without ; which she put in practice, and waited the issue
without the least emotion ; but, from the time that Rosay left the castle by
night, the apparition never troubled her more.

THE BRIDAL OF POLMOOD. 193

Some one or other of the vassals, indeed, was always seeing or hearing it
every night ; and well did the lower orders thereabout encourage the belief :
it was the pleasantest thing that had ever happened in the country ; for the
young women were all so dreadfully alarmed, that not one of them durst sleep
a night by themselves for twenty miles around ; and they soon very saga-
ciously discovered, that one of their own sex was no safeguard at all in such
perilous circumstances.

In this manner did the time pass away for several days. Rosay and Eliza-
beth met every morning — spent the day together, and separated again at
night. The shepherd continued to range the woods of Polmood, asking at
every one whom he by accident met, for a strayed sheep that he had lost ;
but, alas ! that fair, that beauteous lamb, could he never see, unless under the
care of another shepherd : the old crazy palmer persevered in the same course
as before ; and the unprofitable menials spent the day in sleep and idleness,
and the night in fear and trembling ; sometimes half a dozen of them in one
bed, and sometimes only two, according as the mode of transposition suited
— but all of them in a state of sufferance and bondage. The time was at hand
when that family was likely to be broken up for ever.

It happened one day that Rosay had led Elizabeth into the thickest part of
the wood, where there was a natural bower in the midst of a thicket of copse-
wood ; in that bower they were always wont to rest themselves, and had one
day lately been somewhat surprised by a noise, like that of a stifled cough ;
but they could not discover from whom or whence it proceeded — yet they
did not suppose any to be in the wood but themselves, although it seemed to
be somewhere near by them.

Into this bower Rosay wanted to lead Elizabeth as usual, but she objected
to it, and said, he never behaved to her in that bower as became him, and
she was determined never more to go into that bower in his company. Rosay
said, that since she had given him the hint, he would not presume upon her
good nature any more by amorous freedoms ; but added, that he would not
be denied that piece of confidence in his honour, especially as she knew that
her commands were always sufficient to guide his conduct ; a mandate he
never dared to disobey, though his passion for her were even more violent
than it had hitherto been, which was impossible. She said, that might be all
true, yet it was as good to give no occasion of putting that power to the tesL
However, by dint of raillery, and promises of the most sacred regard to her
increasing delicacy^ he prevailed upon her to accompany him into the bower,
where they leaned them down upon the sward.

Rosay began as usual to toy and trifle with her, while she, in return, rallied
him in a witty and lightsome manner — but his amorous trifling soon wore to
rudeness, and that rudeness began by degrees to manifest itself in a very un-
qualified manner. She bore with him, and kept her temper as long as she
could, making several efforts to rise and leave him, which he always over-
came. She uttered no complaint nor reproach, but, on seeing his brutal
purpose too fairly avouched, by a sudden and strenuous exertion, she disen-
gaged herself from his embraces at once — flew away lightly into the wood,
and left him lying in vexation and despair.

They had been watched all the time of this encounter by one who ought not
to have seen them ; and what was worse, who saw indistinctly through the
brushwood, and judged of the matter quite otherwise than as it fell out, draw-
ing conclusions the most abstract from propriety of conduct, and the true
character of the fair but thoughtless Elizabeth.

She was not gone above the space of one minute, when Rosay heard the
noise of one rushing into the bower, and, lifting up his eyes, he beheld the
old maniac, or palmer of the order of St. John, approaching him with rapid
strides. " Get thee gone, thou old fanatic," said Rosay ; " what seckcst thou
here?" The words were scarcely all pronounced, ere Rosay felt himself
seized by a grasp wliich seemed to have the force often men united in it. It
was the old palmer alone, who appeared to Rosay at that time to be some
I- '3

194 HE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

infernal giant, or devil incarnate, so far beyond all human comparison was
the might of his arm. He dragged from his den the weak effeminate duke,
who at first attempted to struggle with him ; but his struggles were those of
the kid in the paws of the Hon. He next essayed to expostulate, and after-
wards to cry out ; but the superlative monster prevented both, by placing his
foot upon the duke's neck, and crushing liis face so close to the earth, that he
was unable to utter a sound, lie then, in the course of a few seconds, bound
his hands behind his back, run a cord about his neck, and tucked him up on
a bough that bent above them. The maniac never all the while spoke a word,
but sometimes gnashed his teeth over his victim, in token of the most savage
satisfaction.

As soon as he had fastened up the unfortunate duke, he ran into the wood
to seek Elizabeth, who had gone to the eastward. He soon found her return-
ing by another path to the castle ; and laying hold of her in the same savage
manner, he dragged her to the fatal spot. She had taken great offence at the
late coniluct of the duke, and had determined to suffer him no more to come
into her jiresence ; but when she saw him hanging in that degraded state,
pale and lifeless, she was benumbed with horror. " Thou monster ! " said
she, "who art thou who hast dared to perpetrate such an act as this.?" " I
will soon show thee who I am, poor, abandoned, unhappy wretch," said he ;
on which he threw off his cowl, beard, and gown, and her own husband stood
before her. It was no spirit — no phantom of air — no old fanatic palmer— it
was the real identical Norman Hunter of I'olmood — but in such a guise ! —
Good God ! such features ! such looks, it is impossible for man to describe
them. " Now, what hast thou to say for thyself .'"' said he. — "That I never
yet in my life wronged thee," returned she, lirmly. — " Never wronged me !
worthless unconscionable minion ! were not these charms, which were my
right, denied to me, and prostituted to others .'' For thee have I suffered the
torments of the damned, and have delighted in their deeds. Thy scorn and
perfidy has driven me to distraction, and now shalt thou reap the fruits of it.
Long and patiently have 1 watched to discover thee prostituting thyself to one
or other of thy paramours, that I might glut myself with vengeance ; and now
I have effected it, you shall hang togetljer till the crows and the eagles devour
you piecemeal."

Elizabeth held her peace ; for she saw that speech was unavailable, and
that his frantic rage was not to be stayed — it seemed to redouble every
moment, for, without the smallest compunction, he threw her down, bound
her hands and feet, and, with paralyzed and shaking hands, knitted the cord
about her beauteous neck, and proceeded to hang her up beside her lifeless
paramour.

It is impossible for the heart of man to conceive any scene more truly
horrible than this was. Polmood seems to have been completely raving mad;
for he was all the while crying over her in the most piteous rending agony —
he was literally trembling and howling with despair, bellowing like a lion or a
bull, yet did he not for a moment stay his fatal purpose.

Elizabeth, when she made her escape from the violence of Rosay in the
bower, did not turn homeward, but held her course away to the east, until she
came to a small mountain stream that bounded the wood. Carmichael was
not at that time in the wood, but on the hill above it, when, to his joy and
astonishment, he perceived her alone, washing her face in the brook, and
adjusting some part of her dress. There were but two paths in the wood, by
which it was possible to pass through it from east to west, and one of these
paths Carmichael knew she behooved to take in her way homeward.

Now, it happened that the fatal bower was situated exactly at the point
where these two paths approached nearest to each other. Toward this point
did Carmichael haste with all the speed he could make, in order that he might
intercept Elizabeth, whatever path she took, and bring her to an explanation.
Judge what his sensations were ! when, bolting from a thicket, the unpar-
alleled scene of horror, death, and madness, was disclosed to his view at once.

THE BRIDAL OF POLMOOD. 195

Rosay was hanging quite dead, and already was the cord flung over the bough
by which the beauteous Elizabeth was to be drawn up beside him. The
inexorable ruffian had even laid hold of it, and begun to apply his sinewy
strength, when Carmichael rushed forward with a loud cry of despair, and cut
both the ropes by which they were suspended. Ere he had got this effected,
Polmood grappled with him — cursed him in wrath, and gave him a tremen-
dous blow with his fist. Carmichael returned the salute so lustily, that his
antagonist's mouth and nose gushed blood. Carmichael knew Polmood at
first sight, for he was then unmasked ; but Polmood did not recognise him
through his disguise of a shepherd. He, however, grasped him closer, intent
on revenge for his bold interference and emphatic retort. Carmichael well
knew with whom he had to do, and how unable any man was to resist the arm
of Polmood in a close struggle ; therefore, by a sudden and violent exertion,
he wrenched himself from his hold — sprung a few paces backward, and drew
out his sword from beneath his gray plaid. During this last struggle, Car-
michael's bonnet had been knocked off, and, at the next glance, Polmood
knew him. All his supposed injuries burst upon his remembrance at once,
and this second discovery confirmed the whole of his former suspicions.
When he saw it was Carmichael, he uttered a loud howl for joy. " Ah ! is it
then so !" said he, "the man of all the world whom I wished most to meet !
Now shall all my wrongs be revenged at once ! Heaven and hell, I thank
you both for this ! " and with that he gnashed his teeth, and uttered another
maniac howl.

He drew his sword, or lifted that which had belonged to Rosay, I am not
certain which, and flew to the combat. He was deemed the best archer, the
strongest man, and the best swordsman of his day. Carmichael was younger
and more agile, but he wanted experience, consequently the chances were
against him.

The onset was inconceivably fierce — the opposition most desperate — and
never perhaps was victory better contested— each depended on his own single
arm for conquest, and on that alone. Carmichael lost ground, and by degrees
gave way faster and faster, while his antagonist pressed him to the last : yet
this seemed to have been done intentionally ; for when they reached a little
lawn where they had fair scope for sword play, the former remained firm as a
rock, and they fought for some minutes, almost foot to foot, with the most
determined bravery. Carmichael won the first hit of any consequence. Pol-
mood's fury, and the distracted state of his mind, seemed to have given his
opponent the advantage over him, for he first wounded him in the shoulder
of the sword arm, and^ in the very first or second turn thereafter ran him
through the body.

Polmood fell, cursing Carmichael, Elizabeth, his wayward fortune, and all
mankind ; but, when he found his last moments approaching, he grew calm,
sighed, and asked if Elizabeth were still alive. Carmichael did not know —
" Haste," said he ; "go and see ; and if she is, I would speak with her — if
she is not, I suppose we shall soon meet in circumstances miserable enough."
Carmichael hastened to the spot where he had cut the two bodies from the
tree ; there he found the beauteous Elizabeth, living indeed, but in the most
woeful and lamentable plight that ever lady was in. She was nothing hurt,
for she had never been pulled from the ground. But there was she, lying
stretched beside a strangled corpse, with her hands and her feet bound, and a
rope tied about her neck.

Carmichael wrapped her in his shepherd's plaid, for her own clothes were
torn, and then loosed her in the gentlest manner he could, making use of the
most soothing terms all the while. But when he raised her, wrapped her in
his plaid and desired her to go and speak to her dying husband, he found that
her senses were wandering, and that she was incapalilc of talking coherently
to any one. He led her to the place where Polmood lay bleeding to death ;
but this new scene of calamity affected her not, nor did it even appear to draw
her attention : her looks were fixed on vacancy, and she spoke neither good

196 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

nor bad. Carmichael strove all that he could to convince the dying man of
the injustice and ungenerosity of his suspicions with regard to Elizabeth,
whose virtue he assured him was unspotted, if any woman's on earth was so;
and further said that it was the consciousness uf that alone which had led her
to indulge in youthful levities, which both her own heart, and the example of
the court, had taught her to view as perfectly innocent.

Polmood seemed to admit of this, but not to believe it ; he however grasped
her hand — bade her farewell, and said that he forgave her. — " If you are
innocent," said he, " what a wretch am I ! — but there is one who knows the
secrets of all hearts, and to his mercy and justice I leave you. For my own
part, I leave this world without any hope ; but things must be as they will — I
have now no time for reparation. — If you are innocent, Elizabeth, may you be
happier that I could ever make you — happier than I wished to make you,
you never can be. — But if you are not innocent, may all the curses of guilt
fall on you — may you be miserable in this life, as you have made me ; and
miserable in the next, as I shall be." She was still incapable of making any
consistent reply — she sometimes appeared as forcing herself to listen, but her
ideas would not be collected — she uttered some broken sentences, but they
were totally unintelligible.

Carmichael then, with some difficulty, gained possession of a few leading
circumstances, relating to the two bodies that were found at the straits of
Gameshope, one of which was taken for that of Polmood himself The thread
of the tale was not very palpable, for the dying chief could only then express
himself in short unfinished sentences ; but, as far as could be gathered, the
circumstances seemed to have been as follows.

Polmood had heard on the night before the hunt, as has been related, a
confession of Rosay's guilt from his own mouth. Nay, he had even heard
him exult in his conquest, and speak of his host in the most contemptuous
terms. This excited his rage and indignation to such a degree, that he
resolved to be revenged on the aggressor that day — he had vowed revenge,
and imprecated the most potent curses on himself, if Rosay was ever suffered
again to return under his roof —He watched him all the day of the hunt, but
could never find an opportunity to challenge him, except in the midst of a
crowd, where his revenge would have been frustrated. As it drew towards
the evening, he came to the ford of Gameshope, where he halted, judging that
Rosay and Hamilton must necessarily return by that pass, from the course he
saw them take. He had waited but a short time when he saw two riders
approach, whom he conceived for certain to be Rosay and Hamilton, whereas
they were in truth, Sir Patrick Hepburn and Donald of Lamington. Sir Patrick
not only resembled Rosay much in his personal appearance, but his horse
was of the same colour ; which Polmood did not know, or did not avert to. —
It was wearing late — the mist was dark and thick — ^^the habiliments were in
every respect similar. All these combined, misled the blindly passionate and
distracted Polmood so completely, that he had actually cleft the skull of the
one, and given the other his death wounds in self-defence, ere ever he was
aware of his error.

Desperate cases suggest desperate remedies. — As the only means of avert-
ing instant punishment, and accomplishingdire revenge on the real incendiaries,
which swayed him much more than the love of life, he put his own sword in
Lamington's hand, which he closed firm upon it, and his own sandals upon
his feet : he then cut off the heads from the bodies, and hid them, being cer-
tain that no one could distinguish the trunks ; and as he deemed, so it fell out.
The place where that fatal afray happened, is called Donald's Cleuch to this day.
Polmood had now no way left of approaching his own castle but in disguise.
Intent on executing his great purpose of revenge, with every circumstance of
conviction to his own heart of the guilt of the parties, he so effectually con-
cealed himself under the cowl, beard, and weeds of a pilgrim monk, that he
was enabled to stay in his own castle, get possession of his own keys, and
watch all their motions without being suspected.

THE BRIDAL OF POLMOOD. 197

The inexplicable mysteries of the ghost and the murder of the two knights,
being thus satisfactorily explained to the world, the soul of the great, the brave,
the misguided Norman Hunter of Polmood, forsook its earthly tenement,
and left his giant mould a pale disfigured corse in the wood that had so lately
been his own.

Carmichael conducted Elizabeth home in the most delicate manner possible
— committed her to the care of her women — and caused the two bodies to be
brought home and locked up in a chamber of the castle. He then went
straight and threw himself at the king's feet, declaring the whole matter, and
all the woful devastation Polmood's jealousy had occasioned among his friends
and followers. The king was exceedingly grieved for the loss of his brother,
and more especially at the disgraceful manner in which he had been cut off;
but as none knew the circumstances save Carmichael and Elizabeth, they
schemed to keep it secret, and they effected this in a great measure, by spread-
ing a report that his death had happened in another quarter, to which he had
been despatched in haste.

The king was soon convinced that no blame whatever could be attached to Car-
michael, as he had slain his antagonist in his own defence, and in defence of a
lady's life ; and,after questioning him strictly, with respect to the disguises which
he had assumed, he was convinced that his motives throughout had been dis-
interested, generous, and honourable. In matters that related to gallantry
and love, James was an easy and lenient judge, and was graciously pleased to
take Sir John Carmichael again into his royal favour and protection.

Elizabeth continued many days in a state of mind in which there seemed a
considerable degree of derangement. She sometimes maintained, for whole
days together, a dumb callous insensibility ; at other times she spoke a good
deal, but her speech was inconsistent. From that state, she sunk into a
settled melancholy, and often wept bitterly when left alone. It appears that
she then began to think much by herself — to reflect on her bypast life ; and
the more she pondered on it, the more fully was she convinced that she had
acted wrong. There was no particular action of her life, with which she could
charge herself, that was heinous ; but, when these actions had occasioned so
much bloodshed and woe, it was evident they had been far amiss. Her con-
clusion finally was, that the general tenor of her life had been manifestly wrong,
and that though the line did not appear crooked or deformed, it had been
stretched in a wrong direction.

These workings of the mind were sure preludes to feelings and sensations
more tender and delicate than any she had hitherto experienced — more con-
genial to her nature, and more soothing to the female heart. The heart that
reflects seriously will soon learn to estimate the joys of society aright — will feel
that it must depend upon others for its felicity ; and that the commixture of
mutual joys and sorrows is greatly preferable to the dull monotony of selfish
gratification.

Carmichael visited her every day for a whole year, without ever once men-
tioning love. Before this period had expired, it was needless to mention it ;
gratitude, the root from which female love springs, if that love is directed as it
ought to be, so softened the heart of Elizabeth, and by degrees became so
firmly knit to him, that she could not be happy when out of his company.
They were at last married, and enjoyed, amid a blooming offspring, as much
of happiness and peace as this fleeting and imperfect scene of existence can
well be expected to confer.

Some may perhaps say, that this tale is ill-conceived, unnatural, and that
the moral of it is not palpable ; but let it be duly considered, that he who sits
down to write a novel or romance — to i)r()duce something that is merely the
creation of his own fancy, may be obliged to conform to certain rules and re-
gulations ; while he who transmits the traditions of his country to others, does
wrong, if he do not transmit them as they are. He may be at liberty to tell
them in his own way, but he ought by all means to conform to the incidents
as handed down to him ; because the greater part of these stories have their

198 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

foundation in truth. That which is true cannot be unnatural, as the incidents
may always be traced from their first principles — the passions and various pre-
judices of men ; and from every important occurrence in human life a moral may
with certainty be drawn. And I would ask, if there is any moral with which it
is of more importance to impress mankind than this ? — That he who ventures
upon the married state without due regard to congeniality of disposition, feel-
ings, and pursuits, ventures upon a shoreless sea, with neither star nor rudder
to direct his course, save unruly and misguided passions, which soon must
overwhelm him, or bear him f.irther and farther from the haven of peace for
ever. — Never then was precept more strikingly illublratcd by e.\amplc than in
the incidents recorded in the foregoing tale.

STORMS.

INCIDENTS CONNECTED WITH REMARKABLE
SNOW-FALLS IN SCOTLAND.

CHAPTER I.

Storms constitute the various eras of the pastoral life. They are the red lines
in the shepherd's manual — the remembrancers of years and ages that are
past — the tablets of memory by which the ages of his children, the times of
his ancestors, and the rise and downfall of families, are invariably ascertained.
Even the progress of improvement in Scottish farming can be traced tradition-
ally from these, and the rent of a farm or estate given with precision, before and
after such and such a storm, though the narrator be uncertain in what century
the said notable storm happened. " Mar's year," and " that year the hielan-
ders raide," are but secondary mementos to the year nine, and the year forty
— these stand in bloody capitals in the annals of the pastoral life, as well as
many more that shall hereafter be mentioned.

The most dismal of all those on record is the thirteen drifty days. This extra-
ordinary storm, as near as I have been able to trace, must have occurred in
the year 1620. The traditionary stories and pictures of desolation that remain
of it, are the most dire imaginable ; and the mentioning of the thirteen drifty
days to an old shepherd, in a stormy night, never fails to impress his mind
with a sort of religious awe, and often sets him on his knees before that Being
who alone can avert such another calamity.

It is said, that for thirteen days and nights the snow-drift never once abated.
The ground was covered with frozen snow, when it commenced, and during all
that time the sheep never broke tlieir fast. The cold was intense to a degree
never before remembered ; and about the fifth and sixth days of the storm,
the young sheep began to fall into a sleepy and torpid state, and all that were
so affected in the evening died over niglit. The intensity of the frost wind
often cut them off when in that state quite instantaneously. About the ninth
and tenth days, the shepherds began to build up hui^e semicircular walls of
their dead, in order to afford some shelter for the remainder of the living ; but
they availed but little, for about the same time they were frequently seen
tearing at one another's wool with their teeth.

When the storm abated, on the fourteenth day from its commencement,
there was on many a high-lying farm not a living sheep to be seen. Large
mishapen walls of dead, surrounded a small prostrate flock likewise all dead,
and frozen stiff in their lairs, were all that remained to cheer the forlorn shep-
herd and his master ; and though on low-lying farms, where the snow was not
so hard before, numbers of sheep weathered the storm, yet tiicir constitutions
received such a shock, that the greater part of ihcm perished afterwards ; and

STORAfS. 199

t^e final consequence was, tnat about nine-tenths of all the sheep in the south
of Scotland were destroyed.

In the extensive pastoral district of Kskdale-moor, which maintains upwards
of 20,000 sheep, it is said none were left alive, but forty young wedders on one
farm, and five old ewes on another. The farm of I'haup remained without a
stock and without a tenant for twenty years subsequent to the storm; at length,
one very honest and liberal-minded man ventured to take a lease of it, at the
annual rent of a grey coal and a pair of hose. It is now rented at ^500. An
extensive glen in Tweedsmuir, belonging to Sir James Montgomery, became
a common at that time, to which any man drove his tlocks that pleased, and
it continued so for nearly a century. On one of Sir Patrick Scott of Thirle-
stane'b farms, that keeps upwards of 900 sheep, they all died save one black
ewe, from which the farmer had high hopes of preserving a breed ; but some
unlucky dogs, that were all laid idle for want of sheep to run at, fell upon this
poor sohtary remnant of a good stock, and chased her into the lake, where she
was drowned, When word of this was brought to John Scott, the farmer,
commonly called gouffm' Jock, he is reported to have expressed himself as
follows : " Ochon, ochon ! an' is that the gate o't.'' — a black beginning maks
aye a black end." Then taking down an old rusty sword, he added, " Come
thou away, my auld frien', thou an' I maun e'en stock Bourhopc-law ance mair.
Bossy, my dow, how gaes the auld sang ?

There's walth o' kye i' bonny Braidlees ;

There's walth o' yowes i' Tine ;
There's walth o' gear i' Gowanburn —

An' they shall a' be thine."

It is a pity that tradition has not preserved any thing farther of the history of
gouffin' Jock than this one saying.

The next memorable event of this nature is the blast d March, which
happened on the 24th day of that month, in the year 16 — , on a Monday
morning ; and though it lasted only for one forenoon, it was calculated to
have destroyed upwards of a thousand scores of sheep, as well as a number of
shepherds. There is one anecdote of this storm that is worthy of being pre-
served, as it shows with how much attention shepherds, as well as sailors,
should observe the appearances of the sky. The Sunday evening before was
so warm, that the lasses went home from church barefoot, and tlie young men
threw off their plaids and coats, and carried them over their shoulders. A
large group of these younkers, going home from the church of Yarrow,
equipped in this manner, chanced to pass by an old shepherd on the farm of
JN'ewhouse, named Walter Blake, who had all his sheep gathered into the side
of a wood. They asked Waliie, who was a very religious man, what could have
induced him to gather his sheep on the Sabbath-day.-* He answered that he
had seen an ill-hued wcalher-gaw that morning, and was afraid it was going to
be a drift. Tliey were so much amused at Wattle's apprehensions, that thev
clapped their hands, and laughed at him, and one pert girl cried, "Ay, tie tak'
care, Wattle ; I widna say but it may be thrapple deep or the morn." Another
asked, " If he wasna ratlier feared for the sun burning the een out o' their
heads?" and a third, " if he didna keep a correspondence wi' the thieves, an'
kend they were to ride that night .'' " Wattie was obliged to bear all this, for the
evening was fine beyond anything generally seen at that season, and only said
to them at parting, " Weel, weel, callans, time will try a' ; let them laugh that
wins ; but slacks will be sleek, a hogg for the howking ; we'll a' get horns to
tout on the morn." The saying grew proverbial ; but Wattie was the only man
who saved the whole of his llock in that country.

The years 1709, 40, and 72, were all likewise notable years for severity, and
for the losses sustained among the flocks of sheep. \\\ the latter, the snow
lay from the middle of December until the middle of April, and all tlie time
hard frozen. Partial thaws always ke])t ihe farmers hopes t)f relief alive, and
thus prevented him fiom removing his sheep to a lower situation, till at length

200 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

they grew so weak that they could not be removed. There has not been such
a general loss in the days of any man living as in that year. It is by these years
that all subsequent hard winters have been measured, and, of late by that of 1795;
and when the balance turns out in favour of the calculator, there is always a de-
gree of thankfulness expressed, as well as a composed submission to the awards
of Divine Providence. The daily feeling naturally impressed on the shepherd's
mind, that all his comforts are so entirely in the hand of Him that rules the
elements, contributes not a little to that hrm spirit of devotion for which the
Scottish shepherd is so distinguished. 1 know of no scene so impressive, as
that of a family sequestered in a lone glen during the time of a winter storm ;
and where is the glen in the kingdom that wants such a habitation ? There
they are left to the protection of 1 leaven, and they know and feel it. Through-
out all the wild vicissitudes of nature they have no hope of assistance from
man, but are conversant with the Almighty alone, before retiring to rest, the
shepherd uniformly goes out to examine the state of the weather, and makes
his report to the little dependant group within ; nothing is to be seen but the
conflict of the elements, nor heard but the raving of the storm ; then they all
kneel around him, while he recommends them to the protection of Heaven ;
and though their little hymn of praise can scarcely be heard even by them-
selves, as it mixes with the roar of the tempest, they never fail to rise from
their devotions with their spirits cheered and their confidence renewed, and
go to sleep with an exaltation of mind of which kings and conquerors have no
share. Often have I been a sharer in such scenes ; and never, even in my
youngest years, without having my heart deeply impressed by thecircumstances.
There is a sublimity in the very idea. There we lived, as it were, inmates of
the cloud and the storm ; but we stood in a relationship to the Ruler of these,
that neither time nor eternity could ever cancel. Woe to him that would
weaken the bonds with which true Christianity connects us with Heaven and
with each other.

But of all the storms that ever Scotland witnessed, or I hope ever will again
behold, there is none of them that can once be compared with the memorable
24th of January, 1794, which fell with such peculiar violence on that division
of the south of Scotland that lies between Crawford-muir and the border.
In these bounds there were seventeen shepherds perished, and upwards of
thirty carried home insensible, who afterwards recovered ; but the number of
sheep that were lost far outwent any possibility of calculation. One farmer
alone, Mr. Thomas Beattie, lost seventy-two scores for his own share ; and
many others, in the same quarter, from thirty to forty scores each. Whole
flocks were overwhelnied with snow, and no one ever knew where they were
till the snow was dissolved, when they were all found dead. I myself witnessed
one particular instance of this on the farm of Thickside ; there were twelve
scores of excellent ewes, all one age, that were missing there all the time that
the snow lay, which was only a week, and no traces of them could be found ;
when the snow v.ent away, they were discovered all lying dead, with their
heads one way, as if a flock of sheep had dropped dead going from the wash-
ing. Many hundreds were driven into waters, burns, and lakes, by the
violence of the storm, where they were buried or frozen up, and these the
flood carried away, so that they were never seen or found by the owners at all.
The following anecdote somewhat illustrates the confusion and devastation
that it bred in the country. — The greater part of the rivers on which the storm
was most deadly, run into the Solway Frith, on which there is a place called
the Beds of lisle, where the tide throws out, and leaves whatsoever is carried
into it by the rivers. When the flood after the storm subsided, there were
found on that place, and the shores adjacent, 1840 sheep, nine black cattle,
three horses, two men, one woman, forty-Hve dogs, and one hundred and
eighty hares, besides a number of meaner animals.

To relate all the particular scenes of distress that occurred during this
tremendous hurricane is impossible — a volume would not contain them. I
shall, therefore, in order to give a true picture of the storm, merely relate

STORMS. 201

what I saw, and shall in nothing exaggerate. But before doing this, I must
mention a circumstance, curious in its nature, and connected with others that
afterwards occurred.

Sometime previous to that, a few young shepherds (of whom I was one,
and the youngest, though not the least ambitious of the number), had formed
themselves into a sort of literary society, that met periodically, at one or other
of the houses of its members, where each read an essay on a subject previously
given out ; and after that, every essay was minutely investigated and criticised
We met in the evening, and continued our important discussions all night.
Friday, the 23rd of January, was the day appointed for one of these meetings,
and it was to be held at Entertrony, a wild and remote shieling, at the very
source of the Ettrick, and afterwards occupied by my own brother. I had
the honour of having been named as preses — so, leaving the charge of my
flock with my master, off I set from Blackhouse, on Thursday, a very ill day,
with a flaming bombastical essay in my pocket, and my tongue trained to
many wise and profound remarks, to attend this extraordinary meeting,
though the place lay at the distance of twenty miles, over the wildest hills in
the kingdom, and the time the depth of winter. I remained that night with
my parents at Ettrick-house, and next day again set out on my journey. I
had not, however, proceeded far, before I perceived, or thought 1 perceived,
symptoms of an approaching storm, and that of no ordinary nature. I
remember the day well : the wind, which was rough on the preceding day,
had subsided into a dead calm ; there was a slight fall of snow, which
descended in small thin flakes, that seemed to hover and reel in the air, as if
uncertam whether to go upward or downward ; the hills were covered down
to the middle in deep folds of rime, or frost-fog ; in the doughs the fog was
dark, dense, and seemed as if it were heaped and crushed together, but on
the brows of the hills it had a pale and fleecy appearance, and, altogether,
I never beheld a day of such gloomy aspect. A thought now began to intrude
itself on me, though I strove all that I could to get quit of it, that it would be
a wise course in me to return home to my sheep. Inclination urged me on,
and I tried to bring reason to her aid, by saying to myself, " I have no reason
in the world to be afraid of my sheep ; my master took the charge of them
cheerfully ; there is not a better shepherd in the kingdom, and I cannot doubt
his concern in having them right." All would not do : I stood still and
contemplated the day, and the more closely I examined it, the more was I
impressed that some mischief was a-brewing; so, with a heavy heart, I turned
on my heel, and made the best of my way back the road I came ; my elaborate
essay, and all my wise observations, had come to nothing.

On my way home I called at a place named the Hope-house, to see a
maternal uncle whom I loved ; he was angry when he saw me, and said it
was not like a prudent lad to be running up and down the country in such
weather, and at such a season ; and urged me to make haste home, for it
would be a drift before the morn. He accompanied me to the top of the
height called the Black Gatehead, and on parting, he shook his head, and
said, " Ah ! it is a dangerous looking day! In troth I'm amaist fear'd to
look at it." I said I would not mind it, if any one knew from what quarter
the storm would arise ; but we might, in all likelihood, gather our sheep to
the place where they would be most exposed to danger. He bade me keep
a good look out all the way home, and wherever I observed the first opening
through the rime, to be assured the wind would rise directly from that point.
I did as he desired me, but the clouds continued close set all around, till the
fall of evening; and as the snow had been accumulating all day, so as to
render walking very unfurthersome, it was that time before I reached home.
The first thmg I did was to go to my master and inquire where he had left
my sheep — he told me — but though I jiad always the most perfect confidence
in his experience, I was not pleased with what he had done. He had left a
part of them far too Iiigh out on the iiills, and the rest were not wliere I
wanted them, and I told him so : he said he had done all for the best, but if

202 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

there appeared to be any dani^er, if I would call him up in the morning, he
would assist me. We had two beautiful servant girls, and with them I sat
chattering till past eleven o'clock, and then 1 went down to the old tower.
What could have taken me to that ruinous habitation of the Black Douglasses
at that untimeous hour, I cannot recollect, but it certainly must have been
from a supposition that one of the girls would follow me, or else that I would
see a hare — both very unlikely events to have taken place on such a night
However, certain it is, that there I was at midnight, and it was while standing
on the top of the staircase turret, that I first beheld a bright bore through
the clouds, towards the north, which reminded me of my uncle's apophthegm.
But at the same time a smart thaw had commenced, and the breeze seemed
to be rising from the south, so that I laughed in my heart at his sage rule,
and accounted it quite absurd. Short was the time till awful experience told
me how true it was.

I then went to my bed in the byre loft, where I slept with a neighbour
shepherd, named Borthwick ; but though fatigued with walking through the
snow, I could not close an eye, so that 1 heard the first burst of the storm,
which commenced between one and two, with a fury that no one can conceive
who does not remember of it. Besides the place where I lived being exposed
to two or three gathered winds, as they are called by shepherds, the storm
raged there with redoubled ferocity. It began all at once, with such a
tremendous roar, that I imagined it was a peal of thunder, until I felt the
house trembling to its foundation. In a few minutes I went and thrust my
naked arm through a hole in the roof, in order, if possible, to ascertain what
was going on without, for not a ray of light could I see. I could not then,
nor can I yet, express my astonishment. So completely was the air over-
loaded with falling and driving snow, that but for the force of the wind, I felt
as if I had thrust my arm into a wreath of snow. I deemed it a judgment
sent from Heaven upon us, and lay down again in my bed, trembling with
agitation. I lay still for about an hour, in hopes that it might prove only a
temporary hurricane ; but, hearing no abatement of its fur\', I awakened
Borthwick, and bade him get up, for it was come on such a night or morning,
as never blew from the heavens. He was not long in obeying, for as soon as
he heard the turmoil, he started from his bed, aud in one minute, throwing
on his clothes, he hasted down the ladder, and opened the door, where he
stood for a good while, uttering exclamations of astonishment. Ihe door
where he stood was not above fourteen yards from the door of the dwelling-
house, but a wreath was already amassed between them, as high as the walls
of the house — and in tiying to get round or through this, Borthwick lost him-
self, and could neither find the house nor his way back to the byre, and
about six minutes after, I heard him calling my name, in a shrill desperate
tone of voice, at which I could not refrain from laughing immoderately, not-
withstanding the dismal prospect that lay before us ; for 1 heard, from his
cries, where he was. He had tried to make his way over the top of a large
dunghill, but going to the wrong side, had fallen over, and wrestled long
among snow, quite over the head. I did not think proper to move to his
assistance, but lay still, and shortly after heard him shouting at the kitchen
door for instant admittance ; still I kept my bed for about three quarters of
an hour longer ; and then, on reaching the house with much difficulty, found
our master, the ploughman, Borthwick, and the two servant maids, sitting
round the kitchen fire, with looks of dismay, I may almost say despair. We
all agreed at once, that the sooner we were able to reach the sheep, the better
chance we had to save a remnant ; and as there were eight hundred excellent
ewes, all in one lot, but a long way distant, and the most valuable lot of any
on the farm, we resolved to make a bold effort to reach them. Our master
made family worship, a duty he never neglected ; but that morning, the
manner in which we manifested our trust and confidence in Heaven, was
particularly affecting. We took our breakfast — stuffed our pockets with bread
and cheese — sewed our plaids around us — tied down our hats with napkins

STORMS. 203

coming below our chins — and each taking a strong staff in his hand, we set
out on the attempt.

No sooner was the door closed behind us than we lost sight of each other
— seeing there was none — it was impossible for a man to see his hand held
up before him, and it was still two hours till day. We had no means of
keeping together but by following to one another's voices, nor of working our
way save by groping with our staves before us. It soon appeared to me
a hopeless concern, for, ere ever we got clear of the houses and haystacks,
we had to roll ourselves over two or three wreaths which it was impossible
to wade through ; and all the while the wind and drift were so violent, that
every three or four minutes we were obliged to hold our faces down between
our icnees to recover our breath.

We soon got into an eddying wind that was altogether insufferable, and, at
the same time we were struggling among snow so deep, that our progress in
the way we purposed going was indeed very equivocal, for we had, by this
time, lost all idea of east, west, north, or south. Still we were as busy as men
determined on a business could be, and persevered on we knew not whither,
sometimes rolling over the snow, and sometimes weltering in it to the chin.
The following instance of our successful exertions marks our progress to a
tittle. There was an inclosure around the house to the westward, which we
denominated the park, as is customary in Scotland. When we went away,
we calculated that it was two hours until day — the park did not extend above
three hundred yards — and we were still engaged in i\l^.i park when daylight
appeared.

When we got free of the park, we also got free of the eddy of the wind — it
was now straight in our faces. We went in a line before each other, and
changed places every three or four minutes, and at length, after great fatigue,
we reached a long ridge of a hill, where the snow was thinner, having been
blown off it by the force of the wind, and by this time we had hopes of reaching
within a short space of the ewes, which were still a mile and a half distant.
Our master had taken the lead ; I was next him, and soon began to suspect,
from the depth of the snow, that he was leading us quite wrong, but as we
always tioisted implicitly to him that was foremost for the time, I said nothing
for a good while, until satisfied that we were going in a direction very nearly
right opposite to that we intended. I then tried to expostulate with him, but
he did not seem to understand what I said, and, on getting a glimpse of his
countenance, I perceived that it was quite altered. Not to alarm the others,
nor even himself, I said I was becoming terribly fatigued, and proposed that
we should lean on the snow and take each a mouthful of whisky (for I had
brought a small bottle in my pocket for fear of the worst), and a bite of bread
and cheese. This was unanimously agreed to, and I noted that he drank the
spirits rather eagerly, a thing not usual with him, and when he tried to eat, it
was long before he could swallow anything. I was convinced that he would
fail altogether ; but, as it would have been easier to have got him to the
shepherd's house before than home again, I made no proposal for him to
return. On the contrary, I said if they would trust themselves entirely to me,
I would engage to lead them to the ewes without going a foot out of the way
— the other two agreed to it, and acknowledged that they knew not where
they were, but he never opened his mouth, nor did he speak a word for two
hours thereafter. It had only been a temporary exhaustion, however ; for
after that he recovered, and wrought till night as well as any of us, though he
never could recollect a single circumstance that occurred during that part
of our way, nor a word that was said, nor of having got any refreshment
whatever.

At half an hour after ten we reached the floi k, and just in time to save
them ; but before that, both Borthwick and the ploughman had lost their
hats, notwithstanding all their precautions ; and to impede us still farther, I
went inadvertently over a precipice, and going down head foremost, between
the scaur and the snow, found it impossible to extricate myself ; for the more

204 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

I struggled, I went the deeper. For all our troubles, I heard Borthwick
above convulsed with lauyhter ; he thought he had got the affair of the
dunghill paid back. By holding by one another, and letting down a plaid to
me, they hauled me up, but 1 was terribly incommoded by snow that had got
inside my clothes.

The ewes were standing in a close body ; one half of them were covered
over with snow to the depth of ten feet, the rest were jammed against a brae.
We knew not what to do for spades to dig them out ; but, to our agreeable
astonishment, when those before were removed, they had been so close pent
together as to be all touching one another, and they walked out from below
the snow after their neighbours in a body. If the snow-wreath had not
broke, and crumbled down upon a few that were hindmost, we should have
got tiiem all out without putting a hand to them. This was effecting a good
deal more than I or any of the party expected a few hours before ; there were
one hundred ewes in another place near by, but of these we could only get
out a very few, and lost all hupes of saving the rest

It was now wearing towards mid-day, and there were occasionally short
intervals in which we could see about us for perhaps a score of yards ; but we
got only one momentary glance of the hills aroimd us all that day. I grew
quite impatient to be at my own charge ; and leaving the rest, I went away
to them by myself, that is, 1 went to the division that was left far out on the
hills, while our master and the ploughman volunteered to rescue those that
were down on the lower ground. 1 found mine in miserable circumstances ;
but making all possible exertion, I got out about one half of them, which I
left in a place of safety, and made towards home, for it was beginning to grow
dark, and the storm was again raging, without any mitigation, in all its
darkness and deformity. I was not the least afraid of losing my way, for I
knew all the declivities of the hills so well, that I could have come home with
my eyes bound up, and, indeed, long ere I got home, they were of no use to
me. I was terrified for the water (Douglas Burn), for in the morning it was
flooded and gorged up with snow in a dreadful manner, and I judged that it
would be quite impassable. At length I came to a place where I thought the
water should be, and fell a boring and groping for it with my long staff.
No, I could find no water, and began to dread, that for all my accuracy 1 had
gone wrong. I was greatly astonished, and, standing still to consider, I
looked up towards heaven, I shall not say for what cause, and to my utter
amazement thought I beheld trees over my head llourishing abroad over the
whole sky. I never had seen such an optical delusion before ; it was so like
enchantment, that I knew not what to think, but dreaded that some extraor-
dinary thing was coming over me, and that 1 was deprived of my right senses.
I remember 1 thought the storm was a great judgment sent on us for our
sins, and that this strange phantasy was connected with it, an illusion effected
by evil spirits. I stood a good while in this painful trance ; at length, on
making a bold exertion to escape from the fairy vision, I came all at once in
contact with the old tower. Never in my life did I experience such a relief;
I was not only all at once freed from the fairies, but from the dangers of the
gorged river. I had come over it on some mountain of snow, 1 knew not
how nor where, nor do I know till this day. So that, after all, they were trees
that I saw, and trees of no great magnitude neither ; but their appearance to
my eyes it is impossible to describe. I thought they flourished abroad,
not for miles, but for hundreds of miles, to the utmost verges of the visible
heavens. Such a day and such a night may the eye of a shepherd never
again behold.

CHAPTER 11.

" That ni.^lit a child might understand,

The Deil had business on his hand."

On reaching home, 1 found our women folk sitting in woful plight. It is well

known how wonderfully acute they generally arc, either at raising up imagin-

STORMS.

205

ary evils, or magnifying those that exist ; and ours had made out a theory so
fraught with misery and distress, that the poor things were quite overwhelmed
with grief. "There were none of us ever to see the house again in life.
There was no possibility of the thing happening, all circumstances considered.
There was not a sheep in the country to be saved, nor a single shepherd left
alive — nothing but ivomen ! and there they were left, three poor helpless
creatures, and the men lying dead out among the snow, and none to bring
them home. Lord help them, what was to become of them ! " They per-
fectly agreed in all this ; there was no dissenting voice ; and their prospects
still continuing to darken with the fall of night, they had no other resource
left them, long before my arrival, but to lift up their voices and weep. The
group consisted of a young lady, our master's niece, and two servant girls, all
of the same age, and beautiful as three spring days, every one of which are
mild and sweet, but differ only a little in brightness. No sooner had I
entered, than every tongue and every hand was put in motion, the former to
pour forth queries faster than six tongues of men could answer them with any
degree of precision, and the latter to rid me of the incumbrances of snow and
ice with which I was loaded. One slit up the sewing of my frozen plaid,
another brushed the icicles from my locks, and a third unloosed my clotted
snow boots. We all arrived within a few minutes of each other, and all
shared the same kind offices, and heard the same kind inquiries, and long
string of perplexities narrated; even our dogs shared of their caresses and
ready assistance in ridding them of the frozen snow, and the dear consistent
creatures were six times happier than if no storm or danger had existed. Let
no one suppose that, even amid toils and perils, the shepherd's life is destitute
of enjoyment.

Borthwick had found his way home without losing his aim in the least. I
had deviated but little, save that I lost the river, and remained a short time
in the country of the fairies ; but the other two had a hard struggle for life.
They went off, as 1 said formerly, in search of seventeen scores of my flock
that had been left in a place not far from the house, but being unable to find
one of them, in searching for these, they lost themselves, while it was yet early
in the afternoon. They supposed that they had gone by the house very near
to it, for they had toiled till dark among deep snow in the burn below ; and if
John Burnet, a neighbouring shepherd, had not heard them calling, and found
and conducted them home, it would have stood hard with them indeed, for
none of us would have looked for them in that direction. They were both
very much exhausted, and the goodman could not speak above his breath that
night-
Next morning the sky was clear, but a cold intemperate wind still blew
from the north. The face of the country was entirely altered. The form of
every hill was changed, and new mountains leaned over every valley. All
traces of burns, rivers, and lakes, were obliterated, for the frost had been
commensurate with the storm, and such as had never been witnessed in Scot-
land. Some registers that I have seen, place this storm on the 24th of Dec-
ember, a month too early, but that day was one of the finest winter days I
ever saw.

There having been 340 of my flock that had never been found at all during
the preceding day, as soon as the morning dawned we set all out to look after
them. It was a hideous looking scene — no one could cast his eyes around
him and entertain any conception of sheep being saved. It was one picture
of desolation. There is a deep glen lies between Biackhouse and Dryhope,
called the Hawkshaw Cleuch, which is full of trees. There was not the top of
one of them to be seen. This may convey some idea how the country looked :
and no one can suspect that 1 would state circumstances otherwise than they
were when there are so many living that could confute me.

When we came to the ground where these sheep should have been, there was
not one of them above the snow. Here and there, at a great distance from
each other, we could perceive the heads or horns of stragglers appearing, and

2o6 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

these weie easily got out ; but when we had collected these few, we could find
no more. They had been all lying abroad in a scattered state when the storm
came on, and were covered over just as they had been lying. It was on a
kind of slanting ground that lay half beneath the wind, and the snow was
uniformly from six to eight feet deep. Under this the hogs were lying scat-
tered over at least loo acres of heathery ground. It was a very ill looking
concern. We went about boring with our long poles, and often did not tind
one hog in a quarter of an hour. But at length a white shaggy colley, named
Sparkie, that belonged to the cow-herd boy, seemed to have comprehended
something of our perplexity, for we observed him plying and scraping in the
snow with great violence, and always looking over his shoulder to us. On
going to the spot, we found that he had marked straight above a sheep.
From that he flew to another, and so on to another, as fast as we could dig
them out, and ten times faster, for he sometimes had twenty or thirty'holes
marked beforehand.

We got out three hundred of that division before night, and about half as
many on the other parts of the farm, in addition to those we had rescued the
day before ; and tlie greater part of these would have been lost had it not
been for the voluntary exertions of Sparkie. Before the snow went away
(which lay only eight days) we had got every sheep on the farm out, either
dead or alive, except four ; and that these were not found was not Sparkle's
blame, for though they were buried below a mountain of snow at least fifty
feet deep, he had again and again marked on the top of it above them. The
sheep were all living when we found them, but those that were buried in the
snow to a certain depth, being, I suppose, in a warm, half suffocated state,
though on being taken out they bounded away like roes, yet the sudden change
of atmosphere instantly paralyzed them, and they fell down deprived of all
power in their limbs. We had great numbers of these to carry home and
feed with the hand, but others that were very deep buried, died outright in a
few minutes. We did not however lose above sixty in all, but I am certain
Sparkie saved us at least two hundred.

We were for several days utterly ignorant how affairs stood with the
country around us, all communication between farms being cut off, at least
all communication with such a wild place as that in which 1 lived ; but John
Burnet, a neighbouring shepherd on another farm, was remarkably good at
picking up the rumours that were afloat in the country, which he delighted to
circulate without abatement. Many people tell their stories by halves, and in
a manner so cold and indifterent, that the purport can scarcely be discerned,
and if it is, cannot be believed; but that was not the case with John ; he gave
them with utterest^ and we were very much indebted to him for the intelli-
gence that we daily received that week ; for no sooner was the first brunt of
the tempest got over, than John made a point of going off at a tangent every
day, to learn and bring us word what was going on. The accounts were most
dismal; the country was a charnel-house. The first day he brought us tidings
of the loss of thousands of sheep, and likewise of the death of Robert Arm-
strong, a neighbour shepherd, one whom we all well knew, he having but lately
left the Blackhouse to herd on another farm. He died not above three hun-
dred paces from a farm-house, while at the same time it was known to them
all that he was there. His companion left him at a dike-side, and went in to
procure assistance ; yet, nigh as it was, they could not reach him, though they
attempted it again and again ; and at length they were obliged to return, and
suffer him to perish at the side of the dike. There were three of my own in-
timate acquaintances perished that night There was another shepherd
named Watt, the circumstances of whose death were peculiarly affecting. He
had been to see his sweetheart on the night before, with whom he had finally
agreed and settled ever)' thing about their marriage ; but it so happened, in
the inscrutable awards of Providence, that at the very time when the banns of
his marriage were proclaimed in the church of IMofi'at, his companions were
carrying him honie a corpse from the hill.

STORMS. 2Cfj

It may not be amiss here to remark, that it was a received opinion all over
the country, that sundry lives were lost, and a great many more endangered,
by the administering of ardent spirits to the sufferers while in a state of
exhaustion. It was a practice against which 1 entered my vehement protest,
nevertheless the voice of the multitude should never be disregarded. A little
bread and sweet millc, or even a little bread and cold water, it was said,
proved a much safer restorative in the iields. There is no denying, that there
were some who took a glass of spirits that night that never spoke another
word, even though they were continuing to walk and converse when their
friends found them.

On the other hand, there was one woman who left her children, and fol-
lowed her husband's dog, who brought her to his master lying in a state of
insensibility. He had fallen down bareheaded among the snow, and was all
covered over, save one corner of his plaid. She had nothing better to take
with her, when she set out, than a bottle of sweet milk and a little oatmeal
cake, and yet, with the help of these she so far recruited his spirits as to
get him safe home, though not without long and active perseverance. She
took two little vials with her, and in these she heated the milk in her bosom.
That man would not be disposed to laugh at the silliness of the fair sex for
some time.

It is perfectly unaccountable how easily people died that night. The frost
must certainly have been prodigious ; so intense as to have seized momentarily
on the vitals of those that overheated themselves by wading and toiling too
impatiently among the snow, a thing that is very aptly done. I have con-
versed with five or six that were carried home in a state of insensibility that
night, who never would again have moved from the spot where they lay, and
were only brought to life by rubbing and warm applications ; and they uni-
formly declared that they felt no kind of pain or debility, farther than an
irresistible desire to sleep. Many fell down while walking and speaking, in a
sleep so sound as to resemble torpidity ; and there is little doubt that those
who perished slept away in the same manner. I knew a man well, whose
name was Andrew Murray, that perished in the snow on Minchmoor ; and he
had taken it so deliberately, that he had buttoned his coat and folded his
plaid, which he had laid beneath his head for a bolster.

But it is now time to return to my notable literary society. In spite of the
hideous appearances that presented themselves, the fellows actually met, all
save myself, in that solitary shieling before mentioned. It is easy to conceive
how they were confounded and taken by surprise, when the storm burst forth
on them in the middle of the night, while they were in the heat of sublime
disputation. There can be little doubt that there was part of loss sustained
in their respective flocks, by reason of that meeting ; but this was nothing,
compared with the obloquy to which they were subjected on another account,
and one which will scarcely be believed, even though the most part of the
members be yet alive to bear testimony to it.

The storm was altogether an unusual convulsion of nature. Nothing like
it had ever been seen or heard of among us before ; and it was enough of
itself to arouse every spark of superstition that lingered among these moun-
tains. It did so. It was universally viewed as a judgment sent by God for
the punishment of some heinous offence, but what that offence was could not
for a while be ascertained ; but when it came out, that so many men had
been assembled in a lone, unfrequented place, and busily engaged in some
mysterious work at the very instant that the blast came on, no doubts were
entertained that all had not been right there, and that some horrible rite, or
correspondence with the powers of darkness, had been going on. It so hap-
pened, too, that this shieling of Kntertrony was situated in the very vortex of
the storm ; the devastations made by it extended all around that to a certain
extent, and no further on any one cjuarter than another. This was easily and
soon remarked ; and, upon the whole, the first view of the matter had rather
an equivocal appearance to those around who had suffered so severely by it.

2o8 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

But still, as the rumour grew, the certainty of the event gained ground —
new corroborative circumstances were every day divulged, till the whole
district was in an uproar, and several of the members began to meditate a
speedy retreat from the country ; some of them, I know, would have tied, if
it had not been for the advice of the late worthy and judicious Mr. Bryden of
Crosslce. The first intimation that I had of it was from my friend John
Burnet, who gave it me with his accustomed energy and full assurance. He
came over one evening, and I saw by his face he had some great news.
I think I remember, as I well may, every word that passed between us on the
subject.

'' Weel chap," said he to me, "we hae fund out what has been the cause of
a' this mischief now."

" What do you mean, John ?"

" What do I mean .? — It seems that a great scjuad o' birkiesthat ye are con-
neckit wi' had met that night at the herd's house o' Everhaup, an' had raised
the deil amang them."

Every countenance in the kitchen changed ; the women gazeJ at John, and
then at me, and their lips grew white. These kind of feelings are infectious,
people may say what they will ; fear begets fear as naturally as light springs
from reflexion. I reasoned stoutly at first against the veracity of the
report, observing that it was utter absurdity, and a shame and disgrace for
the country to cherish such a ridiculous lie.

" Lie !" said John, " it's nae lie ; they had him up amang them like a great
rough dog at the very time that the tempest began, and were glad to draw
cuts, and gie him ane o' their number to get quit o' him again." Lord, how
every hair of my head, and inch of my frame crept at hearing this sentence ;
for I had a dearly beloved brother who was of the number, several full
cousins and intimate acquaintances ; indeed, I looked upon the whole frater-
nity as my brethren, and considered myself involved in all their transactions.
I could say no more in defence of the society's proceedings ; for, to tell the
truth, though 1 am ashamed to acknowledge it, I suspected that the allega-
tion might be too true.

" Has the deil actually ta'en awa ane o' them bodily?" said Jean. " He
has that," returned John, " an' it's thought the skaith wadna hae been grit,
had he ta'en twa or three mae o' them. Base villains ! that the hale country
should hae to suffer for their pranks ! But, however, the law's to tak its
course on them, an' they'll find, ere a' the play be played, that he has need of
a lang spoon that sups wi' the deil."

The next day John brought us word, that it was only the servant maid that
the ill thief Y\a.d ta'en away ; and the next again, that it was actually Bryden
of Glenkerry ; but, finally, he was obliged to inform us, " That a' was exactly
true, as it was first tauld, but only that Jamie Bryden, after being awanting for
some days had casten up again."

There has been nothing since that time that has caused such a ferment in
the country — nought else could be talked of ; and grievous was the blame at-
tached to those who had the temerity to raise up the devil to waste the land.
Legal proceedings, it is said, were meditated, and attempted ; but lucky it was
for the shepherds that they agreed to no reference, for such were the feelings
of the country, and the opprobrium in which the act was held, that it is likely
it would have fared very ill with them ; — at all events, it would have required
an arbiter of some decision and uprightness to have dared to oppose them.
Two men were sent to come to the house as by chance, and endeavour to
learn from the shepherd, and particularly from the servant-maid, what grounds
there were for inllicting legal punishments ; but before that happened I had
the good luck to hear her examined myself, and that in a way by which all
suspicions were put to rest, and simplicity and truth left to war with supersti-
tion alone. I deemed it very curious at the time, and shall give it verbatim as
nearly as 1 can recollect.

Being all impatience to learn particulars, as soon as the waters abated, so

STORMS. 209

as to become fordable, I hasted over to Ettrick, and the day being fine, I
found numbers of people astir on the same errand with myself, — the valley
was moving with people, gathered in from the glens around, to hear and relate
the dangers and difficulties that were just overpassed. Among others, the
identical girl who served with the shepherd in whose house the scene of the
meeting took place, had come down to Ettrick school-house to sec her parents.
Her name was Mary Beattie, a beautiful sprightly lass about twenty years of
age ; and if the devil had taken her in preference to any one of the shepherds,
his good taste could scaicely have been disputed. The first person I met was,
my friend, the late Mr. James Anderson, who was as anxious to hear what
had passed at the meeting as I was, so we two contrived a scheme whereby
we thought we would hear every thing from the girl's own mouth.

We sent word to the school-house for Mary, to call at my father's house on
her return up the water, as there was a parcel to go to Phawhope. She came
accordingly, and when we saw her approaching, we went into a little sleeping
apartment, where we could hear every thing that passed, leaving directions
with my mother how to manage the affair. My mother herself was in perfect
horrors about the business, and believed it all ; as for my father, he did not
say much either the one way or the other, but bit his lip, and remarked, that
" fo'k would find it was an ill thing to hae to do wi' the ene7ny."

My mother would have managed extremely well, had her own early preju-
dices in favour of the doctrine of all kinds of apparitions not got the better of
her. She was very kind to the girl, and talked with her about the storm, and
the events that had occurred, till she brought the subject of the meeting for-
ward herself, on which the following dialogue commenced ; —

" But dear Mary, my woman, what were the chiels a' met about that
night?"

" O, they were just gaun through their papers an' arguing."

" Arguing ! what were they arguing about .'' "

" I have often thought about it sin' syne, but really I canna tell precisely
what they were arguing about."

" Were you wi' them a' the time .'' "

"Yes, a' the time, but the wee while I was milkin' the cow."

" An' did they never bid you gang out ?"

" O no ; they never heedit whether I gaed out or in."

" It's queer that ye canna mind ought ava ; — can ye no tell me ae word that
ye heard them say .'' "

" I heard them sayin' something about the fitness o' things."

"Ay, that was a braw subject for them ! But, Mary, did you no hear them
sayin' nae ill words ? "

" No."

" Did you no hear them speaking naething about the deil ? "

"Very little."

"What were they saying about himf"

" I thought I aince heard Jamie Fletcher saying there was nae deil ava."

" Ah ! the unwordy rascal ! How durst he for the life o' him ! I wonder
he didna think shame."

" I fear aye he's something regardless Jamie."

" I hope nane that belongs to me will ever join him in his wickedness !
But tell me Mary, my woman, did ye no sec nor hear naething uncanny
about the house yoursel, that night."

"There was something like a plover cried twice i' the peat-ncuk, in at the
side o' Will's bed."

"A plover ! His presence be about us ! There was never a plover at this
time o' the year. And in the house too ! Ah, Mary, I'm feared and coucerncd
about that night's wark ! What thought ye it was that cried ?"

" I didna ken what it was, it cried just like a plover."

" Did the callans look as they were fear'd when they heard it?"

"Thev lookit gayan' queer."

210 THE ETTRtCK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

" What did they say ? "

" Ane cried, ' What is that?' an' another said, ' What can it mean ?' * Hout/
quo' Jamie Fletcher, 'it's just some bit stray bird that has lost itsel.' *I
dinna ken', quo' your Will, ' 1 dinna like it unco weei.' "

" Think ye, did nane o' the rest see any thing ? "

" I believe there was something seen."

" What was't ? " (in a half whisper with manifest alarm.)

"When W'ill gaed out to try if he could gang to the sheep, he met wi' a
great big rough dog, that had \-ery near worn him into a lin in the water."

My mother was now deeply affected, and after two or three smothered ex-
clamations, she fell a whispering ; the other followed her example, and shortly
after they rose and went out, leaving my friend and me very little wiser than
we were, for we had heard both these incidents before with little variation. I
accompanied Mary to I'hawhope, and met with my brother, who soon con-
vinced me of the falsehood and absurdity of the whole report ; but I was
gfrieved to find him so much cast down and distressed about it. None of them
durst well show their faces at either kirk or market for a whole year, and
more. The weather continuing fine, we two went together and perambulated
Eskdale moor, visiting the principal scenes of carnage among the flocks,
where we saw multitudes of men skinning and burying whole droves of sheep,
taking with them only the skins and tallow.

I shall now conclude this long account of the storm, and its consequences,
by an extract from a poet for whose works I always feel disposed to have a
great partiality ; and whoever reads the above will not doubt on what inci-
dent the description is founded, nor yet deem it greatly overcharged.

" Who was it reared these whelming waves ?
Who scalp'd the brows of old Cairn Gorm,
And scoop'd these ever-yawning caves ?
'Twas 1, the Spirit of the Storm !

He waved his sceptre north away,

The arctic ring was rift asunder ;
And through the heaven the startling bray

Burst louder than the loudest thunder.

The feathery clouds, condensed and furled.

In columns swept the quaking glen ;
Destruction down the dale was hurled,

O'er bleating flocks and wondering men.

The Grampians groan 'd beneath the storm ;

New mountains o'er the Correi lean'd ;
Ben Nevis shook his shaggy form,

And wonder'd what his Sovereign mean'd.

Even far on Yarrow's fairy dale,

The shepherd paused in dumb dismay ;
And cries of spirits in the gale

Lured many a pitying hind away.

The Lowthers felt the tyrant's wrath ;

Proud Hartfeil quaked beneath his brand;
And Cheviot heard the cries of death,

Guarding his loved Northumberland.

But O, as fell that fateful night,

What horrors Avin wilds deform.
And choke the ghastly lingering light !

There whirled the vortex of the storm.

Ere morn the wind grew deadly still,
And dawning in the air updrew

STORMS. 211

From many a shelve and shining hill,
Her folding robe of fairy blue.

Then what a smooth and wondrous scene
Hung o'er Loch Avin's lovely breast !

Not top of tallest pine was seen,

On which the dazzled eye could rest ;

But mitred cliff, and crested fell.
In lucid curls her brows adorn ;

Aloft the radiant crescents swell,
All pure as robes by angels worrt

Sound sleeps our seer, far from the day,
Beneath yon sleek and writhed cone ;

His spirit steals, unmiss'd, away,
And dreams across the desert lone.

Sound sleeps our seer ! — -the tempests rave.
And cold sheets o'er his bosom fling ;

The moldwarp digs his mossy grave ;
His requiem Avin eagles sing."
# ♦ * * *

■ A SHEPHERD'S WEDDING.

CHAPTER I.

Last autumn, while I was staying a few weeks with my friend Mr. Grumple,
minister of the extensive and celebrated parish of Wooletihorn, an incident
occurred which hath afforded me a great deal of amusement ; and, as I think
it may divert some readers, I shall, without further preface, begin the relation.

We had just finished a wearisome debate on the rights of teind, and the
claims which every clergyman of the Established Church of Scotland has for
a grass glebe ; the china cups were already arranged, and the savoury tea-pot
stood basking on the ledge of the grate, when the servant maid entered, and
told Mr. Grumple that there was one at the door who wanted him.

We immediately heard a debate in the passage — the parson pressing his
guest to C07ne ben^ which the other stoutly resisted, declaring aloud, that " it
was a' nonsense thegither, for he was eneuch to fley a' the grand folk out o'
the room, an' set the kivering o' the floor a-swoomin." The parlour door was
however thrown open, and, to my astonishment, the first guests who presented
themselves were two strong honest-looking coUeys, or shepherd's dogs, that
came bouncing and capering into the room, with a great deal of seeming satis-
faction. Their master was shortly after ushered in. He was a tall athletic
figure, with a black beard, and dark raven hair hanging over his brow ; wore
clouted shoes, shod with iron, and faced up with copper ; and there was alto-
gether something in his appearance the most homely and uncouth of any
exterior I had ever seen.

"This," said the minister, " is Peter Plash, a parishioner of mine, who has
brought me in an excellent salmon, and wants a good office at my hand, he says,
in return." — " The bit fish is naething, man," said Peter, sleeking down the
hair on his brow ; " 1 wish he had been better for your sake — but gin ye had
seen the sport that we had wi' him at Pool- Midnight, ye wad hae leughen till
ye had burstit." Here the shepherd observing his two dogs seated comfortably

S» THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

on the hearth-rug, and deeming it an instance of high presumption and very
bad manners, broke out with — " Ay, VVhitefoot, lad ! an' ye're for being a
gentleman too ! My certy, man, but ye're no blaie ! — I'm ill eneugh, to be
sure, to come into a grand room this way, but yet 1 wadna set up my impudent
nose an' my muckle rough brisket afore the lowe, an' tak a' the fire to mysel —
Get aff wi' ye, sir ! An you too, Trimmy, ye limmer ! what's your business
here?" — So saying, he attempted with the fringe of his plaid to drive them
out ; but they only ran about the room, eyeing their master with astonishment
and concern. They had never, it seemed, been wont to be separated from
him either by night or by day, and they could not understand why they should
be driven from the parlour, or how they had not as good a right to be there as
he. Of course, neither threats nor blows could make them leave him ; and it
being a scene of life quite new to me, and of which I was resolved to profit as
much as possible, at my intercession matters were made up, and the two canine
associates were suffered to remain where they were. They were soon seated,
one on each side of their master, clinging fondly to his feet, and licking the wet
from his dripping trowsers.

Having observed, that when the shepherd entered he had begun to speak
with great zest about the sport they had in killing the salmon, I again brought
on the subject, and made him describe the diversion to me. — " O man," said
he, and then indulged in a hearty laugh — {man was always the term he used
in addressing either of us — sir seemed to be no word in his vocabulary) — " O
man, 1 wish ye had been there ! I'll lay a plack ye wad hae said ye never
saw sic sport sin' ever ye war born. We gat twal fish a' thegither the-day,
an' sair broostles we had wi' some o' them ; but a' was naething to the killin'
o' that ane at I'ool-Midnight. Geordie Otterson, Matthew Ford, an' me, war
a' owr the lugs after him. But ye's hear : — When I cam on to the craigs at
the weil o' Pool-Midnight, the sun was shinin' bright, the wind was lowne, an'
wi' the pirl* being awa, the pool was as clear as crystal. I soon saw by the
bells coming up, that there was a fish in the auld hauld ; an' I keeks an' I
glimes about till, faith ! I sees his blue murt fin. My teeth war a' waterin to
be in him, but I kend the shank o' my waster t wasna half length. Sae I cries
to Geordie, ' Geordie,' says I, ' aigh man ! here's a great chap just lying steep-
ing like an aik clog.' Off comes Geordie, shaughle shaughlin wi' a' his pith;
for the creature's that greedy o' fish, he would venture his very saul for them.
1 kend brawly what would be the upshot. ' Now,' says I,' Geordie, man your-
sel for this ae time. Aigh, man ! he is a terrible ane for size— See yonder he's
lying.' The sun was shining sae clear that the deepness o' the pool was a
great cheat. Geordie bait his lip for perfect eagerness, an' his een war stelled
in his head — he thought he had him safe i' the pat ; but whenever he put the
grains o' the leister into the water, 1 could speak nae mair, 1 kend sae weel
what was comin, for I kend the depth to an inch. — Weel, he airches an' he
vizies for a good while, an' at length made a push down at him wi' his whole
might. Tut ! — the leister didna gang to the grund by an ell — an' Geordie gaed
into the deepest part o' Pool-Midnight wi' his head foremost ! My sennins
turned as supple as a dockan, an' I fell just down i' the bit wi' lauchin — ye
might hae bund me wi' a strae. He would hae drowned for aught that 1 could
do ; for when I saw his heels flinging up aboon the water as he had been
dancin a hornpipe, I lost a' power thegither ; but Matthew Ford harled him
into the shallow wi' his leister.

" Weel, after that we cloddit the pool wi' great stanes, an' aff went the fish
down the gullots, shinin' like a rainbow. Then he ran, an' he ran ! an' it was
wha to be first in him. Geordie gat the first chance, an' 1 thought it was a'
owr ; but just when he thought he was sure o' him, down cam Matthew full
drive, smashed his grains out through Geordie's, and gart him miss. It was
my chance next ; an' I took him neatly through the gills, though he gaed as
fast as a skell-drake.

'• But the sport grew aye better. — Geordie was sae mad at Matthcvf for
•Ripjjlc. t I'lbli-spcar,

A SHEPHERD'S WEDDING. 213

taigling him, an' garring him tine the fish (for he's a greedy dirt), that they
had gane to grips in a moment ; an' when I lookit back, they war just fightin'
hke twa terriers in the mids o' the water. The witters o' the twa leisters were
frankit in ane anither, an' they couldna get them sindry, else there had been
a vast 0' bludeshed ; but they were knevillin, an' trying to drown ane anither
a' that they could ; an' if they hadna been clean forelbughen they wad hae
done't ; for they were aye gaun out o' sight an' comin' howdin up again. Yet
after a', when I gaed back to redd them, they were sae inveterate that they
wadna part till I was forced to haud them down through the water an' drown
them baith."

" But I hope you have not indeed drowned the men," said I. " Ou na,
only keepit them down till I took the power fairly frae them— till the bullers
gaed owr coming up ; then I carried them to different sides o' the water, an'
laid them down agroof wi' their heads at the inwith ; and after gluthering and
spurring a wee while, they cam to again. We dinna count muckle of a bit
drowning match, us fishers. I wish 1 could get Geordie as weel doukit ilka
day ; it would tak' the smeddum frae him — for O ! he is a greedy thing !
But I fear it will be a while or I see sic glorious sport again."

Mr. Crumple remarked, that he thought, by his account, it could not be
very good sport to all parties ; and, that, though he always encouraged these
vigorous and healthful exercises among his parishioners, yet he regretted that
they could so seldom be concluded in perfect good humour.

" They're nae the waur o' a wee bit splore," said Peter ; "they wad turn unco
milk-an-water things, an' dee awa a' thegither wantin a broolzie. Ye might as
weel think to keep an ale-vat workin wantin' bann."

" But, Peter, I hope you have not been breaking the laws of the country by
your sport to-day ? "

" Na, troth hae we no, man — close-time disna come in till the day after the
morn ; but atwccn you an' me, close-time's nae ill time for us. It merely ties
up the grit folk's hands, an' thraws a' the sport into ours thegither. Na, na,
we's never complain o' close-time ; if it warna for it there wad few fish fa' to
poor folk's share."

This was a light in which I had never viewed the laws of the fishing
association before ; but as this honest hind spoke from experience, I have no
doubt that the statement is founded in truth, and that the sole effect of close-
time in all the branches of the principal river, is merely to tie up the hands of
every respectable man, and throw the fishing into the hands of poachers. He
told me, that in all the rivers of the extensive parish of Wooletihorn^ the fish
generally run up during one flood and went away the next ; and as the gentle-
men and farmers of those parts had no interest in the preservation of the
breeding salmon themselves, nor cared a farthing about the fishing associations
in the great river, whom they viewed as monopolizers of that to which they
had no right, the fish were wholly abandoned to the poachers, who generally
contrived, by burning lights at the shallows, and spearing the fish by night,
and netting the pools, to annihilate every shoal that came up. This is, how-
ever, a subject that would recjuire an essay by itself

Our conversation turned on various matters connected with the country ;
and I soon found, that though this hind had something in his manner and
address the most uncultivated I had ever seen, yet his conceptions of such
matters as came within the sphere of his knowledge were pertinent and just.
He sung old songs, told us strange stories of witches and apparitions, and
related many anecdotes of the pastoral life, which I think extremely curious,
and wholly unknown to the literary part of the community. ]5ut at every ob-
servation that he made, he took care to sleek down his black hair over
his brow, as if it were of the utmost consequence to his making a
respectable appearance, that it should be equally spread, and as close
pressed down as possible. When desired to join us in drinking tea, he said
'it was a' nonsense thegither, for he hadna the least occasion ;" and when
pressed to take bread, he persisted in the declaration that " it was a' great

214 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

nonsense." He loved to talk of sheep, of dogs, and of the lasses, as he called
them ; and conversed with his dogs in the same manner as he did with any
of the other guests ; nor did the former ever seem to misunderstand him, un-
less in his unprecedented and illiberal attempt to expel them from the company.
— "Whitefoot ! haud aff the woman's coat-tails, ye blockhead ! Deil hae me
gin ye hae the mense of a miller's horse, man." Whitefoot instantly obeyed.
— " Trimmy ! come back aff the fire, dame ! Ye're sae wat, ye raise a reek
like a cottar wife's lum — come back, ye limmer !" Trimmy went behind his
chair.

It came out at last that his business with Mr. Crumple that day was to
request of him to go over to Stridekirtoii on the Friday following, and unite
him, Peter Plash, in holy wedlock with his sweatheart and only joe, Jean
Windlestrae ; and he said, if I " would accompany the minister, and take
share of a haggis wi' them, I wad see some good lasses, and some good sport
too, which was far better." You may be sure I accepted of the invitation with
great cordiality, nor had I any cause to repent it.

CHAPTER II.
The wedding-day at length arrived ; and as the bridegroom had charged us
to be there at an early hour, we set out on horseback, immediately after break-
fast, for the remote hamlet of Stridekirton. We found no regular path, but
our way lay through a country which it is impossible to view without soothing
emotions. The streams are numerous, clear as crystal, and wind along the
glens in many fantastic and irregular curves. The mountains are green to
the tops, very high, and form many beautiful soft and shaded outlines. They
are, besides, literally speckled with snowy flocks, which, as we passed, were
feeding or resting with such appearance of undisturbed repose, that the heart
naturally found itself an involuntary sharer in the pastoral tranquillity that
pervaded all around.

My good friend, Mr. Crumple, could give me no information regarding the
names of the romantic glens and mountains that came within our view ; he,
however, knew who were the proprietors of the land, who the tenants, what
rent and stipend each of them paid, and whose teinds were unexhausted ; this
seemed to be the sum and substance of his knowledge concerning the life,
character, and manners, of his rural parishioners, save that he could some-
times adduce circumstantial evidence that such and such farmers had made
money of their land, and that others had made very little or none.

This district, over which he presides in an ecclesiastical capacity, forms an
extensive portion of the Arcadia of Britain. It was likewise, in some late ages,
noted for its zeal in the duties of religion, as well as for a thirst after the
acquirement of knowledge concerning its doctrines ; but under the tuition of
such a pastor as my relative appears to be, it is no wonder that practical
religion should be losing ground from year to year, and scepticism, the natural
consequence of laxity in religious duties, gaining ground in proportion.

It may be deemed, perhaps, rather indecorous to indulge in such reflections
respecting any individual who has the honour to be ranked as a member of a
body so generally respected as our Scottish Clergy, and who, at the same time,
maintains a fair worldly character ; but in a general discussion — in any thing
that relates to the common weal of mankind, all such inferior considerations
must be laid aside. And the more I consider the simplicity of the people of
whom I am now writing — the scenes among which they have been bred — and
their lonely and sequestered habits of life, where the workings and phenomena
of nature alone appear to attract the eye or engage the attention — the more
I am convinced that the temperament of their minds would naturally dispose
them to devotional feelings. If they were but taught to read their Bibles, and
only saw uniformly in the ministers of religion that sanctity of character by
which the profession ought ever to be distinguished, these people would
naturally be such as every well-wisher to the human race would desire a
scattered peasantry to be. But when the most decided variance between

A SHEPHERD'S WEDDING. 215

example and precept is forced on their observation, what should we, or what
can we, expect ? Men must see, hear, feel, and judge accordingly. And
certainly in no other instance is a patron so responsible to his sovereign, his
country, and his God, as in the choice he makes of spiritual pastors.

These were some of the reflections that occupied my mind as I traversed
this beautiful pastoral country with its morose teacher, and from these I was
at length happily aroused by the appearance of the cottage, or shepherd's
steading, to which we were bound. It was situated in a little valley in the
bottom of a wild glen, ox hope, as it is there called. It stood all alone ; but be-
sides the dwelling-house, there was a little byre that held the two cows and
their young, — a good stack of hay, another of peats, — a sheep- house, and two
homely gardens ; and the place had altogether something of a snug, comfort-
able appearance. Though this is only an individual picture, I am told it may
be viewed as a general one of almost every shepherd's dwelling in the south
of Scotland ; and it is only such pictures that, in the course of these tales, I
mean to present to the public.

A number of the young shepherds and country lasses had already arrived,
impatient for the approaching wedding; others were coming down the green
hills in mixed parties all around, leading one another, and skipping with the
agility of lambs. They were all walking barefooted and barelegged, male
and female ; the men were dressed much in the ordinary way, only that the
texture of their clothes was somewhat coarse, and the women had black
beavers, white gowns, and "green coats kilted to the knee." When they
came near the house they went into little sequestered hollows, the men and
women apart, " pat on their hose an' shoon, and made themsels a' trig an'
witching," and then came and joined the group with a joy that could not be
restrained by walking, — they ran to mix with their youthful associates.

Still as they arrived, we saw on our approach, that they drew up in two
rows on the green, and soon found that it was a contest at leaping. The
shepherds were stripped to the shirt and drawers, and exerting themselves in
turn with all their might, while their sweethearts and sisters were looking on
with no small share of interest.

We received a kind and hospitable welcome from honest Peter and his
father, who was a sagacious-looking old carle, with a broad bonnet and grey
locks ; but the contest on the green still continuing, I went and joined the
circle, delighted to see a pastime so appropriate to the shepherd's life. I was
utterly astonished at the agility which the fellows displayed.

They took a short race of about twelve or fourteen paces, which they denom-
inated the ramrace, and then rose from the footing-place with such a bound
as if they had been going to mount and fly into the air. The crooked guise
in which they flew showed great art — the knees were doubled upward — the
body bent forward — and the head thrown somewhat back ; so that they
alighted on their heels with the greatest ease and safety, their joints being
loosened in such a manner that not one of them was straight. If they fell
backward on the ground, the leap was not accounted fair. Several of the
antagonists took the ramrace with a staff in their hands which they left at the
footing-place as they rose. This I thought unfair, but none of their oppon-
ents objected to the custom. I measured the distance, and found that two of
them had actually leapt twenty-two feet, on a level plain, at one bound. This
may appear extraordinary to those who never witnessed such an e.xercise, but
it is a fact of which I can adduce sulficient proof

Being delighted as well as astonished at seeing these feats of agility, I took
Peter aside, and asked him if I might offer prizes for some other exercises.
" Hout na," said Peter; "ye'll affront them; let them just alane ; they hae
eneuch o' incitement e'now, an' rather owre muckle atween you an' me ; for-
bye the brag o' the thing — as lang as the lasses stand and look at them, they'll
ply atween death and life." What Peter said was true, — instead of getting
weary of their sports, their ardour seemed to increase ; and always as soon as
the superiority of any individual in one particular exercise was manifest, an-

2i6 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

other was instantly resorted to ; so that ere long there was one party engaged
in wrestling, one in throwing the stone, and another at hop-step-and-leap, all
at one and the same time.

This last seems to be rather the favourite amusement. It consists of three
succeeding bounds, all with the same race ; and as the exertion is greater, and
of longer continuance, they can judge with more precision the exact capability
of the several com])Ctitors. I measured the ground, and found the greatest
distance eft'ectcd in this way to be forty-six feet. 1 am informed, that when-
ever two or three young shepherds are gathered together, at fold or bucht,
moor or market, at all times and seasons, Sundays excepted, one or more of
these athletic exercises is uniformly resorted to ; and certainly, in a class
where hardiness and agility are so requisite, they can never be too much
encouraged.

But now all these favourite sports were terminated at once by a loud cry of
" Hurrah ! the broose ! the broose !" Not knowing what the broose meant, I
looked all around with great precipitation, but for some time I could see
nothing but hills. At length, however, by marking the direction In which the
rest looked, I perceived, at a considerable distance down the glen, five horse-
men coming at full speed on a determined race, although on such a road, as I
believe, a race was never before contested. It was that by which we had
lately come, and the only one that led to the house from all the four quarters
of the world. For some time it crossed " the crooks of the burn," as they
called them ; that is, it kept straight up the bottom of the glen, and crossed
the burn at every turning. Of course every time that the group crossed this
stream, they were for a moment involved in a cloud of spray that almost hid
them from view, and the frequent recurrence of this rendered the effect highly
comic.

Still, however, they kept apparently close together, till at length the path
left the bottom of the narrow valley, and came round the sloping base of a hill
that was all interspersed with drains and small irregularities of surface ; this
producing no abatement of exertion or speed, horses and men were soon
tloundering, plunging, and tumbling about in all directions. If this was
amusing to view, it was still more so to hear the observations of the delighted
group that stood round me and beheld it. " Ha, ha, ha ! yonder's ane aff !
Gude faith ! yon's Jock o' the Meer- Clench ; he has gotten an ill-faur'd flaip.
— Holloa ! yonder gaes anither, down through a lair to the een-holes ! Weel
done, Aedie o' Aberlosk ! Hie till him, Tousy, outher now or never! Lay
on, ye deevil, an' hing by the mane ! Hurrah ! "

The women were by this time screaming, and the men literally jumping
and clapping their hands for joy at the deray that was going on ; and there
was one little elderly-looking man whom I could not help noting ; he had
fallen down on the ground in a convulsion of laughter, and was spurring and
laying on with both hands and feet. One, whom they denominated Davie
Scott o' the Ramsey-cleuch burn, amid the bay of dogs, and the shouts of men
and women, got first to the bridegroom's door, and of course was acknow-
ledged to have won the broose j but the attention was soon wholly turned
from him to those behind. The man whose horse had sunk in the bog, per-
ceiving that all chance of extricating it again on the instant was out of the
question, lost not a moment, but sprung to his feet — threw off his coat, hat,
and shoes, all at one brush — and ran towards the goal with all his might.
Jock o' the Meer-Cleuch, who was still a good way farther back, and crippled
besides with his fall, perceiving this, mounted again — whipped on furiously,
and would soon have ovcrhicd his pedestrian adversary ; but the shepherds
are bad horsemen, and, moreover, Jock's horse, which belonged to Gideon of
Kirkhope, was unacquainted with the sheep-drains, and terrified at theni :
consequently, by making a sudden jerk backwards when he should have leapt
across one of them, and when Jock supposed that he was just going to do so, he
threw his rider a second time. The shouts of laughter were again renewed,
^nd every one was calling out, "Now for the mell ! Now for the mell ! Deil

A SHEPHERD'S WEDDING. 217

talc the hindmost now! " These sounds reached Jock's ears ; he lost no time
in making a last effort, but flew at his horse aj^^ain — remounted him — and, by
urging him to a desperate effort, actually got ahead of his adversary just when
within ten yaids of the door, and tiius escaped the disgrace of •winning the
mell.

I was afterwards told, that in former ages it was the custom on the border,
when the victor in the race was presented with the prize of honour, the one
who came in last was, at the same time, presented with a mallet or large
wooden hammer, called a rnell in the dialect of the country, and that then
the rest of the competitors stood in need to be near at hand, and instantly to
force the mell from him, else he was at liberty to knock as many of them
down with it as he could. The mell has now, for many years, been only a
nominal prize ; but there is often more sport about the gaining of it than the
principal one. There was another occurrence which added greatly to the
animation of this, which I had not time before fully to relate. About tlie
time when the two unfortunate wights were unhorsed in the bog, those who
still kept on were met and attacked, open mouth, by at least twenty frolic-
some collies, that seemed fully as intent on sport as their masters. These
bit the hind-legs of the horses, snapped at their noses, and raised such an
outrage of barking, that the poor animals, forespent as they were, were
constrained to lay themselves out almost beyond power. Nor did the fray
cease when the race was won. Encouraged by the noise and clamour which
then arose about the gaining of the mell, the staunch collies continued the
attack, and hunted the racers round and round the houses with great speed,
while the horses were all the time wheeling and flinging most furiously, and
their riders, in desperation, vociferating and cursing their assailants.

All the guests now crowded together, and much humour and blunt wit
passed about the gaining of the broose. Each of the competitors had his
difficulties and cross accidents to relate ; and each affirmed, that if it had not
been such and such hindrances, he would have gained the broose to a
certainty. Davie Scott o' the Ramsey-cleuch-burn, however, assured them,
that " he was aye hauding in his yaud wi' the left hand, and gin he had liket
to gie her out her head, she wad hae gallopit amaist a third faster." " That
may be," said Aedie o' Aberlosk, " but I hae come better on than I expectit
wi' my Cameronian naig. I never saw him streek himsel sae afore — I dare
say he thought that Davie was auld Clavers mountit on Hornie. Poor
fallow ! " continued he, patting him, " he has a good deal o' anti-prelatic
dourness in him ; but I see he has some spirit, for a' that. I bought him for
a powney, but he's turned out a beast."

I next overheard one proposing to the man who left his horse, and exerted
himself so manfully on foot, to go and pull his horse out of the quagmire.
" Na, na," said he, " let him stick yonder a while, to learn him mair sense
than to gang intill an open well-ee and gar ane get a mell. I saw the gate as
I was gawn, but I couldna swee him aff ; sae 1 just thought o' Jenny Blythe,
and plunged in. I kend weel something was to happen, for I met her first
this morning, the ill-hued carlin : but I had need to baud my tongue ! —
Gudeman, let us see a drap whisky." He was presented with a glass.
" Come, here's Jenny Blythe," said Andrew, and drank it off. — " 1 wad be nae
the waur o' a wee drap too," said Aberlosk, taking a glass of whisky in his
hand, and looking steadfastly through it. " I think I see Jock the elder
here," said he ; "ay, it's just him— come, here's tlie five kirks 0' EskdaU"
He drank it off. " Gudeman, that's naething but a Ta))i-Park of a glass ; if
ye'll fill it again, I'll gie a toast ye never heard afore. This is Bailey's
Dictionary ^^ said Aedie, and drank it off again. — " But when a' your daffin's
owre, Aedie," said John, "what hae ye made o' your young friend.'"' — " Ou !
she's safe eneuch," returned he ; " the best-man and John the elder are wi'
her."

On looking round the corner of the house, we now perceived tliat the bride
and her two attendants were close at hand. They came at a quick canter.

2i8 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

She managed her horse well, kept her saddle with great ease, and seemed an
elegant sprightly girl, of twenty-four or thereabouts. Every cap was instantly
waved in the air, and the bride was saluted with three hearty cheers. Old
John, well aware of what it behoved him to do, threw off his broad bonnet,
and took the bride respectfully from her horse — kissed and welcomed her
home. " Ve're welcome hame till us, Jeany, my bonny woman," said he ;
*' may God bless ye, an' mak ye just as good an' as happy as 1 wish ye." It
was a beautiful and affecting sight to see him leading her toward the home
that was now to be her own. He held her hand in both his— the wind waved
his long gray locks — his features were lengthened considerably the wrong
way, and 1 could perceive a tear glistening on his furrowed cheek.

AH seemed to know exactly the parts they had to act ; but everything came
on me like magic, and quite by surprise. The bride now stopped short on
the threshokl, while the old man broke a triangular cake of short-bread over
her head, the pieces of which he threw about among the young people.
These scrambled for them with great violence and eagerness ; and indeed
they seemed always to be most in their element when anything that required
strength or activity was presented. For my part, I could not comprehend
what the sudden convulsion meant (for in a moment the crowd was moving
like a whirlpool, and tumbling over one another in half dozens), till a little
girl, escaping from the vortex, informed me that "they war battling wha first
to get a baud o' the bride's bunn." I was still in the dark, till at length I
saw the successful candidates presenting their favourites with small pieces of
this mystical cake. One beautiful maid, with light locks, blue eyes, and
cheeks like the vernal rose, came nimbly up to me, called me familiarly by my
name, looked at me with perfect seriousness, and without even a smile on her
innocent face, asked me if I was tuarn'fd. I could scarcely contain my
gravity, while 1 took her by the hand, and answered in the negative. — "An'
hae ye no gotten a piece o' the bride's cake ?" — " Indeed, my dear, I am sorry
I have not." — " O, that's a great shame, that ye hae no gotten a wee bit ! I
canna bide to see a stranger guided that gate. Here, sir, I'll gie ye the tae
half o' mine, it will ser' us baith ; and I wad rather want mysel than sae civil
a gentleman that's a stranger should want."

So saying, she took a small piece of cake from her lap, and parted it with
me, at the same time rolling each of the pieces carefully up in a leaf of an old
halfpenny ballad ; but the whole of her demeanour showed the utmost seri-
ousness, and of how much import she judged this trivial crumb to be.
" Now," continued she, " ye maun lay this aneath your head, sir, when ye
gang to your bed, and ye'U dream about the woman you are to get for your
wife. Ye'U just think ye see her plainly an' bodily afore your een ; an' ye'U
be sae weel acquainted wi' her, that ye'U ken her again when ye see her, if it
war among a thousand. It's a queer thing, but it's perfectly true; sae ye
maun mittd no to forget."

I promised the most punctual observance of all that she enjoined, and
added, that I was sure I would dream of the lovely giver ; that indeed I would
be sorry were I to dream of any other, as I deemed it impossible to dream of
so much innocence and beauty. " Noiu viind no to forget" rejoined she, and
skipped lightly away to join her youthful associates.

As soon as the bride was led into the house, Old Nelly, the bridegroom's
mother, went aside to see the beast on which her daughter-in-law had been
brought home ; and perceiving that it was a mare, she fell a-crying and
wringing her hands. — I inquired, with some alarm, what was the matter, "O
dear sir,'' returned she, " it's for the poor bairnies that'll yet hae to dree this
unlucky mischance — Laike-a-day, poor wacfu' brats ! they'll no lie in a dry
bed for a dozen o' years to come ! "

" Hout ! haud your tongue, Nelly," said the best man, "the thing's but a
freak a' thegither. But really we couldna help it ; the factor's naig wantit a
fore-fit shoe, an' was beckin like a water-craw. If I had ridden five miles to
the smiddy wi' him, it is ten to anc but Jock Anderson wad hae been drunk,

A SHEPHERD'S WEDDING. 219

an' then we wadna hae gotten the bride hame afore twall o'clock at night; sae
I thought it was better to let them tak their chance than spoil sae muckle
good sport, an' I e'en set her on Wattie Bryden's pownie. The factor has be-
haved very ill about it, the muckle stoottin gowk ! If I had durst, 1 wad hae
gien him a deevil of a thrashin ; but he says, * Faith its — that — yes, indeed^
that — he will send them — yes, faith — it's even a — a new tikabed ever year.' "

CHAPTER III.
As soon as the marriage ceremony was over, all the company shook hands
with the young couple, and wished them every kind of joy and felicity. The
rusticity of their benisons amused me, and there were several of them that I have
never, to this day, been able to comprehend. As, for instance — one wished
them " thumpin luck and fat weans ; " another, " a bien rannlebauks, and
tight thack and rape o'er their heads ; " a third gave them " a routh aumrie
and a close neive ; " and the lasses wished them " as mony hiney moons as
the family had fingers an' taes." I took notes of these at the time, and many
more, and set them down precisely as they w^ere spoken ; all of them have
doubtless meanings attached to them, but these are perhaps the least
mystical,

" 1 expected, now, that we should go quietly to our dinner ; but instead of
that, they again rushed rapidly away towards the green, crying out, " Now for
the broose ! now for the broose ! " — " The people are unquestionably mad," said
I to one that stood beside me ; " are they really going to run their horses again
among such ravines and bogs as these .'' they must be dissuaded from it." The
man informed me that the race was now to be on foot ; that there were always
two races — the first on horseback for the bride's napkin, and the second on foot
for the bridegroom's spurs. I asked him how it came that they had thus
altered the order of things in the appropriation of the prizes, for that the spurs
would be the fittest for the riders, as the napkin would for the runners. He
admitted this, but could adduce no reason why it was otherwise, save that " it
was the gude auld gate, and it would be a pity to alter it." He likewise informed
me, that it was customary for some to run on the bride's part, and some on
the bridegroom's ; and that it was looked on as a great honour to the country
or connexions of either party, to bear the broose away from the other. Ac-
cordingly, on our way to the race-ground, the bridegroom was recruiting hard
for runners on his part, and, by the time we reached the starting-place, had
gained the consent of five. One now asked the best mati why he was not re-
cruiting in behalf of the bride. " Never mind," said he ; "do ye strip an mak
ready — 111 find them on the bride's part that will do a' the turn." It was instantly
rumoured around, that he had brought one all the way from Liddesdale to
carry the prize away on the bride's part, and that he was the best runner on
all the Border side. The runners, that were all so brisk of late, were now
struck dumb ; and I marked them going one by one, eyeing the stranger with
a jealous curiosity, and measuring him with their eyes from head to foot. — No,
not one of them would venture to take the field against him ! — they war only
jokin' — they never intendit to rin — they war just jaunderin wi' the bridegroom
for fun." — "Come, fling aff your claes, Hobby, an' let them see that ye're
ready for them," said the best-man. The stranger obeyed — he was a tall,
slender, and handsome youth, with brown hair, prominent features and a
ruddy complexion. — " Come lads," said the best-man, " Hobby carina stand
wanting his claes; if nane of ye are ready to start with him in twa minutes, he
shall rin the course himsel, and then I think the folk o' this country are
shamed for ever." — " No sae fast," said a little fanny-looking fellow, who
instantly began to strip off his stockings and shoes ; " no sae fast, lad ; he
may won, but he sanna won untried." A committee was instantly formed
apart, where it was soon agreed that all the good runners there slioiikl, with
one accord, start against this stranger ; for that, " if naebody ran but Tarn the
tailor, they wad be a' shamed thcgither, for Tam would never come within a
stane-dod o' him." — " Hout, ay— that's something like yoursels, callants," said

220 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

old John ; " try him— he's but a saft feckless-hke chiel ; I think ye needna be
sae feared for him." — " It's a' ye ken," said another ; " do nae ye see that
he's hngit like a j^rew — and he'll rin like ane ; — ihey say he rins faster than a
horse can gallop." — " I'll try him on my Cameronian whenever he likes," said
Aberlosk ; " him that beats a Cameronian has but anotlier to beat."

In half a minute after this, seven athletic youths were standing in a row
stripped, and panting for the race ; and I could note, by the paleness of their
faces, how anxious they were about the result — all save Aedie o' Aberlosk, on
whom the whisky had made some impression, and who seemed only intent on
making fun. At the distance of 500 yards there was a man placed, whom
they denominated the stoop, :yr\(\ who had his hat raised on the end of his staff,
lest another might be mistaken for him. Around tiiis stoop they were to run,
and return to the starting-place, making in all a heat of only 1000 yards,
which I was told is the customary length of a race all over that country. They
took all hold of one another's hands — the best-man adjusted the line in which
they stood, and then gave the words as follows, with considerable pauses
between : Once — Twice — Thrice, — and off they flew like lightning, in the
most beautiful style I ever beheld. The ground was rough and unequal, but
there was no restraint or management practised ; every one set out on full
speed from tlie very first. The Borderer took the lead, and had soon dis-
tanced them a considerable space — all save Aberlosk, who kept close at his
side, straining and twisting his face in a most tremendous manner : at length
he got rather before him, but it was an overstretch — Aedie fell flat on his face,
nor did he offer to rise, but lay still on the spot, puffing and swearing against
the champion of Liddcsdale.

Hobby cleared the stoop first by about twenty yards ; — the rest turned in
such a group that I could not discern in what order, but they were all
obliged to turn it to the right, or what they called " sun-ways-about," on pain
of losing the race. The generality of the " weddingers " %vere now quite silent,
and looked very blank when they saw the stranger still keeping so far ahead.
Aberlosk tried to make them all fall one by one, by creeping in before them
as they passed ; and at length laid hold of the hindmost by the foot, and
brought him down.

By this time two of the Borderer's acquaintances had run down the green to
meet him, and encourage him on. " Weel done, Hobby !" they were shout-
ing : " Weel done, Hobby ! — Liddesdale for ever ! — Let them lick at that ! —
Let the bcnty-necks crack now ! — Weel done ! Hobby ! " — I really felt as much
interested about the issue, at this time, as it was possible for any of the ad-
verse parties to be. The enthusiasm seemed contagious ; for though I knew
not one side from the other, yet was I running amang the rest, and shouting
as they did. A sort of half-animated murmur now began to spread, and
gained ground every moment. A little gruff Cossack-looking peasant came
running near with a peculiar wildness in his looks, and accosted one of the
men that were cheering Hobby. " Dinna be just sae loud an' ye like, Willie
Beattie ; dinna mak nae mair din than just what's ncedfu'. Will o' Bellen-
dine ! baud till him, sir, or it's day wi' us ! Hie, Will, if ever ye ran i' your
life ! — By Jehu, sir, ye're winning every third step ! — He has him dead! he has
him dead! " The murmur which had increased like the rushing of many
waters, now terminated in a frantic shout. Hobby had strained too hard at
first, in order to turn the stoop before Aberlosk, who never intended turning
it at all — the other youth was indeed fast gaining on him, and I saw his lips
growing pale, and his knees plaiting as if unable to bear his weight— his
breath was quite exhausted, and though within twenty yards of the stoop.
Will began to shoulder bye him. So anxious was Hobby now to keep his
ground, that his body pressed onward faster than his feet could keep up with
it, and his face, in consequence, came deliberately against the earth. — he
could not be said to fall, for he just ran on till he could get no farther for
something that stopped him. " Will o' Bcllcndine won the broose amid
clamours of applause, which he seemed fully to appreciate— the rest were over

A SHEPHERD'S WEDDING. 221

Hobby in a moment ; and if it had not been for the wayward freaks of
Aberlosk, this redoubted champion would fairly have won the mell.

The lad that Aedie overthrew, in the midst of his career, was very angry
with him on account of the outrage — but Aedie cared for no man's anger.
" The man's mad," said he ; " wad ye attempt to strive wi' the champion of
Liddesdale? — Hout, tout ! haud your tongue ; ye're muckle better as ye are.
I sail take the half o' the mell wi' ye."

On our return to the house, I was anxious to learn something of Aedie, who
seemed to be a very singular character. Upon applying to a farmer of his
acquaintance, I was told a number of curious and extravagant stories of him,
one or two of which I shall insert here, as 1 profess to be giving anecdotes of
the country life.

He once quarrelled with another farmer on the highway, who, getting into
a furious rage, rode at Aedie to knock him down. Aedie, who was on foot,
fled with all his might to the top of a large dunghill for shelter, where, getting
hold of a graip (a three-pronged fork used in agriculture), he attacked his ad-
versary with such an overflow of dung, that his horse took fright, and in spite
of all he could do, ran clear off with him, and left Aedie master of the field.
The farmer, in high wrath, sent him a challenge to tight with pistols, in a
place called Selkith Hope, early in the morning. This is an extremely wild,
steep, and narrow glen. Aedie attended, but kept high up on the hill ; and
when his enemy reached the narrowest part of the Hope, began the attack
by rolling great stones at him down from the mountain. Notliing could be more
appalling than this — the farmer and his horse were both alike terrified, and,
as Aedie expressed it, "he set them baith back the gait they cam, as their
heads had been a-lowe."

Another time, in that same Hope of Selkith, he met a stranger, whom he
mistook for another man called Jamie Sword ; and because the man denied
that he was Jamie Sword, Aedie fastened a quarrel on him, insisted on him
either being Jamie Sword, or giving some proofs to the contrary. It was very
impudent in him, he said, to give any man the lie, when he could produce no
evidence of his being wrong. The man gave him his word that he was
not Jamie Sword. '" O, but that's naething," said Aedie, " I give you my
word that you are, and I think my word's as good as yours ony day."
Finally, he told the man that if he would not acknowledge that he was
wrong, and confessed that he was Jamie Sword, he would fight him. — He did
so, and got himself severely thrashed.

The following is a copy of a letter, written by Aedie to a great personage,
dated Aberlosk, May 27th, 1806.*

" To George the Thiid, London.

*' Dear Sir, — I went thirty miles on foot yesterday to pay your taxes, and
after all, the bodies would not take them, saying that I was too late, and that
they must now be recovered, with expenses, by regular course of law. I
thought if your Majesty was like me, money would never come wrong to you,
although it were a few days too late ; so I enclose you £2j in notes, and
half-a-guinea, which is the amount of what they charge me for last year, and
fourpence half-penny over. You must send me a receipt when the coach
comes back, else they will not believe that I have paid you.

" Direct to the care of Andrew Wilson, butcher in Hawick.

" I am, dear Sir, your most humble servant, A*** B***. To the King.

" P.S. — This way of taxing the farmers will never do ; you will see the
upshot."

It has been reported over all that country, that this letter reached its
destination, and that a receipt was returned in due course of post ; but the

• Should the reader imapine that this curious epistle is a mere coinage of my own, I c.in
assure him, from undoubted authority, that Liolh Acdic and his letter arc faiihlul iranscripu
from real and cxiitiii^ originals.

222 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

truth is (and, for the joke's sake, it is a great pity it should have been so), that
the singularity of the address caused some friends to open the letter, and
return it, with the money, to the owner ; but not before they had taken a copy
of it, from which the above is exactly transcribed.

COUNTRY DREAMS AND
APPARITIONS.

No. I.— THE WIFE OF LOCHMABEN.

Not many years ago there lived in the ancient royal borough of Lochmaben,
an amiable and good Christian woman, the wife of a blacksmith, named
James Neil, whose death gave rise to a singularly romantic story, and finally
to a criminal trial at the Circuit Court of Dumfries. The story was related
to me by a strolling gipsy of the town of Lochmaben, pretty nearly as
follows : —

The smith's wife had been for several years in a state of great bodily
suft'ering and debility, which she bore with all resignation, and even cheerful-
ness, although during the period of her illness she had been utterly neglected by
her husband, who was of a loose, prolligate character, and in everything the
reverse of his wife. Her hours were, however, greatly cheered by the com-
pany of a neighbouring widow, of the same devout and religious cast of mind
with herself These two spent most of their time together, taking great
delight in each other's society. The widow attended to all her friend's little
wants, and often watched by her bed a good part of the night, reading to her
out of the Bible and other religious books, and giving every instance of disin-
terested kindness and attention.

The gallant blacksmith was all this while consoling himself in the company
of another jolly buxom quean, of the tinker breed, who lived in an apartment
under the same roof with him and his spouse. He seldom visited the latter ;
but on pretence of not disturbing her, both boarded and lodged with his
swarthy Egyptian. Nevertheless, whenever the two devout friends said their
evening prayers, the blacksmith was not forgotten, but every blessing besought
to rest on his head.

One morning, when the widow came in about the usual hour, to visit her
friend, she found to her utter astonishment, that she was gone, though she
had been very ill the preceding night. The bed-clothes were cold, the fire on
the hearth was gone, and a part of her daily wearing apparel was lying at the
bed side as usual.

She instantly ran and informed the smith. But he hated this widow and
answered her churlishly, without deigning to look up to her, or so much as
delaying his work for a moment to listen to her narrative. There he stood,
with his sleeves rolled up to his shoulders, pelting away at his hot iron, and
bidding his informant " gang to the devil, for an auld frazing hypocritical
jade ; an' if she didna find her praying snivelling crony there, to seek her
where she saw her last — If she didna ken where she was, how was he to
ken .? "

The widow alarmed the neighbours, and a general search was instantly set
on foot ; but before that tiine, the body of the lost woman had been discovered
floating in the middle of the Loch adjoining the town. Few people paid any
attention to the unfortunate circumstance. They knew or believed, that the
woman lived unhappily and in bad terms with her husband, and had no doubt

THE WIFE OF LOCHMABEN. 2i3

that she had drowned herself in a fit of despair ; and impressed with all the
horror that countr)' people naturally have of suicide, they refused her the
rights of Christian burial. The body was, in consequence, early next morn-
ing tied between two deals, and carried out to the height, several miles to the
westward of the town, where it was consigned to a dishonourable grave ;
being deep buried precisely in the march, or boundary, between the lands of
two different proprietors.

Time passed away, and the gossips of Lochmaben were very free both with
the character of the deceased and her surviving husband, not forgetting his
jolly Egyptian. The more profligate part of the inhabitants said, " they never
saw ony good come o' sae muckle canting an' praying, an' singing o' psalms ;
an' that for a' the wife's high pretensions to religious zeal, an' faith, an' hope,
an' a' the lave o't, she had gien hersel up to the deil at ae smack." But the
more serious part of the community only shook their heads, and said, " alas,
it was hard kenning fouk frae outward appearances ; for nane wha kend that
wife wad hae expectit sic an end as this ! "

But the state of the widow s mind after this horrible catastrophe is not to
be described. Her confidence in the mercy of Heaven was shaken ; and she
began to doubt of its justice. Her faith was stunned, and she felt her heart
bewildered in its researches after truth. For several days she was so har-
dened, that she durst not fall on her knees before the footstool of divine grace.
But after casting all about, and finding no other hold or anchor, she again
one evening, in full bitterness of heart, kneeled before her Maker, and poured
out her spirit in prayer ; begging, that if the tenets she held, were tenets of
error, and disapproved of by the Fountain of life, she might be forgiven, and
directed in the true path to Heaven.

When she had finished, she sat down on her lowly form, leaned her face
upon both her hands, and wept bitterly as she thought on the dismal exit of
her beloved friend, with whom she had last prayed. As she sat thus, she
heard the footsteps of one approaching her, and looking up, she beheld her
friend whom she supposed to have been dead and buried, standing on the
floor, and looking to her with a face of so much mildness and benignity, that
the widow, instead of being terrified, was rejoiced to see her. The following
dialogue then passed between them, as nearly as I could gather it from the
confused narrative of a strolling gipsy, who however knew all the parties.

" God of mercy preserve us, Man,-, is that you .'' Where have you been ?
We thought it had been you that was found drowned in the Loch."

"And who did you think drowned me.^"

" We thought you had drowned yourself."

" Oh, fie ! how could _>'<?« do me so much injustice ? Would that have been
aught in conformity to the life we two have led together, and the sweet
heavenly conversation we maintained.'"

" What could we say t Or what could we think .' The best are sometimes
left to themselves. But where have you been, Mary?"

" I have been on a journey at a strange place. But you do not know it, my
dear friend. You know only the first stage at which 1 rested in my way, and
a cold damp lodging it is. It was at a place called the Crane Moor."

" Heaven defend us ! That was the name of the place where they buried
the body that was found in the Loch. Tell me implicitly, Mary, were you
not dead t "

" How can you ask such a question ? Do you not see me alive, and well,
and cheerful, and happy ? "

" 1 know and believe that the soul can never die ; but strange realities come
over my mind. Tell me, was it not your body that was found floating in the
Loch, and buried in shame and disgrace on the top of the Crane Moor."

" You have so far judged right ; but I am raised from the dead, as you see,
and restored to life, and it is all for your sake ; for tlie faith of the just must
not perish. How could jfou believe that I would tlirow away my precious
soul, by taking away my own life? My husband felled me witli a bottle on

224 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

the back pari of the head, breaking my skull. He then put my body into a
sack, carried it out in the dark, and threw it into the Loch. It was a deed of
atrocity and guilt, but he will live to repent it, and it has proved a deed of
mercy to me. I am well, and happy ; and all that we believed of a Saviour
and a future state of existence is true."

On receiving this extraordinary information, and precisely at this part of
the dialogue, the widow faintctl ; and, on recovering from her swoon, she
found that her friend was gone ; but, conscious of having been in her perfect
senses, and remembering everything that had passed between them, she was
convinced that she had seen and conversed with her deceased friend's ghost,
or some good benevolent spirit in her likeness.

Accordingly, the next morning, she went to a magistrate, and informed him
of the circumstances ; but he only laughed her to scorn, and entreated her,
for her own sake, never again to mention the matter, else people would
account her mad. She offered to make oath before witnesses, to the truth of
every particular ; but this only increased the chagrin of the man in office, and
the worthy widow was dismissed with many bitter reproaches. She next
went to the minister, and informed him of what she had seen and heard. He
answered her kindly, and with caution ; but ultimately strove only to reason
her from her belief; assuring her, that it was the effect of a distempered
imagination, and occasioned by reflecting too deeply on the unfortunate
end of her beloved friend; and his reasoning being too powerful for her to
answer, she was obliged to give up the point.

She failed not, however, to publish the matter among her neighbours, relat-
ing the circumstances in that firm serious manner in which a person always
stands to the truth, thereby making an impression on the minds of every one
who heard her. The story was of a nature to take, among such a society as
that of which the main bulk of the population of Lochmaben and its vicinity
consists. It flew like wild-fire. The people blamed their magistrates and
ministers ; and on the third day after the appearance of the deceased, they
rose in a body, and with two ministers, two magistrates, and two surgeons at
their head, they marched away to the Crane-moor, and lifted the corpse for
inspection.

To the astonishment of all present, it appeared on the very first examina-
tion, that the deceased had been felled by a stroke on the back part of the
head, which had broken her skull, and occasioned instant death. Little cog-
nizance had been taken of the affair at her death ; but, at any rate, her long
hair was folded so carefully over the wound, and bound with a snood so
close to her head, that without a minute investigation, the fracture could not
have been discovered. Farther still, in confirmation of the words of the
apparition, on the surgeons' opening the head, it appeared plainly from the
semi-circular form of the fracture, that it had actually been inflicted by one
side of the bottom of a bottle ; and there being hundreds of respectable wit-
nesses to all these things, the body was forthwith carried to the churchyard,
and interred there ; the smith was seized, and conveyed to jail ; and the
inhabitants of Annandale were left to wonder in the utmost astonishment.

The smith was tried at the ensuing Circuit-court of Dumfries, where the
widow was examined as a principal witness. She told her story before the
judges with firmness, and swore to every circumstance communicated to her
by the ghost ; and even when cross-examined by the prisoner's counsel, she
was not found to prevaricate in the least. The jury appeared to be staggered,
and could not refuse their assent to the truth of this relation. The prisoner's
counsel, however, obviated this proof, on account of its being related at
second hand, and not by an eye-witness of the transaction. He tlierefore
refused to admit it against his client, unless the ghost appeared personally,
and made a verbal accusation ; and, being a gentleman of a sarcastic turn,
he was but too successful in turning this part of the evidence into ridicule,
tliereby quite, or in a great measure, undoing the effect that it had made on
the minds of the jury.

THE WIFE OF LOCHMABEN. 225

A material witness being still wanting, the smith was remanded back to
prison until the Autumn circuit, at which time his trial was concluded. The
witness above mentioned having then been found, he stated to the court,
That as he chanced to pass the prisonei-'s door, between one and two in the
morning of that day on which the deceased was luund in the loch, he heard a
noise as of one forcing his way out ; and, wondering who it could be that was
in the house at that hour, he had the curiosity to conceal himself in an adjoin-
ing door, until he saw who came out : That the night being very dark, he
was obliged to cower down almost close to the earth, in order that he might
have the object between him and the sky ; and, while sitting in that posture,
he saw a man come out of the smith's house, with something in a sack upon
his back : That he followed the figure for some time, and intended to have
followed farther ; but he was seized with an indescribable terror, and went
away home ; and that, on the morning, when he heard of the dead body being
found in the loch, he entertained not a doubt of the smith having murdered
his wife, and then conveyed her in a sack to the loch. On being asked, If
he could aver upon oath, that it was the prisoner whom he saw coming out of
the house bearing the burden — He said he could not, because the burden
which he carried, caused the person to stoop, and prevented him from seeing
his figure distinctly ; but, that it was him, he had no doubt remaining on his
mind. On being asked why he had not divulged this sooner and more
publicly ; he said, that he was afraid the business in which he was engaged
that night might have been inquired into, which it was of great consequence
to him at that time to keep secret ; and, therefore, he was not only obliged
to conceal what he had seen, but to escape for a season out of the way, for
fear of being examined-

The crime of the prisoner appeared now to be obvious ; at least the pre-
sumption was strong against him. Nevertheless the judge, in summing up
the evidence, considered the proof as defective ; expatiated at considerable
length on the extraordinary story related by the widow, which it could not
be denied had been the occasion of bringing the whole to light, and had been
most wonderfully exemplified by corresponding facts ; and said he considered
himself bound to account for it in a natural way, for the satisfaction of his
own mind and the minds of the jury, and could account for it in no other,
than by supposing that the witness had discovered the fracture before the
body of her friend had been consigned to the grave; and that on considering
leisurely and seriously the various circumstances connected with the fatal
catastrophe, she had become convinced of the prisoner's guilt, and had either
fancied, or, more probably, dreamed the story, on which she had dwelt so
long, that she believed it as a fact.

After all, the jury, by a small majority, returned a verdict of not proven;
and, after a severe reprehension and suitable exhortations, the smith was
dismissed from the bar. I forgot to mention in its proper place, that one of
the principal things in his favour, was, that of his abandoned inamorata
having made oath that he was in her apartment all that night, and never left it.

He was now acquitted in the eye of the law, but not in the eyes of his
countrymen ; for all those who knew the circumstances, believed him guilty
of the murder of his wife. On the very night of his acquittal, he repaired at
a late hour to the abode of his beloved Egyptian ; but he was suspected, and
his motions watched with all due care. Accordingly, next morning, at break
of day, a large mob, who had assembled with all quietness, broke into the
house, and dragged both the parties from the same den ; and, after making
them ride the stang through all the principal streets of the town, threw them
into the loch, and gave them a complete ducking, suffering them barely to
escape with life. At the same time, on their dismissal, they were informed,
that if they continued in the same course of life, the expeiiment would be
very frequently repeated. Shortly after that, the two offending delinquents
made a moonlight flitting, and escaped into Cumberland. My informant had
not heard inore of them, but she assuied me thev would make a bad end.
I. ' IS

226 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

No. II.— WELLDEAN HALL.

" Do you believe this story of the Ghost, Gilbert ?" " Do I believe this story
of the ghost ? such a question as that is now ! How many will you answer
me in exchange for my ingenious answer to that most exquisite question ?
You see that tree there. Do you believe that it grew out of the earth ? Or
do you believe that it is there at all.^ Secondly, and more particularly. You
see'nie.? Good. You see my son at the plow yonder. What do you believe
yon boy to be ? Do you believe he is a twig of hazel ?"

" How can I believe that, old shatterbrains .?"

" I'll prove it. What does a hazel twig spring from at first?"

" A nut, or filbert, you may choose to call it."

" Good. Now, which letter of the alphabet begins my name?"

" The seventh."

" Good. Your own sentence. Look at the hornbook. One, two, three,
four, five, six, seven. You have it at home. My son sprung f-om a filbert
Satisfied ? Ha, ha, ha ! Another. Do you believe old Nick to be a simple-
ton ? A ninny ? A higgler for nits and nest-eggs? An even down nose-o'-
wax, not possessed of half the sense, foresight, and calculation that's in my
one eye ? In short, do you believe that both the devil and you are fools, and
that Gilbert Falconer is a wise man?"

"There's no speaking seriously to you about any thing, with your low
miserable attempts at wit."

" I'll prove it."

"No more of your proofs, else I am off."

" I was coming to the very point which you set out at, if you would have
suffered me. I would have come to a direct answer to your question in less
than forty minutes. But it is all one. Odds or evens, who of us two shall
conform to Solomon's maxim."

" What maxim of Solonion's ? "

" Answer a fool according to his folly. What say you ? "

♦' Odds."

" I have lost. The wit, the humour, the fire, the spirit, of our afternoon's
conversation is at an end. Wit ! Wit ! Thou art a wreck — a lumber — a
spavined jade ! Now for a rhyme, and. I'm done.

" O Gilbert Falconer !
Thou hast made a hack on her !
For Nick is on the back on her !
Who was't spurr'd her last away ?
Bear him, bear him fast away ;
Or Nick will be a cast-away !"

" Is the fit done yet? In the name of all that is rational let us have some
respite from that torrent of words, that resemble nothing so much as a water-
spout, that makes a constant rumbling noise, without any variation or meaning.
I wanted to have some serious talk with you about this. The family are
getting into the utmost consternation. What can be the meaning of it ?
Do you believe that such a thing as the apparition of our late master has
been seen ? "

" Indeed, old Nicholas, seriously, I do believe it. How can I believe
otherwise ? "

" Don't you rather think it is some illusion of the fancy— that the people
are deceived, and their senses have imposed on them?"

" A man has nothing but his external senses to depend on in this world.
If these may be supposed fallacious, what is to be considered as real that we
either hear or see ? I conceive, that if a man believes that he does see an
object standing before his eyes, and knows all its features and lineaments,
why, he does see it, let casuibts say what they will. If he hear it pronounce

WELLDEAN HALL. 227

words audibly, who dare challenge the senses that God has given him, and
maintain that he heard no such words pronounced ? I would account the
man a presumptuous fool who would say so, or who would set any limits to
the phenomena of nature, knowing in whose hand the universe is balanced,
and how little of it he thoroughly understands."

" Why, now, Gilbert, to have heard you speaking the last minute, would
any man have believed that such a sentence could have come out of your
mouth ? That which you have said was certainly very well said ; and more
to the point than any thing I could have thoni^ht on the subject for 1 know
not how long. So I find you think a ghost may sometimes be commissioned,
or permitted to appear .'* "

" I have never once doubted it. Superstition has indeed peopled every dell
with ideal spectres ; but to these I attach no credit. If the senses of men,
however, are in ought to be trusted, I cannot doubt that spirits have some-
times walked the earth in the likenesses of men and women that once lived.
It is certainly not on any slight or trivial occasion, that such messengers from
the dead appear ; and, were it not for some great end, I would not believe in
it. I conceive it to be only when all natural means are cut off, either of dis-
covering guilt and blood, or of saving life. The idea of this is so pleasant,
that I would not for the world misbelieve it. How grand is the conviction,
that there is a being on your right hand and your left, that sees the actions of
all his creatures, and will not let the innocent suffer, nor the guilty go
unpunished !"

" I am so glad to hear you say so, Gilbert : for I had begun to dispute my
own senses, and durst not tell what I had seen. I myself saw our late master,
face to face, as plainly as I see you at this moment. And that no longer ago
than the night before last."

" God have a care of us ! Is it even so ? Then I fear, Old Nicholas, there
has been some foul play going on. Where did you see him .-"'

" In the garden. He went into the house, and beckoned me to follow him.
I was on the point of complying ; for, though I have been deeply troubled at
thinking of it, I was not afraid at the time. The deceased had nothing ghostly
about him ; and I was so used to do all his commands, that I felt very awkward
in declining this last one. How I have trembled to think about it ! Is it not
said and believed, Gilbert, that one who sees the spirit always dies in a very
short time after?"

" I believe it is held as an adage."

" Oh dreadful ! Then I shall soon meet him again. How awful a thing it
is to go into the world of spirits altogether ! And that so soon ! Is there
no instance of one who has seen a ghost living for any length of time after-
wards ? "

" No. I believe not."

" I wonder what he had ado in appearing to me ? But he never liked me,
and had always plenty of malice about him. I am very ill, Gilbert Oh ! oh !
Lack-a-day !"

" O fie ! Never think about that. You are as well dead as living, if it
should be so. Much better."

" And is that all the lamentation you make for your old friend ? Ah,
Gilbert, life is sweet even to an old man ! And though I wish all my friends
happy that are gone, yet such happiness is always the last that I wish them.
Oh ! oh ! Good bye, Gilbert. Farewell ! It is hard to say when you and I
may meet again."

" You arc not going to leave me that way ? Come, sit down, and let us lean
our two old backs to this tree, and have some farther conversation about this
wonderful occurrence. Tell me seriously, old Nick, or Father Adam, I should
rather call you ; for you delve a garden like him, and like him have been
bilked by a lusty young quean. Tell me, I say, seriously, what you thought
of the character of our late master, and what is your opinion of this our
present one .-* "

a2 8 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

" I do not think of either of them. Ah I there are many doors to the valley
of death, and they stand open day and night ! but there are few out of it ! "

"A plague on this old fellow, with his valley of death! He thinks of
nothing but his worthless carcass. 1 shall get no more sense out of him. I
think, Father Ad.im, our young master is a wretch ; and I now dread our late
one has not been much better. Think you the dog can have killed his uncle?
I fear he has. And 1 fear you have been privy to it, since'you confess his ghost
has appeared to you. Confess that you administered some of your herbs, some
simples to him ; and that it was not an apoplexy of which he dropt down
dead. Eh ! I do not wonder that you are afraid of the valley of death, if it is
by a noose that you are to enter it."

" Poor fool ! poor fool ! "

"After all, is it not wonderful, Nicholas ? What can have brought our master
back from the unseen world ? Do you think this nephew of his has had any
hand in bis death? He has now got possession of aJl his lands, houses, and
wealth, which I well believe never were intended for him ; while his younger
brother Allan, and his lovely cousin, Susan Somerville, our late Master's chief
favourite, are left without a farthing."

" The cause of our master's death was perfectly ascertained by the surgeons.
Though the present laird be a man without principle, I do not believe ever he
harboured a thought of making away with his uncle."

" How comes it then that his spirit walks even while it is yet twilight, and
the sun but shortly gone over the hill ? How comes it that his will has not
been found ? And if our young laird and his accomplices represent things
aright, not one tenth of his great wealth ? "

" Heaven knows ! It is a grievous and a mysterious matter."

" I suppose this mansion will soon be locked up. We must all flit,
Nicholson. Is it not conjectured that the laird has himself seen the
apparition ? "

" It is believed that he encountered it in the library that night on which he
grew so ill. He has never slept by himself since that night, and never again
re-entered the library. All is to be sold ; for the two young people claim
their thirds of the moveables ; and, as you say, we must all Hit. But I need
not care ! Oh ! Oh ! Goodbye, Gilbert ! Oh ! Oh ! I wonder what the ghost
of the old miser — the old world's-worm, had ado to appear to me ! To cut me
off from the land of the living and the place where repentance may be hoped
for ! Oh ! Oh ! Farewell, Gilbert"

Gilbert kept his eye on the bent frame of the old gardener, till a bend in the
wood walk hid him from his view, and then he mimicked him for his own
amusement, and indulged in a long fit of laughter. Gilbert had been bred to
the church, but his follies and irregularities drove him from the university.
He attempted many things, and at last was engaged as butler and house-
steward to the late laird of Welldean ; but even there he was disgraced, and
became a kind of hanger-on about the mansion, acting occasionally as wood-
forester, or rather wood-cleaver ; drank as much of the laird's strong beer as
he could conveniently get ; cracked profane jests with the servants and
cottage-dames ; talked of agriculture with the farmers ; of Homer and Virgil
with the schoolmaster ; and of ethics witli Dr. Leadbeater, the parish minister.
Gilbert was every body's body ; but cared little for any one, knowing that few
cared aught for him. He had nevertheless a good heart, and a mortal
abhorrence of every thing tyrannical or unjust, as well as mean and sordid.

Old Welldean had lived a sober retired life, and was exceedingly rich ; but
was one of those men w/ta could in no wise part with money. He had two
nephews by a brother, and one niece by a sister. It was known that he had
once made a will, which both the writer and one of the witnesses attested ;
but he had been cut off suddenly, and neither the will nor his accumulated
treasures could be found, though many suspected, that the elder nephew,
Randal, hnd concealed the one, and destroyed the other. As heir-at-law, he
had seized on the whole property, and his brother Allan, and lovely cousin.

IVELLDEAN HALL. 229

Miss Somerville, two young and amiable lovers, found themselves deprived of
that which they had been bred up to regard as their own. They claimed, of
course, their share of the moveables, which the heir haughtily proposed to
bring to the hammer. These were of considerable value. The library alone
was judged to be worth a great sum, as it had descended from father to son,
and had still been increasing in value for several generations. But from the
moment that an inventory began to be taken of the things of the house, which
was nearly a year after the old laird's death, the family were driven into the
utmost consternation by a visit of an apparition, exactly resembling their late
master. It walked not only every night, but was sometimes seen in open day,
encountering some with threatening gestures and beckoning others to follow
him.

These circumstances confirmed Randal in his resolution, not only to sell
the furniture, but even to dispose of the house and policies, and purchase
another place in lieu of it. It was supposed he had got a dreadful fright him-
self, but this circumstance he judged it proper to conceal, lest advantages
might be taken of it by intending purchasers ; and he now manifested the
utmost impatience to bring the sales about

Among other interested agents, two wealthy booksellers, Pinchport and
Titlepage, were applied to as the best and most conscientious men in the world
to give a fair price for the valuable library. These sent an old book-monger
to look over the library, and put down a certain value for every work. The
man proceeded with great activity and no less importance. But one evening,
as he approached an oaken book-case in the middle of a large division, he
perceived an old man standing before it, of a most forbidding and threatening
aspect. The honest bibliopole bowed low to this mysterious intruder, who
regarded him only with a frown, kept his position, and, holding up his right
hand, shook it at him, as if daring him to approach nearer to that place.

The man of conscience began to look around him, for he had heard of the
ghost, though he disregarded the story. The door was close shut ! It was
impossible a mouse could have entered without him having perceived it. He
looked at the old man again, and thought he discerned the spokes of the book-
case through his body ; and, at the same time, there appeared like a lambent
flame burning within him.

The valuator of books made toward the door as fast as his loosened and
yielding joints could carry him ; he even succeeded in opening it ; but, in his
unparalleled haste to escape, he lost all manner of caution, and fell headlong
over the oaken stair. In his fall he uttered a horrible shriek, which soon
brought the servants from the hall to his assistance. When they arrived, he
had tumbled all the way to the bottom of the stair ; and, though all mangled
and bleeding, he was still roUing and floundering onward, in order somewhat
to facilitate his escape. They asked him what was the matter? His answer
to them was — "The ghost, the ghost ;" and the honest bibliopole spoke not
another word that anybody could make sense of, for at least two months. One
of his jaws was broke, which, instantaneously swelling,deprived him of the power
of utterance. He was besides much lacerated, and bruised, and fell into a
dangerous fever. No explanation having thus been given of the circumstances
of the adventure, the story soon spread, and assumed a character highly ro-
mantic, and no less uncommon. It was asserted, on the strongest evidence,
that the ghost of the late laird had attacked an honest valuator of books in the
library, and tossed him down stairs, breaking every bone of his body. The
matter began to wear a serious aspect, and the stoutest hearts about the man-
sion were chilled. A sort of trepidation and uncertainty was apparent in the
look, gait, and whole demeanour of every one of the inhabitants. All of them
were continually looking around, in the same manner that a man does who is
afraid of being taken up for debt. The old housekeeper prayed without ceas-
ing. Nicholas, the gardener, wept night and day, that he had so soon to go to
heaven. Dr. Leadbeater, the parish minister, reasoned without end, how,
" inuiialerial substances might be im.iijcd forth by the workings of a fancy over-

ajo THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

heated and bedimmed in its mental vision, until its optics were overrun with
opacity ; and, that visions thus arose from the discord of colours, springing
from the proportions of the vibrations propagated through the fibres of the
optic nerves into the brain ;" and a thousand other arguments, replete no
doubt with deep philosophy, but of which no one knew the bearing of a single
point. As for Gibby, the wood-forester, he drank ale and laughed at the whole
business, sometimes reasoning on the one side, sometimes on the other,
precisely as the whim caught him.

Randal spent little of his time in the mansion. He was engaged running
the career of dissipation, to which heirs are generally addicted, and grew every
day more impatient to accomplish the sale of his uncle's effects at Welldean.
Matters were at a stand. Ever since the misfortune of the bookman, farther
proceeding there was none. Most people suspected a trick ; but a trick hav-
mg such serious consequences, was not a safe toy wherewith to dally. Randal
lost all temper, and at last yielded to the solicitations of his domestics, to
suffer the ghost to be spoken to, that the dead might have rest, as the house-
keeper termed it.

Accordingly he sent for Dr. Leadbeater, the great metaphysical minister of
the parish, and requested him to.watch a night in the library; merely, as he
said, to quiet the fears of the domestics, who had taken it intotheir heads that
the house was haunted, and accordingly all order and regularity were at an end
among them.

" Why, sir," said Dr. Leadbeater, " as to my watching a night, that's nothing.
It is not that I would not watch ten nights to benefit your honour, either main-
pernorly, laterally, or ultimately ; but the sequel of such a vigilancy would be
a thoroughfaring error, that by insidious vermiculation would work itself into
the moral, physical, and mental intestines of those under my charge, in abun-
dant multiformity ; so that amaritude or acrimony might be deprehended in
choler. But as to the appearance of anything superhuman, I can assure
you, sir, it is nothing more than a penumbra, and proceeds from some
obtuse reflexion, from a body superficially lustrous ; which body must
be spherical, or polyedrical, and the protuberant particles cylindrical,
elliptical, and irregular ; and according to the nature of these, and the situa-
tion of the lucid body, the sight of the beholder or beholders, from an angular
point, will be affected figuratively and diametrically."

" Why, d n it doctor," said Randal, " that, I think, is all excellent phil-
osophical reasoning. But in one word ; you pretend to hold your commission
from Heaven, and to be set there to watch over the consciences, and all the
moral and religious concerns of your parishioners. Now, here is a family con-
sisting of nearly forty individuals, all thrown into the utmost consternation by
what, it seems, according to your theory, is nothing more than an obtuse reflex-
ion. The people are absolutely in great distress, and on the point of losing
their reason. I conceive it therefore your duty, as their spiritual pastor, either
to remove this obtuse reflexion out of the house, or quiet their apprehensions
regarding it. One poor fellow has, I fear, got his death's wounds from this
same peculiar reflexion. Certainly the polyedrical body might be found out
and removed. In one word, doctor, will you be so good as attempt it, or will
you not i"'

"1 have attempted it already,worthy sir," said the doctor ; " I have explained
the whole nature of the deceptive refraction to you, which you may explain to
them, you know."

"Thank you, doctor ; I shall. ' It is an obtuse reflection,' you say, ' from a
body spiritual, polyedrical, protuberant, cylindrical, elliptical, and irregular.'

D n them, if they don't understand that, they deser\e to be frightened out

of their senses."

" Oh, you're a wag. You are witty. It may be very good, but I like not
your wit."

" Like my uncle's ghost, doctor, rather obtuse. But faith, doctor, between
you and me, I'll give you fifty guineas in a present, and as much good

WELLDEAN HALL. 231

claret as you and an associate can drink, if you will watch a night in the library,
and endeavour to find out what this is that disturbs the people of my establish-
ment. But, doctor, it is only on this condition, that whatever you may dis-
cover in that library, you are to make it known only to me. My late uncle's
hoards of wealth and legal bonds have not been discovered, neither has his
will. I have a thought that both may be concealed in that apartment ; and
that the old miser has had some machinery contrived in his lifetime to guard
his treasure. You understand me, doctor .'' It imports me much ; whatever
you discover, I only must be made privy to it. It is as well that my brother,
and his conceited inamorata Susan, should be under my tutelage and direction,
as rendered independent of me, and haply raised above me. Doctor, what
would you think of a thousand pounds in your hand as the fruits of one night's
watching in that library? You are superior I know to any dread of danger
from the appearance of a spirit."

" Why, to tell you the truth, squire Randal, as to the amatorculist, and his
vertiginous gilt piece of mutability, to such I have nothing to say, and with
such I have nothing to do. But to better the fortune of my alderleivest
friend, in reciprocation and alternateness with my own, squares as exactly
with my views as the contents of an angle ; which, in all rectangle triangles is
made of the side that subtendeth the right angle, and is equal to the squares
which are made of the sides containing the right angle ; and this is a perfect
definition of my predominant inclination. The discerptibility of fortune is
not only admissible, but demonstratively certain, and whatever proves ad-
minicular to its concentration is meritorious."

" I am rather at a loss, Dr. Leadbeater."

"Your proposition, squire, as it deserveth, hath met with perfect accepta-
bility on my part. Only, instead of claret, let the beverage for my friend and
me be hock."

" With all my heart, doctor."

" Fifty, at all events, for one night's watching ; perhaps a thousand ?"

" The precise terms, doctor."

Everything being thus settled, the doctor sought out an associate, and
fixed on Mr. Jinglekirk, an old man who, for want of a patron, had never
been able to get a living in the church, though he had been for twenty years
what is called a journeyman minister. He had a weak mind, and was
addicted to tippling ; but had nevertheless an honest and upright heart.
The doctor, however, made choice of him, on account of his poverty and
simplicity, thinking he could mould him to his will with ease, should any
great discovery be made.

The next week, the reverend doctor sent word to Welldcan, that he and a
friend meant to visit there, to pray with the family, and watch over night, to
peruse some books in the library, or rather to make choice of some, previous
to the approaching sale. The two divines came ; the laird kept purposely
out of the way, but left directions with his brother Allan, to receive and
attend on them until after supper, and then leave them to themselves.

All the people assembled in the library, and Mr. Jinglekirk performed
family worship at the request of the doctor. Afterwards a plentiful supper,
and various rich wines, were set, of which both the divines partook rather
liberally. Allan remained with them during supper, but not perfectly
at his ease, for he was at least next to convinced that there was something
preternatural about the house ; — something unaccountable he was sure there
was.

After supper, chancing to lift his eyes to the old book-case of black oak and
glass, that stood exactly opposite to the fire place, he perceived, or thou;;ht he
perceived, the form of a hand pointing to a certain pane of glass in the book-
case. He grew instantly as pale as ashes ; on which both the divines turned
their eyes in the same direction, but there was nothing. Even to Allan's eyes
there was nothing. The appearance of the hand was quite gone, and he was
convinced it had been an illusion. They asked him, witli some symptoms of

232 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

perturbation, what he saw ? But he assured them he saw nothing ; only he
said, he had not been very well of late, and was subjected to sudden qualms
— that one of these had seized him, and he would be obliged to wish them a
good night. They entreated him to remain until they finished the bottle, but
he begged to be excused, and left them.

As soon as they were alone, the doctor began to sound Jinglekirk with
regard to his principles of honesty, and mentioned to him the suspicion and
the strong probability that the late old miser's treasures were all concealed in
that library ; and moreover, that even their host suspected that he had
contrived some mechanical trick during his lifetime to guard that treasure,
and it was thus that the servants, and even strangers, were frighted out of the
apartment.

The reverend John Jinglekirk listened to all this with tacit indifference,
filled another glass of old hock, and acquiesced with his learned friend in the
strong probability of all that he had advanced. But notwithstanding every
hint that the doctor could give, John (as the other familiarly styled him,)
would never utter a syllable indicative of a disposition to share the treasure
with his liberal friend, or even to understand that such a thing was meant.

The doctor had therefore recourse to another plan, in which he was too
sure of success. He toasted one bumper of wine after another, giving first,
" the Church of Scotland," and then, some nobleman and gentlemen, par-
ticular friends of his, who had plenty of livings in their gift. Then such
young ladies as were particularly beautiful, accomplished, and had the clink;
in short, the very women for clerg)-men's. Jinglekirk delighted in these
toasts, and was as liberal of them as his friend could wish, drinking deep
bumpers to every one of them,

* Till his een they closed an' his voice grew low,
An' his tongue wad hardly gang.'

At length he gave one whom he pronounced to be :\di-<'ine creature, drank a
huge bumper to her health, and then, leaning forward on the table, his head sank
gradually down till it came in contact with his two ai-ms, his tongue now and
then pronouncing in a voice scarcely audible, " O, a divine creature ! sweet !
sweet ! sweet ! Ha-ha-ha ! he-he-he ! — Divine creature ! Doctor — I shay — Is
not she ? Eh .^ O she's lovely and amiable ! doctor — I shay — she's the sheaf
among ten thousand ! " and with that honest Jinglekirk composed himself to
a quiet slumber.

The doctor now rose up to reconnoitre ; and, walking round and round the
library, began to calculate with himself where it was most likely old Welldean
would conceal his treasure. His eyes and his contemplations very naturally
fixed on the old book-case of black oak. He had previously formed a firm re-
solution not to be surprised by any sudden appearance ; which, he conjectured,
might be made by springs to start up on setting his foot on a certain part of
the floor, or on opening a folding door. On the contrar>-, he conceived
that any such appearance would be a certain evidence that the treasure was
behind that, and in that place hJs research ought to be doubled.

Accordingly, without more ado, he went up to the old book-case. The
upper two leaves were unlocked, as the man of books had left them. There
were a few panes of thick, blue, navcUcd glass in each of them, while the
transverse bars were curiously carved, and as black as ebony. " It is an
antique and curious cabinet this, and must have many small concealments in
it,' said the doctor to himself, as he opened the door. He began to remove
the books, one by one, from the left hand to the right, not to look at their
contents, but to obsei-ve if there were any keyholes or concealed drawers
behind them. He had only got half way along one shelf. The next three
volumes were Latin classics, royal octavo size ; in boards, and unpropor-
tionally thick. He had just stretched out his hand to remove one of them,
when he received from some unseen hand such a blow on some part of his
body, he knew not where, but it was as if he had been struck by a thunder-

WELLDEAN HALL. 233

bolt, that made him stagger some paces backward, and fall at full length on
the floor. When he received the blow, he uttered the interrogative " What?"
as loud as he could bawl ; and, as he fell to the floor, he uttered it again ;
not louder; for that was impossible; but with more emphasis, and an inverted
cadence, quite peculiar to a state of inordinate surprise.

These two startling cries, and the rumble that he made when falling,
aroused the drowsy John Jinglekirk, not only into a state of sensibility,
but perfect accuracy of intellect. The first thing that he saw was his
reverend friend raising up his head from the foot of the table, staring wildly
about him.

" John— What was that.?" said he.

" I had some thought it was your reverence," said Jinglekirk.

" But who was it that knocked me down 1 John, was it you who had the
presumption to strike me down by such a blow as that.?"

"Me, doctor? I offer to knock you down? I think you might know I
would be the last man in the world who would presume to do such a thing.
But simply and honestly, was it not this fellow who did it ?" And with that
Jinglekirk pointed to the wine bottle ; for he believed the doctor had only
fallen asleep, and dropped from his chair. " For me, doctor, I was sitting
contemplating the beauty and perfections of the divine and delicious Miss
Cherrylip ! And when I presume to lift a finger against you, doctor, may my
right hand forget its cunning ! But my Lord, and my God !" exclaimed he,
lifting his eyes beyond the doctor, " who is this we have got here ?"

The doctor, who had nov/ got upon his knees, hearing this exclamation and
question, so fraught with surprise, looked around, and beheld in front of the
book-case, the exact figure and form of his'old intimate friend, the late laird
of Welldean. He was clad in his old spotted llannel dressing gown, and a
large towel tied round his head hke a turban, which he always wore in the
house when living. His face was a face of defiance, rage, and torment ; and
as the doctor looked about he lifted up his right hand in a threatening manner.
As he lifted his hand, his nightgown waved aside, and the doctor and his
friend both beheld his loins and his limbs sheathed in red-hot burning steel,
while a corslet of the same glowing metal enclosed his breast and heart.

It was more than enough for any human eye. The doctor roared louder
than a bull, or a lion at bay ; and, not taking time, or not able to rise on his
legs, he galloped on all four toward the libraiy door ; tore it open, and con-
tinued the same kangaroo motion, not down the stair, like the hapless biblio-
pole, but, as Providence kindly directed, along an intricate winding gallery
that I'id around a great part of the house, all the while never letting one
bellow await another. At the first howl that the doctor uttered, Jinglekirk
sprung to his feet to attempt an escape, and would probably have been first out
at the door, had he not stumbled on a limb of the table, and fallen flat on his
face. Impelled, however, by terror of the tremendous and hellish figure be-
hind, and led onward by the cries before, he made the best of his way
that he was able after his routed friend.

The doctor at last came to the end of his journey, running against a double
bolted door that impeded his progress. On this he beat with ail his might,
still continuing his cries of horror. While in this dark and perilous state, he
was overtaken by his dismayed friend, the reverend John Jinglekirk, who, not
knowing what he did, seized on the doctor behind with a spasmodic grasp.
This changed the character of the doctor's cries materially. Before this acci-
dent, they were loud cries, and very long cries ; but now they became as short
as the bark of a dog, and excessively hollow. They were like the last burst-
ings of the heart, " Oh-oh-oh-oh-oh ;" for he thought the spirit had hold of him,
and was squeezing him to its fiery bosom.

The domestics at length were aroused from their sleep, and arrived in the
Bow Gallery, as it was called, in pairs and groups ; but still, at the approach
of every one, the doctor renewed his cries, trying to redouble them. He was
in a state of utter diblr.iclion. They carried him away to what they de-

434 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

nominated the safe part of the house, and laid him in a bed, but four men
could not hold him ; so that before day they had put him in a strait-jacket,
and had old Gibby Falconer standing over him with a sapling, basting him
to make him hold his peace. It was long ere the doctor was himself again,
and when he did reco\ er, it was apparent to every one that the fright had de-
prived him of all his philosophy relating to the jvhysical properties of light,
reflexion, refraction, the prismatic spectrum, as well as transparency and
opacity. These were terms never more mentioned by him, nor did he seem
to recollect ought of their existence. It likewise cured him almost entirely of
the clerical thirst after money. And ail his life, the sight of a man in a
flannel dressing-gown, with a white night-cap on his head, threw him into a
cold sweat, and rendered him speechless for some time. Jinglekirk was not
much the worse ; for though he was apparently acute enough at the time,
having been aroused by such a sudden surprise, yet, owing to the quantity of
old hock he had swilled, he had but imperfect recollections of what had
happened, next day.

Randal came galloping home next day to learn the issue of the doctor's
vigil ; and though he could not help laughing till the tears ran down his
cheeks, yet was he mightily chagrined and dismayed, not knowing what to do.
After cursing the whole concern, and all the ministers of the gospel, and his
uncle's restless soul, he galloped off again to the high and important concerns
of rout and riot.

Susan had, ever since the death of her mother, lodged with an old maiden
lady in the adjoining village. She generally visited her uncle every day,
who had always manifested a great attachment to her. Yet, for all that, he
had suffered her to run considerably in debt to the lady with whom she lived,
for no earthly consideration could make Welldean part with money, as long
as he could keep hold of it. Nevertheless, it having been known that his
will was regularly made and signed, both Susan and Allan had as much
credit as they chose. They were two fond and affectionate lovers, but all
their prospects were now blasted ; and Randal, finding that they were likely to
be dependant on him, had the profligacy and the insolence to make a most
dishonourable and degrading proposal to his lovely and virtuous cousin.

How different was Allan's behaviour toward her ! True love is ever respect-
ful. His attentions were redoubled ; and they condoled together their mis-
fortune, and die dependent state in which they were now left. Allan proposed
entering into the army, there being a great demand for officers and men at
that period ; and, as soon as he had obtained a commission, he said, he would
then unite his fate with that of his dear Susan ; and, by a life of sconomy,
they would be enabled at least to live independently of others.

Susan felt all the generosity of her lover's scheme, but begged him not to
think of marriage for a season. In the mean time, she said, she was resolved
to engage in some nobleman or gentleman's family as a governess, for she
was resolved, at all events, not to live dependant on his brother's generosity.
Allan beseeched her not to think of such a thing, but she continued obstinate.
She had never told Allan of his brother's base proposal to her, for fear of
embroiling them together, and Randal, finding this to be the case, conceived
that her secrecy boded approbation, and forthwith laid a scheme to get her
into his power, and gain her to his purposes.

Allan had told his brother, in confidence, of his beloved cousin's simple plan,
and besought him to protect her and keep her in that independent station
to which her rank and birth entitled her. Randal said she was such a
perverse, self-willed girl that Susan, that no one could prevail on her to do
ought but what she chose, yet that he would endeavour to contrive something
to benefit her.

After this, he ceased not to boast to his associates, that he would soon
show them such a tlower in his keeping, as never before blossomed within the
jorts of Edinburgh. Accordingly, he engaged a lady of the town to go out
in a coach, in a dashing style, and wait on Susan, and engage her for the

WELLDEAN HALL. 235

family of an Irish Marquis. The terms were so liberal, that the poor girl's
heart was elated. She was to .<:;o with this civil and polite dame for a few
months, that she might be attended by some masters, to complete her educa-
tion and accomplishments, all of which was to be liberally defrayed by the
nobleman. After that, she was to go into the family as an associate, with
a salary of ^{^300, an offer too tempting to be refused by one in Susan's
situation.

Now, it so happened, that the very night on which the two clergymen
watched for the ghost of old Welldean, was that on which this temptress
came to Susan's lodging with her proud offer. Both Susan and the old lady
with whom she lived were delighted — entertained the woman kindly ; and it
was agreed that she should tarry there all night, and Susan would depart for
Edinburgh with her in the morning. Susan proposed sending for Allan, but
to this both the old dames objected as unnecessary, as well as indelicate.
They were both in Randall's interest, and, as it afterwards appeared, both
knew him.

When Allan left the two ministers, he found his heart so ill at ease that he
could not rest. The hand that he had seen upon the wall, haunted his im-
agination ; and he felt as if something portentous were hanging over him
He went out to walk, for the evening was fine, and it was scarcely yet twilight,
and naturally went toward the village which contained his heart's whole
treasure, and when there, as naturally drew to the house where she resided.

When he went in he found them all in a bustle, preparing for his beloved
Susan's departure. The two dames evaded any explanation ; but Susan, with
whom all deceit and equivocation with Allan was out of the question, took
him straightway into her apartment, and made him acquainted with the whole
in a few words. He disapproved of ever}' part of the experiment, particularly
on account of their total separation. She tried to reason with him, but he
remained sullen, absent, and inflexible. His mind was disarranged before
this intelligence, which proved an addition it could not bear with any degree
of patience. Susan had expected to delight him with the news of her good
fortune, and perceiving the effect so different from what she had calculated
on, in the bitterness of disappointment she burst into tears.

All his feelings of affection were awakened anew by this. He begged her
pardon again and again, pressed her to his bosom, and kissing the tears from
her cheek, promised to acquiesce in every thing on which her heart was so
much set. " Only, my dear Susan," continued he, " do not enter on such a
step with precipitation. Take a little time to inquire into the character of this
woman with whom you are to be a lodger, and the connexion in which she
stands with this noble family. What if the wliole should be a trick to ruin a
beautiful and unsuspecting young creature without fortune and friends ?"

" How can you suspect such motives as these, Allan ? Of that, however,
there can be no danger, for I am utterly unknown to any rake of quality that
would be guilty of such an action."

" At all events," said he, "take a little time. I am frightened lest some-
thing befall you. A preconception of something extraordinary impending over
our fates, has for some time pressed itself upon me, and I am afraid lest every
step we take may be leadmg to it. To a friendless girl, so little known, a
situation so lucrative and desirable could not be expected to come of itself.
Have you ever made inquiry by whose interest it was procured.'"'

No, Susan had never once thought of making such an inquiry, believing,
perhaps, through perfect inexperience of the world, that her own personal
merits had been the sole cause. The two lovers returned straight to the par-
lour to make this necessary inquiry. The wily procuratress, on several pre-
tences, declined answering the question ; but Allan, pressing too close for
further evasion, she acknowledged that it was all the transaction of the young
laird, his brother. The old lady, the owner of the house, was loud in her
praises of Randal. Allan likewise professed all his olijcctions to be at an end,
and lauded his brother for the kind part he had acted with regard to Susan.

236 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

But as his eye turned towards the latter, he beheld the most perfect and beau-
tiful statue of amazement that perhaps ever was looked on. Her arms were
stretched down by her sides, obtruding only a small degree from perpendicu-
lar lines ; not hanging loosely, and gently, but fixed as wedges. Her hands
were spread horizontally, her lips were asunder, and her eye fixed on vacancy.
There was no motion in any muscle of her whole frame, which appeared to
have risen up a foot taller than its ordinary size. The women were both
speaking to her, but she neither heard nor saw them. Allan watched her in
silent astonishment, till her reverie was over. She then gave vent to her sup-
pressed breathing, and uttered, as from her bosom's inmost core, "Ah ! — Is it
so !" and sitting down on the sofa beside Allan, she seemed to be trying in
vain to collect her vagrant ideas. At length she rose hastily up and retired to
her own apartment.

The three now all joined loudly in the praises of laird Randal ; and long
they conversed, and long they waited, but Susan did not return. Her friend
at length went to her, but neither of them returned, until Allan, losing all
patience, rung the bell, and desired the servant to tell them that he was going
away. Mrs. Maydcr, the mistress of the house, then re-entered, and appeared
flustered and out of humour. " Miss has taken such a mood as I never wit-
nessed in her before," said she ; " Pray, dear Allan, go to her, and bring her
to reason."

Allan readily obeyed the hint, and found her sitting leaning her cheek on
her hand ; and, at the very first, she told him that she had changed her mind,
and was now determined not to go with that lady, nor to move a step farther
in the business. He imputed this to pride, and a feeling averse to lie under
any obligations to his brother, and tried to reason her out of it ; but it was all
in vain ; she continued obstinate ; and Allan, for the first time in his life, sus-
pected her of something exceedingly cross and perverse of disposition. Yet
she chose rather to remain under these suspicions, than be the cause of a
quarrel between the two brothers, which she knew would infallibly ensue if
she disclosed the truth.

Her lover was about to leave her with evident marks of displeasure ; but
this she could not brook She changed the tone of her voice instantly, and
said, in the most melting accents, "Are you going to leave me, Allan? If you
leave this house to-night, I shall go with you ; for there is no one on earth
whom I can trust but yourself. I positively will not remain alone with these
two women. The one I shall never speak to again, and with the other, who
has so long been a kind friend, I shall part to-morrow."

Allan stared in silence, doubting that his darling was somewhat deranged
in her intellect ; and, though he saw the tears rolling in her eyes, he thought
in his heart, that she was the most capricious of human beings, and
cherished, at that moment, the illiberal suggestion that all women were the
same.

" I am an unfortunate girl, Allan ;" continued she, "and if I fall under your
displeasure, it will indeed crown my misfortune ; but I am not what I must
appear in your eyes to be at this moment. After what passed a few minutes
ago, however, I can no longer be the lodger of Mrs. Mayder."

"You are out of humour, my dear Susan, and capricious ; I beg you will
not make any hasty resolution while in that humour. Your rejection of that
elegant and genteel situation, merely because it was procured for you by my
brother, is beyond my comprehension ; and, because this worthy woman, your
sincere friend, urges you to accept of it, would you throw yourself from under
her protection ? No earthly motive can ever influence me to forsake you, or
to act for a single moment in any other way than as you* friend ; but I am
unwilling to encourage my dear girl in any thing like an unreasonable caprice."

" And will you leave me to-night, when I request and entreat you to stay?"

" Certainly not. At your request I shall sleep here to-night, if Mrs. May-
der can supply me with a sleeping apartment. Come, then, and let us Join
the two ladies in the parlour."

WELLDEAN HALL. 237

" No. If you please you may go : and I think you should. But I cannot
and will not face yon lady again. I have taken a mortal prejudice to her.
Allan, you are not to forsake me. Will you become security for what I owe
to Mrs. Mayder, and board me somewhere else to-morrow?"

Allan stood for some time silent, and looked with pity and concern at the
lovely and whimsical creature before him. "Forsake you, Susan !" exclaimed
he, " how can your bosom harbour such a doubt .-' But, pray, explain to me
the cause of this so sudden and radical change in all your prospects and
ideas?"

" Pardon me ; I cannot at this time. At some future period, perhaps, I
may ; but I cannot, even with certainty, promise that."

"Then I fear that they are groundless or unjust, since you cannot trust me
with them."

" I am hard beset, Allan. Pray trust to my own judgment for once. But
do not leave this house to-night, for something has occurred which affrights
me, and if you leave me here, I know not what may happen."

Allan turned pale, for the sight he had seen himself recurred to his mind,
and a chillness crept over his frame. He had a dread that something por-
tentous impended over him and his beloved Susan.

" I fear I have as good reason to be affrighted," said he ; " something un-
fortunate is certainly soon to overtake you and me ; for it appears to me as
if our very natures and sentiments had undergone a change."

" I have always anticipated good," returned she, " which is too likely to be
fulfilled in evil at present. I do not, however, yield in the least to despair ;
for I have a very good book that says, ' Never give way to despondency when
worldly calamities thicken around you, even though they may drive you to the
last goal ; for there is one who sees all things, and estimates all aright — who
feels for all his creatures, and will not give up the virtuous heart for a prey.
Though your sorrows may be multiplied at night, yet joy may arise in the
morning.' In this is my hope, and I am light of heart, could I but retain
your good opinion. Go and join the two ladies in the parlour, and be sure to
rail at me with all the bitterness you are all master of It will be but reason-
able, and it will not affect poor Susan, whose measures are taken.''

The trio were indeed right free of their censures on the young lady for her
caprice ; and Mrs. Mayder, who, ever since Allan was left fortuneless, dis-
couraged his addresses by every wile she could devise, hinted broadly enough
how much she had often to do to preserve quiet, and to bear from that lady's
temper. Allan assured them that it was in vain to think of prevailing on her
to go with her kind benefactress at present, whom she declared she would not
see again ; and that both his friend Mrs. Mayder, and himself, had fallen
under her high displeasure for endeavouring to sway her resolution. But he
assured both, that he intended to use his full interest with his fair cousin, and
had no doubt of ultimately bringing her to reason. He never once mentioned
what she had said of leaving her old friend, thinking that was only a whim of
the moment, which calm reflection would soon allay.

He slept there all night, so that he was not at Welldean when the affray
happened with the two parsons. He breakfasted with the two ladies next
morning, and finally leading the elegant town dame to her carriage, he took
leave of her with many expressions of kindness. Susan continued locked up
in her own room until the carriage rolled away from the door. When they
returned upstairs, she was come into the parlour, dressed in a plain walking-
dress, and appeared quite composed and good-humoured, but somewhat
absent in her manner. She fixed once or twice a speaking look on Allan, but
unwilling to encourage her in what he judged an unreasonable caprice, he
would understand nothing. At length he bade them good morning, and said
he would perhaps call in the evening. She did not open her lips, but, drop-
ping him a slight courtesy, she went into her chamber, and followed him with
her eye, as long as he remained in view. She then sat down, and gave vent
to a flood of tears. " He even declines becoming my surety for a paltry sum

238 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

of money ! " said she to herself ; " whatever it costs me, or whatever shall
become of me, which God at this moment only knows, 1 shall never see him
again."

Allan did not return in the evening. The events of the preceding night,
and the horrific cries, looks, and madness of tlic doctor, had thrown the people
of the hall into the utmost consternation, and occupied bis whole mind.
Between ten and eleven at night, he was sent for expressly by Mrs. Mayder.
Susan was missing, and had not been seen since the morning. Search had
been made for her throughout the village, and in the neighbourhood, without
effect. No one had seen her, save one girl, who tliought she saw her walking
towards the bank of the river, but was not certain whether it was she
or not.

The dismay of Allan cannot be described. He was struck speechless, and
appeared for a time bereaved of all his wonted energy of mind ; and griev-
ously did he regret his cold and distant behaviour to her that morning. He
found Mrs. Mayder at one tinie railing at her for leaving her thus clandes-
tinely, and threatening to have her seized and imprisoned for debt ; and at
other times weeping and lamenting for her as for her own child. Allan com-
manded her, never in his hearing to mention the sum owing to her on Susan's
account, for that his brotlier, as their late uncle's heir and e.xecutor, was bound
for it ; and that he himself would voluntarily bind for it likewise, though he
had it not in his power to settle it at that instant. Silenced on this score,
she now gave herself up wholly to weeping, blaming Susan all the while for
ingratitude, and denying positively that she had said one word to her that she
could in reason take amiss. Allan knew not what course to take ; but that
very night, late as it was, he sent off an express to Edinburgh after his
brother, informing him of the circumstance, and conjuring him to use every
means for the recovery of their dear cousin ; adding, that he himself would
search the country all round on the ensuing day, but would trust to his dear
Randal for Edinburgh, in case she had come that way. Randal rejoiced
at the news of her elopement. He had no doubt that she would shape her
course toward the metropolis, and as little that he would soon discover her,
and have her to himself.

Allan remained at Mrs. Mayder's house all that night likewise, having sent
up orders for his servant and horses to attend him at an early hour. He
slept, through choice, in the chamber which his dear Susan had so long occu-
pied, and continued moaning all night like one at the point of death. Next
morning he arose at the break of day ; but as he was making ready to mount
his horse, having stooped to buckle his spur, he was seized with a giddiness,
staggered, and fell down in a swoon. The village pharmacopolist was
instantly brought, who declared the fit to be a fabricula in the periosteum or
pericranium, and that the gentleman was in a state of great danger as to
phrenitis ; and, therefore, that severe perfrication was requisite, until
suspended animation returned, and that then he would instantly phlebotomise
him.

To this last operation, Allan's servant objected strongly, observing with
great seriousness, that he did not see the necessity oi Jlaying any part of his
master, merely for a fainting fit, out of which he would soon recover ; but if
such an operation was necessary, why not rather take the skin off some other
part than that he had mentioned, as his master was just about to ride "i

Allan recovered from his swoon, but felt great exhaustion, lie was again
put to bed, blooded, and blistered in the neck ; but for all these, before night
he was in a raging fever, which affected his head, and appeared pregnant with
the worst symptoms. In this deranged and dangerous state he lay for several
weeks. Susan was lost, and could not be found either dead or alive. Randal
was diligent in his researches, but failed not to console himself in the mean
time with the company of such other fine ladies as the town afforded. The
ghost of old Welldean kept one part of the house to itself Mrs. Tallow-
chandler, the fat house-keeper, continued to pray most fervently, but especially

WELLDEAN HALL. 239

when she chanced to take a hearty dram. Nick the gardener did nothing,
save preparing himself for another and a better state ; and Gilbert the wood-
cleaver was harder on the laird's strong beer than ever. Of all the wasteful
and ruinous stocks in this wasteful and ruinous world, a pack of idle domes-
tics are the most so— I'll not write another word on the subject.

The last mentioned worthy, happening to say to some of his associates,
that he would watch a night in the library by himself, for a bottle of brandy,
and speak to his old master too, if he presented himself ; and this being told
to Randal the next time he came out, he instantly ordered the beloved
beverage to be provided to Gilbert, and promised moreover, to give him five
guineas to diink at the village, when and how he had a mind. There was no
more about it, Gilbert took the bait, and actually effected both, if his own
word could be believed. It is a great pity there was nothing but the word of
a man mortally drunk, to preserve on record the events of that memorable
night. All that can now be done, is to give the relation he gave ne.xt morning ;
for after he had got a sleep, and was recovered from his state of ebriety, the
circumstances vanished altogether from his mind.

Randal remained in the house all the night, though not by himself, curious to
be a witness of Gilbert's e.xperiment; for every one in the house assured him,
that he would be dislodged. Gilbert, however, stood his ground, never making
his appearance ; and after the rising of the sun, when the laird and a number
of his attendants broke in upon him, they found the brandy drunk out, and
honest Gilbert lying flat on the floor, sound asleep. With much ado they
waked him, and asl;ed if he had seen the ghost .''

"The ghost ! Oh yes — I remember now — I suppose so. Give me some-
thing to drink, will you ? Eh ! L — d, my throat's on fire ! Oh-oh-hone ! "

They gave him a jug of small beer, which he drained to the bottom.

" D — d wishy-washy stuff that 1 — Cooling though. — That brandy has been
rather strong for me. — Hech-heh-heh, such a night !"

" Tell me seriously, Mr. Falconer," said Randal, " what you saw, and what
you heard."

" What I saw, and what I heard. That's very good ! He-he-he ! Very
good indeed ! Why, you see, master {/lickups) I — I saw the ghost — saw your
un-(/i:/t">f')nclc — state and form — never saw him better — {hick) quite jocular I
assure you."

" Did he indeed speak to you, Gilbert .-' "

" Speak ! To be sure— the whole night. — What did he else ?"

" By all means, then, if you can remember, tell us something that he aid-
if it were but one sentence."

" Remember ! Ay, distinctly. Every word. He-he-he-he ! ' Gilbert Fal-
coner,' says he ; 'Your glass is out.' He-he-he-he ! (and all this while Gilbert
was speaking in a treble voice and a tongue so altered with drunkenness, thai
it was difficult to understand what he said.) ' Your glass is out,' says he —It
was true too— there it stood as empty as it is at this moment. 'Gilbert {lUck)
Falconer,' says he, ' Your glass is out.'- ' Thank you, sir,' — says 1 — ' Thank
you for the hint, sir,' says — I — lle-hc-he ! — 'Your glass is out,' says he.—
'Thank you kindly, sir,' says I, 'for — the hint — You're quite a gentleman —
now,' says I, — He-he-he ! — ' Quite a gentleman,' says I — ' I have seen other
days with you.' He-he-he-he ! — 1 said so — I did, upon my honour. For
God's sake give me something to drink, will you .? Ay ; that was the way
of it — He-he-he-he !— ' Gilbert Falconer,' says he ; ' Your'" — {hick)

"The old intoxicated idiot is mocking us," said Randal; "There is nothing
to be made of such stuff as that."

"I never knew him tell a lie," said Mrs. Tallowchandler ; "even at the
dninkencst time I ever saw him. Would it please your honour to ask him
if that was the first sentence that the apparition spoke to him .' If we tan
bring what passed to his mind by dcgiees, he will tell us the truth.''

Gilbert was still sitting on the floor, rhyming over his story of the glass
and indulging in fits of idiotic laughter at it ; when Randal again returned to

24© THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

him, and aroused his further attention, by asking him if that was the ver>
first sentence that the ghost spoke to him ?

" The fust sentence ! — No. — Bless your honour, it was the last. — I took
the hint and- filled that champaign glass — full to the brim — of brandy. — I
thanked him lirst though — upon my honour, I did. — ' Thank you for the hint,
sir,' — says I — and drank it off. * Here's a good night's rest to us both,' says
I — I saw nae mair of him."

" Did he vanish away just then, Gilbert ?"

" 1 daresay he did ; {hick) at least, if he was there I did not see him. —If
there had been fifty ghosts it would have been the same to old Gibby. — I
think it's time wc had both a sleep, if your honour, or your honour's likeness,
or whatever you are, be speaking that way. So here's a "

" In what way do you mean, Gilbert ? What was he then speaking about ?"

"Did not I tell you.'"

" Not that I remarked. Or, if you did, it has escaped me."

" Tut ! I told you every syllable to the end.— Give me something to drink,
will you ? And remember I have won my five guineas."

" Well, here they are for you. Only you must first tell me distinctly, all
that passed from beginning to end."

" Odd's my life, how often would you hear it } I have told you it word for
word ten times. — ' Gilbert Falconer,' says he, — ' I think you are an honest
man.' — ' Thank you, sir,' says I. — ' You are come to the right way of thinking
at last,' says 1. — ' There was no word of that when I lost my bullership,' says
I. — ' It agreed very well with my constitution — that.' He-he-he ! 1 said so.
—He grew very serious then — I knew not what to do. — ' I am now in the
true world, and you still in the false one,' — said he — ' and I have reason to
believe you honest at heart ; therefore I have a sacred and — important charge
to give you — you must read through the Greek and Latin Classics.' — 'What?'
said I. — ' Yes,' said he, ' you must go through the classics from beginning to
end.' — 'I beg your pardon there,' — says I — 'Do this for me,' said he, 'else the
sand of your existence is run.' — 'W^hat?' said I — 'Why, the thing is out of
my power^ — if you are speaking that way, it is time we were both gone to
sleep.' — ' Gilbert Falconer,' says he, ' Your glass is run out' — ' Thank you
for the hint, sir,' says 1 — He-he-he ! — That was the best of it all — I thought
matters were growing too serious. — ' Thank you for the hint, sir,' says I — ' I
can replenish it ' — so I took a bumper to his better rest, that would have
given three men up their feet. — I saw no more. He may be standing here
yet for ought I know."

" Gilbert, you are endeavouring to amuse us with the mere fumes of a dis-
tempered imagination. It is impossible, and altogether unnatural, that one
should rise from the grave, and talk to you such flummery as this. Confess
honestly, that there is not one word of it true."

" True ? By this right hand it is true every word. May I never see the
light of heaven, if it is not the downright truth, as near as my memory retains
it. A man can answer for no more." As he said this, there was a glow of
seriousness in his drumly looks, as well as of anger that his word should
have been doubted.

" I will answer for it that it is true," said Mrs. Tallowchandler.

" So will I," said old Nicholas.

" But was it not a dream, Gilbert .''" inquired Randal.

" No," said Gilbert, with more steadiness than he had hitherto spoke, " I
saw your late uncle with my bodily eyes, in the very likeness in which I have
seen him in this apartment a thousand times — just as he wont to be, calm,
severe, and stern."

" Were you nothing terrified .''"

" Why, I cannot say I was perfectly at my ease. As far as I recollect, I
struggled hard to keep my courage up. — 1 did it. — This was the lad that
effected it. — This black bottle. — Come let us go down to the hall, and have
something to drink."

WELLDEAN HALL. 241

These were glorious days for old Gilbert, as long as the five guineas lasted !
Every night was spent at a little inn in the village, where he and Andrew
Car, gamekeeper, more properly game-destroyer, to the laird of Lamington,
had many a sappy night. Andrew was the prototype of his jolly master,
though only like the shadow to the great original ; yet it was agreed by the
smith and sutor Fergusson both, that Gilbert's wit predominated, at least, as
long as the five guineas lasted the matter was not to be disputed, and that
was not a very short time. At the inn where our old hearty cocks met, strong
whisky was sold at three-half-pence a gill, and brandy at twopence. Of course
sixpence each was as much as they could carry.

It is a pity that young men should ever drink ardent spirits. They have
too much fire in them naturally. But it is a far greater pity that old men
should ever want them. Drink reanimates their vital frame ; and, as they
recount the deeds of their youth, brings back, as it were, a temporary but
present enjoyment of those joyous days. It would have done any mans
heart good, to have seen the looks of full and perfect satisfaction that glowed
in the faces of these notable old men, every time that Gilbert compounded
the materials, grateful and inspiring, for a new reeking jug. How each sung
his old hackneyed song, heard from night to night, and from year to year,
but always commended — how they looked in each other's faces — shook each
other's hands, and stroked one another's bald crown ! It is a pity such old
men should ever want something to drink.

In all these nights of merriment and confidence, however, Gilbert would
never converse a word about the apparition. Whenever the subject was men-
tioned, he grew grave, and pretended to have forgot every circumstance
relating to the encounter ; and when told what he had said he only remarked
that he had not known what he was saying ; and it is not certain but by this
time he had reasoned himself into the belief that the whole was a dream.

After a long, dangerous, and wasting illness, Allan grew better. Gilbert
had visited him every day before he went to his carousals, and the attendants
were of opinion, that Allan's recovery was more owing to the directions he
gave for his treatment, than all that the medical men did for him. During the
height of the fever, in the wanderings of his imagination, he was constantly
calling on the name of Susan Somerville, and he generally called every one by
her name that came to his bedside. She was still nowhere to be found ; even
Randal, with all his assiduity, had not been able to trace her. But for nine
days running, there were two young ladies came in a coach every day to Mrs.
Mayder's door, where Allan still lay, and the one went up stairs and saw him,
while the other kept still in the coach.

As soon as his reason returned, his first enquiries were about Susan ; and,
as they were obliged to tell him the truth, it occasioned two or three relapses.
At length,^the guard of the mail coach flung down a letter. It was directed to
Mrs. Mayder ; but hers was only a blank cover, enclosing one to Allan. His
was without date, and simply as follows :

" I am glad of your recovery, and write this to entreat you not to distress
yourself on my accoimt ; for I am well, and situated to my heart's content.
Make no inquiries after me ; for, in the first place, it is impossible for you to
find me out, and moreover, were you to do so, 1 would not see you. Look to
our late uncle's affairs, only in as far as you are yourself concerned. I have
engaged another to see justice done to me. If I had not found more kindness
and generosity among strangers, than from my relatives and those I trusted,
hard indeed would have been the fale of

" SUS.-VN SOMKKVII.I.E."

Allan read the letter over and over, cried over it like a child ; iur his nerves
were weak and irritable by reason of his late severe illness ; and always,
between hands, thanked Heaven for her health and satcty. In the mean
time, he planned fifty schemes to find her out, and as many to bring about a
reconciliation. " I must have oftendcd her grievously," said lie to himself,
L »6

442 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

" but it has cost me dear, and I was so far from doing it intentionally, that at
that very time, I would cheerfully have laid down my life for her." He had only
one thing to console him ; he thought he discerned more acrimony m her
letter than was consistent with indiiference. He now got belter very fast ;
for his mind was constantly employed on one object, which relieved it of the
langour so injurious to one advancmg toward a state of convalescence.

In the mean while, Gilbert's drinking money was wearing low, which he
found would be an inconvenience for Andrew and him ; and the two made it
up one nighl over their jug, that they would watch for the ghost together, for
the same sum c.ich that Gilbert had formeily realized. One diliicuity occurred,
who it was that was to give them this. The laird had not been at Welldean
Hall for a long time ; and, as for Allan, his hnances were so low that he could
not spare them so nnich, though they had no doubt he would gladly have given
triple the sum to have this mybtery further explored. At the first proposal of
the subject, Andrew Car was averse to it ; but as their fmances wore nearer
and nearer to an end, he listened proportionally with more patience to
Gilbert's speculations ; and always at their parting, when considerably drunk,
they agreed perfectly on the utility of the experiment. It is inaecd believed
that Ciilbcrt had anxious and fearful desires of a further communication with
this unearthly visitant, of whose identity and certainty of appearance he had
no doubt. Nicholas had once seen it in the twilight, beckoning him from the
garden towards the library ; and he himself had again at midnight seen and
conversed with it f;ice to face ; but from all that he could gather, the charges
which it then gave him, appeared to have been so whimsical, he could make
nothing of their meaning. That a spirit should come from the unseen world,
to induce a man of his age to begin a course of studies in Greek and Latin, a
study that he always abhorred, was a circumstance only to be laughed at, yet it
was impossible he could divest himself of a consciousness of its reality.

On the other hand, he perceived there was something radically wrong in
the appropriation of his late master's effects. His will was lost, or had been
fraudulently concealed ; and those to whom he was sure the late laird intended
leaving the best share of his immense fortune, were thus cut off from any, save
a trivial part contained in moveables. It was no wonder that Gilbert, who
was a well informed single-hearted man, was desirous if possible to see those
righted, whom he conceived to have been so grossly wronged, and whom he
now saw in very hard circumstances ; but, alas, he did not know the worst !

From the time that Allan received the letter irom Susan, to that of his com-
plete recovery, he had done nothing but formed schemes how to discover his
fair cousin ; and after discussing them thoroughly for nights and days together,
he pitched on the right one. He knew there was a young lady in Edinburgh,
the only daughter of a reverend professor, with whom Susan had been inti-
mate at the boarding-school, and still kept up a correspondence, 'i'hough
Allan had never seen this young lady; yet as he knew Susan was shy of her
acquaintance, and had so few in the metropolis that she knew anything

about, he conceived that she must either be living with Miss B , or that

the latter was well aware of her circumstances, and the place of her con-
cealment.

He knew that if he applied personally or by letter, he would be repulsed ;
and thereiore went to Edinburgh, and took private lod^^ings, with a determina-
tion to watch that house day and night rather than not see who was in it, and to

dog Miss 13 wherever she went, assured that she would visit Miss Somer-

ville often, if they were not actually living together. His surmises were
right, lie soon discovered that Susan was living in this worthy professor's

house, and not very privately either. She walked abroad with Miss B

every good day.

Allan, full o; joy, flew to his brother's rooms, and communicated to him the
intelligence of the happy discovery he had made, intending at the same time,
to settle with Randal how they were to act, in order to regain their cousin's
confidence. He found Randal confined to his room, undergoing a course of

WELLDEAN HALL. 243

severe medicines, he having made rather too free with his constitution. He
professed great satisfaction at hearing the news, yet there appeared a confused
reserve in his manner that Allan did not comprehend. But the former was
soon relieved from his restraint, by a visit from two of his associates in dissi-
pation. The conversation that then ensued, astounded Allan not a little, who
had led a retired and virtuous life. He never before had weened that such
profligate beings existed. They laughed at his brother's illness, and seemed
to exult in it, telling him they had taken such and such mistresses off
his hand until he got better, and therefore they hoped he would enjoy his
couch for six months at least. Their language was all of a piece. Allan was
disgusted, and left the house ; and then Randal displayed to his honourable
associates how he stood with his charming cousin ; and how, if it were not for
that whining, sweet-milk boy, his brother, whom the foolish girl affected, he
could be in possession of that incomparable rose in a few days. He told
them where she was, within a few doors of him. One of the bucks had got a
sight of her, and declared her the finest girl that ever bent a busk, and both
of them swore she should not escape tlieir fraternity, were she locked in the
seraglio of the grand Seignior. Long was tlie consultation, and many pro-
posals highly honourable were brought forward, but these it is needless to
enumerate, as the one adopted will appear in the setiucl.

Both Allan and Susan had received charges of horning on debts to a con-
siderable amount, after their uncle's death. Allan applied to his brother, in
whom he still placed the most implicit confidence, who promised that he
would instantly cause a man of business to pay them all up to a fraction. This
he actually did ; but the man who transacted this for him, was a low specious
attorney, quite at his employer's steps. He had plenty of Randal's money in
his hand, but these bills were not particularly settled. This was a glorious
discovery. Captions were served in the country, the one at Mrs. Mayder's,
the other at Welidean, as the places of residence of the two debtors, and none
of them being there, the time expired. The attorney had got his cue ; the
unsuspecting lovers were watched apart, and both of them seized and conveyed
to jail, but each of them quite unconscious of what had happened to the other.
Allan wrote instantly to his brother, expostulating with him on his negligence.
He answered him civilly, but carelessly ; telling him, that he had neglected to
settle with the scoundrelly attorney, having run himself short of cash, but that
he would lose no time in getting the affair settled. However, as his health
was so bad, he begged of Allan to have a little patience, and not to accept of
relief from any other person, else he would be both grieved and affronted.
Allan lay still in prison, and waited, but waited in vain.

Susan was seized in the Canongate, at three o'clock, as she was returning

with Miss B , from viewing the palace of Holyrood. The latter was so

confounded, that she would have fainted on the street, had she not been
supported by some ladies and gentlemen that were passing at the time. Susan
suffered herself to be taken into custody in dumb dismay, never opening her
lips. One of Randal's worthy and genteel associates was near at hand, to
abuse the messenger, the turnkey, and every one connected with the disgraceful
affair ; and, at the same lime offered to become bound for the whole debt, and
take the lady off with him.

This being a business that required some consideration, his proposal was
little attended to by the men in office, who regarded it as mere fustian ; but
poor Susan, in the forlorn and helpless state in which she found herself, could
not help being struck with the young stranger's generosity, and thanked him
in moving terms ; but at the same time rejected his kind offer, and assured
him she would soon be relieved. He swore he would rather see all Edinburgh
burnt to ashes, ere he left such a lady in prison, and if she was determined not
to accept of a temporary rescue from him, by — , he would remain in prison with
Jier, till he saw her relieved in some w.iy more suited to her ideas of dcconim.
She reminded him, that such a proceeding would be the reverse of all decorum
whalsoc\er, and however much she might value hii company, there was a ne-

244 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

cessity that he should leave her to herself and her own resources. No, no ;
he would be — if he would. She should either go with him or he would re-
main with her, any of the alternatives she chose. It would be a disgrace to
leave a lady in such circumstances, and he disclaimed the idea of it. — the
rascals, they should not want money. Did they think that he could not pay
them the paltry sum of four or five hundred pounds, the confounded puppies?
Rot their ugly bodies, if he would think much to dust hell with them !

Susan smiled at the e.\travagancc of the young man ; but though it was a
smile of pity, it made him still more outrageous. He cursed all lawyers and
attorneys, as well as all people to whom ever debts were owing, sending them
all to a place of retribution with one sweep. By the Lord Harry ! if he were
a messenger at arms, if any low-lifed miserable whelp desired him to seize and
inmiurc a lady in such a place as that in which they sat, d — n him, he would
scatter his brains for him. '• And such a lady as they have lodged here to-
night I " said he, wiping his eyes, " 1 beg your pardon, madam ; but I can
easily see that this is some vile plot ; for you are born, bred, and educated to
other fortune than this. For Heaven's sake, let me disappoint the culprits,
and convey you to a place of safety ; 1 have given you my name. I am a
gentleman, and a man of honour, I hope — Suffer me to write to some friends,
and relieve you forthwith ! "

Miss Somerville positively declined his intervention for the present, and
entreated that she might be left to her own thoughts, and her own resources ;
yet still she did it in liiat civil and affectionate way, that the puppy believed,
or affected to believe, that she wished him rather to stay. " But are you sure
the ragamuffin scoundrels will do you no harm .'' " said he, and without waiting
for an answer, returned one himself " Confound them, if 1 like their looks very
well, though. No, no, madam ; you must forgive me, but in truth 1 have not
the heart to leave you here by yourself Sufter me but to write to some friends ;
d — me, rU raise all Edinburgh, but I'll have you set at liberty. I'll bring
Major Graham, and all the soldiers in the castle, to storm the old hovel, before
I leave you here ; L — how the artillery-men would smatter it down about the
ears of the scoundrels ! Suffer me to write to my friends, or some of yours ;
it is all one, provided I get you out here."

Susan continued obstinate ; telling him she would write to her own friends
herself, if he would be so kind as give her leisure ; and as for his agency, she
assured him again that she was not at liberty to accept of it. He continued,
however, to wrangle with her on that score, to flatter her one while, and abuse

her creditors another, until the arrival of Professor B , who sent in his name,

and asked admission, his daughter having alarmed him, and hurried him away
to the prison, without so much as knowing what was the matter. The spark
then bowed and made off, as somewhat alarmed, saying, he would call again.
The reverend divine and he passed one another immediately within the door
of the apartment. The buck bowed, and then cocked up his head again con-
siderably to the leeward of the perpendicular line, while the professor stared
him in the face, as striving to recollect him. Both passed on, and the cause
of meeting with Miss Somerville, the place, and the subject they had to con-
verse on, quite banished from the professor's mind to ask who her gay visitor
was. This parson came, honest man ! with the full intent of relieving Miss
Somerville ; but when he heard the amount of the debt, he blenched and
turned pale. It was not a sum for a poor clergyman, who had a family of his
own, to part with off-hand. Indeed, what man in the same vocation would
have done it, for a young lady, almost a stranger, who had run herself into so
much debt so early, and whom her natural guardians, it appeared, had not
thought it prudent to relieve. He had, besides, heard so much of her senti-
ments relating to her cousin, the present laird, when he received her into his
house, that he had small hopes of being reimbursed there, and that appeared
to be the lady's principal dependence. In short, they could come to no con-
clusion whereby to obtain immediate relief. Miss Somerville proposed that
he should borrow the sum on the security of her shaie of her uncle's effects;

WELLDEAN HALL. 245

but even there the hero of faith without works discovered that he would be
involved, and fought shy : but concluded by observing, that, " something be-
hoved to be done immediately."

Before leaving the place, the professor had some conversation with the
keeper, who informed him, that the young gentleman, the lady's friend, who
was lately gone, had bespoken the best apartment that was unoccupied in that
part of the jail appropriated to debtors ; and, in case she was detained, every
accommodation befitting her rank. He then asked the keeper, who that
gentleman was ? He named him, name, surname, and title : the divine shook
his head, knowing him to be one of the most notorious profligates in the
kingdom, and left the prison nothing improved in his estimation of Miss
Somerville, and almost resolved, whatever his daughter might say, to leave
her to shift for herself.

When it was wearing late, Mr. M' , Randal's gallant friend, returned

to the prison, sent in his name and compliments to Susan, and after some
demur was admitted. What would not youth and innocence grasp at for
deliverance, if shut up within the walls of a prison, and the darksome niglit
approaching.-* Alas ! the female heart clings too fondly to proffered kindness,
especially in times of danger or distress ; without suspecting or endeavouring
to weigh the selfish principles from which the apparent generosity springs,
the guileless heart judges from its own motions. It had been agreed among

the associates that M' was never to mention Randal's name ; else, as the

latter alleged, Susans delicacy in that point would ruin all ; and as he was

run quite short of ready cash, and in an infirm slate of health, M' was to

pay the greater part of Miss Somerville's debt, on condition that he had the
honour of seducing her.

Well, into Susan's apartment he came, bringing ^200 with him in notes,
and offering his personal bond for the rest, payable in two months with
interest. Susan made many objections, but actually wept with gratitude at
the disinterested kindness of the gallant young man. The attorney was
consulted ; but he had got his cue, and after many hems and haws, and
repetitions of learned law terms, consented, so that the poor innocent cygnet
was now left fairly in the power of the fox. She had likewise given her
consent, with an overflowing heart ; but, at the last, when everything was
arranged for her departure, some slight demur arose about the place whereto
she was to be taken. She insisted on being taken to the house of Professor

B , but this her benevolent guardian angel as violently protested against,

declaring that the divine was unworthy of her confidence ; a cold-hearted,
calculating worldling, who had gone off with a few dubious expressions, and
left her in the prison without asking any more after her, or coming back even
to wish her a good night.

" To what place do you then propose to take me in the meantime ? " said
Susan.

" I propose to take you to a relation of my own," said he, " who keeps a
boarding house for young ladies of quality, where you may either remain for
a season, or for a few nights, or weeks, as you feel disposed."

" But will it not look awkward for an utter stranger to go to such a house ?
How can I expect that the mistress will receive, among young ladies of
quality, a girl just relieved from prison, and going to her house at this time
of the evening, in company with a gentleman whom she never saw, till
a disagreeable circumstance procured her the honour of his friendship this
present day?"

" Why, the truth is, that I know no woman on earth who is so particular
about the character of her inmates as my worthy friend is. She must have
the most absolute proofs of their capabilities, tempers, and dispositions,
and is strict in these matters almost to a proverb. But it so h.-ip])ens, that
with her my word or will is a law. 1 have been a good friend to her
house. My purse has been open to her by day and by night, and, in short,
my fortune almost at her disposal. Into that house, therefore, you are

246 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

certain of admittance. There you are perfectly safe, and from thence
you can write to your friends, and arrange everything in future as you shall
choose."

" Well, you are so generous and so candid, that I can never distrust your

honour. I will send for Miss B to your friend's house, and consult with

her there, and must trust myself to your protection for the night. What is
the name of your friend, to whose house 1 am going?"

" Mrs. M' , St. James' Street."

" Very well."

What a dreadful confusion the ghost made at Welldean Hall that night!
It was not as if one disturbed sinner had arisen from his grave only, but as if
all his warlike progenitors for many ages had returned to that scene of
bustle and array during their stern pilgrimage on this sphere. Scarcely had
the rubied west lost its summer dyes, and twilight drawn her shadowy veil
over the full blown bosom of nature, when the inmates of Welldean heard a
noise as if half a score of men had been tearing down the shelves and books
of the library, and dashing them on the lloor. Nothing like it had ever been
heard in the house before. All the domestics, high and low (for there is no
class of people among whom such a subordination of rank is preserved),
crowded into the housekeeper's room, huddling one behind another, and
testifying by their looks the mortal terror and astonishment that overwhelmed
their hearts.

Little wonder was it ! The noise continued to increase and redouble. It
grew, that it was not only as if the old folios had been dashed down in a rage
on the tloor, but as if the roof and rafters had been plucked down, and put
into the hands of infernal giants to smash the building in pieces to its
foundations. This turmoil was ocasionally accompanied, when at the loudest,
by a voice such as man never heard. It was not like any sound produced
by art, nor was it precisely like thunder ; but they all agreed, that there was
nothing in nature to which it bore so strong a resemblance as a flooded
roaring cataract uttering human words. Gilbert was down in the village
at his cups ; but, low as they rated him, in this dilemma he was sent for.
The work of devastation above stairs continued and grew. The house-
keeper begged of them all to join in prayer. This they were very willing to
do, for they saw no other staff on which they could lean ; but then there was
none to lead them. Mrs. Tallowchandler said, though she was a poor, weak,
and sinful woman she would attempt it. Who knew but Heaven would have
mercy on them ? They all kneeled, and the good woman began ; but her
sentences were few and disjointed ; and she continued repeating and repeating
the same thing, till those around her were beginning to lose their gravity. At
the first, when they began, and all were devoutly serious, every noise was
hushed. The sudden stillness that ensued was in itself awful. Let erring
and presumptuous man be assured of this, that the devotion of the heart
never fails having influence in heaven, while all lukewarmness and indiffer-
ence in sacred things is only a mockery of the Almighty, and ought but
protection may be expected therefrom. At the beginning all was still ; and
the fiends, of which the house seemed full, appeared to be hushed and
quelled, by the simple words of prayer devoutly offered up; but no sooner did
the reverence due to that Being before whom they professed to be kneeling
begin to subside, than the noise began gradually to increase ; and, as Mrs.
Tallowchandler was continuing her imbecile repetitions, it came rushing
nearer and nearer, like a speaking whirlwind, till at length it burst opcr the
door of the apartment where they were assembled, and stunned them with a
deafening yell. It was a sort of half-howling half-whistling sound ; but
nothing was seen. Mrs. Tallowchandler joined it with a loud scream, and
went into hysterics. No one regarded her. The female part of the family
were all huddled into corners, and all uttering the same kind of shivering
moaning sound. The men were sitting on their seats in a half-stooping

WELLDEAN HALL. 247

posture, with their shoulders up, their hair standing' on end, and their eyes
bent fearfully on the door. " May the Lord Almighty preserve us ! " cried
old Nicholas. " Amen ! " cried a hollow tremulous voice, at a distance.
" And some that are better than you all ! amen ! "

None durst venture to go out in order to escape ; for the inhabitants of
another world seemed now to be crowding the passages between them and
the door ; neither durst they throw themselves into the sunk area ; for there
was a story below them ; though every one would gladly have been out, even
though kingdoms had been their ransom. But when the women heard
Nicholas, the gardener, pronounce the above sacred and serious words, with
the mysterious response that was added, from a feeling that the wrath of the
spirit was appeased by it, they called on Nicholas with one voice, " Oh !
Nicholas, pray! pray! for God's sake, pray!" Nicholas obeyed without
delay ; and in the agony of his heart prayed with great fervour. But in the
course of a few sentences, his prayer grew selfish, and he began to mention
his own fears — his own personal safety and well-being. .Such imperfections
cling to man's nature ! The rest could not join with him in his petitions,
forgetting themselves ; and they felt sorry that the tenor of his words was of
that nature that they could not. The derisions of the spirit were withheld by
Heaven no longer than this principle of self began to develope its cringing,
cowardly, abominable features. A distant laugh of scorn was heard to begin
as if in the library, with a hollow shaking tone, like that uttered by the
bittern at midnight ; but it increased every moment till it made the house
tremble, and drew nigher and nigher, until the chairs on the floor began to
totter. It seemed again approaching to the back of the door with tenfold
violence. The heart of human being could not stand it. Some of the men
that were next to the windows flung them open, and threw themselves into the
area below. It was amazing with what celerity the rest followed, darting out
at the windows head foremost, as swift as doves from their pigeon-holes,
when scared in their habitation. In half a minute the whole family, consisting
of nearly forty individuals, were weltering in three heaps on the gravel that
bedded the sunk way, and every one escaped as best he could, and ran for
the village.

What a figure they cut when they went there ! Every one was covered
with blood ; for those who were not cut, and mangled in the fall, were all
blooded over by the rest who were. They looked like so many demons them-
selves ; and they found that the housekeeper and two of the maids were
missing ; on which they rationally concluded, that they having been the
greatest sinners, the spirit had got power over them, and taken them with him.
The villagers were petrified ; appearing to be even more confounded, and at
their wits' end, as the saying is, than the fugitives themselves.

While these things which have been narrated were going on at the hall,
Gilbert, and Andrew Car, late gamekeeper to the laird of Lamington, were
enjoying themselves at the public-house. They were both right far forward in
their evening carousal, when the messenger from the hall arrived, to entreat
Gilbert's attendance without a moment's delay. Gilbert was in no such con-
founded hurry ; he helped himself to a glass, Andrew Car to another, and the
boy to a third.

" Here's for you, Master Rory, my good fellow ; take this off to to help

your wind ; and then tell us out your s story at the utmost leisure. It is

all buffoonery to be in such a haste. What signifies it to run puffing and
— blowing through the world in that guise. — Here's to you, boy. — Your good
health, I say. Master Rory. Sit down, sirrah, and take time, I tell you. Is it
not the best way, Andrew Car?"

Now Andrew had one peculiarity of which I must apprize my readers, that
they may understand him aright. He had a very rapid utterance. Many a
man speaks quick, but there never was a man in the world spoke half so (juick
as Andrew Car. A certain printer in Edinburgh was a mere joke to him ; a
title-page, or an erratum to a volume, as it were ; his utterance was ten times

248 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

more rapid than Mr. . Therefore, in going over the part of this dialogue

that belongs to Andrew, the reader must pronounce the words quicker by
seventeen degrees than he ever heard a tongue utter them before. Andrew had
likewise two keys tiiat he spoke on, C sharp, and G natural, and his voice had
no more but these, either intermediate or subordinate. He took the former
on all occasions when his passions were ruftled, particularly when he dis-
approved highly of any thing, and the latter in his ordinary conversation. I
shall therefore put down all the sentences adapted by him to the former key
in italic characters, that every one may go on with him, and understand him
thoroughly. I hate that my characters, which are all drawn from nature,
should not be properly comprehended.

" Should not a man always do a thing leisurely, Andrew Car ? — Is it not the
best and most eligible way?"

" Ooo-yes-yes — rightCiibby — right-Gibby — Gibby-Gibby-Gibby — right-
right — luck-o'-leisure-Gibby — luck-luck — billy-luck-luck."

" I say, Master Rory — my boy — do you — hear — that.-* Is not that a beauti-
ful specimen — of — Andrew Car's theory and mine ? Eh.-*^ — He-he-he-he— Eh ?
Is it not, lad?"

" Oh, Mr. Gilbert, I have not time. Mrs. Tallowchandler and a' the fowk
sent me to gar you come hame directly, an' pray against the ghost. Oh,
Gibby, the bogle has been very ill the night, an' we a' suspect it's the deil."

"The deil. Air. Rory ! the deil ! Did you say it was the deil, lad? — My
faith— my man — if it be the deil— that's another thing than a bogle, let me
tell you."

" He's layin' about him at an awfu' rate ; an' gio ye dinna come an' speak
to him, an' lair him, or pray him down, he'll soon hae a' the house about their
lugs. When I came alang the ithcr wauk, rinnin' wi' fright, I heard a kind o'
hooning sound, an' 1 lookit ower my shoulder, an'— — Mercy! what d'ye think
I saw ? I saw the deil i' the shape o' the auld laird, but as hcegh as an ordinar
tree, standin' on the gavel wa' wi' a great burnin' kipple in his hand ; an' he
had a' the house daddit down the length o' the third storey. O Gibby, haste
an' gang hame, and see if aught can be done."

" What can be done, boy ! why, nothing can be done to pacify him, but
reading Latin and Greek. — Nothing but going through the classics. We'll go,
however. Andrew, you are a scholar, and have the Greek."

" Ooo, no-no-no-no-no— Gibby-Gibby-Gibby — no-Greek, billy — no-Greek —
no-Greek— no- Greek — no-no-no-no-no-no.'

"Well, but we shall go, howsoever. You know we have now agreed to go
together and speak to it. I am in a proper key to go any where — we'll go —
it is as well soon as late, when the family is in extremity — we'll be well re-
warded— come, let us go."

" Oooo-no-tio — Gibby-Cibby-Gibby — ftoi-iJie-m]pht — tiot-the-night — not-the-
night — some-other — some-other — some-other — madness-billy — madness-mad-
ness-madness— folly-folly-folly — 'nother-gill — 'nother-gill — 'nother-gill."

" Boy — give my compliments — to Mrs. Tallow — chandler, and tell her, that
my — friend, Mr. Car, dares not come to-night, because the ghost is irritated —
and it is dangerous to meddle with him ; but "

" Tnie-Gibby — true-truc-true — right-billy — right-billy — right-right-right.
Kittle-business — kittle-business— kittle-kittle-kittle — 'nother-gill — 'nother-gill
—'nother-gill — lass-lass-lass — gill-gill-gill."

" But as I was saying — if it is the deil he must have a sacrifice before he
lay. They must give him one of their number, which may well be spared."

" Sacrifice ? sacrifice — what-Gibby — what-Gibby — what-what-what — sacri-
fice— sacrifice — fie-fie-fie — no-no-no-no-no.''

" It is a literal fact, sir— and well known to all exorcists. They must do it
by lot, tell them, boy. Even if Satan should appear when we two watch to-
gether, we must cast lots which of us is to be his to appease him. Or, for
instance, if I am the speaker, 1 have the power and right to consign you over
to him."

WELLDEAN HALL. 249

" Oooo-no-no-7io — Gibhy-Gibhy-Cibby — no-no-no — no-riqht — no-ri':^ht — no-
right-billy — no-ito-no-tio-no — living-soul — living-soul — not-yours — not-yours-
billy — not-yours — no-no-no-no —soul-soul — soul-billy — not-do — not-do— not-
do — no-no-no-no."

" I will reason this matter with you, my worthy friend ; suppose you and I
make a contract together — to go and watch an incensed spirit, which, to a
certainty, makes its appearance — we take our chance together, you know —
why, is it not better that one of us should make a sacrilke of the other, than
that it should take us both? or, for instance, if you take it on you to address
him "

" No-no-billy — not-address — not-address — not-speak — not-speak — no-no-
no-no-no — Too-quick — too-quick — too-quick-quick. 'Stonish-him — 'stonish-
him — 'stonish-him. All-wrang-Gibby — all-wrang — all-wrang — all-wrang-
wrang-wrang. Precious-soul-billy — precious-soul — precious-soul — precious-
soul-soul-soul. Gibby-lad — Gibby-lad — Gibby-lad. Have-you-there — have-
you-there — have-you-there — ha-ha-ha ! SouI-soul-soul-Gibby-lad — Gibby-lad
— ha-ha-ha-ha-ha ! "

This sort of argument used by Andrew Car is the worst to answer of all
others, because the rest of the company severally join in it, and then the
argument is at an end. At this time it was used by Andrew in such a way
that it had precisely that effect. Gilbert joined in the laugh, and the game-
keeper chuckled and crowed over his victory.

Another smoking jug having by this time been made, the dilemma of the
family at the hall was soon totally forgotten ; even the lad Roderick said
little more about it, having no wish to return ; and there they sat till they were
found out and joined by their bloody and half-deranged companions. And
then, drunk as the two veterans were, the strangeness of the tale made them
serious for a little, though always disposed, in a short time, to forget the sub-
ject. Nothing could cheer the hearts of the fugitives in the smallest degree.
The horrid scene that they had escaped from, and the loss of their three com-
panions, held their minds chained up in utter dismay. They marvelled what
the ghost would do with the three women. Some said he would tear them
limb from limb ; some that he would take them to a high rock, and throw
them headlong down ; and some said that he would take them away to hell
with him, soul and body ; but none thought of attempting a rescue.

It chanced, however, to come into Gilbert's recollection, that he lay under
many obligations to the fat housekeeper, for many a scold, and many a glass
of strong beer and queich of brandy beside; and he gallantly proposed to go,
for one, to the hall, and see if any remains of the women were left. No one
would join him, a circumstance that always had the effect of exalting Gilbert's
courage, and he persisted in his resolution, advancing many half-intcUigible
arguments in favour of the measure, which none of them regarded, till he
turned his eyes on Andrew, and remarked, that he surely would not desert
him, as he was always noted for befriending the fair sc.x.

" Ha-ha-ha, Gibby-Gibby-Gibby — some-ways-billy — some-ways — some-
ways — some-ways-good-at-a-pinch — good-at-a-pinch — good-at-a-pinch — Gib-
by-lad—hah-hah-hah-hah !"

"Then you surely will accompany me, Mr. Car.'' — Ehi* — aren't you.'' — you
are bound in honour, sir. — Eh?"

" Don't-know-Gibby— don't-know— don't-know. No-joke-lhis— no-joke —
no-joke— no-joke-at-all-billy. Long-spoon-sup- wi'-the-deil — long-spoon-sir —
long-spoon. — Not-safe — not-safe — not-safe-at-all-sir — no-no-no-no-no-no.'

" Why, Mr. Andrew — let — me — tell you, sir— arc you a man of honour —
and courage, sir, as I always took you for, eh ? "

" Ooo-yes-yes-yes-ycs— hope-so — hope-so — hope-so-Gibby— hope-so."

" Then what the devil are you afraid of, sir? Eh ? I would defy the devil,
the world, and the flesh, and despise them."

" Oooo-no-no- Gibb y- Gibby —no-no-no-7io — no!- the- 'iVorht- and- 1 It f- flesh — not-
the-world-and-ihc-jUsh — no-no-no-uo. N ought- bchind-at-all-Gibby—nouj^ht-

250 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES,

behind -at -all — no-no-no-no. Not-do-sir — not-do-billy — not-do— not-do—
not -do. I lave -you -there — have -you -there — have -you -there — ha- ha-ha-
ha-ha. '

" Mr. Car, I know you to be a man of spirit. lih .'' — I will lead the way —
Will you go, or will you not .'' Eh .'"'

This was a home thrust ; there was no evading it. Andrew was obhged to
acquiesce, make a virtue of necessity, and value himself on his courage.
Accordingly, Gilbert taking a brilliant lanthorn in his left hand, a stout staff
in his right, and Andrew Car at his shoulder, staggered away to Welldean
Hall as well as he could, well convinced, that though his companion had
less drink in his head, he had likewise less courage at his heart, and therefore
Gilbert was determined to show ^that night, and in no wise to manifest fear
for any created being. Andrew, though not c[uite so confident, had yet a cer-
tain character of manhood to support, which he judged it quite incumbent on
him to retain ; he could never otherwise have shown his face in soical circle
more. Up the street they went, not keeping e.xactly the same line of longitude.
Gilbert sometimes took a swing, first the one way and then Jie other, like a
ship beating up against a breeze.

" Come-come-come-Gibby-Gibby-Gibby — straight-straight-billy — straight-
straight. Laugh-at-us-sir — laugh-at-us— -laugh-laugh-laugh-laugh-sir — steady-
steady."

"Steady — do — you — say — Mr. Car? — We'll see — by — and — by — who is
most steady. Come on, my brave fellow."

P'orward they went as they best could. The way was well known to
Gilbert. His feet knew it by instinct, for many a hundred nights had they
traced it, when their eyes were as completely closed as if they had been tied
up with a napkin. The distance from the village to the hall was scarcely a
mile and a half through the fields. When they were about half-way, Andrew,
whose hearing was more acute than his associate's, began to mumble ancl
speak with more than ordinary velocity, and drew Gilbert always to one side.
The latter refused to go in any other direction than that in which he was pro-
ceeding, and a few paces onward the cause of Andrew's agitation became
apparent. The most dismal groans were heard at about fifty yards' distance
in the field. As soon as they fell on Gilbert's ears he heaved his lanthorn,
and turned off towards the place from whence the sounds proceeded. Andrew
instantly look his high key on C sharp, and poured forth such a torrent of speech
that no man could take up a distinct sentence of it. They were all terms of de-
cided disapprobation of Gilbert's adventure ; but the only sounds that fell on
his ear, that he could call language, were some such words as these :

" Tell-ye-Gibhy-Gibby — tell-ye-tell-ye-tell-ye-tell-ye. h'oo-no-no-no-nono.
Make-nor-meddle-7nake-7tor-t7ieddle-iiiake-)ior-7neddle — 710-710-710-710. Sleepi7ig-
dogs-lye-dogs-lye-dogs-lye — tcll-ye-tell-ye-tell-ye-Cibby-Gibbyl' &.c.

Gilbert, without regarding this water-spout of human breath, proceeded
straight onward to the object of his concern. Andrew was sometimes
shouldering away, and sometimes drawing after the light, while the words by
degrees died away from his tongue ; but the same sound still continued, and
became very like the sounds uttered by the bird, called in this country the
Heather lUcalcr, when he wings the air in the gloaming. Gilbert, to his sin-
cere grief, found his old friend and associate, Mrs. Tallowchandler, lying
stretched on the ground, unable to rise, moaning grievously. She told him,
after blessing him for his kind concern, that her leg was broken ; on which he
called stoutly to Andrew for assistance. Andrew a)iproaclicd, speaking all the
way. " Told-ye-told-ye-told-ye," he was saying as became half running; and,
■when he saw who it was, and how grievously she was hurt, it is impossible to
describe his manner, and the confusion of ideas that intruded themselves on
his imagination ; but always between he seemed to blame Gilbert for coming to
her, as if that had been the cause of her mislortune. " Told-ye — told-ye — told-
ye— told-ve. Would-not-be-tokl — would-not-be-told — no-no-no-no. Broken-
broken -broken -broken.'' Goo -no -no -no -no -no — impobsible- impossible.

WELLDEAN HALL. 251

Broken-broken-broken ? What-what-what-what-what ? Ooo-no-no-no-no-no-

no." And so on he went.

(iilbert, in the heij,'ht of his zeal and friendship, proposed, that Andrew and
he should carry the hurt woman to the village; and, setting down his lanthorn,
the two essayed the task, untit even tor a Hercules to perform. Andrew lifted
her shoulders, and Gilbert her feet ; and having with diliiculty heaved her
about two inches from the ground, they began to move toward the village,
Andrew in a retrograde direction and Gilbert pushing forward behind.
Scarcely had they gained five feet in their progress toward the doctor, when
the weight and pressure upon Andrew cause his heels to dip in the soil, and
laid him fairly on his back ; while Gilbert fell with his full weight above his
fair injured friend, who screamed and groaned most piteously. 'i'he former of
these sounds serving as a pitch-pipe to Andrew, who took his high sharp
key —

" Told-ye-told-ye-told-ye-told-ye — body's-mad-body's-mad-body's-mad —
hout- hout- hout- out - out- out. Nevcr-do-never-do-never-do-never-do — no-no-
no-no-no-no."

" What, did you mean to tumble down there, sir ? The man has not the
strength of a weazel ! But he is drunk," said Gilbert. " Weazel-weazel-
weazel-weazel .'' What - what - what - what - what- d'ye -say - d'ye-say- d'ye - say 1
Bod/s-mad-body's-body's-mad — >rm-h'm-h'm-h'm — weazel-weazel-weazel .""'

Mrs. Tallowchandler put an end to this growing heat and controversy
between our two heroes, by begging, that in pity, they would return to the
village, and bring or send a cart. Andrew took the lanthorn and ran back to
the village ; but Gilbert stayed to condole with his old friend, and lend her any
kind office he was able until Andrew's return with the cart ; and a frightful
detail she there gave him of the incidents that had occurred at the hall in tlie
evening, and confirmed the boy's strange asseveration that the ghost had
nearly levelled the building.

A horse and cart soon came, with the doctor and apothecary in attendance,
and in it they laid the housekeeper, whose limb the doctor found not to be
broken, but sprained, and much swelled. The expedition of our two heroes
to the hall was thus broken off, Andrew not having judged it proper to return,
and Gilbert totally forgetting it, in the misfortune of his friend, with whom he
stayed during the remainder of the night, comforting and encouraging her.
Indeed, as soon as she found that her leg was not broken, she grew as com-
municative and whiuisically superstitious as ever. Sore she regretted that
Gilbert was not there to have spoke to the old laird, when he came in among
them, "roaring like a elephant," as she expressed it ; and Gilbert rather
wished that he had, since matters had come to such a pass, assuring her in the
mean time, that he and his friend Andrew had agreed to sit up in the library
a night together, sometime or other, to see if they could learn what it was that
the old laird had to communicate ; and now, since his master's servants were
all driven from the house, if she (Mrs. Tallowchandler) would countenance the
matter, he thought the sooner the better, and he had no objection that it
should be the following night. She commended his undaunted and manly
spirit ; promised that she would see them well rewarded ; and moreover, that
they should nave the keys of the cellar and larder, and want for no enlertain-
ment that the hall could afford ; and thus, before morning, the matter was
finally settled between them.

As soon as the sun arose, all the servants hurried up to the mansion-house
to witness the devastations of the last night, expecting that there would
scarcely be one stone left standing on another. Hy the way, they discovered
that the two young females that were amissing the evening before had both
joined the party ; but both kept a mysterious silence whither they had been.
In the beginning of next year, however, it began to be suspected, that the one
had lodged with a journeyman tailor, and the other witli the ajjothccary's ap-
prentice, in the village. Such a dispensation as that they had met with was
^n excuse for people doing any thing !

252 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

At the hall every thing was in its usual style. There was not an item in-
jured or inisplacecl from the bottom to the top of the house ; not a book in the
library was altered, nor any one thing that they could discern ; all was stand-
ing in state and form as they left it, with the doors bolted and the windows
barred, all save those out at which they had elTected their escape. This was
the most wonderful thing of all ! People could no more trust their own
senses !

It is a difficult matter to tell a story as it should be told ; for, after the party
separates it is necessary to lly always from one to another, to bring them for-
ward to the same notch of time. In conformity with this laudable measure,
the writer of this notable tale must return to his fair fugitive, whom he left in
circumstances more perilous than any of his readers can well suppose, or than
any of her connexions, save her uncle's spirit, seemed to be aware of. If they
were, they took no concern about the matter. Had Allan known of her
danger, how his heart would have been wrung ! but he concealed his name
and disgrace from every one save his brother, who was in no hurry to relieve
him, until the gallant triumvirate had accomplibhed their purposes with Susan,
which the greater part of my readers will remember was wearing but too near
to a consummation. These are, I know, quite impatient to get into a detail of
all the circumstances ; but there are some incidents that it is painful for an
author to enumerate, and it is only in adherence to truth that he submits to
the ungracious task. Without them, the tale cannot go on, so they must
be told. The circumstances in the present case were then precisely as
follows. .........

" Well, 1 must trust to your protection for this night," said Susan. " What
is the name of the lady, your friend, to whose house I am going?"

" Mrs. M' of St. James Street," said he.

" Very well." She took her Indian shawl about her shoulders, and after
turning six or seven times round in the apartment, as if looking for something

else, she took hold of Mr. M' 's proffered arm, and he led her out. " God

bless you !" said she. " Amen, with all my heart," said he, "and the lovely
wisher to boot." "And God will bless you," added she, " for this unmerited
kindness to a poor friendless orphan."

" O wad some power the giftie gie us,
To see oursels as others see us !"

says Burns ; but I have often thought this prayer should be reversed ; for if
we knew the motives and intentions of others, as well as we do our own, how
often would we eschew the errors into which we fall ! and if Miss Somerville
had known her conductor's intentions at that time, as well as he himself knew
them, how far would she have been from blessing him.-" Yet, poor fellow,
he rejoiced in it, and nothing in the world could have made him so happy as
taking that lovely and innocent young lady home with him that night, and
ruining her. It is a pity there should be gentlemen of such dispositions, but
nobody can help it.

" Mrs. M' in St. James' Street ! Mrs. M' in St. James Street !" In

the hurry of departure, Susan could not think or suspect who Mrs. M' of

St. James' Street was, but repeating it to herself all the way down the stair, just
as she came to the door of the coach, it came to her recollection that she had
met with that lady before, and not a very great while ago.

" I beg your pardon, sir," said she. " I have forgot something in the apart-
ment that I left ; excuse me for a little." " Please step into the coach,
madam, I will go up and bring it.' " No, you cannot bring it, I must go myself.'
With that she wrung her arm out of his, and ran up the stairs. When she
came to the place she had left, the man was just in the act of locking it
up. But when he saw her come thus hastily to the door, he opened it in-
stinctively, and she entered. Instead of looking for ought she had left, she
seated herself in the chair, and dcoircd the turnkey to lock her u^ till to-

WELLDEAN HALL.

253

morrow, and at his peril to let any one enter the door of that apartment till
then. The honest man began to expostulate, telling her that the matter was
settled, and that he nor his captain had any more charge of her ; but seeing
her so peremptory, he obeyed, and went to consult a higher power, thinking
that the lady was a little deranged in her mind.

M' did not wait long below in the court of the prison, but impatient at

the young lady's stay, went likewise up to her apartment, where he was refused
admission. At first he began to abuse the turnkey, thinking he had locked
her up through mistake ; but finding that it was by her own desire, he began to
suspect that she had discovered something of the ambiguous character of the
house where he had proposed taking her. Finding out the under-turnkey's
ideas of the state of her mental faculties, he said it was but too true, and how-
ever disagreeable it might be, there would be a necessity of carrying her away
home by force. This he urged strongly as a last resource, and was joined by
all the underlings about the prison ; but the captain, or principal keeper,
would not permit it, for fear of raising an alarm, and making a disturbance at
that time of the evening. He undertook, however, to keep the lady in safe
custody until ne.xt day, lest any evil might befall her. M' , by dint of en-
treaty, got a conversation with her over a half door before he went away, and
there was no manner of blandishment, or passionate regret, that he did not use;
insomuch that Miss Somerville was again melted into an afi'ectionate
generosity, which she could not repress, yet continued firm in her resolution.
He was obliged to go home with a grieved heart, and relate to his associates
this first failure of his grand enterprise ; on which the rest of the night, or
rather morning, was spent by them in devising new schemes more adapted to
the characters of those with whom they had to do, and in relating other ad-
ventures of the like nature. Every man and woman in the world is engaged
in the pursuit of happiness, and though we wonder at one another, yet all con-
tinue to pursue it in their own way. Nice young profligate puppies of gentle-
men in general believe, that they enjoy life in a most exquisite way. We'll not
quarrel with them about that, but we'll force them to admit what all the world
sees, that they are of short duration, and generally followed by bitter fruits.

Susan spent a sleepless night, but scarcely was her thoughts ever otherwise

employed than on Mr. M' . His kindness and generosity interested her ;

and if it had not been for the naming of one lady, of whose character she had
weighty suspicions, she thought she could have trusted him, and gone with him
to any part of the kingdom. So difficult is it for suspicion to find entrance to
a guileless heart.

Next morning she sent for the principal keeper, a man well known for
probity and honour, and to him she communicated her case, all save two cir-
cumstances. The one was the private behaviour of her cousin Randal to her,

and the other was the name of the lady to whose house M' proposed to

have taken her over night. The latter subject was several times at the root of
her tongue, but timidity withheld it from being uttered. She had a certain
feeling of kindness, or generosity, hankering abiut her heart for the young
gentleman, and she could not bear, with one dash, to run the risk of blotting
it out for ever. She therefore asked the keeper only about his name and
connexions, and what circle of society he kept? The keeper had heard the
name and title of the gentleman, but knew nothing about him farther. He
promised, however, in a short time to satisfy her in all these points. " I have
a Highland officer about the prison," said he, " principally for the purpose of
carrying and bringing messages ; I am sure he will either know the gentleman
himself, or find those in a few minutes that will give you a list of all his pedi-
gree for forty generations."

The keeper was glad thus to amuse the lady, and reconcile her to what
appeared to him to be an inconsistency in her prosecutor. He had during the
morning got one letter, and one charge after another, about his prisoner, until
he knew not well how to proceed ; yet, for his own security, he resolved to detain
her. The bucks, leirificd that she should get away from under their thumbs,

554 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

as they termed it, had put the attorney upon different manoeuvres to detain
her in prison, until she was oblig^ed to accept of their relief on their own con-
ditions. They knew too well, that having secured Allan, they had little to
fear for the interference of any other. The keeper likewise entered into her
scruples, or pretended to do so, of getting so deeply obligated to an utter
stranger. "It is not, madam," said he, " what you or I may feel, and know
to be the truth, but how the world may view it. A young lady's character is
her all, or next to that ; and better had you remain a year in this place than
owe your liberty to some gentlemen, even though their motives may be unim-
peachable. Though it is a truism that things must be as they aie, yet their
effects are too often modelled by the judgment of the world. I will send for
Malcolm, and have this matter cleared up."

Malcolm was sent for, and soon arrived with his bonnet in his hand.

" Malcolm, do you know any thing of the gentleman that came in a coach
last night, and waited on this lady.'"'

" Does the lady not know any thing of him her own self.'"' said Malcolm,
with true Highland caution.

" That is no answer to the question I put to you," said the keeper, sternly.

" Hu, not at hall, your honour — but hersel was peen thinking — that if laidy
would pe tahaking in shentlemans "

" Hold your peace, you Highland rascal ! You have no right to form any
conjecture of aught that passes here by my authority. I ask you, if you know

aught of Mr. M' , who was here last night, or of his connexions, and I

desire you to answer me without further circumlocution?"

" Cot t n him ! " said Malcolm, " has he peen pehaving pad to te dhcar

Ihady?"

Miss Somerville, never having conversed with a native Highlander, at least
with one of Malcolm's rank, before, was so much amused by his shrewd and
obstinate caution, as well as his uncouth dialect, that she burst out a laughing
at this last question. The keeper also smiled, which, encouraging Malcolm in
his petulance, he went on.

" Hu ! hope she would only pe some frheedom, Ihove ? Highland shentle-
mans pe fery pad for frheedom, Ihove— if te Ihaidy pe peautifulmost, she pe
very pad indheed."

The keeper, finding that nothing would be gotten out of Malcolm, if there was
any ri.^k of a Highlander's character being impeaclied, took a wiser course, and
assured him, that so far from behaving ill to the lady, he had acted so nobly,
that she was anxious to know a little more of him, to make him some amends,
or acknowledgment, at least. Malcolm's eyes gleamed with joy and pride.

" Hu ! she might pe shoor of tat ! All tat you hafe to do with Highland
shentlemans is, to confidence him. Hersel pe fery sorry tat she not kif cood
informhation, she know no less of him. But there pe one Maister Ronald
Macmurrich, a shairman of the Rhegistcr, who is his full cousin py te creat
crhandmhother's side ; she pe tell you all and mhore. Had she peen of Clan-
Donachie, or Clan-.Stuhart, (all out of Appin) or te long Clan-Khattanich, she
could hafe cone through oil teir plood."

Here Malcolm was stopped short in his muster-roTI, and sent in search of
Ronald Macmurrich. In the mean time, the keeper remained conversing with
Susan, and advised her strongly to apply to her cousin Randal, who, he said,
was her natural guardian, and obliged both in honour and law to pay every
farthing that was contracted during the lifetime of her uncle, as it was on his
credit that the debt was taken on ; and there being a part of her cousin's be-
haviour which she did not choose to divulge, the keeper wondered at her
pride and shyness, and supposed that she had drawn too freely on her cousin's
bounty previous to that time.

" This is Mhaster Ronald Macmurrich, sir," said Malcolm, entering briskly
with his bonnet in his hand, and bowing with a grace becoming a man of
higher rank, " and though I would peen saying it, she pe shentleman that you
might pe thependance on hims worts."

WELLDEAN HALL. 255

•* Come away, Mr. Ronald, I want to converse with you in this lad/s
presence for a minute or two. Malcohn, you need not wait. Ronald, do you

know any thing of Mr. M' of G h ? — Malcoh-n, I tell you, you need not

wait."

" Hu, it mak fery Ihittle dufference to her-nain-scl to whait a few mhinutcs
to be oblhiging your honour."

" No, no — off, off. What the devil are you standing there for, sirrah ?"

" I can stand any where that your honour plheases. I can be sthanding
here then."

" Go out at the door, I tell you, and close it."

" Hu, but your honour will soon be wanting hur ackain ; and mhore the less
Maister Ronald has peen got a fery pad mhemory, and he'll pe Ihosing te
forget of mhany things."

" Hu, shay, shay, she pe feiy creat of truth all tat Maister Mhawcom has
peen to say."

The captain finding that the two cronies were determined to keep together,
thought it best to humour them ; for he knew if any of them grew obstinate,
he might as well contend with a mule.

" So you know the young laird of G h, Ronald ?"

" Hu, what then ? Pless your honour, she pe full coosin to himself. Mach-
Vich-Alaster More Machouston Macmurrich was hercrhandmhother'sfhather;
and he was khotten upon a child of Kinloch-Mhudart's."

" And, py my faith, that's all very true that Maister Rhonald says ; and she
could pe taking her sworn oath to every word of it."

" What sort of a gentleman is he ? "

'* Hu ! the finest shentleman that's in the whole world. And upon my soul,
you would not pe finding such a shentleman if you were to ride f hifty thousand
mhiles."

" Ay, she be all truth and mhore that Maister Rhonald says."

" What sort of moral character does he hold ? "

" More-ill.'' Hu, tamn it, no. He has not cot one single spark of that in
his whole pody and souhl."

" No, you may swore that, Maister Macmurrich."

" What ? Not one spark of morality .-^ "

" Morhality ?— Ay. — Devil a single scrap of her, I'll pe sworn. — Moihality?
— What she pe ?"

Here the captain and Miss Somerville could not contain their gravity, which
staggered Ronald a little, and made him ask the last question.

" That is, perhaps, too general a term to be fully understood," said the
keeper ; " we shall enter into particulars ; and as it is all in good friendship,
you may answer me freely. In the first place, then, can you tell me how he
has behaved himself in general with regard to women?"

" Oo, ter never was a shentleman pehavcd so petter since ta world was
made. You know, if ta Ihaidy was peing fhery pohnny, and f hery hamiable,
and fhhery khind, why you know I could not pe answering for myself, and
far less for him ; but I'll take it upon me to pe sworn, that he would not force
a child against her own will."

" So you may, so you may, Maister Rhonald."

" What sort of company does he keep .'' Can you tell me the names of any
of the ladies or gentlemen whose houses he visits at.-"" ■

" Hu, he goes to the roots of all the Ihadies, and all the Ihords of ta whoule
kingdom ; and to ta hadfu cats, and to te grhand mhinisters tat prheach.
There is not a shentleman in ta whoule world that is so well taken hould of.
I can pe sworn^f tat too."

" Indheed so you can, Maister Rhonald, and so can I too."

" He might have peen kelting one Iiearl's dhaughter last year ; and I do
know that there were mhany traps laid to hould him into her : but there were
so very mhanv fine Ihadies after him, that he would not p(; taken."

" Yes, Maister Rhonald, that is vhery troo. And he would have koltca

256 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

fifty thousand pounds with her, and more ; and there was none deserved it so
well."

" Hu ay, you may pe saying tat ; for it is a kood man, and so khind to the
poor at home."

"Is he indeed noted for kindness to the poor? 'said Susan, with some
degree of warmth.

" Indheed it is, mattam. She pe so much cootness and khindness, that
he'll pe koing through his poor fhnrn-.crs once a year, and when any of them
has peen kot a fhery pretty daughter, he takes them off their hands
altogether, and pring them to this town to make Ihadies of them. And
it is fhery khind, for then they would pe trudging at home, and working hke
bhaists."

This was rather an equivocal recommendation ; but Miss Somerville,
noting that it was given in seriousness, put the best interpretation on it that
it could bear ; and before they could proceed any farther with their inquiries,

l;ir. M' arrived, and, sending in his name, was admitted. In this most

perilous situation we must again leave poor Susan, like a lamb strayed from
the flock, whom three wolves are watching to devour, in order to bring
forward our tale. Allan was in the same jail with her, astonished and
grieved at the remissness of his brother in relieving him, and concerned
about his dear cousin, whom he now found by experience to be dearer
to him than life. At this period their circumstances were totally unknown
to one another.

After Gilbert had taken a sound sleep, he rose about mid-day, and went in
search of his friend, Andrew, to whom he imparted his plan, and the
agreement he had entered into with the housekeeper, in the absence of all
higher concerns of the house ; and it being no frightful thing to speak of a
ghost, or to think of a ghost in fair daylight, Andrew was nothing averse to
the plan. Hunger is hard to bide at all times. Thirst is worse ; but when
fear is absent, it is disregarded ; so the two friends had nothing ado but to
sip a little brandy and water, and talk over the affair until the evening.

At rather an early hour they repaired to the library, in which they kindled
a fire, and stored with all the good things of this life, intending perhaps
to remain there longer than one night. Andrew never seemed to believe
that the ghost would really appear. Gilbert firmly believed that it would,
and at first proposed that Andrew should speak to it, and that he him-
self would try to recollect distinctly what it said ; but of this Andrew did
not approve.

" No-billy-no-no-no-no— not-spcak — not-speak — no-no-no-no. Speak-me-
first— speak-me — speak-then — speak-then — speak-then — yes-yes-yes-yes-yes.
N ot-otherwise — not-otherwise — no-no-no-no."

Gilbert assured him that no spirit had power to speak to a baptized
Christian until once it was spoke to, and that it was only permitted to
answer such questions as were put to it. For his part, he said, though the
world jeered his belief, he was convinced that this was a real apparition, and
that it had something to communicate of importance ; and he knew that he
had not courage, or rather nerve, to speak to it, unless he was the length of
a certain stage of inebriety, and then he was afraid of nothing either on earth
or in hell. But, on the other hand, as it had once happened before, when he
got to that regardless stage, he could remember nothing that passed, so that
it served no manner of purpose his speaking to the apparition, unless a sober
man were present to take note of every word, sign, and look. He said that
there was therefore a necessity that Andrew should refrain, in a great
measure, from drinking, till the issue of their night^s adventure should l)e
decided, and that he bhould then have a right to make up his lee-way with
double interest. Violent and rapid were Andrew's protestations against this
measure, but Gilbert's resolve was not to be shaken, and he possessed
a control over the other, which, though never admitted, was daily practised

WELLDEAN HALL. 257

Andrew's portion of brandy toddy was limited to a small quantity. Gilbert's
was to be without measure, otherwise than by the tappit-hen of discretion.

They were both taken rather at unawares. They had never calculated on
any disturbance till about midni<,'ht, that being the usual time of the ghost's
appearance in the library ; so they had drawn in the corner of the table
between them, and placed themselves, one on each side of the fire, resolved
to enjoy themselves as long as they could, and, at all events, let the evil hour
come hindmost. Gilbert had only swallowed one glass of strong brandy
toddy, and Andrew one much weaker; and while they were yet in keen
argument on this contested point, their elocution was cut short by Andrew,
who made a sudden bolt across between the lire and table, nearly orerturning
the latter, and took his station in a cowering posture between his companion
and the wall. This was the work of a moment. Gilbert, whose face was
turned towards the fire, naturally looked about to see what had affrighted his
associate, and there beheld the old laird walking composedly backward
and forward before the old black book-case. He appeared to be dressed
in his night-gown and slippers, and had, as it were, a white cloth tied round his
head. It was so like him, that it represented him in every part, so that it
was hardly possible to believe it to be anything else, save the old laird
himself risen from the grave. Gilbert was struck motionless, and almost
deprived of sense ; and though he had made up his mind to be composed,
yet his tongue clave to his mouth, his ears rang, and for a space he could
neither be said to speak, hear, nor see. He felt as if falling into a faint, and
longed exceedingly to be deprived of all feeling fur a time ; it would not do,
the strength of nis constitution carried him over it; but all that he could
do was to sit like a statue, fixed on his seat, and stare at this strange visitant.
It appeared as if studious not to alarm them ; it had not any of the threaten-
ing looks or attitudes that it had assumed towards some, nor did it *i\x its
looks at all on them, but walked with a slow gliding motion, from one side of
the room to the other, and again retraced its steps, apparently in a state of
patient sufferance.

Andrew, whose tongue was merely a pendulum to his feelings, and wagged
of its own accord when the machine was wound up, was the first who broke
silence, beginning, it is true, with a prayer, but ending with an injunction
that brought every thing to bear. " O- Lord-God — Lord-God- Lord-God —
deliver-deliver- deliver- Uiver- liver- liver- liver. Lord- Lord- Lord-Lord —
save-save-save-save-save-iis-is-is-is-is. Gibby-Gibby-Gibby-Gibby-Gibby —
speak-speak-speak-speak-spis-pis-pis-pis. Now-or-never — now-or-nevcr —
now-or-nevcr — now-now-now-now. What-want — what-want — what-want —
what-what-what-what-what .'' "

The ghost at this paused, and turned its face toward them ; and, though it
did not lift its eyes from the floor, made as though it would have come close
to them. Andrew instantly took up his sharp key ; " No-no-no — keep-off'—
keep-off — keep-keep-keep. Lord-God — Lord-God — Lord-God — Gibby-Gibby-
Gibby-Gibby," &c.

Unconnected and vehement as these speeches of Andrew's were, they had
the effect of bringing Gilbert somewhat to himself, and he pronounced these
words, rather down his throat than with his lips : " In the name of God, tell
what you have to reveal, and what can be done for your repose."

" 1 told you already, and wo be to you that you have not done it," said the
apparition. " 1 give you the charge once more ; and know, that virtue and
life depend on its instant fulfilment."

" If I remember aright," said Gilbert, " the thing that you desired me to
do was impossible, or at least would have taken a lifetime to have accom-
plished. In one word, what must I do?"

" Go through these books," said the spirit, pointing at the three huge

volumes of Greek and Latin classics, " as you would wish to live and thrive,

and never see my face again. It is a charge with wliicli I entrust you ; and

if \ou have not patience to turn over every leaf, ;rt least look into the p.iges

I. 17

258 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

marked on the boards. I know you to be honest ; therefore, oh do this
without delay, for my sake, as well as for your own. If you prove unfaithful,
better had it been for you both that you never had been born. Farewell, and
may the Gud uf peace and mercy be with you ! "

This moment he was standinL; before them in an earthly form, and speaking
to them in an audible voice ; the next he w.is gone, and none of them saw
how, or by what place, he departed. They both averred that they believed
they were, for the space of two or three seconds, blinded by some supernatural
means, and saw nothing. For a good while aftenvards, they sat in mute and
awful astonishment, Andrew still keeping his hold between Gilbert and the
wall. "This is wonderful," said Gilbert, after some minutes had elapsed;
" What can be in these books ?"

" See-that-billy-see-that-see-that-see-that-see-see-see-see." And so saying
he arose from his den, gazing sternly at every corner of the room. " Blest-
be-God blest-be-God," said Andrew, and this he repeated at least a hundred
times. Gilbert opened the press, and took down the three volumes, which
they inspected narrowly. There was nothing marked on the boards that they
could discern. They held them ojien, with the leaves downward, and shook
them, but there was nothing that fell out of them. That was, however, little
to be wondered at, for they were in boards, and not a leaf of them cut up.
They had, therefore, nothing for it but to begin each to a volume, in order to
cut them all u]) and turn over every leaf. They had not gone far on with this
task until Andrew, who had again fallen a poring about the boards, discovered
some figures on the inside of one of them, made with a pencil, and scarce
distinguishable. These, he thought, might refer to some pages, as the appari-
tion had hinted, and, turning to the first numbered on the board, in the double
of the octave, which was uncut, he found a note for /^looo. Having now
discovered the key, in the course of three minutes they had treasure lying on
the table, in bonds, bills at interest, <S:c., to the amount of nearly a plum.
But what they reckoned of most value was the late laird's will, regularly
signed and witnessed, together with two short codicils in his own holograph.
And besides, they found a paper, in which was contained a list of all his
funds, small and great. It was almost without end, and puzzled our two
heroes not a little. They found that every pound was at the highest legal
interest, save in one concealed drawer within the book-case, which was full
of gold ; and though tlie shelf was described, yet with all their ingenuity they
could not find out the secret. Had the bookseller succeeded in carrying his
point, what a bargain some would have gotten of that clumsy collection of
classical autliors ! So heavy and impenetrable had the old laird judged these
works to be, that he trusted his dear treasures in them, in preference to any
lock or key under which he could secure them. And after this great secret
was discovered, it was remembered that he never locked that book-case ; it
stood always wide open. He found, by experience, how perfectly safe his
money was there ; and I am told, that a certain wealthy and very worthy
gentleman at the Scottish bar, practises the same mode of depositing his
bills and cash to this day. I give this hint, as a sincere friend, to officious
servants and lacqueys, in hopes they will have the foresight and prudence, at
some leisure hour now and then, to cut up and inspect all their master's
neglected books. They may find something there worth their while.

Our two gallant heroes forgetting, and altogether neglecting, the pleasures
of the jug, in this notable discovery of theirs, waited not till day; but, locking
up the c/assus in a secure place, they packed up their treasures, the will, and
the list of the monies, and marched for Edinburgh. Not knowing where to
f nd any of the other members of the family, they of course waited on Randal,
whom they found confined to his chamber, emaciated and diseased. Him
they informed, that after all the servants had been driven from the house,
they had taken their lives in their hands, trusted in Heaven, and watched
last night in the libraiy, where they had made some discoveries of great
importance, but which they were not at liberty to divulge, except in the

WELLDEAN HALL. 259

presence of his brother Allan, and his cousin Susan Somerville ; and there-
fore they begj^ed that he would, witli all haste, expedite such a meeting,
accompanied by legal authorities.

Randal rung the bell, and ordered the servant to bring in some brandy and
water. " My excellent and worthy friends," saiil he, "you have laid me under
infinite obligations ; if it had not been for your courage, my house might have
been pillaged, and every thing in it gone to waste. Come, sit down, take a
glass with me, and tell me all that you have done, scon, and learned."
Fatigued with their journey, both of them blithely accepted of the invitation,
sat down, and drank to the better health of the laird ; but at first were very
shy in communicating the extraordinary intelligence with which their bosoms
were charged, but which at the same time was working there like barmy beer
in corked bottles, ready to burst. Consequently, by dint of elicitalion, Randal,
ere long, understood that they had discovered both his late uncles will, and
his concealed hoards. " Why, my most excellent and worthy friends," said
Randal, " you know you are both poor men ; and it is a pity you should be
so ; for two more noble, intrepid, fearless hearts, I believe, beat not in
Christendom. It is on that I ground the proposal I am going to make. I
know you fear none living ; indeed, you have none to fear ; and you have
proven that you fear not the dead ; therefore be men ; put that will and that
list into my hands, to whom they of right belong, and I'll give each of you a
thousand pounds, and fifty pounds yearly to drink my health, as long as I
live, and you together."

"Either-too-much-too-much-too-much-much-much-much. Else-too-little-
billy-too-little-too-little-too-little. Ooo-ay-yes-yes-yes."

" Make your own terms, then, Mr. Car, my worthy honourable old buck ;
but let them be in conscience, you know, — in some bounds of conscience
between friends."

" Ooo-ay-yes-yes-yes-yes-yes — consh'- consh'-consh'-consh'-be-sure-be-sure-
be-sure — what-else-what-else-what-^/jv ? What-what-what-what-what-Ti'/;^//'?"

The desperate accents laid upon these two monosyllables in italics, made
Randal suspect that there was some small spark in Andrew's feelings that was
scarcely congenial with his own, and he began to look a little sheepish, or
rather scoundrelish, which is a much worse kind of look than a sheep's.

" I think, my friend Andrew," said Gilbert, "the proposal of my master is a
noble and liberal proposal, and ought to be duly considered before we go farther.
It will perhaps never be in our power again to make so good a bargain. We
are both growing old, and it is a dismal thing to have poverty and age staring
us in the face at the same time."

" Spoke like yourself, my old trusty servant ! Spoke like a man whose
spirit rises above being a drudge and a beggar all your days. The world has
not been your friend nor the world's law, therefore obey the first law in nature,
and stand for yourselves. I do not intend to bereave my brother and cousin
of a farthing that is their natural right, only is it not better that they should be
somewh.at dependant on me.'' Is it not better in every point of view? For
themselves it must be. Put, then, all these papers and documents into my
hands, and henceforth you shall be my friends and confidants, and managers
of all my concerns."

" What say you to this, my friend Andrew .''" said Gilbert.

" What-say-Gibby — what-say-what -say-what-say — what-what-what-what-
ivhat? Tell-ve-what-say-billv-tell-ve-what-say-tell-ye-tell-ye-tell-ye. Say-hell-
billy-hcll-heli-hell-hell-hell-hell-/;^//."

" Stop now and consider, my dear friend," said Randal. '' You have been
long known as a man of prudence and discernment. You must see that what
I request is right and proper, and best for all parties. And, moreover, what
is it to you who possesses the funds, provided you get so good a share ? Thci c
is enough for all parties, you know. Therefore just give me the hand of friend-
ship each of you. Put the papers into my hands, and trust my honour."

" Do you not think, Andrew," said Gilbert, "that what my master requests

26o THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

is reasonable, and may be done with all honour and conscience ? No one has
seen these bills and papers but ourselves."

" Dainn'il soul- Gibby-dam-soul-dam-soiil-diim-sonl-soul-soul. Heaven-saw-
Gibby-hca\en-saw-heaven-sa\v-heaven-heaven-heaven-heaven-God-billy-God-
God-God-God."

With that the tears poured over Andrew's furrowed cheeks ; his inarticulate
utterance entirely failed him ; and he stood sobbing and looking ruefully in
Gilbert's face, with his arm stretched upwards at its full length, and his fore-
finger pointed to heaven. Gilbert contemplated this striking position of his
friend for a while with apparent delight, then, coming slowly toward him, as
if afraid of defacing so hne a statue, he threw his armsabouthim, and pressed
him to his bosom, " My friend and my brother till death," exclaimed he, "I
am so glad to see that your honour and integrity are not to be tarnished !
Before 1 would have yielded to the disgraceful request preferred to us, I would
have submitted to be hewn in pieces, and I wanted to try you a little, to fmd
if I might depend on you stantiing by me."

Andrew threw up both his arms, flung his head a cast back./ard, and pulled
up one of his knees as high as his breast, and shouted out, " Hurra-hurra-
hurra-hurra-ra-ra-ra-ra-true-man-yct-true-man- yet -true -blue -true -blue -true-
blue-trouble-trouble-trouble. Ha-ha-ha-huna-hurra-hurra," &c.

" Gentlemen," said Randal, " are you come here to mock me .•' I think your
beha\ iour testifies as much. But I will show you that I am not to be mocked
by such boors and beggarly rascallions as you ; and what you refuse to do by
fair means, you shall be compelled to do." With that he rung the bell, and
ordering the servant to bring a guard of police, he locked the door upon him-
self and our two heroes.

"Rascallions, Gibby— rascallions-'scallions-'scallions-'scallions. I'll 'nihilate-
him-Gibby — 'nihilate-nihilate-'nihilate."

Gilbert restrained his friend, assuring him that the object of his resentment
was neither worthy of being touched nor looked at by a man of honour, like
Andrew Car, who would be disgraced by laying a finger on him. This calmed
the indignant gamekeeper, who, in all probability, would have subjected him-
self and friend to a severe punishment by giving the atomy, as he called him,
a sound drubbing.

The men of office soon arrived. Randal charged the two men with having
robbed his house in the countiy, and taking from thence some papers and
documents of value, which they refused to give up. The lieutenant of the
guard said it was a most serious charge, and took the two companions forth-
with into custody, locking them up in the black hole till the hour of cause.

They were examined by the sheriff-substitute, and Randal being unable to
leave his chamber, his worthy friend, the attorney aforementioned, appeared
in his stead, and in a laboured harangue, accused the prisoners of " having
got clandestinely into the house of Welldean, under pretence of watching for
a ghost that they say had disturbed the family, and from an apartment in that
house, had stolen and secreted some papers of great value, of which they re-
fused to give any account to the owner." And forthwith prayed judgment
against them, that they might be searched, the jiapers restored to their right-
ful owner, and the delinquents committed for trial !

The judge said the charge was of a serious as well as singular nature, but
that it bore inconsistency on the very face of it. For how was it supposable,
that if the two men had robbed the house only last night of things of so much
value, that they should post up to town to the very man whom they had robbed,
to inform him what they had done, and lay a statement of the matter before
him. He then requested the pri; oners to speak for themselves, that he might
thereby be enabled to form a judgment according to truth.

(Gilbert arose, and in a clear and concise speech of considerable length, re-
lated the circumstances precisely as they happened, to the great astonishment
of the court ; and then proceeded to put into the sherifi's hands the valuable
documents and bonds that he held, saying, that he would merely keep a list

WELLDEAN HALL. 261

of them for his own satisfaction, and was glad of having this public oppor-
tunity of depositing so weighty a charge ; it having been because he and his
friend refused to give it up privately to his master that they were sent there.
The judge said they had proven that it could not have been deposited in
safer or better hands. But as the papers were of too high value to be carry-
ing about one's person, he would lock it in a place of safety till the legatees
and executors could be convened. At the same time he commended, in high
terms, the intrepidity, truth and candour of the two friends ; and remarked
that the spirit manifested by the young gentleman, in the demand he made
upon them, and afterwards in seizing them as depredators, was disgraceful to
the country and to all concerned with him, and ought to be held in the utmost
reprobation. He then dismissed them, desiring them to go with all diligence
in search of the young gentleman and lady that were co-heirs with the present
possessor, and, as it appeared by the will, more favoured than he, of which he
hoped they would likewise be more deserving.

The honest attorney, perceiving how matters were likely to turn about, made
a virtue of forwarding that which he could no longer oppose, and conducted
our two heroes straight to the Canongate jail, where Allan and Susan lay con-
fined in sorrowful mood, little aware of what fortunes they were now pos-
sessed. They had only that morning made a discovery of each other, and
that at a most critical period, just as Susan was going finally off with Mr.

M' after many demurs. When she beheld her lover so emaciated by

sickness, grief, and misfortune, she melted into tears, and stretched out her
hand to him, which he clasped in both his, and pressed to his lips. They
found themselves companions in misfortune, as they had been in infancy and
youth, and their reconciliation was made up in the heart, and took place
naturally, without any effort of the one to refuse, or the other to beg it ; and
for all the forlorn and neglected state in which they found each other, that
was perhaps the sweetest morning ever they had spent in their lives.

On Allan being introduced, Mr. M' and the keeper withdrew, but the

two former bowed to each other slightly, as men slightly acquainted do when
they meet. As soon as the two lovers got a little breath from more important
matters. Miss Somerville asked Allan, what he knew of that young gentleman
that went out with the captain? "I only saw him once in my brother's lodg-
ings," said he; "he is a constant associate of his; a young man of loose
principles, or rather, of no principles at all. He is said to have led my brother
into many follies."

"An associate of your brother's?" said she, with something more than
ordinary earnestness. "Yes," said he, "they live together."

Susan became fi.xed like a statue. Slie saw, as through a glass darkly, the
machinations that had been laid for destroying her peace. She thought 01
the disgraceful proposal that had been broadly made to her by her cousin

Randal — of Mrs. M' in Saint James' Street, the very woman who had

tried, in concert with Mrs. Mayder, to get her into his power; and she
strongly believed that this imprisonment and proffered relief had all pro-
ceeded from the same source. " What a vile heartless wretch that man of
fashion, my cousin Randal is ["thought she to herself; "no matter, he is
Allan's brother, and Allan shall never know his true character, if I can pre-
vent it." They were instantly released, on granting the attorney their joint-bill
for the two sums, and were man and wife in three months thereafter. Randal
never left the chamber to which he was then confined, till carried out ot it to
his grave. He fell, unlamented, the victim ol youthful folly and unrestrained
libertinism. Gilbert was again constituted hmisc-steward and butler .it Well-
dean Hall, which two lucrative posts he maintained as long as he hved.
Andrew Car was made gamekeeper, and the two friends had a jug or two of
brandy toddy together, unrestrained, for many long vears. The concealed
drawer of gold was at last lound out ; the ghust of the oi'l ! mil was never .seen
anymore; and, the year betore last, when I was at Wciidean Hall, Allan and
his lady were both living in great happiness, though far advanced in aga

■62 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

No. III.— TIBBY JOHNSTON'S WRAITH.

" Holloa, Wat, stop till I come up w'ye. Dinna just gallop at sic a rate,
man, else you'll founder your horse, an' brik your ain neck into the bargain.
\\ hattcn a gate o' riding is that ? Stop till I speak to you ; I have something
to say to you."

"What do you want with me? Tell me directly, for I hae nae a moment
to wait Do you not see that I am in a hurry ?"

" To be sure I see that, but then you are always in a hurry. Stay till I
come up w'ye, an' then I'll tell you what 1 want. I have something very par-
ticular to say to you. What nonsense is it to ride at that rate? I'll tell you
what I want w'ye: can you tell mc precisely what o'clock it is?"

"U— n the fellow! What do you mean to stop me for sic a trifle as that,
an' me riding atween death an' life for the doctor?"

" For the doctor? Hech! wow! Wat, man, but I didna kca that. What
is it that's gane wrang w'ye?"

"What's gane wrang! O, bless your heart, man, a's gane wrang thegither.
There was never sic a job kend i' this world. Uur mistress has seen a wraith;
she saw Tibby Johnston's wraith last night, and she's dead wi' the fright this
morning."

"Dead wi' the fright! Wow, Wat, is she really dead?"

" Dead ! bless you, sir, she's clean dead. There never was sic a business
in this country. My heart's like to break, an' I'm amaist fleyed out o' my
wits into a' ither mischiefs. O, bless your heart, man, there never was the
like o' this ! — Never, never ! oh ! dead ! Bless ye, she's cauld dead, sir !"

•'Why then, Wat, it was real true what ye said, that ye war riding atween
death an' life ; for, gin the wife be dead and the doctor living, there's nae
doubt but ye're riding atween them. But, dear Wat, mony a daft thing ye
hae done i' your life, but ye never did aught half sae ridiculous as this, to
gallop at sic a rate bringing the doctor to a dead wife. '

" O, bless your heart, man, what can folk do? Folk are glad to keep a
grip o' life as lang as they can, an' even after it flees out at the window, they'll
whiles hing by the tail. But it's the fashion now. Every body sends for the
doctor to their wives after they're dead.''

" Ay,an' gin a' tales be true, the doctors whiles come to them after they're dead
an' buried baith, without being sent for. But truly, Wat, there is something
sae far ayont a' ordinary things in this business, that ye maun 'light an' tell
me a' about it. Your mistress saw Tibby Johston's wraith you say, an' is
dead wi' the fright. But what is come o' Tibb Johnston? Is there ought
the matter wi' her?"

" O, God bless your heart, sir, Tibb/s dead too. There never was sic a
job seen ! I hardly ken what I'm doing. Of a' the nights that ever was about
a town ! O, bless you, sir, you never saw the like o't ! I maun gae ride, ye
see. If the beast should drap dead aneth me there's nae help for it."

"Tak just a wee time, Wat, an' dinna be in sic a fike. What do you ex-
pect that the doctor can do for the dead woman?"

" O, bless your heart, wha kens? It's a' that folk can do. Auld Kilside
says he'll maybe open a vein, and gar her refusticat. Hap, woy, beast. For
gude sake, get on ; fareweel."

" Open a vein an' gar her refusticat ! ha, ha, ha ! Hap, woy, beast. There
goes VVat hke a flying eagle ! Weel, I canna help laughin' at the gouk,
although I'm sorr)' (or the cause o' his confusion an' hurry. If thae twa
women really are baiih dead, ihae haena left ither twa like tiicm i' the parish,
an' few i' the hale country. I'll e'en gae up the water a mile or twa, an' try if
I can get the particulars."

David vent away up the water as he had resolved, and every one that he
met with, he stopped to ask what time of the day it was ; to make some ob:)ef-

TIBBY JOHNSTON'S WRAITH. ^6 J

vations on the weather; and, finally, to inquire if there were any news up
the country ; knowing, if any of them had heard of the events at Carlshaw,
they would inform him; but he got no satisfactory account until he reached
the place. It was at the foot of Milseyburn-paih that he stopped Wat Scott
riding for the doctor, and from that to Carlshaw is at least six miles ; so far
had he travelled to learn the particulars of that distressing event. David
Proudfoot was a very old man, herding cows, when I was a tiny boy at the
same occupation, lie would often sit with the snuff-mill in his hand, and tell
me old tales for hours together; and this was one among the rest. He cared
for no tales, unless he had some share in the transactions himself. The story
might be told in a few words, but it would spoil my early recollections, and
I could not endure to see it otherwise than as David told it, with all its
interpolations.

" When I wan to Carlshaw, I gaed first into the stable and then into the
byre, but there was naebody to be seen. The yauds were standing nickering
at the manger, and the kye were rowting ower the crib. A' isna right here,
indeed, quo' I to myself, as I sneckit the door ahint me; for when Mrs.
Graham was in her ordinary way, there was nae servant about the house durst
neglect their charge that gate. The plough was standin' idle on the houm,
an' the harrows lying birstling on the sawn croft. It's e'en a picture o' desola-
tion, quo' I to mysel'. Every ane's missed amang their ain ; but gae without
the bounds o' the farm, just beyond that dyke, an' there's no ane thinkin' o'
the loss. I was right. When you an' I slip away to our lang hame, my man,
others will just pop into our places, an' laugh, an' fike, an' mind their ain
affairs, an' never ane will think o' us ava.

" Weel, I didna like to intrude on a family in distress, for I was but a young
man then ; sae I thinks that I'll chap away up to Matthew Hyslop's bit house,
and see if it be true that the gouk said ; for if he has lost his wife, Tibby
Johnston, says I to mysel', he'll never put the like o' her in her shoon. When
I gaed up near the cot house, they had nae apartments there to hide them-
selves in frae the e'e o' the warld ; an' there I saw Matthew sitting on the
green brae side, an' a' his live bairns about him ; an' he had the niuckle Bible
open in his hand, but when he saw me he closed it, and laid it down.
" ' How's a' wi' ye the day, Matthew,' quo' 1.

" * I canna com))lain, an' I winna complain, Davie,' said he. ' I am just as

it has been the will o' the Lord to make me. Hale in health, but broken in

heart, Davie. We hac been visited wi' a heavy dispensation here last night.'

" ' Wow, Matthew, but I'm wae to hear that,' quo' I. ' Fray what has

happened i' your family?'

" ' It has pleased the Almighty to take thae poor bairns' mother frae their
head last night, David ; and here am I left as helpless and disconsolate a poor
man as the sun o' heaven has this day risen on.'

" ' It is a heavy trial, Matthew,' quo' I. ' But ye maunna repine. Ye maun
bear it like a man, and a Christian. Your wife has only paid a debt that she
has been awn for these forty years, an' ye maun trust in Heaven, an' be re-
signed.'

'"So I am, so I am, David. You have said the truth, and I am resigned.
But our fall'n nature is weak, and the human heart maun be allowed some
yearnings ower what it held dearest in life. I hope my kind Maker and
Redeemer will forgive my tears, for my griefs no out o' my repining at the
execution o' his just decrees ; but, oh ! David, sic a woman as I hae lost.'

"* She was a good woman, Matthew,' says I. * If Tibby Johnston wasnaa
good woman and a Christian, mony ane may be feared.'

" * There's nane kens what she was hut mysel', David. We hae lived the-
gither for these fifteen years, and I never heard the word of discontent frae
her tongue, nor saw a frown on her brow. She had the tnie feelings of a wife
and a mother ; fijr she only lived in, and for her family. Tiieir happiness
was hers ; an' a' their pains, an' a' their wants, she felt as her own. I'.ut,
ower and aboon that, she had a warm heart to a' mankind, and a deep

204 ini:. ETTKJCK :>nhi'HERD'S TALES.

reverence for every sacred thing. Had my dear woman died in my arms, my
heart wadna hae been sac sair ; but, oh, David ! she died out on the hill, wi'
no ae friend near, to take her last farewell, to support her head, or to close
her e'e.'

" I held my tongue, and could make no answer, for he was sobbing sae
hard, that his heart was like to burst. At length he came to himsel', and
composed his voice as well as he could.

" ' I maun tell ye ower ilka thing as it happened, David,' said he ; ' for I
hae nae pleasure but in speaking about her whose head's lying low in that
house the day. When she waken'd yesterday niorning, she says tome, ' Bless

me, Matthew,' Ay, she had aye that bit sweet, hannless by-word. Bless

nic, bairn, or, bless me, Matthew. Mony a time she said it ; though I whiles
reproved her, and said it was sae like a Papish signing and blessing hersel',
that I didnji like to hear it. Then she wad gie a bit short laugh — ye mind
her good-natured, bashlu' laugh, David? — and say, that she would try to re-
member no to say't again ; but out it came the very next word, and there was
nae mair about it ; for laith wad I hae been to hae higgled wi' her, an' vex'd
her about ony thing ! My canny woman ! Sae, as I was saying, she says to
me, when she waken'd, ' Bless me, Matthew, sic a dream as 1 hae had last
night ! 1 dreamed I was gaun away the day to be married to a new bride-
groom, an' leave you an' the l:)airns to shift for yoursel's. How wad ye like
that, goodman?' I said something in a joking way, whilk it is needless to
repeal, that there was nane would be sic a fool as to take her aff my hand, but
if they did, that I wad soon get a better. 'Ay !' quo' she, ' it is easy for you
to say sae, but wecl I ken it's far frae your heart. But, Matthew,' continucii
she, in a graver tone, 'does it not bode ill to dream o' marriage? I think '
hae heard my auld aunt say, that to dream o' marriage was death.' ' Daft
body,' quo' 1, 'ye trouble aye your head wi' vagaries. Whoever follows freets,
freets will follow them.' ' 1 saw mony a braw man riding on their horses, but
I mysel' gaed i' the fore-end, and was the brawest mountit o' them a',' said
she. I thought nae mair about it, and she said nae mair about it ; but after
we had gotten the breakfast, I sees her unco dinkly dressed, for she was soon
made neat and clean. 'What are ye after the day, Tibby?' quo' I. 'I'm
gaun to the market,' said she. ' I hae tlirec spinlcs o' sale yarn for auld
Tammie, an' I'm gaun to buy barley an' saut, an' some ither little things for
the house wi' the price o't.' ' Ye're a good creature, an' a thrifty ane,' quo 1 :
' there never was a better about a poor man's house.' Then she leugh, an'
fikit about putting a' things to rights for the bairns and me through the day ;
for she likit a bit praise, and whenever I roused her, she was as happy and as
light-hearted as when she was nineteen years auld. Then, after settling wi'
the bairns what she was to bring ilk ane o' them, she set out wi' her yarn on
her back, saying, that she would be hame about the gloaming ; but I wasna
to be ony feared for her though she was gayen late, for she had been rather
lang o' winning away, and had muckle ado.

" When the gloaming came, I began to \>-ear)', but I couldna get the bairns
left, and was obliged to look and listen, and mony a lang look and lang listen
I took in vain. 1 put the bairns ane by ane to their beds, and sat up till mid-
night. But then I could rest nae langer, sae 1 ran to a neighbour to come and
bide i' the house, and aff I set for the market town, expecting at every turn to
meet my woman wi' her bit backfu'. I gaed a' the gate to the town without
meeting wi' her, and cried the folk out o' their beds tliat I kend she dealt wi',
but she hadna been seen there after three o'clock. At length, after it was day-
light, I got some spearings o' her at the holmhcad. The weaver's wife there,
had seen her an' spoken wi' her, and slie told her that she was gaun to try the
hill road, that she might be hame wi' some hue o' day. I took the hill road
as fast as my feet would carry me, and a wild road it is, unfit for a woman wi
a burden to travel. There was but ae sheiling in the hale gate, if she keepit
the right track, and I had strong hopes that she had been nightit, and stayed
there until day. When 1 came to the shell, and asked for her, the shepherd's

TIBBY JOHNSTON'S WRAITH. 265

wife started to her feet, ' \Vhat ! ' said she, holding up both her hands, ' did
your wife no come lianie last night ?' ' No,' said I. ' Then you will never
see her again in life,' said she, with great emotion, ' for she left this house
after sun-set. She asked a drink of milk, and complained of soniething about
her heart that made her very ill ; but nothing would prevail on her to stay.'
My heart grew as cold as a stone ; and, without uttering another word, I took
the hill on my way homeward. A wee bit after I came ower the height, and
no very far aff the road — no aboon a hunder steps aneath the sand o' the

mossy grain Oh, David, I canna tell ye nae mair! The sight that 1 saw

there will hing about my heart to the clay o' my death, an' the sooner that
comes the better. She died at her devotion, whilk was a great comfort to me,
for she was in a kneeling posture, and her face on the ground. Her burden
was lying beside her. My dear kind woman ! there wasna the least bit
necessary thing forgotten ! There was a play for ilk ane 0' the bairns ; a whuj>
to Harry ; a knife to Jock ; and a picture-bcuk to little Andrew. She had us
a' in her breast ; and there's little doubt that her last petition was put up to
Heaven for us. I can tell ye nae mair, David, but ye maun come up again
Sabbath first, and render the last duty to the best o' women.'

" I promised that 1 would, and said some words o' comfort to him, that he
was a great deal the better o' ; but I hadna the heart to tell him what had
befallen at Carlshaw ; for I thought he couldna thole that. But down I
comes mysel', to see if I can make ony farther discoveries about matters. I
was mair fortunate this time ; an' it's wonderfu' what effect mortality has in
making folk devout, for there I finds auld Yiddie, the barnman, who never
cared a fig about religion, sitting broggling and spelling at a kittle chapter in
Nehemiah, thinkin', I daresay, that he was performing a very devout act.
An' Yiddie really had the assurance, when I came to him, to pretend to be in
a very religious frame o' mind. But gin ye had but heard Yiddie's sawpient
sayings about the etid d man, as he ca'd it, really, callant, they wad hae edified
ye very muckle. ' Ye're thrang at your beuk, Yiddie,' quo' I. ' O, ay, what
can we do ! The end o' man's comin' on us a' ! We maun be preparing, lad;
for death spares naebody, an' the mair's the pity. He maws them down as
the gerse on the field, an' as a thing fa's in time, it maun lie through a'
eternity, ye ken. It is a hard compensation this. But it shaws the workings
of man, and the end of a' things is at hand. We maun e'en be preparing, lad,
and do the best we can for a good up-pitting.'

" I said something to Yiddie that he was a hantle the better o'. ' Yiddie,'
says I, 'do you expect to mix wi' the auld Jews i' the neist warld.^*' 'What
has put that i' your head ?' quo' he. ' Because I dinna see how reading that
lang catalogue o' names,' quo' I, 'can prepare ye for death, or for another
warld, unless ye expect to meet wi' a' the auld Jews that came back frae
Babylon, and wish to be able to name ilka chap by his ain name. I'll tell ye
what wad be as w^iselike, Yiddie. If ye wad repent o' a' your sins, and beg
forgiveness and mercy at the throne 0' grace, it would be as likely to gain you
acceptance wi' Heaven, as putting on a grave face, and spelling ower a string
o' auld-warld names. But gie us a' the particulars o' this /tan/ co?nf>ensatto)i^
Yiddie. Has the doctor no been able to restore your mistress to life.'"

"' Na, na, lad, he wad be a wice doctor could do that ; an' muckle sale he
wad get ; an O sic a benefit he would be to man ! ' (I heard Yiddie didna
like to die at a'.) ' But as to our mistress that's gane, honest woman ! there was
nae doctor to be had, an' it was a' ane for that, for she was past redemption.
I said there was nae mair hope after she fell into the second fit ; an' neither
there was ; but the goodman would bo hoping against nature an' reason.
After a', 1 dinna wonder muckle at it ; for it was an awtu' thing to see a
wraith.'

" ' Did she indeed see something that couldna be accounted for, Yiddie .'"
said I, 'and was that the immediate cause of her death '{^

" ' There's nae doubt hut it was the cause (/ licr death,' s.-iid he, ' althoui^h
the minister is sae daft as to say that bhe had been alfcctit wi' the trouble

266 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

afore, an' that had made her believe that she baw the shape o' her neighbour
gaun at her side. But onybody kens that's nonsense. Thae minibters^ they
will aye pretend to be wicer nor ither fouk, an' the ieint a sperk o' sense they
ken ava, but just rhaim rhaim rhaiming aye the same thing ower again, like
gouks i' June. But as to accounting for the thing, that's what I canna say
naething about She saw Tibby Johnston's wraith ; but whether a wraith can
be rightly accountit for or no, is mair nor I can persoom.'

" ' I can account for it verj' wccl, Yiddie,' says I, 'and I'll do it to set your
mind at rest about that, for I hac heard it explained by my ain mother, and
several cunning old people. Wraiths are of t\\ a kinds you see. They appear
always immediately before death, or immediately after it. Now, when a
wraith is seen before death, that is a spirit sent to conduct the dying person to
its new dwelling, in the same way as the Karl o' Ilopetoun there, for instance,
wad send a servant to conduct a stranger to his house at Rae-hill that had
never been there before. These are sometimes good, and sometimes bad
spirits, just according to the tenor of the person's life that lies on the bed o'
death. And sometimes the deil mistakes hinisel', and a spirit o' baith kinds
comes : as for instance, when Jean Swinton departit, there was a white dow
sat on the ae end o' the house, an' a corby on the ither ; but w hen the death
psalm was sung, the corby flew away. Now, when the wraith appears after
death, that's the soul o' the deceased, that gets liberty to appear to the ane of
a' its acquaintances that is the soonest to follow it ; and it does that just afore
it leaves this world for the last time ; and that's the true doctrine o' wraiths,'
says I, ' and we should a' profit by it.'

" ' Hech wow man, but that's wondcrfu' ! ' says he, ' How do ye come to ken
sicken things sae young t Wecl, of a' things \ the world I wad like warst to
see a wraith. But your doctrine bauds very fair in this case ; for you see our
mistress gaed away up to Matthew's house yestreen to see Tibby after she cam
hame frae the mercat, for she was to bring her some word that deeply concerned
her. Weel, she stayed there till the gloaming, and as Tibby wasna like to come
hame, she came away, saying, ' She wad see her the morn.' '

'"Ay, sae she will, Yiddie, sae she will ! ' says I. ' I'.ut little did she ken,
when she said sae, that she was to see her in a country sae far away.' ' It is
a queer warld this,' said Yiddie. ' Ilowsomever I'll gang on wi' my stoiy, as I
dinna want to dive into morality ecnow. Wecl, as I was saying, she conies
her ways ; but in her road hamcward, ere ever she wist, saw Tibby gaun
twa or three steps afore her, and at the aff side o' the road, as if she had gaen
by without tenting her. She had on her Sunday clacs, and appeared to hae a
heavy burden on her back, and she was gaun rather like ane dementit. The
mistress then cried after her, 'Tibby, is that you? I think you're come by
your ain house the night.' It made nae answer, but postit on ; and turned a
wee aff the road, and fell down. Our mistress made a' the haste down to the
place that she could, still thinking that it was Tibby Johnston hersel', and she
was gaun to lift her, and see what was the matter ; but when she came to the
spot there was nothing there, and no living creature to be seen. She was nae
frightit that time at a' ; but, thinking she hadna been distinctly, she lookit a'
round about her, and cried out several times, ' Tibby, what's come o' you ?
where away are you gane ? ' or something to that purpose. But, neither seeing
nor hearing ought, she came back to the road and held on her way. In less
than three minutes after that she saw Tibby gaun before her again, but still
mair unsettled and distressed like than the was afore. The mistress didna
speak that time, for she thought something was the matter wi' her, but she
walked as fast as she could to come up wi' her, and thought aye she was
winning some ground. At length she saw her drap down again on her face,
and she thought she fell like ane that was never to rise again. On this our
mistress gac a loud scream, and ran up to the spot, but there was nobody there.

" * She saw nae mair, but came hame by hersel', and wonilcifu' it was how
she was able to come hame. As soon as she came in and saw the light
she fainted, and gaed out o' ae fainting fit into anither the hale night, and was

TIBBY JOHNSTON'S WRAITH. 367

in great distress and horror o' mind. A' the servants o' the house sat up wi'
her, and about day she fell into a quiet sleep, ^^'hen she wakened she was a
good deal composed, and we had hopes that she would soon be quite better,
and the goodman went to a bed to get some rest. By ill luck, havering Jean
Jinkens came in about nine o'clock to see the mistress, and ere ever ane could
prevent her, tauld that Tibby Johnston had died out on the hill the last night;
and that her husband had found her this morning lying cauld and lifeless, wi'
her burden on her back, and her face on the ground.

" This intelligence threw Mrs. Graham into a stupor, or rather she appeared
striving to comprehend something that was beyond the grasp of her mind.
She uttered some half-articulate prayers, and then fell into a complete franazy,
which increased every minute to a terrible degree, till her strength was clean
gane, and she sank back lifeless on the bed. After muckle exertion by her
attendants, she revived, but she wasna like hersel' ; her voice was altered, and
her features couldna hae been kend. Her delirium increased, and forced her
again to a little bodily e.xertion, but it soon came to an end, and she fell into
that sleep from which a' the attendants and a' the doctors in the warld could
not have awaked her again. She's now lying a streekit corpse in her ain bed,
and the goodman, I fear, will gang out 0' his right mind.

" Yiddie didna just tell it sae weel, or sae properly as that, but that was the
subject matter. 1 came my way hame right douf an' heavy-hearted, for I had
gotten a lesson read to mc that I never could forget.

" On the Saturday afore the twa burials, I was down at the roadside afore
the sheep as usual, and there I sees Wat Scott coming gallopping faster than
ever. When he saw me he laid on his horse, thinking to get by ere I wan on
the road, but I was afore him ; and, fearing I couldna stop him otherwise, I
brought my coat-tails o'er my head, and cowered afore him on the middle o'
the road. Nae horse nor dog in the world will face ane in that guise, and in
a moment Wat was gallopping faster up the water than before he was doing
down. But, goodness, as he was flyting and banning at me !

" ' Wat, just 'light aff your beast feasible like,' says I, ' and lead it down the
path, else never a foot ye shall win fartlier the day.' He was obliged to com-
ply, and I questioned him what was the matter, and if he was riding for the
doctor again ?

" * Doctor, man ! od bless your heart, it's ten times waur than the doctor
this. There never was sic a job, sir, sin' this world stood up. Never. I do
not see, for my part, what's to come o' folk. I think people be infatuate !
Bless you, sir, you never knew sic a business in your life. A' things aregawn
to utter confusion now."

" * What is it, Wat, man ? What is it ?

" ' What is it ! Bless my soul, man, did you no hear ? you never heard, sir,
sic a business all yotir life. What think ye, the confounded idiot of a wright
has done, but made our mistress' coffin so short that she canna get a foot into
it. There never was sic a job seen in this country. Lord, sir, she'll never
look intil't !'

"' It is a very awkward and disagreeable job indeed, Wat,' says I, 'and
highly reprehensible ; but I should think, by using a little art, it might still
answer.'

" ' The thing is impossible, sir ! perfectly impossible ! The man must be a
blockhead ! Bless your heart, sir, she'll never keek into it. Disagreeable !
Ay, there never was ought in the least like it. There, think of it — this is
Saturday— the morn's the burial day. I wadna wonder but I hae a coffin to
tak hame afore me the night after dark. It's enough to put ony man alive
out o' his judgment. I think the folk be a' gane mad and stupid the-
gither.'

" Wat galloppedaway from me, actually crying with perplexity, and exclaim-
ing, that there tiever was sic a job kend i' the ivorlJ. The buri.ds were baith
in the kirkyard on the Sabbath-day, at the same time ; — and that is the Ii.ile
story o' Tibby Johnston's wraith, my Uttle man, sae aftcn spoken about in this

268 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

country. When ye come to my time o' life, ye may be telling it to somebody,
and, if they should misbelieve it, you may say that you heard it from auld
Davie Proudfoot's ain mouth, and he was never kend for a liar."

A TALE OF

GOOD QUEEN BESS:

HER JEALOUSY OF A SUCCESSOR.

It is a fact well known to those versed in the annals of illustrious British families,
that, after the death of Mary Queen of Scots, there was still another accom-
plished young lady, who was an only child, and so nearly related to both the
English and Scottish crowns that Elizabeth became restlessly jealous of her,
and consulted with the timid James by what means the young lady might be
prevented from having a legitimate offspring. James, entering keenly into the
same feelings, urged Elizabeth to claim her as a royal ward, and then, having her
under her own eye, she might readily find means, on some plausible pi tence
or other, to prevent her from marrying. Elizabeth acquiesced, and forthwith
sent a message to that effect. The young lady, little knowing with whom she
had to do, would willingly have gone to the court of her cousin, the English
queen ; but neither her mother, stepfather, nor guardian, would permit it.
And though the answer they returned to the queen was humble and subser-
vient, there was one intimation in it which cut Elizabeth to the heart, and
prompted her to the most consummate means of revenge: it was, that the
young lady was placed by her father's will under noble guardians in Scotland,
who would not suffer the sole owner of two earldoms, and the presumptive
heir of two crowns, to be removed from under their charge. This roused the
jealousy of the old vixen into perfect delirium, and from that moment she
resolved on having the young lady cut off privately.

These being known and established facts, the following story will easily be
traced by a few to the real actors and sufferers ; but, at the same time, I judge
it incumbent on me to change the designation of the family and of the castle
in some degree, that the existing relatives, numerous and noble, may not be
apparent to every reader.

Shortly after this message, there came into Scotland, by King James' per-
mission, a party of Englishmen, with a stud of fine horses for sale. They
lingered in the vicinity of Acremoor castle (as we shall denominate it) for a
good while, showing their fine horses here and there ; and one of them, on
pretence of exhibiting a fine Spanish jennet to the young lady, got admittance
to the castle, and had several conversations with the mother and daughter,
both together and separately.

At the same period, there came to a farm-house on the Acremoor estate,
late one evening, a singular old woman, who pretended to be subject to fits,
to be able to tell fortunes, and predict future events. Her demeanour and
language had a tint of mystical sublimity about them, which interested the
simple folks greatly ; and they kept her telling fortunes and prophesying
great part of the night. Among other things, after a grand fit, she exclaimed,
" Ah ? is it so ? Is it so .-' How came I to this place to-night to be the herald
of treachery and misfortune ! The topmost bough of the noble tree must be
lopped off, and the parent stem fall in the dust ! Woe is me ! The noble
and beautiful ! The noble and beautiful ! Curses on the head of the insatiable
wretch ! " And with such ravings she continued, till suddenly she disappeared.

There lived in the castle a very pretty girl, named Lucy Lumsdaine. She

A TALE OF GOOD QUEEN BESS. 269

was the young lady's foster-sister, her chief waiting-maid and confidant, and
there subsisted a strong attachment between them. That very night about
midnight, or, as some alleged, considerably after it, Lucy raised such an alarm
in the castle as roused the terrified sleepers with a vengeance. She ran from
one room to another, screaming out, " murder ! " and after the menials were
aroused and assembled together, the poor girl was so dreadfully affected that
she could scarce make herself intelligible. But then she had such a story to
deliver ! She heard some strange sounds in the castle, and could not sleep,
but durst not for her life leave her chamber in the darkness. She kept con-
stantly listening at her key-hole, or looking from her lattice. She at one time
heard her young lady sobbing, as she thought, till her heart was like to burst ;
and then the door of the catacomb beside the dungeon open and shut ; then
heavy steps moving stealthily to and fro ; and finally, long after, she saw a
man leap out at a window on the ground floor, and take the dead body of her
young mistress on his back in a sack, and retreat with hasty steps towards tlie
churchyard. She saw one arm and the head outside the sack, and the beauti-
ful long hair hanging down ; and she was convinced and certain that her
young lady was ravished and murdered by an English horse-jockey.

The ladies were both amissing. They had never been in their beds, and
what to do the terrified inmates knew not ; but in the plenitude of their
wisdom, they judged it best to proceed in a body to the churchyard, and seize
the murderer before he got the body buried, and wreak ample vengeance on
him. When they arrived at the burial-ground, there was nobody there, nor
any thing uncommon to be seen, save an open grave newly made, into which
not one of them dared to look, pretending that they knew for whom it was
made. They then returned home contented after this great exertion. Indeed,
what could they do, as no trace of the ladies was heard of?

There was little cognizance taken of such matters in that reign ; but on
this occasion there was none. King James, perhaps, either knew of, or
suspected the plot, and kept quiet ; and the only person who made a great
outcry about it was poor Lucy, who tried all that she could to rouse the
vassals to inquiry and revenge ; and so far prevailed, that proclamation was
made at the pier of Leith and the cross of Edinburgh, and rewards offered
for the apprehension of those who had carried the ladies off, and kept them
in concealment. Murder was not mentioned, as a thing not to be suspected.

But behold, in a few days, Lucy also disappeared, the great mover of all
this ; and her sweetheart, Alexander Graham, and her only brother Lowry,
with many other relations among the peasantry, were left quite inconsolable,
and knew not what course to take. They had resolved to take vengeance in
their own hands, could they have discovered whither to have directed it ; but
the plot had been laid beyond their depth.

The old witch-wife about this time returned, and having obtained universal
confidence from her prophetic ravings about the topmost bough being lopped
off, and the parent stem, and the noble and the beautiful, &c., &c. So, at
the farmer's request, she was placed by David Dallas, the steward on the
estate, in a little furnished cottage, a sort of winter resting-place for the noble
family, near a linn in the depth of the wood ; and there she lived, feared and
admired, and seldom approached, unless perchance by a young girl who
wished to consult her about a doubtful sweetheart.

After sundry consultations, however, between Alexander Graham, Lucy's
betrothed sweetheart, and Lowry Lumsdaine, her only brother, it was resolved
that the latter should go and consult the sibyl concerning the fate of Lucy.
One evening, near the sun-setting, Lowry, taking a present of a deer's-ham
below his plaid, went fearfully and rapidly away to the cot in the linn. That
his courage might not eventually fail him, he whistled one while, and sung
another, " Turn the blue bonnet wha can ; " but in spite of all he co.ild do,
heavy Cjualms of conscience sometimes came over him, and he would say to
himself, " 'Od, after a', gin I thought it was the deil or ony o' his awgents
that she dealt wi', shame fa' me gin 1 wadna turn again yet !''

270 THE ETTRICK SHEriTF.RD'S TALES.

Lowry, however, reached the brink of the bank opposite the cottage, and
peeping through the brambles, beheld this strange being sitting in a little
green arbour beside the cottage, dressed in an antique and fantastic mode,
and, as it appeared to him, emplo}cd in plucking leaves and flowers in pieces.
She sometimes cast her eyes up to heaven, and then wiped them, as if she
had been weeping. " Alas ! poor creature I " said Lowry to himself, " wha
kens what she may hac suffered i" this wicked world ! She may hae lost an
only daughter or an only son, as 1 hae tlune an only sister, and her losses
may hae injured her reason. Ay, 1 hae little doubt, now when I see her,
but that has been the case ; an' that's the way how she sees intil hidden
mysteries an' events. Yox it is weel kend that when God bereaves o' ae
sense, he always supplies another, and that alten of a deeper and mair incom-
prehensible nature. I'll venture down the brae, and hear what she says.--
How's a' wi' ye, auld lucky o' the linn ?— Gudc-e'cn t'yc. What's this you
are studying sae seriously the night ?"

" I'm studying whether a she-fox or a wild-boar is the more preferable
game, and whether it would be greater glory to run down the one with my
noble blood-hounds, or wile the other into a gin. Do you take me, Mr.
Lumsdaine ?"

" Lord sauf us ! she kens my name even, an' that without ever seeing me
afore. I thought aye that we twa might be auld acquaintances, lucky, an'
see what I hae brought ye in a present. It will be ill for making you dry,
but ye're no far frae the burn here."

" You have been a simple, good-natured fool all your life, Lowrj' ; I can
perceive that, though I never saw your face before. But I take no gifts oi
rewards. Leave your venison, for it is what I much wanted, and here are
two merks for it. Do as 1 bid you, else you will rue it."

" Aih ! gudeness, d'ye say sae ? Gie me a baud o' the siller then. It will
sune turn into sklait-stancs at ony rate ; sac it will make sma' odds to ony o'
us. But, gude forgie us, what war ye saying about hunting } Ye may hunt
lang ere ye start a wild-boar here, or a shc-fo.\ either, as 1 wad trow ; sae an
ye wad tell me ony thing, it maunna be in parables."

" Aye, but there's a she-fox that sees us when we dinna see her, and whose
cruel eye can pick out the top chickens of the covey, and yet they cannot all
suffice her insatiable thirsting after blood. She reminds me of the old song,
to which I request your attention. It will tell you much : —

" The boar he would a-wooing go,
To a mistress of command,
And he's gone away to the lady fox,
And proffer'd her his hand.

* You're welcome here, Lord Bruin,' she says,

' You're welcome here to me ;
But ere I lie into your den.

You must grant me favours three.'
' Yes — favours three I will grant to thee,

Be these whate'cr they may.
For there is not a beast in the fair forest

That dares with me to play.
Then bid me bring the red-deer's heart,

Or nomblcs of the hind.
To be a bridal supper meat,

Fitting my true love's mind.'

• O no, O no,' said the lady fox,

* These are no gifts for me ;
But there are three birds in fair Scotland,

All sitting on one tree ;
And I must have the heart of one,

And the heads of the other two,

A TALE OF GOOD QUEEN BESS. 271

And then I will go, for well or woe,
To be a bride to you.'

Now woe be to that vile she-fox,

The worst of this world s breed.
For the bunny, bonny birds were reaved away,

And doom'd by her to bleed ;
And she tied the boar up by the neck.

And he hung till he was dead.''

As she sung these \erscs with wild vehemence, Lowrj- looked on and
listened with mingled terror and admiration, trying to make something out of
them relating to the subject nearest his heart ; but he could not, although
convinced that they bore some allusion to the subject. '' 1 am convinced,
lucky, that ye hae a swatch o' a' things, past, i)resent, an' to come," said he ;
"for ye hae foretold some wondcrfu' things already. But 1 can mak naething
o' sic wild rants as this, an' unless ye speak to me in plain, braid Scuts, 111
never be a bawbee's worth the wiser."

" Because, Lowry, that head of yours is as opaque as a millstone. Kneel
down there, and I'll throw a little glamour over you, which will make you see
a thousand things which are invisible to you now."

" Na, na, lucky ! Nane o' your cantrips wi' me. I'm as feared for you as
if you were a judge o' death an' life afore me. I just came to ask you a few
rational questions. Will you answer them ? "

" I'erhaps I may, when I get a rational being to converse with. But did it
ever strike that goblet head of yours, that it formed any part or portion of the
frame of such a being .!"'

" But then, lucky, I hae nature at my heart, an' that should be respectit by
the m.iisi gifted body that exists. Now, as 1 am fully convinced that ye hae a
kind o' dim view of a' that's gaun on anealh tlie heaven— as for ony farrer,
that's rather a dirdum — we maunna say ought about that — But aince for a',
can ye tell me ought about my dear sister Lucy ?"

"Alas, poor fellow! There, indeed, my feelings correspond with yours.
Can it be that the rudest part of the creation is the most aftcctionate .'' Yes,
yes, it must be so. From the shaggy polar bear to the queen upon the throne,
there is one uniform and regular gradation of natural affection. In that most
intense and delightful quality of the human heart, the lowest are the highest,
and the highest the lowest : and henceforth will I rather ensconce myself
among nature's garbage than snuffle the hateful atmosphere of heartless in-
difference and corruption. Why did it behove poor Lucy to suffer with her
betters ? Her rank glittered not in the fo.\'s eye. But the day of retribution
may come, and the turtle-dove return to her mate. There is small hope, but
there is hope ; such a villain can never sit secure. Mark what I say, hind —

" When the griffin shall gape from the top of Goat-Fell,
And the falcon and eagle o'er Scorbeck shall yell,
When the dead shall arise, and be seen by the ri.ver,
And the gift with disdain be returned to the giver,
Then you shall meet Lucy more lovely than ever."

Now leave me, good hind, leave me ; for a hand will come and lead me in,
•which it is not meet you should see. But ponder on what I have tuld you."

Lowry was not slow in obeying the injunction, not knowing what might
appear to lead her in ; and as he trudged homeward, he conversed thus with
himself " She's a terrible auld wife that ! an' has something abuut her far
aboon the common run o' women, wha are for tlie maist part great j^ouks, for
as bonny an' as glib-tongued as they are. But here is an auld grim wrinkled
lucky, wha, forby good sense an' rij;ht feeling, has a tint o' sublimity about her
that's {jcrfectly grand. May they no as wcci be good spirits as evil anrs that
she V onverses wi' ? If ane could but trow that, wh.it a venerable creature she
would be I She bids me ponder on her rhymes, but I can make naething o'

272 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD S TALES.

them. That last ane refers to something they ca' coats \vi' arms that the
j^entles hae, an' sounded Uke a thing where there was some hope, save ae bit
o't, ' when the dead shall arise.' When she carne to that, oho I that's rather
a dirdum, thinks I, and lost hope, and I'm now fairly convinced that my young
lady an' sister are baith murdered ; for I dreamed ae night that the spirit o'
my dead mother came to me, an' t.auld me that they were baith murdered by
this new lord, and sunk wi' sackfu's o' stanes in the Acremoor Loch. Now, O
what heart can stand sic a thoiii^ht as that ! '

All tlie three females bcinj^ thus lost without the least trace of any of them
having been discovered, shortly thereafter an heir appeared, with a patent from
King James for the estates, but not the titles ; and he took forthwith unin-
terrupted possession. He was a sullen and gloomy person; and though at
first he tried to ingratiate himself with his people, by giving to the poor, and
employing many day-labourers, yet every one who could shunned his presence,
which seemed to shed a tlamp .ind a chilliness over the human heart. At his
approach the schoolboys left the play-green, retiring in detached and listless
groups, till the awe-inspiring look scowled no more upon them. The laugh
along the hay-field ceased at his approach, and the song of the reaper was
hushed. Me was styled Sir Herbert ; but Sir Herbert soon found that his
reign was likely to become an uneasy one. For word coming to Acremoor
that he had been expressly sent for by Queen Elizabeth, and having waited
on her, left her on some private commission for Scotland shortly before the
disappearance of the young heiress and her mother ; then it was that an in-
definable sensation of horror began to inspire all ranks in thai district. Their
young lady's claim to both crowns was well known, and often boasted of
among her vassals, and they dreaded that some dark and infimous deed had
been committed, yet they wist not by what means to implicate their new and
detested master, whom they thencefor\vard regarded as either a murderer, or
an accomplice of murderers, and disclaimed allegiance to him.

The government of Scotland was at that time very inefficient, the aristocracy
having cjuite the ascendant ; and between the chief and his vassals there was
no interference, his will being the supreme law among them, from which there
was rarely any appeal. But with regard to who was their rightful chief, to whom
they were bound to yield this obedience, that power the vassals kept in their
own hands, and it was a right that was well looked into. Of course, at this
very time, there was a meeting among the retainers and chief tacksmen on
these extensive domains, to consult whether or not it was consistent with
honour and propriety to pay their rents to this upstart chief, while their late
lord and master's only daughter was probably still in life, and might require
double payment from every one of them ; and it was decided unanimously,
that unless a full explanation of his rights was laid before them, they would
neither pay him rent nor obedience in future ; so that at this lime Sir Herbert
found his vassals in open and avowed rebellion. It was in vain that he showed
them his titles of recognition by the king ; the men answered, that their young
lady's rights and titles never had been forfeited ; and, without a charter from
her, they denied his rights of inheritance. They said farther, that they would
take no single man's word or oath that their lady was dead, and they were de-
termined to preserve her rights till they had sufficient proof where she died,
how she died, and where she was buried.

While the chief vassals were thus interesting themselves more and more
about the fate of their young lady, Lowry and Graham were no less pei^plexed
about that of their beloved Lucy. The former had again and again waited on
the sibyl, with whose wandering and visionary aspirations he was mightily
taken ; and having attended her by appointment early one morning, the
following dialogue concluded their conversation : —

" Hut I hae been thinkin', dear lucky, what's to come o' you, gin you tak
your death here,— for ye ken that maun come some time ; an' there's naebody
to tak care o' ye, to gie ye a drink, or baud your head, or to close your een,
when ye gan;.; awa."

A TALE OF GOOD QUEEN BESS. 273

" Fear not for me, honest lad, for I am resolved to die beneath the open eye
of heaven, with my eyes open upon it, that I may feel the odours of paradise
descending from it, and breatliing their sweet influence over my soul ; for
Ihcre is a living animating spirit breathes over the open face of nature, of
which mine forms an item ; and when I breathe it away at the last, it shall be
into the pure elastic element."

Lowry was so struck with this, that he stepped aside, and exclaimed to him-
self, " Now, wha could suspect sic a woman as that for a witch ? The thing's
impossible ! There's something heavenly about her ! IJicatiie her soul into
an element ! I wonder what an element is ! Aha, there's the dirdum I — Dear
lucky, gin it be your will, what is an element?"

" Now, what do you think it is, honest Lumpy ? "

" I'm rather in a dirdum ; but I think it is a great inuckle beast without
joints." Then aside, " Hout, that canna be it either, for how could she breathe
her soul into a great unfarrant beast."

"What is that you are muttering to yourself, fool.'' It is an elephant you
are wrestling with. The elements are the constituent parts of nature. Fire
is the primeval and governing one. '

" Aih ! gudeness preserve us ! that's ten times waur than a muckle beast !
Then she is a witch after a'; an' when she dies, she's gaun to breathe her soul
into fire. That gars a' the hairs o' my head creep ; I wish 1 were away. But
dear, dear lucky, ye haena tauld me ought about Lucy as yet, or whether she
be dead or living.'"'

" I have never seen her spirit. But death's safest to hide the crimes of a
villain.

There's villany at the heart, young man;

There's blood upon the head ;
But the worms that he would tread upon,
Shall lay him with the dead."

Lowry was little or nothing the wiser of this wild rhapsody, and went away
to his work with a heavy heart. But that day one of the most singular inci-
dents befell to him that ever happened to mortal man. Lowry was draining
a meadow on the side of Acremoor Loch, and often wishing in his heart that
Lucy's fate might be revealed to him one way or another, when, all at once,
he felt a strange overpowering heat come over him, and on looking about to
see from whence it proceeded, there was his mother standing close by his
side. "Gudeness preserve us, mother !" cried Lowry; " whereaway are ye
gaun? or what has brought you here?"

" O fie, Lowry, whaten questions are these to ask at your mother? Where
can a mother gang, or where should a mother gang, but to her only son? \q.
maybe thought I was dead, Lowry, but ye see I'm no dead."

" I see sae indeed, mother, an' glad am 1 to see you lookin' sae weel an' sae
bicn. But stand a wee bit farrcr aff, an it be your will, for there's a heat
about ye that's like to skomfish me."

" Na, na, Lowry lad, ye're no sae easily skomfished ; ye'll hae to stand a
hantle mair heat than this yet. But tell me now, son, are you just gaun to
delve and howk away a' your days there, an' never think o' revenging the
death o' yoi'r dear sister?"

"Why, the truth is, mother, that's rather a dirdum; for we canna
discover, neither by witchery nor warlockry, what has come ower her,
or wha to revenge her death on ; or, my certy ! but they wad j^et their
dickens !"

" Dear Lowry, didna I tell ye lang syne that she was murdered an' sunk in
the Acremoor Loch in a sackfu' o' stanes, an' that exactly opposite to the
place where we stand."

*' WccI, mother, in the first place, I think I ifo mind o' you telling me this
afore ; but in the next place, as to where 1 am to (Ind iicr, th.it's rather u
dirdum, for yc ken twa things or twa places are always right opposite anr
I. 18

274 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

anither. Sae unless you can gie me a third niaik, I may fish in that great
braid loch for my sister an' her sackfu" stancs for a tow-mont."

"Then, Lowry, do you see yon willow-tree on the ither side o' the loch?
yon lang sma' tree that stands by itsell, bent i' the tap, and wantin'
branches?"

" Aye, weel ancugh, mither."

"Then, exactly in a line between this spot, and yon willow-tree, will you
find the corpse o' your sister an' her lady, my other dear bairn, sunk in that
loch wi' sackfu's o' stanes tied to their necks. Uidna 1 tell you a' this afore,
Lowry?"

" Aha, lucky, but I didna believe ye, for d'ye ken, I never had niuckle to
lippen to your word a' my life,— for as for telling anc the even down truth,
that never aince cam into your head. I winna say that ye didna sometimes
teil the truth, but then it was merely by chance ; an' for that very reason, I'm
a wee doubtfu' o' the story still, it is sae unnatural for a man to murder twa
bonny young creatures, an' sink them them into a loch, wi' a sackfu' o' stancs
tied to their necks. Now, be sure o' what ye say, mother, for life and death
depend on it. Did ye see them murdered an' sunk in that locn wi' your ain
bodily een ? "

" Baith, baith, by your new laird's ain hands ! He is the villain and the
murderer!"

" Then, mother, off goes his head, an' on the clay dumpling — that's settled.
Or how wad it do to rack his neck to him ? But for mercy's sake, stand a
woe bit farrer off, an it be your will — for I declare there's a heat about you
like a licry furnace. Odsake, stand back, or I'll be baith suffocat an' roasted
in five minutes."

" O Lowry, Lowry ! my dear son, Lowry ! " exclaimed the old wife, clasping
him round the neck, and smothering him with kisses of the most devouring
heat. Lowry bellowed out most lustily, laying on both with feet and hands,
and then added, '* Od, I declare she has downed me, the auld roodess, and
smothered me, an' roasted me into the bargain ! I'll never do mair good !
Mither, where are you? Mither, what's become o' you? Hilloa, mither!
where awa are ye gane ? Gude forgie me, gin this disna ding a' things
that ever happened in this world ! This is beyound the comprehension of
man ! "

Gentle reader, honest Lowry had all this time been sound asleep, with a
burning sun beating on him. Me had sat down on the edge of his drain to
rest himself, and ponder on the loss of his sister, and, laying his broad
shoulders back upon the llowery meadow, had fallen asleep, while, in the
mean time, the heat of the day had increased to such a pitch, that when he
awoke from the stiuggle with his mother, his face and bicast were all blis-
tered, and the perspiration pouring from his ample sides like water. But the
identity of his mother, and the reality of her personal presence, were so
strongly impressed on his mind, and every thing having been so particularly
related to him, he believed all as a real vision. He could work no more that
day, but there he sat panting and conversing with himself in something like
the following style: —

" Was there ever aught like my stupidity, no to remember a' the time that
my mother was dead ? an' yet that never aince cam into my head, although
she gaed me a hint about it. I saw her dee wi' my ain ee, saw her nailed in
the coffin— ay, an' laid her head mysell in a deep grave, an' saw the mools
heapit on her, an' the green sods abune a'; an' yet never to remember
th .t the grave separated her an' me — that the great valley o' the shadow o'
death lay between us ! W'ow me, but there be mony strange things in nature !
(lungs tliat a body's comprehension canna fathum, if it should rax out its
arms till they crack. It was my mother's spirit that spak to me, there can be
nae doubts about that, an' it maun hae been my spirit, when I was in a dead
sleep, that spak to her again ; for spirits hae nae comprehension o' death.
Let mc now consider what's to be done, for I can work nae mair at my handi-

A TALE OF GOOD QUEEN BESS. 275

work. She has told me that our new laird is a villain and a murderer. May
I take this lor gospel ! Can I seriously believe this to be true? It is rather
a dirdum that. Not that I think my mithers spirit wad come frae the iihcr
warld to tell me an e'en-down lee; but then it may hae been mista'en. It
strikes me that the spirit o' nae mortal erring creature can be infallible. They
may see wrang wi' their mental een as easily as 1 may do wi' my mortal ancs.
They may hear wrang, an' they may judge wrang, for they canna be present
everywhere, an' maun aften see an' hear at a distance. An' whether ane is
warrantit in taking justice into his ain hands on sic information, is mair than I
can compass. — I have it! I'll drag for the bodies, an' if I find them, I'll take
the rest for grantit. '

Lowry now began to settle his landmarks, by scltin;^^ up a coil of sods on
the place where he slept, but the willow-tree on the other side lie could not
discover. He then went and communicated the whole to Graham, who
agreed at once that they ought to drag lor the bodies, but not let any one
know what they were about, or on what grounds they had proceeded.

The ne.xt morning they were out early with a boat and grappling irons ; but
the loch being broad and deep, they lound, that without discovering the
willow-tree, it was a hopeless and endless task. But as soon as Sir Herbert
rose and discovered, he sent e.xpress orders for them to come instantly ashore,
which, when they did, he was exceedingly wroth with tlicm, ordering all the
boats to be chained up and secured with padlocks, and even threatened to
fire on the first vagabonds he saw out on the lake disturbing his fisheries.

But this injunction proved only a new incentive to the young men to per-
severe ; for they were now assured that all was not right, for the loch had
hitherto been free to all the parish, and over it they had been accustomed to
lerry their fuel, and all other necessaries. The two u icnds spent the remainder
of that day searching for the willow-tree among all the hedges and ditches
on the south side of the lake; but willow-trcc they could find none. Towards
the evening they came to a single willow stem on the verge of the loch, a
mere twig, not e.xceeding four feet In length, and as they passed it, Graliam
chanced to say carelessly, " There is a willow, but oh ! it will be lang afore it
be a tree ! " Lowry turned round and looked eagerly at it. '' That's it, that's
it! That's the verra tree!" cried he. "How that should be the tree is
rather a dirdum ; but thing's are a' gane ayont my comprehension now.
Wow me, but a spirit's ee docs magnify a thing terribly, for that willow was
ten times as big when I sav/ it in my vision. Nae the less, it is the same, the
very same, I ken it by its lang stalk without branches, an' its bend at the
tap." There the two set up their landmark, and the night being a summer
night, and moonlight, they soon procured a boat, and began a-dragging in a
line between the marks. They had not dragged ten minutes ere the grap|)le
fi.xed in some movable body, which they began a-hcaving upward, with
strange looks in each other's faces. Lowry at last stopped the windlass, and
addressing his friend in a tremulous voice, said, " Wad it no be better to stop
till we hae daylight, an' mae een to see the sight .'' I'm feared my heart canna
stand it i' the moonlight. The thoughts o' seeing my dear sister's corpse a'
riddled wi' the eels, an' disfigured, an' a sackfu' o' stancs tied to her neck, are
like to put me beside mysell."

" I hae something o' the same sort o' feeling," said Graham. " But I
wadna like to bring out a' the folks in the morning merely on suspicion that
this is a corpse, whereas it may be only a log o' wood."

"Weel, weel, if ye will bring it aboon I shall reel the windlass," said
Lowry; " only ye're to allow me to turn my face the tither gate." On this
arrangement they proceeded, until (iraham was assured, by sensible demon-
stration, that it was a human < arcass tied in a sa( k, and sunk with .1 weight !
They then let it go, and tying the boat-bunker to the enil of the rope for a
buoy, went ashore, to consult what was next best to be ilonc.

Early in the morning they had a number of their friends assembled at tiie
side of the lake. But the late ulience taken 1<) the luid of ilic manor at the

276 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

two friends, and his threat of lirin;^ upon any wlio should venture out on his
fishing-<;round, induced all the friends present to counbcl the asking of his
liberty. A deputation accordingly waited on Sir Herbert, who requested per-
mission to drai; the lake for some bodies which were suspected to have been
sunk there. l>ut without deigning an answer to the men he, to their astonish-
ment, that moment ordered out a body of his people, and at their head hasted
ilown to the side of the loch, driving his assembled friends off with blows and
threats, and then left a guard of seven men with tire-arms, to guard the boats
and the loch in general.

The two young men were now assured of the truth of the vision, but said
nothing of it to their friends, who were all astonished at their laird's un-
reasonable conduct. Lowry and his friends were convinced of his heinous
guilt and determined not to give it up ; but they knew not how to proceed,
for there was no sheriff in the county, that office having been hereditary In
their chief's family ; so that if Sir Herbert was the real heir, he was likewise
sheriff.

But it so happened, that John Earl of Montrose, the king's viceroy for
Scotland, was at that time in the vicinity, taking infcftment of some new
grants of and, and he had likewise some of the principal official people of the
country along with him. To him, therefore, the young men went, and told
him all the story from the beginning, including Lucy's tale of the murder of
their young lady. The Lord Viceroy was a good as well as a great man. He
had been a Lord of Session, Lord Chancellor of .Scotland, and was now raised
as high as a subject could be raised, being his sovereign's Viceroy, and acting
by his authority. He was greatly taken with the young men's candour and
simplicity, perceived that they were serious, and had too much discernment
not to see that there was something wrong with this upstart ; knowing, as he
well did, the powerful and relentless enemy the late heiress had in Queen
Elizabeth, and that the present possessor was her tool. It was probably on
some previous knowledge of these events, that, at the very first, he entered
strenuously into the inquiry ; but when he asked the two friends who it was
that told them where the bodies were deposited, they refused to tell, saying
tliey were not at liberty to mention that

Without pressing then farther, he accompanied the young men to Acremoor
Castle, taking his official friends along with him. It may well be supposed
that .Sir Herbert was a little surprised by this unceremonious visit from the
Lord Viceroy ; he, however, put on a bold and hardy look, welcoming the
party to his castle, and inviting them to alight and enter it, which they
declined, till they saw the issue of the affair on which they had come.
Montrose then asked him sternly his reasons for preventing the young man
from searching for the body of his only sister, and the vassals for that of
their lady .-' He answered, that it was all a pretence, in order to get opportu-
nities to destroy the salmon ; that he heard the scoundrels had been out by
night, and he determined to check them in time. The Viceroy answered,
that, by virtue of his authority, he not only granted warrant for the search,
but had come with his friends to witness the issue, and examine the evidences.
Sir Herbert bowed assent, and said, as long as his Highness was present, no
depradation on his preserved fishing-ground could lake place, only he re-
quested him not to leave any such warrant behind him. He then furnished
them with boats, but refused to accompany them himself on what he called
such a fiivolous expedition.

The Viceroy and his friends, however, went all out in several barges — for
he had been too long a judge not to perceive the truth, though told to him in
simple guise. Of course they at once brought up the one body, to which the
buoy was attached, and found it to be that of a female, wrapped in a fine
winding-sheet, and then put into a sack, with her head towards the bottom,
and sunk with a large stone, and an iron ring in it. The stone was at om e
recognised by all the old vassals as one that had belonged to the castle dairy,
but the identity of the body was uncertain. It was not greatly decayed,

A TALE OF GOOD QUEEN BESS. 277

having been sunk among mud in the bottom of the lake ; and all the stranger
gentlenipn thoiic^ht it 1 night have been recognised by intimate aniuaintanrcs.
But it was. manliest that a great uncertainty prevailed, as some thought it
the body of their young lady, some that of Lucy, and more thouglit it
neither. Even Lowry and Graham both hesitated, notwithstanding of the
extraordinary information they had received, and its no less extraordinary
accuracy.

The party continued to drag on, and at length actually fished up another
female corpse, similarly disposed of in every respect, save that it was sunk
by a leaden weight, which was likewise known to have been appended to the
castle gate. The bodies were conveyed to a barn in the village, and all
the inhabitants of the castle and its vicinity were summoned to attend on
the instant, before the bodies were corroded by the action of the atmo-
sphere, and the suspected murderer was obliged to attend, like a culprit,
among the rest.

Strange as it may appear, though all the people suspected that the two
bodies were those of their young lady and Lucy, not one of them would swear
to the special identity of either. The Viceroy was fully convinced in his own
mind that they were the bodies of the two young females. He made it clear
that these two had been murdered at the castle about the time these ladies
disappeared, and if no other person in the neighbourhood was missing, the
presumption was strong that the bodies were either those of the mother and
daughter, or those of the latter and her foster-sister. Nevertheless, for all
this clear and explicit statement, not one would swear to the identity of either.
The \'iceroy then stated, that as no criminality attached to any one from all
that he was able to elicit, nothing more remained to be done, but to give the
bodies decent interment, and leave the murderers to the judgment of the
Almighty. When he had proceeded thus far, Lowry stepped up and addressed
him as follows : —

" My Lord, the maist part o' the fo'ks here //ii/il' that these bodies are the
bodies o' my sister and her young mistress ; an' if ye wad swear us a', we
wad swear to that purpose. But ye see, my Lord, death makes an awfu'
change on the human face and frame, and waste and decay mair. But as ye
hae gi'en up the murderer to the judgment o' Heaven, to the judgment o'
Heaven I make appeal. There is an auld law o' nature, or rather o' Divine
Providence, which I can depend on ; and I humbly request that it may be
tried : if these are the bodies o' my sister and young mistress, the murderer
is among us. [At this word, Lowry lifted his eyes to one which he had no
right to do.] Now, wad ye just order every ane present to touch these bodies,
it wad gie a great satisfaction to my heart, an' the hearts o' mony mae
than me."

The Viceroy smiled at the seriousness of the demand, but added, " If such
a direct appeal to the justice of God can give satisfaction to the minds ol
friends and relatives, the process is an easy one." He then lifted up his
hands, and prayed the Almighty to give a just judgment, and straight ordered
that all present should pass between his friends and himself, arranged on
each side, as witnesses that every one touched the bodies. Sir Herbert also
ranked himself up among the gentlemen as one of the witnesses. The people
passed, one by one, and touched the bodies ; but they bled not. Lowry and
Graham, who had touched first, stood looking on with apathy until the close,
when the Viceroy, ordering them forward as witnesses, first touched the
bodies himself, then his friends, one by one, touched them, and last of all,
Sir Herbert approached. Lowry's eyes then gleamed with an unearthly
ardour, from an internal assurance of Divine justice and retribution being
instantly manifested, and clasping his hands together, he exclaimed, " Now,
now, now ! " Sir 1 lerbert fixed on him a look of rage and indignation — went
forward and touclied both bodies.— No — neither of them gushed out a bleed-
ing, nor was there any supernatural appearance whatever.

Lowry's elated eye sunk, and his heart was humbled, but it was to the will

278 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

of Providence, for he lifted both his hands, and said, " Well, it is past, and
no more can be said ! The will of the Lord be done ! But as sure as there
is a (Jod in heaven, the murderer of these virgins shall not go down to his
grave in peace, for tlicir blood shall cry to their Creator from the ground, and
his curse shall be upon the guilty heart for ever ! They hae met wi' a cruel
and untimely deith ; but be who they may, I'll lay them baith in my ain
burial-place."

Every heart bled for Lowry and his friend, and every tongue was muttering
curses, not loud, but deep, on their new laird, whom all the old vassals both
suspected and detested. And no sooner had Montrose left that quarter to
preside in the Parliament at Perth, than Sir Herbert's people began to show
symptoms, not only of dissatisfaction, but of open rebellion. Resolved to
make an example of those most obnoxious to him, in order to strike others
with terror, he warned seven tenants and feuars off the estate, against Friday
next, Lowry and Alexander Graham's father being among the number.

The community were amazed at these tyrannical proceedings, so different
from the kind treatment they had been accustomed to receive. Accordingly,
they seemed, by some mutual assent, to regard the mandate with disdain,
and made no motions of removal, either previous to, or on the appointed day.
As if glad of such an opportunity of revenge, and of manifesting his power,
down came Sir Herbert with his proper officers, and ordered all the furniture
of the devoted families to be thrown to the door, and if not removed before
night, to be burnt. The men did as they were ordered ; and this work of
devastation went on from morning till towards the evening, the women crying,
beseeching, and uttering anathemas on the usurper, as they called him. He
regarded them not otherwise than to mock them, and superintended the work
the whole day, encouraging the tardy and relenting officers.

But while the women and children were thus bewailing their hard lot, there
appeared a dogged resignation among the men, who sauntered about in pairs,
regardingthe aggressor often with grim smiles,as of satisfaction, which inflamed
him still the more. They probably knew what he little dreamed of, that there
was then in preparation for him a catastrophe, which, if it had not been kept
on record in the family annals, would not gain credit at this distance of time.
It was the effect of one of those bursts of popular indignation against oppres-
sion, which is most apt to break out when they have no other redress ; and
in this case, the provocation was double, for they regarded their oppressor as
likewise the murderer of their rightful heiress.

But the term of lording it over the trusty vassals of an ancient and noble
stock was concluded. About seven o'clock in the evening of the 23rd of July,
1602, a body of armed men rushed from a barn, which, it appeared, they had
entered by a back door. Some of them had their visors down, others their
faces blackened, and concerning their numbers, there were many differences
of opinion. But the main facts were well authenticated. They instantly
surrounded Sir Herbert, seized him, and ordered him to prepare for instant
death. At that fearful injunction, the nature of the villain and craven became
manifest. He fell on his knees, and cried out, "Mercy, mercy!" He
prayed, he tore his hair, and wept, braying out like a maniac. He proffered
free remission of all debts — all offences. He even proffered to leave Scotland,
and renounce all claim on the estate. " We'll make shorter wark wi' such a
cursed claim as yours," said they, and instantly put a running cord about his
neck, and bore him on their arms into the l^arn, with ferocious alacrity, while
he continued roaring out, " Murder, murder ! " and " O mercy, mercy !" time
about ; but none pitied him, or came to the rescue. " Mercy ! '' cried they
in derision ; " such as you gave, so shall you have." With that, they threw
the end of the rope over a high joist of the barn. A gigantic fellow, who
seemed the leader of the gang, seized it ; and wrapping it round both his
hands, tightened it, and tlien asked his victim if lie had no prayer to pray,
and no confession to make .''

" O yes, yes ! I have, I have ! I have a prayei to pray, and a confession

A TALE OF GOOD QUEEN BESS. 279

to make," cried the wretch, glad to gam a little respite by any means, in
hopes of some motion in his favour. "' Grant me a reprieve, and I will con-
fess all."

" Then in this world there is only one chance of a respite," said the gigantic
chief, " which is, by confessing all that you know regarding the deaths of our
young lady and her friend Lucy Lumsdaine."

"1 will, 1 will!" cried he — "Only let me be heard before a tribunal of
justice, and not be tried by masked assassins. This, however, 1 will confess,
that my hands are guiltless of their blood."

" It is a lie ! " said his accuser, fiercely; "and it is meet that such a ruffian
go to hell with a lie on his tongue. Pull him up ! "

" O no, no ! ' cried he in agony — " I tell you the truth. The hands of
another assassin sheil their blood. These hands aie clean of it, as I shall
answer at the tribunal above I" And so saying, he spread forth his hands
towards heaven.

"It is a lie, I tell you, and a blasphemous one!" said the chief "So
either confess the whole truth, or here you go ; for we know you for the
(^ueen of England's agent, and guilty of their murder." So saying, he
tightened the rope, and began to heave the guilty wretch from the ground.

" Stop, stop, master 1" cried one ; " perhaps he will yet confess the whole
truth and live."

" Yes, yes ! Hold, hold ! " cried the culprit in the utmost desperation, seiz-
ing the rope with both hands, and dragging it down to slacken it ; "I will, I
will ! I will confess all and live. Did you not say live, friend ! I long only
to live till brought to a fair trial, and I ivill confess all. I swear then, by all
that is sacred, that I did not murder the maidens. But to save my own life,
and at the express command of my sovereign, whom I dared not disobey, I
connived at it. They were murdered, and I saw them sunk in the place from
whence they were taken."

" Then ilie corpses could not bleed," observed one, " since he was not the
actual murderer. This is wonderful ! The judgment of Heaven still is just !"

" So is that of Eachan M'Farlane !" cried the gigantic chief, who held the
farther end of the rope, and in a moment he had the victim dangling round
and round in the air, five feet from the ground. There was a great hubbub,
some crying one thing and some another, and some madly trying to pull him
down again, which finished his existence almost instantaneously. They then
fastened the end of the cord, and, leaving him hanging, they marched away in
a body, going over the Burrow Swire in the evening, as if men from another
district

This singular violence was very little looked into. There was little inter-
meddling between chief and vassal in those days ; and, moreover, it was pro-
bably shrewdly guessed from what high and dangerous source the removing
of the heiress proceeded. Lowry and Graham were seized next day, but
shortly released, it having been proven at once that they were not present,
having been both engaged in loading a cart with furniture at the time the
outrage took place, and totally ignorant of what was going on ; and it is a
curious fact, that there never was one of the perpetrators discovered, nor was
any one of that district particularly suspected. A M'Farlane there was not in
it ; and it has, therefore, been often hinted that the vassals had bargained
with that wild clan for a body of men to come down and rid them of their
upstart tyrant.

That very evening, as a number of retainers were going to remove the body
from the birn, who should they see but the Countess Uowagcr, their late young
lady's mother, who had disappeared on the same night with her daughter, and
whom they believed to have been murdered along with her ; yet, there she
was standing at the door of the barn. True, there had Ix-on no confession
made of her death, neither had it been revealed to Lowry in liis vision. But
she was missing with the rest, and the horror of the group may well Ije conceived
when they beheld her standing watching the corpse of tlie murderer. She

2J?c THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

•■■ s recognised at once, and tliough she beckoned them on onward, and moved
;jrward slowly and majestically to meet them, this was a visitation they had
not courage to abide, but retreated in a body to the castle. Still she advanced.
It was the dusk of the evening, and as she approached the great front door
that looked towards the lake, there were visages of dismay peeping from every
window ; and as the spectre entered the gate, there was a rush from the castle
by the other entrance, which created a noise like thunder.

Great was the consternation that ensued ; for from that moment no one
durst enter the castle either by tlay or night, for there were wailings heard
within it, and lights seen passing to and fro in the darkness of midnight. At
length the old witch wife issued from her cot in the linn, and summoned
Lowry and Graham, and several of the head families to attend at the castle,
and receive their Lady Dowager's commands, who was actually returned to
her daughter's castle and estate, living, and in g(jod health. But the warning,
coming as it did from buch an equivocal source, remained unattended to for a
time, the people believing it was the Countess's spirit, not herself, till she
showed herself walking about publicly, and then the servants and retainers
gathered to her, and oJjeyed her as in former times.

As she did not rereal to any one where she had been, so no one took it on
him to enquire. But she told them that her grief and perplexity had never
till then reached its height, for until the dying confession of the wretch whom
she knew to be the accredited agent of a tigress, she had strong hopes that her
daughter was alive. But that confession had changed her fondest hopes to
the deepest sorrow ; and she durst not set a foot in England while C^ueen
Elizabeth lived, nor yet remain in Scotland safe in concealment, therefore she
thought of proceeding to Flanders.

While things were in this confusion at the castle, who should make his ap-
pearance in the vicinity, but the identical horse-jockey who was known to have
been the murderer of the young lady their mistress, and suspected likewise to
have made away with poor Lucy, the only witness of his atrocities. The fel-
low now came in grand style, having livery servants attending him ; and he
was dispatching messengers backwards and fonvards to England every day.
He had even the effrontery to ride openly about, and make many inquiries of
the state of affairs about the castle, supposing, as the vassals judged, that in
his new and grand capacity he was not recognised. But his features had left
among them an impression of horror not to be obliterated. Every one who
had seen him on the former occasion, knew him, and none better than
Alexander Graham.

A consultation was called of all the principal retainers, on which it appeared
that every one suspected another English plot, but neither knew what it was
nor how to frustrate it. No one who has not heard the traditionary story, or
consulted the annals of that family, will guess what was resolved on at that
meeting. Simply this, that they would go in a body and hang the English
villain. The late event had been so much talked about, so much applauded,
and so well kept, that hanging had become rather popular among these sturdy
vassals. It was the order of the day ; and accordingly that very night a party
was made up, accoutred much as the former one, who proceeded to the
stranger's hostel, which was not in the village at the castle, but in the larger
one at the west end of the loch. There they made a simultaneous attack, de-
manding the English scoundrels to be delivered into their hands. But they
had to do with better men in these English scoundrels than the other party
had, and in all probability the attacking party was greatly inferior to the
former one, for the Englishman at once, with many tremendous oaths and
curses, prepared to defend himself against the whole mob, with no one to sup-
port him but his two livery servants. A stout battle ensued at the door, and
ten times did the English hero drive them back almost single handed, curs-
ing them, meanwhile, for all the lowsy cowardly assassins of their country
gathered together, and swearing, moreover, to extirpate every soul of them ;
but at length rushing too far forward, he was surrounded, wounded, and taken.

A TALE OF GOOD QUEEN BESS. 281

For all that, he never ceased laying about him and struj,'gling to the last ; and
it was questioned if all the men there would have been able to have put the
rope about his neck. They never would, without binding both his feet and
hands, and neither of the pairs were very easily ic^trained.

They were dragging him away to a tree, when Habby Simpson, the landlord,
arrived to the rescue, with a strong band of villagers, who drew up in front
and opposed the assailants ; and flabby told them that he would be security
for the gentleman's appearance at any tribunal in the kingdom ; but that
before a stranger should be butchered in such a cowardly way within his
premises, he and his assistants would fight till the last drop ol' their blood.
And, moreover, he requested them to remember, that men who appeared in
masks were held as vagabonds, and that he and his friends were at liberty to
shoot them all with perfect impunity.

" Why, but, honest Habby," said one, " ye perhaps dinna ken that this is
the ruffian who murdered our young lady and Lucy Lumsdaine .'"'

" it is a //>, you scoundrel," cried the horse-dealer, with great indignation ;
" mine are the hands that never injured a woman, though 1 have risked my
life often to save them. But mine is a tale that will not tell here. I appeal to
your lady, and, backed by this mine host and his friends, 1 defy you."

The conspirators then insisted on taking him to the castle, but Habby
Simpson would not trust him in their hands, but kept him, and became bound
for him. The next day, David iJallas, the steward on the estate, came down
to take the deposition ; but the Englishman lost all patience at the accusation,
and would do little else save curse and swear. He denied the murder of the
virgins, with many horrid oaths, and protfered to produce them both alive if
suffered to depart on his parole.

David replied, " That as for producing the virgins alive, after their murder
had been confessed by his companion, with the rope about his neck, — after
their bodies had both been found and burieti, was what no Scottish judge
would swallow ; he doubted if even an English one would ; and that it was
natural for such a culprit to wish to be set at liberty ; but for his part, he
certainly knew of no man living who better deserved the gallows."'

The Englishman then began an explanation, as well as his rage would let
him ; but iiis dialect was not quite intelligible to David Dallas, who could
only smile at such a strange defence, the tenor of which was, that " he under-
took the murder of two young ladies to save them alive." The steward had
no further patience ; so he ordered him to be manacled, conveyed to the
castle, and chained in the dungeon. The Countess, after consulting with the
steward and several others, entertained no doubt that this man was the
murderer of her only daughter and Lucy. Indeed, as the evidence stood, it
was impossible to believe otherwise. And it is therefore probable, that, before
she left her country, she had resolved to give up the detested agent of a de-
tested woman to popular vengeance, for shortly after, he was brought to the
castle, at least in a few days, a great mob assembled and peremptorily
demanded his life. So he was, as if by compulsion, given up to them, placed
on a platform in front of the castle, the rope put about his neck, and a certain
time allowed him to make a full confession. He began the same confused
story about the Earl of Northumberland, and of his undertaking the murder
of the two young ladies to save their lives ; but his voice was often drowned
by repeated hurras of derision. At length, as if driven to desperation, he be-
gan hurraing louder than any of them, jumping on the platform as if gone mad,
and shouting louder and louder, till, on looking around, they beheld a party
coming up at full canter, their own young lady in front, and the young Lord
I'crcy on her rii^'ht hand, and Lucy on her left, who were now shouting out to
save the brave lellow. The order was instantly obeyed ; he was set at lil)ei ty,
and ere he leu tiie platiorm, was invited to be the principal guest of the noble
party in the castle.

So ends my tale ; and it would ik ,h.. > , be better to let it end here, without
any explanation, as there is one cncumsiancc, and one only, which 1 tannot

282 THE ETTRJCK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

explain. This brave Englishman's name was Henry Wilson. He had been
for a number of years house-steward to the Earl of Northumberland, and heard
daily that this great and royal heiress's name was a favourite theme with that
ambitious family. On his lord's going up to court at London, Wilson was
dismissed for some irregularities, which he took greatly to heart. And he
being a man out of place, and probably a dissipated character, was applied to,
among others, to make away with this dangerous heiress to two crowns. He
agreed to it at once, promising, for a high reward, to be the principal agent,
but determined, by some means or other, to save the young lady's life, as the
sure means of ingratiating himself with his beloved and indulgent master.
Fortune favoured him particularly on his gracious intent in the first instance ;
for, on the night when he had promised to bring the young lady, dead or alive,
to his associates, there chanced to be the corpse of a French girl in the castle,
newly dead and screwed in her coffin, and it was for her the new grave was
made in the churchyard. That body he took to his associates, filling the coflin
with rubbish ; and the young lady he conveyed safe to Alnwick Castle. She
being most anxious to have her foster-sister, Lucy, with her, and the latter
proving a great stumbling-block to the new claimant, he undertook, on the
promise of another reward, to make away with her also, and sink her in the
loch beside her mistress. He so managed matters, that he received the
reward, and deceived the villain a second time, conveying Lucy safe to her
beloved mistress ; but where he procured the second body that was sunk in
the sack, is the only circumstance which I never heard explained. The pre-
sumptive heiress of two crowns was joyfully received, and most honourably
treated by the Percys, while young Lord Percy and she were privately be-
trothed to each other, while the indefatigable Henry Wilson was raised higher
in his chief's favour than ever.

1 must now add a suggestion of my own, of the certainty of which I have
no doubt. It is, that the witch-wife was the Countess Dowager in deep dis-
guise, remaining on the estate to watch and assist the progress of events.
And 1 think, that, in order to keep her people free of all blame or suspicion, it
was she who had engaged a sept of the M'Farlanes to come down and cut off
the intruding incendiary.

SOUND MORALITY:

OR, PRACTICAL RELIGION, AS DISTINGUISHED FROM
THEORETICAL RELIGION.

" It is a grand thing, true and genuine morality ! If I were a minister, I
wad never preach up onything but just pure morality," said Cuddy Cauldrife
to his neighbour shepherd, Michael Moody, one morning as they sat on the
top of Lochfell, and cast their eyes over the fair dales of the West Border.

" An' what for wad ye no be preaching ought but morahty. Cuddy ? We
hao muckle need o' hearing some other sort o' doctrine than cauld morality, an'
to hae some other thing to put our tnist in, too, bc'^ide that."

" Quite wrong, my good fellow, I assure you. There is no doctrine which
should be inculcated at all times, and in all i)laces, but that of sound morality,
bet ause it is the bond of society and good manners, and goes to counteract the
enormous mass of gener.d turpitude within us."

" 1 dinna think that observation is quite appli( able to us as Scotsmen."

"And wherefore not applicaljle to Scotsmen.''"

" Because ye ken it is reported tint we aie unco subject to the Scots fiddle.

SOUND MORALITY. 283

Now, if there war sae verra muckle turpentine within us, ane wad think it
should act as a preventative."

" Whew ! There's naebody can ever get a solid argument frae you, but afif
ye flee at a tangent into the wilds of absurdity."

" I'll tell you what, my friend Cuddy. As I take it, there's just as muckle
solidity in your morality as your turpentine — a' aff in a bleeze. Have ye ony
kind o' notion that ye are a man o' sound moral principles .'"

" I hope and trust that there has never been any great moral turpitude per-
ceivable in my character or demeanour."

" Maybe sae, maybe sae. I hope it is true ; but let us bring things to the
test. The first an' leading error that we shepherds fa' into is that o' kissing
the lasses. That's weel kend to be our besetting sin. Now, 1 dinna think
you are very guilty o' that, for there winna ane o' the lasses let you come
near her, or touch her. But, Cuddy, wasna there aince a kind o' queer story
about a wild young wife, a neighbour o' yours? Was there nane o' — what is'f
you ca' the thing then .? Moral something .'"'

" I don't know if there was any great depravity or moral turpitude in the
action, supposing it to be true, for argument sake, if the consarcination of
their conjugality is taken into account."

'' There for it ! There goes sound morality, full sail afore the wind o'
delusion ! I'll tell you what, neighbour Cuddy, when a man has to modify
the law o' God to suit his sinfu' propensities, it is a braw easy way o' squaring
his accounts. The moral law is gayan explicit on that point ; and yet, try it
a' point by point, an' you will find that you have not only broken the whole
law, by being guilty of one breach, but broken the sum total of all the righteous
commandments. For instance, I dinna ken if ever you killed ony o' your
neighbours ; but that you haena used a' lawfu' endeavours to presei-ve their
lives, I ken weel. For do you no mind when we were gaun awa' to the
courting aince, that ye persuadit me against my ain conviction, to venture on
the ice, and after I had gaen down ower the lugs, and was within a hair-breath
o' being drowned, ye war a' the time lying laughin' sae, that ane might hae
bound you wi' a strae ? What kind o' morality was that .? I trow, right near
mor/rt/ity to me. And mair be token, I dinna think ye wad steal ane o' your
neighbour sheep, but weel do ye like to get a pluck o' his gerse at a quiet
corner."

" My dear fellow, there was no moral turpitude there. That was probably
because I know that neighbour to be daily getting part of his grass from me."

" Ay, that's just the way wi' a' you grand moral men ! Ye never square
your actions to the law, but the law to your actions. But that is just the way
wi' poor human nature ; whenever she tries to uplift hersell, she is degraded.
And particularly in this, that I never yet knew a grand declaimer on the
principles of sound morality, who ever was an upright, charitable, and amiable
character ; and I hardly ever knew a man of humility, who placed his hopes
on the works of another who had stood in his stead, that was not a model of
what the other inculcated. But the best way o' settling a' these points atween
herds, is by instances, and as I remember a beautiful ane, I'll just tell
you it.

" Weel, ye see, there are twa towns stand near other, no very far frae here,
and we shall distinguish them by the twa names that their neighbours ca'
them, The Gitde Town, and The Bad To7vn. They belang baith to the same
parish, but far frae being friendly wi' ane another ; for the fo'ks o' the gude
town scorn to associate wi' the others. Now, there was a body in the bad
town that they ca'd l)Ctty Rae, wha let out lodgings to poor fo'ks, at a penny
the night, and a weel filled house she often had, though her lodgers warna
just the maist respcctfu' i' the community. Yet, I believe mony a good
Christian, and mony a humble heart, wha hadna great routh o' ihc things o'
this warld, were obliged, at times, to take shelter aneath lietty's roof, ilk
ane paid his penny as he came in, and there were nac fnicstions asked ; and
whatever else they wanted was a' paid for aforehand.

284 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

" Weel, there was ae night, amang ithers, a woman and her daughter cr.me
in for lodgiiiys.p.iid llieir twof)ence,and went away to a bed in the end where
the woman slept, vithuut askmg for any thing to cat or drmk. The woman
had the appeaiainc of having seen better days, for in her manners she was a
lady, although in her looks much emaciated ; and the little girl, scarcely ten
years of age, was as beautiful as a cherub, lictty had learned long before to
read in the looks and bearing of her customers the precise state of their
finances ; so, when she returned from showing this pair to their bed, she said
to the rest of her burly customers, ' 1 fear that puir body an' her bit lassie are
rather run short o' the needfu', for I'm unco far mistaen gin they haena mair
need o' their supper than ony o' us hae the night, and yet they hae ordered
naething. 1 hae just been thinkin', if you could hae spared me happenies
apiece, 1 would hae added twa or three mysel', an' bought something good
for them. For, d'ye ken, the pooi wee lassie's greetin' o' hunger ? '

" ' Hoh ! deil hae them ! wha cares for rattans like them?' quo' a gruesome
Scots tinkler.

" ' 1 waudn't be myndcd to help wonysooken trash for m^ own peart,' said
an English gaberlunzic.

" ' Tlie buddies '11 nnibby hae sumthing alangs wee thum. Far de they
cumm frae ? ' said an Aberdeen man.

" ' And, by my shoul and body, man, what is the matter where they come
from, or where they are going either, if they are to be after dying of hunger
in the first place .'' And, be Jasus, if you will all give a penny apiece, I will
give my last one, before the dare shouls should be under the death warrant
of hunger,' said a ragged Irishman.

" ' Hcrsel pe hafing no shange, else she would be kiffing tern a pawpee,'
said Nicol Shaw, an old Highlander, who sat with a snuff-horn in his hand,
and which horn had a snufl-spoon, a hare's foot, and a neesepike appended.

" ' O, but I'll gie you change, honest man,' said Betty Rae. ' \Vhat is the
soom ye want changed ? '

" Shaw winked with the one eye, and looked silly with the other, like one
catched in a fault, brushed his nose with the hare's foot, and replied, ' She be
fery pad shange in tis pad town.'

" Paddy losing patience, cursed them all for hard-hearted rascals, and
pulling down a decanter of tin, he ran out, and after an absence of about ten
minutes returned with a penny roll, and a brimming decanter of sweet milk,
warm from the cow.

"'Where got you these, Paddy? How came you by these?' was asked
by all.

" ' Pray thee don't be after bothering people with so many questions just
now,' said Paddy, and rushed with his earnings ben to the poor woman's
bed.

" ' Oho, mistress, and so you thought to chate us out of your swate company,
and go supperless to bed ? But may Shant Patrick be my namhe* if you
shall do so. Oh botheration, no ! And this little dare shoul too? Why
Paddy Murphy would rather be after wanting his supper twenty times than
the swate little darling should be famishing with luinger. And, oh, I declare
and sware that she must be after dhying already, for her belly is not bigger
nor a paraito. That's my swate honey ! Take your supper heartily ! And
when it is done you shall have plenty more.'

" In this manner did Paddy Murphy run on all the while the half-famished
pair were at their meal. A Scotsman would have tried to discover their
names, friends, or qualities. An Englishman, if they had any connexion
with any mercantile house ; but Paddy had no ( onception of any thing of the
sort. When he returned to the kitchen he could neither tell who they were,
whence they had come, or whither they were going, but only that they were
there ; that he was sure of, and had been very hungry, but he had cured
them of that disease.

* Knemy.

SOUND MORALITY. 285

" There having, by this time, been some interest excited about the two
Strangers, lietty Kae went to reconnoitre farther, and returned with word that
the poor woman was very ill, and like dying, for that ' the meat had taken her
by the heart, and she was a' drawn thegither wi' pain.' She added farther
that the woman was a minister's daughter, and belonged to the Highlands,
but her husband had been killed in the wars, and she was left destitute, and
far from home.

" ' But poor woman, she'll never see hame,' said Betty, mournfully, ' an'
what's to come o' her bit bonny helpless bairn, the Lord only kens ! '

"This observation made Paddy wipe his eyes, but he could do no more,
for he had spent his last penny on a roll for her, and stolen tlie milk, by milk-
ing some of Squire Hardy's cows ; and so Paddy was obliged to content him-
self with blessing them a hundred times or two, and praying that Jasus and
Shant Patrick would take the swate darlings under their care. But old Nicol
Shaw, hearing they belonged to the Highlands, after a good deal of hesitation
and exclamations of pity, actually, at last, untied his cotton neckcloth. Below
it there was another one, which he also loosed ; and from a knot in the inner
corner of that, and which corner lay exactly in the hollow part of his neck, he
took a small parcel of gold pieces, and gave his hostess one in exchange for
silver. What part of that he gave to the sufferer next day he kept to himself.
The rest of the lodgers suspected that he had given her nothing ; but in this
they were wrong, as afterwards became manifest.

"The next day, the mother was so ill as to be unable to lift her head, and old
Betty Rae, who had long been compelled, by the uncertain characters among
whom she dealt, to give nothing for nothing, was sadly puzzled how to act, for
a sick person in her dormitory was a blow to her business ; so, after a private
conference with Nicol Shaw, she set away over to the good town, to the parish
minister, to lay the case before him and his session.

" Now, this parish minister, it is well known, is the most brilliant and most
strenuous preacher up of good works in the whole kingdom. Sound morality
is with him, like you, all and all : the only path to heaven and to happiness ;
yet no kind or disinterested action has ever been recorded, even in the
traditions of his parish, of this man. So, when told that Betty Rae wanted
him, he said he had nothing to say to Betty Rae ; she was always seeking
something for some of her delinquent customers. Betty, however, told the
servant girl, that she would not leave the manse till she had spoke with the
minister, who was obliged to lift his window reluctantly, and ask the intruder's
business.

" ' Troth, sir, it is joost neither less nor mair than this. There is an officer's
widow taken ill at my bit house owerbye yonder, and lying, I fear, at the
point o' death. She has a follower, too, poor woman ! a dear, kind-hearted,
little girl. An' ye ken, sir, I canna afford to maintain them, an' get skcel
for them, an' nurse them ; sae ye maun consider, and say what fund is to draw
on for this purpose.'

"' Draw on your own funds, Mrs. Rae, since you have been so imprudent as to
encumber yourself with such lodgers ; get quit of them the best way you may.
Your house, by drawing beggars about it, is a perfect nuisance in the parish.'

" ' I won my bread as honestly, and a great deal hardlicr than yc do, sir, an'
yet I dinna trust to my good warks awthegither. But I hae nae ithcr means
o' keeping niysell out o' your parish funds, and think 1 rather deserve praise
than blame for my poor exertions. But that's nacthing to the purpose ; tell
me what's to be done wi' the poor lady an' her bairn, for, as the head o' the
session, you are bound to see after her, that I ken ; an' gin I dinna get a
satisfactory answer, I'll lay her down at your door in the course of an hour.'

" There was nothing terrified the minister so much as this, and that Betty
kend weel. So he then judged it pro{)cr to come to terms witlit his hostess
of the poor, by asking to what parish the woman belonged, and what was her
name .-'

"' Alack- a-day, sir, I fear she is far frac her native parish,' said Belty ; 'for

286 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

they ca' it Aberncthy, on a great river cad the Spey, that rises somegate i'the
Heelands, near the North Pole ; and her name's Mistress M'Queen, and she's
a minister's daughter. An' as ye hac daughters o' your ain, sir, an' dinna ken
what they may come to, you should open your heart to the condition o' the
poor woman, wha has seen better days.'

" ' Why, Mrs. Rae, there is only one rule in our parish laws, which is this: — •
We must convey her to the ne.xt parish, that parish to the next again, and
so on, till she reach her own. I have no power of ordering anything farther.'

" ' Than ye may save yoursell the trouble of ordering that, sir, for if ye offer
to lift her out o' her bed just now, and pit her intil a cart, ye may as weel hing
her ower a bank at aince, or cut off her head an' be done wi' her. Sae, for the
sake o' Christian charity, ye maun think o' some ither plan for the present ;
for I'm mistaen gin ye be lang fashed wi' her. A little wine, or as muckle
siller as wad hire the carter, wad hae been a mair feasible award frae ane that's
sae keen o' good warks.'

" ' Why, iSIrs. Rae, if she is so very badly, it would be dangerous to take her
out — Most dangerous ! and the person who did it might be tried for murder.
Therefore, I think your best way is to keep the woman and child, and I shall
represent the case at our quarterly meeting.'

'"Ay, ay, sir ! weel I ken that's a get off, for fear I bring her to your door.
But take ye care, an' be upon your guard, for 1 maun e'en try to look to
myscll, as weel as you. An' O, it will be lang afore ye hnd out ony redress
for me. As the auld sang says,

' To seek for warm water aneath cauld ice,
I trow it is a grit foUye.
1 hae askit grace of a graceless face,
An' there is nae mercy for mine or me.'

" But Auld Betty Rae was only hard and niggardly by habitual practice, it
being by pennies and half-pennies that .she made her livelihood ; for she had
many of the tender feelings so natural to a woman, and so inherent in a true
Christian. She never thought of parting with the stranger, unless she could
procure a better lodging for her, which she had little hope of, knowing the
fountainhead at which she had to apply. But she did hope to secure some
remuneration for the expense and trouble she was likely to incur. She was
mistaken. The minister, who had on his dressing-gown, retired to his study,
to continue the penning of his splendid culogium on good works, but left such
poor devils as Betty Rae to the practice of them.

"As Betty went home, she could not help entertaining some severe reflections
on, ' the hale fashionable princijjie o' gude warks,' as she termed it ; and as
she was buying some wine and cordials from. Christopher Little, she says to
him, ' Gudesake, gie me fair weight an' measure, Kirsty ! But I believe ye're
a man o' sound morality ? '

" 'Ay, just sae an' sac, Bessie, neighbour like.'

" ' Ye dinna expect that your guele warks arc to tak ye till heaven, then —
do ye .? '

" ' If we had nae ither grip, I fear you an' I wad hae baith but a poor chance,
Bessie.'

" 'Ay, like enough. But d'ye think our minister's are sure enough to tak him
there ? '

" 'Our minister's! O I couldna say about that, for it is the first time ever I
heard tell o' them.'

" 'Ay, ye've a way, Kirstie! But there's nnc fun i' my mind ; for I hae a poor
dying widow lady i' my house, an' the minister winna helf) me wi' ony thing but
a cart to take her away in.'

" ' She maun be ill-looking, I fear. An' in that case the parson's resolution
is quite orthodox — because ye ken, Bessie, gude warks shoudna be extendit to
aught that's no beautifu' in itself— Eh ?'

" Bessie suuKlged and leugh at the slic.pman's insinuations, and returned

SOUND MORALITY. 287

home with a physician, who prescribed to her patient ; ;ind in short, for a
whole quarter of a year there was not a good ihinj; that the bad town could
produce, that Mrs. M 'Queen was not treated with. Neither did Betty ever
apply any more to the minister ; and instead of doinj:^ her house ill, the
singular act of benevolence raised her character so high among her motley
customers, that they were proud of counting acquaintance \\ ith her ; and her
house became so well frequented, that she was obliged to take in an assistant,
and raised the price of her lodgings. She grew particularly attached to the
little girl, Annabell M'Queen, a perfect pattern of^comelincbs and kindness of
heart. Betty often insinuated to the sufferer, that she should write to her
friends in the north, but this she always declined complying with, from what
motive was not understood, but it was most probably from an aversion at
being found in such mean circumstances.

" However, after three months' confinement in Betty Rae's house, the poor
woman was enabled to proceed on her journey homeward. Nor did she
travel far on foot, for, near the village of Graitney she got into a coach, and
the driver afterwards declared that she paid her fare, and was set down in
Edinburgh. No farther word was heard of her for many years, but the act of
benevolence made Betty Rae's fortune. It was blazoned over the whole
country what she had done, and what the minister of the gospel had refused
to do ; and there was not a lady in the parish, and but few in the district, who
did not send Betty presents. It was calculated that she got at least fifty pre-
sents, every one of which amounted in value to the whole sum expended on
the invalid. And to crown all, at the next quarterly meeting of the heritors,
a gentleman (Mr. Ker of Holm) laid the case before the others, to the
great shame and prejudice of the minister, and got a liberal allowance for
Betty.

" Now, mine hostess of the mendicants chuckled in her sleeve, and took all
this bounty with great thankfulness and humility, after saying, ' Dear sirs,
dear sirs ! I had nae merit at a' in sheltering the poor woman. How could ony
Christian soul turn out a poor sick creature to dee at the back o' the dike.-*
Od, we may easily ken that by oursells. How wad ony o' us like to be turned
out wi' a poor httle orphan i' our hand, to dee at the back o' the dike ? I had
nae merit at a', and I wish you wadna mention it ony mair, for fear ye
mak me as proud o' my gude warks an' sound morality, as the minister is
o' his.'

" Now the truth is, that Betty had some merit, but not half so much as the
country supposed, or that you, Cuddie Cauldrife, are at this moment suppos-
ing ; for there is another person whom we have long lost sight of, like tlie
greater part of our lady novelists, who introduce characters for the mere pur-
pose of showing them off {vide The Lairds o' Fife, Rich and Poor, and a
thousand others). But we must not quite lose sight of them all, though in
a short tale like this one cannot get the most made of them. However, it will
be remembered, that on the night of Mrs. M'Queen's arrival in the I'ad town,
there were lodged at Betty's house a Scots itinerant tinker, or gipsy, a charac-
ter well known ; an Englishman, who was an Excise spy, and a great black-
guard, and who subsequently got himself sliot in an affray with smugglers,
and well deserved it ; an Irishman, who was on his way to the east country
for harvest, and who was at no loss to beg his way till he found work ; and
an old Highlander, ycleped Nicholas Shaw, but more commonly denomi-
nated Old Nick, ox Nicol, in courtesy. This old carle, it will be remcmbertd,
changed half a guinea with the landlady, in order to give the sufferer a part
of it ; and had a short conference that night with Mrs. M'Queen, from which
he returned greatly agitated.

" Now, this old .N'icoi Shaw was not a beggar, though he had very much the
appearance of one ; lor Nicholas, in his own country of Stratiis])ey, was
accounted a very independent man: but an Englishman, or even a S»ots
Lowlander, has no conception to what extent Highland frugality can be
carried, especially when there is any family oi)jcci in view.

288 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

"The attachment of a genuine Highlander, in the first place to his family ;
in the second place, to his kinsfolk ; and in the third and last place, to his
whole clan, is beyond what any man but a Highlander can comprehend ; and
even in all these three, there are but very small shades of ditference ; for, in
spite of existing circumstances, he still looks upon the clan as in reality one
family, of which the chief is the parent — a charity extending beyond these,
her nainsell docs not comprehenci.

" Old Shaw was one of those truly patriarchal characters. He had occupied
extensive possessions as a farmer, mostly from the Laird of Grant, but a small
part from the Duke of Gordon ; and these he had parted among his sons
always as they had been married, with a stipulation, that every one was to
pay him so much annually ; but to save his sons from paying that annuity,
he subjected himself to every son of toil, and every privation. He had, at this
time, gone all the way from Badcnoch to Norwich, in the vicinity of London,
as topsman, on a drove of cattle belonging to Mr. Macpherson of Corriebeg, a
neighbour of his ; and though he had, by that means, realized a considerable
sum, amounting to seven pounds, yet, in order to save every farthing, he had
taken up his abode at the ' cheap lodgings' for a night

" But, alack, for worthy old Nicol and his well-earned purse both ! For it
was not destined that either of them should leave the town so soon as
intended. One word from the sufferer— the mere mention of her name and
her family, rivetted Nicholas Shaw to the spot ; and that very night he entered
into an agreement with Betty Rae, under the most solemn promises of secrecy,
that he was to pay all expenses incurred by the lady and her daughter, and
the lodgings too, if he coiiUl. In the mean time, Betty was to try to get some
assistance elsewhere, and better lodgings, if she could obtain them, at any
expense save his own ; for being uncertain of the duration of her illness, he
was, of course, uncertain of his ability to answer all demands. Betty could
make nothing of the minister ; could get no better lodgings, but she made her
own lodgings as comfortable as it was in her power to make them, and that
with the resolute purpose of charging nothing for them, should exigencies
render such a sacrifice necessary. And when the nursing is taken into
account, really I'etty had a good deal of merit. Every thing, however, was
paid punctually to a farthing, lodgings, nursing, and outlay, by old Nicholas,
before ever Mrs. MHlueen left her lodgings ; so that there was scarcely ever
such a windfall come to the lot of a poor woman, as did that night to Betty
Rae, in the arrival of Mrs. M'C2ueen at the 'cheap lodgings.'

" But worthy old Nicol had now to begin a new occupation. For, terrified
that his funds should run short before the lady got better, he had no other
resource but to begin the begging, which he practised with such efl'ect, as to
have rendered his success proverbial over all the dales of the West Border.
His custom was to traverse all the remote places in the forenoon, and pick ujj
whatever was offered to him ; but it was towards the evenings that his success
was altogether unparalleled. He let his beard grow, and wore a tremendous
skeati-dJui, or Highland dirk, in his breast, so that he became a most frightful
and dangerous looking chap ; and then, ere the sun went down, he began to
ask lodgings, or '' te quarter," as he called it. One look at him was enough ;
he was dismissed with a penny, and very often he induced goodwives to make
it " te tree pawpee to pay her supper and her bed." Then away to another
house, and another, always with the same refjuest for lodgings, without the
least intention of accepting of them if offered ; and never was he refused the
penny at least, to pay for his bed. When any body appeared to hesitate
about letting him in, he took care always to show the handle of his dirk
in his coat breast, which settled the bargain, and the halfpence were
produced.

" I heard a gentleman (Mr. Knox) say, that when he heard the genuine High-
land twang at his door one night very late, he determined on letting the old
man in for the night, and accosted him thus; ' I think you travel unco late,
friend? What are ye that is gaun asking quarters at this time o' night?'

SOUND MORALITY. 289

*' * O, she just pe te poor heelant pody tat nhone of te Sassenach will pe
Ihetting witin him's toor for te sake of Cot.'

" ' That's very hard, man. What ails a' the fo'k .at you, think ye ? '

" ' Oo, she hafe cot te wort of peing fery pad on te tief and te moorter ! ' and
as he said that he put his hand to the handle of his skea7i-dhu.

" ' Aih ! L preserve us ! ' exclaimed Mr. Knox, ' baith a thief and a mur-
derer I Gudesake gae away about your business ! There's a baxpence t'ye,
gang and get lodging where you best can.'

" In this manner did he persevere on every night till midnight, aye as long
as there was a light in a window in the whole valley ; and always the later it
grew, his alms grew the better, and were the more readily bestowed. About
ten at night, he would go through whole villages, insisting on having ' te
quarter ' at every door ; and from every house he extracted something that
the inmates might be quit of him. And then when no more was to be got, he
lay down and slept in an out-house till the morning. His earnings averaged
about half-a-crown a-day. But twice every week he visited his cheap lodg-
ings, attending to every wish and want of the broken-hearted sufferer and her
darling child, without once hinting at the means he took of supplying their
wants. Their discourse together was always in Gaalic, and Betty often
remarked how the old patriarch's face would glow with a thankful benevo-
lence when he perceived Mrs. M'Queen's advancing state of convalescence.
He begged for her till she recovered, and never quitted her till he landed her
safe in the bosom of her own and her husband's friends in Strathspey.

"Now, Cuddy, this is what I call SOUND MORAl.nv — pure practical morality,
unadulterated by any self-interest or theoretical quibbling. I have often
envied the feelings of this old Highlander. There are traits of benevolence
in his character that do honour to human nature. To think of a respectable
and independent old farmer begging night and day to supply the couch of
distress, appeared to me rather like a romance than a portraiture of real
life."

"Why, Mr. Moody, it has only this fault. It wants generalization for true
and splendid magnificence ; and the moral excellency of the action depends
on the proximity or remoteneness of the consanguinity of the parties."

" That's surely an extraordinary grand speech for a herd, Cuddy ; I gie you
credit for that speech. 'The proximity or remoteness of consanguinity!'
Ha! ha! ha! Excellent! Well, then, the deed had all the moral excellence
that could attach to it in that respect, for twelve years afterwards it came out
that old Nicol Shaw and Mrs. M 'Queen were no otherwise related than being
of the same clan, and he had heard her father preach twice or thrice at the
distribution of the Sacrament of the Supper.

" I said twelve years afterwards, for it was just so much that a handsome
carriage stopped at the door of the cheap lodgings in the Bad town, out of
which a beautiful lady looked and asked for old Betty Rae. The woman of
the house answered that ' Betty had gi'en up business lang syne, an' leevcd
like a lady now,' and pointed out the house. The carriage drove up to the
door of a cleanly thatched cottage, and this beautiful creature, entering with-
out ceremony, in one instant had old Betty in her arms. Betty was con-
founded ; and when the divine creature asked the raised-looking dame if she
did not know her, she replied —

" ' Oo, deed no, deed no ! how should I ken a grand lady like you .' ikit
I'se warrant ye're outher Lady Annandale, or Lady Queensberry, or Lady
Wcsleraw, come to spcir about the auld story o' the officer's widow?'

*"Ah! dear, dear Betty, and do you not remember your own child, who
sat so often on your knee? Do you not remember little AnnabcU
M'Queen ?'

" ' Aih, gude sauf us to the day ; ir ye her ? Oh, the blessings o* the God o'

heaven be on your bonnie face. But ir ye really Ihm ? Aih wow! I low is

your dear blessed mother.-' Is she Iccving yet? And how's .-uiid Nirol .Shaw,

poor m.an ! But ;.,uk1i: sauf us to llio day. where arc ye g;um this gate.' O,

I. 19

290 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

ye maun forgie an auld doited body, for I'm sae happy, I neither ken what I'm
doing or saying. I hae good reason to bless the day ye entered my poor
door. It was a visit of an angel o' heaven to me ; and there has never a night
gane ower this auld head, on whilk I hae nae prayed for your welfare, and
your mother's, at the throne o' grace.'

'' To cut short a long story, that was a happy meeting— Annabell was on her
marriage jaunt — A lovelier flower never bloomed on the banks of the Spey,
and she was married to a baronet, a most amiable young man, while her
mother was still living, healthy and happy, in the house of Colonel M'Queen,
her husband's father. But neither of them ever forgot, or ever will forget,
auld Betty Rae, and the cheap lodgings i' the Bad town."

TRIALS OF TEMPER:

A TALE OF HASTY COURTSHIP.

" I SAY she is neither handsome, nor comely, nor agreeable, in any one respect,
Mr. Burton, and I cannot help considering myself as rather humbugged in this
l;usiness. Do you account it nothing to bring a man of my temperament a
chase of three hundred miles on a fool's errand?''

" My dear sir, I beg a thousand pardons. But really, if you esteem Miss
Eliza Campbell, your own relation as well as mine, as neither handsome,
beautiful, nor accomplished, why, I must say you have lost, since you went
abroad, every sense of distinction ; every little spark that you once possessed
of taste and discernment in female accomplishments. Why, now, 1 suppose,
a lady, to suit your taste, doctor, must be black, — as black as coal, and well
tatooed over the whole body ?"

" None of your gibes and jeers with me, Mr. Burton. I did not, and do not
mean to give any offence ; but it is well known to all your friends, and has
been known to me these thirty years, what a devil of a temper you have. "

" Temper ! I short of temper ? Why, I must say, sir, that I would not be
possessed of a temper as irritable as yours, to be made owner of all the shops
in this street, as well as the goods that are in them. You are a very nettle,
sir — a piece of brown paper wet with turpentine, a barrel of gunpowder that
can be ignited by one of its own grains, and fly in the face of the man who is try-
ing and exerting himself to preserve it. I am a clothier, I do not deny it, and
think no shame of my business. Miss Campbell is too good — much too good
— for you, sir ; and I must say that I regret exceedingly having invited you so
far to come and insult her — in my presence, too, her nearest relation ! I must
say, sir, that you had better take care not to say as much again as you have
said, else you may chance to be surprised at the consequence."

" Why, certainly the devil has entered personally into this retailer of gray
cloth and carpets ! There, he would persuade me that I am irritable and pas-
sionate, and he the reverse ; while, in the meantime, here has he got into a
violent rage, and chafing like the vexed ocean, and I as cool as a summer
evening in Kashmere !"

" Cool ? — you cool, sir ? Why you are at this moment in a furnace of a pas-
sion ! Wherefore else should you knock on my counter in that way.-* You
think to intimidate me, I suppose ; but you shall neither fright me out of my
reasonableness nor equanimity."

" Your equanimity ! St. Patrick save the mark ! How long is it since you
were sued at law and heavily fined, for knocking down your shopman with the
ellwand ? And how many honest customers have you threatened across that

TRIALS OF TEMPER. 291

counter with the same infernal weapon, before you could bring your reason to
control your wrath ? And when we were at school together, how often did
the rest of the boys combine to banish you from all their games, calling you
' the crabbed tailor,' and pelting you without mercy ? And what is worst of
all, how often did I get my head broken in your defence?"

" It is too true,— perfectly true ! — I remember several of the circumstances
quite well. Give me your hand, my old and trusty friend, and c ume and dine
with me to-morrow ; for my heart warms to you when I think of our early
friendship, and the days of our youthful enjoyments."

"And well may mine warm to you, for you assisted me out when no other
friend would venture, and, I had reason to fear, put your little credit right
hardly to stake on my account. And do you know, Burton, that when I left
Scotland, and took leave of all my friends, with much probability that it would
be for the last time, not a man or woman amongst them shed tears at parting
with me but yourself That simple circumstance has never been erased from
my memory, or ever will. And before I left India I made a will, which is safe
in the Register-Chamber at Fort-William, and whereby, in the event of my
dying without a family, you will find yourself entitled to the half of my fortune."

" My dear sir, that little pecuniary matter has been doubly repaid long ago ;
and as for that part of the will which is deposited at Fort-William, and that
devises to me, I shall do all in my power to render it of none effect Come
and dine with me to-morrow."

" I will, with all my heart ; — have you not some daughters of vour own, Mr.
Burton ! "

" I have two very amiable girls, and one of them marriageable too ; but,
after hearing your opinion of the most accomplished young lady of the realm, I
dare not submit them to your scrutiny. You shall not meet them at dinner
to-morrow."

" I insist on meeting them at dinner. — What ! shall I not be introduced to
the daughters of my best friend .''"

" Your taste has been so horribly sophisticated, and then you speak out your
sentiments so plainly, that no girl is safe from insult with you. Remember
my girls are not blackamoors any more than Miss Campbell is."

"There the bad temper flies out again ! This Miss Campbell is a sore sub-
ject. Would that I had never seen her ! — The truth is, I must speak my
sentiments, and, with regard to her, they are anything but those of approbation."

" Why, sir, you're not only blind, but utterly perverse and obstinate. Miss
Campbell is the most approved beauty in Edinburgh at the present time ; but
she is an orphan, and has no fortune — there your antipathy lies ! Money is
your object ! money, money ! — that is manifest. Pray, could you have not got
a blackamoor, with a camel's load or two of rupees, for a spouse, and so saved
the expense of a journey to Britain .?"

" I will tell you what, friend, I have a great mind to break your head, and
so save the e.xpense of a rope to hang you in."

Here the clothier seized his massy mahogany ellwand, and his friend the
doctor, having heard the feats of arms performed by that unlucky weapon,
thought proper to decamp, whtch he did with a kind of forced laugh, half in
wrath at the ridiculous exhibition the two had made.

That evening Mr. Burton got a note from Miss Campbell, which puzzled him
a great deal. It ran thus :
" My dkar Uncle, —

" I am quite delighted with your friend Dr. Brown. I expected to have met
an elderly gentleman, but was agreeably surprised at meeting with so much
elegance, conjoined with youth. He is certainly the most engaging and
courteous gentleman I have ever seen, and has already made me an offer,
which I think it would be imprudent in me to reject. As I have much to say
to you on this subject, I will come down and see you in the coach to-morrow.
" Your ever affectionate niece,

" Eliza Campbelu"

292 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

" So the Nabob has been hoaxing me all this while," said the clothier to
himself, chuckling. He then laughed at Miss Campbell's mistake about his
friend's age, and slily remarked that mone^wasall powerful in modifying ages
to suit each other. After considering the matter a little more seriously, he
became suspicious that some mistake had occurred, for he knew it to be his
friend the doctors disposition always to speak his sentiments rather too freely,
and, in the present instance he seemed to be quite chagrined and out of
humour whenever Miss Campbell was named. So the clothier remained in-
volved in a puzzle until the next day, when his niece arrived ; and still from
her he could learn nothing, but that all was as it should be. He asked who
introduced Ur. Brown to her. It was the very friend to whom the clothier
had written to perfomi that friendly office. He made her describe Dr. Brown's
person and address, and, as far as the clothier could see, they corresponded to
a very tittle.^ — Very well, thinks the clothier to himself, as I am uncertain
whether the crabbed loon will come to dinner to-day or not, I will say
nothing about it, and then I will see how the two are affected when they meet.

Four o'clock came, so the clothier went home to his house, and put on his
black coat and silk stockings ; and then he paced up and down his Httle snug
parlour, which served as a drawing-room, with much impatience, going every
five minutes up stairs to look out at the window.

"Who dines with my uncle to-day .'"' said Miss Campbell to her cousin,
Ellen Burton ; — " I see you have an extra cover set, and he seems rather in
the fidgets because his guest is not come."

" I do not know who it is," returned Miss Burton ; "he merely said that he
expected a stranger to dine with him to-day — some English bagman, I sup-
pose. We have these people frequently with us ; but 1 never regard them,
always leaving them with my father, to consult about markets and bargains,
as soon as dinner is over ; and we will leave them the same way to-night, and
go to Mrs. Innes's grand tea party, you know."

" O, by all means."

With that the Doctor entered, and was welcomed by a hearty and kindly
shake of the hand ; and, leading him forward. Burton said, " This is my
daughter Ellen, sir, and her sister Jane." Of Miss Campbell he made no
mention, conceiving that she and the Doctor were well acquainted before.
But either the Doctor and she had not been acquainted before — or else the
room was so dark that the Doctor could not see distinctly, (for he was very
much out of breath, which mazes the eyesight a great deal,) — or the beauty of
the young ladies had dazzled him — or some unaccountable circumstance had
occurred, for the Doctor did not recognize Miss Campbell, nor did the young
lady take any notice of him. On the contrary, Jane Burton being only a little
girl, and below the Doctor's notice at that time of night, he took the other
two for the clothier's daughters, and addressed them as such all the time of
dinner.

The Doctor was so polite and attentive to the young ladies, and appeared
so highly delighted with them, that they were insensibly induced to stay
longer at table than they intended, and on their going away, he conducted
them to the door, kissed both their hands, and said a number of highly flatter-
ing things to them. On again taking his seat, being in high spirits, he said,
" Why, in the name of wonder, my dear friend, should you endeavour to put
grist by your own mill, as the saying is "^ These daughters of yours are by far
the most accomplished and agreeable young ladies whom I have seen since
my return from India. The eldest is really a masterpiece, not only of
Nature's workmanship, but of all that grace and good-breeding can bestow."

" I thank you kindly, sir ; I was afraid they would be a little too fair of
complexion for your taste. Pray have you never met with that eldest one
before.' for it struck me that you looked as you had been previously
acquainted."

" How was it possible I could ever have seen her ? It is quite well known,
Mr. Burton, what my errand to Britain is at this time. I have never con-

TRIALS OF TEMPER. 293

cealed it from you. It is to obtain a wife; and now to receive one out of your
family, and from your own hand, would be my highest desire ; settlements
are nothing between us. These shall be of your own making. Your eldest
daughter, the tallest I mean, is positively the most charming woman I ever
saw. Bestow her upon me, and I am the happiest man in his Majest/s
dominions."

" You shall have her, Doctor — you shall have her with all my heart ; and I
think I have a small document on hand to show that you can likewise have
her consent for the asking, if indeed you have not obtained it already."

" I will double your stock in trade, sir, before I leave this country, if you
realize this promise to me. My jaunt from India beyond the Ganges is likely
to be amply compensated. Why, the possession of such a jewel is worth ten
voyages round the world, and meeting all the lines at Musselburgh. But 1 11
warrant I may expect some twitches of temper from her — that 1 may reckon
upon as a family endowment."

"And will there be no equivalent on the other side? No outbreakings of
violence, outrage, and abuse.'' At all events, the reflection on me and my
family comes with a bad grace from such a firebrand as yourself."

" Stop, for heaven's sake, my good friend, stop ; let us not mar so excellent
a prospect, by sounding the jarring strings of our nature together. Why, sir,
whenever a man comes within the bounds of your atmosphere, he treads on
phosphorus, — he breathes it, and is not for a moment certain that he may
not be blown up in an electric flash. Why get into such a rage at a good-
natured joke?"

" It was a very ill-natured joke ; and I have yet to learn that you ever did
a genuinely good-natured thing in your life. Even now you are all this while
playing at hide-and-seek with me — playing at some back game, that I cannot
comprehend, in order to make a fool of me. Do you wish me to tell you what
I think of you, sir?"

" And pray what do I care what you think of me ? Does it any way
affect me what may be the opinion of such a being as you? — You think of
me!"

" There goes ! There goes the old man, with all his infirmities on his
head."

" Who is an old man, Mr. Burton ? Who is an old man, full of infirmities?
Old ! — to your teeth, sir, you are years older than myself."

" Do you know, sir, who you are speaking to, sir ? or w hose house you are
in, sir ? "

" Yes, I do, sir. I know very well whose house I am in, and whose house
I shall soon be out of, too ; and whose house I shall never enter again as long
as I live. Do 1 not know all these, sir? What you think of me, forsooth !
I have thought more of you than ever it behoved me to have done ; and this
is the reception I have met with in return ! ''

" Now pardon me this once, Doctor, and I shall never get angry with you
again. I'll bear all your infirmities with the patience of Job ; but you must
not leave my house in this humour."

" .il/y infirmities, sir ? What do you mean by my infirmities? And who
the devil is to bear with yours, sir? I assure you it shall not be me ! That
I was once obliged to you, I confess, and that I have long thought of you with

the affection of a brother, I likewise confess, but "

" Hold there. Go no further at present until the furnace-heat of your
temper be somewhat allayed. We are friends, and mubt be friends as long as
we live, notwithstanding of our failings. We have all much to forgive one
another in this lite. But you took mc short, when it was Miss Campbell only
til at I wanted to talk about."

" Miss Campbell wliom you wanted tot.dk about ! A singular subject tiuly
so immediately after the cessation of hostilities. I tell you on( e for all, Mr.
Burton, that I will have nothing to do with Miss Campbell nothing to say to
her; for bhe is absolutely my aversion."

294 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

*' It is false, sir — every word of it is false ; for you shall have to say to her
and do with her both, and she is not your aversion. Nay, do not go to get
into one of your boundless fits of rage again, for out of your own mouth will I
condemn you ; and if you deny your own words and mine, I will show you
the lady's writ and signature to the fact."

" I was not even able to say a civil thing to the lady."

" You were. You said the most civil things to her that you could invent
You made an offer of your hand to her, and you made the same offer
to me."

" I'll fight the man either with sword or pistols who would palm such an
imposition on me."

The clothier made no answer to this save by handing over Miss Campbell's
note to the astonished physician, who read as follows : " 'I am quite delighted
with your friend Dr. Brown.' Hem ! Thank you. Miss Eliza Campbell. So
is not his friend Dr. Brown with you, I assure you. ' I expected to have met

with an elderly gentleman, but was agreeably surprised ' Oho ! hem,

hem ! What is all this .'' The girl has some sense and discernment though ;
for, do you know, I am never taken for a man above thirty."

" That I think does not show much discernment either in them or in her.''

" I beg pardon, sir ; I only meant to say that the girl saw with the same
eyes as the generality of mankind, which at least manifests some degree of
common sense. But it is all very well ; I see through the letter — a trap to
catch a badger, I suppose. As to the insinuation that I made her an offer,
she has made it, or dreamed it, or conceived it, of herself, one way or other,
for the deuce an offer 1 made to her of any sort whatever."

" Why, now. Doctor, the whole of your behaviour on this occasion is to me
a complete mystery ; for the young lady who sat on your right hand to-day
at table, is no other than the same Miss Campbell, my niece, whom you have
been all along so undeservedly abusing."

" Are you telling the truth, Mr. Burton .'' Are you not dreaming ? — I see
you are telling me the truth. Why then did you introduce them to me as
your daughters.""'

" I introduced my two daughters only, believing that you two were perfectly
acquainted before."

" She has then been introduced to me in a mask. There is not a doubt of
it. She has spoken to me under a disguise of false form and false features,
yet I thought all the while that I recognised the voice. And was yon lovely,
adorable creature, with the auburn hair and dark eyes, the seamaw's
neck, and the swan's bosom, the same who wrote that pretty card about
me?"

" The same, I assure you."

" Give it me again that I may kiss it, and look at every elegant letter it
contains. I have had flatterers of the sex, black and white, brown and yellow,
but never before received flattery from such a superlative being as she is.
Where are the ladies .' Let us go to them and have tea, for I have an intense
longing to look on the angel again."

Never was there a more impassioned lover than the Doctor was with this
fair cousin ; he raved of her, and fumed with impatience, when he found she
had gone to Mrs. Innes's party, and that he could not see her again that
night. He lost no time, however, in writing out the schedule of a contract, a
most liberal one, and to this scroll he put his name, desiring his friend to
show Miss Campbell the writing preparatory to his visit the next day. The
clothier did this, and found his lovely ward delighted with the match, who
acknowledged that the annual sum settled on her was four times what she
expected with such an agreeable husband ; and although she begged for time
and leisure to make some preparations, yet, at her kind uncle's request, i>he
unhesitatingly put her name to the document by way of acquiescence ; and
thus was the agreement signed and settled, and wanted only the ratification
of the parson to render it permanent. He then informed her that the Doctor

TRIALS OF TEMPER. 2$5

would wait on her next day to ask her formally, and then they might settle
on such time for the marriage as suited both.

Next day the Doctor arrived at an early hour, and found the young lady
dressed like an Eastern princess to receive him, and in the highest glee
imaginable ; but as he did not then know the success of his offer, he kept
aloof from the subject till the arrival of his friend the clothier. The latter,
perceiving his earnest impatience, took him into another apartment, and
showed him the lady's signature and acceptance. Never was there a man so
uplifted. The intelligence actually put him beside himself, for he clapped
his hands, shouted — hurra ! threw up his wig, and jumped over one of the
chairs. His joy and hilarity during dinner were equally extravagant — there
was no whim nor frolic which he did not practise.

Not being able to rest, by reason of the fervour of his passion, he arose
shortly after dinner, and, taking his friend the clothier into the other room,
requested of him to bring matters to a verbal explanation forthwith. He
accordingly sent for Eliza, who looked rather amazed when she entered, and
saw only these two together.

"Come away, my dear Eliza," said her uncle; "take a seat here,
and do not look so agitated, seeing the business is already all but fin-
ished. My friend, Dr. Brown, has come down to-day for the purpose of
having a ratification of your agreement from your own hand, and your
own mouth."

" Very well, my dear uncle ; though I see no occasion for hurrying the
business, I am quite conformable to your will in that respect. Why did not
Dr. Brown come to dinner .'' Where is he ?"

I wish I had seen the group at this moment ; or had Mr. David Wilkie
seen it, and taken a picture from it, it would have been ten times better. The
Doctor's face of full-blown joy was changed into one of meagre consternation,
nothing of the ruddy glow remaining, save on the tip of his nose. The internal
ligaments that supported his jaws were loosened, and they fell down, as he
gazed on the clothier ; the latter stared at Eliza, and she at both alternately.
It was a scene of utter bewilderment, and no one knew what to think of
another. The clothier was the first to break silence.

" What ails you, my dear niece?" said he. "Are you quizzing? or are you
dreaming ? or have you fallen into a fit of lunacy ? I say, what is the matter
with you, child? Is not this my friend. Dr. Brown, whom I have known from
his childhood ! — the gentleman whom I sent for to be introduced to you, and
the gentleman, too, to whom you have given yourself away, and signed the
gift by an irrevocable deed ? '

" What ! To this old gentleman ? Dear uncle, you must excuse me,
that I am in a grievous error, and a ciuandary besides. Ha, ha, ha !
— Hee, hee, hee ! Oh, mercy on us ! I shall expire with downright
laughing."

" What do you mean by such insulting behaviour, madam ? Have I come
here to be flouted, to be cheated, to be baited by a pack of terriers, with an
old foxhound at their head ? But beware, madam, how you press the old
badger too hard. I have your signature here, to a very serious deed, signed
before witnesses, and if you do not fulfil your engagement to me, I have you
at my mercy ; and I'll use the power which the deed puts in my hands,— use
it to the utmost — make yourself certain of that."

" Pray, sir, do not get into such a rage, lest you terrify me out of my wits.
I am but a poor timorous maiden, sir, and not used to so much obstrcpcrous-
ness ; yet I have so much spirit in me, that I shall never be imposed upon
by such effrontery, - never ! "

" Mercy on us ! '' exclaimed the clothier. " We shall all go in a flame
together, and be consumed by collision. — My dear niece, you know not wh.it
you are doing or saying. This is no person to be despised, but the cclebrateil
Dr. Brown from India, chief of the medical staff of a whole Presidency— your
own kinsman— my friend of whom you ap[)rovcd in your note to me, and in

296 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

conjunction with whom you have signed a contract of marriage. So none of
your banterinc; and llagaries ; for have him you must, and have him you
shall. The deed cannot now be annulled but by mutual consent"

"Well, then, it shall never be farther ratified by me. This may be your
Dr. Brown, but he is not viine ; and however worthy he may be, he is not
the man of my choice."

" Is not this the gentleman of whom you wrote to me in such high terms of
approval ? "

•' That the gentleman ! Dear uncle, where would my seven senses have
been, had that been he ?"

" And is this not the lady, sir, whom you met in Edinburgh ? "

" I know nothing at all about it If this be not she, I like her worse than
the other."

" There is some unfortunate mistake here. Pray, Dr. Brown, who was it
that introduced you to the lady, with whom you met ?"

" Your friend Mrs. Wright, to be sure ; whom else could it have been ?"

*■ And you did not see .Mr. Anderson, then ?"

" No ; but I left your letter at his office, thinking there might be something
of business."

" There it goes ! Mrs. Wright has introduced you to a wrong Miss Campbell,
and Mr. Anderson has introduced a wrong Dr. Brown to her. — Plague on it,
for you cannot now throw a stone in Edinburgh, but you are sure to hit either
a Brown or a Campbell."

This was simply the case : The clothier wrote to his friend, Mrs. Wright, to
find means of introducing the bearer, Dr. Brown, to their mutual friend, Miss
Elizabeth Campbell. Mrs. Wright having an elderly maiden sister of that
name, mistook, in perfect simplicity of heart, the term mutual friend, and,
without more ado, introduced the Doctor to her sister. Now, the Doctor
knew perfectly well that the other letter, which he carried to Mr. Anderson,
related likewise to some meeting with Miss Campbell, but not caring about
any such thing, he merely popped the letter into the shop as he passed ; and
Mr. Anderson, knowing nothing about Dr. Brown's arrival from India, sent
for the only unmarried Dr. Brown whom he knew, and introduced him to Mr.
Burton's niece, as desired, and there the attachment proved spontaneous and
reciprocal. Miss Campbell, finding now that she was in a bad predicament,
having given her heart to one gentleman, and her written promise to another,
threw herself on the old Doctor's mercy, explained the mistake, and the state of
her affections, and besought him to have pity on a poor orphan, whose choice
might be wrong, but which she was incapable of altering. The worthy
Esculapius of the East was deeply affected. He took both the young lady's
hands in his, kissed first the one and then the other, and, invoking on her all
earthly happiness, he not only returned her the bond, but alongst with it a
cheque on his banker for a considerable sum, as a marriage-present.

Miss Campbell was shortly after married to a dashing student of medicine,
and they now reside in a distant province, very poor, and not over happy ;
and Dr. Brown married the eldest daughter of his old benefactor, a simple,
modest, and unassuming young creature, whom he carried off with him to the
paradise of India, and placed her at the head of a magnificent Eastern
establishment. I have seen bcveial of her letters, in all of which she writes
in the highest terms of her happiness and comforts.

THE FORDS OF CALLUM. 297

THE

FORDS OF CALLUM:

A TALE OF MYSTERIOUS MURDER, AND WRAITH WARNING.

"Ye had better steek the door, Janet ; I think there's a kind o' cauld sugh
coming up the house the night."

" Gude forgie you for leeing, Wat ; for the night is that muth an' breathless,
I'm maist Hke to swairf, an' am hardly able to do a single turn. An' for you,
ye are joost a' in ae thow, I see ; an' hae muckle mair need that I suld clash a
sowp cauld water on you than steek the door."

" It will be as weel to steek the door, Janet, my woman, an' let us take our
chance 0' swairfing. Ye ken the auld saying, ' At open doors the dogs come
ben.' An' we little ken what may come in at that door the night."

Janet ran and shut the door, bolting it fast, and muttering to herself all
the way, as she perceived a manifest alteration in her husband's looks
and manner.

" Now gude forgie us, Walter! tell us what's the matter wi' ye.-" Hae ye
seen aught.'' Hae ye heard aught .-* Or hae ye grown unweel on the hill that
has made ye a wee squeamish }"

" Bring me a drink 0' water, Janet. It's only a bit dwam ; it will soon gang
aff {drinks). Hech whow ! what a warld this is that we leeve in I Have ye
been guilty of ony great sin lately, Janet.-"'

" No that I hae mind o' just now. But what a question that is to speer at
your wife ! "

" War ye ever guilty of ony great backsliding or transgression? "

" Aigh! gudeness forbid, Walter! But what has set you upon sic questions
the night .>"

" Because I'm feared, Janet, that there's some heavy judgment gaun to
happen to us very soon. I hae had a singular warning the night."

"Aih whow! Oh, Wattie, ye gar a' my heart groo within me! What kind o'
warning have ye had ? "

" I canna tell ye. It is out 0' my power to tell ye. An' gin I tell you, ye
wadna believe me. Gang away to your bed, Janet, an' let us compose our-
selves to rest in our Maker's name."

The lonely couple went to their bed, and commended themselves to the
protection of heaven ; but sleep was far from visiting their couch. Wat
Douglas lay and groaned heavily, while his groans were audibly responded by
his wife. At length he says to her, '' When did ye hear from your daughter
Annie, Janet ?"

" No this lang while ; no sin' Lockerbie tryste."

" Do you think that Annie can hae been guilty of ony great sin in her
days ?"

"Aih! I hope our poor lassie has been better guidit. But she's a queer
mysterious lassie, our Annie. There is something about her that I can never
comprehend. I had some heavy, heavy dreams about her afore she was born.
I think always there is something to happen to her."

"Ay, Janet, as sure as I am speaking to you, an' as sure as the stariis .';rc
shining in heaven, there will something lianpen to her, an' that very soon. — S.ie
ye say ye haena seen nor heard o' her sin Lockerbie tryste ?"

" Na, no sin' syne."

"What wad ye think, Janet, gin I had seen her the night?"

•* Gin yc saw her wccl, I should be very ii.ippy."

298 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

" Oh I Janet, I hae gotten a warning the night that I canna comprehend.
But we'll hear niair about it soon. Tell me just ae thing, an' tell me truly.
Is Annie — .'' But hush ! What's that I hear? Lord be wi' us, there it is

agam !

I "

At that instant, and before he pronounced these last words, a quick tap was
heard at the window, and a sweet and well-known voice called from without in
a melancholy key : " Mither, arc j'c waukin } "

"Yes, dear, I'm waukin," cried the agitated mother; " Gude forgie ye,
what has brought you here at this time o' night ? The like o' this I kend
never ! I think it be true what folks say — Speak o' the deil an' he'll appear !
I'll open the door this minent, Annie. Is there ony body wi' ye ? "

" Na, there's nae body wi' me ; an' I wish there had been nane wi' me the
night. Is Wat Douglas away to the Fords o' Galium .' "

" Wat Douglas ! Whaten a gate is that o' speakin about your father,
Annie .-* Wat Douglas, as ye ca' him, is nane away to the Fords o' Galium,
but lying snug in his bed here."

"Oh! lack-a-day! Then it is ower late now!" said the voice without ;
and as it said so, it seemed to pass away from the window on the breeze, so
that the last words were scarcely audible.

" Dinna gang near it, Janet ! Dinna gang near it," cried Wat Douglas,
shuddering, and shrouding himself deeper in the bedclothes. For the sake o'
your soul, bide where you are an' keep the wa's o' the house atween you
an' it ! "

" The man's wudd ! Will I no gang an' open the door to my ain bairn ?
Ay, that will I, though a' the ghaists o' the folk o' Sodom and Gomorrah were
letten loose ! " And so saying, away flew Janet to the door with her clothes
half on, while Wattie was calling all the while from under the clothes, " Ye
dinna ken what ye're doing, Janet ? Ye dinna ken what ye're doing ! "

Janet opened the door, and went round and round the house calling her
daughter's name ; but there was none that answered or regarded. She once
thought she heard a distant sound as of one wailing in the air, but it died away
and she heard no more. She returned into her cot, breathless and dumb with
astonishment ; and after sitting a space, with crossed arms and her head
hanging over them, she once more began speaking in a deep voice and half a
whisper — " She's away ! She's away ! She's away ! Gan it hae been our
daughter's wraith that spak to us through the window ? "

" Your daughter say, Janet, for you hear I'm denied. But nevertheless,
now when I think on it, it maun be a wraith, for it canna be aught else. I
had sic an encounter wi't this night afore now, as mortal man o' flesh and
blood never had wi' an unyirthly creature. But what passed atween us is a
secret that maunna an' canna be revealed. But had I thought o't being a
wraith I wadna hae been sae feared."

" What is a wraith, Wattie ? for I thought you had denied a' thae
things."

" Ay, but seeing's believing, Janet. An' as for a wraith, I take it to be a
guardian angel that comes to gie warning o' something that's to happen to its
ward. Now a guardian angel can never be a bad thing, Janet."

" But think o' the warning, Wattie ; — think o' the warning. What was it
that the voice said about the Fords o' Galium ? "

" That maun be considered, Janet. But the terrors o' this night had put
that an' ilka thing else out o' my head. That maun be considered. The
Fords o' Galium ^ Ay ! That's the place where the spirit tried to take me to
in spite of my teeth. Wha is Annie, Janet .-"'

" Gude forgie us ! heard ony body ever sickan a rhame as that ! She's her

fathers daughter to be sure. But is this a night to begin wi' sickan queer

questions, Walter.' If ye i^at wit that ony body in the hale country were
perishing or in jeopardy, wad it be necessar to settle a' about their connexions
and parentage afore you set out to save them ? "

"That's very true, Janet. She is a lassie that is weel worthy o' looking

THE FORDS OF CALLUM. 299

jlLer, though I had never seen her face afore ; an' a message frae heaven
shouldna be negleckit."

" I'm so sae clear about the message being frae heaven, Wattie. But a
message we certainly have had ; an' I think it is incumbent on us to set out
immediately, an' see what is going on at the Fords o' Galium."

" I think the same. It is but a step of a mile or twae, an' my conscience
coudna be at ease without ganging there. An' yet it is daft-like to be gaun away
afore day-light to a particular spot to look for a body, an' that spot ten miles
aff frae the place where the body is living."

" Na, na, it isna ten miles, Wat. It's na aboon nine miles and a half, if it
be that.

It was not yet one o'clock, but it was a midsummer night, still and beauti-
ful, as well as the morning following ; and when the couple reached the Fords
o' Galium, the grave twilight began to shed its pale and eiry hues over that
lonely upland ; and ere they reached the Ford by two hundred paces, they
perceived something like a human form lying on a small green sward on the
other side of the river, or burn ; for though called a river, or water, it is no
bigger than an ordinary burn.

" What's yon lying yonder, Janet } "

" O the Lord in heaven kens what it is ! My heart is beginning to fail me.
Wattie. I canna gang ony farther. I think we shudna gang ony nearer till
we got somebody wi' us."

"It wad be a shame to stop here or turn again after coming sae far. Lean
on me, and let us venture forward and see what it is. It is like a woman ; but
she's maybe sleeping."

" Na, na ! yon's nae sleeping posture. She's lying athraw. I canna gang!
I canna gang ' dinna drag me ; for though I hae stooden ower the bed o*
death mony a time, yet it is a fearsome thing to look upon death in the open
field. An' there's maybe blood, too. Think ye I can look upon a corpse
swathed in blood, in a wild place like this .'' No, no, I hae nae power to gang
a step farther ! "

Janet Douglas would neither advance nor remain by herself; but hung
upon her husband and wept. Wat called aloud to see if the form would
awake and move, but he called in vain ; and Just as the two were returning to
seek assistance, they perceived a gentleman coming toward them, which was
a happy sight. This was Mr. George Brown of Galium, who was at that time
a bridegroom, and had set out so early on horseback to go into Nithsdale by
the Queensberry road. They told him their dilemma, and pointed out the
form lying on the other side of Duff's Kinnel. Mr. Brown was as much
appalled as they ; but the three ventured across to the form, in breathless
terror and awfully suspense ; and there, indeed, they found the body of
Annie Douglas, lying a pale corpse, and her bosom still warm. She
appeared to have been dead for some hours. Mr. Brown, who was
excellently mounted, gave up his Journey, and galloped back straight to
Moffat, where he procured a Dr. Johnstone, then living in Moffat, said to
have been a gentleman of great ability, and another young surgeon whose
name I have forgot ; and the three arrived at the spot in an inconceivably
short time, the distance not being more than three miles. All endeavours to
restore life proved vain and abortive ; therefore their whole attention was next
directed to ascertain the manner of her death. But they were puzzled— non-
plussed beyond the power of calculation. Her clothes were torn ; but there
was not the smallest mark of violence on any part of her body. She was
dressed in all her best attire ; and it was manifest that she had come there on
horseback, with more in company than one, for there were many marks of
horses' feet about the spot, as if they had been held or fastened there for a
space.

Her death made a ;.;rcat noise in that district for a few months, and a iiun-
dred conjectures were framed concerning it ; probably all wide of the truth.
But there ww« some circumstances attending it that astouiidcd every one

300 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

Mr. Brown of Callum's mind was so much confused at the time, and his pity
so much excited by the untimely death of the beautiful young woman, that he
never thought of one thing which occurred to him afterwards as having been
very singular, namely, that the old couple should have been sitting in
that remote place watching the corpse of their daughter at a distance
before daylight. But the worse consequence of all was this : — During
the time that Mr. Brown was seeking the surgeons, Janet was so ill that
she fainted several times, and fell into hysterics, while her husband sup-
ported and assisted her with apparent command of his feelings, and perfect
presence of mind. But before they reached home with the corpse, the case
was altered. Janet was quite recovered and collected, while Wat looked so
ill that it was fearful to see him. He immediately betook himself to bed, from
which he never rose again, but died a fortnight afterwards, having rarely ever
spoken from that morning forward.

Of course he could not attend Annie's funeral ; and there was no circum-
stance more puzzling than one that occurred there. Among the mourners
there was one gentleman quite unknown to every one who wac present. In-
deed, from the beginning, he took upon himself, as it were, the office of chief
mourner, carrying the head almost the whole way to the churchyard, so that
all the people supposed the elegant stranger some near relation of the deceased,
sent for, from a distance, to take the father's part, and conduct the last
obsequies. When they came to the grave, he took his station at the head of
the corpse, which he lowered into the grave with great decency and decorum,
appearing to be deeply affected. When the interment was over, he gave the
sexton a guinea and walked away. He was afterwards seen riding towards
Dumfries, with a page in full mourning riding at a distance behind him.
How nuich were all the good people of Johnston astonished when they heard
that neither father nor mother of the deceased, nor one present at the funeral
knew any thing whatever of the gentleman ; — who he was ; where he came
from; or what brought him there. I have heard it reported, on what authority
I do not know, that this stranger was subsequently traced to have been the late

Duke of Q . And as this unaccountable incident is well known to have

happened when the late Mr. George Brown of Galium was a bridegroom, it
settles the time to have been about sixty-six years ago.

THE

CAMERONIAN PREACHER'S
TALE.

Sit near me, my children, and come nigh, all ye who are not of my kindred,
though of my ilock ; for my days and hours are numbered ; death is with me
dealing, and I have a sad and wonderful story to relate. I have preached and
ye have profited ; but what I am about to say is far better than man's preach-
ing, it is one of those terrible sermons which God preaches to mankind, of
blood unrighteously shed, and most wondrously avenged. The like has not
happened in these our latter days. His presence is visible in it ; and I reveal
it that its burthen may be removed from my soul, so that I may die in peace ;
and I disclose it, that you may lay it up in your hearts and tell it soberly to
your children, that the warning memory of a dispensation so marvellous may
live and not perish. Of the deed itself, some of you have heard a whispering ;
and some of vou know the men of whom 1 am about tu speak ; but the mystery

THE CAMERONIAN PREACHER'S TALE. 301

which covers them up as with a cloud I shall remove ; listen, therefore, my
children to a tale of truth, and may you profit by it !

On Dryfe Water, in Annandale, lived Walter Johnstone, a man open-
hearted and kindly, but proud withal and warm tempered ; and on the same
water lived John Macmillan, a man of nature grasping and sordid, and as
proud and hot tempered as the other. They were strong men, and vain of
their strength ; lovers of pleasant company, well to live in the world, extensive
dealers in corn and cattle ; married too, and both of the same age — five and
forty years. They often met, yet they were not friends ; nor yet were they
companions, for bargain making and money seeking narrowcth the heart and
shuts up generosity of soul. They were jealous, too, of one another's success
in trade, and of the fame they had each acquired for feats of personal strength
and agility, and skill with the sword — a weapon which all men carried in my
youth, who were above the condition of a peasant. Their mutual and growing
dislike was inflamed by the whisperings of evil friends, and confirmed by the
skilful manner in which they negotiated bargains over each other's heads.
When they met, a short and surly greeting was exchanged, and those who
knew their natures looked for a meeting between them, when the sword or
some other dangerous weapon would settle for ever their claims for precedence
in cunning and in strength.

They met at the fair of Longtown, and spoke, and no more — with them both
it was a busy day, and mutual hatred subsided for a time, in the love of turn-
ing the penny and amassing gain. The market rose and fell, and fell and rose ;
and it was whispered that Macmillan, through the superior skill or good
fortune of his rival, had missed some bargains which were very valuable, while
some positive losses touched a nature extremely sensible of the iniportance of
wealth. One was elated, and the other depressed— but not more depressed
than moody and incensed, and in this temper they were seen in the evening
in the back room of a public inn, seated apart and silent, calculating losses
and gains, drinking deeply, and exchanging dark looks of hatred and distrust.
They had been observed during the whole day to watch each other's move-
ments, and now when they were met face to face, the labours of the day over,
and their natures inflamed by liquor as well as by hatred, their companions
looked for personal strife between them, and wondered not a little when they
saw Johnstone rise, mount his horse, and ride homewards, leaving his rival in
Longtown. Soon afterwards Macmillan started up from a moody fit, drank
off a large draught of brandy, threw down a half-guinea, nor waited for
change — a thing uncommon with him ; and men said, as his horse's feet struck
fire from the pavement, that if he overtook Johnstone, there would be a living
soul less in the land before sunrise.

Before sunrise next morning the horse of Walter Johnstone came with an
empty saddle to his stable door. The bridle was trampled to pieces amongst
its feet, and its saddle and sides were splashed over with blood as if a bleed-
ing body had been carried across its back. The cry arose in the country, an
instant search was made, and on the side of the public road was found a place
where a deadly contest seemed to have happened. It was in a small green
field, bordered by a wood, in the farm of Andrew Pattieson. The sod was
dinted deep with men's feet, and trodden down, and trampled and sprinkled
over with blood as thickly as it had ever been with dew. Blood drops, too,
were traced to some distance, but nothing more was discovered ; the body
could not be found, though every field was examined and every pool dragged.
His money and bills, to the amount of several thousand pounds, were gone,
so was his sword — indeed nothing of him could be found on earth save his
blood, and for its spilling a strict account was yet to be sought.

Suspicion instantly and naturally fell on John Macmillan, who denied all
knowledge of the deed. He had arrived at his own house in due course of
time, no marks of weapon or warfare were on him, he performed family
worship as was his custom, and he sang the psalm as loudly and prayed as
fervently as he was in the habit of doing. He was apprehended and tried,

302 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

and saved by the contradictory testimony of the witnesses against him, into
whose hearts the spirit of falsehood seemed to have entered in order to per-

E lex and confound the judgment of men— or rather that man might have no
and in the punishment, but that God should bring it about in his own good
time and way. " Revenge is mine, saith the Lord," which meaneth not because
it is too sweet a morsel for man, as the scoffer said, but because it is too
dangerous. A glance over this contlicting testimony will show how little was
then known of this foul offence, and how that little was rendered doubtful and
dark by the imperfection of human nature.

Two men of Longtown were examined. One said that he saw Macmillan
insulting and menacing Johnstone, laying his hand on the hilt of his sword
with a look dark and ominous ; wliile the other swore that he was present at
the time, but that it was Johnstone who insulted and menaced Macmillan, and
laid his liand on the hilt of his sword and pointed to the road homewards.
A very expert and searching examination could make no more of them ; they
were both respectable men, with characters above suspicion. The next wit-
nesses were of another stamp, and their testimony was circuitous and contra-
dictory. One of them was a shepherd— a reluctant witness. His words were
these : " I was frae hame on the night of the murder, in the thick of the wood, no
just at the place which was bloody and trampled, but gaye an' near hand it.
I canna say I can just mind what I was doing ; 1 had somebody to see I
jalouse, but wha it was is naebody's business but my ain. There was maybe
ane forbye myself in the wood, and maybe twa ; there was ane at ony rate,
and I am no sure but it was an auld acquaintance. I see nae use there can
be in questioning me. I saw nought, and therefore can say nought 1 canna
but say that 1 heard something — the trampling of horses, and a rough voice
saying, ' Draw and defend yourself Then followed the clashing of swords
and half smothered sort of work, and then the sound of horses' feet was heard
again, and that's a' I ken about it ; only I thought the voice was Walter
Johnstone's, and so thought Kate Pennie, who was with me and kens as meikle
as me." The examination of Katherine Pennie, one of the Pennies of Pennie-
land, followed, and she declared that she had heard the evidence of Dick
Purdie with surprise and anger. On that night she was not over the step of
her father's door for more than five minutes, and that was to look at the sheep
in the fauld ; and she neither heard the clashing of swords nor the word of
man or woman. And with respect to Dick Purdie, she scarcely knew him
even by sight ; and if all talcs were true that were told of him, she would not
venture into a lonely wood with him, under the cloud of night for a gown of
silk with pearls on each sleeve. The shepherd, when recalled, admitted that
Kate Pennie might be right, " For after a,' " said he, " it happened in the dark,
when a man like me, no that gleg of the uptauk, might confound persons.
Somebody was with me, I am gaye an' sure, frae what took place — if it was
nae Kate, I kenna wha it was, and it couldna weel be Kate either, for Kate's
a douce quean, and besides is married." The judge dismissed the witnesses
with some indignant words, and, turning to the prisoner, said, "John Mac-
millan, the prevarications of these witnesses have saved you ; mark my words
— saved you from man, but not from God. On the murderer the Most High
will lay his hot right hand, visibly and before men, that we may know th;U
blood unjustly shed will be avenged. You are at liberty to depart." He left
the bar and resumed his station and his pursuits as usual ; nor did he appear
sensible to the feeUng of the country-, which was strong against him.

A year passed over his head, other events haj^pened, and the murder of
Walter Johnstone began to be dismissed from men's minds. Macmillan went
to the fair of Longtown, and when evening came he was seated in the little
back room which I mentioned before, and in company with two men of the
names of Hunter and Hope. He sat late, drank deeply, but in the midst of
the carousal a knock was heard at the door, and a voice called sharply, "John
Macmillan." He started up, seemed alarmed, and exclaimed, " What in
Heaven's name can he want with me.'' ' and opening the door hastily, went

THE CAMERONIAN PREACHER'S TALE. 303

into the garden, for he seemed to dread another summons lest his companions
should know the voice. As soon as he was gone, one said to the other, " If
that was not the voice of Walter Johnstone, I never heard it in my life ; he is
either come back in the flesh or in the spirit, and in either way John Mac-
millan has good cause to dread him." They listened — they heard Macmillan
speaking in great agitation ; he was answered only by a low sound, yet he
appeared to understand what was said, for his concluding words were,
"Never! never! I shall rather submit to His judgment who cannot err."
When he returned he was pale and shaking, and he sat down and seemed
buried in thought. He spread his palms on his knees, shook his head often,
then, starting up, said, " The judge was a fool and no prophet — to rr>ortal man
is not given the wisdom of God — so, neighbours, let us ride." They mounted
their horses and rode homewards into Scotland at a brisk pace.

The night was pleasant, neither light nor dark ; there were few travellers
out, and the way winded with the hills and with the streams, passing through
a pastoral and beautiful country. Macmillan rode close by the side of his
companions, closer than was desirable or common ; yet he did not speak, nor
made answer when he was spoken to ; but looked keenly and earnestly before
and behind him, as if he expected the coming of some one, and every tree and
bush seemed to alarm and startle him. Day at last dawned, and with the
growing light his alarm subsided, and he began to converse with his compan-
ions, and talk with a levity which surprised them more than his silence had
done before. The sun was all but risen when they approached the farm of
Andrew Pattison, and here and there the top of a high tree and the summit
of a hill had caught light upon them. Hope looked to Hunter silently,
when they came nigh the bloody spot where it was believed the murder had
been committed. Macmillan sat looking resolutely before him, as if deter-
mined not to look upon it ; but his horse stopt at once, trembled violently,
and then sprung aside, hurling its rider headlong to the ground. All this
passed in a moment ; his companions sat astonished ; the horse rushed for-
ward, leaving him on the ground, from whence he never rose in life, for his
neck was broken by the fall, and with a convulsive shiver or two he expired.
Then did the prediction of the judge, the warning voice and summons of the
preceding night, and the spot and the time, rush upon their recollection ; and
they firmly believed that a murderer and robber lay dead beside them. "His
horse saw something,'' said Hope to Hunter ; "I never saw such flashing eyes
in a horse's head." — " And //^ saw something too," replied Hunter, "for the
glance that he gave to the bloody spot, when his horse started, was one of
terror. I never saw such a look, and I wish never to see such another
again."

When John Macmillan perished, matters stood thus with his memory. It
was not only loaded with the sin of blood and the sin of robbery, with the sin
of making a faithful woman a widow and her children fatherless, but with the
grievous sin also of having driven a worthy family to ruin and beggary. The
sum which was lost was large, the creditors were merciless ; they fell upon
the remaining substance of Johnstone, sweeping it wholly away ; and his
widow sought shelter in a miserable cottage among the Dryfesdale hills, where
she supported her children by gathering and spinning wool. In a far different
state and condition remained the family of John Macmillan. He died rich
and unincumbered, leaving an evil name and an only child, a daughter,
wedded to one whom many knew and esteemed, Joseph Howatson by name,
a man sober and sedate ; a member, too, of our own broken remnant of
Cameronians.

Now, my dear ehildren, the person who addresses you was then, as he is
yet, God's preacher for the scattered kirk of Scotland, and his tent was
pitched among the green hills of Annandale. The death of the transgressor
appeared unto me the manifest judgment of God, and when my j)fople
gathered around me I rejoiced to see so great a multitude, and, standing in
the midst of them, I preached in such wise that they were deeply moved. I

304 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

took for my text these words, " Hath there been evil in the land and the Lord
hath not known it?" I discoursed on the wisdom of Providence in guiding
the affairs of men. How he permitted our evil passions to acquire the mastery
over us, and urge us to deeds of darkness ; allowing us to flourish for a
season, that he might strike us in the midst of our splendour in a way so
visible and awful that the wildest would cr)' out, '' Behold the finger of God."
I argued the matter home to the heart ; I named no names, but 1 saw Joseph
Howatson hide his face in his hands, for he felt and saw, from the eyes
which were turned towards him, that I alluded to the judgment of God upon
his relative.

Joseph Howatson went home heavy and sad of heart, and somewhat touched
with anger at God's servant for having so pointedly and publicly alluded to
his family misfortune ; for he believed his father-in-law was a wise and a
worthy man. His way home lay along the banks of a winding and beautiful
stream, and just where it entered his own lands there was a rustic gate, over
which he leaned for a little space, ruminating upon earlier days, on his wed-
ded wife, on his children, and finally his thoughts settled on h's father-in-law.
He thought of his kindness to himself and to many others, on his fulfilment of
all domestic duties, on his constant performance of family worship, and on
his general reputation for honesty and fair dealing. He then dwelt on the
circumstances of Johnstone's disappearance, on the singular summons his
father-in-law received in Longtown, and the catastrophe which followed on
the spot and on the very day of the year that the murder was supposed to be
committed. He was in sore perplexity, and said aloud, " Would to God that
I knew the truth ; but the doors of eternity, alas ! are shut on the secret for
ever." He looked up and John Macmillan stood before him — stood with all
the calmness and serenity and meditative air which a grave man wears when
he walks out on a sabbath eve.

"Joseph Howatson," said the apparition, "on no secret are the doors of
eternity shut — of whom were you speaking.-"' " I was speaking," answered
he, '' of one who is cold and dead, and to whom you bear a strong resem-
blance." "I am he," said the shape; "I am John Macmillan." "God of
heaven!" replied Joseph Howatson, "how can that be; did I not lay his
head in the grave ; see it closed over him; how, therefore, can it be? Heaven
permits no such visitations." " I entreat you, my son," said the shape, " to
believe what I say ; the end of man is not when his body goes to dust ; he
exists in another state, and from that state am I permitted to come to you ;
waste not time, which is brief, with vain doubts, 1 am John Macmillan."
" Father, father," said the young man, deeply agitated, " answer me, did you
kill and rob Walter Johnstone?" " I did," said the spirit, "and for that have
I returned to earth ; listen to me." The young man was so much over-
powered by a revelation thus fearfully made, that he fell insensible on the
ground ; and when he recovered, the moon was shining, the dews of night
were upon him and he was alone.

Joseph Howatson imagined that he had dreamed a fearful dream ; and con-
ceiving that Divine Providence had presented the truth to his fancy, he began
to consider how he could secretly make reparation to the wife and children of
Johnstone for the double crime of his relative. 13ut on more mature reflection
he was impressed with the belief that a spirit had appeared to him, the spirit
of his father-in-law, and that his own alarm had hindered him from learning
fully the secret of his visit to earth ; he therefore resolved to go to the same
place next Sabbath night, seek rather than avoid an interview, acquaint him-
self with the state of bliss or woe in which the spirit was placed, and learn if
by acts of affection and restitution he could soften his sufferings or augment
his happiness. He went accordingly to the little loistic gate by the side of the
lonely stream ; he walked up and down ; hour passed after hour, but he heard
nothing and saw nothing save the murmuring of the brook, and the hares
running among the wild clover. He had resolvetl to return home, when
something seemed to rise from the ground, as shapeless as a < loud at first

THE CAMERONIAN PREACHER'S TALE. 305

but moving with life. It assumed a form, and the appearance of Juhn
Macmillan was once more before him. The young man was nothing daunted,
but looking on the spirit, said, " I thought you just and upright and devout,
and incapable of murder and robbery." The spirit seemed to dilate as it made
answer. "The death of Walter Johnstone sits lightly upon me. We had
crossed each other's purposes, we had lessened each other's gains, we had
vowed revenge, we met on fair terms, tied our horses to a gate, and fought
fairly and long ; and when I slew him, I but did what he sought to do to me.
I threw him over his horse, carried him far into the country, sought out a deep
quagmire on the north side of the Snipe Knowe, in Crake's Moss, and having
secured his bills and other perishable property, with the purpose of returning
all to his family, 1 buried him in the moss, leaving his gold in his purse, and
laying his cloak and his sword above him.

" Now listen, Joseph Howatson. In my private desk you will find a little
key tied with red twine, take it and go to the house of Janet Mathieson in
Dumfries, and underneath the hearthstone in my sleeping room you will get
my strong-box, open it, it contains all the bills and bonds belonging to Walter
Johnstone. Restore them to his widow. I would have restored them but for
my untimely death. Inform her privily and covertly where she will find the
body of her husband, so that she may bury him in the churchyard with his
ancestors. Do these things, that I may have some assuagement of misery ;
neglect them and you will become a world's wonder.'' The spirit vanished
with these words, and was seen no more.

Joseph Howatson was sorely troubled. He had communed with a spirit, he
was impressed with the belief that early death awaited him ; he felt a sinking
of soul and a misery of body, and he sent for me to help him with counsel,
and comfort him in his unexampled sorrow. I loved him and hastened to
him ; I found him weak and woe begone, and the hand of God seemed to be
sore upon him. He took me out to the banks of the little stream where the
shape appeared to him, and having desired me to listen without interrupting
him, told me how he had seen his father-in-law's spirit, and related the
revelations which it had made and the commands it had laid upon him.
"And now," he said, " look upon me. I am young, and ten days ago, I had
a body strong and a mind buo) ant, and gray hairs and the honours of old age
seemed to await me. But ere three days pass I shall be as the clod of the
valley, for he who converses with a spirit, a spirit shall he soon become. I
have written down the strange tale I have told you, and I put it into your
hands : perform for me and for my wretched parent, the instructions which
the grave yielded up its tenant to give ; and may your days be long in the
land, and may you grow gray-headed among your people." I listened to his
words with wonder and with awe, and I promised to obey him in all his
wishes with my best and most anxious judgment. We went home together ;
we spent the evening in prayer. Then he set his house in order, spoke to all
his children cheerfully and with a mild voice, and falling on the neck of his
wife, said, " Sarah Macmillan, you were the choice of my young heart, and
you have been a wife to me kind, tender, and gentle." He looked at his
children and he looked at his wife, for his heart was too full for more words,
and retired to his chamber. He was found next morning kneeling by his bed-
side, his hands held out as if repelling some approaching object, horror
stamped on every feature, and cold and dead.

Then I felt full assurance of the truth of his communications ; and as soon
as the amazement which his untimely death occasioned had subsided, and his
wife and little ones were somewhat comforted, I proceeded to fulfil his dying
request. I found the small key tied with red twine, and I went to the house
of Janet Mathieson in Dumfries, and I held up the key and said, " Woman,
knowest thou that?" and when she saw it she said, " Full well I know it, it
belonged to a jolly man and a douce, and mony a merry hour has he whiietl
away wi' my servant maidens and me.'' And wlu-n she saw mc lift the
hearthstone, open the box, and spread out the treasure which it contained, she
I. 20

3o6 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

held up her hands, " Eh ! what o' gowd ! what o' gowd ! but lialf's mine, be yfc
saint or sinner; John Macniillan, douce man, aye said he had something
there which he considered as not belonging to him but to a quiet friend ; weel
I wot he meant me, for 1 have been a quiet friend to him and his." 1 told her
I was commissioned by his daughter to remove the property, that I was the
minister of that persecuted remnant of the true kirk called Cameronians, and
she might therefore deliver it up without fear. " 1 ken weel enough wha ye
are,'' said this worthless woman, " d'ye think I dinna ken a minister o' the
kirk ; I have seen meikle o' their siller in my day, frae eighteen to fifty and
aught have I caroused with divines, Cameronians, I trow, as well as those of a
freer kirk. But touching this treasure, give me twenty gowden pieces, else
I'se gar three stamps of my foot bring in them that will see mc righted, and
send you awa to the mountains bleating like a sheep shorn in winter." 1 gave
the imperious woman twenty pieces of gold, and carried away the fatal box.

Now, when I got free of the ports of Dumfries, 1 mounted my little horse
and rode away into the heart of the country, ajiiong the pastoral hills of
Dryfesdale. 1 carried the box on the saddle before me, and its contents
awakened a train of melancholy thoughts within me. There were the papers
of Walter Johnstone, corresponding to the description which the spirit gave,
and marked with his initials in red ink by the hand of the man who slew him.
There were two gold waiches and two purses of gold, all tied with red twine,
and many bills and much money to which no marks were attached. As I rode
along pondering on these things, and casting about in my own mind how and
by what means I should make restitution, 1 was aware of a morass, broad and
wide, which with all its quagmires glittered in the moonlight before me. I
knew I had penetrated into the centre of Dryfesdale, but I was not well
acquainted with the country ; I therefore drew my bridle, and looked around
to see if any house was nigh, where I could find shelter for the night. I saw
a small house built of turf and thatched with heather, from the window of
which a faint light glimmered. I rode up, alighted, and there I found a woman
in widow's weeds, with three sweet children, spinning yarn from the wool
which the shepherds shear, in spring, from the udders of the ewes. She
welcomed m;, spread bread and placed milk before me. I asked a blessing,
and ate and drank, and was refreshed.

Now it happened that, as 1 sat with the solitary woman and her children,
there came a man to the door, and with a loud yell of dismay burst it open
and staggered forward crying, " There's a corse candle in Crake's Moss, and
I'll be a dead man before the morning." — " Preserve me ! piper," said the
widow, "ye're in a piteous taking ; here is a holy man who will speak comfort
to you, and tell you how all these are but delusions of the eye or exhala-
tions of nature." — " Delusions and e.xhalations, Dame Johnstone," said the
piper, " d'ye think I dinna ken a corse light from an elf candle, an elf candle
from a will-o'-wisp, and a will-o'-wisp from all other lights of this wide world."
— The name of the morass and the womans name now flashed upon me, and
I was struck with amazement and awe. I looked on the widow, and I looked
on the wandering piper, and I said, " Let me look on those corse lights, for
God creates nothing in vain ; there is a wise purpose in all things, and a wise
aim." And the piper said, " Na, na ; I have nae wish to see ony mair on't,
a dead light bodes the living nae gude ; and I am sure if 1 gang near Crake's
Moss it will lair me among the hags and quags.'' — And I said, " Foolish old
man, you are equally safe ever)- where ; the hand of the Lord reaches round
the earth, and strikes and protects according as it was foreordained, for nothing
is hid from His eyes — come with me." And the piper looked strangely upon
me and stirred not a foot ; and 1 said, " I shall go by myself." — And the
woman said, " Let me go with you, for I am sad of heart, and can look on
such things without fear ; for, alas ! since I lost my own Walter Johnstone,

Eleasure is no longer pleasant : and I love to wander in lonesome places and
y old churchyards.'' — " Then," said the piper, " I darena bide my lane with
the bairns ; I'U go also ; but 0 let me strcngtlien my heart with ae spring on

THE CAMERONIAN PREACHER'S TALE 307

my pipes before 1 venture." — " Play/' I said, " Clavers and his Ilighlandinen,
it is the tune to cheer ye and keep your heart up." — '"Your honours no cannie,"
said the old man ; " that's my favourite tune." So he played it and said,
" Now I am fit to look on lights of good or evil." And we walked into the
open air.

All Crake's Moss seemed on fire ; not illumined with one steady and unin-
terrupted light, but kindled up by fits like the northern bky with its wandering
streamers. On a little bank which rose in the centre of the morass, the super-
natural splendour seemed chiefly to settle ; and having continued to shine
for several minutes, the whole faded, and left but one faint gleam behind. I
fell on my knees, held up my hands to heaven, and said, " This is of God ;
behold in that fearful light the finger of the Most High. Blood has been
spilt, and can be no longer concealed ; the point of the mariner's needle
points less surely to the north than yon living flame points to the place
where man's body has found a bloody grave. Follow me," and 1 walked
down to the edge of the moss and gazed earnestly on the spot. I knew now
that I looked on the long hidden resting place of Walter Johnstone, and con-
sidered that the hand of God was manifest in the way that I had been thus
led blindfold into his widow's house. I reflected for a moment on these
things ; I wished to right the fatherless, yet spare the feelings of the innocent ;
the supernatural light partly showed me the way, and the words which I now
heard whispered by my companions aided in directing the rest.

" I tell ye, Dame Johnstone," said the piper, " the man's no cannie ; or
what's waur, he may belong to the spiritual world himself, and do us a
mischief Saw ye ever mortal man riding wi' ae spur and carrj-ing a silver-
headed cane lor a whip, wi' sic a fleece of hair about his halTets and sic a
wild ee in his head ; and then he kens a' things in the heavens aboon and
the earth beneath. He kenned my favourite tune Clavers ; I'se uphaud he's
no in the body, but ane of the souls made perfect of the auld Covenanters
whom Graham or Grierson slew ; we're daft to follov/ him." — " Fool body," I
heard the widow say, " I'll follow him ; there's something about that man, be
he in the spirit or in the flesh, which is pleasant and promising. O ! could
he but, by prayer or other means of lawful knowledge, tell me about my dear
Walter Johnstone ; thrice has he appeared to me in dream or vision with a
sorrowful look, and weel ken I what that means." We had now reached the
edge of the morass, and a dim and uncertain light continued to twinkle about
the green knoll which rose in its middle. I turned suddenly round and said,
" For a wise purpose am I come ; to reveal murder ; to speak consolation to
the widow and the fatherless, and to soothe the perturbed spirits of those
whose fierce passions ended in untimely death. Come with me ; the hour is
come, and I must not do my commission negligently." — " I kenned it, I kenned
it," said the piper, " he's just one of the auld persecuted worthies risen from
his red grave to right the injured, and he'll do't discreetly ; follow him, Dame,
follow him." — " I shall follow," said the widow ; " I have that strength given
me this night which will bear me through all trials which mortal flesh can
endure."

When we reached the little green hillock in the centre of the morass, I
looked to the north and soon distinguished the place described by my friend
Joseph Howatson, where the body of Walter Johnstone was deposited. The
moon shone clear, the stars aided us with their light, and some turfcutters
having left their spades standing near, I ordered the piper to take a spade
and dig where I placed my staff. " O dig carefully," said the widow, " do
not be rude with mortal dust." We dug and came to a sword ; the point was
broken and the blade hacked. "It is the sword of my Walter Johnstone,"
said his widow, " I could swear to it among a thousand." — " It is my fatiier's
sword," said a fine dark haired boy who had followed us unpcrceivcd, " it
is my father's sword, and were he living who wrought this, he -ihould na be
lang in rueing it.' — 'He is dead, my child,'' I said, "and bevond your
reach, and vengeance is the Lords." — " O, iir," cncd his widow, in a

3o8 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

flood of tears, " ye ken all things; tell me, is this my husband or no?"
— " It is the body of Walter Johnstone," I answered, " slain by one who
is passed to his account, and buried here by the hand that slew him,
with his gold in his purse and his watch in his pocket." So saying we
uncovered the body, lifted it up, laid it on the i^niss ; the embalming nature
of the morass had preserved it from decay, and mother and child, with tears
and with cries, named his name and lamented over him. His gold watch
and his money, his cloak and his dress, were untouched and entire, and we
bore him to the cottage of his widow, where with clasped hands she sat at
his feet and his children at his head till the day drew nigh the dawn ; I then
rose and said, " Woman, thy trials have been severe and manifold ; a good
wife, a good mother, and a good widow hast thou been, and thy reward will
be where the blessed alone are admitted. It was revealed to me by a
mysterious revelation that thy husband's body was where we found it ; and I
was commissioned by a voice, assuredly not of this world, to deliver thee this
treasure, which is thy own, that thy children may be educated^ and that bread
and raiment may be thine." And I delivered her husband's wealth into her
hands, refused gold which she offered, and mounting my horse, rode over the
hills, and saw her no more. But I soon heard of her, for there arose a strange
sound in the land, that a Good Spirit had appeared to the widow of Walter
Johnstone, had disclosed where her husband's murdered body lay, had en-
riched her with all his lost wealth, had prayed by her side till the blessed
dawn of day, and then vanished with the morning light. I closed my lips on
the secret till now ; and I reveal it to you, my children, that you may know
there is a God who ruleth this world by wise and invisible means, and
punisheth the wicked, and cheereth the humble of heart and the lowly
minded.

Such was the last sermon of the good John Farley, a man whom I knew
and loved. I think I see him now, with his long white hair and his look
mild, eloquent, and sagacious. He was a giver of good counsel, a sayer of
wise sayings, with wit at will, learning in abundance, and a gift in sarcasm
which the wildest dreaded.

THE PRIVATE MEMOIRS

AND

CONFESSIONS OF A FANATIC:

WITH A DETAIL OF CURIOUS TRADITIONARY FACTS, AND
OTHER EVIDENCE, BY THE EDITOR {J. //.)

THE EDITOR'S NARRATIVE.

It appears from tradition, as well as some parish registers still extant, that
the lands of Dalcastle (or Dalchastel, as it is often spelled) were possessed by
a family of the name of Colwan, about one hundred and fifty years ago, and
for at least a century previous to that period. That family was supposed to
have been a branch of the ancient family of Colquhoun, and it is certain that
from it spring the Cowans that spread towards the Border. I find, that in the
year 1687, George Colwan succeeded his uncle of the same name, in the lands
of Dalchastel and Balgrennan ; and this being all I can gather of the family
from history, to tradition I must appeal for the remainder of the motley ad-
ventures of that house. But of the matter furnished by the latter of these
powerful monitors I have no reason to complain : it has been handed down to

CONFESSIONS OF A FANATIC. 309

the world in unlimited abundance ; and I am certain, that in recording the
hideous events which follow, I am only relating to the greater part of tlie in-
habitants of at least four counties of Scotland, maiterb of which they were
before perfectly well informed.

This George was a rich man, or supposed to be so, and was married when
considerably advanced in life to the sole heiress and reputed daughter of a
Bailie Orde, of Glasgow. This proved a conjunction any thing but agreeable
to the parties contracting. It is well known, that the Reformation principles
had long before that time taken a powerful hold of the hearts and affections
of the people of Scotland, although the feeling was by no means general, or in
equal degrees ; and it so happened that this married couple felt completely
at variance on the subject. Granting it to have been so, one would have
thought that the laird, owing to his retired situation, would have been the one
that inclined to the stern doctrines of the reformers ; and that the young and
gay dame from the city would have adhered to the free principles cherished
by the court party, and indulged in rather to extremity, in opposition to their
severe and carping contemporaries.

The contrary, however, happened to be the case. The laird was what his
country neighbours called " a droll, careless chap," with a very limited pro-
portion of the fear of God in his heart, and very nearly as little of the fear of
man. The laird had not intentionally wronged or ofl'ended either of the par-
ties, and perceived not the necessity of deprecating their vengeance. He had
hitherto believed that he was living in most cordial terms with the greater
part of the inhabitants of the earth, and with the powers above in particular :
but woe be unto him if he was not soon convinced of the fallacy of such heed-
less security ! for his lady was the most severe and gloomy of all bigots to the
principles of the Reformation. Hers was not the tenets of the great reformers,
but theirs mightily overstrained and deformed. Theirs was an unguent hard
to be swallowed ; but hers was that unguent embittered and overheated nntil
nature could not longer bear it. She had imbibed her ideas from the doc-
trines of one flaming predestinarian divine alone ; and these were so rigid,
that they became a stumbling block to many of his brethren, and a mighty
handle for the enemies of his party to turn the machine of the state against
them.

The wedding festivities at Dalcastle partook of all the gaiety, not of that
stern age, but of one previous to it. There were feasting, dancing, piping,
and singing ; the liquors wer,' handed around in great fulness, the ale in large
wooden bickers, and the brandy in capacious horns of oxen. The laird gave
full scope to his homely glee. He danced, — he snapped his fingers to the
music, — clapped his hands and shouted at the turn of the tune. He saluted
every girl in the hall whose appearance was anything tolerable, and requested
of their sweethearts to take the same freedom with his bride, by way of re-
taliation. But there she sat at the head of the hall in still and blooming
beauty, absolutely refusing to tread a single measure with any gentleman
there. The only enjoyment in which she appeared to partake, was in now
and then stealing a word of sweet conversation with her favourite pastor about
divine things ; for he had accompanied her home, after marrying her to her
husband, to see her fairly settled in her new dwelling. He addressed her
several times by her new name, Mrs. Colwan ; but she turned away her head
disgusted, and looked with pity and contempt towards the old inadvertent
sinner, capering away in the height of his unregencrated mirth. The minister
perceived the workings of her pious mind, and thence-forward addressed her by
the courteous title of Lady Dalcastle, which sounded somewhat better, as not
coupling her name with one of the wicked ; and there is too great reason to
believe, that for all the solemn vows she had come under, and these were of no
ordinary binding, particularly on the laird's part, she at that time despised, if
not abhorred him, in her heart.

The good parson again blessed her, and went away. She took leave of
him with tears in her eyes, entreating him often to visit her in that ht.ithcn

3IO THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

land of the Amorite, the Hittite, and the Girgashite : to which he assented on
many solemn and qualifying conditions, — and then the comely bride retired
t'l lier chamber.

It was customary, in thobC days, for the bride's-man and maiden, and a few
select friends, to visit the new-married couple after they had retired to rest, and
diink a cup to tlieir healths, their happiness, and a numerous posterity. But
the laird delighted not in this : he wished to have his jewel to himself; and,
slipping away quietly from his jovial party, he retired to his chamber to his
beloved, and bolted the door. He found her engaged with the writings of the
Evangelists, and terribly demure. The laird went up to caress her ; but she
turned away her head, and spoke of the follies of aged men, and something of
the broad way that leadeth to destruction. The laird did not thoroughly
comprehend this allusion ; but being considerably flustered by drinking, and
disposed to take all in good part, he only remarked, as he took off his shoes
and stockings, *' that whether the way was broad or narrow, it was time they
were in their bed."

"Sure, Mr. Colwan, you won't go to bed to-night, at such an important
period ot your life, without fust saying prayers for yourself and me."

When she said this, tlie laird had his head down almost to the ground,
loosing his shoe-buckle ; but when he heard of pmyers, on such a night, he
raised his face suddenly up, which was all over as llushed and red as a rose,
and answered, —

" Prayers, mistress ! Lord help your crazed head, is this a night for
prayers ! "

He had better have held his peace. There was such a torrent of profound
divinity poured out upon him, that the laird became ashamed, both of him-
self and his new-made spouse, and wist not what to say, but the brandy helped
him out.

"It strikes me, my dear, that religious devotion would be somewhat out of
place to-night," said he " Allowing that it is ever so beautiful, and ever so
beneficial, were we to ride on the rigging of it at all times, would we not be
constantly making a farce of it ; it would be like reading the Bible and the
jest-book, verse about, and would render the life of man a medley of
absurdity and confusion."

But against the cant of the bigot or the hypocrite, no reasoning can aught
avail. If you would argue until the end of life, the infallible creature must
alone be right. So it proved with the laird. One Scripture text followed
another, not in the least connected, and one sentence ot the profound Mr.
Wringhim's sermons after another, proving the duty of family worship, till the
laird lost patience, and, tossing himself into bed, said, carelessly, that he
would leave that duty upon her shoulders for one night.

The meek mind of Lady Dalcastle was somewhat disarranged by this
sudden evolution. She felt that she was left rather in an awkward situation.
However, to show her unconscionable spouse that she was resolved to hold
fast her integrity, she kneeled down and prayed in terms so potent, that she
deemed she was sure of making an impression on him. She did so ; for in a
short time the laird began to utter a response so fervent, that she was utterly
astounded, and fairly driven from the chain of her orisons. He began, in
truth, to sound a nasal bugle of no ordinary calibre, — the notes being little
inferior to those of a military trumpet. The lady tried to proceed, but every
returning note from the bed burst on her ear with a louder twang, and a
longer peal, till the concord of sweet sounds became so truly pathetic, that
the meek spirit of the dame was quite overcome ; and after shedding a flood
of tears, she arose from her knees, and retired to the chimney-corner with
her lUble in her lap, there to spend the hours in holy meditation till such
time as the inebriated trumpeter should awaken to a sense of propriety.

The laird did not awake in any reasonable time ; for, he being overcome
with fatigue and wassail, his sleep became sounder, and his Morphean mea-
sures more intense. These -'aried a little in their structure; but the f!:encral

CONFESSIONS OF A FANATIC. 311

run of the bars sounded something in this way, — " Hic-hoc wheew ! " It was
most profoundly ludicrous ; and could not have missed exciting risabilily in
any one, save a pious, a disappointed, and humbled bride.

The good dame wept bitterly. She could not for her life go and awaken
the monster, and request him to make room for her : but she retired some-
where ; for the laird, on awaking next morning, found that he was still lying
alone. His sleep had been of the deepest and most genuine sort ; and all
the time that it lasted, he had never once thought of either wives, children, or
sweethearts, save in the way of dreaming about them ; but as his spirit began
again by slow degrees to verge towards the boundaries of reason, it became
lighter and more buoy: ,it from the effects of deep repose, and his dreams
partook of that buoyancy, yea, to a degree hardly expressible. He dreamed
of the reel, the jig, the strathspey, and the corant ; and the elasticity of his
frame was such, that he was bounding over the heads of the maidens, and
making his feet skimmer against the ceiling, enjoying, the while, the most
estatic emotions. These grew too fervent for the shackles of the drowsy god
to restrain. The nasal bugle ceased its prolonged sounds in one moment,
and a sort of hectic laugh took its place. " Keep it going,— play up, you
devils!" cried the laird, without changing his position on the pillow. But
this e.xertion to hold the fiddlers at their work, fairly awakened the delighted
dreamer ; and though he could not refrain from continuing his laugh, he at
length, by tracing out a regular chain of facts, came to be sensible of his real
situation. " Rabina, where are you? What's become of you, my dear?"
cried the laird. But there was no voice, nor any one that answered or re-
garded. He flung open the curtains, thinking to find her still on her knees,
as he had seen her ; but she was not there, either sleeping or waking.
" Rabina ! Mrs. Colwan ! " shouted he, as loud as he could call, and then
added in the same breath, " God save the king, — I have lost my wife ! "

He sprung up and opened the casement: the daylight was beginning to
streak the east, for it was spring, and the nights were short, and the mornings
very long. The laird half dressed himself in an instant, and strode through
every room in the house, opening the windows as he went, and scrutinizing
every bed and every corner. He came into the hall where the wedding festi-
val had been held ; and, as he opened the various window-boards, loving
couples flew off like hares surprised too late in the morning among the early
braird. "Hoo-boo! Fie, be frightened!" cried the laird. "Fie, rin like
fools, as if ye were caught in an ill turn !" — His bride was not among them ;
so he was obliged to betake himself to farther search. " She will be praying
in some corner, poor woman," said he to himself " It is an unlucky thing
this praying. But, for my part, I fear I have behaved very ill ; and I must
endeavour to make amends"

The laird continued his search, and at length found his beloved in the same
bed with her Glasgow cousin, who had acted as bride's-maid. " You sly and
malevolent imp," said the laird ; "you have played me such a trick when I
was fast asleep ! I have not known a frolic so clever, and, at the same time,
so severe. Come along, you baggage you 1 "

" Sir, I will let you know, that I detest your principles and your person
alike," said she. '' It shall never be said, sir, that my person was at the con-
trol of a heathenish man of Belial, — a dangler among the daughters of women,
— a promiscuous dancer, — and a player at unlawful games. Forego your
rudeness, sir, I say, and depart away from my presence and that of my kins-
woman."

" Come along, I say, my charming Rab. If you were the pink of all puri-
tans, and the saint of all saints, you are my wife, and must do as I command
you."

" Sir, I will sooner lay down my life than be subjected to your godless will;
therefore, I say, desist and begone with you."'

But the laird reiyarded none of these testy sayings ; he rollcil her in a
blanket, and bore her triumphantly away to his clumber, taking care to keep

3T2 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

a fold or two of the blanket always rather near to her mouth, in case of any
outrageous forthcoming of noise.

The next day at breakfast the bride was long in making her appearance.
Her maid asked to see her ; but Geort^e did not choose that any body should
see her but himself : he paid her several visits, and always turned the kev as
he came out. At length breakfast was served ; and during the time of refresh-
ment the laird tried to break several jokes ; but it was remarked, that they
wanted their accustomed brilliancy, and that his nose was particularly red at
the top.

Matters, without all doubt, had been very bad between the new-married
couple ; for in the course of the day the lady deserted her quarters, and re-
turned to her father's house in Glasgow, and after having been a night on the
road : stage-coaches and steam-boats having then no existence in that quar-
ter. Though Bailie Orde had acquiesced in his wife's asseveration regarding
the likeness of their only daughter to her father, he never loved or admired
her greatly ; therefore this behaviour nothing astounded him. He questioned
her strictly as to the grievous offence committed against her ; and could dis-
cover nothing that warranted a procedure so fraught with disagreeable
consequences. So, after mature deliberation, the bailie addressed her as
follows : —

" Ay, ay, Raby ! An' sae I find that Dalcastle has actually refused to say
prayers with you when you ordered him ; an' has guidit you in a rude indeli-
cate manner outstepping the respect due to my daughter, — as my daughter.
But wi' regard to what is due to his own wife, of that he's a better judge nor
me. However, since he has behaved in that manner to my dnughtcr, I shall
be revenged on him for aince ; for I shall return the obligation to ane nearer
to him : that is, I shall take pennyworths of his wife, — an' let him lick at
that."

" What do you mean, sir ? " said the astonished damsel.

" 1 mean to be revenged on that villain Dalcastle,' said he, "for what he
has done to my daughter. Come hither, Mrs. Colwan, you shall pa\^ for
this."

So saying, the bailie began to inflict corporeal punishment on the runaway
wife. His strokes were not indeed very deadly, but he made a mighty flourish
in the infliction, pretending to be in a great rage only at the Laird of Dal-
castle. " Villain that he is ! " exclaimed he, " I shall teach him to behave in
such a manner to a child of mine, be she as she may ; since I cannot get at
himself, 1 shall lounder her that is nearest to him in life. Take you that, and
that, Mrs. Colwan, for your husband's impertinence! "

The poor afflicted woman wept and prayed, but the bailie would not abate
aught of his severity. After fuming, and beating her with many stripes, far
drawn, and lightly laid down, he took her up to her chamber, five stories
high, locked her in, and there he fed her on bread and water, all to be
revenged on the presumptuous laird of Dalcastle ; but ever and anon, as
the bailie came down the stair from carrying his daughter's meal, he
said to himself, " I shall make the sight of the laird the blithest she ever saw
in her life."

Lady Dalcastle got plenty of time to read, and pray, and meditate ; but
«he was at a great loss for one to dispute with about religious tenets ; for
she found, that without this advantage, about which there was a perfect
rage at that time, her reading, and learning of Scripture texts, and sen-
tences of intricate doctrine, availed her nought ; so she was often driven
to sit at her casement and look out for the approach of the heathenish Laird
of Dalcastle.

That hero, after a considerable lapse of time, at length made his appear-
ance. Matters were not hard to adjust ; for his lady found that there was
no refuge for her in her father's house ; and so, after some sighs and tears,
she accompanied her husband home. For all that had passed, things went
on no better. She would convert the laird in spite of his teeth : the laird

CONFESSIONS OF A FANATIC. 313

would not be converted. She would have the laird to say family prayers,
both morning and evening : the laird would neither pray morning nor
evening. He would not even sing psalms, and kneel beside her, while she
performed the exercise ; neither would he converse at all times, and in all
places, about the sacred mysteries of religion, although his lady took occasion
to contradict flatly every assertion that he made, in order that she might
spiritualize him by drawing him into argument.

The laird kept his temper a long while, but at length his patience wore
out ; he cut her short in all her futile attempts at spiritiialization, and mocked
at her wire-drawn degrees of faith, hope, and repentance. He also dared to
doubt of the great standard doctrine of absolute predestination, which put
the crown on the lady's Christian resentment. She declared her helpmate to
be a limb of Antichrist, and one with whom no regenerated person could
associate. She therefore bespoke a separate establishment, and before the
expiry of the first six months, the arrangements of the separation were
amicably adjusted. The upper, or third story of the old mansion-house, was
awarded to the lady for her residence. She had a separate door, a separate
stair, a separate garden, and walks that in no instance intersected the laird's ;
so that one would have thought the separation complete. They had each
their own parties, selected from their own sort of people ; and though the
laird never once chafed himself about the lady's companions, it was not long
before she began to intermeddle about some of his.

" Who is that fat bouncing dame that visits the laird so often, and always
by herself?" said she to her maid Martha one day.

" O dear, mem, how can I ken "i We're banished frae our acquaintances
here, as weel as frae the sweet gospel ordinances."

" Find me out who that jolly dame is, Martha. You, who hold communion
with the household of this ungodly man, can be at no loss to attain this
information. 1 observe that she always casts her eye up toward our windows,
both in coming and going ; and I suspect that she seldom departs from the
house empty-handed."

That same evening Martha came with the information, that this august
visitor was a Miss Logan, an old and intimate acquaintance of the laird's,
and a very worthy respectable lady, of good connections, whose parents had
lost their patrimony in the civil wars.

" Ha ! very well !" said the lady ; "very well, Martha ! But nevertheless,
go thou and watch this respectable lady's motions and behaviour the next
time she comes to visit the laird, — and the next after that. You will not, I
see, lack opportunities."

Martha's information turned out of that nature, that prayers were said in
the uppermost story of Dalcastle-house against the Canaanitish woman every
night and every morning ; and great discontent prevailed there, even to
anathemas and tears. Letter after letter was despatched to Glasgow ; and at
length, to the lady's great consolation, the Rev. Mr. Wringhim arrived safely
and devoutly in her elevated sanctuary. Marvellous was the conversation
between these gifted people. Wringhim had held in his doctrines that there
were eight different kinds of Faith, all perfectly distinct in their operations
and effects. But the lady, in her secluded state, had discovered other five, —
making thirteen in all : the adjustment of the existence or fallacy of these five
faiths served for a most enlightened discussion of nearly seventeen hours ; in
the course of which the two got warm in their arguments, always in propor-
tion as they receded from nature, utility, and common sense. Wringhim at
length got into unwonted fervour about some disputed point between one of
these faiths and TkL/'ST ; when the lady, fearing that zeal was getting beyond
its wonted barrier, broke in on his vehement asseverations with the following
abrupt discomfiture : — " But, sir, as long as I remember, what is to be done
with this case of open and avowed iniciuity?"

The minister was struck dumb. He leaned him ba(k on his chair, stroked
bis beard, hemmed— considered, and hemmed again ; and then said, in an

314 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

altered and softened tone, — " Why, that is a secondary consideration ; you
mean the case between your husband and Miss Logan?'

•' The same, sir. I am scandalised at such intimacies going on under my
nose. The sufferance of it is a great and cr\ ing evil."

" Evil, madam, may be either operative, or passive. To them it is an evil,
but to us none. We have no more to do with the sins of the wicked and
unconverted here, than with those of the inlidel Turk ; for all earthly bonds
and fellowships are absorbed and swallowed up in the holy communit)
ot the Reformed Church. However, if it is your wish, I shall take him
to task, and reprimand and humble him in such a manner that he shall
be ashamed of his doings, and renounce such deeds for ever, out of mere
self-respect, though all unsanctified the heart, as well as the deed may
be. To the wicked, all things are wicked ; but to the just, all things are just
and right."

" Ah, that is a sweet and comfortable saying, Mr. Wringhim ! How
delightful to think that a justified person can do no wrong ! Who would not
er.vy the liberty wherewiiii we are made free .' Go to my husoand, that poor
unfortunate, blindfolded person, and open his eyes to his degenerate and
sinful state ; for well are you fitted to the task."

" Yea, I will go in unto him, and confound him. I will lay the strong
holds of sin and Satan as flat before my face, as the dung that is spread out
to fatten the land."

"Master, there's a gentleman at the fore-door wants a private word o' ye."

"Tell him I'm engaged : I can't see any gentleman to-night. But I shall
attend on him to-morrow as soon as he pleases."

" He's coming straight in, sir. Stop a wee bit, sir, my master is

engaged. He cannot see you at present, sir."

*• Stand aside, thou Moabite ! my mission admits of no delay. I come to
save him from the jaws of destruction ! "

" An that be the case, sir, it maks a wide difference ; an' as the danger
may threaten us a', I fancy I may as weel let ye gang by as fight wi' ye, sin'

ye seem sae intent on't. The man says he's comin' to save ye, an canna

slop, sir. — Here he is."

The laird was going to break out into a volley of wrath against Waters, his
servant ; but before he got a word pronounced, the Rev. Mr. Wringhim
had stepped inside the room, and Waters had retired, shutting the door
behind him.

No introduction could be more mal a-propos : it is impossible ; for at that
very monient the l.iiid and Arabella Logan were both sitting on one seat, and
both looking on one book, when the door opened. "What is it, sir?" said
the laird fiercely.

"A message of the greatest importance, sir," said the divine, striding un-
ceremoniously up to the chimney, — turning his back to the fire, and his face
to the culprits. — " 1 think you should know me, sir," continued he, looking
displeasedly at the laird, with his face half turned round.

'' I think I should," returned the laird. " You area Mr. How's-tey-ca'-him,
of Glasgow, who did me the worst turn ever I got done to me in my life. You
gentry are always ready to do a man such a turn. Pray, sir, did you ever do
a good job for any one to counterbalance that ? for, if you have not, you ought
to be ."

• Hold, sir, I say ! None of your profanity before me. If I do evil to any
one on such occasions, it is because he will have it so ; therefore, the evil is
not of my doing. I ask you, sir, — before God and this witness, I ask you,
have you kept solemnly and inviolate the vows which I laid upon you that
day ? Answer me ? "

" Has the partner whom you bound me to, kept hers inviolate? Answer
me that, sir? None can better do so than you, .Mr. Hows-tey-ca'-you."

" So, then, you confess your backslidings, and avow the profligacy of your
life. And this person here, is, 1 suppose, the partner of your iniquity,— she

CONFESSIONS OF A FANATIC. 315

who5e beauty hath caused you to err ! Stand up, both of you, till I rebuke
you, and show you what you are in the eyes of God and man."

" In the first place, stand you still there, till I tell )ou what you are in the
eves of God and man. You are, sir, a presumptuous, self-conceited peda-
gogue, a stirrer up of strife and commotion in church, in state, in families, and
communities. You are one, sir, whose righteousness consists in splitting the
doctrines of Calvin into thousands of undistinguishable films, and in setting up
a systsm of justifying grace against all breaches of all lav.s, moral or divine.
In short, sir, you are a mildew, — a canker-worm in the bosom of the Reformed
Church, generating a disease of which she will never be purged, but by the
shedding of blood. Go thou in peace, and do these abominations no more ;
but humble thyself, lest a worse reproof come upon thee."

Wringhim heard all this without flinching. He now and then twisted his
mouth in disdain, treasuring up, mean time, his vengeance against the two
aggressors ; for he felt that he had them on the hip, and resolved to pour out
his vengeance and indignation upon them. Sorry am 1, that the shackles of
modern decorum restrain me from penning that famous rebuke ; fragments of
which have been attributed to every divine of old notoriety throughout Scot-
land. But I have it by heart ; and a glorious morsel it is to put into the
hands of certain incendiaries. The metaphors were so strong, and so appal-
ling, that Miss Logan could only stand them a very short time : she was
obliged to withdraw in confusion. The laird stood his ground with much
ado, though his face was often crimsoned over with the hues of shame and
anger. Several times he was on the point of turning the officious sycophant
to the door ; but good manners, and an inherent respect that he entertained
for the clerg)', as the immediate servants of the Supreme licing, restrained
him.

Wringhim, perceiving these symptoms of resentment, took them for marks
of shame and contrition, and pushed his reproaches farther than ever divine
ventured to do in a similar case. When he had finished, to prevent further
discussion, he walked slowly and majestically out of the apartment, making
his robes to swing behind him in a most magisterial manner ; he being with-
out doubt, elated with his high conquest. He went to the upper stor)-, and
related to his metaphysical associate his wonderful success ; how he had
driven the dame from the house in tears and deep confusion, and left the
backsliding laird in such a quandary' of shame and repentance, that he could
neither articulate a word, nor lift up his countenance. The dame thanked
him most cordially, lauding his friendly zeal and powerful eloquence ; and
then the two again set keenly to the splitting of hairs, and making distinctions
in religion where none existed.

They being both children of adoption, and secured from falling into snares,
or any way under the power of the wicked one, it was their custom, on each
visit, to sit up a night in the same apartment, for the sake of sweet spiritual
converse ; but that time, in the course of the night, they differed so materially
on a small point, somewhere between justification and final election, that the
minister, in the heat of his zeal, sprung from his seat, paced the floor, and
maintained his point with so much ardour, that Martha was alarmed, and
thinking they were going to fight, and that the minister would be a hard
match for her mistress, she put on some clothes, and twice left her bed and
stood listening at the back of the door, ready to burst in should need require
it. Should any one think this picture overstrained, 1 can assure him that it
is taken from nature and from truth ; but I will not likewise aver, that the
theologist was neither crazed nor inebriated. If the listener's words were to
be relied on, there was no love, no accommodating principle manifested be-
tween the two, but a fiery burning zeal, relating to poiirts of such minor im-
portance, that a true Christian would blush to hear them mentioned, and
the infidel and profane make a handle of them to turn our religion to scorn.

Great was the dame's exultation at the triumph of her beloved pastor over
her sinful neighbours in the lower parts of the house ; and she boasted of it

3i6 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

to Martha in high-sounding terms. But it was of short duration ; for, in five
weeks after that. Arabella Logan came to reside with the laird as his house-
keeper, sitting at his table, and carrying the keys as mistress-substitute of the
mansion. The lady's grief and indignation were now raised to a higher pitrh
than ever ; and she set every agent to work, with whom she had any power,
to effect a separation between these two suspected ones. Remonstrance was
of no avail ; Cieorge laughed at them who trietl such a course, and retained
his house-keeper, while the lady gave herself up to utter despair; for, though
she would not consort with her husband herself, she could not endure that any
other should do so.

But, to countervail this grievous offence, our saintly and afflicted dame, in
due time, was safely delivered of a line boy, whom the laird acknowledged as
his son and heir, and had him christened by his own name, and nursed in his
own premises. He gave the nurse permission to take the boy to his mother's
presence if ever she should desire to see him ; but, strange as it may appear,
she never once desired to see him from the day that he was born. The boy
grew up, and was a healthful and happy child ; and, in the course of another
year, the lady presented him with a brother. A brother he certainly was, in
the eye of the law, and it is more than probable that he was his brother in
reality. But the laird thought otherwise ; and, though he knew and acknow-
ledged that he was obliged to support and provide for him, he refused to
acknowledge him in other respects. He neither would countenance the ban-
quet, nor take the baptismal vows on him in the child's name ; of course, the
poor boy had to live and remain an alien from the visible church for a year
and a day ; at which time, Mr. Wringhim out of pity and kindness, took the
lady herself as sponsor for the boy, and baptized him by the name of Robert
Wringhim, — that being the noted divine's own name.

George was brought up with his father, and educated partly at the parish-
school, and partly at home, by a tutor hired for the purpose. He was a gen-
erous and kind-hearted youth ; always ready to oblige, and hardly ever
dissatisfied with any body. Robert was brought up with Mr. Wringhim, the
laird paying a certain allowance for him yearly ; and there the boy was early
inured to all the sternness and severity of his pastor's arbitrary and unyielding
creed. He was taught to pray twice every day, and seven times on Sabbath
days ; bnt he was only to pray for the elect, and, like David of old, doom all
that were aliens from God to destruction. He had never, in that family into
which he had been as it were adopted, heard ought but evil spoken of his
reputed father and brother ; consequently he held them in utter abhorrence,
and prayed against them every day, often " that the old hoary sinner might
be cut off in the full flush of his iniquity, and be carried quick into hell ; and
that the young stem of the corrupt trunk might also be taken from a world
that he disgraced, but that his sins might be pardoned, because he knew no
better."

Such were the tenets in which it would appear young Robert was bred. He
was an acute boy, an excellent learner, had ardent and ungovernable passions,
and withal, a sternness of demeanour from which other boys shrunk. He was
the best grammarian, the best reader, writer, and accountant in the various
classes that he attended, and was fond of writing essays on controverted
points of theology for which he got prizes, and great praise from his guardian
and mother. George was much behind him in scholastic acquirements, but
greatly his superior in personal prowess, form, feature, and all that constitutes
gentility in deportment and appearance. The laird had often manifested to
Miss Logan an earnest wish that the two young men should never meet, or at all
events that they should be as little conversant as possible ; and Miss Logan, who
was as much attached to George as if he had been her own son, took every pre-
caution, while he was a boy, that he should never meet with his brother ; but as
they advanced towards manhood, this became impracticable. The lady was re-
nioveil from her apartments in her husband's house to Glasgow, to her great
content ; and all to prevent the young laird being tainted with the com-

CONFESSIONS OF A FANATIC. 317

pany of her and her second son ; for the laird had felt the effects of the
principles they professed, and dreaded thtm more than persecution, fire, and
sword. During all the dreadful times that had overpast, though the laird had
been a moderate man, he had still leaned to the side of the kingly prerogative,
and had escaped confiscation and fines, without ever taking any active hand in
suppressing the Covenanters. But after experiencing a specimen of their tenets
and manner in his wife, from a secret favourer of them and their doctrines, he
grew alarmed at the prevalence of such stern and factious principles, now tl.at
there was no check nor restraint upon them ; and from that time he began to
set himself against them, joining with the Cavalier party of that day in all their
proceedings.

It so happened, that, under the influence of the Earls of Seafield and TuUi-
bardine, he was returned for a Member of Parliament in the famous session
that sat at Edinburgh, when the Duke of Queensbcrry was commissioner, and
in which party spirit ran to such an extremity. The young laird went with
his father to the court, and remained in town all the time that the session
lasted ; and as all interested people of both factions fiocked to the town at
that period, so the important Mr. VVringhim was there among the rest, during
the greater part of the time, blowing the coal of revolutionary principles with
all his might, in every society to which he could obtain admission. He was a
great favourite with some of the west country gentlemen of that faction, by
reason of his unbending impudence. No opposition could for a moment
cause him either to blush, or retract one item that he had advanced. There-
fore the Duke of Argyle and his friends made such use of him as sportsmen
often do of terriers, to start the game, and make a great yelping noise to let
them know whether the chase is proceeding. They often did this out of
sport, in order to tease their opponent ; for of all pesterers that ever fastened
on man, he was the most unsufferable ; knowing that his coat protected him
from manual chastisement, he spared no acrimony, and delighted in the
chagrin and anger of those with whom he contended. But he was some-
times likewise 0/ real use to the heads of the Presbyterian faction, and
therefore was admitted to their table, and of course conceived himself a
very great man.

His ward accompanied him ; and very shortly after their arrival in Edin-
burgh, Robert, for the first time, met with the young laird his brother, in a
match at tennis. The prowess and agility of the young squire drew forth the
loudest plaudits of approval from his associates, and his own exertion alone
carried the game every time on the one side, and that so far as all along to
count three for their one. The hero's name soon ran round the circle, and
when his brother Robert, who was an onlooker, learned who it was that was
gaining so much applause, he came and stood close beside him all the time
that the game lasted, always now and then putting in a cutting remark by way
of mocker>'.

George could not help perceiving him, not only on account of his impertinent
remarks, but he, moreover, stood so near him that he several times impeded
him in his rapid evolutions, and of course got himself shoved aside in no very
ceremonious way. Instead of making him keep his distance, these rude
shocks and pushes, accompanied sometimes with hasty curses, only made him
cling the closer to this king of the game. He seemed determined to maintain
his right to his place as an onlooker, as well as any of those engaged in the
game, and if they had tried him at an argument, he would have carried his
point : or perhaps he wished to quarrel with this spark of his jealousy and
aversion, and draw the attention of the gay crowd to himself by these means ;
for, like his guardian, he knew no other pleasure but what consisted in opposi-
tion. George took him for some impertinent student of divinity, lalhcr set
upon a joke than any thing else. He perceived a lad with black cluilics, and
a methodistical face, whose countenance and eye he disliked exceedingly,
several times in his way, and that was all the notice he took of him the first
time they two uieL But the next day, aiid every succeeding one, the sauie

3i8 THE E r TRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

devilijh-lookinj,' youth attended him as constantly as his shadow ; was always
in his way as with intention to impede him, and ever and anon his deep and
malignant eye lact those of his elder brother with a glance so fierce that it
sometimes startled him.

The very next time that George was engaged at tennis, he had not struck
the ball twice till the same intrusive being was again in his way. The party
played for considerable stakes that day, namely, a dinner and wine at the
Black Bull tavtin ; and George, as the hero and head of his party, was much
interested in its honour ; consequently, the sight of this moody and hellish-
looking student affected him in no very pleasant manner. " Pray, sir, be so
good a. keep without the range of the ball," said he.

" Is there any law or enactment that can compel me to do so?" said the
other, biting his lip with scorn.

" If there is not, they are here that shall compel you," returned George :
" so, friend, I rede you to be on your guard."

As he said this, a flush of anger glowed in his handsome f^ce, and flashed
from his sparkling blue eye ; but it was a stranger to both, and momently
took its departure. The black-coated youth set up his cap before, brought
his heavy brows over his deep dark eyes, put his hands in the pockets of his
black plush breeches, and stepped a little farther into the semi-circle,
immediately on his brother's right hand, than he had ever rentured to do be-
fore. There he set himself firm on his legs, and, with a face as demure as
death, seemed determined to keep his ground. He pretended to be following
the ball with his eyes ; but every moment they were glancing aside at George.
One of the competitors chanced to say rashly, in the moment of exultation,

" That's a d d fine blow, George ! " On which the intruder took up the

word, as characteristic of the competitors, and repeated it every stroke that
was given, making such a ludicrous use of it, that several of the onlookers
were compelled to laugh immoderately ; but the players were terribly nettled
at it, as he really contrived, by dint of sliding in some canonical terms, to
render the competitors and their game ridiculous.

But matters at length came to a crisis that put them beyond sport. George,
in flying backward to gain the point at which the ball was going to light, came
inadvertently so rudely in contact with this obstreperous interloper, that he
not only overthrew him, but also got a grievous fall over his legs ; and, as he
arose, the other made a spurn at him with his foot, which, if it had hit to its
aim, would undoubtedly have finished the course of the young laird of Dal-
castle and Balgrennan. George, being irritated beyond measure, as may well
be conceived, especially at the deadly stroke aimed at him, struck the assail-
ant with his racket, rather slightly, but so that his mouth and nose gushed out
blood ; and at the same time, he said, turning to his cronies, — " Does any of
you know who the infernal puppy is Y'

" Do you not know, sir,' said one of the onlookers, a stranger, " the gentle-
man is your own brother, sir — Mr. Robert Wringhim Colwan !"

" No, not Colwan, sir," said Robert, putting his hands in his pockets, and
setting himself still farther forward than before, — " not a Colwan, sir ; hence-
forth I disclaim the name."

" No, certainly not," repeated George ; " my mother's son you may be, —
but not a Cohvari ! There you are right." Then turning round to his in-
former, he said, " Mercy be about us, sir ! is this the crazy minister's son from
Glasgow ?"

This question was put in the irritation of the moment ; but it was too nide,
and too far out of place, and no one deigned any answer to it. He felt the re-
proof, and felt it deeply ; seeming anxious for some opportunity to make an
acknowledgment, or some reparation.

In the meantime, young Wringhim was an object to all of the uttermost dis-
gust. The blood flowing from his mouth and nose he took no pains to stem,
neither did he so much as wipe it nwav, so tha: it spread over all his cheeks,
and breuat, c\ en oli ai his toes, in that state did he lake up his station in the

CONFESSIONS OF A FANATIC. 319

middle of the competitors ; and he did not now keep his place, but ran about,
impeding every one who attempted to make at the ball. They loaded him
with execrations, but it availed nothing ; he seemed courting persecution and
buffetings, keeping steadfastly to his old joke of damnation, and marring the
game so completely, that, in spite of every effort on the part of the players, he
forced them to stop their game, and give it up. He was such a rueful-look-
ing object, covered with blood, that none of them had the heart to kick him,
although it appeared the only thing he wanted ; and as for George, he said
not another word to him, either in anger or reproof

When the game was fairly given up, and the party were washing their hands
in the stone fount, some of them besought Robert Wringhim to wash himself ;
but he mocked at them, and said he was much better as he was. George, at
length, came forward abashedly toward him, and said — " I have been greatly
to blame, Robert, and am very sorry for what I have done. But, in the first
instance, I erred through ignorance, not knowing you were my brother, which
you certainly are ; and, in the second, through a momentary irritation, for
which I am ashamed. I pray you, therefore to pardon me, and give me your
hand."

As he said this, he held out his hand towards his polluted brother ; but
the froward predestinarian took not his from his breeches' pocket, but lifting
his foot, he gave his brother's hand a kick. " I'll give you what will suit such
a hand better than mine," said he with a sneer. And then, turning lightly

about, he added, — " Are there to be no more of these d d fine blows,

gentlemen ? For shame to give up such a profitable and edifying game ! "

" This is too bad," said George. " But since it is thus, I have the less to
regret." And having made this general remark, he took no more note of the
uncouth aggressor. But the persecution of the latter terminated not on the
playground : he ranked among them, bloody and disgusting as he was, and,
keeping close by his brother's side, he marched along with the party all the
way to the Black BulL Before they got there, a great number of boys and
idle people had surrounded them, hooting and incommoding them exceedingly,
so that they were glad to get into the inn ; and the unaccountable monster
actually tried to get in alongst with them, to make one of the party at dinner.
But the innkeeper and his men, getting the hint, by force prevented him from
entering, although he attempted it again and again, both by telling lies and
offering a bribe. Finding he could not prevail, he set to exciting the mob at
the door to acts of violence, in which he h;id like to have succeeded. The
landlord had no otlier shift, at last, but to send privately for two officers, and
have him carried to the guardhouse ; and the hilarity and joy of the party of
young gentlemen, for the evening, was qui^e spoiled, by the inauspicious
termination of their game.

The Rev. Robert Wringhim was now sent for to release his beloved ward.
The messenger found him at table, with a number of the leaders of the Whig
faction, the Marquis of Annandale being in the chair ; and the prisoner's note
being produced, Wringhim read it aloud, accompanying it with some explan-
atory remarks. The circumstances of the case being thus magnified and dis-
torted, it excited the utmost abhorrence, both of the deed and the perpetrators,
among the assembled faction. They declaimed against the act as an un-
natural attempt on the character, and even the life, of an unfortunate brother,
who had been expelled from his father's house. And. as party spirit was the
order of the day, an attempt was made to lay the burden of it to that account.
In short, the young culprit got some of the best blood of the land to enter as
his securities, and was set at liberty. But when Wringhim perceived the
plight that he was in, he took hiin, as he was, and presented him to his
honourable patrons. This raised the indignation against the young laird and
his associates a thousand fold, whicn actually roused the party to tcmpoiary
madness. They were, perhaps, a little excited by the wine and spirits they
had swallowed ; else a cai.ual <]uarrel between two young men, at tennis,
could not have driven them to such extremes. But certain it is, that IruDi

320 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

one at hist arising to address the party on the atrocity of ihc oU'ence, both in
a moral and political point of view, on a sudden there were six on their feet,
at the same time, expatiating on it ; and, in a very short time thereafter, every
one in the room was up, talking with the utmost vociferation, all on the same
subject, and all taking the same side in the debate.

In the midst of this confusion, some one or other issued from the house, which
was at the back of the Canongate, calling out, — "A plot, a plot ! Treason,
treason ! Down with tlie bloody incendiaries at the Black Bull ! "

The concourse of people that were assembled in Edinburgh at that time
was prodigious ; and as they were all actuated by political motives, they wanted
only a ready-blown coal to set the mountain on tire. The evening being fine,
and the streets thronged, the cry ran from muuth to mouth through the whole
city. More than that, the mob that had of late been gathered to the
door of the Black Bull, had, by degrees, dispersed ; but, they being young
men, and idle vagrants, they had only spread themselves over the rest of the
street to lounge in search of farther amusement : consec|uently, a word was
sufficient to send them back to their late rendezvous, where they had previously
witnessed something they did not much approve of.

The master of the tavern was astonished at seeing the mob again assembl-
ing ; and that with such hurry and noise. But his inmates being all of the
highest respectability, he judged himself sure of protection, or, at least, of in-
demnity, lie had two large parties in his house at the time ; the largest of
which was of the Revolutionist faction. The other consisted of our young tennis-
players and their associates, who were all of the Jacobite order ; or, at all
events, leaned to the Episcopal side. The largest party were in a front room,
and the attack of the mob fell first on their windows, though rather with fear
and caution. Jingle went one pane ; then a loud hurra ; and that again was
followed by a number of voices, endeavouring to restrain the indignation from
venting itself in destroying the windows and to turn it on the inmates. The
Whigs, calling the landlord, inquired what the assault meant : he cunningly
answered, that he suspected it was some of the youths of the Cavalier, or High
Church party, exciting the mob against them. The party consisted mostly of
young gentlemen, by that time in a key to engage in any row ; and, at all events,
to suffer nothing from the other party, against whom their passions were
mightily inflamed.

The landlord, therefore, had no sooner given them the spirit-rousing intel-
ligence, than every one, as by instinct, swore his own natural oath, and
grasped his own natural weapon. A few of those of the highest rank were
armed with swords, which they boldly drew ; those of the subordinate orders
immediately flew to such weapons as the room, kitchen, and scullery afforded ;
— such as tongs, poker:;, spits, racks, and shovels ; and breathing vengeance
on the prelatic party, the children of Antichrist and the heirs of d — n— t— n !
the barterers of the liberties of their country, and betrayers of the most sacred
trust, — thus elevated, and thus armed, in the cause of right, justice, and
hberty, our heroes rushed to the street, and attacked the mob with such
violence, that they broke the mass in a moment, and dispersed their thousands
like chaff before the wind. The other party of young Jacobites, who sat in a
room farther from the front, and were those against whom the fury of the
mob was meant to have been directed, knew nothing of this second uproar,
till the noise of the sally made by the Whigs assailed their ears ; being then
informed that the mob had attacked the bouse on account of the treatment
they themselves had given to a young gentleman of the adverse faction, and
that another jovial party bad issued from the house in their defence, and was
now engaged in an unequal combat, the sparks likewise flew to the field to
back their defenders with all their prowess, without troubling their heads
about who they were.

A mob is like a spring tide in an eastern stoim, that retires only to return
with more overwhelming fury. The crowd was taken by surprise, when such
A strong and well-armed party issued from the house with so great fury, laying

CONFESSIONS OF A FANATIC. 321

all prostrate that came in their way. Those who were next to the door, and
were, of course, the first whom the imminent dan;;er assailed, rushed back-
ward among the crowd with their whole force. The Black Bull standing in
a small square half way between the High Street and the Cowgate, and the
entrance to it being by two closes, into these the pressure outward was
simultaneous, and thousands were moved to an involuntary flight, they knew
not why.

But the High Street of Edinburgh, which they soon reached, is a dangerous
place in which to make an open attack upon a mob. And it appears that
the entrances to the tavern had been somewhere near to the Cross, on tha
south side of the street ; for the crowd fled with great expedition, both to the
east and west, and the conquerors, separating themselves as chance directed,
pursued impetuously, wounding and maiming as they flew. But, it so chanced,
that before either of the wings had followed the flying squadrons of their
enemies for the space of a hundred yards each way, there was not an enemy
to pursue ! the multitude had vanished like so many thousands of phantoms !
What could our heroes do ? Why, they faced about to return toward their
citadel, the Black Bull. But that feat was not so easily, nor so readily accom-
plished, as they divined. The unnumbered alleys on each side of the street
had swallowed up the multitude in a few seconds ; but from these they were
busy reconnoitring ; and, perceiving the deficiency in the number of their
assailants, the rush from both sides of the street was as rapid, and as wonder-
ful, as the disappearance of the crowd had been a few minutes before. Each
close vomited out its levies, and these better armed with missiles than when
they sought it for a temporary retreat. Woe then to our two columns of
victorious Whigs ! The mob actually closed around them as they would
have swallowed them up ; and, in the mean while, shower after shower of
the most abominable weapons of offence were rained in upon them. If the
gentlemen were irritated before, this inflamed them still farther ; but their
danger was now so apparent, they could not shut their eyes on it, therefore,
both parties, as if actuated by the same spirit, made a desperate effort to join,
and the greater part effected it ; but some were knocked down, and others
were separated from their friends, and blithe to become silent members of
the mob.

The battle now raged immediately in front of the closes leading to the
Black Bull ; the small body of Whig gentlemen was hardly bested, and it is
likely would have been overcome and trampled down every man, had they
not been then and there joined by the young Cavaliers ; who, fresh to arms,
broke from the wynd, opened the head of the passage, laid about them man-
fully, and thus kept up the spirits of the exasperated Whigs, who were the
men in fact that wrought the most deray among the populace.

The town-guard was now on the alert ; and two companies of the Cameronian
regiment, with the Hon. Captain Douglas, rushed down from the Castle to
the scene of action ; but, for all the noise and hubbub that these caused in
the street, the combat had become so close and inveterate, that numbers of
both sides were taken prisoners fighting hand to hand, and could scarcely be
separated when the guardsmen and soldiers had them by the necks.

Great was the alarm and confusion that night in Edinburgh ; for every one
concluded that it was a party scuffle, and, the two parties being so equal in
power, the most serious consequences were anticipated. The agitation was
so prevailing, that every party in the town, great and small, was broken up ;
and the lord-commissioner thought proper to go to the council-chamber him-
self, even at that late hour, accompanied by the bheriffs of Edinburgh and
Linlithgow, with sundry noblemen besides, in order to learn something of the
origin of the affray.

Eor a long time the court was completely puzzled. Every gentleman

brought in exclaimed against the treatment he had received, in most bitter

terms, blaming a mob set on him and his friends by the adverse party ; and

matters looked extremely ill, until at length they began to perceive that they

L -21

322 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

were examining gentlemen of both parties, and that they had been doing so
from the beginning, almost alternately, so equally had the prisoners been
taken from both parties. Finally, it turned out, that a few gentlemen, two-
thirds of whom were strenuous Whigs themselves, had joined in mauling the
whole Whig population of Edinburgh. The investigation disclosed nothing
the effect of which was not ludicrous ; and the Duke of (2ueensberry, whose
aim was at that time to conciliate the two factions, tried all that he could to
turn the whole fracas into a joke — an unlucky frolic, where no ill was meant
on either side, and which yet had been productive of a great deal.

The greater part of the people went home satisfied ; but not so the Rev.
Robert Wringhim. He did all that he could to inilame both judges and
populace against the young Cavaliers, especially against the young Laird of
Dalcastle, whom he represented as an incendiary, set on by an unnatural
parent to slander his mother, and make away with a hapless and only
brother ; and, in truth, that declaimer against all human merit had that sort
of powerful, homely, and bitter eloquence, which seldom missed affecting his
hearers ; the consequence at that time was, that he made the unfortunate
affair between the two brothers appear in extremely bad colours, and the
populace retired to their homes impressed with no very favourable opinion of
either the Laird of Dalcastle or his son George, neither of whom were there
present to speak for themselves.

As for Wringhim himself, he went home to his lodgings, filled with gall
and with spite against the yoimg laird, whom he was niatle to believe the
aggressor, and that intentionally. But most of all was he filled with indigna-
tion against the father, whom he held in abhorrence at all times, and blamed
solely for this unmannerly attack made on his favourite ward, namesake, and
adopted son ; and for the public imputation of a crime to his own reverence,
in calling the lad his son, and thus charging him with a sin against which he
was well known to have levelled all the arrows of church censure with
unsparing might.

But, filled as his heart was with some portion of these bad feelings, to
which all llesh is subject, he kept, nevertheless, the fear of the Lord always
before his eyes so far as never to omit any of the external duties of religion,
and farther than that, man hath no power to pry. He lodged with the family
of a Mr. Miller, whose lady was originally from Glasgow, and had been a
hearer, and, of course, a great admirer of Mr. Wringhim. In that family he
made public worship every evening ; and that night, in his petitions at a
throne of grace, he prayed for so many vials of wrath to be poured on the head
of some particular sinner, that the hearers trembled, and stopped their ears.
But that he might not proceed with so violent a measure, amounting to ex-
communication, without due scripture warrant, he began the exercise of the
evening by singing the following verses, which it is a pity should ever have been
admitted into a Christian psalmody, being so adverse to all its mild and
benevolent principles : —

Set thou the wicked over him,
Attd upon his right hand
Give thou his greatest enemy,

Even Satan, leave to stand.
And when by thee he shall be judged,

Let him remembered be ;
And let his prayer be turned to sin.

When he shall call on thee.
Few be his days ; and in his room

His charge another take ;
His children let be fatherless ;

His wife a widow make :
Let God his father's wickedness

Still to remembrance call ;

CONFESSIONS OF A FANATIC. 323

And never let his mother's sin

iie blotted out at all.
As he in cursing pleasure took,

So let it to him fall ;
As he delighted not to bless,

So bless him not at all.
As cursing he like clothes puts on,

Into his bowels so,
Like water, and into his bones

Like oil down let it go.

Young Wringhim only knew the full purport of this spiritual song : and
went to his bed better satisfied than ever, that his father and brother were
castaways, reprobates, aliens from the chureh and the true faith, and cursed
in time and eternity.

The next day George and his companions met as usual, — all who were not
seriously wounded of them. But as they strolled about the city, the rancorous
eye and the finger of scorn were pointed against them. None of them was
at first aware of the reason ; but it threw a damp over their spirits and enjoy-
ments, which they could not master. They went to take a forenoon game at
their old play of tennis, not on a match, but by way of improving themselves;
but they had not well taken their places till young Wringhim appeared in his
old station, at his brother's right hand, with looks more demure and deter-
mined than ever. His lips were primed so close that his mouth was hardly
discernable, and his dark deep eye flashed gleams of holy indignation on the
godless set, but particularly on his brother. His presence acted as a mildew on
all social intercourse or enjoyment ; the game was marred, and ended ere
it was well begun. There were whisperings apart — the party separated ; and,
in order to shake off the blighting influence of this dogged persecutor, they
entered sundry houses of their acquaintances, with an understanding that they
were to meet on the Links for a game at cricket.

They did so ; and, stripping off part of their clothes, they began that
violent and spirited game. They had not played five minutes, till Wringhim
was stalking in the midst of them, and totally impeding the play. A cry
arose from all corners of" O, this will never do. Kick him out of the play-
ground ! Knock down the scoundrel ; or bind him, and let him lie in
peace."

" By no means," cried George : " it is evident he wants nothing else. Pray
do not humour him so much as to touch him with either foot or finger."
Then turning to a friend, he said in a whisper, " Speak to him, Gordon ; he
surely will not refuse to let us have the ground to ourselves, if you request it
of him."

Gordon went up to him, and requested of him civilly, but ardently, "to
retire to a certain distance, else none of them could or would be answerable,
however sore he might be hurt."

He turned disdainfully on his heel, uttered a kind of pulpit hem ! and then
added, " I will take my chance of that ; hurt me, any of you, at your peril."

The young gentlemen smiled, through spite and disdain of the dogged
animal. Gordon followed him up, and tried to remonstrate with him ; but he
let him know that " it was his pleasure to be there at that time ; and, unless
he could demonstrate to him what superior right he and his party had to that
ground, in preference to him, and to the exclusion of all others, he was deter-
mined to assert his right, and the rights of his fellow-citizens, by keeping pos-
session of whatsover part of that common field he chose."

" You are no gentleman, sir," said Gordon.

"Are you one, sir?" said the other.

" Yes, sir, I will let you know that I am, by G — !"

"Then, thanks be to Him whose name you have jirofaned, T am none. If
one of the party be a gentleman, / do hope in Uod 1 am not / "

324 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

It was now apparent to them all that he was courting obloquy and manual
chastisement from their hands, if by any means he could provoke them to the
deed ; and, apprehensive that he had some sinister and deep-laid design in
hunting after such a sinL;ular favour, they wisely restrained one another from
inflicting the punishment that each of them yearned to bestow, personally, and
which he so well deserved.

But the unpopularity of the younger George Colwan could no longer be
concealed froni his associates. It was manifested wherever the populace
were assembled ; and his young and intimate friend, Adam Gordon, was
obliged to warn him of the circumstance, that be might not be surprised at
the gentlemen of their acquaintance withdrawing themselves from his society,
as they could not be seen with him without being insulted. George thanked
him ; and it was agreed between them, that the former should keep himself
retired during the daytime while he remained in Edinburgh, and that at night
they should always meet together, along with such of their companions as
were disengaged.

George found it every day more and more necessary to adhere to this system
of seclusion ; for it was not alone the hisses of the boys and populace that pur-
sued him, — a fiend of more malignant aspect was ever at his elbow in the form
of his brother. To whatever place of amusement he betook himself, and how-
ever well he concealed his intentions of going there from all flesh living, there
was his brother Wringhim also, and always within a few yards of him,
generally about the same distance, and ever and anon darting looks at him
that chilled his very soul. They were looks that cannot be described ; but
they were felt piercing to the bosom's deepest core. They affected even the
onlookers in a very particular manner, for all whose eyes caught a glimpse of
these hideous glances followed them to the object toward which they were
darted ; the gentlemanly and mild demeanour of that object generally calmed
their startled apprehensions ; for no one ever yet noted the glances of the
young man's eye in the black coat, at the face of his brother who did not at
first manifest strong symptoms of alarm.

George became utterly confounded ; not only at the import of this persecu-
tion, but how in the world it came to pass that this unaccountable being knew
all his motions, and every intention of his heart, as it were intuitively. On
consulting his own previous feelings and resolutions, he found that the circum-
stances of his going to such and such a place were often the most casual in-
cidents in nature — the caprice of a moment had carried him there, and yet he
had never sat or stood many minutes till there was the self-same being, always
in the same position with regard to himself, as regularly as the shadow is cast
from the substance, or the ray of light from the opposing denser medium.

For instance, he remembered one day of setting out with the intention of
going to attend divine worship in the High Church, and when within a short
space of its door, he was overtaken by young Kilpatrick of Closeburn, who
was bound to the Grey Friars to see his sweetheart, as he said ; " And if you
will go with me, Colwan," said he, " I will let you see her too, and then you will
be just as far forward as I am."

George assented at once, and went ; and after taking his seat, he leaned his
head forward on the pew to repeat over to himself a short ejaculatory prayer,
as had always been his custom on entering the house of God. When he had
done, he lifted his eyes naturally toward that point on his right hand where
the fierce apparition of his brother had been wont to meet his view : there he
was, in the same habit, form, demeanour, and precise point of distance, as
usual ! George again laid down his head, and his mind was so astounded,
that he had nearly fallen into a swoon. He tried shortly after to muster up
courage to look at the speaker, at the congregation, and at Capt. Kilpatrick's
sweetheart in particular ; but the fiendish glances of the young man in the
black clothes were too appaling to be withstood — his eye caught them whether
he was looking that way or not ; at length his courage was fairly mastered,
and he was obliged to look down during the remainder of the service.

CONFESSIONS OF A FANATIC. 325

By night or by day it was the same, In the gallery of the Parliament
House, in the boxes of the play-house, in the church, in the assembly, in the
streets, suburbs, and the fields ; and every day, and every hour, from the first
rencounter of the two, the attendance became more and more constant, more
inexplicable, and altogether more alarming and insufferable, until at last
George was fairly driven from society, and forced to spend his days in his
own and his father's lodgings with closed doors. Even there, he was con-
stantly harassed with the idea, that the next time he lifted his eyes, he would
to a certainty see that face, the most repulsive to all his feelings of aught the
earth contained. The attendance of that brother was now become like the
attendance of a demon on some devoted being that had sold himself to de-
struction ; his approaches as undiscerned, and his looks as fraught with
hideous malignity. It was seldom that he saw him either following him in the
streets, or entering any house or church after him ; he only appeared in his
place, George wist not how, or whence ; and,having sped so ill in his first friendly
approaches, he had never spoken to his equivocal attendant a second time.

It came at length into George's head, as he was pondering by himself on
the circumstances of this extraordinary attendance, that perhaps his brother
had relented, and, though of so sullen and unaccommodating a temper that
he would not acknowledge it, or beg a reconciliation, it might be for that
ver\' purpose that he followed his steps night and day in that extraordinary
manner. " I cannot for my life see for what other purpose it can be,"
thought he. " He never offers to attempt my life ; nor dares he, if he had the
inclination ; therefore, although his manner is peculiarly repulsive to me, I
shall not have my mind burdened with the reflection, that my own mother's
son yearned for a reconciliation with me, and was repulsed by my haughty
and insolent behaviour. The next time he comes to my hand I am resolved
that I will accost him as one brother ought to address another, whatever it
may cost me ; and, if I am still flouted with disdain, then shall the blame rest
with him."

After this generous resolution, it was a good while before his gratuitous
attendant appeared at his side again ; and George began to think that his
visits were discontinued. The hope was a relief that could not be calculated;
but still George had a feeling that it was too supreme to last. His enemy had
been too pertinacious to abandon his design, whatever it was. He, however,
began to indulge in a little more liberty, and for several days he enjoyed it
with impunity.

George was, from infancy, of a stirring active disposition, and could not
endure confinement; and having been of late much restrained in his youthful
exercises by this singular persecutor, he grew uneasy under such restraint,
and, one morning, chancing to awaken very early, he arose to make an excur-
sion to the top of Arthur's Seat, to breathe the breeze of the dawning, and see
the sun arise out of the eastern ocean. The morning was calm and serene ;
and as he walked down the south back of the Canongate, toward the Palace,
the haze was so close around him that he could not sec the houses on the
opposite side of the way. As he passed the lord-commissioner's house, the
guards were in atendance, who cautioned him not to go by the Palace, as
all the gates would be shut and guarded for an hour to come, on which he
went by the back of St. Anthony's gardens, and found his way into that little
romantic glade adjoining to the Saint's chapel and well. He was still involved
in a blue haze, like a dense smoke, but yet in the midst of it the respiration
was the most refreshing and delicious. The grass and the flowers were laden
with dew ; and, orv taking off his hat to wipe his forehead, he perceived that
the black glossy fur of which his chaperon was wrought, w;i-> all covered with
a tissue of the most delicate silver — a fairy web, composed of little spheres, so
minute that no eye could discern any one of them ; yet there they were
shining in lovely millions. Afraid of defacing so beautiful anil so delicate a
garnish, he replaced his hat with the greatest caution, and went on his way
light of heart.

326 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

As he approached the swire at the head of the dell, — that little delightful
verge from which in one moment the eastern limits and shores of Lothian
arise on the view, — as he approached it, I say, and a little space from the
height, he beheld, to his astonishment, a bright halo in the cloud of haze, that
rose in a semicircle over his head like a pale rainbow. He was struck motion-
less at the view of the lovely vision ; for it so chanced that he had never seen
the same appearance before, though common at early morn. But he soon
perceived the cause of the phenomenon, and that it proceeded from the rays of
the sun from a pure unclouded morning sky striking upon this dense vapour
which refracted them. But the better all the works of nature are understood,
the more they will be ever admired. That was a scene that would have en-
tranced the man of science with delight, but which the uninitiated and sordid
man would have regarded less than the mole rearing up his hill in silence and
in darkness.

George did admire this halo of glory, which still grew wider, and less de-
fined, as he approached the surface of the cloud. But to his utter amazement
and supreme delight, he found, on reaching the top of Arthur's Seat, that this
sublunary rainbow, this terrestrial glory, was spread in its most vivid hues
beneath his feet. Still he could not perceive the body of the sun, although
the light behind him was dazzling ; but the cloud of haze lying dense in that
deep dell that separates the hill from the rocks of Salisbury, and the dull
shadow of the hill mingling with that cloud, made the dell a pit of darkness.
On that shadowy cloud was the lovely rainbow formed, spreading itself on a
horizontal plain, and having a slight and brilliant shade of all the colours of
the heavenly bow, but all of them paler and less defined. But this terrestrial
phenomenon of the early morn cannot be better delineated than by the name
given of it by the shepherd boys, " The little wee ghost of the rainbow."

Such was the description of the morning, and the wild shades of the hill
that George gave to his father and Mr. Adam Gordon that same day on which
he had witnessed them ; and it is necessary that the reader should compre-
hend something of their nature to understand what follows.

He seated himself on the pinnacle of the rocky precipice, a little within
the top of the hill to the westward, and, with a light and buoyant heart,
viewed the beauties of the morning, and inhaled its salubrious breeze.
" Here," thought he, " I can converse with nature without disturbance,
and without being intruded on by any appalling or obnoxious visitor."
The idea of his brother's dark and malevolent looks coming at that
moment across his mind, he turned his eyes instinctively to the right,
to the point where that unwelcome guest was wont to make his appearance.
Gracious Heaven ! What an apparition was there presented to his view !
He saw, delineated in the cloud, the shoulders, arms, and features of a
human being of the most dreadful aspect. The face was the face of his
brother, but dilated to twenty times the natural size. Its dark eyes
gleamed on him through the mist, while every furrow of its hideous brow
frowned deep as the ravines on the brow of the hill. George started, and
his hair stood up in bristles as he gazed on this horrible monster. He
saw every feature, and every line of the face, distinctly, as it gazed on him
with an intensity that was hardly brookable. Its eyes were fixed on him, in
the same manner as those of some carnivorous animal fixed on its prey ; and
yet there was fear and trembling in these unearthly features, as plainly
depicted as murderous malice. The giant apparition seemed sometimes to
be cowering down as in terror, so that nothing but its brow and eyes were
seen ; still these never turned one moment from their object — again it rose
imperceptibly up, and began to approach with great caution ; and as it neared,
the dimensions of its form lessened, still continuing, however, far above the
natural size.

George conceived it to be a spirit. He could conceive it to be nothing
else ; and he took it for some horrid demon by which he was haunted, that
had assumed the features of his brother in every lineament, but in taking on

CONFESSIONS OF A FANATIC. 327

itself the human form, had miscalculated dreadfully on the size, and presented
itself thus to him in a blown-up, dilated frame of embodied air, exhaled from
the caverns of death or the regions of devouring fire. He was further con-
firmed in the belief that it was a malignant spirit on perceiving that it
approached him across the front of a precipice, where there was not a footing
for thing of mortal frame. Still, what with terror and astonishment, he con-
tinued riveted to the spot, till it approached, as he deemed, to within two
yards of him ; and then, perceiving that it was setting itself to make a violent
spring on him, he started to his feet and fled distractedly in the opposite
direction, keeping his eye cast behind him lest he should have been seized in
that dangerous place. But the very first bolt that he made in his flight he
came in contact with a real body of flesh and blood, and that with such
violence that both went down among some scragged rocks, and George rolled
over the other. The being called out " Murder ;" and, rising, fled precipitately.
George then perceived that it was his brother ; and, being confounded between
the shadow and the substance, he knew not what he was doing or what he
had done ; and there being only one natural way of retreat from the brink of
the rock, he likewise arose and pursued the affrighted culprit with all his
speed towards the top of the hill. Wringhim was braying out, " Murder !
murder !" at which George being disgusted, and his spirits all in a ferment
from some hurried idea of intended hanii, the moment he came up with the
craven he seized him rudely by the shoulder, and clapped his hand on his
mouth. " Murder, you beast !" said he ; " what do you mean by roaring out
murder in that way .'' Who is murdering you, or offering to murder you ?"

Wringham forced his mouth from under his brother's hand, and roared with
redoubled energy, "Eh! Egh ! murder! murder!" &c. George had felt
resolute to put down this shocking alarm, lest some one might hear it and fly
to the spot, or draw inferences widely different from the truth ; and perceiving
the terror of Wringhim to be so great that expostulation was vain, he seized
him by the mouth and nose with his left hand so strenuously that he sunk his
fingers into his cheeks. But the poltroon still attempting to bray out, George
gave him such a stunning blow with his fist on the left temple that he
crumbled, as it were to the ground, but more from the effects of terror than
those of the blow. His nose, however, again gushed out blood, a system of
defence which seemed as natural to him as that resorted to by the race of
stinkards. He then raised himself on his knees and hams, and raising up his
ghastly face, while the blood streamed over both ears, he besought his life of
his brother in the most abject whining manner, gaping and blubbering most
piteously.

" Tell me, then, sir," said George, resolved to make the most of the wretch's
terror — " tell me for what purpose it is that you thus haunt my steps. Tell
me plainly, and instantly, else 1 will throw you from the verge of that
precipice."

" Oh, I will never do it again ! I will never do it again ! Spare my life,
dear, good brother ! Spare my life I Sure 1 never did you any hurt ?''

" Swear to me, then, that you will never henceforth follow after me, to
torment me with your threatening looks ; swear that you will never again
come into my presence without being invited. Will you take an oath to this
effect?"

" O yes ! I will, I will ! "

" But this is not all : you must tell me for what purpose you sought me out
here this morning ?"

" Oh, brother ! for nothing but your good. I had nothing at heart but
your unspeakable profit, and great and endless good."

" So, then, you indeed knew that I was here .'"'

" I was told so by a friend, but I did not believe him ; a -a— at least I did
not know it was true till I saw you."

" Tell me this one thing, then, Robert, and all shall be forgotten and for-
given,— Who was that friend ?''

328 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES,

" You do not know him."

" How then does he know me ?"

•* I cannot tell."

" Was he here present with jou to-day ?"

" \'es ; he was not far distant. He came to this hill with me.*

" Where, then, is he now ?"

" I cannot tell."

" Then, wretch, confess that the devil was that friend who told you 1 was
here, and who came here with you .'' None else could possibly know of my
being here."

" Ah ! how little you know of him ! Would you argue that there is neither
man nor spirit endowed with so much foresight as to deduce natural conclu-
sions from previous actions and incidents but the devil ? Be assured of this,
however, that I had no aim in seeking you but your good !"

" Well, Robert, I will believe it. I am disposed to be hasty and passionate :
it is a fault in my nature ; but I never meant, or wished you evil ; and
God is my witness that I would as soon stretch out my hand ;.o my own life,

or to my father's, as to yours." At these words, Wringhim uttered a hollow

exulting laugh, put his hands in his pockets, and withdrew a space to his
accustomed distance. George continued : " And now, once for all, I request
that we may exchange forgiveness, and that we may part and remain
friends."

" Would such a thing be expedient, think you ? Or consistent with the
glory of God ? I doubt it."

" I can think of nothing that would be more so. Is it not consistent with
every precept of the Gospel ? Come, brother, say that our reconciliation is
complete."

" Oh yes, certainly ! I tell you, brother, according to the flesh : it is just
as complete as the lark's is with the adder ; no more so, nor ever can. Re-
conciled, forsooth ! To what would I be reconciled ?"

As he said this, he strode indignantly away. From the moment that he
heard his life was safe, he assumed his former insolence and revengeful
looks — and never were they more dreadful than on parting with his brother
that morning on the top of the hill. " Well, go thy ways," said George ;
" some would despise, but I pity thee. If thou art not a limb of Satan, I never
saw one."

The sun had now dispelled the vapours ; and the morning being lovely
beyond description, George sat himself down on the top of the hill, and
pondered deeply on the unaccountable incident that had befallen to him that
morning. He could in nowise comprehend it ; but, taking it with other
previous circumstances, he could not get quit of a conviction that he was
haunted by some evil genius in the shape of his brother, as well as by that
dark and mysterious wretch himself In no other way could he account for
the apparition he saw that morning on the face of the rock, nor for several
sudden appearances of the same being, in places where there was no possi-
bility of any foreknowledge that he himself was to be there, and as little that
the same being, if he were flesh and blood like other men, could always
start up in the same position with regard to him. He determined, therefore,
on reaching home, to relate all that had happened, from beginning to end, to
his father, asking his counsel and his assistance, although he knew full well
that his father was not the fittest man in the world to solve such a problem.
He was now involved in party politics, over head and ears ; and, more-
over, he could never hear the names of either of the Wringhims mentioned
without getting into a quandary of disgust and anger ; and all that he would
deign to say of them was, to call them by all the opprobrious names he could
invent.

It turned out as the young man from the first suggested : old Dalcastle
would listen to nothing concerning them with any patience. George com-
plained that his brother harassed him with his presence at all times and

CONFESSIONS OF A FANATIC. 329

in all places. Old Dal asked why he did not kick the dog out of his presence,
whenever he felt him disagreeable ? George said, he seemed to have some
demon for a familiar. Dal answered that, he did not wonder a bit at that,
for the young spark was the third in a direct line who had all been children
of adultery ; and it was well known that all surh were born half deils them-
selves, and nothing was more likely than that they should hold intercourse with
their fellows. In the same style did he sympathize with all his son's late
sufferings and perplexities.

In Mr. Adam Gordon, however, George found a friend who entered into all
his feelings, and had seen and knew even,-thing about the matter. He tried
to convince him, that at all events there could be nothing supernatural in the
circumstances ; and that the vision he had seen on the rock, among the thick
mist, was the shadow of his brother approaching behind him. George could
not swallow this, for he had seen his own shadow on the cloud, and, instead
of approaching to aught like his own figure, he perceived nothing but a halo
of glory round a point of the cloud, that was whiter and purer than the rest.
Gordon said, if he would go with him to a mountain of his father's, which he
named, in Aberdeenshire, he would show him a giant spirit of the same
dimensions, any morning at the rising of the sun, provided he shone on that
spot. This statement excited George's curiosity exceedingly ; and, being
disgusted with some things about Edinburgh, and glad to get out of the way,
he consented to go with Gordon to the Highlands for a space. The day
was accordingly set for their departure, the old laird's assent obtained ;
and the two young sparks parted in a state of great impatience for their
excursion.

One of them found out another engagement, however, the instant after this
last was determined on. Young Wringhim went off the hill that morning,
and home to his upright guardian again, without washing the blood from his
face and neck ; and there he told a most woful story indeed : how he had
gone out to take a morning's walk on the hill, where he had encountered with
his reprobate brother among the mist, who had knocked him down and very
near murdered him ; threatening dreadfully, and with horrid oaths, to throw
him from the top of the cliff.

The wrath of the great divine was kindled beyond measure. He cursed
the aggressor in the name of the Most High ; and bound himself, by an oath,
to cause that wicked one's transgressions to return upon his own head seven-
fold. But before he engaged farther in the business of vengeance, he kneeled
with his adopted son, and committed the whole cause unto the Lord, whom
he addressed as one coming breathing burning coals of juniper, and casting
his lightnings before him, to destroy and root out all who had moved hand
or tongue against the children of the promise. Thus did he arise confirmed,
and go forth to certain conquest.

We cannot enter into the detail of the events that now occurred, without
lorestalling a part of the narrative of one who knew all the circumstances —
was deeply interested in them, and whose relation is of higher value than
anything that can be retailed out of the stores of tradition and old registers ;
but, his narrative being different from these, it was judged expedient to give
the account as thus publicly handed down to us. Sufllce it, that, before
evening, George was apprehended, and lodged in jail, on a criminal charge
of an assault and battery, to the shedding of blood, with the intent of com-
mitting fratricide. Then was the old laird in great consternation, and
blamed himself for treating the thing so lightly, which seemed to have been
gone about, from the beginning, so systematically, and with an intent which
the villains were now going to realize, namely, to get the young laird dis-
posed of, and then his brother, in spite of the old gentleman's teeth, would be
laird himself.

Old Dal now set his whole interest to work among the noblemen and
lawyers of his party. His son's case looked ex' ccdingly ill, owing to the
former assault before witnesses, and the unbecoming expressions made use

330 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

of by him on that occasion, as well as from the present assault, which
George did not deny, and for which no moving cause or motive could be
made to appear.

On his first declaration before the sheriff, matters looked no better : but
then the sheriff was a Whig. It is well known how differently the people of
the present day, in Scotland, view the cases of their own party-men, and
those of opposite political principles. But this day is nothing to that in such
matters, although they are still sometimes barefaced enough. It appeared,
from all the witnesses in the first case, that the complainant was the first
aggressor — that he refused to stand out of the way, though apprised of his
danger ; and when his brother came against him inadvertently, he had aimed
a blow at him with his foot, which, if it had taken effect, would have killed
him. But as to the story of the apparition in fair daylight — the flying from
the face of it — the running foul of his brother — pursuing him, and knocking
him down, why the judge smiled at the relation ; and saying, " It was a very
extraordinary story, ' he remanded George to prison, leaving the matter to the
High Court of Justiciary.

When the case came before that court, matters took a different turn. The
constant and sullen attendance of the one brother upon the other excited
suspicions ; and these were in some manner confirmed, when the guards at
Queensberry-house deponed, that the prisoner went by them on his way to
the hill that morning, about twenty minutes before the complainant, and
when the latter passed, he asked if such a young man had passed before him,
describing the prisoner's appearance to them; and that, on being answered in
the affirmative, he mended his pace and fell a-running.

The Lord Justice, on hearing this, asked the prisoner if he had any sus-
picions that his brother had a design on his life.

He answered, that all along, from the time of their first unfortunate meet-
ing, his brother had dogged his steps so constantly, and so unaccountably,
that he was convinced it was with some intent out of the ordinary course
of events ; and that if, as his lordship supposed, it was indeed his shadow
that he had seen approaching him through the mist, then, from the cowering
and cautious manner that it advanced, there was too little doubt that
his brother's design had been to push him headlong from the cliff that
morning.

A conversation then took place between the Judge and the Lord-Advocate ;
and, in the meantime, a bustle was seen in the hall ; on which the doors were
ordered to be guarded, — and, behold, the precious Mr. R. W^ringhim was
taken into custody, trying to make his escape out of court. Finally it turned
out, that George was honourably acquitted, and young Wringhim bound over
to keep the peace with heavy penalties and securities.

That was a day of high exultation to George and his youthful associates,
all of whom abhorred Wringhim ; and the evening being spent in great glee,
it was agreed between Mr. Adam Gordon and George that their visit to the
Highlands, though thus long delayed, was not to be abandoned ; and though
they had, through the machinations of an incendiary, lost the season of
delight, they would still find plenty of sport in deer-shooting. Accordingly,
the day was set a second time for their departure ; and, on the day preceding
tli.it, all the party were invited by George to dine with him once more at the
sign of the Black Bull of Norway. Every one promised to attend, anticipat-
ing nothing but festivity and joy. Alas, wh.it short-sighted improvident
creatures we are, all of us ; and how often does the evening cup of joy lead to
sorrow in the morning !

The day arrived — the party of young noblemen and gentlemen met, and
were as happy and jovial as men could be. George was never seen so bril-
liant, or so full of spirits ; and exulting to see so many gallant young chiefs
and gentlemen about him, who all gloried in the same principles of loyalty,
(perhaps this word should have been written disloyalty^ he made speeches,
gave toasts, and sung songs, all leaning slily to the same side, until a very

CONFESSIONS OF A FANATIC. 331

late hour. By that time he had pushed the bottle so long and so freely, that
its fumes had taken possession of every brain to such a degree, that they held
Dame Reason rather at the staff's end, overbearing all her counsels and ex-
postulations ; and it was imprudently pruposed by a wild inebriated spark,
and carried by a majority of voices, that the whole party should adjourn to
another tavern for the remainder of the night.

They did so ; and it appears from what follows, that the house to which
they retired, must have been somewhere on the opposite side of the street to
the Black I3ull Inn, a little farther to the eastward. They had not been an
hour in that house, till some altercation chanced to arise between George
Colwan and a Mr. Drummond, the younger son of a nobleman of distinction.
It was perfectly casual, and no one thenceforward, to this day, could ever tell
what it was about, if it was not about the misunderstanding of some word, or
term, that the one had uttered. However it was, some high words passed
between them ; these were followed by threats ; and in less than two minutes
from the commencement of the quarrel, Drummond left the house in apparent
displeasure, hinting to the other that they two should settle that in a more
convenient place.

The company looked at one another, for all was over before any of them
knew such a thing was begun. " What is the matter ? " cried one. " What
ails Drummond?" cried another. " Who has he quarrelled with.-"' asked a
third.

" Don't know." — " Can't tell, on my life." — " He has quarrelled with his
wine, I suppose, and is going to send it a challenge."

Such were the questions, and such the answers that passed in the jovial
party, and the matter was no more thought of.

But in the course of a very short space, about the length of which the ideas
of the company were the next day at great variance, a sharp rap came to the
door : it was opened by a female ; but there being a chain inside, she only
saw one side of the person at the door. He appeared to be a young gentle-
man, in appearance like him who had lately left the house, and asked, in a
low whispering voice, " if young Dalcastle was still in the house.'" The wo-
man did not know. — " If he is," added he, " pray tell him to speak with me
for a few minutes." The woman delivered the message before all the party,
among whom there were then sundry courteous ladies of notable distinction,
and George, on receiving it, instantly rose, and said, in the hearing of them
all, " I will bet a hundred merks that is Drummond." — " Don't go to quarrel
with him, George," said one. — "Bring him in wjth you," said another. George
stepped out ; the door was again bolted, the chain drawn across, and the in-
advertent party, left within, thought no more of the circumstance till the next
morning, that the report had spread over the city, that a young gentleman
had been slain, on a little washing-green at the side of the North Loch, and
at the very bottom of the close where this thoughtless party had been
assembled.

Several of them, on first hearing the report, hasted to the dead-room in the
old Guard-house, where the corpse had been deposited, and soon discovered
the body to be that of their friend and late entertainer, George Colwan.
Great were the consternation and grief of all concerned, and in particular, of
his old father and Miss Logan ; for George had always been the sole hope
and darling of both, and the news of the event paralyzed them so as to render
them incajxible of all thought or exertion. The spirit of the old laird was
broken by the blow, and he descended at once from a jolly, good-natured,
and active man, to a mere driveller, weeping over the body of his son, kissing
his wound, his lips, and his cold brow alternately ; denouncing vengeance on
his murderers, and lamenting that he himself had not met the cruel ilooni, so
that the hope of his rare might have been preserved. In short, finding that
all further motive of action and object of concern or of love, here l)e!ow, were
for ever removed from him, he abandoned hiniself to despair, and threatened
to go down to the grave with his son.

332 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

But although he made no attempt to discover the murderers, the arm of
justice was not idle ; and it being evident to all, that the crime must infallibly
be brought home to young Drummond, some of his friends sought him out,
and compelled him, sorely against his will, to retire into concealment till the
issue of the proof that should be led was made known. At the same time, he
denied all knowledge of the incident with a resolution that astonished his
intimate friends and relations, who to a man suspected him guilty. His
father was not in Scotland, for I think it was said to me that this young man
was second son to a John, Duke of Melfort, who lived abroad with the royal
family of the Stuarts ; but this young gentleman lived with the relations of his
mother, one of whom, an uncle, was a Lord of Session : these having thor-
oughly effected his concealment, went away, and listened to the evidence ;
and the examination of ever)' new witness convinced them that their noble
young relative was the slayer of his friend.

All the young gentlemen of the party were examined, save Drummond,
who, when sent for, could not be found, which circumstance sorely confirmed
the suspicions against him in the minds of judges and jurors, friends and
enemies ; and there is little doubt, that the care of his relations in concealing
him, injured his character, and his cause. The young gentlemen, of whom
the party was composed, varied considerably, with respect to the quarrel
between him and the deceased. Some of them had neither heard nor noted
it ; others had, but not one of them could tell how it began. Some of them
had heard the threat uttered by Drummond on leaving the house, and one
only had noted him lay his hand on his sword. Not one of them could swear
that it was Drummond who came to the door, and desired to speak with the
deceased, but the general impression on the minds of them all, was to that
effect ; and one of the women swore that she heard the voice distinctly at the
door, and ever)- word that voice pronounced ; and at the same time heard the
deceased say, that it was Drummond's.

On the other hand, there were some evidences on Drummond's part, which
Lord Craigie, his uncle, had taken care to collect. He produced the sword
which his nephew had worn that night, on which there was neither blood nor
blemish ; and above all, he insisted on the evidence of a number of surgeons,
who declared that both the wounds which the deceased had received, had
been given behind. One of these was below the left arm, and a slight one ;
the other was quite through the body, and both evidently inflicted with the
same weapon, a two-edged sword, of the same dimensions as that worn by
Drummond.

Upon the whole, there was a division in the court, but a majority decided
it. Drummond was pronounced guilty of the murder, outlawed for not
appearing, and a high reward offered for his apprehension. It was with the
greatest difficulty that he escaped on board of a small trading vessel, which
landed him in Holland, and from thence, flying into Germany, he entered into
the service of the Emperor Charles VI. Many regretted that he was not
taken, and made to suffer the penalty due for such a crime, and the melan-
choly incident became a pulpit theme over a great part of Scotland, being
held up as a proper warning to youth.

After the funeral of this promising and excellent young man, his father
never more held up his head. Miss Logan, with all her art, could not get
him to attend to any worldly thing, or to make any settlement whatsoever of
his affairs, save making her over a present of what disposable funds he had
about him. As to his estates, when they were mentioned to him, he wished
them all in the bottom of the sea, and himself :dong with them. But when-
ever she mentioned the circumstance of Thomas Drummond having been the
murderer of his son, he shook his head, and once made the remark, that " It
was all a mistake, a gross and fatal error ; but that God, who had permitted
such a flagrant deed, would bring it to light in his own time and way."
In a few weeks he followed his son to the grave, and the notorious Robert
Wringhim took possession of his estates as the lawful son of the late laird,

CONFESSIONS OF A FANATIC. 333

bom in wedlock, and under his father's roof. The investiture was celebrated
by prayer, sinking of psalms, and reli^nous disputation. The late guardian
and adopted father, and the mother of the new laird, presided on the grand
occasion, making a conspicuous figure in all the work of the day ; and though
the youth himse'f mdulged rather more freely in the bottle, than he had ever
been seen to do before, it was agreed by all present that there had never been
a festivity so sanctified within the great hall of Dalcastle.

But the ways of heaven are altogether inscrutable, and soar as far above and
beyond the works and the comprehensions of man, as the sun, flaming in majesty,
is above the tiny boy's evening rocket. It is the controller of Nature alone, that
can bring light out of darkness, and order out of confusion. Who is he that
causeth the mole, from his secret path of darkness, to throw up the gem, the
gold, and the precious ore? The same, that from the mouths of babes and
sucUings can extract the perfection of praise, and who can make the most
abject of his creatures instrumental in bringing the most hidden truths to light.

Miss Logan had never lost the thought of her late master's prediction, that
Heaven would bring to light the truth concerning the untimely death of his
son. She perceived that some strange conviction, too horrible for expression,
preyed on his mind from the moment that the fatal news reached him, to the
last of his existence ; and in his last ravings, he uttered some incoherent
words about fanaticism having been the ruin of his house. These, to be sure,
were the words of superannuation, and of the last and severest kind of it; but
for all that, they sunk deep into Miss Logan's soul, and at last she began to
think with herself, " Is it possible the Wringhims, and the sophisticating
wretch who is in conjunction with them, the mother of my late beautiful and
amiable young master, can have effected his destruction ? if so, I will spend
my days, and my little patrimony, in endeavours to rake up and expose the
unnatural deed."

In all her outgoings and incomings, Mrs. Logan (as she was now styled)
never lost sight of this one object. Every new disappointment only whetted
her desire to fish up some particulars concerning it ; for she thought so long,
and so ardently upon it. that by degrees it became settled in her mind as a
sealed truth. And as woman is always most jealous of her own sex in such
matters, her suspicions were fixed on her greatest enemy, Mrs. Colwan, now
the Lady Dowager of Dalcastle. All was wrapt in a chaos of confusion and
darkness ; but at last, by dint of a thousand sly and secret inquiries, Mrs.
Logan found out where Lady Dalcastle had been, on the night that the mur-
der happened, and likewise what company she had kept, as well as some of
the comers and goers ; and she had hopes of having discovered a cue, which,
if she could keep hold of the thread, would lead her through darkness to the
light of truth.

Returning very late one evening from a convocation of family servants,
which she had drawn together in order to fish something out of them, her
maid having been in attendance on her all the evening, they found on going
home, that the house had been broken into, and a number of valuable articles
stolen therefrom. Mrs. Logan had grown quite heartless before this stroke,
having been altogether unsuccessful in her inquiries, and now she began to
entertain some resolutions of giving up the fruitless search.

In a few days thereafter, she received intelligence that her clothes and
plate were mostly recovered, and that she for one was bound over to prose-
cute the depredator, provided the articles turned out to be hers, as libelled in
the indictment, and as a king's evidence had given out. She was likewise
summoned, or requested, I know not which, being ignorant of these matters,
to go as far as the town of Peebles on Tweedsidc, in order to survey the
articles on such a day, and make affidavit to their identity before the Sheriff.
She went accordingly ; but on entering the town by the North (iate, she was
accosted by a poor girl in tattered apparel, who with great earnestness in-
quired if her name was not .Mrs. Logan ? (Jn being answered in the affirma-
tive, she said that the unfortunate prisoner in the tolbooth requested her, as

334 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

she valued all that was dear to her in life, to ^o and see her before she
appeared in court, at the hour of cause, as she (the prisoner) had something
of the greatest moment to impart to her. Mrs. Logan's curiosity was excited,
and she followed the girl straight to the tolbooth, who by the way said to her,
that she would find in the prisoner a woman of a superior mind, who had
gone through all the vicissitudes of life. " She has been very unfortunate,
and I fear very wicked,'' added the poor thing, "but she is my mother, and
God knows, with all her faults and failings, she has never been unkind to me.
You, madam, have it in your power to save her ; but she has wronged you,
and therefore if you will not do it for her sake, do it for mine, and the God ot
the fatherless will reward you."

Mrs. Logan answered her with a cast of the head, and a hem ! and only
remarked that " the guilty must not always be suffered to escape, or what a
world must we be doomed to live in ! "

She was admitted to the prison, and found a tall emaciated figure, who
appeared to have once possessed a sort of masculine beauty in no ordinary
degree, but was now considerably advanced in years. She viewed Mrs.
Logan with a stern, steady gaze, as if reading her features as a margin to her
intellect; and when she addressed her it was not with that humility, and
agonized fervour, which are natural for one in such circumstances to address
to another, who has the power of her life and death in her hands.

" I am deeply indebted to you for this timely visit, Mrs. Logan," said she.
" It is not that I value life, or because I fear death, that I have sent for you
so expressly. But the manner of the death that awaits me, has something
peculiarly revolting in it to a female mind. Good God ! when I think of
being hung up, a spectacle to a gazing, gaping multitude, with numbers of
which I have had intimacies and connexions, that would render the moment
of parting so hideous, that, believe me, it rends to flinders a soul born for
another sphere than that in which it has moved, had not the vile selfishness
of a lordly fiend ruined all my prospects, and all my hopes. Hear me then ;
for I do not ask your pity ; I only ask of you to look to yourself, and behave
with womanly prudence. If you deny this day, that these goods are yours,
there is no other evidence against my life, and it is safe for the present For
as for the word of the wretch who has betrayed me, it is of no avail ; he has
prevaricated so notoriously to save himself. If you deny them, you shall have
them all again to the value of a mite, and more to the bargain. If you swear
to the identity of them, the process will, one way and another, cost you the
half of what they are worth."

" And what security have I for that ? " said Mrs. Logan.

" You have none but my word" said the other proudly, " and that never
yet was violated. If you cannot take that, I know the worst you can do. —
But I had forgot — I have a poor helpless child without, waiting, and starving
about the prison door ; surely it was of her that I wished to speak. This
shameful death of mine will leave her in a deplorable state."

" The girl seems to have candour and strong affections," said Mrs. Logan ;
** I grievously mistake if such a child would not be a thousand times better
without such a guardian and director."

" Then will you be so kind as come to the Grass Marke% and see me put
down .'' " said the prisoner. " I thought a woman would estimate a woman's
and a mother's feelings, when such a dreadful throw was at stake, at least in
part But you are callous, and have never known any feelings but those of
subordination to your old unnatural master. Alas, I have no cause of offence !
I have wronged you ; and justice must take its course. Will you forgive me
before we part .'' "

Mrs. Logan hesitated, for her mind ran on something else : on which the
other subjoined, " No, you will not forgive me, I see. But you will pray to
God to forgive me ? I know you will do that."

Mrs. Logan heard not this jeer, but looking at the prisoner with an absent
and stupid stare, she said, " Did you know my late master ? "

CONFESSIONS OF A FANATIC. 335

" Ay, that I did, and never for any good," said she. " 1 knew the old and
the young spark both, and was by when the latter was slain."

This careless sentence affected Mrs. Logan in a most peculiar manner. A
shower of tears burst from her eyes ere it was done, and when it was, she
appeared like one bereaved of her mind. She tirst turned one way and then
another, as if looking for something she had dropped. She seemed to think
she had lost her eyes, instead of her tears, and at length, as by instinct, she
tottered close up to the prisoners face, and looking wistfully and joyfully in it,
said, with breathless earnestness, " Pray, mistress, what is your name.-"'

" My name is Arabella Calvert," said the other : " Miss, mistress, or widow,
as you choose, for I have been all the three, and that not once or twice only
— Ay, and something beyond all these. But as for you, you have never been
any thing ! "

" Ay, ay ! and so you are Bell Calvert ? Well I thought so — I thought so,"
said Mrs. Logan ; and helping herself to a seat, she came and sat down close
by the prisoner's knee. So you are indeed Bell Calvert, so-called once. Well,
of all the world you are the woman whom I have longed and travailed the
most to see. But you were invisible ; a being to be heard of, not seen.''

" There have been days, madam," returned she, " when I was to be seen,
and when there were few to be seen like me. But since that time there have
indeed been days on which I was not to be seen. My crimes have been great,
but my sufferings have been greater : so great, that neither you nor the
world can ever either know or conceive them. I hope they will be taken into
account by the Most High. Mine have been crimes of utter desperation. But
whom am I speaking to ! You had better leave me to myself, mistress."

" Leave you to yourself? That I will be loth to do, till you tell me where
you were that night my young master was murdered .'' "

" Where the devil would, I was ! Will that suffice you ? Ah, it was a vile
action ! A night to be remembered that was ! — Won't you be going.'' I want
to trust my daughter with a commission."

" No, Mrs. Calvert, you and I part not, till you have divulged that
mystery to me."

" You must accompany me to the other world, then, for you shall not have
it in this."

" If you refuse to answer me, I can have you before a tribunal, where you
shall be sifted to the soul."

" Such miserable inanity ! W^hat care I for your threatenings of a tribunal ?
I who must so soon stand before my last earthly one .'' What could the word
of such a culprit avail ! Or if it could, where is the judge that could
enforce it ? "

"Did you not say that there was some mode of accommodating matters on
that score ? "

" Yes, I prayed you to grant me my life, which is in your power. The
saving of it would not have cost you a plack, yet you refused to do it. The
taking of it will cost you a great deal, and yet to that purpose you adhere. I
can have no parley with such a spirit. I would not have my life in a present
from its motions, nor would I exchange courtesies with its possessor."

" Indeed, Mrs. Calvert, since ever we met, 1 have been so busy thinking
about who you might be, that I know not what you have been proposing. 1
believe, I meant to do what I could to save you. But once for all, tell me
every thing that you know concerning that amiable young gentleman's death,
and here is my hand, there shall be nothing wanting that I can effect
for you."

" No, I despise all barter with such mean and selfish curiosity ; and, as I
believe that passion is stronger with you, than fear is with me, we part on
equal terms. Do your worst ; and my secret shall go to the gallows and the
grave with me."

Mrs. Logan was now greatly confounded, and after proffering in vain to
concede every thing she could ask in exchange, for the particulars relating to

336 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

the murder, she became the suppliant in her turn. But the unaccountable
culprit, exulting in her advantage, laughed her to scorn ; and finally, in a
paroxysm of pride and impatience, called in the jailor, and had her expelled,
ordering him in her hearing, not to grant her admittance a second time, on
any pretence.

Kirs. Logan was now hard put to it, and again driven almost to despair.
She might have succeeded in the attainment of that she thirsted for most in
life so easily, had she known the character which she had to deal with, — had
she known to have soothed her high and aftlicted spirit : but that opportunity
was past, and the hour of examination at hand. She once thought of going
and claiming her articles, as she at first intended ; but then, when she thought
again of the Wringhims swaying it at Dalcastle, where she had been wont to
hear them held in such contempt, if not abhorrence, and perhaps of holding
it by the most diabolical means, she was withheld from marring the only
chance that remained of having a glimpse into that mysterious affair.

Finally she resolved not to answer to her name in the court, rather than to
appear and assert a falsehood, which she might be called on to certify by
oath. She did so ; and heard the Sheriff give orders to the officers to make
inquiry for Miss Logan from Edinburgh, at the various places of entertainment
in town, and to expedite her arrival in court, as things of great value were in
dependence. She also heard the man who had turned king's evidence against
the prisoner, examined for the second time, and sifted most cunningly. His
answers gave any thing but satisfaction to the Sheriff, though Mrs. Logan
believed them to be mainly truth. But there were a few questions and answers
that struck her above all others.

" How long is it since Mrs. Calvert and you became acquainted ?"

"About a year and a half."

" State the precise time, if you please ; the day, or night, according to
your remembrance."

" It was on the morning of the 28th of February, 1705."

" What time of the morning ? "

" Perhaps about one."

" So early as that .? At what place did you meet then ? "

" It was at the foot of one of the north wynds of Edinburgh."

" Was it by appointment that you met ? "

" No, it was not."

" For what purpose was it then ? "

" For no purpose."

" How is it that you chance to remember the day and hour so minutely, if
you met that woman, whom you have accused, merely by chance, and for no
manner of purpose, as you must have met others that night, perhaps to the
amount of hundreds, in the same way ?"

" I have good cause to remember it, my lord."

" W^hat was that cause ? — No answer ? — You don't choose to say what that
cause was ? "

" I am not at liberty to tell."

The Sheriff then descended to other particulars, all of which tended to
prove that the fellow was an accomplished villain, and that the principal share
of the atrocities had been committed by him. Indeed the Sheriff hinted, that
he suspected the only share Mrs. Calvert had in them, was in being too much
in his company, and too true to him. The case was remitted to the Court of
Justiciary ; but Mrs. Logan had heard enough to convince her that the
culprits first met at the very spot, and the very hour, on which George
Colwan was slain ; and she had no doubt that they were incendiaries set on
by his mother, to forward her own and her darling son's way to opulence.
Mrs. Logan was wrong, as will appear in the sequel ; but her antipathy to
Mrs. Colwan made her watch the event with all care. She never quitted
Peebles as long as Bell Calvert remained there, and when she was removed
to Edinburgh, the other followed. \\'hen the trial came on, Mrs. Logan and

CONFESSIONS OF A FANATIC. 337

her maid were again summoned as witnesses before the jury, and compelled
by the prosecutor for the Crown to appear.

The maid was first called ; and when she came into the witnesses' box, the
anxious and hopeless looks of the prisoner were manifest to all ; but the girl,
whose name, she said, was Bessy GiUies, answered in so flippant and fearless
a way, that the auditors were much amused. After a number of routine
questions, the depute-advocate asked her if she was at home on the morning
of the fifth of September last, when her mistress's house was robbed ?

" Was I at hame, say ye .-' Na, faith-ye, lad ! An I had been at hame,
there had been mair to dee. I wad hae raised sic a yelloch !"

" Where were you that morning .^ "

" Where was I, say you .'' 1 was in the house where my mistress was,
sitting dozing an' half sleeping in tlie kitchen. 1 thought aye she would be
setting out every minute, for twa hours."

" And when you went home, what did you find .'"'

" What found we ? Be my sooth, we found a broken lock, an' toom kists.*

" Relate some of the particulars, if you please."

" O, sir, the thieves didna stand upon particulars : they were halesale
dealers in a' our best wares."

" I mean, what passed between your mistress and you on the occasion .-' ''

" What passed, say ye? O, there wasna muckle : I was in a great passion,
but she was dung doitrified a wee. When she gaed to put the key i' the door,
up it flew to the fer wa'. — ' Bess, ye jaud, what's the meaning o' this.'' quo she.
' Ye hae left the door open, ye tawpie ! ' quo she. — ' The ne'er o' that I did,'
quo I, ' or may my shankel bane never turn another key.' When we got the
candle lightit, a' the house was in a hoad-road. ' Bessy, my woman,' quo
she, ' we are baith ruined and undone creatures.' — ' The deil a bit,' quo I ;
' that I deny positively.' H'mh ! to speak o' a lass o' my age being ruined
and undone ! I never had muckle except what was within a good jerkin, an'
let the thief ruin me there wha can."

" Do you remember ought else that your mistress said on the occasion ?
Did you hear her blame any person }"

" O, she made a great deal o' grumphing an' groaning about the misfortune,
as she ca'd it, an' I think she said it was a part o' the ruin wrought by the
Ringans, or some sic name, — ' they'll hae't a' ! they'll hae't a' ! ' cried she,
wringing her hands ; ' they'll hae't a', an' hell wi't, an' they'll get them baith.'
— ' Aweel, that's aye some satisfaction,' quo I."

" Whom did she mean by the Ringans, do you know ?"

" I fancy they are some creatures that she has dreamed about, for I think
there canna be as ill folks living as she ca's them."

" Did you never hear her say that the prisoner at the bar there, Mrs.
Calvert, or Bell Calvert, was the robber of her house ; or that she was one of
the Ringans .-"'

" Never. Somebody tauld her lately, that ane Bell Calvert robbed her
house, but she disna believe it. Neither do I."

" What reasons have you for doubting it .? "

" Because it was nae woman's fingers that broke up the bolts an' the locks
that were torn open that night."

" Very pertinent, Bessy. Come then within the bar, and look at these
articles on the table. Did you ever see these silver spoons before ?"

" I hae seen some very like them, and whaever has seen siller spoons, has
done the same."

" Can you swear you never saw them before ? "

" Na, na, I wadna swear to ony siller spoons that ever war made, unless I
had put a private mark on them wi' my ain hand, an" that's what 1 never did
to ane."

" See, they are all marked with a C."

" Sae are a' the spoons in Argyle,an' the half o' them in Edinburgh I think.
A C is a very common letter, an' so are a' the names that begin wi't. Lay
I. 22

338 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

them by, lay them by, an' gie the poor woman her spoons again. They are
marked wi' her ain name, an' 1 hae little doubt they are hers, an' that she
has seen better days."

" Ah, God bless her heart ! '' sighed the prisoner ; and that blessing was
echoed in the breathings of many a feeling breast.

" Did you ever see this gown before, think you ? "

" I hae seen ane very like it."

" Could you not swear that gown was your mistress's once ?"

" No, unless I saw her hae't on, an' kend that she had paid for't. I am
very scnjpulous about an oath. Like is an ill mark. Sae ill indeed, that I
wad hardly swear to ony thing."

" But you say that gown is very like one your mistress used to wear."

" I never said sic a thing. It is like one I hae seen her hae out airing
on the hay raip i' the back green. It is very like ane I hae seen Mrs. Butler
in the Grass Market wearing too ; I rather think it is the same. Bless you,
sir, I wadna swear to my ain fore-finger, if it had been as lang out o' my
sight, an' brought in an' laid on that table."

" Perhaps you are not aware, girl, that this scrupulousness of yours is likely
to thwart the purposes of justice, and bereave your mistress of property to the
amount of a thousand merks ?" {From the Judge)

" I canna help that, my lord : that's her lookout. For my part, I am
resolved to keep a clear conscience, till I be married, at any rate."

" Look over these things, and see if there is any one article among them
which you can fix on as the property of your mistress."

"No ane o' them, sir, no ane o' them. An oath is an awfu' thing, especially
when it is for life or death. Gie the poor woman her things again, an' let my
mistress pick up the next she finds : that's my advice."

When Mrs. Logan came into the box, the prisoner groaned, and laid down
her head. But how was she astonished when she heard her deliver herself
something to the following purport! — That whatever penalties she was
doomed to abide, she was determined she would not bear witness against a
woman's life, from a certain conviction that it could not be a woman who
broke her house. " I have no doubt that I may find some of my own things
there," added she, " but if they were found in her possession, she has been
made a tool, or the dupe, of an infernal set, who shall be nameless here. I
believe she did not rob me, and for that reason I will have no hand in her
condemnation."

The Judge. " This is the most singular perversion I have ever witnessed.
Mrs. Logan, I entertain strong suspicions that the prisoner, or her agents,
have made some agreement with you on this matter, to prevent the course of
justice."

" So far from that, my Lord. I went into the jail at Peebles to this woman,
whom I had never seen before, and proffered to withdraw my part in the pro-
secution, as well as my evidence, provided she would tell me a few simple
facts ; but she spurned at my offer, and had me turned insolently out of the
prison, with orders to the jailor never to admit me again on any pretence."

The prisoner's counsel taking hold of this evidence, addressed the jury with
great fluency ; and finally the prosecution was withdrawn, and the prisoner
dismissed from the bar with a severe leprimand for iicr past conduct, and an
exhortation to keep better company.

It was not many days till a caddy came with a large parcel to Mrs. Logan's
house, which parcel he delivered into her hands, accompanied with a sealed
note, containing an inventory of the articles, and a request to know if the un-
fortunate Arabella Calvert would be admitted to converse with .Mrs Logan.

Never was there a woman so much overjoyed as Mrs. Logan was at this
message. She returned compliments ; would be most haj)py to see her ; and
no article of the parcel should be looked at, or touched, till her arrival. — It
was not long till she made her appearance, dressed in somewhat better style
than she had yet seen her ; delivered her over the greater part of the stolen

CONFESSIONS OF A FANATIC. 339

property, besides many things that either never had belonged to Mrs. Logan,
or that she thought proper to deny, in order that the other might retain them.

The tale that she told of her misfortunes was of the most distressing
nature, and was enough to stir up all the tender, as well as abhorrent feelings
in the bosom of humanity. She had suffered every deprivation in fame, for-
tune, and person. She had been imprisoned ; she had been scourged, and
branded as an impostor ; and all on account of her resolute and unmoving
fidelity and truth to several of the very worst of men, every one of whom had
abandoned her to utter destitution and shame. But this story we cannot
enter on at present, as it would perhaps mar the thread of our story, as much
as it did the anxious anticipations of Mrs. Logan, who sat pining and longing
for the relation that follows.

" Now I know, Mrs. Logan, that you are expecting a detail of the circum-
stances relating to the death of Mr. George Colwan ; and in gratitude for
your unbounded generosity and disinterestedness, 1 will tell you all that I
know, although for causes that will appear obvious to you, I had determined
never in life to divulge one circumstance of it. I can tell you, however, that
you will be disappointed, for it was not the gentleman who was accused,
found guilty, and would have suffered the utmost penalty of the law, had he
not made his escape. // was not he, I say, who slew your young master, nor
had he any hand in it."

" I never thought he had. But, pray, how do you come to know this ? "

" You shall hear. I had been abandoned in York, by an artful and con-
summate fiend ; found guilty of being art and part concerned in the most
heinous atrocities, and, in his place, suffered what I yet shudder to think of.
1 was banished the county — begged my way with my poor outcast child up to
Edinburgh, and was there obliged, for the second time in my life, to betake
myself to the most degrading of all means to support two wretched lives. I
hired a dress, and betook me, shivering, to the High Street, too well aware
that my form and appearance would soon draw me suitors enow at that
throng and intemperate time of the parliament. On my very first stepping
out to the street, a party of young gentlemen was passing. I heard by the
noise they made, and the tenor of their speech, that they were more than
mellow, and so 1 resolved to keep near them, in order, if possible, to make
some of them my prey. But just as one of them began to eye me, 1 was
rudely thrust into a narrow close by one of the guardsmen. I had heard to
what house the party was bound, for the men were talking exceedingly loud,
and making no secret of it ; so I hasted down the close, and round below to
the one where their rendezvous was to be ; but 1 was too late, they were all
housed and the door bolted. I resolved to wait, thinking they could not all
stay long ; but I was perishing with famine, and was like to fall down. The
moon shone as bright as day, and I perceived by a sign at the bottom of the
close, that there was a small tavern of a certain description up two stairs there.
I went up and called, telling the mistress of the house my plan. She ap-
proved of it mainly, and offered me her best apartment, provided I could
get cne of these noble mates to accompany me. She abused Lucky Sudds, as
she called her, at the inn where the party was, enving her huge profits, no
doubt, and giving me afterwards something to drink, for which I really felt
exceedingly grateful in my need. I stepped down stairs in order to be on the
alert The moment that I reached the ground, the door of Lucky Sudds'
house opened and shut, and down came the Honourable Thomas Drummond,
with hasty and impassioned strides, his sword rattling at his heel. I accosted
him in a soft and soothing tone. He was taken with my address ; for he in-
stantly stood still and gazed intently at me, then at the place, and then at me
again. 1 beckoned him to follow me, which he did witliout farther ceremony,
and we soon found ourselves together in tlie best room of a house whci c every
thing was wretched. He still looked about him, and at me ; but all this while
he had never spoken a word. At length, 1 asked if he would take any re-
freshment ; ' If you please,' said he. 1 asked what he would have .' but he

S40 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

only answered, ' Whatever you choose, madam.' If he was taken with my
address, I was much more taken with his ; for he was a complete gentleman,
and a gentleman will ever act as one. At length, he began as follows :

" ' 1 am utterly at a loss to account for this adventure, madam. It seems to
me like enchantment, and 1 can hardly believe my senses. An English lady
I judge, and one, who from her manner and address should belong to the first
class of society, in such a place as this, is indeed matter of wonder to me. At
the foot of a close in Edinburgh ! and at this time of night ! Surely it must
have been no common reverse of fortune that reduced you to this .'' " I wept,
or pretended to do so ; on which he added. ' Pray, madam, take heart
Tell me what has befallen you ; and if I can do any thing for you, in restor-
ing you to your country or your friends, you shall command my interest.'

'' I had great need of a friend then, and 1 thought now was the time to
secure one. So I began and told him the moving tale I have told. But I
soon perceived that I had kept by the naked truth too unvarnishedly, and
thereby quite overshot my mark. When he learned that he ./as sitting in a
wretched corner of an irregular house, with a felon, who had so lately been
scourged, and banished as a swindler and impostor, his modest nature took
the alarm, and he was shocked, instead of being moved with pity. His eye
fixed on some of the casual stripes on my arm, and from that moment he be-
came restless and impatient to be gone. I tried some gentle arts to retain
him, but in vain ; so, after paying both the landlady and me for pleasures he
had neither tasted nor asked, he took his leave.

" I showed him down stairs ; and just as he turned the corner of the next
land, a man came rushing violently by him, exchanged looks with him and
came running up to me. He appeared in great agitation, and was quite out
of breath ; and, taking my hand in his, we ran up stairs together without
speaking, and were instantly in the apartment I had left, where a stoup of wine
still stood untasted. ' Ah, this is fortunate ! ' said my new spark, and helped
himself In the mean while, as our apartment was a corner one, and looked
both east and north, I ran to the easter casement to look after Drummond.
Now, note me well : I saw him going eastward in his tartans and bonnet, and
the gilded hilt of his claymore glittering in the moon ; and, at the very same
time, I saw two men, the one in black, and the other likewise in tartans, com-
ing towards the steps from the opposite bank, by the foot of the loch ; and I
saw Drummond and they eyeing each other as they passed. I kept view of
him till he vanished towards Leith Wynd,and by that time the two strangers
had come close up under our window. This is what I wish you to pay par-
ticular attention to. I had only lost sight of Drummond, (who had given me
his name and address,) for the short space of time that we took in running up
one pair of short stairs ; and during that space he had halted a moment, for,
when 1 got my eye on him again he had not crossed the mouth of the next
entry, nor proceeded above ten or twelve paces, and, at the same time, I saw
the two men coming down the bank on the opposite side of the loch, at about
three hundred paces' distance. Both he and they were distinctly in my view,
and never witliin speech of each other, until he vanished into one of the
wynds leading toward the bottom of the High Street, at which precise time
the two strangers came below my window ; so that it was quite clear he
neither could be one of them, nor have any communication with them.

" Yet, mark me again ; for of all things I have ever seen, this was the most
singular. When I looked down at the two strangers, one of thetn was ex-
tremely like Drummo7id. So like was he that there was not one item in dress,
form, feature, nor voice, by which I could distinguish the one from the other.
I was certain it was not he, because I had seen the one going and the other
approaching at the same time, and my impression at the moment was, that I
looked upon some spirit, or demon, in his likeness. I felt a chillness creep all
round my heart, my knees tottered, and, withdrawing my head from the open
casement that lay in the dark shade, I said to the man who was with me,
'Good Liod, what is this !'

CONFESSIONS OF A FAN A TIC. 341

•* ' What is it, my dear,' said he, as much alarmed as I was.

" ' As I live, there stands an apparition !' said I.

" He was not so much afraid when he heard me say so, and peeping
cautiously out, he looked and listened a while, and then drawing back, he said
in a whisper, ' They are both living men, and one of them is he I passed at
the corner.'

" ' That he is not,' said I, emphatically. * To that I will make oath.'

" He smiled and shook his head, and then added, ' I never then saw a man
before, whom I could not know again, particularly if he was the very last I
had seen. But what matters it whether it be or not ? As it is no concern of
ours, let us sit down and enjoy ourselves.'

" ' But it does matter a very great deal with me, sir,' said I. — * Bless me, my
head is giddy — my breath quite gone, and I feel as if were surrounded with
fiends ! Who are you, sir .'"

" ' You shall know that ere we two part, my love,' said he : ' I cannot con-
ceive why the return of this young gentleman to the spot he so lately left,
should discompose you ? I suppose he got a glance of you as he passed, and
has returned to look after you, and that is the whole secret of the matter.'

" ' If you will be so civil as to walk out and join him then, it will oblige me
hugely,' said I, ' for I never in my life experienced such boding apprehensions
of evil company. I cannot conceive how you should come up here without
asking my permission ? Will it please you to begone, sir.''' — I was within an
ace of prevailing. He took out his purse — I need not say more — I was bribed
to let him remain. Ah, had I kept by my frail resolution of dismissing him
at that moment, what a world of shame and misery had been evited ! But
that, though uppermost still in my mind, has nothing ado here.

"When I peeped over again, the two men were disputing in a whisper, the
one of them in violent agitation and terror, and the other upbraiding him, and
urging him on to some desperate act. At length I heard the young man in
Highland garb say indignantly, ' Hush, recreant ! It is God's work which you
are commissioned to execute, and it must be done. But if you positively decline
it, I will do it myself, and do you beware of the consequences.'

"*0h, I will, I will!' cried the other in black clothes in a wretched
beseeching tone. ' You shall instruct me in this, as in all things else.'

" I thought all this while I was closely concealed from them, and wondered
not a little when he in tartans gave me a sly nod, as much as to say, ' What
do you think of this .-" or 'Take note of what you see,' or something to that
effect, from which I perceived, that whatever he was about, he did not wish it
to be kept a secret. For all that I was impressed with a terror and anxiety
that I could not overcome, but it only made me mark every event with the
more intense curiosity. The Highlander, whom I still could not help regard-
ing as the evil genius of Thomas Drummond, performed every action as with
the quickness of thought. He concealed the youth in black in a narrow
entry, a little to the westv/ard of my windows, and as he was leading him
.T cross the moonlight green by the shoulder, I perceived, for the first time,
that both of them were armed with rapiers. He pushed him without resist-
ance into the dark shaded close, made another signal to me, and hasted up
the close to Lucky Sudds' door. The city and the morning were so still that
I heard every word that was uttered, on putting my head out a little. He
knocked at the door sharply, and after waiting a considerable space, the bolt
was drawn, and the door, as I conceived, edged up as far as the massy chain
would let it. * Is young Dalcastle still in the house ? ' said he sharply.

" I did not hear the answer, but I heard him say, shortly after, ' If he is,
pray tell him to speak with me for a few minutes.' He then withdrew from
tlie door, and came slowly down the close in a lingering manner, looking oft
behind him. Dalcastle came out ; advanced a few steps after him, and then
stood still, as if hesitating whether or not he should call out a friend to accom-
pany him : and that instant the door behind him was closed, chained, and tlie
iron bolt drawn ; on hearing of which he lollowed his adversary without laithcr

342 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

hesitation. As he passed below my window, I heard him say, ' I beseech you,
Tom, let us do nothing in this matter rashly ; ' but 1 could not hear the answer
of the other, who had turned the corner.

" I roused up my drowsy companion, who was leaning on the bed, and we
both looked together from the north window. We were in the shade, but the
moon shone full on the two yuung gentlemen. Young Daicastle was visibly
the worse of liquor, and his back being turned toward us, he said something
to the other which I could not make out, although he spoke a considerable
time, and, from his tones and gestures, appeared to be reasoning. When he
had done, the tall young man in the tartans drew his sword, and his face being
straight to us, we heard him say distinctly, ' No more words about it, George,
if you please ; but if you be a man, as I take you to be, draw your sword, and
let us settle it here.'

" Daicastle drew his sword, without changing his attitude; but he spoke
with more warmth, for we heard his words, 'Think you that I fear you, Tom ?
Be assured, sir, 1 would not fear ten of the best of your name, at each other's
backs : all that I want is to have friends with us to see fair play, for if you close
with me, you are a dead man.'

" The other stormed at these words. ' You are a braggart, sir,' cried he,
'a wretch — a blot on the cheek of nature — a blight on the Christian world — a
reprobate — I'll have your soul, sir.' As he said this, he brandished his rapier,
exciting Daicastle to offence. He gained his point ; the latter, who had pre-
viously drawn, advanced in upon his vapouring and licentious antagonist, and
a fierce combat ensued. My companion was delighted beyond measure, and
I could not keep him from exclaiming, loud enough to have been heard, 'that's
grand ! that's excellent ! ' Yox me, my heart quaked like an aspen. Young
Daicastle either had a decided advantage over his adversary, or else the other
thought proper to let him have it ; for he shifted, and wore, and flitted from
Dalcastle's thrusts like a shadow, uttering ofttimes a sarcastic laugh, that
seemed to provoke the other beyond all bearing. At one time he would spring
away to a great distance, then advance again on young Daicastle with the
swiftness of lightning. But that young hero always stood his ground, and re-
pelled the attack : he never gave way, although they fought nearly twice round
the bleaching green, which you know is not a very small one. At length
they fought close up to the mouth of the dark entry, where the fellow in black
stood all this while concealed, and then the combatant in tartans closed with
his antagonist, or pretended to do so ; but the moment they began to grapple,
he wheeled about, turning Colwan's back towards the entry, and then cried
out, ' Now, my friend, my friend !'

" That moment the fellow in black rushed from his cover with his drawn
rapier, and gave the brave young Daicastle two deadly wounds in the back,
as quick as arm could thrust, both of which I thought pierced through his
body. He fell, and rolling himself on his back, he perceived who it was that
had slain him thus foully, and said, with a dying emphasis, which I never
heard equalled, ' Oh, is it you who has done this ?'

" He articulated some more, which I could not hear for other sounds ; for
the moment that the man in black inflicted the deadly wound, my companion
called out, ' That's unfair ! that's damnable ! to strike a brave fellow behind 1
One at a time, you cowards !' &c., to all which the unnatural fiend in the
tartans answered with a loud exulting laugh ; and then, taking the poor
paralysed murderer by the bow of the arm, he hurried him into the dark entry
once more, where I lost sight of them for ever."

Before this time, Mrs. Logan had risen up ; and when the narrator had
finished, she was standing with her arms stretched upward at their full length,
and her visage turned down,onwhich were portrayed the lines of the most abso-
lute horror. " The dark suspicions of my late benefactor have been just, and his
last prediction is fulfilled, " cried she. "The murderer of the accomplished
George Colwan has been his own brother, set on, there is little doubt, by her
who bare them both, and her directing angel, tlae self-justified bigot. Aye,

CONFESSIONS OF A FANATIC. 343

and yonder they sit, enjoying the luxuries so dearly purchased, with perfect
impunity ! If the Almighty do not hurl them down, blasted with shame and
confusion, there is no hope of retribution in this life. And, by his might, I
will be the agent to accomplish it ! Why did the man not pursue the foul
murderers? Why did he not raise the alarm, and call the watch ?"

"He? The wretch ! He durst not move from the shelter he had obtained,
— no, not for the soul of him. He was pursued for his life, at the moment
when he first flew into my arms. But 1 did not know it ; no, I did not then
know him. He pursue for the sake of justice ! No ; his efforts have all been
for evil, but never for good. But / raised the alarm ; miserable and degraded
as I was. I pursued and raised the watch myself. Have you not heard the
name Bell Calvert coupled with that hideous and mysterious affair ?"

" Yes, I have. In secret often I have heard it. But how came it that
you could never be found? How came it that you never appeared in defence
of the Honourable Thomas Drummond ; — you, the only person who could
have justified him ?"

" I could not, for I then fell under the power and guidance of a wretch,
who durst not for the soul of him be brought forward in the affair. And what
•was worse, his evidence would have overborne mine, for he would have sworn
that the man who called out and fought Colwan was the same he met leaving
my apartment, and there was an end of it. And, moreover, it is well known
that this same man, — this wretch of whom I speak, never mistook one man
for another in his life, which makes the mystery of the likeness between this
incendiary and Drummond the more extraordinary."

" If it was Drummond, after all that you have asserted, then are my sur-
mises still wrong."

" There is nothing of which I can be more certain, than that it was not
Drummond. We have nothing on earth but our senses to depend upon ; if
these deceive us, what are we to do ? I own I cannot account for it ; nor ever
shall be able to account for it as long as I live."

" Could you know the man in black, if you saw him again ?"

" I think I could if I saw him walk or run : his gait was very particular :
he walked as if he had been flat-soled, and his legs made of steel, without any
joints in his feet or ancles."

" The very same ! The very same ! The very same ! Pray will you take
a few days' journey into the country with me, to look at such a man ?''

" You have preserved my life, and for you I will do any thing. I will
accompany you with pleasure : and I think I can say that I will know him,
for his form left an impression on my heart not soon to be effaced. But of
this I am sure, that my unworthy companion will recognize him, and that he
will be able to swear to his identity every day as long as he lives."

" Where is he? Where is he ? O ! Mrs. Calvert, where is he?"

*' Where is he? He is the wretch whom you heard giving me up to the
death ; who, after experiencing every mark of affection that a poor ruined
being could confer, and after committing a thousand atrocities of which she
was ignorant, became an informer to save his dial^olical life, and attempted to
offer up mine as a sacrifice for all. We will go by ourselves first, and 1 will
tell you if it is necessary to send any further."

"The two dames, the very next morning, dressed themselves like country
goodwives ; and, hiring two stout ponies furnished with pillions, they took
their journey westward, and the second evening after leaving Edinburgh
they arrived at the village about two miles below Dalcastle, where they
alighted. But Mrs. Logan being anxious to have Mrs. Calvert's judgment,
without either hint or preparation, took care not to mention that they were so
near to the end of their journey. In conformity with this plan, she said,
after they had sat awhile, " Heigh-ho, but I am weary ! What suppose we
should rest a day here before we proceed further on our journey ?"

Mrs. Calvert was leaning on the casement, and looking out when her com-
panion addressed these words to her, and by fur too mucli engaged to return

344 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

any answer, for her eyes were riveted on two young men who approached
from the further end of the village ; and at length, turning round her head,
she said with the most intense interest, " I'roceed farther on our journey, did
you say ? That we need not do ; for, as I live, here comes the very man !"

Mrs. Logan ran to the window, and behold there was indeed Robert
Wringhim Colwan (now the Laird of Dalcastle) coming forward almost below
their window, walking arm in arm with another young man ; and as the two
passed, the latter looked up and made a sly signal to the two dames, biting
his lip, winking with his left eye, and nodding his head. Mrs. Calvert was
astonished at this recognizance, the young man's former companion having
made exactly such another signal on the night of the duel, by the light of the
moon ; and it struck her, moreover, that she had somewhere seen this young
man's face before. She looked after him, and he winked over his shoulder to
her ; but she was prevented from returning his salute by her companion, who
uttered a loud cry, between a groan and a shriek, and fell down on the floor
with a rumble like a wall that had suddenly been undermined. She had
fainted quite away, and required all her companion's attention during the
remainder of the evening, for she had scarcely ever well recovered out of one
fit before she fell into another ; and in the short intervals she raved hke one
distracted, or in a dream. After falling into a sound sleep by night, she
recovered her equanimity, and the two began to converse seriously on what
they had seen. Mrs. Calvert averred that the young man who passed next
to the window, was the very man who stabbed George Colwan in the back,
and she said she was willing to take her oath on it at any time when required,
and was certain if the wretch Ridsley saw him, that he would make oath to the
same purport, for that his walk was so peculiar, no one of common discern-
ment could mistake it.

Mrs. Logan was in great agitation, and said, " It is what I have suspected
all along, and what 1 am sure my late master and benefactor was persuaded
of, and the horror of such an idea cut short his days. That wretch, Mrs.
Calvert, is the born brother of him he murdered ; sons of the same mother
they were, whether or not of the same father, the Lord only knows. But, O
Mrs. Calvert, that is not the main thing that has discomposed me, and shaken
my nerves to pieces at this time. Who do you think the young man was who
walked in his company to-night .'' "

" I cannot for my life recollect, but am convinced I have seen the same fine
form and face before."

" And did not he seem to know us, Mrs. Calvert ? You who are able to
recollect things as they happened, did he not seem to recollect us, and make
signs to that effect .? "

" He did, indeed, and apparently with great good humour."

" O, Mrs. Calvert, hold me, else I shall fall into hysterics again ! Who is
he ? Who is he .'' Tell me who you suppose he is, for I cannot say my o^vn
tkought."

" On my life, I cannot remember."

" Did you note the appearance of the young gentleman you saw slain that
night ? Do you recollect aught of the appearance of my young master,
George Colwan ? "

Mrs. Calvert sat silent, and stared the other mildly in the face. Their
looks encountered, and there was an unearthly amazement that gleamed from
each, which, meeting together, caught real lire, and returned the flame to their
heated imaginations, till the two associates became like two statues, with
their hands spread, their eyes fixed, and their chops fallen down upon
their bosoms. An old woman who kept the lodging-house, having been
called in before when Mrs. Logan was faintish, chanced to enter at this crisis
with some cordial ; and, seeing the state of her lodgers, she caught the infec-
tion, and fell into the same rigid and statue-like appearance. No scene more
striking was ever exhibited ; and if Mrs. Calvert hud not resumed strength of
mind to speak, and break the spell, it is impossible to say how long it might

CONFESSIONS OF A FANA TIC. 345

have continued. " It is he, I believe," said she, uttering the words as it were
inwardly. " It can be none other but he. But. no, it is impossible ! I saw
him stabbed through and through the heart ; I saw him roll backward on the
green in his own blood, utter his last words, and groan away his soul. Yet, if
it is not he, who can it be .'' "

" It is he ! " cried Mrs. Logan hysterically.

" Yes, yes, it is he ! " cried the landlady, in unison.

" It is who .? " said Mrs. Calvert ; " whom do you mean, mistress ? "

" Oh, I don't know ! I don't know ! I was affrighted."

" Hold your peace, then, till you recover your senses, and tell me, if
you can, who that young gentleman is who keeps company with the new
Laird of Dalcastle ? "

" Oh, it is he ! it is he ! " screamed Mrs. Logan, wringing her hands.

" Oh, it is he ! it is he ! " cried the landlady, wringing hers.

Mrs. Calvert turned the latter gently and civilly out of the apartment,
observing that there seemed to be some infection in the air of the room, and
she would be wise for herself to keep out of it.

The two dames had a restless and hideous night. Sleep came not to their
relief ; for their conversation was wholly about the dead, who seemed to be
alive, and their minds were wandering and groping in a chaos of mystery.
" Did you attend to his corpse, and know that he positively died and was
buried .'' " said Mrs. Calvert.

" O, yes, from the moment that his fair but mangled corpse was brought
home, 1 attended it till that when it was screwed in the coffin. I washed the
long stripes of blood from his lifeless form, on both sides of the body —
I bathed the livid wound that passed through his generous and gentle heart.
There was one through the ilesh of his left side, too, which had bled most out-
wardly of them all. I bathed them, and bandaged them up with wax and
perfumed ointment, but still the blood oozed through all, so that when he was
laid in the coffin he was like one newly murdered. My brave, my generous
young master ! he was always as a son to me, and no son was ever more kind
or more respectful to a mother. But he was butchered — he was cut off from the
earth ere he had well reached to manhood — most barbarously and unfairly
slain. And how is it, how can it be, that we again see him here, walking arm
in arm with his murderer .'' "

"The thing cannot be, Mrs. Logan. It is a phantasy of our disturbed
imaginations, therefore let us compose ourselves till we investigate this
matter farther."

" It cannot be in nature, that is quite clear," said Mrs. Logan ; " yet how it
should be that I should think so — I who knew and nursed him from his
infancy — there lies the paradox. As you said once before, we have nothing
but our senses to depend on, and if you and I believe that we see a person,
why, we do see him. Whose word, or whose reasoning can convince us
against our own senses .' We will disguise ourselves, as poor women selling
a few country wares, and we will go up to the Hall, and see what is to see, and
hear what we can hear, for this is a weighty business in which we are
engaged, namely, to turn the vengeance of the law upon an unnatural
monster ; and we will further learn, if we can, who this is that accompanies
him."

Mrs. Calvert acquiesced, and the two dames took their way to Dalcastle,
with baskets well furnished with trifles. They did not take the common
path from the village, but went about, and approached the mansion by a dif-
ferent way. But it seemed as if some overruling power ordered it, that they
should miss no chance of attaining the information they wanted. For ere ever
they came within half a mile of Dalcastle, they perceived the two youths
coming, as to meet them, on the same path. The road leading from Dalcastle,
towards the north-east, as all the country knows, goes along a dark bank of
brushwood called the Boglc-heurh. It was by this track that the two wonien
were going ; and when they perceived the two gentlemen mceiing them, they

346 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

turned back, and the moment they were out of their sight, they concealed
themselves in a thicket close by the road. They did this because Mrs. Logan
was terrified for being discovered, and because they wished to reconnoitre
without being seen. Mrs. Calvert now charged her, whatever she saw or
whatever she heard, to put on a resolution, and support it, lor if she fainted
there and was discovered, what was to become of her }

The two young men came on, in earnest and vehement conversation ; but
the subject they were on was a terrible one, and hardly fit to be repeated in
the face of a Christian community. Wringhim was disputing the boundless-
ness of the true Christian's freedom, and expressing doubts, that, chosen as he
knew he was from all eternity, still it might be possible for him to commit
acts that would exclude him from the limits of the covenant. The other argued,
with mighty fluency, that the thing was utterly impossible, and altogether
inconsistent with eternal predestination. The arguments of the latter pre-
vailed, and the laird was driven to sullen silence. But, to the women's utter
surprise, as the conquering disputant passed, he made a signal of recognizance
through the brambles to them, as formerly, and that he might expose his
associate fully, and in his true colours, he led him backward and forward
past the women more than twenty times, making him to confess both the
crimes that he had done, and those he had in contemplation. At length he
said to him, " Assuredly I saw some vagrant strolling women on this walk,
my dear friend : I wish we could find them, for there is little doubt that
they are concealed here in your woods."

" I wish we could find them," answered Wringhim ; " we would have fine
sport maltreating and abusing them."

" That we should, that we should ! Now tell me, Robert, if you found a
malevolent woman, the latent enemy of your prosperity, lurking in these
woods to betray you, what would you intlict on her.-"'

" I would tear her to pieces with my dogs, and feed them with her flesh.
O, my dear friend, there is an old strumpet who lived with my unnatural
father, whom 1 hold in such utter detestation, that I stand constantly
in dread of her, and would sacrifice the half of my estate to shed her
blood ! "

'' What will you give me if I will put her in your power, and give you a fair
and genuine excuse for making away with her ; one for which you shall
answer at any bar, here or hereafter?"

" I should like to see the vile hag put down. She is in possession of the
family plate, that is mine by right, as well as a thousand valuable relics, and
great riches besides, all of which the old profligate gifted shamefully away.
And it is said, besides all these, that she has sworn my destruction."

" She has, she has. But I see not how she can accomplish that, seeing the
deed was done so suddenly, and in the silence of the night."

" It was said there were some onlookers.— But where shall we find that dis-
graceful Miss Logan?"

" I will show you her by and by. But will you then consent to the other
meritorious deed ? Come, be a man, and throw away scruples."

" If you can convince me that the promise is binding, I will."

" Then step this way, till I give you a piece of information."

They walked a little way out of hearing, but went not out of sight ; there-
fore, though the women were in a terrible quandary, they durst not stir, for
they had some hopes that this extraordinary person was on a mission of the
same sort with themselves, knew of them, and was going to make use of their
testimony. Mrs. Logan was several times on the point of falling into a swoon,
so much did the appearance of the young man impress her, until her associate
covered her face that she might listen without embarrassment. But this
latter dialogue aroused different feelings within them ; namely, those arising
from imminent personal danger. They saw his waggish associate point out
the place of their concealment to Wringhim, who came toward them, out of
curiosity to see what his friend meant by what he believed to be a joke, mani-

CONFESSIONS OF A FANATIC. 347

festly without crediting it in the least degree. When he came running away,
the other called after him, " If she is too hard for you, call to me." As he
said this, he hasted out of sight, in the contrary direction, apparently much
delighted with the joke.

Wringhim came rushing through the thicket impetuously, to the very spot
where Mrs. Logan lay squatted. She held the wrapping close about her
head, but he tore it off and discovered her. " The curse of God be on thee !"
said he ; " What fiend has brought thee here, and for what purpose art thou
come ? But, whatever has brought thee, I have thee.'" and wiih that he seized
her by the throat. The two women, when they heard what jeopardy they
were in from such a wretch, had squatted among the underwood at a small
distance from each other, so that he had never observed Mrs. Calvert ; but no
sooner had he seized her benefactress, than, like a wild cat, she sprung out of
the thicket, and had both her hands fixed at his throat, one of them twisted
in his stock, in a twinkling. She brought him back-over among the brush-
wood, and the two, fixing on him like two harpies, mastered him with ease.
Then indeed was he wofully beset. He deemed for a while that his friend
was at his back, and turning his bloodshot eyes toward the path, he attempted
to call ; but there was no friend there, and the women cut short his cries by
another twist of his stock. " Now, gallant and rightful Laird of Dalcastle,"
said Mrs. Logan, " what hast thou to say for thyself.'' Lay thy account to
dree the weird thou hast so well earned. Now shalt thou suffer due penance
for murdering thy brave and only brother."

" Thou liest, thou hag of the pit ! I touched not my brother's life."

" I saw thee do it with these eyes that now look thee in the face ; ay, when
his back was to thee too, and when he was hotly engaged with thy friend,"
said Mrs. Calvert.

" I heard thee confess it again and again this same hour," said Mrs.
Logan.

" Ay, and so did I," said her companion. — " Murder will out, though the
Almighty should lend hearing to the ears of the willow, and speech to the
seven torgues of the woodriff."

" You are liars, and witches ! " said he, foaming with rage, " and creatures
fitted from the beginning for eternal destruction. I'll have your bones and
your blood sacrificed on your cursed altars ! O, Gil-Martin ! Gil-Martin !
tvhere art thou now .-' Here, here is the proper food for blessed vengeance I —
HiUoa ! "

There was no friend, no Gil-Martin there to hear or assist him : he was in
the two women's mercy, but they used it with moderation. They mocked,
they tormented, and they threatened him ; but, finally, after putting him in
great terror, they bound his hands behind his back, and his feet fast with long
straps of garters which they chanced to have in their baskets, to prevent him
from pursuing them till they were out of his reach. As they left him, which
they did in the middle of the path, Mrs. Calvert said, " we could easily put an
end to thy sinful life, but our hands shall be free of thy blood. Nevertheless
thou art still in our power, and the vengeance of thy country shall overtake
thee, thou mean and cowardly murderer, ay, and that more suddenly than
thou art aware ! "

The women posted to Edinburgh ; and as they put themselves under the
protection of an English merchant, who was journeying thither with twentj'
horses laden, and armed servants, so they had scarcely any conversation on
the road. When they arrived at Mrs. Logan's house, then they spoke of what
they had seen and heard, and agreed that they had sufficient proof to con-
demn young Wringhim, who they thought richly deserved the severest doom
of the law.

" I never in my life saw any human being," said Mrs. Calvert, "whom I
thought so like a tlcnd. If a demon could inherit flesh and blood, that youth
is precisely such a being as I could conceive that demon to be. The depth
and the malignity of his eye is hideous. His breath is like the airs from a char-

348 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

nel-house, and his flesh seems fading from his bones, as if the worm that never
dies were gnawing it away already."

" He was always repulsive, and every way repulsive," said the other ; " but
he is now indeed altered greatly to the worse. While we were handfasting him,
I felt his body to be feeble and emaciated ; but yet 1 know him to be so puffed
up with spiritual pride, that I believe he weens every one of his actions justi-
fied before God, and instead of having stings of conscience for these, he takes
great merit to himself in having eftected them. Still my thoughts are less
about him than the extraordinary being who accompanies him. He does
every thing with so much ease and indifference, so much velocity and effect,
that all bespeak him an adept in wickedness. The likeness to my late hapless
young master is so striking, that I can hardly believe it to be a chance model;
and 1 think he imitates him in every thing, for some purpose, or some effect
on his sinful associate. Do you know that he is so like in every lineament,
look, and gesture, that, against the clearest light of reason, I cannot in my
mind separate the one from the other, and have a certain indefinable impres-
sion on my mind, that they are one and the same being, or that the one was
a prototype of the other."

" If there is an earthly crime," said Mrs. Calvert, "for the due punishment
of which the Almighty may be supposed to subvert the order of nature, it is
fratricide. But tell me, dear friend, did you remark to what the subtile and
hellish villain was endeavouring to prompt the assassin .'"'

" No, I could not comprehend it. My senses were altogether so be-
wildered, that I thought they had combined to deceive me, and I gave them
no credit."

" Then hear me : I am almost certain he was using every persuasion to
induce him to make away with his mother ; and I likewise conceive that I
heard the incendiary give his consent."

" This is dreadful. Let us speak and think no more about it, till we see
the issue. In the meantime, let us do that which is our bounden duty, — go
and divulge all that we know relating to this foul murder."

Accordingly the two women went to Sir Thomas Wallace of Craigie, the
Lord Justice Clerk (who was, I think, either uncle or grandfather to young'
Drummond, who was outlawed, and obliged to fly his country, on account of
Colwan's death,) and to that gentleman they related every circumstance of
what they had seen and heard. He examined Calvert very minutely, and
seemed deeply interested in her evidence, — said he knew she was relating the
truth, and in testimony of it, brought a letter of young Drummond's from his
desk, wherein that young gentleman, after protesting his innocence in the
most forcible terms, confessed having been seen with such a woman in such
a house, after leaving the company of his friends ; and that, on going home,
Sir Thomas's servant had let him in, in the dark, and from these circum-
stances he found it impossible to prove an alibi. He begged of his relative,
if ever an opportunity offered, to do his endeavour to clear up that mystery,
and remove the horrid stigma from his name in his country, and among his
kin, of having stabbed a friend behind his back.

Lord Craigie, therefore, directed the two women to the proper authorities,
and after hearing their evidence there, it was judged proper to apprehend the
present Laird of Dalcastle, and bring him to his trial. But before that, they
sent the prisoner in the tolbooth, he who had seen the whole transaction along
with Mrs. Calvert, to take a view of Wringhim privately ; and his discrimina-
tion being so well known as to be proverbial all over the land, they detemiined
secretly to be iiiled by his report. They accordingly sent him on a pre-
tended mission of legality to Dalcastle, with orders to see and speak with
the proprietor, without giving him a hint what was wanted. On his return,
they examined him, and he told them that he found all things at the place in
utter confusion and dismay ; that the lady of the place was missing, and could
not be found, dead or alive. On being asked if he had ever seen the pro-
prietor before, he looked astounded, and unwilling to answer. But it came

CONFESSIONS OF A FANATIC. 349

out that he had ; and that he had once seen him kill a man on such a spot at
such an hour.

Officers were then despatched, without delay, to apprehend the monster,
and bring him to justice. On these going to the mansion, and inquiring for
him, they were told he was at home ; on which they stationed guards, and
searched all the premises, but he was not to be found. It was in vain that
they overturned beds, raised floors, and broke open closets : Robert Wringhim
Colwan was lost once and for ever. His mother also was lost ; and
strong suspicions attached to some of the farmers and house servants, to
whom she was obnoxious, relating to her disappearance. The Honourable
Thomas Drummond became a distinguished ofticer in the Austrian service,
and died in the memorable year for Scotland, 171 5 ; and this is all with
which history, justiciary records, and tradition, furnish me relating to these
matters.

I have now the pleasure of presenting my readers with an original document
of a most singular nature, and preserved for their perusal in a still more
singular manner. I offer no remarks on it, and make as few additions to it,
leaving every one to judge for himself. We have heard much of the rage of
fanaticism in former days, but nothing to this.

PRIVATE MEMOIRS AND CONFESSIONS OF A
FANATIC.

WRITTEN BY HIMSELF.

My Hfe has been a life of trouble and turmoil ; of change and vicissitude ; of
anger and exultation ; of sorrow and of vengeance. My sorrows have all
been for a slighted gospel, and my vengeance has been wreaked on its
adversaries. Therefore, in the might of heaven I will sit down and write :
I will let the wicked of this world know what I have done in the faith of the
promises, that they may read and tremble, and bless their gods of silver and
of gold, that the minister of heaven was removed from their sphere before their
blood was mingled with their sacrifices.

I was born an outcast in the world, in which I was destined to act so con-
spicuous a part. My mother was a burning and shining light, in the com-
munity of Scottish worthies, and in the days of her virginity had suffered
much in the persecution of the saints. But it so pleased Heaven, that, as a
trial of her faith, she was married to one of the wicked ; a man all over
spotted with the leprosy of sin. As well might they have conjoined fire
and water together, in hopes that they would consort and amalgamate, as
purity and corruption : she fled from his embraces the first night after their
marriage, and from that time forth, his iniquities so galled her upright heart,
that she quitted his society altogether, keeping her own apartments in the
same house with him.

I was the second son of this unhappy marriage, and, long ere ever I was
bom, my father according to the flesh disclaimed all relation or connexion
with me, and all interest in me, save what the law compelled him to take,
which was to grant me a scanty maintenance ; and had it not been for a
faithful minister of the gospel, my mother's early instructor, I should have
remained an outcast from the church visible. He took pity on me, admitting
me not only into that, but into the bosom of his own household and ministry
also, and to him am I indebted, under Heaven, for the high conceptions and
glorious discernment between good and evil, right and wrong, which I
attained even at an early age. It was he who directed my studies aright,
both in the learnings of the ancient fathers, and the doctrines of the reformed
church, and designed me for his assistant and successor in the holy office. I
missed no opportunity of perfecting myself particularly in all the minute
points of theology in which my reverend lather and mother took great
delight; but at length I acquired so much skill that I astonished my teachers,

350 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

and made them gaze at one another. I remember that it was the custom, in
my patron s house, to ask the questions of the Single Catechism round every
Sabbath night. He asked the first, my mother the second, and so on, every
one saying the question asked, and then asking the next. It fell to my
mother to ask Effectual Calling at me. I said the answer with propriety and
emphasis. "Now, madam," added I, "my question to you is, What is
///effectual Calling.?"

" Ineffectual Calling ? There is no such thing, Robert," said she.

" But there is, madam," said I ; " and that answer proves how much you
say these fundamental precepts by rote, and without any consideration.
Ineffectual Calling is, the outward call of the gospel \s\\\-\o\x\. any effect on the
hearts of unregenerated and impenitent sinners. Have not all these the
same calls, warnings, doctrines, and reproofs, that we have? and is not this
Ineffectual Calling .■' Has not Ardinferry the same .? Has not Patrick M'Lure
the same ? Has not the Laird of Dalcastle and his reprobate heir the same ?
And will any tell me, that this is not ///effectual Calling ? "

" What a wonderful boy he is ! " said my mother.

" I'm feared he turn out to be a conceited gowk," said old Barnet, the
minister's man.

" No," said my pastor, zn6. father, (as I shall henceforth denominate him,)
— " No, Barnet, he is a. wonderful boy ; and no marvel, for I have prayed for
these talents to be bestowed on him from his infancy : and do you think that
Heaven would refuse a prayer so disinterested .'' No, it is impossible. But
my dread is, madam," continued he, turning to my mother, " that he is yet in
the bond of iniquity."

" God forbid ! " said my mother.

" I have struggled with the Almighty long and hard," continued he ; "but
have as yet had no certain token of acceptance in his behalf. How dreadful
is it to think of our darhng being still without the pale of the covenant ! But
I have vowed a vow, and in that there is hope."

My heart quaked with terror, when I thought of being still living in a state
of reprobation, subjected to the awful issues of death, judgment, and eternal
misery, by the slightest accident or casualty, and I set about the duty of prayer
myself with the utmost earnestness. I prayed three times every day, and
seven times on the Sabbath ; but the more frequently and fervently that I
prayed, I sinned still the more. About this time, and for a long period after-
wards, amounting to several years, 1 lived in a hopeless and deplorable state
of mind, for I said to myself, " If my name is not written in the book of life
from all eternity, it is in vain for me to presume that either vows or prayers of
mine, or those of all mankind combined, can ever procure its insertion now."
I had come under many vows, most solemnly taken, every one of which 1 had
broken ; and I saw with the intensity of juvenile grief, that there was no hope
for me. I went on sinning every hour, and all the while most strenuously
warring against sin, and repenting of every one transgression, as soon after the
commission of it as I got leisure to think. But O what a wretched state this
unregenerated state is, in which every eftbrt only aggravates our offences ! I
found it vanity to contend ; for, after communing with my heart, the con-
clusion was as follows : " If I could repent me of all my sins, and shed tears
of blood for them, still have I not a load of original transgression pressing on
me, that is enough to crush me to the lowest hell. I may be angry with my
first parents for having sinned, but how I shall repent me of their sin, is beyond
what I am able to comprehend."

Still, in those days of depravity and corruption, I had some of those principles
implanted in my mind, which were afterward to spring up with amazing
fertility. In particular, I felt great indignation against all the wicked of this
world, and often wished for the means of ridding it of such a noxious burden.

It was about this time that my reverend father preached a sermon, one sen-
tence of which affected me most disagreeably : it was to the purport, that
every unrepented sin was productive of a new sin with each breath that a man

C01VP£SSI0NS OF A FAN A TIC. 35I

drew ; and every one of these new sins added to the catalogue in the same
manner. 1 was utterly confounded at the multitude of my transgressions ; lor
I was sensible that there were great numbers of sins of which I had never
been able thoroughly to repent, and these momentary ones, by a moderate
calculation, had, I saw, long ago amounted to a hundred and fifty thousand in
the minute, and 1 saw no end to the series of repentances to which I had sub-
jected myself. A lifetime was nothing to enable me to accomplish the sum,
and then being, for any thing I was certain of, in my state of nature, and the
grace of repentance withheld from me, — what was I to do, or what was to
become of me.'' In the mean time, I went on sinning without measure; but I
was still more troubled about the multitude than the magnitude of my trans-
gressions, and the small minute ones puzzled me more than those that were
more heinous, as the latter had generally some good eflects in the way of
punishing wicked men, froward boys, and deceitful women ; and I rejoiced
even then in my early youth, at being used as a scourge in the hand of the
Lord ; another Jehu, a Cyrus, or a Nebuchadnezzar.

On the whole, 1 remember that I got into great confusion relating to my
sins and repentances. I could not help running into new sins continually ;
but then I was mercifully dealt with, for I was often made to repent of them
most heartily, by reason of bodily chastisements received on these delinquencies
being discovered. I was particularly prone to lying, and I cannot but admire
the mercy that has freely forgiven me all these iuvenile sins. Now that I
know them all to be blotted out, I may the more freely confess them : the
truth is, that one lie always paved the way for another, from hour to hour,
from day to day, and from year to year ; so that 1 found myself constantly in-
volved in a labyrinth of deceit, from which it was impossible to extricate
myself. If 1 knew a person to be a godly one, I could almost have kissed his
feet ; but against the carnal portion of mankind, I set my tace continually. I
esteemed the true ministers of the gospel ; but the prelatic party, and the
preachers up of good works I abhorred, and to this hour 1 account them the
worst and most heinous of all transgressors.

There was only one boy at Mr. Wilson's class, who kept always the upper
hand of me in every part of education. I strove against him from year to
year, but it was all in vain ; for he was a very wicked boy, and I was con-
vinced he had dealings with the devil. Indeed it was believed all over the
country that his mother was a witch ; and I was at length convinced that it
was no human ingenuity that beat me with so much ease in the Latin, after I
had often sat up a whole night with my reverend father, studying my lesson
in all its bearings. 1 often read as well and sometimes better than he ; but
the moment Mr. Wilson began to examine us, my opponent popped up above
me. I determined, (as I knew him for a wicked person, and one of the devil's
hand-fasted children,) to be revenged on him, and to humble him by some
means or other. Accordingly I lost no opportunity of setting the master
against him, and succeeded several times in getting him severely beaten for
faults of which he was innocent. I can hardly describe the joy that it gave to
my heart to see a wicked creature suffering, for though he deserved it not for one
thing, he richly deserved it for others. This may be by some people accounted
a great sin in me ; but I deny it, for I did it as a duty, and what a man or boy
does for the right, will never be put into the sum of his transgressions.

This boy, whose name was M'Gill, was at all his leisure hours engaged in
drawing profane pictures of beasts, men, women, houses, and trees, and, in
short, of all things that his eye encountered. These profane things the
Master often smiled at, and admired ; therefore I began privately to try my
hand likewise. I had scarcely tried above once to draw the figure of a man,
ere I conceived that I had hit the very features of Mr. Wilson. They were
so particular, that they could not be easily mistaken, and I was so tickled and
pleased with the droll likeness that I had drawn, that I laughed immoderately
at it. I tried no other figure but this ; and I tried it in every situation in
which a man and a schoolmaster could be placed. I often wrought for hours

552 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

together at this likeness, nor was it long before I made myself so much mas-
ter ol tlie outline, that 1 could have drawn it in any situation whatever,
almost off hand. I then took M'Gill's account book of algebra home with
me, and at my leisure put down a number of gross caricatures of Mr. Wilson
here and there, several of them in situations notoriously ludicrous. I waited
the discovery of this treasure with great impatience ; but the book, chancing
to be one that M'Gill was not using, 1 saw it might be long enough before I
enjoyed the consummation of my grand scheme ; therefore, with all the
ingenuity I was master of, I brought it before our dominie's eye. But never
shall 1 forget the rage that gleamed in the tyrant's phiz ! I was actually
terrihed to look at him, and trembled at his voice. M'Gill was called upon,
and examined relating to the obnoxious figures. He denied flatly that any of
them were of his doing. But the Master inquiring at him whose they were,
he could not tell, but affirmed it to be some trick. Mr. Wilson at one time
began, as I thought, to hesitate ; but the evidence was so strong against
M'Gill, that at length his solemn asseverations ot innocence only proved an
aggravation of his crime. There was not one in the school who had ever been
known to draw a figure but himself, and on him fell the whole weight of the
tyrant's vengeance. It was dreadiul ; and I was once in hopes that he would
not leave lile in the culprit. He, however, left the school for several months,
refusing to return to be subjected to punishment for the faults of others, and
I stood king of the class.

Matters were at last made up between M'Gill's parents and the school-
master ; but by that time 1 had got the start of him, and never in my life did
I exert myself so much to keep the mastery. It was in vain ; the powers of
enchantment prevailed, and 1 was again turned down with the tear in my eye.
I could think of no amends but one, and being driven to desperation, I put it
in practice. I told a lie of him. I came boldly up to the Master, and told
him that M'Gill had in my hearing cursed him in a most shocking manner,
and called him vile names. He called M'Gill and charged him with the
crime, and the proud young coxcomb was so stunned at the atrocity of the
charge, that his face grew as red as crimson, and the words stuck in his
throat as he feebly denied it. His guilt was manifest, and he was again
flogged most nobly, and dismissed the school for ever in disgrace, as a most
incorrigible vagabond.

This was a great victory gained, and I rejoiced and exulted exceedingly in
it. It had, however, very nigh cost me my life ; for not long thereafter I
encountered M'Gill in the fields, on which he came up and challenged me for
a liar, daring me to fight him. I retused, and said that I looked on him as
quite below my notice ; but he would not cjuit me, and finally told me that he
should either lick me, or I should lick him, as he had no other means of being
revenged on such a scoundrel. I tried to intimidate him, but it would not do ;
and I believe I would have given all that I had in the world to be quit of him.
He at length went so far as first to kick me, and then strike me on the face ;
and, being both older and stronger than he, I thought it scarcely became me
to take such insults patiently. I was, nevertheless, well aware that the
devilish powers of his mother would finally prevail ; and either the dread of
this, or the inward consciousness of having wronged him, certainly unnerved
my arm, for I fought wretchedly, and was soon wholly overcome. I was so
sore defeated that 1 kneeled, and was going to beg his pardon ; but another
thought struck me momentarily, and I threw myself on my face, and inwardly
begged aid from heaven ; at the same time I felt as if assured that my prayer
was heard, and would be answered. While I was in this humble attitude, the
villain kicked me with his foot and cursed me ; and I being newly encouraged,
arose and encountered him once more. We had not fought long at this
second turn, before I saw a man hastening towards us ; on which I uttered a
shout of joy, and laid on valiantly ; but my very next look assured me, that
the man was old John Barnet, whom I had likewise wronged all that was in
my power, and between these two wicked persons I expected any thing but

CONFESSIONS OF A FANATIC. 353

justice. My arm was again enfeebled, and that of my adversary prevailed.
I was knocked down and mauled most grievously, and while the ruffian was
kicking and cuffing me at his will and pleasure, up came old John Barnet,
breathless with running, and at one blow with his open hand, levelled my
opponent with the earth. " Tak ye that, maister ! " says John, " to learn ye
better breeding. Hout awa, man ! an ye will fight, fight fair. Gude sauf
us, ir ye a gentleman's brood, that ye will kick and cuff a lad when he's
down ? "

When I heard this kind and unexpected interference, 1 began once more to
value myself on my courage, and springing up, I made at my adversary ; but
John, without saying a word, bit his lip, and seizing me by the neck, threw me
down. M'Gill begged of him to itand and see fair play, and suffer us to finish
the battle ; for, added he, " he is a liar, and a scoundrel, and deserves ten
ttmes more than I can give him."

" I ken he's a' that ye say, an' mair, my man," quoth John : " but am I sure
that ye're no as bad, an' waur ? It says nae muckle for ony o' ye to be tearing
like tikes at ane anither here."

John cocked his cudgel and stood between us, threatening to knock the
one dead who first offered to lift his hand against the other ; but perceiving
no disposition in any of us to separate, he drove me home before him like a
bullock, keeping close guard behind me, lest M'Gill had followed. I felt
greatly indebted to John, yet I complained of his interference to my mother,
and the old officious sinner got no thanks for his pains.

As I am writing only from recollection, so I remember of nothing farther in
these early days, in the least worthy of being recorded. That I was a great,
a transcendant sinner, I confess. But still I had hopes of forgiveness,
because I never sinned from principle, but accident ; and then I always tried
to repent of these sins by the slump, for individually it was impossible ;
and though not always successful in my endeavours, I could not help that ;
the grace of repentance being withheld from me, I regarded myself as in no
degree accountable for the failure. Moreover, there were many of the most
deadly sins into which I never fell, for I dreaded those mentioned in the
Revelations as excluding sins, so that I guarded against them continually.
In particular, I brought myself to despise, if not to abhor the beauty of
women, looking on it as the greatest snare to which mankind are subjected,
aud though young men and maidens, and even old women (my mother
among the rest), taxed me with being an unnatural wretch, I gloried in my
acquisition ; and to this day am thankful for having escaped the most dan-
gerous of all snares.

I kept myself also free of the sins of idolatry, and misbelief, both of a deadly
nature ; and, upon the whole, I think I had not then broken, that is, absolutely
broken, above four out of the ten commandments ; but for all that, I had more
sense than to regard either my good works, or my evil deeds, as in the smallest
degree influencing the eternal decrees of God concerning me, either with
regard to my acceptance or reprobation. I depended entirely on the bounty
of free grace, holding all the righteousness of man as filthy rags, and believing in
the momentous and magnificent truth, that the more heavily laden with trans-
gressions, the more welcome was the believer at the throne of grace. And I
have reason to believe that it w-as this dependence and this belief that at last
ensured my acceptance there.

I come now to the most important period of my existence,^the period that
has modelled my character, and influenced every action of my life, — without
which this detail of my actions would have been as a tale that hath been told
— a monotonous farrago — an uninteresting harangue, — in short, a thing of
nothing. Whereas, lo ! it must now be a relation of great and terrible actions,
done in the might, and by the commission of Heaven. Ame7i.

Like the sinful king of Israel, I had been walking softly before the Lord for
a season. I had been humbled for my transgressions, and, as far as I recol-
lect, sorry on accoxmt of their numbers andheinousness. My reverend father
I. ^ 23

354 THE ETTRTCK SHEPHERD'S TALES,

had been, moreover, examining me every day regarding the state of my soul,
and my answers sometimes appeared to give him satisfaction, and sometimes
not. As for my mother, she would harp on the subject of my faith for ever ;
yet, though I knew her to be a Christian, I confess that I always despised her
motley instruction, nor had I any great regard for her person. If this was a
crime in me, I never could help it. I confess it freely, and believe it was a
judgment from heaven inflicted on her for some sin of former days, and that
I had no power to have acted otherwise toward her than I did.

In this frame of mind was I when my reverend father one morning arose
from his seat, and, meeting me as I entered the room, he embraced me, and
welcomed me into the community of the just upon earth. I was struck speech-
less, and could make no answer save by looks of surprise. My mother also
came to me, kissed, and wept over me ; and after showering unnumbered
blessings on my head, she also welcomed me into the society of the just made
perfect. Then each of them took me by a hand, and my reverend father ex-
plained to me how he had wrestled with God, as the patriarc^^ of old had
done, not for a night, but for days and years, and that in bitterness and anguish
of spirit, on my account ; but that he had at last prevailed, and had now gained
the long and earnestly desired assurance of my acceptance with the Almighty,
in and through the merits and sufferings of His Son.

I wept for joy to be assured of my freedom from all sin, and of the impossi-
bility of my ever again falling away from my new state. I bounded away into
the fields and the woods, to pour out ~ spirit in prayer before the Almighty for
His kindness to me : my whole frame seemed to be renewed ; every nerve
was buoyant with new life ; I felt as if I could have flown in the air, or leaped
over the tops of the trees. An exaltation of spirit lifted me, as it were, far
above the earth, and the sinful creatures crawling on its surface ; and I
deemed myself as an eagle among the children of men, soaring on high, and
looking down with pity and contempt on the grovelling creatures below.

As I thus wended my v^ay, I beheld a young man of a mysterious appear-
ance coming towards me. I tried to shun him, being bent on my own con-
templations ; but he cast himself in my way, so that I could not well avoid
him ; and more than that, 1 felt a sort of invisible power that drew me towards
him, something like the force of enchantment, which I could not resist. As we
approached each other our eyes met, and 1 can never describe the strange
sensations that thrilled through my whole frame at that impressive moment ;
a moment to me fraught with the most tremendous consequences ; the begin-
ning of a series of adventures which has puzzled myself, and will puzzle the
world when 1 am no more in it. That time will soon arrive, sooner than any
one can devise who knows not the tumult of my thoughts, and the labour of
my spirit ; and when it hath come and passed over — when my flesh and
my bones are decayed, and my soul has passed to its everlasting home,
then shall the sons of men ponder on the events of my life ; wonder and
tremble, and tremble and wonder how such things should be.

That stranger youth and I approached other in silence, and slowly, with our
eyes fixed on each other's eyes. We approached till not more than a yard
intervened between us, and then stood still and gazed, measuring each other
from head to foot. What was my astonishment on perceiving that he was the
same being as myself ! The clothes were the same to the smallest item. The
form was the same ; the apparent age ; the colour of the hair ; the eyes ;
and, as far as recollection could serve me from viewing my own features in a
glass, the features too were the very same. I conceived at first that I saw a
vision, and that my guardian angel had appeared to me at this important era
of my life ; but this singular being read my thoughts in my looks, anticipating
the very words that I was going to utter.

" You think I am your brother," said he ; " or that I am your second self.
I am indeed your brother, not according to the flesh, but in my belief of the
same truths, and my assurance in the same mode of redemption, than which,
I hold nothing so great or so glorious on earth."

CONFESSIONS OF A FANA TIC. 355

•Then you are an associate well adapted to my present state," said I.
** For this time is a time of great rejoicing in spirit to me. I am on my way
to return thanks for my redemption from the bonds of sin and misery. If you
will join with me heart and hand in youthful thanksgiving, then shall we two
go and worship together, but if not, go your way, and I shall go mine."

" Ah, you little know with how much pleasure I will accompany you, and
join with you in your elevated devotions," said he fervently. " Your state is a
state to be envied indeed ; but I have been advised of it, and am come to be
a humble disciple of yours ; to be initiated into the true way of salvation by
conversing with you, and perhaps by being assisted by your prayers."

My spiritual pride being greatly elevated by this address, 1 began to assume
the preceptor, and questioned this extraordinary youth with regard to his re-
ligious principles, telling him plainly, if he was one who expected acceptance
with God at all, on account of good works, that I would hold no communion
with him. We then went on to commune about all our points of belief ; and
in everything that I suggested, he acquiesced, and, as I thought that day,
often carried them to extremes, so that I had a secret dread he was advancing
blasphemies. Yet he had such a way with him, and paid such a deference to
all my opinions, that I was quite captivated, and, at the same time, I stood in
a sort of awe of him, which I could not account for, and several times was
seized with an involuntary inclination to escape from his presence, by making
a sudden retreat. But he seemed constantly to anticipate my thoughts, and
was sure to divert my purpose by some turn in the conversation that particularly
interested me.

We moved about from one place to another, until the day was wholly spent.
My mind had all the while been kept in a state of agitation resembling the
motion of a whirlpool, and when we came to separate, I then discovered that
the purpose for which I had sought the fields had been neglected, and that I
had been diverted from the worship of God, by attending to the quibbles and
dogmas of this singular and unaccountable being, who seemed to have more
knowledge and information than all the persons I had ever known put together.

We parted with expressions of mutual regret, and when I left him I felt a de-
liverance, but at the same time a certain consciousness that I was not thus to
get free of him, but that he was like to be an acquaintance that was to stick
to me for good or for evil. I was astonished at his acuteness and knowledge
about everything ; but as for his likeness to me, that was quite unaccountable.
He was the same person in every respect, but yet he was not always so ; for
I observed several times, when we were speaking of certain divines and their
tenets, that his face assumed something of the appearance of theirs ; and it
struck me, that by setting his features to the mould of other people's, he entered
at orvce into their conceptions and feelings. 1 had been greatly flattered and
greatly interested by his conversation ; whether I had been the better for it
or the worse, 1 could not tell. I had been diverted from returning thanks to
my gracious Maker for his great kindness to me, and came home as 1 went
away, but not with the same buoyancy and lightness of heart. Well may 1
remember that day in which I was first received into the number, and made
an heir to all the privileges of the children of God, and on which I first met
this mysterious associate, who from that day forth contrived to wind himself
into all my affairs, both spiritual and temporal, to this day on which 1 am
writing the account of it. It was on the 25th day of March, 1704, when I had
just entered the eighteenth year of my age. Whether it behoves me to bless
God for the events of that day, or to deplore them, has been hid from my dis-
cernment, though 1 have inquired into it with fear and trembling ; and 1 have
now lost all hopes of ever discovering the true import of these events until
that day when my accounts are to make up and reckon for in another world.

When I came home, I went straight into the parlour, where my mothei
was sitting by herself She started to her feet, and uttered a smothered
scream. " What ails you, Robert?" cried she. " My dear son, what is the
matter with you ? "

3S6 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

" Do you see any thing the matter with me?" said I. "It appears that
the aihiient is with yourself, and either in your crazed head or your dim eyes,
for there is nothing the matter with me."

" Ah, Robert, you are ill," cried she ; " you are very ill, my dear boy ; you
are quite changed ; your very voice and manner are changed. Ah, Jane,
haste you up to the study, and tell Mr. Wringhim to come here on the instant
and speak to Robert."

" I beseech you, woman, to restrain yourself," said I. " If you suffer your
frenzy to run away with your judgment in this manner, I will leave the house.
What do you mean .-* I tell you, there is nothing ails me : I never was
better."

She screamed, and ran between me and the door, to bar my retreat : in the
mean time my reverend father entered, and I have not forgot how he gazed,
through his glasses, first at my mother, and then at me. I imagined that his
eyes burnt like candles, and was afraid of him, which I suppose made my
looks more unstable than they would otherwise have been.

"What is all this for?'' said he. "Mistress! Robert! What is the
matter here ? "

"Oh, sir, our boy !" cried my mother; "our dear boy, Mr. Wringhim !
Look at him, and speak to him : he is either dying or translated, sir ! "

He looked at me with a countenance of great alarm ; mumbling some
sentences to himself, and then taking me by the arm, as if to feel my pulse,
he said, with a faltering voice, " Something has indeed befallen you, either in
body or mind, boy, for you are so transformed since the morning, that I could
not have known you for the same person. Have you met with any accident?"

" No."

" Have you seen any thing out of the ordinary course of nature ? "

" No."

" Then, Satan, I fear, has been busy with you, tempting you in no ordinary
degree at this momentous crisis of your life ? "

My mind turned on my associate for the day, and the idea that he might
be an agent of the devil, had such an effect on me, that 1 could make no
answer.

" I see how it is," said he ; " you are troubled in spirit, and I have no
doubt that the enemy of our salvation has been busy with you. Tell me this,
has he overcome you, or has he not ?"

" He has not, my dear father," said I. " In the strength of the Lord, I
hope I have withstood him. But indeed, if he has been busy with me, I
knew it not. I have been conversant this day with one stranger only, whom
I took rather for an angel of light"

"It is one of the devil's most profound wiles to appear like one," said my
mother.

" Woman, hold thy peace ! " said my reverend father : " thou pretendest
to teach what thou knowest not. Tell me this, boy. Did this stranger, with
whom you met, adhere to the religious principles in which I have educated
you ? "

" Yes, to every one of them, in their fullest latitude," said I.

" Then he was no agent of the wicked one with whom you held converse,"
said he ; " for that is the doctrine that was made to overturn the principalities
and powers, the might and dominion of the kingdom of darkness. — Let
us pray." .

After spending about a quarter of an hour in solemn and sublime thanks-
giving, this saintly man gave out that the day following should be kept by
the family as a day of solemn thanksgiving, and spent in prayer and praise,
on account of the calling and election of one of its members ; or rather for
the election of that individual being revealed on earth, as well as confirmed
in heaven.

The next day was with me a day of holy exultation. It was begun by my
reverend father laying his hands upon my head and iblessing me, and then

CONFESSIONS OF A FANATIC. 357

dedicating me to the Lord in the most awful and impressive manner. It was

no common way that he exercised this profound rite, for it was done with all
the zeal and enthusiasm of a devotee to the true cause, and a champion on
the side he had espoused. He used these remarkable words ; " May he be a
two-edged weapon in Thy hand, and a spear coming out of Thy mouth, to
destroy, and overcome, and pass over ; and may the enemies of Thy church
fall down before him, and be as dung to fat the land ! "

From that moment, I conceived it decreed, not that I should be a minister
of the gospel, but a champion of it, to cut off the wicked from the face of the
earth ; and I rejoiced in the commission, finding it more congenial to my
nature to be cutting sinners off with the sword, than to be haranguing them
from the pulpit, striving to produce an effect, which God, by his act of
absolute predestination, had for ever rendered impracticable. The more I
pondered on these things, the more I saw of the folly and inconsistency of
ministers, in spending their lives, striving and remonstrating with sinners, in
order to induce them to do that which they had it not in their power to do.
How much more wise would it be, thought I, to begin and cut sinners ofT
with the sword ! for till that is effected, the saints can never inherit the earth
in peace. Should I be honoured as an instrument to begin this great work
of purification, I should rejoice in it. But then, where had I the means, or
under what direction was I to begin .? There was one thing clear, I was now
the Lord's, and it behoved me to bestir myself in his service. O that I had
an host at my command, then would I be as a devouring fire among the
workers of iniquity !

Full of these great ideas, I hurried through the city, and sought again the
private path through the field and wood of Finnieston, in which my reverend
preceptor had the privilege of walking for study, and to which he had a key
that was always at my command. Near one of the stiles, I perceived a young
man sitting in a devout posture, reading on a Bible. He rose, lifted his hat,
and made an obeisance to me, which 1 returned and walked on. I had not
well crossed the stile, till it struck me I knew the face of tlie youth, and that
he was some intimate acquaintance, to whom I ought to have spoken. I
walked on, and returned, and walked on again, trying to recollect who he
was ; but for my life I could not. There was, however, a fascination in his
look and manner, that drew me back toward him in spite of myself, and I
resolved to go to him, if it were merely to speak and see who he was.

" I came up to him and addressed him, but he was so intent on his book,
that, though I spoke, he lifted not his eyes. I looked on the book also, and
still it seemed a Bible, having columns, chapters, and verse ; but it was in a
language of which 1 was wholly ignorant, and all intersected with red hnes
and verses. A sensation resembling a stroke of electricity came over me, on
first casting my eyes on that mysterious book, and I stood motionless. He
looked up, smiled, closed his book, and put it in his bosom. " You seem
strangely affected, dear sir, by looking on my book," said he mildly.

" What book is that .? " said I :" is it a Bible .? "

" It is my Bible, sir," said he ; " but I will cease reading it, for I am glad to
see you. Pray, is not this a day of holy festivity with you ? "

I stared in his face, but made no answer, for my senses were bewildered.

" Do you not know me?" said he. " You appear to be somehow at a loss.
Had not you and I some sweet communion and fellowship yesterday .J""

" I beg your pardon, sir," said 1. " But surely if you are the young gentle-
man with whom I spent the hours yesterday, you have the camelon art of
changing your appearance ; I never could have recognised you."

" My countenance changes with my studies and sensations," said he. " It
is a natural peculiarity in me, over which I have not full control. If I con-
template a man's features seriously, mine own gradually assume the very
same appearance and character. And what is more, by contemplating a face
minutely, I not only attain the same likeness, but, with the likeness, attain
the very same ideas as well as the same mode of arranging them, so that, you

S58 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

see, by looking at a person attentively, I by degrees assume his likeness,
by assuming his likeness I attain to tne possession of his most secret thought
This, I say, is a peculiarity in my nature, a gift of the God that made me ; bu
whether or not given me for a blessing, he knows himself and so do I. At all
events, I have this privilege, — I can never be mistaken of a character in whom
I am interested."

" It is a rare qualification," replied I, " and I would give worlds to possess
it. Then, it appears, that it is needless to dissemble with you, since you can
at any time extract our most secret thoughts from our bosoms. You already
know my natural character.-"'

" Yes," said he, *' and it is that which attaches me to you. By assuming
your likeness yesterday, I became acquainted with your character, and was
no less astonished at the profundity and range of your thoughts, than at the
heroic magnanimity with which these were combined. And now, in addition
to these, you are dedicated to the great work of the Lord ; for which reasons
I have resolved to attach myself as closely to you as possible, and to render
you all the service of which my poor abilities are capable."

I confess that I was greatly flattered by these compliments paid to my
abilities by a youth of such superior qualifications ; by one who, with a
modesty, and affability rare at his age, combined a height of genius and
knowledge almost above human comprehension. Nevertheless, I began to
assume a certain superiority of demeanour toward him, as judging it incumbent
on me to do so, in order to keep up his idea of my exalted character ; but I soon
felt, that, instead of being a humble disciple of mine, this new acquaintance
was to be my guide and director, and all under the humble guise of one stoof>-
ing at my feet to learn the right. He said that he saw I was ordained to per-
form some great action for the cause of Jesus and his church, and he earnestly
coveted being a partaker with me ; but he besought of me never to think it
possible for me to fall from the truth, or the favour of him who had chosen
me, else that misbelief would baulk every good work to which I set my face.

There was something so flattering in all this, that I could not resist it.
Still, when he took leave of me, I felt it as a great relief ; and yet, before the
morrow, I wearied and was impatient to see him again. We carried on our
fellowship from day to day, and all the while I knew not who he was, and still
my mother and reverend father kept insisting that I was an altered youth,
changed in my appearance, my manners, and my whole conduct ; yet something
always prevented me from telling them more about my new acquaintance than
I had done on the first day we met. I rejoiced in him, was proud of him, and
soon could not live without him ; yet, though resolved every day to disclose
the whole history of my connexion with him, I had it not in my power : some-
thing always prevented me, till at length I thought no more of it, but resolved
to enjoy his fascinating company in private, and by all means to keep my own
with him. The resolution was vain : I set a bold face to it, but my powers
were inadequate to the task ; my adherent, with all the suavity imaginable,
was sure to carry his point. I sometimes fumed, and sometimes shed tears
at being obliged to yield to proposals against which 1 had at first felt every
reasoning power of my soul rise in' opposition ; but, for all that, he never
failed in carrying conviction along with him in effect, for he either forced me
to acquiesce in his measures, and assent to the truth of his positions, or he
put me so completely down, that I had not a word left to advance against
them.

After weeks, I may say months of intimacy, I observed, somewhat to my
amazement, that we had never once prayed together ; and more than that,
that he had constantly led my attentions away from that duty, causing me to
neglect it wholly. I thought this a bad mark of a man seemingly so much
set on inculcating certain important points of religion, and resolved next day
to put him to the test, and request of him to perform that sacred duty in name
of us both. He objected boldly ; saying there were very few people indeed,
with whom he could join in prayer, and he made a point of never doing it, as

CONFESSIONS OF A FANATIC. 359

he was sure they were to ask many things of which he disapproved, and that if
he were to officiate himself, he was as certain to allude to many things that
came not within the range of their faith. He disapproved of prayer altogether
in the manner it was generally gone about, he said. Man made it merely a
selfish concern, and was constantly employed asking, asking for every thing.
Whereas it became all God's creatures to be content with their lot, and only
to kneel before him in order to thank him for such benefits as he saw meet to
bestow. In short, he argued with such energy, that before we parted I ac-
quiesced, as usual, in his position, and never mentioned prayer to him any
more.

Having been so frequently seen in his company, several people happened
to mention the circumstance to my mother and reverend father ; but at the
same time had all described him differently. At length they began to examine
me with regard to the company I kept, as I absented myself from home day after
day. I told them I kept company only with one young gentleman, whose
whole manner of thinking on religious subjects, I found so congenial with my
own, that I could not live out of his society. My mother began to lay down
some of her old hackneyed rules of faith, but I turned from hearing her with
disgust ; for, after the energy of my new friend's reasoning, hers appeared so
tame I could not endure it. And I confess with shame, that my reverend
preceptor's religious dissertations began, about this time, to lose their relish
very much, and by degrees became exceedingly tiresome to my ear. They
were so inferior, in strength and sublimity, to the most common observations
of my young friend, that in drawing a comparison the former appeared as
nothing. He, however, examined me about many things relating to my com-
panion, in all of which I satisfied him, save in one : I could neither tell him
who my friend was, what was his name, nor of whom he was descended ; and
I wondered at myself how I had never once adverted to such a thing, for all
the time we had been intimate.

I inquired the next day what his name was ; as I said I was often at a loss
for it, when talking with him. He replied, that there was no occasion for any
one friend ever naming another, when their society was held in private, as
ours was ; for his part he had never once named me since we first met, and
never intended to do so, unless by my own request. " But if you cannot con-
verse without naming me, you may call me Gil for the present," added he ;
" and if I think proper to take another name at any future period, it shall be
with your approbation."

" Gil ! " said I ; " have you no name but Gil ? Or which of your names is
it ? — your Christian or surname ? "

" O, you must have a surname too, must you!" replied he; "Very well,
you may call me Gil-Martin. It is not my Christian name ; but it is a name
which may serve your turn."

" This is very strange ! " said I. " Are you ashamed of your parents, that
you refuse to give your real name ? "

" I have no parents save one, whom I do not acknowledge," said he
proudly ; "therefore pray drop that subject, for it is a disagreeable one. I am a
being of a very peculiar temper, for though I have servants and subjects more
than I can number, yet, to gratify a certain whim, I have left them, and re-
tired to this city, and for all the society it contains, you see I have attached
myself only to you. This is a secret, and I tell it you only in friendship,
therefore pray let it remain one, and say not another word about the
matter."

I assented, and said no more concerning it ; for it instantly struck me that
this was no other than the Czar Peter of Russia, having heard that he had
been travelling through Europe in disguise, and I cannot say that I hail not
thenceforward great and mighty hopes of high preferment, as a defender and
avenger of the oppressed Christian Church, under the intluence of this great
potentate. He had hinted as much already, as that it was more honourable,
and of more avail to put down the wicked with the sword, than try to reform

36o THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

them, and I thought myself quite justified in supposing that he intended me
for some great employment, that he had thus selected me for his companion
out of all the rest in Scotland, arid even pretended to learn the great truths of
religion from my mouth. From that time I felt disposed to yield to such a
/^reat prince's suggestions without hesitation.

Nothing ever astonished me so much, as the uncommon powers with which
he seemed invested. In our walk one day, we met with a Mr. Blanchard, who
was reckoned a worthy, pious divine, but quite of the moral cast, who joined
us ; and we three walked on, and rested together in the fields. My com-
panion did not seem to like him, but, nevertheless, regarded him frequently
with deep attention, and there were several times, while he seemed contem-
plating him, and trying to find out his thoughts, that his face became so like
Mr. Blanchard's, that it was impossible to have distinguished the one from
the other. The antipathy between the two was mutual, and discovered itself
quite palpably in a short time. When my companion the prince was gone,
Mr. Blanchard asked me anent him, and I told him that he was a stranger in
the city, but a very uncommon and great personage. Mr. Blanchard's answer
to me was as follows : " I never saw any body I disliked so much in my life,
Mr. Robert ; and if it be true that he is a stranger here, which I doubt, believe
me he is come for no good."

"Do you not perceive what mighty powers of mind he is possessed of.-"'
said I, "and also how clear and unhesitating he is on some of the most inter-
esting points of divinity?"

" It is for his great mental faculties that I dread him," said he. " It is in-
calculable what evil such a person as he may do, if so disposed. There is
a sublimity in his ideas, with which there is to me a mixture of terror ; and
when he talks of religion, he does it as one that rather dreads its truths than
reverences them. He, indeed, pretends great strictness of orthodoxy regard-
ing some of the points of doctrine embraced by the reformed church ; but you
do not seem to perceive, that both you and he are carrying these points to a
dangerous e.xtremity. Religion is a sublime and glorious thing, the bond of
society on earth, and the connector of humanity with the Divine nature ; but
there is nothing so dangerous to man as the wresting of any of its principles,
or forcing them beyond their due bounds : this is of all others the readiest
way to destruction. Neither is there anything so easily done. There is not
an error into which a man can fall, of which he may not press Scripture into
his service as proof of its probity, and though your boasted theologian
shunned the full discussion of the subject before me, while you pressed it, I
ran easily see that both you and he are carrying your ideas of absolute pre-
destination, and its concomitant appendages, to an extent that overthrows all
religion and revelation together. Believe me, Mr. Robert, the less you
associate with that illustrious stranger the better."

" I was rather stunned at this ; but I pretended to smile with disdain, and
said, it did not become youth to control age ; and, as 1 knew our principles
differed fundamentally, it behoved us to drop the subject. He, however,
would not drop it, but took both my principles and me fearfully to task, for
Blanchard was an eloquent and powerful-minded old man ; and, before we
parted, I believe I promised to drop my new acquaintance, and was all but
resolved to do it.

As well might I have laid my account with shunning the light of day. He
was constant to me as my shadow, and by degrees he acquired such an ascen-
dency over me, that I never was happy out of his company, nor greatly so in
it. When I repeated to him all that Mr. Blanchard had said, his countenance
kindled with indignation and rage; and then by degrees his eyes sunk inward,
his brow lowered^ so that I was awed, and withdrew my eyes from looking at
him. A while afterward, as I was addressing him, 1 chanced to look him
again in the face, and the sight of him made me start violently. He had made
himself so like Mr. Blanchard, that I actually believed I had been addressing
that gentleman, and fhat 1 had done so in some absence of mind that I could

CONI^ESSIONS OF A FANATIC. 361

not account for. Instead of being amused at the quandary I was in, he
seemed offended : indeed, he never was truly amused with anything. And he
then asked me sullenly, if I conceived such personages as he to have no other
endowments than common mortals !

I said I never conceived that princes or potentates had any greater share
of endowments than other men, and frequently not so much. He shook his
head, and bade me think over the subject again ; and there was an end of it
I certainly felt every day the more disposed to acknowledge such a superiority
in him, and from all that I could gather, I had now no doubt that he was
Peter of Russia. Every thing combined to warrant the supposition, and, of
course, I resolved to act in conformity with the discovery I had made.

For several days the subject of Mr. Blanchard's doubts and doctrines
formed the theme of our discourse. My friend deprecated them most de-
voutly ; and then again he would deplore them, and lament the great evil that
such a man might do among the human race. I joined with him in allowing
the evil in its fullest latitude ; and, at length, after he thought he had fully
prepared my nature for such a trial of its powers and abilities, he proposed
calmly that we two should make away with Mr. Blanchard. I was so shocked,
that my bosom became as it were a void, and the beatings of my heart sounded
loud and hollow in it ; my breath cut, and my tongue and palate became dry
and speechless. He mocked at my cowardice, and began a-reasoning on the
matter with such powerful eloquence, that before we parted, I felt fully con-
vinced that it was my bounden duty to slay Mr. Blanchard ; but my will was
far, very far from consenting to the deed.

I spent the following night without sleep, or nearly so ; and the next morn-
ing, by the time the sun arose, I was again abroad, and in the company of my
illustrious friend. The same subject was resumed, and again he reasoned to
the following purport : — That supposing me placed at the head of an army of
Christian soldiers, all bent on putting down the enemies of the church, would I
have any hesitation in destroying and rooting out these enemies .-' — Nonfl
surely. — Well then, when I saw and was convinced, that here was an indi-
vidual who was doing more detriment to the church of Christ on earth, than
tens of thousand of such warriors were capable of doing, was it not my duty
to cut him off? " He, who would be a champion in the cause of Christ and
his Church, my brave young friend," added he, " must begin early, and no
man can calculate to what an illustrious eminence small beginnings may lead.
If the man Blanchard is worthy, he is only changing his situation for a better
one ; and if unworthy, it is better that one fall, than that a thousand souls
perish. Let us be up and doing in our vocations. For me, my resolution is
taken ; I have but one great aim in this world, and I never for a moment lose
sight of it."

I was obliged to admit the force ol his reasoning ; for though I cannot
from memory repeat his words, his eloquence was of that overpowering
nature, that the subtility of other men sunk before it ; and there is also little
doubt that the assurance I had that these words were spoken by a great
potentate, who could raise me to the highest eminence (provided that I
entered into his extensive and decisive measures), assisted mightily in dis-
pelling my youthful scruples and cjualms of conscience ; and I thought,
moreover, that having such a powerful back friend to support me, I hardly
needed to be afraid of the consequences. I consented ! But begged a
little time to think of it. He said the less one thought of a duty the better ;
and we parted.

But the most singular instance of this wonderful man's power over my
mind was, that he had as complete influence over me by night as by day.
All my dreams corresponded exactly with his suggestions ; and when he was
absent from me, still his arguments sunk deeper in my heart than even when
he was present. I dreamed that night of a great triumph obtained, and
though the whole scene was but dimly and confusedly defined in my
vision, yet the overthrow and death of Mr. Blanchard was the first step by

362 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

which I attained the eminent station I occupied. Thus, by dreaming of the
event by night, and discoursing of it by day, it soon became so familiar to
my mind, that I almost conceived it as done. It was resolved on : which
was the nrst and greatest \-ictor)' gained ; for there was no difncult>- in finding
opportunities enow of cutting oft" a man, who, ever\- good day, was to be
found walking by himself in private grounds. I went and heard him preach
for two days, and in fact I held his tenets scarcely short of blasphemy ; they
were such as I had never heard before, and his congregation, which was
numerous, were turning up their ears, and drinking in his doctrir.es with the
utmost delight ; for O, they suited their carnal natures and self-sufficiency to
a hair !

WTien I began to tell the prince about his false doctrines, to my astonish-
ment I found that he had been in the church himself, and had ever)' argument
that the old divine had used verbatim; and he remarked on them with great
concern, that these were not the tenets that corresponded with his views in
society, and that he had agents in everj- city, and every land, exerting their
powers to put them down. I asked, with great simplicity, " Are all your
subjects Christians, prince .'"

'• All my European subjects are, or deem themselves so," returned he ;
" and they are the most faithful and true subjects I have"

Who could doubt, after this, that he was the Czar of Russia ? I have
nevertheless had reasons to doubt of his identity since that period, and which
of my conjectures is right I believe heaven only knows, for I do not I shall
go on to write such things as I remember, and if any one shall ever take the
trouble to read over these confessions, such a one will judge for himself It
will be observed, that ever since I fell in with this extraordinary p>erson, I
have written about him only, and I must continue to do so to the end of this
memoir, as I have performed no great or interesting action in which he had
not a principal share.

He came to me one day and said, "We must not hnger thus in executing
what we have resolved on. We have much before our hands to perform for
the benefit of mankir^d, both ci\'il as well as religious. Let us do what we
have to do here, and then we must wend our way to other cities, and
perhaps to other coimtries. Mr. Blanchard is to hold forth in the high
church of Paisley on Sunday next, on some particular g^reat occasion : tMs
must be defeated ; he must not go there. As he will be busy arranging his
discourses, we may expect him to be walking by himself in Finnieston Dell
the greater part of Friday and Saturday. Let us go and cut him off. What
is the life of a man more than the life of a lamb, or any guiltless animal .'
It is not half so much, especially when we consider the immensity of the
mischiei this old fellow is working among our fellow-creatures. Can there
be any doubt that it is the duty of one consecrated to God, to cut off such a
mildew ?"

" I fear me, great sovereign,'' said I, " that your ideas of retribution are too
sanguine, and too arbitrary for the laws of this countr.-. I dispute not that
your motives are great and high ; but have you debated the consequences, and
settled the result ? "

'• I have," returned he, " and hold myself amenable for the action, to the
laws ot God and of equity ; as to the enactments of men, I despise them.
Fain would I see the weapon of providence begin the work of vengeance that
awaits it to do :"

I could not help thinking, that I perceived a little derision of coxmtenance
on his face as he said this, nevertheless I sunk dumb before such a man, and
aroused myself to the task, seeing he would not have it deferred. I approved
of it in theory, but my spirit stood aloof from the practice. I saw and wsis
convinced that the elect would be happier, and purer, were the wicked and
unbehevers all cut off from troubUng and misleading them, but if it had not
been the instigations of this illustrious stranger, I should never have presumed
to begin so great a work myself. Yet, though he often aroused my zeal to the

CONFESSIONS OF A FANATIC. 363

highest pitch, still my heart at times shrank from the shedding of hfe-blood,
and it was only at the earnest and unceasing instigations of my enlightened
and voluntar) patron, that I at length put my hand to the conclusive work.
After I said ah that I could say, and all had been overborne (I remember my
actions and words as well as it had been yesterday), I turned round hesita-
tingly, and looked up to Heaven for direction ; but there was a dimness came
over my eyes that I could not see. The appearance was as if there had been
a veil drawn over me, so nigh that I put up my hand to feel it ; and then
Gil-Martin (as this great sovereign was pleased to have himself called),
frowned, and asked me what I was grasping at? I knew not what to say, but
answered, with fear and shame, " I have no weapons, not one ; nor know I
where any are to be found."

" The God whom thou servest will provide these," said he, " if thou provest
worthy of the trust committed to thee."

I looked again up into the cloudy veil that covered us, and thought I beheld
golden weapons of every description let down in it, but all with their points
towards me. I kneeled, and was going to stretch out my hand to take one,
when my patron seized me, as I thought, by the clothes, and dragged me away
with as much ease as I had been a lamb, saying, with a joyful and elevated
voice, — Come, my friend, let us depart : thou art dreaming — thou art dreaming.
Rouse up all the energies of thy exalted mind, for thou art an highly-favoured
one ; and doubt thou not, that he whom thou servest will be ever at thy right
and left hand, to direct and assist thee."

These words, but particularly the vision I had seen, of the golden weapons
descending out of Heaven, inflamed my zeal to that height that I was as one
beside himself ; which my parents perceived that night, and made some
motions toward confining me to my room. I joined in the family prayers,
and then I afterwards sung a psalm, and prayed by myself ; and I had good
reasons for believing that that small oblation of praise and prayer was not
turned to sin.

I felt greatly strengthened and encouraged that night, and the next morning
I ran to meet my companion, out of whose eye I had now no life. He rejoiced
at seeing me so forward in the great work of reformation by blood, and said
many things to raise my hopes of future fame and glory ; and then, producing
two pistols of pure beaten gold, he held them out and proffered me the choice
of one, saying, "See what thy master hath provided thee !" I took one of
them eagerly, for I perceived at once that they were two of the very weapons
that were let down from Heaven in the cloudy veil, the dim tapestry of the
firmament ; and I said to myself, " Surely this is the will of the Lord."

The little splendid and enchanting piece was so perfect, so complete, and
so ready for executing the will of the donor, that I now longed to use it in
his service. I loaded it with my own hand, as Gil-Martin did the other, and
we took our stations behind a bush of hawthorn and bramble on the verge of
the wood, and almost close to the walk. My patron was so acute in all his
calculations that he never mistook an event. We had not taken our stand
above a minute and a half, till old Mr. Blanchard appeared, coming slowly
on the path. When we saw this, we cowered down, and leaned each of us a
knee upon the ground, pointing the pistols through the bush, with an aim so
steady, that it was impossible to miss our victim-
He came deliberately on, pausing at times so long, that we dreaded he was
going to turn. Gil-Martin dreaded it, and I said I did, but wished in my
heart that he might. He, however, came onward, and I will never forget the
manner in which he came ! No, — I don't believe I ever can forget it, either
in the narrow bounds of time or the ages of eternity ! He was a boardly ill-
shaped man, of a rude exterior, and a little bent with age ; his hands were
clasped behind his back, and below his coat, and he walked with a slow
swinging air that was very peculiar. When he paused and looked abroad on
nature, the act was highly impressive : he seemed conscious of being all
alone, and conversant only with God and the elements of his creation. Never

364 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

was there such a picture of human inadvertency ! a man approaching step by
step to the one that was to hurl him out of one existence into another, with
as much ease and indifference as the ox goeth to the stall. Hideous vision,
wilt thou not be gone from my mental sight ! If not, let me bear with thee
as I can !

When he came straight opposite to the muzzles of our pieces, Gil-Martin
called out " Eh ! " with a short quick sound. The old man, without starting,
turned his face and breast toward us, and looked into the wood, but looked
over our heads. " Now ! " whispered my companion, and fired. But my
hand refused the office, for 1 was not at that moment sure about becoming
an assassin in the cause of Christ and his Church. 1 thought I heard a sweet
voice behind me, whispering me to beware, and I was going to look round,
when my companion exclaimed, " Coward, we are ruined ! "

I had no time for an alternative : Gil-Martin's ball had not taken effect,
which was altogether wonderful, as the old man's breast was within a few
yards of him. " Hilloa !" cried Blanchard ; "what is tha,. for, you dog !"
and with that he came forward to look over the bush. I hesitated, as I said,
and attempted to look behind me ; but there was no time : the next step
discovered two assassins lying in covert, waiting for blood. " Coward, we
are ruined ! " cried my indignant friend ; and that moment my piece was
discharged. The effect was as might have been expected : the old man first
stumbled to one side, and then fell on his back. We kept our places, and I
perceived my companion's eyes gleaming with an unnatural joy. The wounded
man raised himself from the bank to a sitting posture, and I beheld his eyes
swimming; he, however, appeared sensible, for we heard him saying in a low
and rattling voice, "Alas, alas ! whom have I offended, that they should have
been driven to an act like this ! Come forth and show yourselves, that I may
either forgive you before I die, or curse you in the name of the Lord." He
then fell a groping with both hands on the ground, as if feeling for something
he had lost, manifestly in the agonies of death ; and, with a solenm and
interrupted prayer for forgiveness, he breathed his last.

I had become rigid as a statue, whereas my associate appeared to be
elevated above measure. "Arise, thou faint-hearted one, and let us be going,"
said he. " Thou hait done well for once ; but wherefore hesitate in such a
cause ? This is but a small beginning of so great a work as that of purging
the Christian world- But the first victim is a worthy one, and more of such
lights must be extinguished immediately."

We touched not our victim, nor any thing pertaining to him, for fear of
staining our hands with his blood ; and the firing having brought three men
within view, who were hasting towards the spot, my undaunted companion
took both the pistols, and went forward as with intent to meet them, bidding
me shift for myself I ran off in a contrary direction, till I came to the foot
of the Pearman Sike, and then, running up the hollow of that I appeared on
the top of the bank as if I had been another man brought in view by hearing
the shots in such a place. I had a full view of a part of what passed, though
not of all. I saw my companion going straight to meet the men, apparently
with a pistol in every hand, waving in a careless manner. They seemed not
quite clear of meeting with him, and so he went straight on, and passed
between them. They looked after him, and came onward ; but when they
came to the old man lying stretched in his blood, then they turned and
pursued my companion, though not so quickly as they might have done ; and
I understood that from the first they saw no more of him.

Great was the confusion that day in Glasgow. The most popular of all
their preachers of morality was (what they called) murdered in cold blood,
and a strict and extensive search was made for the assassin. Neither of the
accomplices was found, however, that is certain, nor was either of them so
much as suspected ; but another man was apprehended under circumstances
that warranted suspicion. — This was one of the things that I witnessed in my
life, which I never understood, and it surely was one of my patron's most

CONFESSIONS OF A FANATIC. 365

dexterous tricks, for I must still say, what I have thought from the beginning,
that like him there never was a man created. The young man who was
taken up was a preacher ; and it was proved that he had purchased fire-arms
in town, and gone out with them that morning. But the far greatest mystery
of the whole was, that two of the men, out of the three who met my com-
panion, swore, that that unfortunate preacher was the man whom they met
with a pistol in each hand, fresh from the death of the old divine. The poor
fellow made a confused speech himself, which there is not the least doubt
was quite true ; but it was laughed to scorn, and an expression of horror ran
through both the hearers and jury. I heard the whole trial, and so did
Gil-Martin ; but we left the journeyman preacher to his fate, and from that
time forth I have had no faith in the justice of criminal trials. If once a man
is prejudiced on one side, he will swear any thing in support of such prejudice.
I tried to expostulate with my mysterious friend on the horrid injustice of
suffering this young man to die for our act, but the prince exulted in it more
than the other, and said the latter was the more dangerous man of the two.

The alarm in and about Glasgow was prodigious. The country being
divided into two political parties, the court and the country party, the former
held meetings, issued proclamations, and offered rewards, ascribing all to
the violence of party spirit, and deprecating the infernal measures of their
opponents. I did not understand their political differences ; but it was easy
to see that the true Gospel preachers joined all on one side, and the upholders
of pure morality and a blameless life on the other, so that this division proved
a test to us, and it was forthwith resolved, that we two should pick out some
of the leading men of this unsaintly and heterodox cabal, and cut them off
one by one, as occasion should suit

Now the ice being broke, I felt considerable zeal in our great work, but
pretended much more ; and we might soon have kidnapped them all through
the ingenuity of my patron, had not our next attempt miscarried, by some
awkwardness or mistake of mine. The consequence was, that he was dis-
covered fairly, and very nigh seized. I also was seen, and suspected so far,
that my reverend father, my mother, and myself were examined privately. I
denied all knowledge of the matter ; and they held it in such a ridiculous
light, and their conviction of the complete groundlessness of the suspicion
was so perfect, that their testimony prevailed, and the affair was hushed. I
was obliged, however, to walk circumspectly, and saw my companion the
prince very seldom, who was prowling about every day, quite unconcerned
about his safety. He was every day a new man, however, and needed not to
be alarmed at any danger ; for such a facility had he in disguising himself,
that if it had not been for a password which we had between us, for the
purposes of recognition, I never could have known him myself.

It so happened that my reverend father was called to Edinburgh about this
time, to assist with his counsel in settling the national affairs. At my earnest
request I was permitted to accompany him, at which both my associate and
I rejoiced, as we were now about to move in a new and extensive field. All
this time I never knew where my illustrious friend resided. He never once
invited me to call on him at his lodgings, nor did he ever come to our house,
which made me sometimes to suspect, that if any of our great efforts in the
cause of true religion were discovered he intended leaving me in the lurch.
Consequently, when we met in Edinburgh (for we travelled not in company)
I proposed to go with him to look for lodgings, telling him at the same time
what a blessed and religious family my reverend instructor and I were settled
in. He said he rejoiced at it, but he made a rule of never lodging in any
particular house, but took these daily, or huurly, as he found it convenient,
and that he never was at a loss in any circumstance.

"What a mighty trouble you put yourself to, great sovereign !" said I,
" and all, it would appear, for the purpose of seeing and knowing more and
more of the human race."

" I never go but where I have some great purpose to serve," returned he,

366 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

" either in the advancement of my own power and dominion, or in thwarting
my enemies."

" With all due deference to your great comprehension, my illustrious
friend," said I, '* it strikes me that you can accomplish very little either the
one way or the other here, in the humble and private capacity you are pleased
to occupy.''

" It is your own innate modesty that prompts such a remark," said he.
" Do you think the gaining of you to my service, is not an attainment worthy
of being en\-ied by the greatest potentate in Christendom.-' Before I had
missed such a prize as the attainment of your seri-ices, I would have travelled
over one half of the habitable globe.'" — I bowed with great humility, but at
the same time how could I but feel proud and highly flattered.'' He continued.
" Believe me, my dear friend, for such a prize 1 account no eftbrt too high.
For a man who is not only dedicated to Heaven, in the most solemn manner,
soul, body, and spirit, but also justified, sanctified, and received into a com-
munion that never shall be broken, and from which no act of his shall ever
remove him, — the possession of such a man, 1 tell you, is worth kingdoms ;
because every deed that he performs, he does it with perfect safety to himself
and honour to me." — I bowed again, lifting my hat, and he went on. — " I am
now going to put his courage in the cause he has espoused, to a severe test —
to a trial at which common nature would revolt, but he who is dedicated
to be the sword of the Lord, must raise himself above common humanity.
You have a father and a brother according to the flesh, what do you know of
them?"

" I am sorr\' to say I know nothing good," said I. " They are reprobates,
castaways, beings devoted to the wicked one, and, like him, workers of every
si>ecies of iniquit)' with greediness."

" They must both fall " said he, with a sigh and melancholy look ; it is
decreed in the councils above, that they must both fall by your hand."

'• Heaven forbid it '. " said I. " They are enemies to Christ and his church,
that I know and believe ; but they shall live and die in their iniquity for me,
and reap their guerdon when their time cometh. There my hand shall not
strike."

"^ The feeling is natural, and amiable," said he ; " but you must think again.
Whether are the bonds of carnal nature, or the bonds and vows of the Lord
strongest"'

" I %vill not reason with you on this head, mighty potentate," said I, " for
whenever I do so it is but to be put down. 1 shall only express my deter-
mination not to take vengeance out of the Lord's hand in this instance. It
a\-aileth not These are men that have the mark of the beast in *heir
foreheads and right hands ; they are lost beings themselves, but have no
influence over others. Let them perish in their sins ; for they shall not be
meddled with by me."

" How preposterously you talk, my dear friend ! '' said he. " These f>eople
are your greatest enemies ; they would rejoice to see you annihilated. And
now that you have taken up the Lord"s cause of being avenged on his
enemies, wherefore spare those that are your own as well as his .' Besides,
you ought to consider what great advantages would be derived to the cause
of righteousness and truth, were the estate and riches of that opulent house
in your possession, rather than in that of such as oppose the truth and all
manner of holiness."

This was a portion of the consequence of following my illustrious adviser's
summary mode of procedure, that had never entered into my calculation. — I
disclaimed all idea of being influenced by it; however, I cannot but say that
the desire of being able to do so much good, by the possession of these bad
men's riches, made some impression on my heart, and I said I would consider
of the matter. I did consider it, and that right seriously as well as frequently ;
and there was scarcely an hour in the day on which my resolves were not
animated by my great friend, till at length I began to have a longing desire

CONFESSIONS OF A FANATIC. 367

to kill my brother, in particular. Should any man ever read this scroll, he
will wonder at this confession, and deem it savage and unnatural So it
appeared to me at first, but a constant thinking of an event changes every
one of its features. I have done all for t^e best, and as I was prompted, by
one who knew right and WTong much better than I did. I had a desire to
slay him, it is true, and such a desire too as a thirsty man has to drink ; but
at the same time this longing desire was mingled with a certain terror, as if I
I had dreaded that the diink for which I longed was mixed with deadly
poison.

My illustrious &iend still continuing to sound in my ears the imperious
dur\- to which I was called, of making away with my sinful relations, I was
obliged to acquiesce in his measures, though with certain limitations. It was
not easy to answer his arguments, and yet I was afraid that he soon per-
ceived a leaning to his will on my p>art. " If the acts of Jehu, in rooting out
the whole house of his master, were ordered and approved of by the Lord,"
said he, ''would it not have been more praiseworthy if one of AhaVs own sons
had stood up for the cause of Israel, and rooted out the sinners and their idols
out of the land ? "'

" It would certainly," said I. " To our duty to God all other duties must
yield'

"Go thou then and do likewise," said he. "Thou art called to a high
vocation ; go thou forth then like a ruling energy, a master spirit of desolation
in the dwellings of the wicked, and high shall be your reward both here and
hereafter."

My heart now panted with eagerness to look my brother in the face : on
which my companion, who was never out of the way, conducted me to a small
square in the suburbs of the cit\-, where there were a number of young noble-
men and gentlemen plaj-ing at a vain, idle, and sinful game, at which there
was much of the language of the accursed going on ; and among these
blasphemers he instantiy f)ointed out my brother to me. I was fired with
indignation at seeing him in such company, and so employed ; and I placed
myself close beside him to watch all his motions, hsten to his words, and
dr3.w inferences from what 1 saw and heard. In what a sink of sin was
he wallowing ! I resolved to take him to task, and if he refiised to be
admonished, to inflict on him some condign punishment ; and knowing that
my illustrious friend and director was looking on, I resolved to show some
spirit Accordingly, I waited until I heard him profane his Makers name
three times, and then, my spiritual indignation being roused above all
restraint, I went up and kicked him. Yes, I went boldly up and struck him
with my foot, and meant to have given him a more severe blow than it was
my fortune to inflict It had, however, the eff'ect of rousing up his corrupt
nature to quarrelling and strife, instead of taking the chastisement in himoility
and meekiiess. He ran fiiriously against me in the choler that is always
inspired by the wicked one ; but I overthrew him, by reason of impeding the
natural and rapid progress of his unholy feet, running to destruction. I also
fell slightly ; but his fall proving a severe one. he arose in wrath, and struck
me with the mall which he held in his hand, until my blood flowed copiously;
and from that moment I vowed his destruction in my heart But I happened
to have no weapon at that time, nor any means of inflicting due punishment
on the caitiff, which would not have been returned double on my head,
by him and his graceless associates. I mixed among them at the suggestion
of my friend, and following them to their den of voluptuousness and sin, I
strove to be admitted among them, in hopes of finding some means of
accomplishing my great purpose, while I found myself moved by the spirit
within me so to do. But I was not only debarred, but, by the machinations
of my wicked brother and his associates, cast into prison.

I was not sorry at being thus honoured to sufifer in the cause of righteousness,
and at the hands of sinful men ; and as soon as I was alone, I betook myself to
prayer. My jailer came to me, and insulted me. He was a rude unprinci-

368 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

pled fellow, partaking much of the loose and carnal manners of the age ; but
1 remembered of having read in the Cloud of Witnesses, of such men formerly
having been converted by the imprisoned saints ; so I set myself, with all my
heart, to bring about this man's repentance and reformation.

"Fat the deil are ye yoolling an' praying that gate for, man?" said he,
coming angrily in. " I thought the day o' praying prisoners had been a'
ower. Gic up your crooning, or I'll pit you to an in-by place, where ye sail
get plenty o'l"

" Friend,' said I, " 1 am making my appeal at that bar where all himian
actions are seen and judged, and where you shall not be forgot, sinful as you
are."

I then opened up the mysteries of religion to him in a clear and perspicuous
manner, but particularly the great doctrine of the election of grace ; and then
I added, " Now, friend, you must tell me if you pertain to this chosen
number."

" An' fat the better wad you be for the kenning o' this, m?n .? " said he.

" Because, if you are one of my brethren, I will take you into sweet com-
munion and fellowship," returned I ; " but if you belong to the unregenerate,
I have a commission to slay you."

" Oo, foo, foo ! I see how it is," said he ; " yours is a very braw commission,
but you will have the small opportunity of carrying it through here. Take my
advising, and write a bit of letter to your friends, and 1 will send it, for this is
no place for such a great man. If you cannot steady your hand to write, as I
see you have been at your great work, a word of a mouth may do ; for I do
assure you this is not the place at all, of any in the world, for your opera-
tions."

The man apparently thought I was deranged in my intellect. He could not
swallow such great truths at the first morsel. So 1 took his advice, and sent
a line to my reverend father, who was not long in coming, and great was the
jailer's wonderment when he saw all the great Christian noblemen of the land
sign my bond of freedom.

My reverend father took this matter greatly to heai*, and bestirred himself
in the good cause till the transgressors were ashamed to show their faces. For
my part I was greatly strengthened in my resolution by the anathemas of my
reverend father, who, privately, (that is, in a family capacity,) in his prayers,
gave up my father and brother, according to the flesh, to Satan, making it
plain to all my senses of perception, that they were beings to be devoured by
fiends or men, at their will and pleasure, and that whosoever shonld. slay them,
would do God good service.

The next morning my illustrious friend met me at an early hour, and he was
greatly overjoyed at hearing my sentiments now chime so much in unison
with his own. I said, " I longed for the day and the hour that I might look
my brother in the face at Gilgal, and visit on him the iniquity of his father
and himself, for that I was now strengthened and prepared for the deed."

" I have been watching the steps and movements of the profligate one,"
said he ; " and lo, I will take you straight to his presence. Let your heart be
as the heart of the lion, and your arms strong as the shekels of brass, and
swift to avenge as the bolt that descendeth from Heaven, for the blood of the
just and the good hath long flowed in Scotland. But already is the day of
their avengement begun ; the hero is at length arisen, who shall send all such as
bear enmity to the true church, or trust in works cf their own, to Tophet ! "

Thus encouraged, I followed my friend, who led me directly to the same
court in which I had chastised the miscreant on the foregoing day ; and
behold, there was the same group again assembled. They eyed me with
terror in their looks, as I walked among them and eyed them with looks of
disapprobation and rebuke ; and I saw that the very eye of a chosen one
lifted on these children of Belial, was sufficient to dismay and put them to
flight. I walked aside to my fiicnd, who stood at a distance looking on, and
he said to me, " What thinkest thou now ? " and I answered in the words of

CONFESSIONS OF A FANATIC. 369

the venal prophet, " Lo now, if I bad a sword into mine hand, I would even
kiU him."

" Wherefore lackest thou it ? " said he. " Dost thou not see that they
tremble at thy presence, knowing that the avenger of blood is among them."

My heart was hfted up on hearing this, and again I strode into the midst of
them, and eyeing them with threatening looks, they were so much confounded
that they abandoned their sinful pastime, and fled every one to his house !

This was a palpable victory gained over the wicked, and I thereby knew
that the hand of the Lord was with me. My companion also exulted, and
said, " Did not I tell thee ? Behold thou dost not know one half of thy might,
or of the great things thou art destined to do. Come with me and I will show
thee more than this, for these young men cannot subsist without the exercises
of sin. I listened to their counsels, and I know where they will meet again."

Accordingly he led me a little farther to the south, and we walked aside till
by degrees we saw some people begin to assemble ; and in a short time we
perceived the same group stripping off their clothes to make them more ex-
pert in the practice of madness and folly. Their game was begun before we
approached, and so also were the oaths and cursing. I put my hands in my
pockets, and walked with dignity and energy into the midst of them. It was
enough : terror and astonishment seized them. A few of them cried out
against me, but their voices were soon hushed amid the murmurs of fear.
One of them, in the name of the rest, then came and besought of me to grant
them liberty to amuse themselves ; but I refused peremptorily, dared the
whole multitude so much as to touch me with one of their fingers.

Again they all fled and dispersed at my eye, and I went home in triumph,
escorted by my friend, and some well-meaning young Christians, who, how-
ever, had not learned to deport themselves with soberness and humility. But
my ascendency over my enemies was great indeed ; for wherever I appeared
I was hailed with approbation, and wherever my guilty brother made his ap>-
pearance, he was hooted and held in derision, till he was forced to hide his
disgraceful head, and appear no more in public.

Immediately after this I was seized with a strange distemper, which neither
my friends nor physicians could comprehend, and it confined me to my cham-
ber for many days ; but I knew myself that 1 was bewitched, and suspected
my father's reputed concubine of the deed. I told my fears to my reverend
protector, who hesitated concerning them, but I knew by his words and looks
that he was conscious I was right. 1 generally conceived myself to be
two people. When I lay in bed, 1 deemed there were two of us in it ; when
1 sat up, I always beheld another person, and always in the same position
from the place where I sat or stood, which was about three paces off me to-
wards my left side. It mattered not how many or how few were present :
this my second self was sure to be present in his place ; and this occasioned
a confusion in all my words and ideas that utterly astounded my friends, who
all declared, that instead of being deranged in my intellect, they had never
heard my conversation manifest so much energy or sublimity of conception ;
but for all that, over the singular delusion that I was two persons, my reason-
ing faculties had no power. The most perverse part of it was, that I rarely
conceived myself to be any of the two persons. I thought for the most part
that my companion was one of them, and my brother the other ; and I found,
that to be obliged to speak and answer in the character of another man, was
a most awkward business at the long run.

Who can doubt, from this statement, that I was bewitched, and that my
relatives were at the ground of it .'' The constant and unnatural persuasion
that I was my brother, proved it to my own satisfaction, and must, I think, do
so to every unprejudiced person. This victory of the wicked one over me
kept me confined in my chamber, at Mr. Millar's house, for nearly a month,
until the prayers of the faithful prevailed, and I was restored. I knew it was
a chastisement for my pride, because my heart was lifted up at my superiority
over the enemies of the church ; nevertheless, I determined to make short

1. 24

jyo THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALE^.

work of the agfjressor, that the righteous might not be subjected to the effect
of his diabohcal arts again.

I say I was confined a month. I beg he that readcth to take note of this,
that he may estimate how much the word, or even the oath, of a wicked man,
is to depend on. For a month I saw no one but such as came into my room,
and for all that, it will be seen, that there were plenty of the same set to attest
upon oath that I saw my brother every day during that period ; that I perse-
cuted him with my presence day and night ; while all the time I never saw
his face, save in a delusive dream. I cannot comprehend what manoeuvres
my illustrious friend was playing off with them about this time ; for he, hav-
ing the art of personating whom he chose, had pcradventure deceived them,
else so many of them had never all attested the same thing. I never saw any
man so steady in his friendships and attentions as he ; but as he made a rule
of never calling at private houses, for fear of some discovery being made of
his person, so I never saw him while my malady lasted ; but as soon as I grew
better, I knew I had nothing ado but to attend at some of our places of meet-
ing, to see him again. He was punctual, as usual, and I had not to wait.

My reception was precisely as I ajjprehended. There was no flaring, no
flummery, nor bombastical pretensions, but a dignified return to my obeisance,
and an immediate recurrence, in converse, to the important duties incumbent
on us, in our stations, as reformers and purifiers of the Church.

" I have marked out a number of most dangerous characters in this city,"
said he, " all of whom must be cut off from encumbering the true vineyard
before we leave this land. And if you bestir not yourself in the work to which
you are called, I must raise up others who shall have the honour of it."

" I am, most illustrious prince, wholly at your service," said I. " Show but
what ought to be done, and here is the heart to dare, and the hand to
execute. You pointed out my relations, according to the flesh, as brands fitted
to be thrown into the burning. I approved peremptorily of the award ; nay,
I thirst to accomplish it ; for I myself have suffered severely from their dia-
bolical arts. When once that trial of my devotion to the faith is accomplished,
then be your future operations disclosed."

" You are free of your words and promises," said he.

" So will 1 be of my deeds in the service of my master, and that shall thou
see," said I. " I lack not the spirit, nor the will, but 1 lack experience wofuUy ;
and because of that shortcoming, must bow to your suggestions."

" Meet me here to-morrow betimes,'' said he, " and perhaps you may hear
of some opportunity of displaying your zeal in the cause of righteousness."

I met him as he desired me ; and he addressed me with a hurried and joy-
ful expression, telling me that my brother was astir, and that a few minutes
a^o he had seen him pass on his way to the mountain. " The hill is wrapt in
a cloud," added he, "and never was there such an opportunity of executing
justice on a guilty sinner. You may trace him in the dew, and shall infallibly
find him on the top of some precipice ; for it is only in secret that he dare
show his debased head to the sun."

" I have no arms, else assuredly I would pursue him and discomfit him,"
said I.

" Here is a small dagger." said he ; "I have nothing of weapon-kind about
me save that, but it is a potent one ; and should \ ou i cquire it there is nothing
more ready or sure."

'' Will you not accompany me .'' " said I. " Sure you will .'"'

" I will be with you, or near you," said he. '' ("lO you on before.*

1 hurried away as he directed me, and iniprudciuly asked some of Queens-
berry's guards if such and such a young man p;!ssed by ihcm going out from
the city. I was answered in the affirmative, and till then had doubted of my
friend's intelligence, it was so inconsistent with a profligate's life To be early
astir. When I got the certain intelligence that my brother was before me, I
fell a-running, scarcely knowing what 1 did ; and looking several times behind
me, 1 perceived nothing of my zealous and arbitrary friend. The consequence

CONFESSIONS OF A FANATIC. 37I

of this was, that by the time I reached SL Anthony's well, my resolution began
to give way. It was not my courage, for now tliat I had once shed blood in
the cause of the true faith, I was exceedingly bold and ardent ; but whenever
I was left to myself, I was subject to sinful doubtings.

In this desponding state, 1 sat myself down on a stone, and bethought me
of the rashness of my undertaking. I tried to ascertain, to my own satisfac-
tion, whether or not I really had been commissioned of God to perpetrate
these crimes in his behalf, for in the eyes, and by the laws of men, they were
great and crying transgressions. While I sat pondering on these things, I
was involved in a veil of white misty vapour, and looking up to heaven, I was
just about to ask direction from above, when I heard as it were a still small
\oice, close by me, which uttered some words of derision and chiding. I
looked intensely in the direction whence it seemed to come, and perceived a
lady, robed in white, who hasted toward me. She regarded me with a severity
of look and gesture that appalled me so much I could not address her ; but
she waited not for that, but coming close to my side, said, without stopping,
" Preposterous wretch ! how dare you lift your eyes to heaven with such pur-
poses in your heart ? Escape homeward, and save your soul, or farewell for
ever ! "

These were all the words that she uttered, as far as I could ever recollect,
but my spirits were kept in such a tumult that morning, that something might
have escaped me. I followed her eagerly with my eyes, but in a moment she
glided over the rocks above the holy well, and vanished. I persuaded myself
that I had seen a vision, and that the radiant being that had addressed me was
one of the good angels, or guardian spirits, commissioned by the Almighty to
watch over the steps of the just. My first impulse was to follow her advice, and
make my escape home ; for 1 thought to myself, " How is this interested and
mysterious foreigner, a proper judge of the actions of a free Christian ? "

The thought was hardly framed, nor had I moved in a retrograde direction
six steps, when I saw my illustrious friend and great adviser descending
the ridge towards me with hasty and impassioned strides. My heart fainted
within me ; and when he came up and addressed me, I looked as one caught
in a trespass. " What hath detained thee, thou desponding trifler .'"' said he.
" Verily now shall the golden opportunity be lost which may never be recalled.
I have traced the reprobate to his sanctuary in the cloud, and lo he is perched
on the pinnacle of a precipice an hundred fathoms high. One ketch with thy
foot, or toss with thy finger, shall throw him from thy side into the foldings
of the cloud, and he shall be no more seen, till found at the bottom of the clift
dashed to pieces. Make haste, therefore, thou loiterer, if thou wouldst ever
prosper and rise to eminence in the work of thy master."

" I go no further in this work," said I, " for I have seen a vision that has
reprimanded the deed."

" A vision ?" said he ; " Was it that wench who descended from the
hill .'"

" The being that spake to me, and warned me of my danger, was indeed
the form of a lady," said I."

" She also approached me and said a few words," returned he ; " and I
thought there was something mysterious in her manner. Pray, what did she
say .'' for the words of such a singular message, and from such a messenger,
ought to be attended to. If I understood her aright, she was chiding us for
our misbelief and preposterous delay."

" I recited her words, but he answered that I had been in a state of sinful
doubting at the time, and it was to these doubtings she had adverted. In
short, this wonderful and clear-sighted stranger soon banished all my doubts
and despondency, making me utterly ashamed of them, and again I set out
with him in the pursuit of my brother. He showed me the traces of his foot-
steps in the dew, and pointed out the spot where I should find him. '' You
have nothing more to do than go sottiy down beiiind him," said he ; "which
you can do 10 within an cU ol him, without being seen : tJicn rush upon hmi,

372 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

and throw him from his seat, where there is neither footing nor hold. I will
go, meanwhile, and amuse his sit,ht by some exhibition in the contrary
direction, and he shall neither know nor perceive who has done him this kind
cjffice J for, exclusive of more weighty concerns, be assured of this, that the
sooner he falls, the fewer crimes will he have to answer for, and his estate in
the other world will be proportionally more tolerable, than if he spent a long
unregenerate life steeped in iniquity to the loathing of the soul."

" Nothing can be more plain or more pertinent," said I ; " therefore I fly
to perform that which is both a duty toward God and toward man !"

" You shall yet rise to great honour and preferment," said he.

" I value it not, provided 1 do honour and justice to the cause of my master
here," said I.

" You shall be lord of your father's riches and demesnes," added he.

" I disclaim and deride every selfish motive thereto relating," said I,
" farther than as it enables me to do good."

" Ay, but that is a great and heavenly zowi\^txAi\ox\,\X\A\. longing for ability
to do good" said he ; — and as he said so, I could not help remarking a certain
derisive exultation of expression which I could not comprehend ; and indeed
I have noted this very often in my illustrious friend, and sometimes mentioned
it civilly to him, but he has never failed to disclaim it. On this occasion I
said nothing, but, concealing his poniard in my clothes, I hasted up the
mountain, determined to execute my purpose before any misgivings should
again visit me ; and I never had more ado than in keeping firm my resolu-
tion. I could not help my thoughts, and there are certain trains and classes
of thoughts that have great power in enervating the mind. I thought of the
awful thing of plunging a fellow-creature from the top of a cliff into the dark
and misty void below — of his being dashed to pieces on the protruding rocks,
and of hearing his shrieks as he descended the cloud, and beheld the shagged
points on which he was to alight. Then I thought of plunging a soul so
abruptly into hell, or, at the best, sending it to hover on the confines of that
burning abyss — of its appearance at the bar of the Almighty to receive its
sentence. And then I thought, " Will there not be a sentence pronounced
against me there, by a jury of the just made perfect, and written down in the
registers of heaven .'"'

These thoughts, I say, came upon me unasked, and instead of being able to
dispel them, they mustered, upon the summit of my imagination, in thicker
and stronger array ; and there was another that impressed me in a very
particular manner, though, I have reason to believe, not so strongly as those
above written. It was this : What if I should fail in my first effort ? Will
the consequences not be that I am tumbled from the top of the rock myself?"
and then all the feelings anticipated, with regard to both body and soul, must
happen to me. This was a spine-breaking reflection ; and yet, though the
probability was rather on that side, my zeal in the cause of godliness was such
that carried me on, maugre all danger and dismay.

I soon came close upon my brother sitting on the dizzy pinnacle, with his eyes
fixed stedfastly in the direction opposite to me. I descended the little green
ravine behind him with my feet foremost, and every now and then raised my
head, and watched his motions. His posture continued the same, until at last
I came so near him I could have heard him breathe, if his face had been
towards me I laid my cap aside, and made me ready to spring upon him,
and push him over. I could not for my life accomplish it ! I do not think it
was that I durst not, for I have always felt my courage equal to anything in a
good cause. But I had not the heart, or something that I ought to have had.
In short, it was not done in time, as it easily might have been. These
THOUGHTS are hard enemies wherewith to combat ! And 1 was so grieved
that I could not efi'cct my righteous purpose, that I laid me down on my
face and shed tears. Then, again, I thought of what my great enlightened
friend and patron would say to me, and again my resolution rose indignant,
and indissoluble save by blood. 1 arose on my right knee and left foot, and

CONFESSIONS OF A FANATIC. 373

had just begun to advance the latter forward : the next step my great purpose
had been accomplished, and the culprit had sullered the punishment due to
his crimes. But what moved him I know not : in the critical moment he
sprung to his feet, and dashing himself furiously against me, he overthrew me,
at the imminent peril of my life. 1 disencumbered myself by main force, and
fled, but he overhied me, knocked me down, and threatened, with dreadful
oaths, to throw me from the cliff. After I was a little recovered from the
stunning blow, I aroused myself to the combat ; and though I do not
recollect the circumstances of that deadly scuffle very minutely, 1 know that I
vanquished him so far as to force him to ask my pardon, and crave a recon-
cihation. I spurned at both, and left him to the chastisements of his own
wicked and corrupt heart.

My friend met me again on the hill, and derided me, in a haughty and stem
manner, for my imbecility and want of decision. I told him how nearly I had
eflfected my purpose, and excused myself as well as I was able. On this,
seeing me bleeding, he advised me to swear the peace against my brother, and
have him punished in the mean time, he being the first aggressor. I promised
compliance, and we parted, for I was somewhat ashamed of my failure,
and was glad to be quit for the present of one of whom I stood so much
in awe.

When my reverend father beheld me bleeding a second time by the hand
of a brother, he was moved to the highest point of displeasure ; and relying
on his high interest and the justice of his cause, he brought the matter at
once before the courts. My brother and I were first examined face to face.
His declaration was a mere romance : mine was not the truth ; but as it was
by the advice of my reverend father, and that of my illustrious friend, that I
gave it, I conceived myself completely justified on that score. I said, I had
gone up into the mountain early on the morning to pray, and had withdrawn
myself, for entire privacy, into a little sequestered dell — had laid aside my
cap, and was in the act of kneeling, when I was rudely attacked by my
brother, knocked over, and nearly slain. They asked my brother if this was
true. He acknowledged that it was ; that I was bare-headed and in the act
of kneeling when he ran foul of me without any intent of doing so. But the
judge took him to task on the improbability of this, and put the profligate
sore out of countenance. The rest of his tale told still worse, insomuch that
he was laughed at by all present, for the judge remarked to him, that grant-
ing it was true that he had at first run against me on an open mountain, and
overthrown me by accident, how was it, that after I had extricated myself and
fled, that he had pursued, overtaken, and knocked me down a second time .''
Would he pretend that all that was likewise by chance ? The culprit had
nothing to say for himself on this head, and I shall not forget my exul-
tation, and that of my reverend father, when the sentence of the judge was
delivered. It was, that my wicked brother should be thrown into prison, and
tried on a criminal charge of assault and battery, with the intent of commit-
ting murder. This was a just and righteous judge, and saw things in their
proper bearings, that is, he could discern between a righteous and a wicked
man, and then there could be no doubt as to which of the two were acting
right, and which wrong.

My time was now much occupied, along with my reverend preceptor, in
making ready for the approaching trial as the prosecutors. Our counsel
assured us of a complete victory, and that banishment would be the mildest
award of the law on the offender. Mark how different was the result ! From
the shifts and ambiguities of a wicked Jiench, who had a fellow-feehng of
iniquity with the defenders, — my suit was cast, the graceless libertine was
absolved, and I was incarcerated, and bound over to keep the peace, with
heavy penalties, before I was set at liberty.

1 was exceedingly disgusted at tiiis issue, and blamed the counsel of my
friend to his face. He expressed great grief, and expatiated on the wicked-
ness of our judicatories, adding, " 1 see I cannot depend on you for quick anj

374 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

summary measures, but for your sake I shall be revenged on that wicked
judge, and that you shall sec in a few days." The Lord Justice Clerk died
that same week ! But he died in his own house and his own bed, and by
what means my friend effected it, I do not know. He would not tell me a
single word of the matter, but the judge's sudden death made a great noise,
and 1 made so many curious inquiries regarding the particulars of it, that
some suspicions were like to attach to our family, of some unfair means used.
For my part 1 know nothing, and rather think he died by the visitation of
Heaven, and that my friend had foreseen it, by symptoms, and soothed me
by promises of complete revenge.

It was some days before he mentioned my brother's meditated death to me
again, and certainly he then found me exasperated against him personally to
the highest degree. Jiut I told him that 1 could not now think any more of
it, owing to the late judgment of the court, by which, if my brother were
missing or found dead, I would not only forfeit my life, but my friends would
be ruined by the penalties.

" I suppose you know and believe in the perfect safety of your soul,"
said he.

" I believe in it thoroughly and perfectly,' said I ; " and whenever I enter-
tain doubts of it, I am sensible of sin and weakness."

" Very well, so then am J," said he. " 1 think I can now divine, with all
manner of certainty, what will be the high and merited guerdon of your im-
mortal part. Hear me then farther : 1 give you my solemn assurance, and
bond of blood, that no human hand shall ever henceforth be able to injure
your life, or shed one drop of your precious blood, but it is on the condition
that you walk always by my directions."

"I will do so with cheerfulness,' said I ; "for without your enlightened
counsel, I feel that I can do nothing. But as to your power of protecting my
lil'e, you must excuse me for doubting of it. Nay, were we in your own proper
dominions, you could not ensure that."

"In whatever dominion or land I am, my power accompanies me," said he ;
"and it is only against human might and human weapon that I ensure your
life ; on that will 1 keep an eye, and on that you may depend. I have never
broken word or promise with you. Do you credit me.-""

" Yes, 1 do," said I ; "for I see yuu arc in earnest. I believe, though I do
not comprehend you."

" Then why do you not at once challenge your brother to the field of
honour .-' Seeing you now act without danger, cannot you also act without
fear?"

" It is not fear," returned I ; "believe me, I hardly know what fear is. It is
a doubt, that on all these emergencies constantly haunts my mind, that in
performing such and such actions I may fall from my upright state. This
makes fratricide a fearful task."

" This is imbecility itself," said he. " We have settled, and agreed on that
point an hundred times. I would therefore advise that you challenge your
brother to single combat. I shall ensure your safety, and he cannot refuse
giving you satisfaction."

"But then the penalties.'"' said 1.

" We will try to evade these," said he ; " and supposing you should be
caught, if once you are Laird of Dalcastle and Balgrennan, what are the
penalties to you.-"'

"Might we not rather pop him off in private and quietness, as we did the
deistical divine.'"' said I.

" The deed w ould be alike meritorious, either way," said he. " But may
we not wait for years before we find an opportunity ? My advice is to chal-
lenge him, as privately as you will, and there cut him off."

" So be it then, ' said I. " When the moon is at the full, I will send for him
forth to speak with one, and there will I smite him and slay him, and he shall
trouble the righteous no more."

CONFESSIONS OF A FANATIC. yjs

"Then this is the very night," said he. " The moon is nigh to the full, and
this night your brother and his sinful mates hold carousal ; for there is an
intended journey to-morrow. The exulting profligate leaves town, where he
must remain till the time of my departure hence ; and then he is safe, and
must live to dishonour God, and not only destroy his own soul, but those of
many others. Alack, and wo is me ! The sins that he and his friends will
commit this very night, will cry to heaven against us for our shameful delay !
When shall our great work of cleansing the sanctuary be finished, if we pro-
ceed at this puny rate?"

" I see the deed rmtst be done, then," said I ; " and since it is so, it shall
be done. 1 will arm myself forthwith, and from the midst of his wine and
debauchery you shall call him forth to me, and there will I smite him with
the edge of the sword, that our great work be not retarded."

" If thy execution were equal to thy intent, how great a man you soon
might be ! " said he. " We shall make the attempt once more ; and if it fail
again, why, I must use other means to bring about my high purposes relating
to mankind. — Home and make ready. I will go and procure what informa-
tion I can regarding their motions, and will meet you in disguise twenty
minutes hence, at the first turn of Hewie's lane beyond the loch.''

" 1 have nothing to make ready," said I ; " for I do not choose to go home.
Bring me a sword, that we may consecrate it with prayer and vows, and if I
use it not to the bringing down of the wicked and profane, then may the Lord
do so to me, and more also ! "

We parted, and there was I left again to the multiplicity of my own
thoughts for the space of twenty minutes, a thing my friend never failed in
subjecting me to, and these were worse to contend with than hosts of sinful
men. I prayed inwardly, that these deeds of mine might never be brought
to the knowledge of men who were incapable of appreciating the high motives
that led to them ; and then I sung part of the loth Psalm, likewise in spirit ;
but for all these efforts, my sinful doubts returned, so that when my illustrious
friend joined me, and proffered me the choice of two gilded rapiers, I declined
accepting any of them, and began, in a very bold and energetic manner, to
express my doubts regarding the justification of all the deeds of perfect men.
He chided me severely, and branded me with cowardice, a thing that my
nature never was subject to ; and then he branded me with falsehood, and
breach of the most solemn engagements.

I was compelled to take the rapier, much against my inclination ; but for
all the arguments, threats, and promises that he could use, I would not consent to
send a challenge to my brother by his mouth. There was one argument only
that he made use of which had some weight with me, but yet it would not
preponderate. He told me my brother was gone to a notorious and scandal-
ous habitation of women, and that if I left him to himself for ever so short a
space longer, it might embitter his state through ages to come. This was a
trying concern to me ; but I resisted it, and reverted to my doubts. On this
he said that he had meant to do me honour, but since 1 had put it out of his
power, he would do the deed, and the responsibility on himself. " I have
with sore travail procured a guardship of your life," added he. " For my own,
I have not ; but, be that as it will, 1 shall not be baffled in my attempts to
benefit my friends without a trial. You will at all events accompany me, and
see that 1 get justice.''''

" Certes, 1 will do thus much," said I ; " and wo be to him if his arm pre-
vail against my friend and patron ! "

His lip curled with a smile of contempt, which I could hardly brook ; and
I began to be afraid that the eminence to which I had been destined by him
was already fading from my view. And 1 thought what I should then do to
ingratiate myself again with him, for without his countenance I had no life.
" I will be a man in act," thought 1, "but in sentiment 1 will not yield, and
for this he must surely admire me the more."

As we emerged from the shadowy lane into the fair moonshine, I started

376 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

so that my whole frame underwent the most chilling vibrations of surprise.
I again thought I had been taken at unawares, and was conversing with
another person. My friend was equipped in the Highland garb, and so com-
pletely translated into another being, that, save by his speech, all the senses
of mankind could not have recognized him. I blessed myself, and asked
whom it was his pleasure to personify to-night.-' He answered me carelessly,
that it was a spark whom he meant should bear the blame of whatever might
fall out to-night : and that was all that passed on the subject.

We proceeded by some stone steps at the foot of the North Loch, in hot
argument all the way. I was afraid that our conversation might be over-
heard, for the night was calm and almost as light as day, and we saw sundry
people crossing us as we advanced. But the zeal of my friend was so high,
that he disregarded all danger, and continued to argue fiercely and loudly on
my delinquency, as he was pleased to call it. I stood on one argument alone,
which was, " that I did not think the Scripture promises to the elect, taken in
their utmost latitude, warranted the assurance that they could do no wrong ;
and that, therefore, it behoved every man to look well to his steps."

There was no religious scruple that irritated my enlightened friend and
master so much as this. He could not endure it. He lost all patience on
hearing what I advanced on this matter, and taking hold of me, he led me
into a darksome booth in a confined entry ; and, after a friendly but cutting
reproach, he bade me remain there in secret and watch the event ; " and if I
fall," said he, "you will not fail to avenge my death."

I was so entirely overcome with vexation that I could make no answer, on
which he left me abruptly, a prey to despair ; and I saw or heard no more,
till he came down to tlie moonlight green followed by my brother. They had
quarrelled before they came within my hearing, for the first words I heard
were those of my brother, who was in a state of intoxication, and he was
urging a reconciliation, as was his wont on such occasions. My friend
spurned at the suggestion, and dared him to the combat ; and after a good
deal of boastful altercation, which the turmoil of my spirits prevented me from
remembering, my brother was compelled to draw his sword and stand on the
defensive. It was a desperate and terrible engagement. I at first thought
that the royal stranger and great champion of the faith would overcome his
opponent with ease, for I considered heaven as on his side, and nothing but
the arm of sinful fiesh against him. But I was deceived : the sinner stood
firm as a rock, while the assailant flitted about like a shadow, or rather like a
spirit. I smiled inwardly, conceiving that these lightsome manoeuvres were
all a sham to show off his art and mastership in the exercise, and that when-
ever they came to close fairly, that instant my brother would be overcome.
Still I was deceived : my brother's arm seemed invincible, so that the closer they
fought the more palpably did it prevail. They fought round the green to the
very edge of the water, and so round, till they came close up to the covert where
I stood. There being no more room to shift ground, my brother then forced
him to come to close quarters, on which, the former still having the decided
advantage, my friend quitted his sword, and called out I could resist no
longer; so, springing from my concealment, I rushed between them with my
sword drawn, and parted them as if they had been two schoolboys ; then
turning to my brother, I addressed him as follows : — " Wretch ! miscreant !
knowest thou what thou are attempting ? Turn thee to me, that I may chas-
tise thee for all thy wickedness, and not for the many injuries thou hast done
to me ! " To it we went, with full thirst of vengeance on every side. The
duel was fierce ; but the might of heaven prevailed, and not my might. The
ungodly and reprobate young man fell, covered with wounds, and with curses
and blasphemy in his mouth, while I escaped uninjured. Thereto his power
extended not.

I will not deny, that my own immediate impressions of this affair in some
degree differed from this statement. But this is precisely as my illustrious
friend described it to me afterwards, and I can rely implicitly on his informa-

CONFESSIONS OF A FANATIC. 377

tion, as he was at that time a looker-on, and my senses all in a state of
agitation, and he could have no motive for sayinjj what was not the positive
truth. '

Never till my brother was doAvn did we perceive that there had been wit-
nesses to the whole business. Our ears were then astounded by rude
challenges of unfair play, which were quite appalling to me ; but my friend
laughed at them, and conducted me off in perfect safety. As to the unfairness
of the transaction, I can say thus much, that my royal friend's sword was down
ere ever mine was presented. But if it still be accounted unfair to take up a
conqueror, and punish him in his own way, I answer : that if a man is sent
on a positive mission by his master, and hath laid himself under vows
to do his work, he ought not to be too nice in the means of accomplishing it

I was greatly disturbed in my mind for many days, knowing that the tran-
saction had been witnessed, and sensible also of the perilous situation 1 occu-
pied, owing to the late judgment of the court against me. But, on the
contrary, I never saw my enlightened friend in such high spirits. He assured
me there was no danger ; and again repeated, that he warranted my life
against the power of man. I thought proper, however, to remain in hiding
for a week ; but as he said, to my utter amazement, the blame fell on another,
who was not only accused, but pronounced guilty by the general voice, and
outlawed for non-appearance ! how could I doubt, after this, that the hand of
heaven was aiding and abetting me .'' The matter was beyond my compre-
hension ; and as for my friend, he never explained any thing that was past,
but his activity and art were without a parallel.

He enjoyed our success mightily ; and for his sake I enjoyed it somewhat,
but it was on account of his comfort only, for I could not for my life perceive
in what degree the church was better or purer than before these deeds
were done. He continued to flatter me with great things, as to honours, fame,
and emolument : and above all, with the blessing and protection of him to
whom my soul and body were dedicated. But after these high promises, I got
no longer peace ; for he began to urge the death of my father with such an
unremitting earnestness, that I found I had nothing for it but to comply. I
did so ; and cannot express his enthusiasm of approbation. So much did he
hurry and press me in this, that I was forced to devise some of the most
openly violent measures, having no alternative. Heaven spared me the deed,
taking, in that instance, the vengeance in its own hand ; for before my arm
could effect the sanguine but meritorious act, the old man followed his son to
the grave. My illustrious and zealous friend seemed to regret this somewhat ;
but he comforted himself with the reflection, that still I had the merit of it,
having not only consented to it, but in fact effected it, for by doing the one
action I had brought about both.

No sooner were the obsequies of the funeral over, than my friend and I went
to Dalcastle, and took undisputed possession of the houses, lands, and effects
that had been my father's ; but his plate, and vast treasures of ready money,
he had bestowed on a voluptuous and unworthy creature, who had lived long
with him as a mistress. P'ain would I have sent her after her lover, and gave
my friend some hints on the occasion ; but he only shook his head, and said
that we must lay all selfish and interested motives out of the question.

For a long time when I awaked in the morning, I could not believe my
senses, that I was indeed the undisputed and sole proprietor of so much wealth
and grandeur ; and I felt so much gratified, that 1 immediately set about doing
all the good I was able, hoping to meet with all approbation and encourage-
ment from my friend. 1 was mistaken : he checked the very first impulses
towards such a procedure, questioned my motives, and uniformly made them
out to be wrong. There was one morning that a servant said to me, there was
a lady in the Ixick chamber who wanted to speak with me, but he could not tell
me who it was, for all the old servants had left the mansion, every one on
hearing of the death of the late laird, and those who had come knew none of
the people in the neighbourhoud. From several circumstances 1 had suspicions

370 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

of private confabulations with women, and refused to go to her, but bid the
servant inquire what she wanlcJ. She would not tell ; she could only state
the circumstance to nie ; so 1, being sensible th.it a little dignity of manner
became me in my elevated situation, returned for answer, that if it was
business that could not be transacted by my steward, it must remain un-
transacted. The answer which the servant brought back was of a threatening
nature. She stated that she must see me, and if 1 refused her satisfaction
there, she would compel it where I should not evite her.

My friend and director appeared pleased with my dilemma, and rather
advised that I should hear what the woman had to say ; on which I consented,
provided she would deliver her mission in his presence. She came in with
manifest signs of anger and indignation, and began with a bold and direct
-•harge against me of a shameful assault on one of her daughters ; of having
used the basest of means in order to lead her aside from the paths of rectitude ;
and on the failure of these, of having resorted to the most unqualified
measures.

I tlcnied the charge in all its bearings, assuring the dame that I had never
Ao much as seen either of her daughters to my knowledge, far less wronged
them ; on which she got into great wrath, and abused me to my face as an
accomplished vagabond, hypocrite, and sensualist ; and she went so far as to
tell me roundly, that if I did not marry her daughter, she would bring me to
the gallows, and that in a very short time.

" Marry your daughter, honest woman !" said I, "on the faith of a Chris-
tian, I never saw your daughter ; and you may rest assured in this, that 1 will
neither marry you nor her. Do you consider how short a time 1 have been in
this place .'' How much that time has been occupied .'' And how there was
even a possibility that I could have accomplished such villanies ?"

" And how long does your Christian reverence suppose you have remained
in this place since the late laird's death .'' " said she.

" That is too well known to need recapitulation," said 1 ; "only a very few
days, though I cannot at present specify the e.\act number ; perhaps from
thuty to forty, or so. But in all that time, certes, I have never seen either
you or any of your two daughters that you talk of. You must be quite
sensible of that."

My friend shook his head three times during this short sentence, while the
woman held up her hands in amazement and disgust, exclaiming, "There goes
the self-righteous one 'i There goes the consecrated youth, who cannot err !
You, sir, know, and the world shall know of the faith that is in this most just,
devout, and religious miscreant ! Can you deny that you have already been
in this place four months and seven days .'' Ur that in that time you have
been forbid my house twenty times i Or that you have persevered in your
endeavours to effect the basest and most ungenerous of purposes ? Or that
you have attained them 1 hypocrite and deceiver as you are ! Yes, sir; I say,
dare you deny that you have attained your vile, sellish, and degrading purposes
towards a young, innocent, and unsuspecting creature, and thereby ruined a
poor widow's only hope in this world .'' No, you cannot look in my face, and
deny aught of this."

" The woman is raving mad ! " said I. " You, illustrious sir, know, that in
the first instance, I have not yet been in this place oitc montlL" .My friend
shook his head again, and answered me, " You arc wrong, my dear friend ;
you are wrong. It is indeed the space of time that the lady hath stated, to
a day, since you came here, and I came with you ; and I am sorry that I
know for certain that you have been frequently haunting her house, and have
often had private correspondence with one of the young ladies too. Of the
nature of it I presume not to know."

" You are mocking me," said I. " But as well may you try to reason me
out of my existence, as to convince me that I have been here even one month,
or that any of those things you allege against me has the shadow of truth or
evidence to support it. I will swear to you by "

CONFESSIONS OF A FANATIC. 379

** Hold, you most abandoned profligate ! " cried she violently, " and do not
add perjury to your other detestable crimes. But tell me what reparation you
propose offering to my injured child ? "

" I again declare, before heaven, woman, that to the best of my knowledge
and recollection, I never saw your daughter. I now think I have some faint
recollection of having seen your face, but where, or in what place, puzzles
me quite."

"And, why ?" said she. " Because for months and days you have been in
such a state of extreme inebriety, that your time has gone over like a dream
that has been forgotten. 1 believe, that from the day you came first to my
house, you have been in a state of utter delirium, and that principally from the
fumes of wine and ardent spirits."

" It is a manifest falsehood ! " said I ; " I have never, since I entered on
the possession of Dalcastle, tasted wine or spirits, saving once, a few evenings
ago ; and, I confess to my shame, that I was led too far ; but I have craved
forgiveness and obtained it. I take my noble and distinguished friend there
for a witness to the truth of what I assert ; a man who has done more, and
sacrificed more for the sake of genuine Christianity, than any this world con-
tains. Him you will believe."

" I hope you have attained forgiveness," said he, seriously. " Indeed it
would be next to blasphemy to doubt it. But, of late, you have been very
much addicted to intemperance. I doubt it, from the first night you tasted
the delights of drunkenness, that you have ever again been in your right mind
till Monday last. Doubtless you have been for a good while most diligent in
your addresses to this lady's daughter."

"This is unaccountable," said I. " It is impossible that I can have been
doing a thing, and not doing it at the same time. But indeed, honest woman,
there have several incidents occurred to me in the course of my life which
persuade me I have a second self : or that there is some other being who
appears in my likeness."

Here my friend interrupted me with a sneer, and a hint that I was talking
insanely ; and then he added, turning to the lady, '' I know my friend Mr.
Colwan will do what is just and right. Go and bring the young lady to him,
that he mav see her, and he wiU then recollect all his former amours with
her.'

" I humbly beg your pardon sir," said I. " But the mention of such a thing
as amours with any woman existing, to nie, is really so absurd, so far from my
principle, so far from the purity of nature and frame to which I was born and
consecrated, that I hold it an insult, and regard it with contempt."

I would have said more in reprobation of such an idea, had not my servant
entered, and said, that a gentleman wanted to see me on business. Being
glad of an opportunity of getting quit of my lady visitor, I ordered the servant
to show him in ; and forthwith a little lean gentleman, with a long aquiline
nose, and a bald head, daubbed all over with powder and pomatum, entered.
I thought I recollected having seen him too, but could not remember his
name, though he spoke to me with the greatest familiarity ; at least, that sort
of familiarity that an official person generally assumes. He bustled about
and about, speaking to every one, but declined listening for a single moment
to any. The lady offered to withdraw, but he stopped her.

" No, no, Mrs. Keeler, you need not go ; you need not go ; you must not
go, madam. The business I came about, concerns you — yes, that it does —
Bad business yon of Walker's ? Eh? Could not help it — did all I could, Mr.
Wringhirn. Done your business. Have it all cut and dry here, sir— No, this
is not it — Have it among them though, — I'm at a little loss for your name, sir,
(addressing my friend), — seen you very often though — exceedingly often —
quite well acquainted with you."

" No, sir, you are not," said my friend, sternly. — The intruder never
regarded him ; never so much as lifted his eyes from his bundle of law papers,
among which he was bustling with great hurry and importance, but went on —

3«o THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

" /mpossible ! Have seen a face very like it, then — what did you say your
name was, sir ? — very like it indeed. Is it not the young laird who was mur-
dered whom you resemble so much ? "

Here Mrs. Keeler uttered a scream, which so much startled me, that it
seems I grew pale. And on looking at my friend's face, there was something
struck me so forcibly in the likeness between him and my late brother, that 1
had very nearly fainted. The woman exclaimed, that it was my brother's
spirit that stood beside me.

Im/c7jjible !'' exclaimed the attorney : "at least I hope not, else his signa-
ture is not worth a pin. There is some balance due on your business, madam.
Do you wish your account .•" because I have it here, ready discharged, and it
does not suit letting such things lie over. This business of Mr. Colwan's will
be a severe one on you, madam, — rather a severe one."

" What business of mine, if it be your will, sir," said I. " For my part I
never engaged you in business of any sort, less or more." He never regarded
me, but went on. " You may appeal, though : Yes, yes, there ::re such things
as appeals for the refractory. Here it is, gentlemen, — here they are altogether
— Here is, in the first place, sir, your power of attorney, regularly warranted,
sealed, and signed with your own hand."

" I declare solemnly that I never signed that document," said I.
" Ay, ay, the system of denial is not a bad one in general," said my attor-
ney ; but at present there is no occasion for it You do not deny your own
hand ! "

" I deny everything connected with the business cried I ; " I disclaim it in
toto, and declare that I know no more about it than the child unborn."

" That is exceedingly good ! " exclaimed he ; "I like your pertinacity
vastly ! I have three of your letters, and three of your signatures ; that part
is settled, and I hope so is the whole affair ; for here is the original grant to
your father, which he has never thought proper to put in requisition. Simple
gentleman ! But here have I, Lawyer Linkum, in one hundredth part of the
time that any other notary, writer, attorney, or writer to the signet in Britain,
would have done it, procured the signature of His Majesty's commissioner,
and thereby confirmed the charter to you and your house, sir, for ever and
ever, — begging your pardon, madam." The lady, as well as myself, tried
several times to interrupt the loquacity of Linkum, but in vain : he only raised
his hand with a quick flourish, and went on : —

" Here it is : — ' James, by the grace of God, King of Great Britain, France,
and Ireland, to his right trusty cousin, sendeth greeting : And whereas his
right leal and trust-worthy cousin, George Colwan of Dalcastle and Balgren-
nan, hath suffered great losses, and undergone much hardship, on behalf of
his Majest/s rights and titles ; he therefore, for himself, and as prince and
steward of Scotland, and by the consent of his right trusty cousins and coun-
cillors, hereby grants to the said George Colwan, his heirs and assignees
whatsomever, heritably and irrevocably, all and haill the lands and others
underwritten. To wit, All and haill, the five merk land of Kipplerig ; the five
pound land of Easter Knockward, with all the towers, fortalices, manor-
places, houses, biggings, yards, orchards, tofts, crofts, mills, woods, fishings,
mosses, muirs, meadows, commonties, pasturages, coals, coal-heughs, tenants,
tenantries, services of free tenants, annexes, connexes, dependencies, parts,
pendicles, and p)crtinents of the same whatsomever ; to be peaceably brooked,
joysed, set, used, and disposed of by him and his aboves, as specified, herit-
ably and irrevocably, in all time coming : And, in testimony thereof. His
Majesty, for himself, and as prince and steward of Scotland, with the advice
and consent of his foresaids, knowledge, proper motive, and kingly power,
makes, erects, creates, unites, annexes, and incorporates, the whole lands
above mentioned in an haill and free barony, by all the rights, miethcs, and
marches thereof, old and divided, as the same lies, in length and breadth, in
houses, biggings, mills, multures, hawking, hunting, fishing ; with court, plaint
herezeld, fock, fork, sack, sock, thole, thame, vert, wraik, waith, wair, venison,

CONFESSIONS OF A FAN A TIC. 381

outfang, thief, infang, thief, pit and gallows, and all and sundry, other com-
modities. Given at our Court of Whitehall, <S:c., &c. God save the King.

Compositio 5 lib. 13. 8.
'Registrate 26th September, 1687.'

" See, madam, here are ten signatures of privy councillors of that year, and
here are other ten of the present year, with his Grace the Duke of Queensberry
at the head. All right ;— See here it is, sir, — all right — done your work. So
you see, madam, this gentleman is the true and sole heritor of all the land that
your father possesses, with all the rents thereof for the last twenty years, and
upwards. — Fine job for my employers ! — sorry on your account, madam —
can't help it."

I was again going to disclaim all interest or connexion in the matter, but
my friend stopped me ; and the plaints and lamentations of the dame became
so overpowering, that they put an end to all farther colloquy ; but Lawyer
Linkum followed me, and stated his great outlay, and the important services
he had rendered me, until I was obliged to subscribe an order to him for
;^ioo on my banker.

I was now glad to retire with my friend, and ask seriously for some explana-
tion of all this. It was in the highest degree unsatisfactory. He conrtrmed
all that had been stated to me ; assuring me, that I had not only been assiduous
in my endeavours to seduce a young lady of great beauty, which it seemed I
had effected, but that I had taken counsel, and got this supposed, old, false,
and forged grant, raked up and new signed, to ruin the young lady's family
quite, so as to throw her entirely on myself for protection, and be wholly at
my will.

This was to me wholly incomprehensible. I could have freely made oath
to the contrary of every particular. Yet the evidences were against me, and
of a nature not to be denied. Here I must confess, that, highly as I dis-
approved of the love of women, and all intimacies and connexions with the
sex, I felt a sort of indefinite pleasure, an ungracious delight in having a
beautiful woman solely at my disposal. But I thought of her spiritual good
in the meantime. My friend spoke of my backslidings with concern ; request-
ing me to make sure of my forgiveness, and to forsake them ; and then he
added some words of sweet comfort. But from this time forth I began to be
sick at times of my existence. I had heart-burnings, longings, and yearnings,
that would not be satisfied ; and I seemed hardly to be an accountable
creature ; being thus in the habit of executing transactions of the utmost
moment, without being sensible that I did them. I was a being incompre-
hensible to myself Either I had a second self, who transacted business in
my likeness, or else my body was at times possessed by a spirit over which it
had no control, and of whose actions my own soul was wholly unconscious.
This was an anomaly not to be accounted for by any philosophy of mine ; and
I was many times, in contemplating it, excited to terrors and mental torments
hardly describable. To be in a state of consciousness and unconsciousness,
at the same time, in the same body and same spirit, was impossible. I was
under the greatest anxiety, dreading some change would take place momently
in my nature ; for of dates I could make nothing : one-half, or two-thirds of
my time, seemed to me to be totally lost I often, about this time, prayed
with great fervour, and lamented my hopeless condition, especially in being
liable to the commission of crimes, which I was not sensible of, and could
not eschew. And I confess, notwithstanding the promises on which I had
been taught to rely, I began to have secret terrors, that the great enemy of
man's salvation was exercising powers over me, that might eventually lead to
my ruin. These were but temporary and sinful fears, but they added greatly
to my unhappiness.

The worst thing of all was, what hitherto I had never felt, and, as yet,
durst not confess to myself, that the presence of my illustrious and devoted
friend was becoming irksome to me. When I was by myself, I breathed

3^2 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

freer, and my step was lighter ; but, when he approached, a pang went to my
heart ; and, in his company, I moved and acted as it" under a load that I
could hardly endure. What a state to be in ! And yet to shake him off was
impossible,— we were incorporated together — identified with one another, as
it were, and the power was not in me to separate myself from him. I still
knew nothing who he was, farther than that he was a potentate of some
foreign land, bent on establishing some pure and genuine doctrines of Chris-
tianity, hitherto only half undcrbtood, and less than half e.xcrcised. Of this
I could have no doubts, after all that he had said, done, and suffered in the
cause. But, alongst with this, 1 was also certain, thai he was possessed of
some supernatural power, of the source of which I was wholly ignorant.
That a man could be a Christian, and at the same lime a powerful necro-
mancer, appeared inconsistent, and adverse to every principle taught in our
church ; and from this I was led to believe, that he inherited his powers from
on high, for I could not doubt cither of the soundness of his principles, or that
he accomplished things impossible to account for.

Thus was 1 sojourning in the midst of a chaos of confusion. I looked back
on my bypast life with pain, as one looks back on a perilous journey, in which
he has attained his end, without gaining any advantage either to himself or
others ; and 1 looked forward, as on a darksome waste, full of repulsive and
terrific shapes, pitfalls, and precipices, to which there was no definite bourne,
and from which I turned with disgust. With my riches, my unhappiness
was increased tenfold : and here, with another great acquisition of property,
for which I had pleaed, and which 1 had gained in a dream, my miseries and
difficulties were increasing. My principal feeling, about this time, was an
insatiable longing for something that 1 cannot describe or denominate properly,
unless I say it was for utter oblivion that 1 longed. 1 desired to sleep ; but
it was tor a deeper and longer sleep, than that in which the senses were
nightly steeped. 1 longed to be at rest and quiet, and close my eyes on the
past and the future alike, as far as this frail life was concerned. But what
had been formerly and finally settled in the councils above, I presumed not
to call in question.

In this state of irritation and misery, was I dragging on an existence, dis-
gusted with all around me, and in particular with my mother, who, with all
her love and anxiety, had such an insufferable mode of manifesting them,
that she had by this time rendered herself exceedingly obnoxious to me.
The very sound of her voice at a distance, went to my heart like an arrow,
and made all my nerves to shrink ; and as for the beautiful young lady of
whom they told me I had been so much enamoured, 1 shunned all intercourse
with her or hers. I read some of their letters and burnt them, but refused to
see either the young lady or her mother, on any account.

About this time it was, that my worthy and reverend parent came with one
of his elders to see my mother and myself. His presence always brought joy
with it into our family, for my mother was uplifted, and I had so few who
cared for me, or for whom I cared, that I felt rather gratified at seeing him.
My illustrious friend was also much more attached to him than any other
person, (except myself,) for their religious principles tallied in every point,
and their conversation was interesting, serious, and sublime. Being anxious
to entertain well and highly the man to whom I had been so much indebted,
and knowing that with all his integrity and righteousness, he disdained not
the good things of this life, I brought from the late laird's well-stored cellars,
various fragrant and salubrious wines, and we drank and became merry, and
1 found that my miseries and overpowering calamities passed away over my
head like a shower that is driven by the wind. 1 became elevated and happy,
and welcomed my guests an hundred times ; and then 1 joined them in
religious conversation, with a zeal and enthusiasm which I had not often
experienced, and which made all their hearts rejoice, so that T said to myself,
" Surely every gift of Cod is a blessing, and ought to be u^ed with liberali<y
and thankfulnciis."

CONFESSIONS OF A FANATIC. 3S3

The next day I waked from a profound and feverish sleep, and called for
something to drink. There was a servant answered whom 1 had never seen
before, and he was clad in my servant's clothes and livery. I aaked for
Andrew Handyside, the servant who had waited at table the night before ;
but the man answered with a stare and a smile.

" What do you mean, sirrah,' said I. " Pray what do you here ? or what
are you pleased to laugh at ? 1 desire you to go about your business, and
send me up Handyside. I want him to bring me something to drink."

'• Ye sanna want a drink, maisier," said the fellow. " Tak a hearty ane,
and see if it will wauken ye up something, sae that ye dinna ca' for ghaists
through your sleep. Surely you hacna forgotten that Andrew iiandyside
has been in his grave these six months ?"

This was a stunning blow to me. 1 could not answer further, but sunk back
on my pillow as if I had been a lump of lead, refusing to take a drink or any
thing else at the fellow's hand, who seemed thus mocking me with so grave a
face. The man seemed sorry, and grieved at my being offended, but I ordered
him away, and continued sullen and thoughtful. Could I have again been for
a season in utter oblivion to myself and transacting business which 1 neither
approved of, nor had any connexion with ! I tried to recollect something in
which I might have been engaged, but nothing was portrayed on my mind
subsequent to the parting with my friends at a late hour the evening before.
The evening before it certainly was ; but if so, how came it, that Andrew
Handyside, who served at table that evening, should have been in his grave
six months ! This was a circumstance somewhat equivocal ; therefore, being
afraid to arise lest accusations of I knew not what might come against me,
1 was obliged to call once more in order to come at what intelligence I could.
The same fellow appeared to receive my orders as before, and I set about
examining him with regard to particulars. He told me his name was Scrape ;
that I hired him myself ; of whom I hired him ; and at whose recommenda-
tion. I smiled, and nodded so as to let the knave see I understood he was
telling me a chain of falsehoods, but did not choose to begin with any violent
asseverations to the contrary.

•' And where is my noble friend and companion .''" said I. " How has he
been engaged in the interim .'"'

" I dinna ken him, sir," said Scrape ; " but have heard it said, that
the strange mysterious person that attended you, him that the maist part of
the folks countit uncanny, had gane awa wi' a ^Ir. Ringan o Glasgow last year,
and had never returned."

I was pleased in my heart at this intelligence, hoping that the illustrious
stranger had returned to his own land and pjeople, and that I should thence-
forth be rid of his controlling and appalling presence. " And where is my
mother ?" said I. — The man's breath cut short, and he looked at me without
returning any answer. — " I ask you where my mother is .-"' said I.

"God only knows, and not I, where she is," returned he. " He knows
where her soul is, and as for her body, if you dinna ken something o' it, I
suppose nae man alive does."

" What do you mean, you knave ?" said I ; " what dark hints are these you
are throwing out ? Tell me precisely and distinctly what you know of my
mother.^"

" It is unco queer o' ye to forget, or pretend to forget every thing that gate,
the day, sir," said he. " I'm sure you heard enough about it yestreen ; an' I
can tell you, there are some gayan ill-faured stories gaun about that business.
But as the thing is to be tried afore the circuit lords, it wad be far wrang to
say either this or that to influence the public mind ; it is best just to let justice
tak its swee. 1 hae naething to say, sir. Yehae been a good enough maister
to me, and paid my wages regularly, but ye hae muckle need to be innocent,
for there are some heavy accusations rising against you."

" I fear no accusations of man," said I, "as long as I can justify n\y cause
in the si^^ht of heaven ; and that I can do this 1 am well aware. Go you and

384 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

bring me some wine and water, and some other clothes than these gaudy and
glaring ones"

I took a cup of wine and water ; put on my black clothes and walked out.
For all the perplexity that surrounded me, I felt my spirits considerably
buoyant. It appeared that I was rid of the two greatest bars to my happiness,
by what agency 1 knew not. My mother, it seemed, was gone, who had
become a grievous thorn in my side of late, and my great companion and
counsellor, who tyrannized over every spontaneous movement of my heart,
had likewise taken himself off This last was an unspeakable relief; fori
found that for a long season 1 had only been able to act by the motions of his
mysterious mind and spirit. 1 therefore strode through my woods with a
daring and heroic step ; with independence in my eye, and freedom swinging
in my right hand.

At the extremity of the Colwan wood, I perceived a figure approaching me
with slow and dignified motion. The moment that 1 beheld it, my whole
frame received a shock as if the ground on which I walked had sunk suddenly
below me. Yet, at that moment, I knew not who it was ; it was the air and
motion of some one that I dreaded, and from whom I would gladly have
escaped ; but this 1 even had not power to attempt. It came slowly onward,
and I advanced as slowly to meet it ; yet when we came within speech, I still
knew not who it was. It bore the figure, air, and features of my late brother,
I thought, exactly ; yet in all these there were traits so forbidding, so mixed
with an appearance of misery, chagrin, and despair, that 1 still shrunk from
the view, not knowing on whose face I looked. But when the being spoke,
both my mental and bodily frame received another shock more terrible than
the first, for it was the voice of the great personage I had so long denominated
my friend, of whom I had deemed myself for ever freed, and whose presence
and counsels I now dreaded. It was his voice, but so altered — I shall never
forget it till my dying day. Nay, I can scarce conceive it possible that any
earthly sounds could be so discordant, so repulsive to every feeling of a
human soul, as the tones of the voice that grated on my ear at that moment.
They were the sounds of the pit, wheezed through a grated cranny, or seemed
so to my distempered imagination.

" So ! thou shudderest at my approach now, dost thou ?" said he. " Is this
all the gratitude that you deign for an attachment of which the annals of the
world furnishes no parallel.'* An attachment which has caused me to forego
power and dominion, might, homage, conquest, and adulation, all that I might
gain one highly valued and sanctified spirit to my great and true principles of
reformation among mankind. Wherein have I offended .'' What have I done
for evil, or what have 1 not done for your good, that you would thus shun my
presence .'"'

" Great and magnificent prince," said I humbly, " let me request of you to
abandon a poor worthless wight to his own wayward fortune, and return to
the dominion of your people. I am unworthy of the sacrifices you have made
for my sake ; and after all your efforts, I do not feel that you have rendered
me either more virtuous or more happy. For the sake of that which is
estimable in human nature depart from me to your own home, before you
render me a being altogether above, or below the rest of my fellow-creatures.
Let me plod on towards heaven and happiness in my own way, like those
that have gone before me, and I promise to stick fast by the great principles
which you have so strenuously inculcated, on condition that you depart and
leave me for ever."

" Sooner shall you make the mother abandon the child of her bosom ; nay,
sooner cause the shadow to relinquish the substance, than separate me from
your side. Our beings are amalgamated, as it were, and consociated in one,
and never shall I depart from this country until I can carry you in triumph
with me."

I can in nowise describe th» effect this appalling speech had on me. It
was like the announcement of death to one who haid of late deemed himself

CONFESSIONS OF A FAN A TIC. 385

free, if not of something worse than death, and of longer continuance. There
was I doomed to remain in misery, subjugated, soul and body, to one whose
presence was become more intolerable to me than ought on earth could com-
pensate. And at that moment, when he beheld the anguish of my soul, he
could not conceal that he enjoyed it. I was troubled for an answer, for
which he was waiting : it became incumbent on me to say something after
such a protestation of attachment ; and, in some degree to shake the validity of
it, I asked, with great simplicity, where he had been all this while?

" Your crimes and your extravagances forced me from your side for a
season," said he ; " but now that I hope the day of grace is returned, I am
again drawn towards you by an affection that has neither bounds nor interest ;
an affection for which I receive not even the poor return of gratitude, and
which seems to have its radical sources in fascination. I have been far, far
abroad, and have seen much, and transacted much, since I last spoke with
you. During that space, I grievously suspect that you have been guilty of
great crimes and misdemeanours ; but as I knew it to be only a temporary
falling off, I closed my eyes on the wilful debasement of our principles, knowing
that in good time you would come to your senses."

" What crimes ? " said I ; " what misdemeanours and transgressions do you
talk about ! For my part, I am conscious of none, and am utterly amazed at
insinuations which I do not comprehend."

" You have certainly been left to yourself for a season," returned he, " hav-
ing gone on rather like a person in a delirium, than a Christian in his sober
senses. You are accused of having made away with your mother privately ;
as also of the death of a beautiful young lady, whose affections you had
seduced."

" It is an intolerable and monstrous falsehood ! " cried I, interrupting him ;
" I never laid a hand on a woman to take away her life, and have even shunned
their society from my childhood ; I know nothing of my mothers exit, nor
of that young lady's whom you mention, — Nothing whatever."

" I hope it is so," said he. " But it seems there are some strong presump-
tuous proofs against you, and I came to warn you this day that a precognition
is in progress, and that unless you are perfectly convinced, not only of your
innocence, but of your ability to prove it, it will be the safest course for you
to abscond, and let the trial go on without you.'

" Never shall it be said that I shrunk from such a trial as this," said
I. " It would give grounds for suspicions of guilt that never had existence,
even in thought. I will go and show myself in every public place, that no slander-
ous tongue may wag against me. I have shed the blood of sinners, but of
these deaths I am guiltless ; therefore, I will face every tribunal, and put all
my accusers down."

" Asseverations will avail you but little," answered he composedly. " It is,
however, justifiable in its place, although to me it signifies nothing, who know
too well that you did commit both crimes, in your own person, and with your
own hands. Far be it from me to betray you ; indeed, I would rather
endeavour to palliate the oftences."

"If this that you tell me be true," said I, " then is it as true that 1 have two
souls, which take possession of my bodily frame by turns, the one being all
unconscious of what the other performs ; for as sure as I have at this moment
a spirit within me, so sure am I utterly ignorant of the crimes you now lay to
my charge.'

" Your supposition may be true in effect,'' said he. " We are all subjected
to two distinct natures in the same person. I myself have suffered grievously
in that way. The spirit that now directs my energies is not that with which
I was endowed at my creation. It is changed witiiin me, and so is my whole
nature. My former days were those of grandeur and felicity. Hut, would you
believe it ? / was not then a CItristian. Now I am. I have been converted
to its truths by passing through the fire, and since my final conversion, my
misery has been extreme. You complain thdt I have not been able to render
L 25

386 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

you more happy than you were. Alas ! do you expect it in the difficult and
exterminating career which you have begun. I, however, promise you this —
a portion of the only happiness which I enjoy, sublime in its motions, and
splendid in its attainments — 1 will place you on the right hand of my throne,
and show you the grandeur of my domains, and the felicity of my millions of
true professors."

I was once more humbled before this mighty potentate, and promised to be
ruled wholly by his directions, although at that moment my nature shrunk
from the concessions, and my soul longed rather to be inclosed in the depths
of the sea, or involved once more in utter oblivion. I was like Daniel in the
den of lions, without his faith in divine support, and wholly at their mercy.
I felt as one round whose body a deadly snake is twisted, which continues to
hold him in his fangs, without injuring him, farther than in moving its scaly
infernal folds with exulting delight, to let its victim feel to whose power he has
subjected himself ; and thus did I for a space drag an existence from day to
day, in utter weariness and helplessness ; at one time worshipping with great
fervour of spirit, and at other times so wholly left to myself as to work all
manner of vices and follies with greediness. In these, my enlightened friend
never accompanied me, but I always observed that he was the first to lead me
to every one of them, and then leave me in the lurch.

But of all my troubles, this was the chief. I was every day and every hour
assailed with accusations of deeds of which I was wholly ignorant ; of acts of
cruelty, injustice, defamation, and dect't ; of pieces of business which I could
not be made to comprehend ; with law-suits, details, arrestments of judg-
ment, and a thousand interminable quibbles from the mouth of my loqua-
cious and conceited attorney. So miserable was my life rendered by
these continued attacks, that I was often obliged to lock myself up for
days together, never seeing any person save my man Samuel Scrape,
who was a very honest blunt fellow, a staunch Cameronian, but withal
very little conversant in religious matters. He said he came from a
place called Penpunt, which I thought a name so ridiculous, that I called
him by the name of his native village, an appellation of which he was very
proud, and answered everything with more civility and perspicuity when I
denominated him Penpunt, than Samuel, his own Christian name. Of this
peasant was 1 obliged to make a companion on sundry occasions, and strange
indeed were the details which he gave me concerning myself, and the ideas of
the country people concerning me. I took down a few of these in writing, to
put off the time, and here leave them on record to show how the best and
greatest actions are misconstrued among sinful and ignorant men.

" You say, Samuel, that I hired you myself — that I have been a good enough
master to you, and have paid you your weekly wages punctually. Now, how
is it that you say this, knowing, as you do, that I never hired you, and never
paid you a sixpence of wages in the whole course of my life, excepting this last
month .'' "

" Ye may as weel say, master, that water's no water, or that stanes are no
stanes. But that's just your gate, an' it is a great pity aye to do a thing an'
profess the clean contrair. Weel then, since you havena paid me ony wages,
an' I can prove day and date when I was hired, an' came hame to your ser-
vice, will you be sae kind as to pay me now .'' That's the best way o' curing
a man o' the mortal disease o' leasing-making that 1 ken o' "

" I should think that Penpunt and Cameronian principles would not admit
of a man taking twice payment for the same article."

" In sic a case as this, sir, it disna hinge upon principles, but a piece o' good
manners ; as 1 canna bide to make you out a leear, I'll thank you for my
wages."

" Well, you shall have them, Samuel, if you declare to me that I hired you
myself in this same person, and bargained with you with this same tongue,
and voice, with which I speak to you just now."

" That I do declare, unless ye hae twa persons o' the same appearance, and

CONFESSIONS OF A FANATIC. 387

twa tongues to the same voice. But, 'od saif us, sir, do you ken what the auld
wives o' the clachan say about you ? "

" How should I when no one repeats it to me ?"

" Oo, I trow its a" stuft" ;— folk shouldna heed what's said by auld crazy kim-
mers. But there are some o' them weel kend for witches too ; an' they say, —
Lord have a care o' us 1 — they say the deils often seen gaun sidie for sidie w'ye,
whiles in ae shape, an' whiles in anither. An' they say that he whiles takes
your ain shape, or else enters into you, and then you turn deil yoursel."'

I was so astounded at this terrible idea that had gone abroad, regarding
my fellowship with the prince of darkness, that I could make no answer to
the fellow's information, but sat like one in a stupor ; and if it had not been
for my well-founded faith, I should at that moment have given into the
popular belief, and fallen into the sin of despondency ; but I was preserved
from such a fatal error by an inward and unseen supporter. Still the
insinuation was so like what I felt myself, that I was greatly awed and
confounded.

The poor fellow observed this, and tried to do away the impression by
some farther sage remarks of his own.

" Hout, dear sir, it is balderdash, there's nae doubt o'L It is the crown-
head o' absurdity to tak in the havers o' auld wives for gospel. I told them
that my master was a peeous man, an' a sensible man ; an' for praying, that
he could ding auld Macmillan himsel. ' Sae could the deil,' they said, ' when
he liket, either at preaching or praying, if these war to answer his ain ends.'
' Na, na,' says I, 'but he's a strick believer in a' the truths o' Christianity, my
master.' They said, sae w-as Satan, for that he was the firmest believer in a'
the truths of Christianity that was out o' heaven ; an' that, sin' the Revolution,
that the gospel had turned sae rife, he had been often driven to the shift o'
preaching it himsel', for the purpose o' getting some wTang tenets introduced
mto it, and thereby turning it into blasphemy and ridicule."

I confess, to my shame, that I was so overcome by this jumble of nonsense,
that a chillness came over me, and in spite of all my efforts to shake off the
impression it had made, I fell into a faint. Samuel soon brought me to
myself, and after a deep draught of wine and water, I was greatly revived,
and felt my spirit rise above the sphere of vulgar conceptions. The shrewd
but loquacious fellow, perceiving this, tried to make some amends for the
pain he had occasioned to me, by the following story, which I noted down,
and which was brought on by a conversation to the following purport : —

" Now, Penpunt, you may tell me all that passed between you and the wives
of the clachan. I am better of that stomach qualm, with which I am some-
times seized, and shall be much amused by hearing the sentiments of noted
witches regarding myself and my conne.xions."

"Weel, you see, sir, I says to them, ' It will be lang afore the deil inter-
meddle wi' as serious a professor, and as fervent a prayer as my master, for gin
he gets the hand o' sickan men, wha's to be safe ! ' An, what think ye they said,
sir.' There was ane Lucky Shaw set up her lang lantern chafts, an' answered
me, and a' the rest shanned and noddit, in assent an' approbation : ' Ye silly,
sauchless, Cameronian cuif ! ' quo she, ' is that a' that ye ken about the wiles
and doings o' the prince 0' the air, that rules an' works in the bairns o'
disobedience ? Gin ever he observes a proud professor, wha has mae than
ordinary pretensions to a divine calling, and that reads and prays till the very
howlets learn his preambles, that's the man Auld Simmie fixes on to mak a
dishclout o'. He canna get rest if he sees a man, or a set of men o' this
stamp, an' when he sets fairly to wark, it is seldom that he disna bring them
round till his ain measures by hook or by crook. Then, O it is a grand prize
for him, an' a proud deil he is, when he gangs hame to his ain ha', wi' a batch
o' the souls o' sic strenuous professors on his back. Ay, I trow, auld Ingleby,
the Liverpool packman, never came up Glasgow street wi' prouder pomp, when
he had ten horse-laids afore him o' Flanders lace, an' Hollin lawn, .m' silks an'
satins frae the eastern Indians, than Satan wad strodge wi' a pack-lade o' the

388 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

souls o' proud professors on his braid shoulders. Ha, ha, ha ! I think I see
how the auld thief wad be gaun through his gizened dominions, crj'ing his
wares, in derision, ' Wha will buy a fresh, cauler divine, a bouzy bishop, a
fasting zealot, or a piping priest ? For a' their prayers an' their praises,
their aumuses, an' their penances, their whinings. their bowlings, their
rantings, an' their ravings, here they come at last ! lichold the end ! Here
go the rare and precious wares ! A fat professor for a bodle, an' a lean ane
for half a mcrk ! ' I declare, I tremble at the auld hag's ravings, but the
lave o' the kimmers applauded the sayings as sacred truths. An' then Lucky
went on : 'There are many wolves in sheep's claithing, among us, my man ;
mony deils aneath the masks o' zealous professors, roaming about in kirks
and meeting-houses o' the land. An' whenever you are doubtfu' o' a man,
take auld Robin Ruthven's plan, an' look for the cloven foot, for it's a thing
that winna weel hide ; an' it appears whiles where ane wadna think o't. It
will keek out frae aneath the parson's gown, the lawyer's wig, and the
Cameronian's blue bannet ; but still there is a gouden rule whereby to
detect it, an' that never, never fails.' — The auld witch didna gie me the rule,
an' though I hae heard tell o't often an' often, shame fa' me an I ken what
it is ! But ye will ken it well, an' it would be nana the waur of a trial
on some o' your friends, maybe : for they say there's a certain gentleman
seen walking wi' you whiles, that wherever he sets his foot, the grass withers
as gin it war scoudered wi' a het ern. His presence be about us ! What's
the matter wi' you, master ? Are ye gaun to take the calm o' the stamock
again "i "

The truth is, that the clown's absurd gossip made me sick at heart a second
time. It was not because I thought my illustrious friend was the devil, but
it gave me a view of my own state, at which I shuddered, as indeed I now
always did, when the image of my devoted friend and ruler presented itself
to my mind. I often communed with my heart on this, and wondered how a
connexion, that had the well-being of mankind solely in view, could be
productive of fruits so bitter. I then went to try my works by the Saviour's
golden rule, as my servant had put it into my head to do ; and, behold, not
one of them would stand the test. I had shed blood on a ground on which I
could not admit that any man had a right to shed mine ; and I began to
doubt the motives of my adviser once more, not that they were intentionally
bad, but that his was some great mind led astray by enthusiasm, or some
overpowering passion.

He seemed to comprehend every one of these motions of my heart, for his
manner towards me altered every day. It first became anything but agree-
able, then supercilious, and finally, intolerable ; so that I resolved to shake
him off, cost what it would, even though I should be reduced to beg my
bread in a foreign land. To do it at home was impossible as he held my life
in his hands, to sell it whenever he had a mind ; a|id besides, his ascendancy
over me was as complete as that of a huntsman over his dogs. I was even
so weak, as, the next time I met with him, to look stedfastly at his foot, to see
if it was cloven into two hoofs. It was the foot of a gentleman, in every
respect, so far as appearances went, but the form of his counsels was some-
what equivocal, and if not double, they were amazingly crooked.

But, if I had taken my measures to abscond and fly from my native place,
in order to free myself of this tormenting, intolerant, and bloody reformer, he
had likewise taken his to expel me, or throw me into the hands of justice. It
seems, that about this time, 1 was haunted by some spies connected with my
late father and brother, of whom the mistress of the former was one. My
brother's death had been witnessed by two individuals ; indeed, I always had
an impression that it was witnessed by more than one, having some faint
recollection of hearing voices and challenges close beside me ; and this
woman had searched about until she found these people ; but, as I shrewdly
suspected, not without the assistance of the only person m my secret, — my
own warm and devoted friend. I say this, because I found that he had them

CONF±.SSIONS OF A FANATIC. 389

concealed in the neighbourhood, and then took me again and again where I
was fully exposed to their view, without being aware. One time in particular,
on pretence of gratifying my revenge on that base woman, he knew so well
where she lay concealed, that he led me to her, and left me to the mercy of
two viragos, who had very nigh taken my life. My time of residence at
Dalcastle was wearing to a crisis. I could no longer live with my tyrant,
who haunted me like my shadow ; and besides, it seems there were proofs of
murder leading against me from all quarters. Of part of these I deemed
myself quite free : but the world deemed otherwise ; and how the matter
would have ended, had the case undergone a judicial trial, I cannot say. It
perhaps, however, behoves me here to relate all that I know of it, and it is
simply this.

On the 1st of June 17 12, (well may I remember the day,) I was sitting
locked in my secret chamber, in a state of the utmost despondency, revolving
in my mind what I ought to do to be free of my persecutors, and wishing myself a
worm, or a moth, that I might be crushed and at rest, when behold Samuel
entered, with eyes like to start out of his head, exclaiming, " For God's sake,
master, fly and hide yourself for your mother's found ; an' as sure as you're a
living soul, the blame is gaun to fa' on you ! "

"My mother found!" said I. "And pray, where has she been all this
while?" In the mean time, I was terribly discomposed at the thoughts of
her return.

" Been, sir ? Been ? Why, she has been where ye pat her, it seems, — lying
buried in the sands o' the linn. I can tell you, ye will see her a frightsome
figure, sic as I never wish to see again. An' the young lady is found too, sir:
an' it is said the devil — I beg pardon, sir, your friend, I mean,— it is said your
friend has made the discovery, an' the folk are away to raise officers, an' they
will be here in an hour or two at the farthest, sir ; an' sae you hae not a min-
ute to lose, for there's proof, sir, strong proof, an' sworn proof, that ye were
last seen wi' them baith ; sae, unless ye can gie a' the better an account o'
baith yoursel' an' them, either hide, or flee for your bare life."

" I will neither hide nor fly," said I ; " for I am as guiltless of the blood of
these women as the child unborn."

" The country disna think sae, master; an' I can assure you, that should
evidence fail, you run a risk o' being torn limb frae limb. They are bringing
the corpses here, to gar ye touch them baith afore witnesses, an' plenty o' wit-
nesses there will be ! "

" They shall not bring them here," cried I, shocked beyond measure at the
experiment about to be made : " Go, instantly, and debar them from entering
my gate with their bloated and mangled carcasses."

" The body of your own mother, sir I " said the fellow emphatically. I was
in terrible agitation ; and, being driven to my wit's end, 1 got up and strode furi-
ously round and round the room. Samuel wist not what to do, but I saw by his
staring he deemed me doubly guilty. A tap came to the chamber door : we
both started like guilty creatures ; and as for Samuel, his hairs stood all on
end with alarm, so that when 1 motioned to him, he could scarcely advance
to open the door. He did so at length, and who should enter but my illus-
trious friend, manifestly in the utmost state of alarm. The moment that
Samuel admitted him, the former made his escape by the prince's side as he
entered, seemingly in a state of distraction. I was little better, when I saw
this dreaded personage enter my chamber, which he had never before
attempted ; and being unable to ask his errand, I suppose I stood and gazed
on him like a statue.

" I come with sad and tormenting tidings to you, my beloved and ungrate-
ful friend," said he ; "but having only a minute left to save your life, I have
come to attempt it. There is a mob coming towards you with two dead
bodies, which will place you in circumstances disagreeable enough ; but that
IS not the worse, for of that you may be able to clear yourself At this
moment there is a party of officers, with a Justiciary warrant from Edinburgh,

390 THE ETTRTCK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

surrounding the house, and about to begin the search of it, for you. If you
fall into their hands, you are inevitably lost ; for 1 have been making earnest
inquiries, and find that ever)' thing is in train for your ruin."

" Ay, and who has been the cause of all this.'"' said l,\vith great bitterness.
But he stopped me short, adding, " there is no time for such reflections at
present ; I gave you my word of honour that your life should be safe from the
hand of man. So it shall, if the power remain with me to save it. I am
come to redeem my pledge, and to save your life by the sacrifice of my own.
Here, — not one word of expostulation ; change habits with me, and you may
then pass by the officers, and guards, and even through the approaching mob,
with the most perfect temerity. There is a virtue in this garb, and instead of
offering to detain you, they shall pay you obeisance. Make haste, and leave
this place for the present, flying where you best may, and if I escape from
these dangers that surround me, I will endeavour to find you out, and bring
you what intelligence I am able."

I put on his green frock coat, buff belt, and a sort of a t-irban that he
always wore on his head, somewhat resembling a bishop's mitre ; he drew
his hand thrice across my face, and I withdrew as he continued to urge me.
My hall door and postern gate were both strongly guarded, and there were
sundry armed people within, searching the closets ; but all of them made way
for me, and lifted their caps as I passed by them. Only one superior officer
accosted me, asking if I had seen the culprit ? I knew not what answer to
make, but chanced to say, with great truth and propriety, " He is safe enough."
The man beckoned with a smile, as much as to say, " Thank you, sir, that is
quite sufficient ; " and I walked deliberately away.

I had not well left the gate, till, hearing a great noise coming from the deep
glen towards the east, I turned that way, deeming myself quite secure in this
my new disguise, to see what it was, and if matters were as had been described
to me. There I met a great mob, sure enough, coming with two dead bodies
stretched on boards, and decently covered with white sheets. I would fain
have examined their appearance, had I not perceived the apparent fury in
the looks of the men, and judged from that how much more safe it was for me
not to intermeddle in the affray. I cannot tell how it was, but I felt a strange
and unwonted delight in viewing this scene, and a certain pride of heart in
being supposed the perpetrator of the unnatural crimes laid to my charge.
This was a feeling quite new to me ; and if there were virtues in the robes of
the illustrious foreigner, who had without all dispute preserved my life at this
time ; I say, if there was any inherent virtue in these robes of his, as he had
suggested, this was one of their effects, that they turned my heart towards
that which was evil, horrible and disgustful.

I mixed with the mob to hear what they were saying. Every tongue was
engaged in loading me with the most opprobrious epithets ! One called me
a monster of nature ; another an incarnate devil ; and another a creature
made to be cursed in time and eternity. I retired from them, and winded my
way southward, comforting myself with the assurance, that so mankind had
used and persecuted the greatest fathers and apostles of the Christian church,
and that their vile opprobrium could not alter the counsels of heaven con-
cerning me.

On going over that rising ground called Dorington Moor, I could not help
turning round and taking a look of Dalcastle. I had little doubt that it would
be my last look, and nearly as little ambition that it should not. I thought
how high my hopes of happiness and advancement had been on entering that
mansion, and taking possession of its rich and extensive domains, and how
miserably I had been disappointed. On the contrary, I had experienced
nothing but chagrin, disgust, and terror ; and I now consoled myself with the
hope that I should henceforth shake myself free of the chains of my great
tormentor, and for that privilege was I willing to encounter any earthly dis-
tress. I could not help perceiving, that I was now on a path which was likely
to lead me into a species of distress hitherto unknown, and hardly dreamed

CONFESSIONS OF A FANATIC. 391

of by me, and that was total destitution. For all the riches I had been pos-
sessed of a few hours previous to this, I found that here 1 was turned out of
my lordly possessions without a single merk, or the power of lifting and com-
manding the smallest sum, without being thereby discovered and seized.
Had it been possible for me to have escaped in my own clothes, I had a con-
siderable sum secreted in these, but by the sudden change, I was left without
a coin for present necessity. But 1 had hope in heaven, knowing that the
just man would not be left destitute ; and that though many troubles sur-
rounded him, he would at last be set free from them all. 1 was possessed of
strong and brilliant parts, and a liberal education ; and though 1 had some-
how unaccountably suffered my theological qualifications to fall into desue-
tude, since my acquaintance with the ablest and most rigid of all theologians,
1 had nevertheless hopes that, I should yet be enabled to benelit mankind in
some country, and rise to high distinction.

These were some of the thoughts by which I consoled myself as I passed
on my way southward, avoiding the towns and villages, and falling into the
cross ways that led from each of the great roads passing east and west, to
another. 1 lodged the first night in the house of a country weaver, into
which I stepped at a late hour, quite overcome with hunger and fatigue,
having travelled not less than thirty miles from my late home. The
man received me ungraciously, telling me of a gentleman's house at no great
distance, and of an inn a little farther away ; but I said I delighted more in
the society of a man like him, than that of any gentleman of the land, for my
concerns were with the poor of this world, it being easier for a camel to go
through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter into the kingdom of
heaven. The weaver's wife, who sat with a child on her knee, and had not
hitherto opened her mouth, hearing me speak in that serious and religious
style, stirred up the fire, with her one hand ; then drawing a chair near it, she
said, " Come awa, honest lad, in by here, sin' it be sae that you belong to Him
wha gies us a' that we hae, it is but right that you should share a part. You
are a stranger, it is true, but them that winna entertain a stranger will never
entertain an angel unawares."

I never was apt to be taken with the simplicity of nature ; in general I des-
pised it ; but, owing to my circumstances at the time, I was deeply affected by
the manner of this poor woman's welcome. The weaver continued in a churlish
mood throughout the evening, apparently dissatisfied with what his wife had
done in entertaining me, and spoke to her in a manner so crusty that I thought
proper to rebuke him, for the woman was comely in her person and virtuous
in her conversation ; but the weaver her husband was large of make, ill-
favoured, and pestilent ; therefore did I take him severely to task for the tenor
of his conduct ; but the man was froward, and answered me rudely, with
sneering and derision, and, in the height of his caprice, he said to his wife,
" Whan focks are sae keen of a chance o' entertaining angels, gudewife, it wad
maybe be worth their while to tak tent what kind o' angels they are. It wadna
wonder nie vera muckle an ye had entertained your friend the deil the night,
for I thought I fand a saur o' reek an' brimstane about him. He^s nane o' the
best o' angels, and focks winna hae muckle credit by entertaining him."

Certainly, in the assured state I was in, I had as little reason to be alarmed
at mention being made of the devil as any person on earth : of late, however,
I felt that the reverse was the case, and that any allusion to my great enemy,
moved me exceedingly. The weaver's speech had such an effect on me, that
both he and his wife were alarmed at my looks. The latter thought I was
angry, and chided her husband gently for his rudeness ; but the weaver himself
rather seemed to be confirmed in his opinion that I was tlic devil, for he
looked round like a startled roebuck, and immediately betook him to the
family Bible.

I know not whether it was on purpose to prove my identity or not, but I
think he was going to desire me either to read a certain portion of Scripture
that he had sought out, or to make family worship, liad not the conversation

392 THE ETTKICK ^nhPHERirS TALES.

at that instant taken another turn ; for the weaver, not knowing how to address
me, abruptly asked my name, as he was about to put the IJible into my hands.
Never liaving considered myseh" in the hght of a malefactor, but rather as a
champion in the cause of truth, and findmg myself perfectly safe under my
disguise, I had never once thought of the utility of changing my name, and
when the man asked me, I hesitated ; but being compelled to say something,
1 s.iid my name was Cowan. The man stared at me, and then at his wife,
with a look that spoke a knowledge of something alarming or mysterious.

"Ha! Cowan.'"' said he. " That's most c.\trordinar ! ^iot Colwan, I
hope .'' "

" No : Cowan is my sirname," said I. " liut why not Colwan, there being
so little difference in the sound .'' "

" 1 was feared ye might be that waratch that the dcil has taen the possession
o', an' cggit him on to kill baith his father an' his mother, his only brother, an'
his sweetheart," said he ; "an' to say the truth, I'm no that sure about you
yet, for I see you're gaun wi' arms on ye."

" Not I, honest man," said I ; "I carry no arms ; a man conscious of
his innocence and uprightness of heart, needs not to carry arms in his
defence now."

"Ay, ay, maister," said he ; " an' pray what div ye ca' this bit windlestrae
that's appearing here ?" With that he pointed to something on the inside of
the breast of my frock-coat. I looked at it, and there certainly was the gilded
haft of a poniard, the same weapon I had seen and handled before, and vshich
I knew my illustrious companion always carried about with him ; but till that
moment 1 knew not that I was in possession of it. i drew it out : a more
dangerous or insidious looking weapon could not be conceived. The weaver
and his wife were both frightened, the latter in particular ; and she being my
friend, and I dependent on their hospitality, for that night, 1 said, " I declare
I knew not that I carried this small rapier, which has been in my coat by
chance, and not by any design of mine. But lest you should think that I
meditate any mischief to any under tliis roof, I give it into your hands,
requesting of you to lock it by till to-morrow, or when I shall next want it."

The woman seemed rather glad to get hold of it ; and taking it from me,
she went into a kind of pantry out of my sight, and locked the weapon up ;
and then the discourse went on.

" There cannot be such a thing in reality," said I, " as the story you were
mentioning just now, of a man whose name resembles mine."

" It's likely that you ken a wee better about the story than I do, maister,"
said he, " suppose you do leave the Z. out of your name. An' yet 1 think sic
a waratch, an' a murderer, wad hae taen a name wi' some gritter difference in
the sound. But the story is just that true, that there were twa o' the Queen's
officers here nae mair than an hour ago, in pursuit o' the vagabond, for they
gat some intelligence that he had fled this gate ; yet they said he had been
last seen wi' black claes on, an' they supposed he was clad in black. His ain
servant is wi' them, for the purpose o' kennin the scoundrel, an' they're gallop-
ing through the country like madmen. I hope they'll get him, and rack
his neck for him ! "

1 could not say Amen to the weaver's prayer, and therefore tried to compose
myself as well as I could, and made some religious comment on the causes of
the nation's depravity. But suspecting that my potent friend had betrayed
my flight and disguise, to save his life, I was very uneasy, and gave myself up
for lost. I said prayers in the family, with the tenor of which the wife was
delighted, but the weaver still dissatisfied ; and, after a supper of the most
homely fare, he tried to start an argument with me, proving, that every thing
for which I had interceded in my prayer, was irrelevant to man's present
state. But I, being weary and distressed in mind, shunned the contest, and
requested a couch whereon to repose.

I was conducted into the other end of the house, among looms, treadles,
pirns, and confusion without end ; and there, in a sort of box, was I shut up

CONFESSIONS OF A FANATIC. 393

for my night's repose, for the weaver, as he left me, cautiously turned the key
of my apartment, and left me to shift for myself among the looms, determined
that I should escape from the house with nothing. After he and his wife and
children were crowded into their den, I heard the two mates contending
furiously about me in suppressed voices, the one maintaining the probability
that I was the murderer, and the other proving the impossibility of it. The
husband, however, said as much as let me understand, that he had locked me
up on purpose to bring the military, or officers of justice, to seize me. I was
in the utmost perple.xity, yet, for all that, and the imminent danger I was in,
I fell asleep, and a more troubled and tormenting sleep never enchained a
mortal frame. I had such dreams that they will not bear repetition, and early
in the morning 1 awaked, feverish, and parched with thirst.

I went to call mine host, that he might let me out to the open air, but
before doing so, I thought it necessary to put on some clothes. In attempt-
ing to do this, a circumstance arrested my attention, (for which I could in no
wise account, which to this day I cannot unriddle, nor shall 1 ever be able to
comprehend it while I live,) the frock and turban, which had furnished my
disguise on the preceding day, were both removed, and my own black coat
and cocked hat laid down in their place. At first I thought I was in a dream,
and felt the weaver's beam, web, and treadle-strings with my hands, to con-
vince myself that I was awake. I was certainly awake ; and there was the
door locked firm and fast as it was the evening before. I carried my own
black coat to the small window, and examined it. It was my own in verity ;
and the sums of money, that I had concealed in case of any emergency,
remained untouched. I trembled with astonishment ; and on my return from
the small window, went dotting in amongst the weaver's looms, till I entangled
myself, and could not get out again without working great deray amongst the
coarse linen threads that stood in warp from one end of the apartment unto
the other. I had no knife whereby to cut the cords of this wicked man, and
therefore was obliged to call out lustily for assistance. The weaver came
half naked, unlocked the door, and, setting in his head and long neck,
accosted me thus :

"What now, Mr. Satan.-' What for are ye roaring that gate.'' Deil be in
your reistit trams ! What for have ye abscondit yoursel into ma ledd/s wab
for .? "

" Friend, I beg your pardon,'' said I ; " I wanted to be at the light, and
have somehow unfortunately involved myself in the intricacies of your web,
from which I cannot get clear without doing you a great injury. Pray do,
lend your experienced hand to extricate me."

" Ye ditit, donnart, deil's burd that ye be ! what made ye gang howkin in
there to be a poor man's ruin .'' Come out, ye vile rag-of-o-muffin, or I will
gar ye come out wi' mair shame and disgrace, an' fewer haill banes in youi
body."

My feet had slipped down through the double warpings of a web, and not
being able to reach the ground with them (there being a small pit below), I
rode upon a number of yielding threads, and there being nothing else that I
could reach, to extricate myself was impossible. I was utterly powerless :
and besides, the yarn and cords hurt me very much. For all that, the destruc-
tive weaver seized a loomspoke, and began a-beating me most unmercifully,
while, entangled as I was, I could do nothing but shout aloud for mercy, or
assistance, whichever chanced to be within hearing. The latter, at length,
made its appearance, in the form of the weaver's wife, in the same state of
deshabille with himself, who instantly interfered, and that most strenuously,
on my behalf Before her arrival, however, I had made a desperate effort to
throw myself out of the entanglement I was in ; for the weaver continued
repeating his blows and cursing mc so, that I determined to get out of his
meshes at any risk. This effort made my case worse ; for my feet being
wrapt among the nether threads, as I threw myself from my saddle on the
upper ones, my feet brought the otiiers up through these, and I hung with my

394

THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

head down, and my feet as firm as if they had been in a vice. The predica-
ment of the web being thereby increased, the weaver "s wrath was doubled in
proportion, and he laid on without mercy.

At this critical juncture the wife arrived, and without hesitation rushed
before her offended lord, withholding his hand from injuring me farther,
although then it was uplifted along with the loomspoke in overbearing ire.
*' Dear Johnny ! I think ye be gaen dementit this morning. Be quiet, my
dear, an' dinna begin a Boddel Brigg business in your ain house. What for
ir ye persecutin' a servant o' the Lord's that gate, an' pitting the life out o' him
wi' his head down an' his heels up?"

" Had you said a servant o' the deil's. Nans, ye wad hae been nearer the
nail, for gin he binna the auld ane himsel, he's gayan sib till him. There
didna I lock him in on purpose to bring the military on him ; an' in place o'
that, hasna he keepit me in a sleep a' this while as deep as death.'' An' here
do I find him abscondit like a speeder i' the mids o' my leddy's wab, an' me
dreamin' a' the night that I had the deil i' my house, an' that b" was clapper-
clawin me ayont the loom. Have at you, ye brunstane thief!" and, in spite
of the good woman's struggles, he lent me another severe blow.

" Now, Johnny Uods, my man ! O Johnny Dods, think if that be like a
Christian, and ane o' the heroes o' Boddel Brigg, to entertain a stranger, an'
then bind him in a web wi' his head down, an' mell him to death ! O Johnny
Dods, think what you are about ! Slack a pin, an' let the good honest
religious lad out."

The weaver was rather overcome, but still stood to his point that I was the
deil, though in better temper ; and as he slackened the web to release me, he
remarked, half laughing, " Wha wad hae thought that John Dods should hae
cscapit a' the snares an' dangers that circumfauldit him, an' at last should hae
weaved a net to catch the deil."

The wife released me soon, and carefully whispered me, at the same time,
that it would be as well for me to dress and be going. I was not long in
obeying, and dressed myself in my black clothes, hardly knowing what I did,
what to think, or whither to betake myself I was sore hurt by the blows of
the desperate ruftian ; and, what was worse, my ankle was so much strained,
that I could hardly set my foot to the ground. I was obliged to apply to the
weaver once more, to see if I could learn any thing about my clothes, or how
the change was effected. " Sir," said I, " how comes it that you have robbed
me of my clothes, and put these down in their place over night ?"

" Ha ! thae claes ? Me pit down thae claes !" said he, gaping with aston-
ishment, and touching the clothes with the point of his fore-finger ; " I never
saw them afore, as I have death to meet wi'."

He strode into the work-house where I slept, to satisfy himself that my
clothes were not there, and returned perfectly aghast with consternation.
" The doors were baith fast lockit," said he. " I could hae defied a rat either
to hae gotten out or in. My dream has been true ! My dream has been
true ! I charge you to depart out o' this house ; an', gin it be your will, dinna
tak the braidside o't w'ye, but gang quietly out at the door wi' your face fore-
most. Wife, let nought o' this enchanter's remain i' the house, to be a curse
an' a snare to us ; gang an' bring him his gildit weapon."

The wife went to seek my poniard, trembling so excessively that she could
hardly walk, and shortly after, we heard a feeble scream from the pantry.
The weapon had disappeared with the clothes, though under double lock and
key ; and the terror of the good people having now reached a disgusting ex-
tremity, I thought proper to make a sudden retreat, followed by the weaver's
anathemas.

My state both of body and mind was now truly deplorable. T was hungry,
wounded, and lame ; an outcast and a vagabond in society ; my life sought
after with avidity. I knew not whither to betake me. I had proposed going
into England, and there making some use of the classical education I had
received, but my lameness rendered this impracticable for the present. I was

CONFESSIONS OF A FANATIC. 395

therefoie obliged to turn my face towards Edinburgh, where I was little
knowi — where concealment was more practicable than by skulking in the
country, and where I might turn my mind to something that was great and
good. 1 had a little money, both Scots and English, now in my possession,
but net one friend in the whole world on whom I could rely. One devoted
friend, it is true, I had, but he was become my greatest terror. To escape
from him, I now felt that I would willingly travel to the farthest corners of
the world, and be subjected to every deprivation ; but after the certainty of
what had taken place last night, after I had travelled thirty miles by secret
and bye-ways, I saw not how escape from him was possible.

Miserable, forlorn, and dreading every person that I saw, either behind or
before me, I hasted on towards Edinburgh, taking all the bye and unfrequented
paths; and the third night after I left the weaver's house, I reached the West
Port, without meeting with any thing remarkable. Being exceedingly fatigued
and lame, I took lodgings in the first house I entered, and for these I was to
pay two groats a-week, and to board and sleep with a young man who wanted
a companion to make his rent easier. I liked this ; having found from
experience, that the great personage who had attached himself to me, and
was now becoming my greatest terror among many surrounding evils, generally
haunted me when I was alone, keeping aloof from all other society.

My fellow lodger came home in the evening, and was glad at my coming.
His name was Linton, and I changed mine to Elliot. He was a flippant
unstable being, one to Avhom nothing appeared a difficulty, in his own estima-
tion, but who could effect very little, after all. He was what is called by
some a compositor, in the Queen's printing house, then conducted by a Mr.
James Watson. In the course of our conversation that night, I told him thai
I was a first-rate classical scholar, and would gladly turn my attention to
some business wherein my education might avail me something ; and that
there was nothing would delight me so much as an engagement in the Queen's
printing office. Linton made no difficulty in bringing about that arrange-
ment. His answer was, " Oo, gud sir, you are the very man we want. Gud
bless your breast and your buttons, sir ! Ay, that's neither here nor there —
That's all very well — Ha-ha-ha — A byeword in the house, sir. But, as I was
saying, you are the very man we want — You will get any money you like to
ask, sir — Any money you like, sir. — That's settled — All done— Settled, settled
— I'll do it, I'll do it — No more about it; no more about it. Settled,
settled."

The next day I went with him to the office, and he presented me to Mr.
Watson as the most wonderful genius and scholar ever known. His recom-
mendation had little sway with Mr. Watson, who only smiled at Linton's
extravagances, as one does at the prattle of an infant. I sauntered about the
printing office for the space of two or three hours, during which time Watson
bustled about with green spectacles on his nose, and took no heed of me.
But seeing that I still lingered, he addressed me at length, in a civil gentle-
manly way, and inquired concerning my views. I satisfied him with all my
answers, in particular those to his questions about the Latin and Greek
languages ; but when he came to ask testimonials of my character and
acquirements, and found that I could produce none, he viewed me with a
jealous eye, and said he dreaded I was some ne'er-do-weel, run from my
parents or guardians, and he did not choose to employ any such. I said my
parents were both dead ; and that being thereby deprived of the means of
following out my education, it behoved me to apply to some business in
which my education might be of some use to me. He said he would take
me into the office, and pay me according to the business I performed, and
the manner in which I deported myself ; but he could take no one into her
Majesty's printing office upon a regular engagement, who could not produce
the most respectable references with regard to morals.

I could not but despise the man in my heart who laid such a stress upon
morals, leaving grace out of the question ; and viewed it as a deplorable

396 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

instance of human depravity and self-conceit ; but for all that, I was obliged
to accept of his terms, for I had an inward thirst and longing to distinguish
myself in the great cause of religion, and I thouglit if once I could print my
own works, how I would astonish mankind, and confound their self-wisdom
and their esteemed morality. And I weened that 1 might thus get me a
name even higher than if 1 had been made a general of the Czar Peter's
troops against the infidels.

I attended the office some hours every day, but got not much encourage-
ment, though I was eager to learn every thing, and could soon have set types
considerably well. It was here that I first conceived the idea of writing this
journal, and having it printed, and applied to Mr. Watson to print it for me,
telling him it was a religious parable such as the Pilgrim's Progress. He
advised me to print it close, and make it a pamphlet, and then if it did not
sell, it would not cost me much ; but that reHgious pamphlets, especially if
they had a shade of allegory in them, were the very rage of the day. I put
my work to the press, and wrote early and late ; and encour"ging my com-
panion to work at odd hours, and on Sundays. Before the press-work of the
second sheet was begun, we had the work all in types, corrected, and a clean
copy thrown off for farther rcvisal. The first sheet was wrought off ; and I
never shall forget how my heart exulted when at the printing house this day,
I saw what numbers of my works were to go abroad among mankind, and I
determined with myself that I would not put the Border name of Elliot,
which I had assumed, to the work.

Thus far have my History and Confessions been carried.

I must now furnish my Christian readers with a key to the process, manage-
ment, and winding up of the whole matter ; which I propose to limit to a
very few pages.

Chesters, July 27, 17 12. — My hopes and prospects are a wreck. My precious
journal is lost ! consigned to the flames ! My enemy hath found me out,
and there is no hope of peace or rest for me on this side the grave.

In the beginning of the last week, my fellow lodger came home running in
a great panic, and told me a story of the devil having appeared twice in the
printing house, assisting the workmen at the printing of my book, and that
some of them had been frightened out of their wits. That the story was told
to Mr. Watson, who till that time had never paid any attention to the treatise,
but who, out of curiosity, began and read a part of it, and thereupon flew into
a great rage, called my work a medley of lies and blasphemy, and ordered
the whole to be consigned to the flames, blaming his foreman, and all con-
nected with the press, for letting a work go so far, that was enough to bring
down the vengeance of heaven on the concern.

If ever I shed tears through perfect bitterness of spirit it was at that time,
but I hope it was more for the ignorance and folly of my countrymen than
the overthrow of my own hopes. But my attention was suddenly aroused to
other matters, by Linton mentioning that it was said by some in the office the
devil had inquired for me.

" Surely you are not such a fool," said I, "as to believe that the devil really
was in the printing office .'' "

" Oo, gude bless you, sir ! saw him myself, gave him a nod, and good-day.
Rather a gentlemanly personage — Green Circassian hunting coat and turban
— Like a foreigner — Has the power of vanishing in one moment though —
Rather a suspicious circumstance that Otherwise, his appearance not much
against him."

If the former intelligence thrilled me with grief, this did so with terror. I
perceived who the personage was that had visited the printing house in order
to further the progress of my work \ and at the approach of every person to
our lodgings, I from that instant trembled every bone, lest it should be my
elevated and dreaded friend. I could not say I had ever received an of&ce

CONFESSIONS OF A FANATIC. 397

at his hand that was not friendly, yet these offices had been of a strange
tendency; and the horror with which I now regarded him was unaccountable
to myself. It was beyond description, conception, or the soul of man to bear.
1 took my printed sheets, the only copy of my unfinished work existing; and,
on pretence of going straight to Mr. Watson's office, decamped from my
lodgings at Portsburgh a httle before the fall of evening, and took the road
towards England.

As soon as I got clear of the city, I ran with a velocity I knew not before I
had been capable of. I flew out the way towards Dalkeith so swiftly, that I
often lost sight of the ground, and I said to myself, " O that I had the wings
of a dove, that I might fly to the farthest corners of the earth, to hide me from
those against whom I have no power to stand !"

" I travelled all that night and the next morning, exerting myself beyond
my power ; and about noon the following day I went into a yeoman's house
the name of which was Ellanshaws, and requested of the people a couch of
any sort to lie down on, for I was ill, and could not proceed on my journey.
They showed me to a stable-loft where there were two beds, on one of which I
laid me down ; and, falling into a sound sleep, I did not awake till the even-
ing, that other three men came from the fields to sleep in the same place, one
of whom lay down beside me, at which I was exceedingly glad. They fell all
sound asleep, and I was terribly alarmed at a conversation I overheard some-
where outside the stable. I could not make out a sentence, but trembled to
think I knew one of the voices at least, and rather than not be mistaken, I
would that any man had run me through with a sword. I fell into a cold
sweat, and once thought of instantly putting hand to my own life, as my only
means of relief, (May the rash and sinful thought be in mercy forgiven !) when
I heard as it were two persons at the door contending, as I thought, about
their right and interest in me. That the one was forcibly preventing the ad-
mission of the other, I could hear distinctly, and their language was mixed
with something dreadful and mysterious. In an agony of terror, I awakened
my snoring companion with great difficulty, and asked him, in a low whisper,
who these were at the door.'* The man lay silent, and listening, till fairly
awake, and then asked if I had heard any thing ? I said I had heard strange
voices contending at the door.

" Then I can tell you, lad, it has been something neither good nor canny,"
said he : " it's no for naething that our horses are snorking that gate."

For the first time, I remarked that the animals were snorting and rearing as
if they wished to break through the house. The man called to them by their
names, and ordered them to be quiet ; but they raged still the more furiously.
He then roused his drowsy companions, who were alike alarmed at the panic
of the horses, all of them declaring that they had never seen either Mause or
Jolly start in their lives before. My bed-fellow and another then ventured
down the ladder, and I heard one of them saying, " Lord be wi' us ! What
can be i' the house ? The sweat's rinning off the poor beasts like water."

They agreed to sally out together, and if possible to reach the kitchen and
bring a light. I was glad at this, but not so much so when I heard the one
man saying to the other, in a whisper, " I wish that stranger man may be
canny enough."

" Gude kens ! " said the other : " It doesnae look unco weel."

The lad in the other bed, hearing this, set up his head in manifest affright
as the other two departed for the kitchen ; and, I believe, he would have been
glad to have been in their company. This lad was next the ladder, at which
I was extremely glad, for had he not been there, the world should not have
induced me to wait the return of these two men. They were not well gone,
before I heard another distinctly enter the stable, and come towards the
ladder. The lad who was sitting up in his bed, intent on the watch, called
out, " Wha's that there ? Walker, is that you .? Purdie, I say, is it you ? "

The darkling intruder paused for a few moments, and then came towards
the foot of the ladder. The horses broke loose, and snorting and neighing for

398 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

terror, raged through the house. In all my life I never heard so frightful a
commotion. The being that occasioned it all, now began to mount the ladder
toward our loft, on wliich the lad in the bed next the ladder sprung from his
couch, crying out, " Preserve us ! what can it be "" " With that he sped across
the loft, and by my bed, praying lustily all the way ; and, throwing himself
from the other end of tiie loft into a manger, he darted, naked as he was,
tlirough among the furious horses, and making the door, that stood open, in a
moment he vanished and left me in the lurch. Powerless with tenor, and
calling out fearfully I tried to follow his example ; but not knowing the situa-
tion of the places with regard to one another, 1 missed the manger, and fell on
the pavement in one of the stalls. 1 was both stunned and lamed on the
knee ; but terror prevailing, I got up and tried to escape. It was out of my
power ; for there were divisions and cross divisions in the house, and mad
horses smashing every thing before them, so that 1 knew not so much as on
what side of the house the door was. Two or three times was I knocked
down by the animals, but all the while I never stinted cr>'ing out with all my
power. At length, I was seized by the throat and hair of ihe head, and
dragged away, 1 wist not whither. My voice was now laid, and all my powers,
both mental and bodily, totally overcome ; and I remember no more till I
found myself lying naked on the kitchen table of the farm house, and something
like a horse's rug thrown over me. The only hint that I got from the people of
the house on coming to myself was, that my absence would be good company;
and that they had got me in a woful state, one which they did not choose to
describe, or hear described.

As soon as day-light appeared, I was packed about my business, with the
hisses and execrations of the yeoman's family, who viewed me as a being to
be shunned, ascribing to me the visitations of that unholy night. Again was
1 on my way southward, as lonely, hopeless, and degraded a being as was to
be found on life's weary round.

My case was indeed a pitiable one. I was lame, hungry, fatigued, and my
resources on the very eve of being exhausted. Yet these were but secondary
miseries, and hardly worthy of a thought, compared with those I suffered in-
wardly. I not only looked around me with terror at every one that
approached, but I was become a terror to myself ; or rather, my body and
soul were become terrors to each other ; and, had it been possible, I felt as if
they would have gone to war. I dared not look at my face in a glass, for I
shuddered at my own image and likeness. I dreaded the dawning and
trembled at the approach of night, nor was there one thing in nature that
afforded me the least delight.

In this deplorable state of body and mind, was I jogging on towards the
Tweed, by the side of the small river called Elian ; when, just at the narrowest
part of the glen, whom should I meet full in the f;ice, but the very being in all
the universe I would the most gladly have shunned. I had no power to fly
from him, neither durst I, for the spirit within me, accuse him of falsehood,
and renounce his fellowship. 1 stood before him like a condemned criminal,
staring him in the face, ready to be winded, twisted, and tormented as he
pleased. He regarded me with a sad and solemn look. How changed was
now that majestic countenance, to one of haggard despair — changed in all save
the extraordinary likeness to my late brother, a resemblance which misfortune
and despair tended only to heighten. There were no kind greetings passed
between us at meeting, like those which pass between the men of the world ;
he looked on me with eyes that froze the currents of my blood, but spoke not,
till I assumed as much courage as to articulate — "You here ! 1 hope you
have brought me tidings of comfort .'' "

" Tidings of despair ! " said he. "But such tidings as the timid and the
ungrateful deserve, and have reason to expect. You are an outlaw, and a
vagabond in your country, and a high reward is offered for your apprehension.
The enraged populace have burnt your house, and all that is within it ; and
the farmtri) on the land bless themselves at being rid of you. So fare it with

CONFESSIONS OF A FANATIC. 399

every one who puts his hand to the great work of man's restoration to freedom
and draweth back, contemning the hght that is within him ! Your enormities
caused me to leave you to yourself for a season, and you see what the issue
has been. You have given some evil ones power over you, who longed to de-
vour you, both soul and body, and it has required all my power and influence
to save you. Had it not been for my hand, you had been torn in pieces last
night ; but for once I prevailed. We must leave this land forthwith, for here
there is neither peace, safety, nor comfort for us. Do you now, and here
pledge yourself to one who has so often saved your life, and has put his own
at stake to do so .' Do you pledge yourself that you will henceforth be guided
by my counsel, and follow me whithersoever I choose to lead .'"

" I have always been swayed by your counsel,' said 1, " and for your sake,
principally, am I sorry that all our measures have proved abortive. But I
hope still to be useful in my native isle, therefore let me plead that your
highness will abandon a poor despised and outcast wretch to his fate, and
betake you to your realms, where your presence cannot but be greatly wanted."

" Would that I could do so !" said he, woefully. " But to talk of that is to
talk of an impossibility. I am wedded to you so closely, that I feel as if I
were the same person. Our essences are one, and our bodies and spirits
being united, so that I am drawn towards you as by magnetism, and wherever
you are, there must my presence be with you."

Perceiving how this assurance affected me, he began to chide me most
bitterly for my ingratitude ; and then he assumed such looks, that it was
impossible for me longer to bear them ; therefore, I staggered out the way,
begging and beseeching of him to give me up to my fate, and hardly knowing
what I said ; for it struck me, that with all his assumed appearance of misery
and wretchedness there were traits of exultation in his hideous countenance,
manifesting a secret and inward joy at my utter despair.

It was long before I durst look over my shoulder, but when I did so, I per-
ceived this ruined and debased potentate coming slowly on the same path,
and I prayed that the Lord would hide me in the bowels of the earth, or
depths of the sea. When I crossed the Tweed, I perceived him still a little
behind me ; and my despair being then at its height, I cursed the time I first
met with such a tormentor.

After crossing the Tweed, I saw no more of my persecutor that day, and
had hopes that he had left me for a season ; but, alas, what hope was there
of my relief after the declaration 1 had so lately heard ! I took up my lodg-
ings that night in a small miserable inn in the village of Ancrum, of which the
people seemed alike poor and ignorant. Before going to bed, I asked if it
was customary with them to have family worship of evenings .-' The man
answered, that they were so hard set with the world, they often could not get
time, but if 1 would be so kind as officiate they would be much obliged to me.
I accepted the invitation, being afraid to go to rest lest the commotions of the
foregoing night might be renewed, and continued the worship as long as in
decency I could. The poor people thanked me, hoped my prayers would be
heard both on their account and my own, seemed much taken with my
abilities, and wondered how a man of my powerful eloquence chanced to be
wandering about in a condition so forlorn. I said I was a poor student of
theology, on my way to Oxford. They stared at one another with expressions
of wonder, disappointment, and fear. I afterwards came to learn that the
term theology was by them quite misunderstood, and that they had some
crude conceptions that nothing was taught at Oxford but the black arts, which
ridiculous idea prevailed over all the south of Scotland. For the present I
could not understand what the people meant, and less so when the man asked
me, with deep concern, if 1 was serious in my intentions of going to Oxford ?
He hoped not, and that I would be better guided.

I said my education wanted finishing !— but he remarked, that the Oxford arts
were a bad finish for a religious man's education. — Finally, I rcciuestcd him
to sleep with me, or in my room all »he night, as I wanted some serious and

400 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

religious conversation with him, and Hkewiseto convince him that the study
of the fine arts, though not absolutely necessary, were not incompatible with
the character of a Christian divine. He shook his head and wondered how I
could call them Jinc arts — hoped I did not mean to convince him by any
ocular demonstration, and at length reluctantly condescended to sleep with
me, and let the lass and wife sleep together for one night. 1 believe he would
have declined it, had it not been some hints from his wife, stating, that it was a
good arrangement, by which i understood there were only two beds in the
house, and that when I was preferred to the lass's bed, she had one to
shift for.

The landlord and I accordingly retired to our homely bed, and conversed
for some time about indifferent matters, till he fell sound asleep. Not so with
me. I had that within which would not suffer me to close my eyes : and
about the dead of night, I again heard the same noises and contention begin
outside the house, as I had heard the night before ; and again I heard it was
about a sovereign and peculiar right in me. At one time the noise was on the
top of the house, straight above our bed, as if the one party were breaking
hrough the roof, and the other forcibly preventing it ; at another time it was
»t the door, and at a third time at the window ; but still mine host lay sound
6y my side, and did not waken. I was seized with terrors indefinable, and
prayed fervently, but did not attempt rousing my sleeping companion until I
saw if no better could be done. The women, however, were alarmed, and,
rushing into our apartment, exclaimed that fiends were besieging the house.
Then, indeed, the landlord awoke, and it was time for him, for the tumult had
increased to such a degree, that it shook the house to its foundations, being
louder and more furious than I could have conceived the heat of battle to be
when the volleys of artillery are mixed with groans, shouts, and blasphemous
cursing. It thundered and lightened : and there were screams, groans,
laughter, and execrations, all intcnningled.

I lay trembling and bathed in a cold perspiration, but was soon obliged to
bestir myself, the inmates attacking me one after the other.

" O, Tam Douglas ! Tam Douglas I haste ye an' rise out fra-yont that
incarnal devil !" cried the wife ; " \c are in ayont theauld ane himsel, for our
lass Tibbie saw his cloven cloots last night."

" Lord forbid !" roared Tam Douglas, and darted over the bed like a flying
fish. Then, hearing the unearthly tumult with which he was surrounded, he
returned to the side of the bed, and addressed me thus, with long and fearful
intervals : —

" If ye be the deil, rise up, an' depart in peace out o' this house — afore the
bedstrae take kindling about ye, an' than it'll maybe be the waur for ye. — Get
up — an' gang awa out amang your cronies, like a good — lad — There's nae
body here wishes you ony ill — D'ye hear me ?"

" Friend," said I, " no Christian would turn out a fellow-creature on such
a night as this, and in the midst of such a commotion of the villagers."

" Na, if ye be a mortal man," said he, "which 1 rather think, from the use
you made of the holy book — Nane o' your practical jokes on strangers an'
honest folks. These are some o' your O.xford tricks, an' I'll thank you to be
over wi' them. — Gracious heavens, they are brikkin through the house at a'
the four corners at the same time !"

The lass Tibby, seeing the innkeeper was not going to prevail with me to
rise, flew toward the bed in desperation, and seizing me by the waist, soon
landed me on the floor, saying : " Be ye deil, or be ye chiel, ye's no lie there
till baith the house an' us be swallowed up ! '

Her master and mistress applauding the deed, I was obliged to attempt
dressing myself, a task to which my powers were quite inadequate in the state
I was in, but I was readily assisted by every one of the three ; and as soon
as they got my clothes thrust on in a loose way, they shut their eyes lest they
should see what might drive them distracted, and thiust me out to the street,
cursing me, and calling on the fiends to take their prey and begone.

CONFESSIONS OF A FAN A TIC. 40I

The scene that ensued is neither to be described, nor believed, if it were.
I was momently surrounded by a number of hideous fiends, who gnashed on
me with their teeth, and clenched their crimson paws in my face ; and at the
same instant I was seized by the collar of my coat behind, by my dreaded
and devoted friend, who pushed me on, and with his gilded rapier waving
and brandishing around me, defended me against all their united attacks.
Horrible as my assailants were in appearance (and they had all monstrous
shapes), I felt that I would rather have fallen into their hands, than be thus
led away captive by my defender at his will and pleasure, without having the
right or power to say my life, or any part of my will as my own. I could
not even thank him for his potent guardianship, but hung down my head,
and moved on I knew not whither, like a criminal led to the execution, and
still the infernal combat continued, till about the dawning, at which time I
looked up, and all the fiends were expelled but one, who kept at a distance ;
and still my persecutor and defender pushed me by the neck before him.

At length he desired me to sit down and take some rest, with which I
complied, for I had great need of it, and wanted the power to withstand
what he desired. There, for a whole morning did he detain mc, tormenting
me with reflections, on the past, and pointing out the horrors of the future,
until a thousand times I wished myself nonexistent. " I have attached
myself to your wayward fortune," said he ; " and it has been my ruin as well
as thine. Ungrateful as you are, I cannot give you up to be devoured; but
this is a life that it is impossible to brook longer. Since our hopes are
blasted in tliis world, and all our schemes of grandeur overthrown ; let us fall
by our own hands, or by the hands of each other ; die like heroes ; and,
throwing off this frame of dross and corruption, mingle with the pure ethereal
essence of existence, from which we derived our being."

I shuddered at a view of the dreadful alternative, yet was obliged to confess
that, in my present circumstances, existence was not to be borne. It was in
vain that 1 reasoned on the sinfulness of the deed, and on its damning
nature ; he said, self-destruction was the act of a hero, and none but a coward
would shrink from it, to suffer a hundred times more every day and night
that passed over his head.

I said 1 was still contented to be that coward ; and all that I begged of
him was, to leave me to my fortune for a season, and to the just judgment
of my Creator ; but he said his word and honour were engaged on my behoof,
and these, in such a case, were not to be violated. " If you will not pity
yourself, have pity on me," added he ; " turn your eyes on me, and behold to
what I am reduced."

Involuntarily did I turn round at the request, and caught a half glance of
his features. May no eye destined to reflect the beauties of the New Jeru-
salem.inward upon the beatific soul, behold such a sight as mine then beheld!
My immortal spirit, blood, and bones were all withered at the blasting sight ;
and I arose and withdrew, with groanings which the pangs of death shall
never wring from me.

Not daring to look behind me, I crept on my way, and that night reached
this hamlet on the Scottish border ; and being grown reckless of danger, and
hardened to scenes of horror, I took up my lodgings with a poor hind, who is
a widower, and who could only accommodate me with a bed of rushes at his
fireside. At midnight I heard some strange sounds, too much resembling
those to which 1 had of late been inured ; but they kept at a distance, and I
was soon persuaded that there was a power protected that house superior to
those that contended for, or had the mastery over me. Overjoyed at finding
such an asylum, I remained in the humble cot. Tliis is tiic third day I have'
lived under the roof, freed of my hellish assailants, spending my time in
prayer, and writing out this my journal, which I have fiishioned to stick in
with my printed work, and to which 1 intend to add portions while I remain
in this pilgrimage state which, 1 find too well, cannot be long.

Augusl 3, 1712. — This morning the hind has broui-ht me word from
L 26

4.0i THE ETTRICk SHEPHERD'S TALES.

Kedesdale, whither he had been for coals, that a stranger gentleman had been
traversing that country, making the most earnest inquiries after me, or one of
the same appearance ; and from the description that he brought of this
stranger, I could easily perceive who it was. Rejoicing that my tormentor
has lost traces of me for once, I am making haste to leave my asylum, on
pretence of following this stranger, but in reality to conceal myself still more
completely from his search. Perhaps this may be the last sentence ever I
am destined to write. If so, farewell Christian reader ! may God grant to
thee a happier destiny than has been allotted to me here on earth, and the
same assurance of acceptance above ! Amen.

Aull-Righ, Atigust 24, 17 1 2. — Here am I, set down on the open moor
to add one sentence more to my woful journal ; and then, farewell all beneath
the sun !

On leaving the hind's cottage on the Border, I hasted to the north-west,
because in that quarter I perceived the highest and wildest hills before me.
As I crossed the mountains above Hawick, I exchanged clothes with a poor
homely shepherd, whom I found lying on a hillside, singing to himself some
woful love ditty. He was glad of the change, and proud of his saintly
apparel ; and I was no less delighted with mine, by which I now supposed
myself completely disguised ; and 1 found moreover that in this garb of
a common shepherd I was made welcome in ever)' house. I slept the first
night in a farm-house nigh to the church of Roberton, without hearing or
seeing aught extraordinary ; yet I observed next morning that all the servants
kept aloof from me, and regarded me with looks of aversion. The next night I
came to this house, where the farmer engaged me as a shepherd; and finding
him a kind, worthy, and religious man, I accepted of his terms with great
gladness. I had not, however, gone many times to the sheep, before all the
rest of the shepherds told my master, that I knew nothing about herd-
ing, and begged of him to dismiss me. He perceived too well the
truth of their intelligence ; but being much taken with my learning, and
religious conversation, he would not put me away, but set me to herd his
cattle.

It was lucky for me, that before I came here, a report had prevailed, per-
haps for an age, that this farm-house was haunted at certain seasons by a
ghost. I say it was lucky for me, for I had not been in it many days before
the same appalling noises began to prevail around me about midnight, often
continuing till near the dawning. Still, they kept aloof, and without-doors ;
for this gentleman's house, like the cottage I was in formerly, seemed to be a
sanctuary from all demoniacal power. He appears to be a good man and
a just, and mocks at the idea of supernatural agency, and he either does not
hear these persecuting spirits, or will not acknowledge it, though of late he
appears much perturbed.

The consternation of the menials has been extreme. They ascribe all to
the ghosts, and tell frightful stories of murders having been committed there
long ago. Of late, however, they are beginning to suspect that it is I that
am haunted ; and as I have never given them any satisfactory account of
myself, they are whispering that I am a murderer, and haunted by the spirits
of those I have slain.

Aui^ust 30. — This day I have been informed, that I am to be banished the
dwelling-house by night, and to sleep in an out-house by myself, to try if the
family can get any rest when freed of my presence. I have peremptorily
refused acquiescence, on which my master's brother stmck me, and kicked
me with his foot. My body being quite exhausted by suffering, I am grown
weak and feeble both in mind and bodily frame, and actually unable to
resent any insult or injury. I am the child of earthly misery and despair, if
ever there was one existent. My master is still my friend ; but there are so
many masters here, and ever)' one of them alike harsh to me, that I wish
myself in my grave every hour of the day. If I am driven from the family
sanctuary by night, I know I shall be torn in pieces before morning ; and

CONFESSIONS OF A FANATIC. 403

then who will deign or dare to gather up my mangled limbs, and give them
honoured burial.

My last hour is arrived. I see my tormentor once more approaching me
in this wild. Oh, that the earth would swallow me up, or the hill fall and
cover me ! Farewell for ever !

September 7, 17 12. — My devoted, princely, but sanguine friend, has been
with me again and again. My time is expired, and I hnd a relief beyond
measure, for he has fully convinced me that no act of mine can mar the eter-
nal counsel, or in the smallest degree alter or extenuate one event which was
decreed before the foundations of the world were laid. He said he had
watched over me with the greatest anxiety, but perceiving my rooted aversion
towards him he had forborne troubling me with his presence. But now, see-
ing that 1 was certainly to be driven from my sanctuary that night, and that
there would be a number of infernals watching to make a prey of my body,
he came to caution me not to despair, for that he would protect me at all risks,
if the power remained with him. He then repeated an ejaculatory prayer,
which I was to pronounce, if in great extremity. 1 objected to the words as
equivocal, and susceptible of being rendered in a meaning perfectly dreadful ;
but he reasoned against this, and all reasoning with him is to no purpose,
He said he did not ask me to repeat the words unless greatly straitened ; and
that I saw his strength and power giving way, and when perhaps nothing else
could save me.

The dreaded hour of night arrived ; and as he said, I was expelled from
the family residence, and ordered to a byre or cow-house, that stood parallel
with the dwelling-house behind, where, on a divot loft, my humble bedstead
stood, and the cattle grunted and puffed below me. How unlike the splendid
halls of Dalcastle ? And to what I am now reduced, let the reflecting reader
judge.

September 8. — My first night of trial in this place is overpast ! Would that
it were the last that I should ever see in this detested world ! If the horrors
of hell are equal to those I have suffered eternity will be of short duration
there, for no created energy can support them for one single month, or week.
I have been buft'eted as never living creature was. My vitals have all been
torn, and every faculty and feeling of my soul racked, and tormented into
callous insensibility. I was even hung by the locks over a yawning chasm,
to which I could perceive no bottom, and then — not till then, did I repeat the
tremendous prayer! — I was instantly at liberty; and what I now am the
Almighty knows ! Amen.

September 18, 171 2. — Still am I living, though liker to a vision than a
human being ; but this is my last day of mortal existence. Unable to resist
any longer, I pledged myself to my devoted friend, that on this day we should
die together, and trust to the charity of the children of men for a grave. I am
solemnly pledged ; and though I dare to repent, I am aware he will not be
gainsaid, for he is raging with despair at his fallen and decayed majesty, and
there is some miserable comfort in the idea that my tormentor shall fall
with me.

Farewell, world, with all thy miseries ; for comforts or enjoyments hast
thou none ! Farewell, woman, whom I have despised and shunned ; and
man, whom I have hated, whom, nevertheless, I desire to leave in charity !
And thou, sun, bright emblem of a far brighter effulgence, 1 bid farewell to thee
also ! I do not now take my last look of the, for to thy glorious orb shall a poor
suicide's last earthly look be raised. But, ah ! who is yon that I see approach-
ing furiously — his stern face blackened with horrid despair ! My hour is at
hand. — Almighty (Jod,whatis this that 1 am about to do .-' The hour of repent-
ance is past, and now my fate is incvhdble.— A men /or ei'er / I will nnw seal
up my little book and conceal it ; and cursed be he who tricth to alter or
amend !

KNU OF 'lat MtMOlR.

404 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

What can this work be? Sure, you will say, it must be an allecfory ; or (as
the writer calls it) a religious parable, showing the dreadful danger of self-
righleousness ? 1 cannot tell. Attend to the sequel ; which is a thing so ex-
traordinary, so unprecedented, and so far out of the common course of human
events, that if there were not hundreds of living witnesses to attest the truth
of it, I would not bid any rational being believe it.

In the first place take the following extract from an authentic letter, pub-
lished in Blackivooi.Vs Magazine for August, 1823.

" On the top of a wild height called f aw-Law where the lands of three pro-
prietors meet all at one point, there has been for long and many years the
grave of a suicide marked out by a stone standing at the head, and another
at the feet. Often have I stood musing over it myself, when a shepherd on
one of the farms, of which it formed the extreme boundary, and thinking what
could induce a young man, who had scarcely reached the prime of life, to brave
his Maker, and rush into his presence by an act of his own eixing hand, and
one so unnatural and preposterous. But it never once occurred to me, as an
object of curiosity, to dig up the mouldering bones of the culprit, which I con-
sidered as the most revolting of all objects. The thing was, however, done
last month, and a discovery made of one of the greatest natural phenomena
that I have heard of in this country.

" The little traditionary history that remains of this unfortunate youth, is
altogether a singular one. He was not a native of the place, nor would he
ever tell from what place he came ; but he was remarkable for a deep, thought-
ful, and sullen disposition. There was nothing against his character that
any body knew of here, and he had been a considerable time in the place.
The last service he was in was with a Mr. Anderson of Eltrive (Ault-Righ,
the King's burn), who died about an hundred )ears ago, and who had hired
him during the summer to herd a stock of young cattle in Eltrive Hope. It
happened one day in the month of September, that James Anderson, his
master's son, went with this young man to the Hope to divert himself The herd
had his dinner along with him, and about one o'clock, when the boy proposed
going home, the former pressed him very hard to stay and take share of his
dinner ; but the boy refused, for fear his parents might be alarmed about him,
and said he would go home ; on which the herd said to him, ' Then, if ye
winna stay with me, James, ye may depend on't I'll cut my throat afore ye
come back agam.*

" I have heard it likewise reported, but only by one person, that there had
been some things stolen out of his master's house a good while before, and
that the boy had discovered a silver knife and fork, that was a part of the stolen
property, in the herd's possession that day, and that it was this discovery that
drove him to despair.

" The boy did not return to the Hope that afternoon ; and, before evening,
a man coming in at the pass called 7 he Hart Loup, with a drove of lambs, on
the way for Edinburgh, perceived something like a man standing in a strange
frightful position at the side of one of Eldinhope hay-ricks. The drivePs
attention was riveted on this strange uncouth figure, and as the drove road
passed at no great distance from the spot, he first called, but received no
answer, he went up to the spot, and behold it was the above-mentioned young
man, who had hung himself in the hay rope that was tying down the rick.

" This was accounted a great wonder, and every one said, if the devil had
not assisted him it was impossible the thing could have been done ; for in
general, these ropes are so brittle, being made of green hay, that they will
scarcely bear to be bound over the rick. And the more to horrify the good
people of this neighbourhood, the driver said, when he first came in view, /le
tfluld almost give his oath that he saw two people busily engaged at the hay-
lick, going round it and round it, and he thought they were dressing it.

" If this asseveration approximated at all to truth, it makes this evident at
least, that the unfortunate young man had hanged himself after the man with

CONFESSIONS OF A FANATIC. 405

the lambs came in view. He was, however, quite dead when he cut him
down. He had fastened two of the old hay-ropes at the bottom of the rick
on one side, (indeed they are all fastened so when first laid on,) so that he
had nothing to do but to loosen two of the ends on the other side. These he
had tied in a knot round his neck, and then slackening his knees, and letting
himself down gradually, till the hay-rope bore all his weight, he had contrived
to put an end to his existence in that way. Now the fact is, that if you try all
the ropes that are thrown over all the outfield hay-ricks in Scotland, there is
not one among a thousand of them will hang a coUey dog ; so that the
manner of this wretch's death was rather a singular circumstance.

" Early next morning, Mr. Anderson's servants went reluctantly away, and,
taking an old blanket with them for a winding-sheet, they rolled up the body
of the deceased, first in his own plaid, letting the hay-rope still remain about
his neck, and then rolling the old blanket over all, they bore the loathed remains
away to the distance of three miles or so, on spokes, to the top of Faw-Law, at
the very point where the Duke of Buccleuch's land, the Laird of Drummel-
zier's, and Lord Napier's, meet, and there they buried him, with all that he
had on and about him, silver knife and fork and altogether. Thus far went
tradition, and no one ever disputed one jot of the disgusting oral tale.

" A nephew of that Mr. Anderson's who was with the hapless youth that
day he died, says, that, as far as he can gather from the relations of friends
that he remembers, and of that same uncle in particular, it is one hundred
and five years next month (that is September, 1823,) since that event hap-
pened ; and I think it likely that this gentleman's information is correct.
But sundry other people, much older than he, whom I have consulted, pre-
tend that it is six or seven years more. They say they have heard that
Mr. James Anderson was then a boy ten years of age ; that he lived to an old
age, upwards of fourscore, and it is two-and-forty years since he died.
Whichever way it may be, it was about that period some way, of that there is
no doubt"

" It so happened, that two young men, William Shiel and WilUam Sword,
were out, on an adjoining height, this summer, casting peats, and it came
into their heads to open this grave in the wilderness, and see if there were any
of the bones of the suicide of former ages and centuries remaining. They did
so, but opened only one half of the grave, beginning at the head and about
the middle at the same time. It was not long till they came upon the old
blanket — I think they said not much more than a foot from the surface.
They tore that open, and there was the hay-rope lying stretched down alongst
his breast, so fresh that they saw at first sight that it was made of risp, a sort
of long sword-grass that grows about marshes and the sides of lakes. One of
the young men seized the rope and pulled by it, but the old enchantment of
the devil remained, — it would not break ; and so he pulled and pulled at it, till
behold the body came up into a sitting posture, with a blue bonnet on its head,
and its plaid around it, all as fresh as that day it was laid in ! I never heard
of a preservation so wonderful, if it be true as was related to me, for still I
have not had the curiosity to go and view the body myself The features
were all so plain, that an acquaintance might easily have known him. One of the
lads gripped the face of the corpse with his finger and thumb, and the cheeks
felt quite soft and fleshy, but the dimples remained and did not spring out
again. He had fine yellow hair, about nine inches long : but not a hair of it
could they pull out till they cut part of it off with a knife. They also cut off
some portions of his clothes, which were all quite fresh, and distributed them
among their acquaintances, sending a portion to me, among the rest, to keep
as natural curiosities. Several gentlemen have in a manner forced me to give
them fragments of these enchanted garments ; I have, however, retained a
small portion for you, which I send along with this, being a piece of his plaid,
and another of his waistcoat breast, which you will see are still as fresh as
that day they were laid in the grave.

" His blue bonnet was sent to Edinburgh several weeks ago, to the great

4o6 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

regret of some gentlemen connected with the land, who wished to have it for
a keep-sake. For my part, fond as I am of blue bonnets, I declare I durst
not have worn that one. There was nothing of the silver knife and fork dis-
covered, that 1 heard of, nor was it very likely it should : but it would appear
he had been very near run of cash, which I daresay had been the cause of his
utter despair ; for, on searching his pockets, nothing was found but three old
Scots halfpennies. These young men meeting with another shepherd after-
wards, his curiosity was so much excited that they went and digged up the
curious remains a second lime, which was a pity, as it is likely that by these
e.xposures to the air, and from the impossibility of burying it up again as
closely as it was before, the ficsh will now fall to dust.'

♦ ♦♦*♦♦

The letter from which the above is an extract, bears the stamp of authen-
ticity in every line ; yet, so often had I been hoaxed by the ingenious fancies
displayed in that Magazine, that when this relation met my eye, I did not
believe it ; but from the moment that I perused it, I half formed the resolution
of investigating these wonderful remains personally, if any such existed ; for, in
the immediate vicinity of the scene, as I supposed, I knew of more attractive
metal than the dilapidated remains of mouldering suicides.

Accordingly, having some business in Edinburgh in September last, and
being obliged to wait a few days for the arrival of a friend from London, I
took that opportunity to pay a visit to my townsman and fellow collegian, Mr.

L 1 of C d, advocate. I mentioned to him the letter, asking him if

the statement was founded at all on truth. His answer was, " I suppose so.
For my part I never doubted the thing, having been told that there had been
a deal of talking about it up in the Forest for some time past. But, God
knows ! Ebony has imposed as ingenious lies on the public ere now."

" I said, if it was within reach, I should like exceedingly to visit this Scots

mummy so ingeniously described. Mr. L 1 assented at the first proposal,

saying he had no objections to take a ride that length with me, that we would
have a delightful jaunt through a romantic and now classical country, and
some good sport into the bargain, provided he could procure a horse for me,

from his father-in-law, next day. He sent up to a Mr. L w to inquire,

who returned for answer, that there was an excellent pony at my service, and
that he himself would accompany us, being obliged to attend a great sheep
fair at Thirlestane.

At an early hour next morning we started for the ewe fair of Thirlestane,
taking Blackwood's Magazine for August along with us. We rode through
the ancient royal burgh of Selkirk, — halted and corned our horses at a roman-
tic village, nigh to some deep linns on the Ettrick, and reached the market
ground at Thirlestane-green a little before mid-day.

L w soon found a guide to the suicide's grave, for he seemed acquainted

with every person in the fair. We got a fine old shepherd, named W m

B e, a great original, and a very obliging and civil man, who asked no

conditions but that we should not speak of it, because he did not wish it to
come to his master's ears, that he had been engaged in sic a profane thiut^.
We promised strict secrecy ; and, accompanied by another farmer, Mr.

S 1, and old B e, we proceeded to the grave, which B e described

as about a mile and a half distant from the market ground.

We soon reached the spot, and I confess I felt a singular sensation, when
I saw the grey stone standing at the head, and another at the feet, and the
one half of the grave manifestly new digged, and closed up again as had been
described. I could still scarcely deem the thing to be a reality, for the ground
did not appear to be wet, but a kind of dry rotten moss. On looking around,
we found some fragments of clothes, some teeth, and part of a pocket-book,
which had not been returned into the grave, when the body had been last
raised, for it had been twice raised before this, but only from the loins
Vpwardt

CONFESSIONS OF A FANATIC. 407

To work we fell with two spades, and soon cleared away the whole of the
covering. The part of the grave that had been opened before, was filled with
mossy mortar, which impeded us exceedingly, and entirely prevented a proper
investigation of the fore parts of the body. I will describe every thing as I
saw it, before four respectable witnesses, wliose names I shall publish at large
if permitted. A number of the bones came up separately ; for with the con-
stant flow of liquid stuff into the deep grave, we could not see to preserve
them in their places. At length great loads of coarse clothes, blanketting,
plaiding, &c., appeared ; we tried to lift these regularly up, and on doing so,
part of a skeleton came up, but no ilesh, save a little that was hanging in dark
flitters about the spine, but which had no consistence ; it was merely the
appearance of flesh without the substance. The head was wanting ; and I
being very anxious to possess the skull, the search was renewed among the
mortar and rags. We first found a part of the scalp, with the long hair firm
on it ; which on being cleaned, is neither black nor fair, but of a darkish
dusk, the most common of any other colour. Soon afterwards we found the
skull, but it was not complete. A spade had damaged it, and one of the
temple quarters was wanting. I am no phrenologist, not knowing one organ
from another, but I thought the skull of that wretched man no study. If it
was particular for any thing, it was for a smooth, almost perfect rotundity,
with only a little protuberance above the vent of the ear.

When we came to that part of the grave that had never been opened before,
the appearance of every thing was quite different. There the remains lay
under a close vault of moss, and within a vacant space ; and I suppose, by
the digging in the former part of the grave, that part had been deepened, and
drawn the moisture away from this part, for here all was perfect. The
breeches still suited the thigh, the stocking the leg, and the garters were
wrapt as neatly and as firm below the knee as if they had been newly tied.
The shoes were all opened in the seams, the hemp having decayed, but the
soles, upper leathers, and wooden heels, which were made of birch, were all
as fresh as any of those we wore. There was one thing I could not help re-
marking, that in the inside of one of the shoes there was a layer of cow's
dung, about one eighth of an inch thick, and in the hollow of the sole fully
one fourth of an inch. It was firm, green, and fresh ; and proved that he had
been working in a byre. His clothes were all of a singular ancient cut, and
no less singular in their texture. Their durability certainly would have been
prodigious : for in thickness, coarseness, and strength, I never saw any cloth
in the smallest degree to equal them. His coat was a frock coat, of a yellowish
drab colour, with wide sleeves. It is tweeled, milled, and thicker than a
carpet. I cut off two of the skirts and brought them with me. His vest was
of striped serge, such as I have often seen worn by country people. It was
lined and backed with white stuff. The breeches were a sort of striped
plaiding, which I never saw worn, but which our guide assured us was very
common in the country once, though, from the old clothes which he had seen
remaining of it, he judged that it could not be less than two hundred years
since it was in fashion. His garters were of worsted, and striped with black
or blue ; his stockings gray, and wanting the feet. I brought samples of all
along with me. I have likewise now got possession of the bonnet, which
puzzles me most of all. It is not comformable with the rest of the dress. It is
neither a broad bonnet, nor a Border bonnet ; for tliere is an open behind, for
tying, which no genuine Border bonnet, 1 am tokl, ever had. It seems to
have been a Highland bonnet, worn in a flat way like a scone on the crown,
such as is sometimes still seen in the west of Scotland. All the limbs, froni
the loins to the toes, seemed perfect and entire, but they could not bc;ir
handling. Before we got them returned again into tiie grave, they were all
shaken to pieces, except the thighs, which continued to retain a kind of
flabby form.

All his clothes that were sewed with linen yarn were lying in separate por-
tions, the thread having rotted ; but such as were sewed with worsted remained

4o8 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

perfectly firm and sound. Among such a confusion, we had hard work to
find out all his pockets, and our guide supposed, that, after all, we did not
find above the half of them. In his vest pocket was a lonj;^ clasp knife, very
sharp ; the haft was thin, and the scales shone as if there had been silver in-
side. Mr. Sc — t took it with him, and presented it to his neghbour, Mr.

R n of W — n L — e, who still has it in his possession. We found a comb,

a gimblet, a vial, a small neat square board, a pair of plated knee-buckles, and
several samples of cloth of different kinds, rolled neatly up within one another.

At length, while we were busy on the search, Mr. L 1 picked up a leathern

case, which seemed to have been wrapped round and round by some ribbon,
or cord, that had been rotten from it, for the swaddling marks still remained.

Both L w and B e called out that " it was the tobacco spleuchan, and

a well-filled ane too ; " but on opening it out, we found, to our great astonish-
ment, that it contained a. printed pamphlet. We were all curious to see what
sort of a pamphlet such a person would read ; what it could contain that he
seemed to have had such a care about .'' for the slough in which it was rolled,
was fine chamois leather ; what colour it had been, could not be known. But
the pamphlet was wrapped so close together, and so damp, rotten, and yellow,
that it seemed one solid piece. We all concluded, from some words that we
could make out, that it was a religious tract, but that it would be impossible

to make any thing of it. Mr. L w remarked that it was a great pity if a

few sentences could not be made out, for that it was a question what might be

contained in that little book ; and then he requested Mr. L 1 to give it to

me, as he had so many things of literature and law to attend to, that he would
never think more of it. He replied, that either of us were heartily welcome to
it ; for that he had thought of returning it into the grave, if he could have
made out but a line or two, to have seen what was its tendency.

" Grave, man ! " exclaimed L w, who speaks excellent strong broad

Scots : " My truly, but ye grave weel ! I wad esteem the contents o' that
spleuchan as the most precious treasure. I'll tell you what it is, sir : I hae
often wondered how it was that this man's corpse has been miraculously pre-
served frae decay, a hunder times longer than ony other body's, or than even
a tanner's. But now I could wager a guinea, it has bLen for the preservation
o' that little book. And Lord kens what may be in't ! It will maybe reveal
some mystery that mankind disna ken naething about yet.

" If there be any mysteries in it," returned the other, " it is not for your
handling, my dear friend, who are too much taken up about mysteries already."
And with these words he presented the mysterious pamphlet to me. With very
little trouble, save that of a thorough drying, I unrolled it all with ease, and
found the very tract which I have ventured to lay before the public, part of it
in small bad print, and the remainder in manuscript.

With regard to the work itself, I dare not venture a judgment, for I do not
understand it. I believe no person, man or woman, will ever pursue it with
the same attention that I have done, and yet I confess that I do not compre-
hend the writer's drift. It is certainly impossible that these scenes could ever
have occurred, that he describes as having himself transacted. I think it may
be possible that he had some hand in the death of his brother, and yet I am
disposed greatly to doubt it ; and the numerous distorted traditions, &c.,
which remain of that event, may be attributable to the work having been
printed and burnt, and of course the story known to all the printers, with their
families and gossips. That the young Laird of Dalcastle came by a violent
death, there remains no doubt ; but that this wretch slew him, there is to me
a good deal. However, allowing this to have been the case, I account all the
rest either dreaming or madness ; or, as he says to Mr. Watson, a religious
parable, on purpose to illustrate something scarcely tangible, but to which he
seems to have attached great weight. Were the relation at all consistent with
reason, it corresponds so minutely with traditionary facts, that it could scarcely
have missed to have been received as authentic ; but in this day, and with
the present generation, it will not go down, that a man should be daily tempted

CO.VFESS/O.YS OF A FAXATIC. 409

by the devil, in the semblance of a fellow-creature ; and at length lured to
self-destruction, in the hopes that this same fiend and tormentor was to suffer
and fall along with him. It was a bold theme for an allegor>', and would
have suited that age well had it been taken up by one fully qualified for the
task, which this writer was not. In short, we must either conceive him not
only the greatest fool, but the greatest wretch, on whom was ever stamped the
form of humanity ; or, that he was a religious maniac, who wrote and wrote
about a deluded creature, till he arrived at that height of madness, that he
believed himself the very object whom he had been all along describing. And
in order to escape from an ideal tormentor, committed that act fur which,
according to the tenets he embraced, there was no remission, and which con-
signed his memory and his name to everlasting detestation.

SOME REMARKABLE PASSAGES IN THE LIFE OF

AN EDINBURGH BAILIE,

WRITTEN BY HIMSELF :

A NARRATIVE OF THE TIMES OF THE COVENANT AND
WARS OF MONTROSE.

INTRODUCTION BY THE EDITOR-

[An Edinburgh Bailie, a notable person, often mentioned in Scottish history
as the staunch friend of Reform and the constant friend and abettor of Argyle,
was of northern descent, and the original name of his family is said to have
been Sydeserf. The first who wrote his name Sydeserf was one always styled
Clerk Michael, who was secretary, chamberlain, and steward to the Earl
Marischal. His second son, Andrew, was made procurator of the Marischal
College, where, it is presumed, he remained during his life, as it appears that
our hero, Archibald, with eight other brothers and sisters, were born in that
place. On the death of this Andrew, the family appears to have been all
scattered abroad ; and about that period Archibald was translated to Edin-
burgh, as under-secretary to the governor of the castle. He was a learned
youth as times then went, and so were his brethren, for one of them was
afterwards made a bishop, and one of them a professor, not to mention the
subject of this memoir, who arrived at the highest distinction of them all.
Two or more of those brothers left written memoirs of their own times, as
was the fashion of the age with all who could indite a page a-day, witness the
number of voluminous tomes that lie piled in every college of the Continent
as well as in some of the public libraries of Britain. Archibald's memoir, of
which I have with much difficulty got possession, is insufferably tedious and
egotistical ; but I have abridged it more than one half, retaining only the
things that appeared to me the most curious ; for all relating to borougli
politics appeared to me so low and so despicable, that I cancelled them
utterly, although they might have been amusing to some.

But the great and sanguine events in which the Bailie was so long engaged,
— in which he took so deep an interest, and acted such a distinguished part,
are well worth the keeping in record. Some of his personal adventures,
certainly, bear tints of romance, but every part of his narrative relating to
public events may implicitly be relied on. I have romp.ired them with all
the general as well as local histories of that prriod, and with sundry family

410 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

registers relating to marriages, &c., which one would often think were merely
brought in for effect, yet which I have uniformly found correct ; and his
narrative throws a light on many events of that stirring age, hitherto but
imperfectly known. These, with the simplicity of the narration, will recom-
mend the memoir to every candid and judicious reader. I pass over the two
long chapters relating to his family and education, and begin transcribing
where he commences his difficult career of public life.]

The difficulties which I had to encounter on coming into Edinburgh Castle,
were such as I could not have believed would have fallen to the lot of man :
all which were occasioned by the absurdity of the deputy governor, Colonel
Haggard. He was a tyrant of the first magnitude, and went about treating
the various subordinate officers, as if they had been oxen or beasts of burthen.
He was never sober, either night or day, and as for me, my heart quaked,
and my loins trembled, whenever I came into his presence. I had what was
called a writing chamber assigned to me. — Ikit such a chamber ! — it was a
mere cell, a vile dungeon, in \\hich I could not discern darkness from light —
I was enclosed in a medium between them.

When I came first there, Haggard, who had great need of me, promised
me this good thing and the other good thing, so that my heart was lifted up ;
— but, alas ! soon was it sunk down again in gall and bitterness, for every
thing was in utter confusion. In that dark abode I had the whole accounts
of the expenditure of the fortress to keep, and the commissariat department
to conduct. There were the State prisoners sending proudly for their allow-
ances,— the soldiers cursing for their pay, and clerks every hour with long
accounts of which they demanded payment I had nothing to pay them
with, and in the mean time our caterers in the city took the coercive measures
with us of stopping all our supplies until their arrears were paid up. Haggard
did no more than just order such and such things to be done, without con-
sidering in the least how they were to be done. Then every one came running
on me, while I had for the most part little or nothing to give them, and all
that I could do was to give them orders on this or the other fund, which
orders never were executed, and of course matters grew worse and worse
every day.

As for Colonel Haggard, he was a beast, a perfect bull of Bashan ; — he
came daily with open mouth upon me, roaring and swearing like a maniac.
It was in vain to reason with him, that made him only worse, and had he
held with cursing and damning me, although I abhorred that custom, it
would not have been so bad. But he thought nothing of striking with what-
ever came to his hand, and that with such freedom, that it was evident he
cared nothing at all for the lives of his fellow-creatures.

One day he came upon me fuming and raging as usual, and without either
rhyme or reason inquired, " why I did not pay this debt .'' " and, " why I did
not pay the other debt ?" and was he to be dunned and plagued eternally by
the carelessness and indifference of a beggarly clerk — a dirty pen-scraper, a
college weazel, a northern rat.-"' and called me many other beastly names
besides.

" Sir," says I, " if your honour will suffer the whole of the funds to come
through my hands, I will be acountable for every fraction of them. But as
you draw the largest share yourself, and spend that as you think fit, how am
1 to carry on my department .'' Let them all be paid to you if you choose, and
make the payments through me, of which I shall keep a strict account ; unless
lihey come all through my hands I will neither receive nor remit any
more."

He paid no attention, but went on as if he had not even heard the remon-
strance. " If the onward detail of the business of the castle is to be interrupted
in this manner by your obstinacy and awkwardness, — by the absurdity of such
a contemptible urchin, — then it is evident, that all subordination and preroga-
tive is at an end, and there must be a regular turn out. But before this shall

LIFE OF AN EDINBURGH BAILIE. 41 1

happen, you may depend on it, Mr. Puppy, that you shall suffer first. \Vc are
not all to lose our places for you."

" I have paid all that I have, your honour, I have not even obtained a merk
for my own outlay ; therefore, I will trouble your goodness for my own arrears,
else I give the business up forthwith."

" You .'' You give the business up ? You, the bound servant and slave of
the State, as much as the meanest soldier under my command "i Such
another word out of your mouth, and I'll have you whipped. Hint but to go
and leave your post, and I'll have you hung at the castle gate. You go and
desert your post ? — Let me see you attempt it. I would, indeed, like to see
you run off like a a norland tike ! Pah. You gimcrack ! — You cat ! Pay up
the arrears of the garrison instantly, I say. — Are the State prisoners, the first
men of the land, to lack their poor allowance, that you may lay up the king's
money by you, and make a fortune ? Are the military to starve, that a
scratchpenny may thrive ? Is this business to go to si.xes and sevens for your
pleasure .** I will have you tried for your life, you dog, before a military
tribunal."

There was no reasoning with such a beast, therefore I was obliged to hold
my peace ; I cared for no trial, for my books were open to any who chose to
examine them, and I could account for every bodle that had been paid to me;
and as for the superior of whom I was the substitute, he never showed face at
all, nor was he even in Scotland. He merely enjoyed the post as a sinecure,
while the toil and responsibility fell on me. From that time forth, I had a
disgust at our king James, and his government, and considered him no better
than an old wife, and from that time to this on which I write down the
memorial of these things, I have never been reconciled to him or one of his
race.

But to return to my business at the castle ; I was very miserable, my state
was deplorable, for I had not one of the comforts of life ; and so jealous was
the governor, that for the most part neither ingress nor egress was allowed.
My bed was a mat in the corner of my chamber, and my bed-clothes consisted
of a single covering not thicker than a wormweb. If I had worn it as a veil
I could have seen all about me. It may be considered how grievous this was
to me, who had all my life been used to a good rush or heather bed in my
father's house, and a coverlet worked as thick as a divot. How I did long to
be at home again ! — Ay, many a salt tear did I shed when none out of
Heaven saw but myself, and many an ardent prayer did I put up for the kind
friends I left behind me. At the same time, I resolved every day and every
night to have some revenge on my brutal tyrant. I cherished the feeling with
delight, and was willing to undergo any hardship, so that I might see my desire
fulfilled on mine enemy. An opportunity at length offered, which proved a
hard trial for me.

Among many illustrious prisoners, we had no less a man than the Marquis
of Huntly ; and, as the Lord Chancellor was his great friend, his confinement
was not severe. By the reforming party it was meant to be rigid but by the
Catholic and high-church party, quite the reverse. With them it was merely
a work of necessity, and they had resolved to bring the Marquess off with
flying colours, but a little time was necessary to ripen their schemes. He was
a great and powerful nobleman, and had struggled against the reformers all his
life, plaguing them not a little, but ran many risks of his life, notwithstanding.
And had our king, with all his logic, not been, as I said, merely an old wife in
resolution, he never would have suffered that obstreperous nobleman to live so
long as he did ; for he thought nothing of defying the king and all his power;
and once, in the Highlands, came against the king's forces and cut them all
to pieces. He also opposed the good work of reformation so long and so
bitterly that the General Assembly were obliged to excommunicate him.

My forefathers being men of piety, I was bred in the strictest principles of
the Reformation ; consequently the Marc|ucss of Huntly was one whom I had
always regarded \<ith terror and abhorrcm e ; ^>() that when 1 fuuiul him, us it

412 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

were, under my jurisdiction. I was anything but grieved, and I thought to
myself, that with God's help, we might keep him from doing more ill for a
time.

But lo and behold, a commission of the lords was summoned to meet at
Edinburgh, headed by young Argyle and Hamilton, and it being obvious that
the interest of the reformers was to carry every thing before it, the malignant
party grew terribly alarmed for the life of the old Marquess, their most power-
ful support, and determined on making a bold effort for his delivery. Accord-
ingly, a deputation of noblemen came to our worthy deputy one evening, with
a written order from the Lord Chancellor for Huntly's liberation. Haggard
would not obey the order, but cursed and swore that it was a forgery, and put
all the gentlemen in ward together, to stand a trial before the lords com-
missioners.

The Marquess's family had been allowed to visit him, for they lived in the
Canongate, and were constantly coming and going ; and that night Lady
Huntly comes to me, and pretends great friendship for me, name"^ me familiarly
by name, and says that she has great respect for all the Sydeserfs. Then she
says, " That deputy governor of yours is a great bear."

" We must take him for the present as he is, madam, for lack of a better,"
says I.

'* That is very wisely and cautiously spoken by you, young gentleman,"
said the Marchioness. " But it is for lack of a better. How would you like to
be Deputy Governor yourself, and to have the sole command here ? I have
the power to hang your scurvy master over a post before to-morrow night."

" That would be a very summary way of proceeding certainly, madam,"
said I."

" I can do it, and perhaps will do it," added she ; " but in the mean time I
must have a little assistance from you."

Aha ! thinks I to myself, this is some popish plot. Now Bauldy Sydeserf,
since ladies will have your name, take care of yourself ; for well do you know
that this old dame is a confirmed papist, and wide and wasteful has the scope
of her malignancy been ! Bauldy Sydeserf, take care of yourself

" You do not answer me,'' continued she. " If you will grant me a small
favour, I promise to you to have your tyrannical master made away with, and
to better your fortune one way or another."

" You are not going to murder him, I hope, please your Highness?" said I.

" Make away with from his post, I mean only," said she, " in order that one
better and younger, and more genteel than he, may be endowed with it"

" Oh ! is that all, madam?" said L

" Why ? '' said she, " would you wish to have him assassinated ? I have a
hundred resolute men in my husband's interest within the castle that will do
it for one word."

Being horrified for papists, I thought she was come merely to entrap me,
and get my head cut off likewise ; and though I confess I should not have
been very sorry to have seen the Catholics wreak their fury on my brutal
tyrant, I thought it most safe to fight shy. " Pray in what can I serve you,
madam ? " said I : "If it is by betraying any trust committed to me, or bring-
ing any person into danger but myself, do not ask it, for, young as I am,
nothing shall induce me to comply."

" What a noble and heroic mind in one so very young ! You were born to
be a great man, Mr. Secretary ! " said the cunning dame ; " I see it, and
cannot be mistaken. Pray tell me this, brave young gentleman — Is my
lord's correspondence with Spain, and with the Catholic lords in 1606, in your
custody?"

" They are both in my custody at present, madam," said I ; " but I have
no power to show you those letters, it being solely by chance that the keys
happen to be in my possession. I got them to search for a certain warrant,
and they have not been again demanded."

" I want to have those papers up altogether, that they may be destroyed/

LIFE OF AN EDINBURGH BAILIE. 413

said she ; "that is my great secret. If you will put them into my hands to-
night, you have only to name the conditions."

" I put them into your hands, madam :" said I ; " Good Lord ! I would
not abstract those documents for all the wealth of the realm."

" Pray of what value are they?" returned she. " Of none in the world to
any one, save that they may bring ruin on my lord and his family, at his
approaching trial. Your wretched governor will never miss them ; and if he
should, the blame of losing them will fall on him."

This last remark staggered mc not a little, because it was perfectly true ;
but I held my integrity, and begged her not to mention the subject again, for
no bribe should induce me to comply : she then tossed her head, and looked
offended, and added, that she was sorry I was so blind to my own interest,
though I was so to the very existence of the greatest family of my own coun-
try ; and then, with an audible sigh, she left me, muttering a threat as she
went out. I was so much affected by it, that 1 have never forgot her words
or manner to this hour.

"Oh — oh — oh! and is it thus.'" said she, drawing up her silken train;
" Oh — oh — oh ! and is it thus ? Well, young man, you shall be the first that
shall rue it ; " and with that she shut the door fiercely behind her.

" Lord preserve me from these papists ! " said I, most fervently. " What
will become of me now .-' I would rather come under the power of the devil
than under their power any time, when they have their own purposes to
serve." I however repented me of this rash saying, and prayed for forgive-
ness that same night. This conversation with the Marchioness made so deep
an impression on my mind, that I durst not lie down on my wretched bed,
but bolted my door tirmly, and sat up, thrilled with anxiety at having run my
head into a noose, by offending the most potent family in the land, and one,
for all its enemies, that had the greatest power. Had they been true Protest-
ants and reformers, I would have risked my neck to have saved them ; as it
was, I had done my duty, and no more.

While I was sitting in this dilemma, reasoning with myself, behold a gentle
tap — tap — tap came on the door. My heart leaped to my shoulder bone, and
stuck so fast that I could not speak. Another attack of the papists, thought
I, and that after the dead hour of midnight too ! I am a gone man ! Tap —
tap — tap ! " Come in," said I, that is, my lips said it, but my voice absolutely
refused its office ; for instead of the sound coming out, it went inwards. I
tried it again like one labouring with the nightmare, and at last effected a
broken sound of " Come in, come in."

" I cannot get in," said a sweet voice outside the door. " Pray are you in
bed?"

" N— o— no," said I, " I am not in bed."

" Then open the door directly," said the same sweet voice ; " I want to
speak with you expressly."

" What do you wish to say ? " said I.

" Open the door and you shall hear," said she.

" Jane, is that you ?" said I.

" Yes, it is," said she. " You are right at last. It is indeed Jane."

" Then what the devil are you seeking here at this time of the morning?"
said T, pulling back the bolts and opening the door, thinking it was our milk-
woman's daughter, when behold there entered with a smile and a courtesy the
most angelic being I ever saw below the sun. I at first thought she was an
angel of light ; a being of some purer and better world ; and if I was bam-
boozled before, I was ten times worse now. I could not return her elegant
courtesy, for my backbone had grown as rigid as a thorn, and my neck, in-
stead of bending forward, in token of obeisance, actually cocked backward.
1 am an old man now, and still I cannot help laughing at my awkward pre-
dicament, for there I stood gaping and bending, and my eyes like to leap
out of my fate, and fly on that of the lovely object that stood smiling bclore
me.

4t4 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

" I think you do not recollect Jane now when you see her," said she,
playfully.

" N — n — no, ma'am," said I, utterly confounded. " I t — t — took you for
the skudjie. I beg pardon, ma'am, but 1 am very muckle at a loss." — That
was my disgusting phrase, 1 have not forgot it.—" I am very muckle at a loss,
ma'am," says I.

" Muckle at a loss are you ?" said she. " Verra muckle too 'i That's what
you vtaututa be, honest lad." (She was mockinc^ me.) " My name is Jeanie
Gordon. You may, perhaps, have heard tell of Jeanie Gordon. I am the
youngest daughter of the Alarquis of Huntly, and your name is, I presume,
Bauldy Sydeserf. Is that it.'*"

I bowed assent, on which she fell into such a fit of laughter, and seemed to
enjoy the sport with such zest, that I was obliged to join her, and 1 soon
saw she had that way with her that she could make any man do just what
she pleased.

" It is a snug, comfortable, sort of name," said she ; " I like the name
exceedingly, and I like the young gentleman that wears it still better. My
mother told me that you were exceedingly genteel, sensible, and well bred !
She was right. I see it — I see it. Verra muckle in the right."

My face burned to the bone at the blunder 1 had made, for in general I
spoke English very well, with haply a little of the Aberdeen accent, and there
was a little bandying of words passed here that I do not perfectly recollect,
but I know they were not greatly to my credit. As for Lady Jane, she went
on like a lark, changing her note every sentence ; but she had that art and
that winning manner with her, that never woman in this world shall again
inherit in such perfection. So I thought, and so I think to this day ; for even
when she was mocking me, and making me blush like crimson, 1 could have
kiped the dust of her feet. She brought on the subject of the refusal I had
given her mother, ridiculed it exceedingly, flew from it again, and chatted of
something else, but still as if she had that and every thing else in the nation
at her control. Heaven knows how she effected her purpose, but in the course
of an hour's conversation, without ever letting me perceive that she was aim-
ing at any object, she had thoroughly impressed me with the utter insufficiency
of the king in all that concerned the affairs of the State, and the uncontrol-
lable power of the House of Huntly. " My father is too potent not to have
many enemies," said she, " and he has many, but it is not the king that he
fears, but a cabal in the approaching committee of the estates. Not for him-
self, but for fear of the realm's peace, does he dread them ; for there is not a
canting hypocrite among them that dares lift his eye to Huntly. He can lead
a young man to fortune, as many he has led, but how can the poor caballing
lords do such a thing, when every one is scratch, scratching for some small
pittance to himself. His enemies, as you know, have brought a miserable
accusation against him, of hindering his vassals from hearing such ministers
as they chose, and with former correspondence which was all abrogated in
open court, they hope to ruin the best, the kindest, and the greatest man of
the kingdom. The letters are already cancelled Ijy law, but when subjects
take the law into their own hand, right and justice are at an end. Do you
give these papers to me. You will never again have such an opportunity of
doing good, and no blame can ever attach to you."

"I would willingly lay down my life for you, madam," said I, "but my honour
I can never."

" Fuss ! honour !" said she, "your honour has no more concern in it than
mine has, and not half so much. You say you would lay down your life for
me, but if you would consider the venerable and valuable life which you are
endangering ! If you would consider the opulent and high born family which
you are going to sacrifice out of mere caprice !" I could not help shedding
some tears at this bitter reflection ; she perceived my plight, and added, " Did
you ever see the nobleman whose life and domains you now have it in your
power to save from the most imminent risk .'"' 1 answered that I never had

LIFE OF AN EDINBURGH BAILIE. 4!$

had that honour. " Come with me, then, and I will introduce you to my
father," said she.

"No — no — no — ma'am!" said I, mightily flustered. "No — no — no — I
would rather be excused if you please."

" What?" said she, " refuse the first step to honour that ever was proffered
to you ? Refuse the highest honour that a commoner can hope for, an intro-
duction to George, Marquess of Huntly?"

" But then, ma'am, I have nothing ado with his highness," said I ; " I have
no favour to ask of him, and none to grant."

" Hold your peace," said she, " and if you have any wish that you and I
should ever be better acquainted, come with me."

That was a settler ; I could make no answer to that, for my heart was
already so much overcome by the divine perfections of the lady, that I viewed
her as a being of a superior nature — a creature that was made to be adored
and obeyed. She took my hand, and though, perhaps, I hung a little back-
ward, which I think I did, I nevertheless followed on like a dog in a string !
There were two guards in attendance, who, lifting their bonnets, let Lady Jane
pass ; but the second seized me by the breast, thrust me backwai-d, and asked
me whither I was going so fast .'' I was very willing to have turned, but in a
moment Lady Jane had me again by the hand, and with one look she silenced
the sentinel. "This is the secretary of the castle," said she, "who has some
arrears to settle with my father before he leaves his confinement, which he
does immediately."

I had now, as I thought, got my cue, and so brightening up I says, " Yes,
sir, I am the secretary of the castle, and 1 have a right to come and go where
and how I please, sir," says 1.

" The devil you have, sir," says he.

"Yes, the devil I have, sir," says I ; "and I will let you know, sir ."

" Hush,"' said Lady Jane, smiling, and laying her delicate hand on my
mouth, " this is no place or time for altercation." I, however, gave the
guardsman a proud look of defiance, and squeezed some words of the same
import through the lady's fingers, to let him know whom he had to do with,
for I was so proud of 'squiring Lady Jane Gordon down the stair, and
along the trance, that I wanted to make the fellows believe I was no small
beer.

In one second after that we were in the presence of the great Marquess of
Huntly, and in one word, I never have yet seen a sight so venerable, so impos-
ing and at the same time so commanding, as that old hero, surrounded by the
ladies of his family and one of his sons whom he called Adam. I shall never
forget the figure, eye, and countenance of the Marquess. He appeared to be
about fourscore years of age, though I was told afterwards that he was not so
much. His hair was of a dark, glittering, silver grey, and his eyes were dark,
and as piercing, haughty, and independent as those of the blue hawk. They
were like the eyes of a man in the fire and impatience of youth, and yet there
appeared to be a sunny gleam of kindness and generosity, blended with all
the sterner qualities of human nature. If ever 1 saw a figure and face that
indicated a mind superior to his fellow-creatures, they were those of George
the first Marquess of Huntly. And more than that, he seemed almost to be
adored by his family, which I have found on long experience to be a good
sign of a man. Those that are daily and hourly about him are the best
judges of his qualifications, and if he is not possessed of such as are estimable
he naturally loses the respect due to inherent worth. He wore a wide coat of
a cinnamon colour, and he was ruffled round the shoulders and round the
hands. He received me with perfect good nature, ease, and indifference, in
much the same way any gentleman would receive a neighbour's boy that had
popped in on him ; and spoke of indifferent matters, sometimes to me and
sometimes to his daughters. He spoke of my father and grandfather, and all
the Sydeserfs that ever lived ; but 1 remember little that passed, for to my
ajtonishmcnt I found that there were two Jcanic Gordons- two young ladies

4i6 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

so exactly the same that I thought I could have defied all the world to

distinguish the one from the other. There was not a shade of difference that
eye could discern, neither in stature nor complexion ; and as for their dresses,
there was not a flower-knot, a flounce, nor a seam in the one that was not in
the other. Every thing was precisely the same. Whenever I fixed my eyes
on one, I became convinced that she was my own Lady Jane, to whom I
looked for a sort of patronage in that high community ; but if ever by chance
my look rested on the face of the other, my faith began to waver, and in a
very short time again my direction centered on that one. It was the most
extraordinary circumstance that I had ever seen or heard of. It seems that
these two young ladies were twin sisters, and as they surpassed all their con-
temporaries of the kingdom in beauty, insomuch that they were the admira-
tion of all that beheld them, so were they also admired by all for their singular
likeness to each other. I'or the space of six months after they came from
nursing, their parents could not distinguish them from each other, and it was
suspected they had changed their names several times. But after they came
home from Paris, where they were at their education for seven years, neither
their father nor brothers ever knew them from each other again. They
generally, at their father's request, wore favours of different colours on their
breasts, but by changing these and some little peculiarities of dress, they
could at any time have deceived the whole family, and many a merry bout
they had at cross purposes on such occasions. It was often remarked that
Iluntly, when fairly mistaken, would never yield, but always persisted in
calling Mary — Jane, and Jane — Mary till deceived into the right way again.
So much beauty and elegance I have never seen, and never shall con-
template again ; and I found that I had lost my heart. Still it was to
l.ady Jane that I had lost it, although I could not distinguish the one from
the other.

I must now return to my narrative, taking up the story where I can, as I
really never did recollect almost ought of what passed in that august presence,
where one would have thought I should have remembered every thing.
The Marchioness, I noticed, showed no condescension to me, but appeared
proud, haughty and offended ; and when she spoke of me to her lord, she
called me that person. My angel Lady Jane (whichever was she) had now
lost all her jocularity and flippancy of speech ; there was nothing but mimness
and reserve in the Marquess's presence. At length, on my proposing to retire,
the Marquess addressed me something to the following purport : —

" I believe, sir, Lady Huntly and one of my daughters have been teasing
you for some old papers at present in your custody. I will not say that they
might not have been of some import to me in the present crisis, but 1 com-
mend your integrity and faith in the charge committed to you. You are doing
what is right and proper, and whatever may be the consequences, take no
more thought about the matter."

Here Lady Jane made some remark about the great consequence of these
papers, on which he subjoined rather tartly, " I tell you, Jane, 1 dont regard
the plots of my enemies. I can now leave this place when I please, and I
shall soon, very soon, be beyond their reach."

The young lady shed a flood of tears, on which I said, that if I had the
Deputy-Governor's permission, 1 would with pleasure put these papers into
his Lordship's hand. " No," said he ; " I would not be obliged to such a bear
for them, though certain that they were to save my head."

Lady Huntly said something bitterly about asking favours of low people,
but he checked her with — " No, no, Henny ! not another word on the subject
You have acted quite right, young man. Good night."

I was then obliged to take myself off, which I did with one of my best bows,
which was returned only by Lady Mary : all the rest remained stift" and up-
right in their positions. Lady Jane followed me saying, " I must conduct him
through the guards again, else there will be bloodshed." My heart thrilled
wiih joy. She went with me to my apartment, and then asked me, with tears

LIFE OF AN EDINBURGH BAILIE. 417

in her eyes, if I was going to let that worthy and venerable nobleman suffer
on a scaffold for such a trifle. I tried to reason, but my heart was lost, and
I had little chance of victory ; so at length I said I durst not for my life give
them up, unless I instantly made my escape out of the castle. She said that
was easily effected, for I should go out in her father's livery to-morrow morn-
ing, and for that part, she could conceal me for the remainder of the night ;
she added, that once I was out, and under Huntly's protection and her''s — I
waited for no more ; — " once you are out, and under Huntly's protection and
mine" said she- -I flew away to the register chest, where I had seen the papers
but the day before, and soon found them in two triple sealed parcels, with
these labels, Huntly's treasonable correspondence with Spain.
Dii-TO with the catholick lords, &C.,— and flying away with them I
put them into the hands of Lady Jane Gordon.

That was the most e.xquisite moment of my life — true, I had played the vil-
lain ; but no matter ; I have never enjoyed so happy a moment since that
time. Lady Jane ~3ized the papers with an eagerness quite indescribable —
—she hugged theM — she did not know where to hide them, but seemed to
wish them within her breast. Gratitude beamed, nay it flashed from every
angelic feature, till at length unable to contain herself, she burst into tears,
flung her arms round my neck, and kissed me ! Yes, I neither write down a
falsehood, nor exaggerate in the least degree ; I say the beauty of the world,
the envy of courts, and the mistress of all hearts, once, and but once, kissed
my hps ! kissed the lips of the then young, vain, and simple Bauldy Sydeserf.
It was a dear kiss to me ! but no more of that at present.

After this rapturous display, Lady Jane looked me no more in the face, but
flew from me with the prize she had obtained, bidding me good night without
looking behind her. It was evident she deemed she had got a boon of her
father's life. But there was I left in my dark, hateful chamber all alone, to
reflect on what 1 had done.

May the Lord never visit any of his faithful servants with such a measure
of affliction, as it was my lot that night to bear. I cannot describe it, but I
think I was in a burning fever, and all for perfect terror. I had forfeited life
and honour, and all to serve an old papist, the greatest enemy of the blessed
work of Reformation in the whole kingdom ; and what gratitude or protection
was I to expect from the adherents to that cursed profession } Alas ! not to
the extent of a grain of mustard seed. Then I fell into a troubled slumber,
and had such dreams of Haggard hanging me and cutting off my head, until
waking I lay groaning like one about to expire until daylight entered. I then
rose and began to cast about how I should make my escape ; for I knew if I
remained in my situation another day I was a gone man. The castle being a
state prison at that time, there was no possibility of making an escape from it
without a warrant from the authorities ; and I had begun to patch up a speech
in my defence, which I was going to deliver before my judge, as soon as the
papers were missed. But then, on considering that there would as certainly
be another speech to compose for the scaffold, full of confessions and prayers
for my enemies. Haggard among the rest, I lost heart altogether, and fell to
weeping and lamenting my hard fate.

While I was in the midst of this dilemma, behold there was a sharp, surly
rap came on my door. I opened it in the most vehement perturbation of
spirits, and saw there for certain an officer of justice, clad in his insignia of
office. " Master," says he, " is your name Mr. Secretary Sidesark ?"

" Yes, sir," says I, " that is no ; my name is not Sidesark, although it sounds
a little that way."

" Well, well, back or side, short or long, it makes little difference," says he ;
" I have a little business with you. You go with me."

" What ! to prison ? " says L

" Yes to prison," says he ; " to be sure, where else but to prison in the nuuxn
time?"

" Very well, sir," says I ; " show me your warrant then," says \.

I. a7

4i8 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES

" Certainly,' says he ; " here is my warrant," and witli that he turned into
a corner of the trance, and lifted a large bundle — " there it is, master ; you
understand me now."

" No, on my faith and honour and conscience, I do not," said I. " What
warrant is that ? "

" Open and see, master, open and see," said he. wiping his brow ; " pray
have you anything in tlie house that will drink .'' Yes, open and see ; ay, that
way, that way. Now you will soon get into the heart and midriff of the
mystery."

On opening the parcel, I found a splendid livery complete, of green and gold,
and my heart began to vibrate to the breathings of hope. " Now, sir, make
haste," said my visitor ; " make haste, make haste. You understand me ; now
dress yourself instantly in these habiliments, and go with me. The family waits
for you. You arc to walk behind Lady Jane, and carry her fardel, or mantle
perhaps, or some trifle. We two shall likely be better acquainted. My name
is David Peterkin, Mr. Pcterkin, you know, of course, Mr. Peterkin. I am
head butler in the family, steward's butler that is. You are to be gentleman
usher to the young ladies, I presume ! "

Thus his tongue went on without intermission, while I dressed myself, unable
to speak many words, so uplifted was my heart. I left my clothes, linens, every
tiling — my key in my desk— and the key of the register-chest within the desk
lying uppermost ; and bringing all the public money that was in my posses-
sion away with me, as part of my arrears of wages, I followed Mr. David
I'eterkin to the apartments where I had been the night before.

Huntly's power and interest had been very great in the State at that time,
notwithstanding his religious tenets, of which the popular party, his sworn
enemies, made a mighty handle, in order to ruin him. They had got him
seized and lodged in the castle, thinking to bring him to his trial, at which
fair play was not intended, but he had the interest to procure the Lord Chan-
cellor's warrant for the removal of himself and suite from the castle, without
lett or hindrance, on condition that he confined himself three weeks to his
own house in the Canongate, to wait the charges brought against him.
Haggard, the deputy-governor, who was the tool of the other party, refused
to act on this warrant, pretending it was forged ; but the very next day,
Huntly's interest again prevailed. He was not only liberated, but the out-
rageous Haggard was seized and lodged in gaol, on what grounds I never
heard exactly explained. Indeed it was long ere 1 knew that such an event
had taken place, and if I had, it would have saved me a world of terror and
trouble.

I followed the family of Huntly to the Canongate, but to my grief found
that I had nothing to do save to eat and drink. 1 was grieved exceedingly
at this, weening that they had no trust to put in me ; as how could they well,
considering that I had come into their service by playing the rogue, i kept
myself exceedingly close, for fear of being seized for the malversation com-
mitted in the castle, and never went out of doors, save when the young ladies
did, which was but seldom. A great deal of company flocked to the house.
It was never empty from morning to night ; for my part I thought there had
not been so many nobility and gentry in the whole kingdom, as came to pay
court to the Marquis, his sons, his lady, and his daughters ; for all of them
had their suitors, and that without number. That house was truly like the
court of a sovereign ; and there were so many grooms, retainers, and attend-
ants of one kind and another, that to this hour I never knew how many there
were of us. We were an idle, dissipated, and loquacious set, talking without
intermission, and never talking anything but nonsense, low conceits, ribaldry,
and all manner of bad things ; and there neither was man nor woman among
them all that had half the education of myself. I would have left the family
in a short time, had it not been for one extraordinary circumstance — I was in
love with my mistress ! Yes, as deeply in love with Lady Jane Gordon as ever
man was with maid, from the days of Jacob and Rachel unto this day on

LIFE OF AN EDINBURGH BAILIE. 419

which I write. 1 had likewise strong hopes of reciprocal affection, and ulti-
mate success ; but an humble dependant as I then was, how could I declare
my love, or how reward my mistress, if accepted? No matter. A man can-
not help that strongest of all passions. For my part, 1 never attempted it ;
but finding myself too far gone in love to retreat, 1 resolved to give my passion
full swing, and love with all my heart and soul, which I did. Strange as it
may appear, I loved only Lady Jane, — she that embraced me and gave me a
kiss, — but yet I never could learn to distinguish her from her sister ; and I
was almost sure that whenever I began to declare my passion, I was to do it to
the wrong one. I hated Lord Gordon, her eldest brother, who was the
proudest man that I had ever seen, and dreaded that he never would consent to
an union between his sister and one of the Sydeserfs. I was sure he would
shoot me, or try to do it, but thought there might be means found of keeping
out of his way or of giving him as good as he gave. Lady Jane Gordon I
was determined to attempt, and her I was determined to have.

All this time I heard no word from the castle, and began to be a little more
at my ease ; still I never ventured out of doors, save once or twice that I
followed the young ladies, for 1 always attached myself to them, and to Lady
Jane, as far as 1 could distinguish. Having saved a share of money in the
castle, I ordered a suit of clothes befitting a gentleman, and whenever a great
dinner occurred, I dressed myself in that, and took my station behind Lady
Jane's chair, but without offering to put my hand to anything. Lord Gordon,
or Enzie as they called him, noted me one day, and after I went out inquired
who I was. This was told me by one of the valets. Neither the Marquess
nor Lady Huntly answered a word, but both seemed a little in the fidgets at
the quer>' ; but Lady Jane, after glancing round the whole apartment answered
her brother, that I was a young gentleman, a man of education and good
qualities, who had done her a signal piece of service. That 1 had since that
time attached myself to the family, but they did not choose to put me to any
menial employment. On this the proud spirit of Lord Enzie rose, and he
first jeered his angelic sister spitefully for requiring secret pieces of service
from young gendemen and men of education ; and then he cursed me and
all such hangers-on.

I never was so proud of any speech in the world as that of Lady Jane's,
which made my blood rise still the more at the pride and arrogance of Lord
Gordon ; and I hoped some time in my life to be able to chastise him in part
for his insolence. Whether or not these hopes were realized, I leave to all
who read this memoir to judge.

Shortly after that. Lady Jane went out to walk one fine day, with her
brother Lord Adam Gordon ; I followed, as I was wont, at a respectful
distance, clad in my splendid livery. In the royal bounds east of the palace,
Lord Adam had noted me, for I saw him and his sister talking and looking
back to me alternately. He was the reverse of his elder brother, being an
easy, good-natured, and gentlemanly being as ever was born, with no great
headpiece as far as I ever could learn. Lady Jane called me up to her, and
asked me if we could pass over to the chapel on the hill at the nearest. I
saw Lord Adam eyeing me with the most intense curiosity, as I thought,
which made me blush like crimson ; but I answered her ladyship readily
enough, and in proper English, without a bit of the Aberdeen brogue. I said,
" I cannot tell. Lady Jane, as 1 never crossed there, but I suppose it is quite
practicable."

" Humph ! 'exclaimed Lord Adam, rather surprised at so direct and proper
an answer.

"Then will you be so good as carry this fur mantle for me, Mr. Archi-
bald?" said she, "as I propose to climb the hill with Auchcndoun.'' " Yes,
Lady Jane," said 1.

" But will it not warm you too much ?" added she. " Because, if it will, I'll
make my brother Adam carry it piece about with you."

I could make no answer, 1 was so overcome with delight at hearing that

420 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

she put me on an equality with her brother ; but taking the splendid mantle
from her, I folded it neatly, took it over my arm, and took my respectful
distance again. It was not long before the two were stopped by the extreme
wetness of the bog, on which Lady Jane turned back ; Lord Adam took hold
of her, and would not let her, but wanted to drag her into the bog. She
struggled with him playfully, and then called on me. '' This unreasonable
man will insist on my wading through this mire," said she; "pray, Mr,
Archibald, could you find me a few steps, or contrive any way of taking me
over dry shod ? "

"Yes, I can. Lady Jane,'' said I, throwing off my strong shoes, and setting
them down at her ladyship's feet in one moment.

" Humph !" said Lord Adam, more surprised at my cleverness and good
breeding than ever.

I believe she meant me to have carried her over in my arms, a practice
very common in the neighbourhood of Edinburgh then. I believed so at the
time, but 1 contrived a far more genteel and respectful method. She put on
the shoes above her fine ones, smiling with approbation, and stepped over
dry and clean, while I was obliged to wade over in my white stockings, which
gave them an appearance as if I had on short boots. As soon as she got
over to the dry hill, she returned me my shoes, thanked me, and said I was
a much more gallant man than Auchendoun, who had so small a share
of it, that she was sure he would live and die an old bachelor ; but that /
would not.

It is impossible at this time of life, when my blood is thin, and the fire of
youth burning low, to describe the intensity of my love, my joy, and my
delight after this auspicious adventure. I walked on springs — I moved in
air— the earth was too vulgar for my foot to tread on, and I felt as if mounting
to the clouds of heaven, and traversing the regions and spheres above the
walks of mortality. Yea though clothed in a livery, and carrying her cloak
over my arm, (vile badges of slavery !) — though walking all alone, and far
behind the object of all my earthly hopes, I remember I went on repeating
these words to myself, " She is mine ! she is mine I " The flower of all the
world is my own ! She loves me, she adores me ! I see it in her eyes, her
smile, her every feature : that beam only foretastes of heaven and happiness !
She shall yet be mine ! to walk by my side ! smile in my face when there is
none to see ! rest in my bosom, and be to me as a daughter ! O that it were
given me to do some gi-eat and marvellous action, to make me worthy of so
much gentleness and beauty ! "

In this strain did I go on till it came to my reflection that she was older
than me and that I had no time for the performance of any of these great
actions, as all the young noblemen of the three kingdoms were at cutting one
another's throats about her and her sister already. This was a potion so
bitter that I could not swallow it, nevertheless I was compelled to do it, and
then I lifted up my voice and wept.

I was three weeks in the family before I knew that the whole of its members
were confirmed papists, and Huntly himself an excommunicated person,
given over to Satan ; and grievously was I shocked and tormented about it ;
particularly to think of the beautiful, angelic, and immaculate Lady Jane
being a proselyte to that creed. For my life, I could not think the less of her
for this misfortune ; for she was indeed all gentleness, kindness and humanity ;
but I deplored her calamity, and resolved to spend life and blood to effect
her conversion to the truth, and then I knew the consolation she would
e.xperience would knit her inviolably to me for ever. Full of this great scheme,
I set to the studying night and day how I might accomplish my purpose, but
my plans were deranged for the present by an announcement that the family
was to remove to the Highlands ; in consequence of which all was bustle and
confusion for several days.

The day of our departure at length arrived, and that was such a cavalcade
as Scotland hath but rarely witnessed, when the Gordons rode out at the

LIFE OF AN EDINBURGH BAILIE. 421

west port of Edinburgh. The Marquess wanted to show a little of his power,
and to crow over his enemies that day, for he had no less than forty noblemen
in his company, including the sons of earls, every one of whom had numerous
attendants, while he himself had five hundred gallant yeomen of Strathbogie
as a guard. The gentlemen rode all in armour, and the ladies on palfre)s,
and without doubt it was a noble sight. As we rode through the Grass-market,
the crowd was excessive, and there was some disposition manifested of an
attack on the noble family, which was very unpopular among the true reform-
ers of that period ; but we appeared in such strength that they durst do
nothing but stand and gaze, while the adherents of the old principle rent the
air with shouts of applause.

I had for my steed a good black country nag, with a white girth round his
neck. He was lean, but high spirited, and I made a considerable figure
among the multitude. After we were fairly out of the town, the ladies did not
keep all together, but rode in pairs or mixed with the gentlemen. I then
formed the design of watching an opportunity and slipping a religious letter
that I had penned into Lady Jane's hand ; but 1 watched in vain, for she was
the whole day surrounded by suitors, every one striving to get a word of her ;
so that I felt myself as nobody among that splendid group, and fell into great
despondency. The more so, that I thought I discovered one who was a
favourite above all others that day. He was tall, comely, and rode a French
steed of uncommon beauty and dimensions, and being seldom or never from
her side, I perceived a triumph in his eyes that was not to be borne ; but I
was obliged to contain my chagrin, not being able to accomplish any thing
for the present.

[Mr. Sydeserf then goes on to relate every circumstance attending their
journey, and the places at which they halted, which narrative is tedious
enough, for he seems neither to have been in the confidence of masters nor
servants. He complains greatly of want of accommodation and victuals by
the way, and adds, that as for the troopers and common attendants, he could
not discover what they subsisted on, for he neither perceived that they got any
allowance, or that they had any victuals along with them. The only thing
worth copying in the journal (and it is scarcely so) is his account of a dinner
which appears to have been at Glamis Castle, and the pickle David Peterkin
was in for meat and drink.

At Perth, we lodged at a palace of our own, (I am ignorant what palace
this was,) but it was not stored with dainties, like our house in Edinburgh.
All the establishments of the town were ransacked for viands, and a good deal
of fish and oaten meal were procured ; nevertheless the people were very
hungry, and every thing vanished as fast as presented. Of the whole group
there was not one so badly off as my old friend, Mr. David Peterkin, who
could not live without a liberal supply of meat and drink, although, honest
man, he was not very nice with regard to quality. The Alarquess dined at
one, the head-attendants at half-past one, and the lower servants at two, with
David Peterkin at their head ; but this day it was five before the first class sat
down, and by the eager way in which the various portions were devoured, I
saw there would not be much left for the second table, not looking so far for-
ward as the third. At our table, every remnant of fish, fowl, meat, and
venison vanished ; the bones were picked as clean as peeled wood, and even
the oatmeal soup went very low in the bickers. I could not help then noting
the flabby and altered features of poor Peterkin, as he eyed the last fragment
of every good bit rcaved from his longing palate. Mis cadaverous looks were
really pitiful, for he was so much overcome that his voice had actually forsaken
him, and I have reason to believe, that, saving a little gruel, he and his
associates got nothing.

The next night we were at the castle of old Lord Lyon, where I witnessed
a curious scene, at least it was a curious scene to me. The dinner was served
in a long dark hall, in which the one end could not be seen from the other,
and ihe people look all their places, but nothing was set down. ^Vfitr the

422 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

nobility were placed, two orderly constables came down among us, and pulling
and wheeling us rudely by the shoulders, pointed out to us our various places.
Down we sat, hurryscurry, lords, ladies, servants, all in the same apartment,
but all in due rank and subordination. Thinks I to myself, Lord Huntly will
not like this arrangement, and Lady Huntly will like it still worse ; but cast-
ing my eyes toward him at the head of the board, I never saw the old hero in
better humour, and the suavity or sternness of his countenance spread always
like magic over all that came within its influence, consequently, I knew at
once that that would be a pleasant party. It was the first time I had sat at
table with my mistress, and I being among the uppermost retainers, my dis-
tance from her was not very great. 1 was so near as to hear many compliments
paid to her beauty, but how poor they were compared with the idea that I had
of her perfections.

To return to the dinner. The two officers with white sticks having returned
back to our host, he inquired at them if all was ready, and then a chaplain
arose, and said a homily in Latin. Still nothing was presented save a few
platters set before the nobility, and David Peterkin being placed within my
view, I looked at him, and never beheld a face of such hungry and ghastly
astonishment. Presently, two strong men, with broad blue bonnets on their
heads, came in, bearing an immense roasted side of an ox on a wooden server,
like a baxter's board, and this they placed across the table at the head. Then
there was such slashing and cutting and jingling of guUies, helping this
and the other.

From the moment the side of beef made its appearance, David Peterkin's
tongue began to wag. I looked to him again, and his countenance was
changed from a cadaverous white into a healthy yellow, and he was speaking
first to the one side then to the other, and following every observation of his
own with a hearty laugh. The two men and the broad bonnets kept always
heaving the board downward until it came by the broad part of the table, and
then there were no more wooden plates or knives. At first I thought our
board was sanded over as I had seen the floors in Edinburgh, which I thought
would be very inconvenient, but on observing again, I found that it was strewed
thickly over with coarse salt. Then a carver-general supplied every man with
his piece, with a despatch that was almost inconceivable, and he always looked
at every one before he cut off his morsel. When he eyed Peterkin, he cut him
a half-kidney, fat and all, with a joint of the back. How I saw him kneading
it on the salted board ! After the carver and beef, came one with a bent
knife two feet in length, and cut every man's piece across, dividing it into four,
then leaving him to make the best of it he could. A board of wedders, cut
into quarters, was the next service, and the third course was one of venison
and fowls, but that passed not by the broad table. After the first service,
strong drink was handed round in large wooden dishes with two handles, and
every man was allowed as much as he could take at a draught, but not to re-
new it ; the same the next service, and thus ended our dinner. The party was
uncommonly facetious, owing, I was sure, to the Marquess's good humour,
which never for an instant forsook him, and convinced me that he had oitcn
been in similar situations. I enjoyed it exceedingly ; but every thmg came
on me by surprise, and the last was the most disagreeable of all. No sooner
had we taken our last sup above mentioned, than the two imperious constables
with the long white staves came and turned us out with as little ceremony as
they set us down, hitting such as were unmindful of their warning a yerk with
their sticks. They actually drove us out before them like a herd of Highland
cattle ; and then the nobility and gentry closed around the broad table for an
evening's enjoyment.

I never felt the degrading shackles of servitude and dependency so much
as I did at that instant. To be placed at table with my mistress, with her
whom I loved above all the world ; to eat of the same food, and drink of the
same cup, and then, when it suited the convenience of my superiors in rank,
(though in nothing else,) and of my rivals, to be driven Irom her presence

LIFE OF AN EDINBURGH BAILIE. 423

like a Highland bullock, and struck on the shoulders with a peeled stick !
Why sirs, it was more than the spirit within a Sydeserf could brook ! and but
for love — imperious love — but for the circumstance that I was utterly unable
to tear myself away from the object of my devotion, I would never have sub-
mitted to such humiliation, or the chance of it, a second time.

[On the Marquess and his retinue reaching Huntly Castle, it appears from
the narrative that by some mutual understanding, all the gentlemen visitors
withdrew, and left the family at leisure for some great preparation, the pur-
port of which Mr. Sydeserf was utterly at a loss to comprehend ; but it freed
him of his rivals in love, and afforded him numerous opportunities of divulg-
ing the hidden passion that devoured him. Every day he attempted some-
thing, and every attempt proved alike futile ; so that to copy the narration of
them all would be endless. But at length he accomplished his great master-
stroke of getting his religious epistle into Lady Jane's hands by stratagem,
which, he says, was filled with professions of the most ardent esteem and
anxiety about her soul's well-being, and with every argument that ever had
been used by man for her conversion from popery. While waiting, with the
deepest anxiety, the effect of this epistle, things were fast drawing to a crisis
with him, therefore a few of the final incidents must be given in his own
words.]

Some days elapsed before I noted any difference in her manner and dis-
position ; but then I saw a depth and solemnity of thought beginning to settle
on her lovely countenance. I then knew the truth was beginning to work
within her, and I rendered thanks to heaven for the bright and precious pros-
pect before me, regretting that I had not subscribed my name to the momen-
tous composition. She now began to retire every day to a little bower on the
banks of the Deveron, for the purpose, as I was at first positively convinced,
of pouring out her soul in prayer and supplication, at the footstool of Grace.
As soon as I found out her retreat, I went and kissed the ground on which
she had been kneeling, I know not how oft. I then prostrated myself on the
same sanctified spot, and prayed for her conversion ; and also, 1 must con-
fess, that the flower of all the world might in time become my own. 1 then
spent the afternoon in culling all the beautiful flowers of the wood, the heath,
and the meadow, with which I bedded and garnished the spot in a most
sumptuous manner, arranging all the purple flowers in the form of a cross,
which 1 hung on the back of the bower, so as to front her as she entered,
thinking to myself, that since the epistle had opened the gates of her heart,
this device should scale its very citadel. 1 could not sleep on the following
night ; so arising early, I went to the bower, and found ever)'- thing as I had
left it. My heart had nigh failed me at the greatness of the attempt, but not
doubting its ultimate success, 1 let every thing remain.

Then a thought struck me how excellent a treat it would be to witness the
effect of my stratagem unseen. This was easy to be done, as the bower was
surrounded by an impervious thicket, so 1 set about it and formed myself a
den close behind the bower, cutting a small opening through the leaves and
branches, that without the possibility of being seen, 1 might see into the
middle of her retreat. I thought the hour of her arrival would never come,
and my situation and sufferings were dreadful. At length the entra»ce to the
bower darkened, and on peeping through my opening, I saw the lovely vision
standing in manifest astonishment. Her foot was so light that no sound for
the listening ear escaped from the sward where that foot trode. She came
like a heavenly vision, too beautiful and too pure for human hand to touch, or
even for human eye to look on ; and there she stood in the entrance to the
bower, the emblem of holy amazement. My breast felt as it would rend at
both my sides with the pangs of love, and my head as if a hive of bees had
settled on it. As soon as her eye traced the purple cross, she instantly
kneeled before it, and bowed her head to the ground in prayer ; but her
prayer was the effusion of the soul, few words being expressed audibly, and
those at considerable intervals. In these intervals she appeared to be kissing

4:24 ^^^ ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

the cross of flowers ; but I was not positive of this, for I saw but indistinctly ;
she then took a small picture of some favourite sweetheart from her bosom,
looked at it with deep concern and affection, kissed it, and put it again in its
place. This grieved me, but I took notice of the mounting of jewels round
the miniature so as that I was certain of knowing it again, aJid curious I was
to see it.

She then sat for a space in the most calm and beatific contemplation, and
I shall never forget the comeliness of that face as she looked about on the
beauties of nature. How fain I would have dashed through the thicket and
embraced her feet and kissed them, but my modesty overcame me, and I
durst not for my life so much as stir a fmger ; so she went away, and I
emerged from my hole.

My head being full of my adventure, I dressed up the bower anew with
flowers that night ; and as I lay in my bed, I formed the bold resolution of
breaking in upon her retirement, casting myself at her feet, and making
known to her my woful state. I resolved also to ravish a kiss of her hand, —
nay, I am not sure but I presumed further, for I once or twice thought, have
not I as good a right to kiss her as she had to kiss me .'' So the next day I
did not betake myself to my concealment, but waited till she was gone, and
until I thought she had time to finish her devotions, and then I went boldly
on the same track, to cast myself on her pity and learn my fate. Alas ! before
I reached the bower my knees refused to carry me, every joint grew feeble,
my heart sunk into my loins, and instead of accomplishing my glorious feats
of love, I walked by the entrance to the bower without so much as daring to
cast my eyes into it. — I walked on, and in a short time I saw her leave it with
a hurried step.

That evening, when I went to dress up the bower, behold I found the
picture which I had before seen, and a small ebony cross which she had left
in her perturbation at being discovered and having her sanctuary broken in
upon. I seized the picture eagerly, to see if I could discover the name or
features of my rival, but behold it was the image of the Virgin Mary, with
these words attached to it — Mother of God, remember me ! I almost
fainted with horror at this downright idolatry in one of the most amiable of
human beings, and for once thought within my heart, Is it possible that a
God of mercy and love will cast away a masterpiece of his creation because
she has been brought up in error, and knows no better.'' It was but a passing
thought and a sinful one, for I knew that truth alone could be truth ; yet
though I deplored the lady's misfortune, I loved her rather the better than the
worse for it, for my love was seasoned with a pity of the most tender and
affectionate nature.

I put these sinful relics carefully up in my pocket, determined to have a
fair bout with the conscience and good sense of their owner at the delivery of
them. But the next day she cheated me, going to her bower by a circuitous
route, and about an hour and a half earlier than she was wont, for she had
missed her costly relics and been quite impatient about them. I discovered
that she was there, and knew not how to do to come in contact with her.
But I was always a man of fair and honourable shifts ; so I went and turned
a drove of the Marquess's fat bullocks into the side of the Deveron to get a
drink, for the day was very warm. The animals were pampered and out-
rageous, but still more terrible in appearance than reality ; and now Lady
Jane could not return home in any other way than either by wading the
stream, or coming through the middle of the herd, neither of which she durst
do for her life. Now, thinks 1, my dear lady, I shall make you blythe of my
assistance once more. So I concealed myself, keeping in view the path by
which she was necessitated to emerge from the wood ; she appeared once or
twice among the bushes, but durst not so much as come nigh the stile. I
kept my station, but was harassed by Lady Jane's maid coming to look after
her mistress, who had been longer than her usual time absent.

" Go away hame, you giglet," said I. " The lady is without doubt at her

LIFE OF AN EDINBURGH BAILIE. 425

devotions. I am watching lest she fall among these dangerous animals. A
fine hand you would be to conduct her through them. Go away hame, and
mind your broidery and your seam.*

" Oh mee gracioso Monsieur Longshirte," said the French taupie, " how
monstrouse crabeede you are dis day ! Me do tink you be for de word of de
pretty bride yourself. Ah you sly doag, is it not soa 1 Ha ! come tell me all
about it, cood Monsieur de Longshirte ; " and with that she came and placed
herself close down beside me. I was nettled to death, and knew not what
way to get quit of her.

" Go away hame, 1 tell you, you foreign coquette," said I as good-naturedly
as I could ; " you mouse-trap, you gillie-gawkie, I say go away hame."

" How very droll you be, good Monsieur de Longshirte," said she ; " but
de very night before one you called me de sweet sweet rose, and de lily, and
de beautiful Maamoselle Le Mebene ; and now 1 am de giglet, and trap-de-
moose, and gillygawky ! And den it was come, come, come wid me sweet
Le Mebene ; but now it is go, go home vid you, de French coquette ! How
very droll you be, kind Monsieur Longshirte."

After a great deal of tattle of the same sort, and finding it impossible to
get rid of her, I ran off and left her, ensconsing myself in the middle of the
herd of bullocks. I did not want to hear any recapitulations of idle chit-chat.
Domestics in high life have ways and manners not much to boast of, and my
heart was set on higher game. So I fled from the allurements of a designing
woman into the fellowship of the bulls of Bashan. They gathered round me,
staring with their great goggle eyes, and made a humming noise as if to
encourage one another to the attack, but none seemed to have courage to be
the first beginner, but always as their choler rose to a height, they attacked
one another either in sport or real earnest, and altogether they made a hideous
uproar. Le Mebene fled towards the castle, and afraid that she would raise
the affray, I was forced to proceed to the only entrance by which Lady Jane
could emerge from the wood, and cutting myself a great kebir, I took my
stand there, and whistled a spring with great glee to keep my courage up, and
let my mistress hear that her protector was at hand.

She was not slack in taking the hint, for she came to me with a hurried
step, and a certain wildness in her looks that shewed great trepidation. She
commended me for my attention, blessed me, and took my hand in hers,
which I felt to be trembling. This I took to be the manifestation of an ardent
and concealed love, and seizing it in both mine, I kissed it, kneeling at her
feet ; at the same time beginning a speech which I choose not here to relate,
till looking up I perceived a blush on her face. I believe to this day it was
the blush of restrained affection, but at the moment it had the effect of sealing
my lips, having taken it for tlie red frown of displeasure.

" Do not mar the high sentiments I entertain of you, Mr. Archibald,"
said she.

" My esteem for you is such, honoured lady," said I, " that it knows no
boundaries either in time or eternity."

" I know it, I know it, young man," said she, interrupting me again : "you
have put my faith sorely to the test ; but, blessed be the Mother of our Lord,
I have overcome."

My heart trembled within me with a mixture of grief and awe, love and
disappointment, and I lost the only chance ever I had of working the con-
version of that most angelic of women, by sinking into utter silence before
her eye. She seized the opportunity by momently reverting to her critical
and dangerous situation, and asking if I durst undertake to conduct her
through the herd ?

I shouldered my great stick, answered in the affirmative, and assured
her it was only a sense of her imminent danger that had brought me
there.

" There is nothing in this world for which I have such a horror as bulls,"
said she. "They are the most ferocious of all animals, and so many accidents

426 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

occur every season from their untameable fierceness, that I declare my blood
runs cold to encounter their very looks."

The animals, as far as I understood, were oxen, not bulls, but I chose not
to give the lie to a lady's discernment, and acquiesced with her in affirming
that our country contained no animals so dangerous and terrible, and I added,
" But what does the heart and arm of man fear, when put to the test in
defence of beauty ? "

" Bravo ! " said she, " lead on, and God be our shield ! "

I offered my protecting hand, but she declined it and took shelter behind
me. She was covered with a tartan mantle, the prevailing colour of which
was a bright scarlet, a colour which provokes the fury of these animals, but
which circumstance was then unknown to me. They came on us with open
mouths, bellowing and scraping with their fore feet on the earth, and always
as they gazed at us the reflection of the mantle made their eyes as of a bloody
red. I thought the animals were gone mad altogether, and never was so
terrified from the day that I was born. Lady Jane clung to :ne, sometimes
on the one side and sometimes on the other, uttering every now and then a
smothered scream, and looking as pale as if she had been wrapt in her
winding sheet.

" No fear, no fear, madam," said I. "They had better keep their distance.
Stand off, you ugly dog! stand off!" and I shouldered my tree. " Stand off,
or I will teach you better manners." No, they would not stand off, but in
place of that came nearer and nearer, until they had us so completely
beleagured that we could neither advance nor retreat. " Collie choke a bull,"
cried I, trying every method to disperse our adversaries, but trying them all
in vain. I gave us up for lost, and I fear Lady Jane beheld my changing
cheer, for she actually grew frantic with terror, and screamed aloud for assist-
ance, as from some other quarter.

It was now high time for me to repent of my stratagem of the bullocks,
wnich I did in good sincerity, and made a vow to God in my heart, if he
would but deliver me, thenceforward to act openly and candidly with all
mankind, and womankind into the bargain. I made this experiment the
more readily that Lady Jane was at the same time calling on the Holy Virgin,
on whose intercession having no manner of reliance, but dreading the vengeance
of Heaven for such palpable idolatry, I put up such a petition as a Christian
ought, and sealed it with a vow. When lo ! wonderful to relate ! the out-
rageous animals fell a tossing their heads and tails in a wild and frantic
manner, and in one minute they galloped off in every direction, as if under
the influence of some charm. They cocked their heads, rolled their tails up
in the air, and ran as if for a prize ; some of them plunging into the Deveron,
and others dashing into the woods. Our relief was instantaneous. I say
nothing but the truth, and deny not that the phenomenon might have been
accounted for in a natural way, therefore, as a humble sinner, I take no merit
to myself, but describe things precisely as they occurred. Whether the
animals only came to gaze on us for their amusement, and started off simul-
taneously in pursuit of some higher fun, or if an army of hornets was sent by
heaven to our relief, I pretend not at this distance of time to determine. But
sorry have I been a thousand times that I could not keep that vow made in
my greatest extremity. The times in which I have lived rendered it imprac-
ticable. Every thing was to be done by plot and stratagem, and he that could
not yield his mind to such expedients was left in the lurch. True, it was a
sin to break my vow, nevertheless it was a sin of necessity, and one of which
I was compelled to be guilty every day. May the Lord pardon the trans-
gressions of his erring servant !

One would have thought that now, when our danger was clean gone, Lady
Jane would have brightened up ; but, in place of that, she grew quite faint and
leaned on my arm without being able to speak. I bore her on for some time
with great difficulty, and at last was obliged to let her sink to the earth, where
for some time I had the ineffable delight of supporting her head on my bosom;

LIFE OF AN EDINBURGH BAILIE. 427

and so much was I overcome with violent emotion, that for a long time I
could not stir to attempt any means for her recover)'. At length 1 judged it
necessary to my credit to attempt something, so I cut the lacings of her stays,
and soon after that she recovered.

I had not well raised her up, and was still supporting her with both my arms,
when on an instant her brother, the Lord Gordon, and the Marquess of
Douglas, appeared close at our hands. I expected Lady Jane to faint again,
but the surprise acted like electricity on her, and after an alternate blush of
the rose and paleness of the lily, she quite recovered. Madam Mebene had
raised the alarm in the family, and the two lords come on the look-out for her
who was the darling of the whole house. But the proud eye of Enzie burnt
with rage as he approached us. He had seen me rise first myself, raise the lady
in my arms, and support her for a small space on the way, and it was manifest
that his jealous nature was aroused, and that if had not been for the presence
of Lord Douglas, he would have run me through the body. I'll never forget
the look he gave me when he threw me from his sister's side, and took my
place. As for the attack made on her by bulls, as she related it, and of her
fainting away, I could perceive that he regarded it all as a made-up story, and
thought more than he chose to express.

Ladie Enzie was not at Castle Huntly on our arrival there from Edinburgh;
for the castle being then in ruins, and our residence only temporary barracks,
we remained at our home till about this time of which I am writing, when she
came on a visit. Her maiden name was Lady Anne Campbell, she being
eldest sister to the good Earl of Argyle ; she had been married at an early age,
and now looked like an old woman ; her health and heart being both broken.
She had been compelled to marry into a Catholic family, in order to effect some
mighty coalition in the Highlands which failed, and I fear she had little
pleasure of her life, for her husband was the sworn enemy of her house, and a
perfect demon in pride and irritability. She was a true Protestant, and had
all the inherent good qualities of her noble hneage ; — she had learned to tem-
porize with those of a different persuasion, and all her sisters-in-law loved her
with great tenderness and affection.

Now it so fell out that my religious epistle to Lady Jane had troubled that
lady a great deal, and put her Catholic principles sore to the rack ; therefore
as a grateful present to her Protestant sister, she put the writing into her hands,
at which she was greatly amazed, and not less delighted, testifying the strong-
est desire to forward the views of the writer. By what means this paper fell
into her husband's hands, I do not know, but so it did, and I suspect its
history along with it. He had been jealous of my attentions to his sister of
late, and this bold attempt at her conversion raised that jealousy to an exor-
bitant pitch. So one evening when I was standing in a circle of an hundred
men and women, listening to a band of music, out comes Lord Enzie with my
identical paper in his hand. I had heard of his lady's high approbation, and
judged that now the time was come for my advancement ; and though I would
rather have taken it from any other nobleman in the kingdom, yet knowing
my epistle afar off by its form, 1 resolved on acknowledging it. It was a
holiday, and we were all clothed in our best robes, when out comes the
haughty and redoubted George Gordon, Lord of Enzie and Badenoch, into
the midst of us, and reading the address and superscription of the paper, he
held it up and inquired if any in the circle could inform him who was the
author of such a sublime production. Judging that to be my time, I stepped
forward, kneeled on the green at my Lord Enzie's feet, and ackiiowledged
myself the unworthy author, on which the proud aristocrat struck me un-
mercifully on the shoulders and head with his cane, accompanying his blows
with a volley of the most opprobrious epithets. 1 was altogether unarmed,
otherwise I would have made a corpse of the tyrant ; so I fled backward and
said, " My Lord, you shall rue what you have now done the longest day you
have to live. Do you know whom you have struck .-* "

" Know whom I have struck ! Puppy ! vagabond ! " exclaimed he, and break-

428 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

ing at me, he struck me with such violence that he knocked me down. I fell
quite insensible ; but he had inflicted many kicks and blows on me after I was
down, which I felt for many day ; and, I was informed, dashed my epistle in
my face, and left me lying.

When I came to myself, I was lying in a bed in the house of a poor weaver
in tlie village, and a surgeon was dressing my head, which was fractured. I
was extremely ill, and the violence of my rage at Lord Enzie made my dis-
temper a great deal the worse.

As soon as I was able, I wrote to the Marquess complaining of the usage I
had received in recompense for all I had ventured for him. He was a man of
the highest honour, and sent me a sum of money with an assurance that he
would provide for me in a way that suited both my talents and inclination. He
regretted what his son had done, whom no man could keep in bounds, but was
willing to make me all the reparation that lay in his power, which I should soon
see ; so I was obliged to keep my humble bed and wait the issue.

A few days subsequent to that, 1 was visited by Lady En7ie and Lady
Jane Gordon, who both condoled with me in a most affectionate manner, and
reprobated the outrage committed by Lord Enzie, who had the day before that
set off for France on some military expedition. After a great deal of kind
commiseration, Lady Enzie said, " The plain truth is, clerk Archimbald, that
you can never rise to eminence either in my husband's family, or under the
patronage of any of its members, for (begging my lovely sister's pardon) every
one of that family are Catholics at heart, however they may have been com-
pelled to disguise their sentiments, and they will never raise a man to wealth
or power who is not confirmed in their own religious tenets. It is a part of
their principle rather to retard him. But to my brother, the Lord Argyle, you
will be quite a treasure. You will instruct his two noble sons in the princi-
ples of the reformed religion, for which no young man in the kingdom is so
well fitted ; learn them the art of composition in the English tongue ; travel
with them into foreign parts, and form their hearts and their minds to follow
after truth. Or you can assist my brother in his great plans of furthering the
Reformation. If you consent to this arrangement, as soon as you are able to
travel, I will despatch you to my brother with a letter which will ensure your
good reception."

I testified my obligation to her ladyship, but added that I loved my young
mistress and her father so well, I had no heart to leave them.

"The old Marquess, my father-in-law, is one of the noblest characters
that ever bore the image of his Maker," said she, " but he is necessarily
on the verge of life ; and then, under my husband, your hopes are but small.
As for Jane, she leaves her father's house immediately as bride to a young
Catholic Lord, who would not have a Protestant in his family for half his
estate."

Here my heart sank within me, and I could not answer a word.

Lady Enzie went on. " In order that you may not refuse my offer, I tell
you some of the secrets of the family without leave, of which I know you will
make no ill use. These two young dames, so far celebrated for their beauty;
as they were born on the same day, and christened on the same day, so they
are to be wedded on the same day, and in the same church ; the one to a
Scottish, the other to an Irish nobleman. Poor Lady Jane is destined for
Ireland, to worship St. Patrick and the Virgin Mary, in a due preparation
for purgc.tory as long as she lives."

" I'll go to the Earl of Argyle to-morrow or the next day at the furthest,"
said I.

The two ladies applauded my resolution, settling their plans between them,
but seeing me unfit for further conversation they took their leave. Lady Jane
gave me her hand and bade me farewell, — but I retained that dear hand in
mine and could not part with it, neither did siic attempt to force it away. —
"Stay still with us a few moments, Lady Gordon," said I, "for I have
something to give my young mistress before we part forever."

UFE OF AN EDINBURGH BAILIE. 429

" What have you to give me, Archy ? " said Lady Jane.

"I have to give you first my blessing," said I, "and afterwards something
you will value more. Fare%vell, most lovely and fascinating of all thy race.
May the Almighty God, who made thee so beautiful, make thee as eminently
good, and endow thy mind with those beauties that shall never decay. And
may he fit and prepare thee for whatever is his will concerning thee, for con-
jugal bliss or sorrow of heart : — for life, for death, for time, or for eternity."

" Amen ! " said both ladies, bowing, — " and may thy blessings return double
on thy own head."

" I will henceforth revere thy religion for thy own sake," continued I, "for
the tenets that have formed such a mind must have something of heaven in
them. May you be beloved through life as you are loving and sincere, and
may your children grow up around you the ornaments of our nature, as you
have yourself been its greatest. For me, bereaved as I hence must be of the
light of your countenance, — I care no more what fortune betide me, for I must
always be like a blind man, longing for the light of the sun he is never more
to see. Of this be sure, that there is always one who will never forget you,
and of whose good wishes and prayers you shall through life have a share.
And now here are some relics, too precious in your sight, which 1 fain would
have ground to powder, and stamped the residue with my feet, but seeing the
line that Providence has marked out for you, I restore them, and trust you
to the mercy of Him who was born of a virgin."

So saying, I gave into her hands the graven image of the Virgin, and the
purple cross set with gold and diamonds, on which she gave me a last em-
brace, while tears of gratitude choked her utterance, on which Lady Enzie
hurried her out, and left me a being as forlorn of heart as any that the light
of heaven visited.

[Thus ended the Bailie's first love, which seems to have been most ardent
and sincere, yet chastened by that respect due to one so much his superior.
This he never seems to take into account ; the reason of which appears to be,
that when he acted these things, he was in a very different line of life than
when he wrote of them, and felt that at this latter time he was very nigh to
Lady Jane's rank in life.

We must now skip over more than a hundred pages of his memoirs, as
affording little that is new or amusing. He was engaged by the Earl of
Arg)'le as his secretary, and assisted that nobleman with all his power and
cunning, in bringing about a reformation, both in Church and State. He was
likewise tutor to his two sons, and went over to Holland with Lord Lorn, and
afterwards to London with Lord Neil Campbell ; but in the tedious details of
these matters, although there is a portion of good sense, or sly speciousness
in its place, yet there is very little of it so much better than the rest as tT be
worth extracting. There is one anecdote which he pretends to give from
report, which appears not a little puzzling. He says :

" While at this place (Armaddie) there were strange reports from Huntly
Castle reached mine ears. The two lovely twin Gordons were married on
the same day to two widowers, but both young and gallant gentlemen, Lady
Mary to the Marquess of Douglas, and Lady Jane to Lord Strathbane ; (who
in the world was this?) but on the evening of the wedding, the latter missed
his bride, and following her out to her bower, he found her in company with
a strange gentleman, who was kneeling and clasping her knees ; on which
Lord Strathbane rushed forward, and ran the aggressor through the body
with his sword. The utmost confusion arose about the castle. Lady Jane
fainted, and went out of one fit into another, but would never tell who that
gentleman was, denying all knowledge of him. The body was likewise instan-
taneously removed, so that it was no more seen ; but Lord Strathbane,
supposing he had committed a murder, fled that night, and the marriage
was not consummated for full seven weeks. The story was never rightly
cleared up."

We do not much wonder at it, considering how quickly the body, or rather

430 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

the wounded gentleman, made his escape ; but even at this distance of time,
we have a shrewd suspicion that it might be the BaiHc himself, especially as
he says in another place — "The Marquess tof Argyle) would fain have had
me putting on sword-armour that day, both for the protection of my own per-
son, and for the encouragement of the covenanters. But by reason of a
wound in tny right side, which 1 got by accident more than a dozen of years
before, I could never brook armour of any sort," &c.

The getting of this wound is never mentioned, and we find by his own con-
fused dates, that the marriages he mentions took place about twelve years
previous to this engagement of which he is speaking ; so that, without much
straining, I think we may set down the Bailie as the strange gentleman
whom the jealous bridegroom ran through the body in the wood.

There is another incident he records which marks in no ordinary degi*ee
the aristocratic tyranny of that day.]

When I arrived at Edinburgh, says he, I still felt a little suspicion that the
affair of the castle would come against me, and the first thing I did was to
make inquiry who was deputy governor of the fortress at the time being, and
what was become of the former one, my old tyrant. Haggard. I soon found
out that Ludovico Gordon, one of the house of Huntly, occupied that station,
so that there I was quite safe ; but how was I amazed at finding that Huntly's
influence had actually brought Haggard to the gallows, — at least, so far on
the way that he then lay under condemnation. Whether it was through fear
of the history of the papers that I stole being discovered, or merely out of re-
venge for some small indignity offered, I know not, but the Marquess and the
rest of the Catholic party got him indicted. The other prevailing party did
not think it worth their while to defend him, and so the fellow strapped. But
the oddest circumstance of the matter was, that my disappearance from the
castle was made one of the principal reasons for bringing on his condemna-
tion. It was proved to the satisfaction of the judges, that he had frequently
threatened me with his utmost vengeance, to have me whipped and hung at
the flag-staff, S:c. — and that I had disappeared all at once in the dead of the
night, while all my clothes, even to my shirt and nightcap, were found lying
in my chamber next day, so that there was no doubt I had been made away
with, in order to cover his embezzlement of the public monies. Haggard was
in great indignation at the charge, but not being able to prove aught to the
contrary, the plea was admitted, and he was cast for execution, — a circum-
stance not much accounted of in those days.

I was greatly tickled with this piece of information, and he having been the
man who, of all others, used me the worst, save Lord Gordon, or Enzie, as he
was called, so I resolved never either to forgive the one or the other. Of
course, I made no efforts towards a mitigation of the brute Haggard's
sentence.

His execution had been fixed for the 26th of May, but before that period, I
had been called express to Stirling on the Marquess's business, in order to
further the correspondence on the Antrim expedition, of which Argyle, my
patron, was in great terror. However, I took a horse on the 25th, and riding
all night, reached the Grass Market in good time to see the ruffian pay kane
for all his ci-uelties and acts of injustice ; and from that day forth I was
impressed with a notion that Providence would not suffer any man to escape
with impunity who had wronged me, and inherited my curse and malison. I
had done nothing against Haggard, saving that at one time I had wished ill to
him in my heart, and now, behold, I saw even more than my heart's desire on
mine enemy. I enjoyed the sight a good deal, nor was I to blame ; — a man
should always do that which is just and proper. I never saw such a woe-
begone wretched being as he looked on the scaffold ; — no man could have
believed that a character so dissipated and outrageous could ever have been
reduced to such a thing of despair. He harangued the multitude at great
length, and, in my opinion, to very little purpose,— merely, I was persuaded,
for the purpose of gaining a few more minutes of miserable existence. — Again

LIFE OF AN EDINBURGH BAILIE. 431

and again did he assert his innocence relating to the murder of the young
man couiuionly called Clerk Archibald, wished well to the Marquess of
Huntly, and prayed for his forgiveness.

During the time of this harangue, and when it drew nigh to a close, 1
chanced to come in contact with Mr. Alexander Hume, baker, with whom I
had some settlements to make while I was in the castle. Pie was one whom
I esteemed as an honourable man, and I could not help speaking to him,
asking how he did ? — and what he thought of this affair ? He answered me
in some confusion, so that 1 perceived he did not know me, — or was greatly
at a loss to comprehend how I should be there. Judging it therefore as
well to be quit of him, I made off a little, but he stuck by me, and the
crowd being so great, I could noL ^ct away, for I was close to the foot of the
gallows.

" Think of it, squire.-"' said he, • why, I suppose I think of it as others do,
that the fellow was a rascal, and brought himself under the lash of the law,
and is suffering justly the penalty of his iniquities. Our judges are just, you
know, and our exactors righteous — do you not think the same .'"'

" You had a good deal of business with Haggard, Mr. Hume," says I, " and
must know. Did you fmd him an arrant rascal in his dealings.'"'

" No— I do not say so, 1 was not called to give oath to that effect, and if I
had, I could not have sworn he was."

"Then you knew that, as to the murder, he must have been innocent of
that."

" How.-* — What ? — How can you prove that? Good and blessed Virgin, is
not this Clerk Archy himself?"

I nodded assent, when he seized my hand as if it had been in a vice, and
went on without suffering me to rejoin a word — " How are you ? Where have
you been ? You have been kidnapped, then ? Come this way — this way, a
wee bit. Colonel Haggard ! Hilloa, Colonel, speak to me, will ye?"

The Colonel had taken farewell of the world, of the sun and moon, and the
stars, and the spires of Edinburgh castle. The bedesman and executioner
were both sick of his monotonous harangues, and waited with impatience the
moment when he should give the signal. Still he had not power, and at that
terrible crisis Hume fell a bawling out to him, — " Hilloa, Colonel, speak to
me, will ye, speak to me just for a wee bit — hilloa, you there, Mr. Sheriff and
Mr. Chaplain, loose the Colonel's een, will ye ?

The sheriff shook his head, on which Hume saw there was not a moment
to lose, and having resolved to save Haggard's life, merely, I dare say, for the
novelty of the thing, he called aloud to the sheriff to stop the execution till he,
Mr. Hume, spoke a word in his ear. With that he sprung to the ladder with
an agility of which no man would have supposed him possessed, — the sheriff
beckoned the sentinel to let him pass, on which he intimated something very
shortly to that dignitary, and flew to the prisoner, who, poor man ! stood with
his eyes covered, the tow about his neck, his hands hanging pendulous, and
the fiingers of the right one closed on the signal with the grasp of death. The
officious baker, who seemed to have lost his reason for a space, instantly fell
to relieving the culprit, turned the napkin up from his eyes, and would also
have loosed the tow from about his craig had he been permitted, and all the
while he was speaking as fast as his tongue could deliver. I could not hear
all he said, but these were some of the words : — " It's a fact that I tell you,
sir, look to yoursel — he's stannin there at the fit of the gallows. You're a
betrayed man, sir. See, there he is, sir, looking you in the face, and witness-
ing the whole affair. — Mind yoursel, sir, for. Holy Virgin ! there's nae time to
loose, ye ken."

The poor wretch tried to look and to find me out in the crowd, but he only
stared, and I could easily perceive that he saw nothing, or at least distinguished
no one object from another, — his eyes were like those of a dead person, casting
no reflexion inwardly on the soul. Mr. Hume, as I said, in the heigiit of his
oliiciousness, had begun unloosing the cord from about tiie convict's neck|^

432 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

but was withstood by the executioner. That was a droll scene, and con-
tributed no little to the amusement of the tag-rag and bob-tail part of the
citizens of Edinburgh. " Let abee, sir," said the executioner ; " wha baud ye
talc that tnibble. Naebody's fingers touch tow here but mine, onest man.
Stand back, an it be your wull. Who the muckle deevil are ye t"

" Wha im I, sir !' cried the baker, — "Wha im I, say ye? — My name, sir,
is Alexander Hume, I'm one o' the auld bailies, and deacon convener o' the
five trades o' the bee Calton, a better kind o' man than you, Mr. Hangie, or
ony that ever belanged to you, an' never kend for ony ill yet, — mair than some
folks can say ! Wha im I, troth I — Cornel, look to yoursel, sir, or you're a
murdered man. — I'll stand by you, I like to see a man get justice."

The poor colonel, judging it necessary to do or say something for himself
in this extremity, appeared like a man struggling in a horrible dream, but his
senses being quite benumbed, he could only take up the baker's hint, and a bad
business he made of it, fur he began with—

" O good Christian people, it is true, it is true. I am a murdered man ! an
innocent murdered man ! — And as a proof of it, the man whom I murdered is
standing here looking me in the face, and laughing at my calamity. And is
not this, good Christians, such usage as flesh and blood cannot endure ?— to
be murdered by spiteful papists and enemies, — murdered in cold blood ! — O
murder ! — murder.' — mt4rder P'

" What's all this for !" exclaimed the hangman, and turned the poor wretch
off. The baker called out, " Stop, stop ! " and caught wildly at the rope, but
he was taken into custody, and the colonel, after a few wallops, expired. In
an hour after I left the city to attend the Marquess's business, but the matter
caused a great deal of speechification in Edinburgh for a season, the most
part of the lieges trowing that it had been my ghost that the baker had seen
at the foot of the gallows ; for it was affirmed that my naked corpse had been
taken from a well in the castle along with other two bodies, all murdered by
Haggard. I did not believe that Haggard murdered one of them ; me, I was
sure, he did not murder, and I was very glad that it was so.

[Argyle, as the head and chief of the reformers, now carried everything
before him ; and we find that, principally for political purposes, he placed the
Bailie in Edinburgh as a great wine and brandy merchant, and by that
means got him elected into the council of the city, where he seems to have
had great influence both with ministers and magistrates. The king nomina
ting the bailies then, Argyle or Huntly, precisely as their parties prevailed,
had nothing further to do than go to the king, or the commissioners after
the king's restraint, and bring down the list, in wui^.h case the honourable
council seems never to have objected to any ol .hose named ; but if we take
the Bailie's word for it, he seems to have been a conscientious man, for he
says :]

From the time I entered the council, I considered myself as acting for
others. Not for others, abstract from myself, but at all events, for others
besides myself ; and oftentimes was I greatly puzzled to forward the views of
my party without injuring my own interest. 1 determined to support the
reformers against all opposition, but the first time I was in the council and
the magistracy, we were sorely kept in check by the great influence of the old
Marquess of Huntly. The combined lords would gladly have brought him
to the scaftbld, for he was a bar in their progress which it was impossible to
get over. I believe there was never a nobleman in Scotland who had so
many enemies, and those so inveterate ; but his friends being so much
attached to him, on the other hand, the Protestant party could make little
progress as long as he lived. I felt this, and though I had the offer of being
made Lord Provost, and knighted in 1633, I declined the honour and retired
from the Magistracy until I saw a more favourable sea';on for furthering the
views of the reformers, and of my own great and amiable patron in particular.
Besides, I really had such a respect for the old Marquess, papist as I believed
him to be at heart, that 1 could not join in tlie conspiracies against him which

LIFE OF AN EDINBURGH BAILIE. 433

I heard broached by one or other every day. I could not bear to see the
noble old veteran dogged to death, which was the real cauie why 1 left
co-uperating with the violent part of the reformers for several years. I
ne\er refused Argyle's suggestions, but those of all others 1 received with
great caution.

In the beginning of the year 1635, ^^^ worthy old Marquess was again
brought before the council, on a charge of harassing and wasting the lands of
his Protestant neighbours. I attended the examinations of tiie witnesses, and
was convinced in my mind that the Marquess had no hand in the depreda-
tions complained of. True, he had not punished the agressors, but that I
considered no capital charge ; and was grieved wlien 1 baw him shut up
once more in close confinement in the castle, in the very same apartment
from whence 1 had before been the means of delivering him. Then a fair
trial by jury was instituted, and among all the forty-eight nominated by the
sheriff, there was not one to my knowledge who was not of the party opposed
to Lluntly. Though ever so zealous in forwarding the reformation, I did not
like to see it forwarded by unjust means ; for in such cases, men can hardly
expect the blessing of heaven to attend their labours. There were only four
commoners named as jurymen, and 1 being chosen and sworn, as one of the
most staunch reformers, yet 1 determined within myself to give my voice for
nothing of which I was not fully convinced. Wariston's indictment represented
the old Marquess as the most notorious tyrant and offender living. He was
accused of murder, fire raising, and every breach of order, — and all the
witnesses sworn, spoke to the same purpose ; but there were two, Major
Creighton and John Hay, whom, as a juryman, 1 took the liberty of ques-
tioning over again. Ihe Marquess looked fiercely at me, quite mistaking
my motive ; nor did I at all explain myself then, but being chosen foreman of
the jury, as I knew I would, I refused to retire till I heard three men of the
Gordons shortly examined, and then I made it clear to the jurymen, on our
retiring, that Major Creighton and Mr. John Hay had both man-sworn
themselves, for that neither the Marquess nor one of his family had been
proved in the foray ; and as for Patiick Gordon, who had been proven there,
it was almost proven that he could not possibly have had instructions from
Huntly.

I then put the question, first to Sir William Dick, a just man and a good,
who at once gave his voice — not guilty. My coadjutors were thunderstruck,
for they all knew we were placed there to condemn the Marquess of Huntly,
not to justify him. The next in order tried to reason the matter over again
with Dick and me, but got into a passion, and at length voted guilty.
Several followed on the same side, and it was merely the influence which Sir
William and 1 possessed in the city, and with the reformers in particular, that
caused some of those present to vote the Marquess not guilty, — now when
they found they had their greatest opponent in their power. I was certain
they thougiit there was some scheme or plot under it, which they did not
comprehend, and that Sir William Dick and I were managing it, whereas
we had nothing at heart but justice. Our point was for a while very doubtful,
so much so, that I feared the Marquess was lost, which would have been
a great stain on our court of justice ; but everything was managed by intrigue,
and the power or advantage of one party over another was the ruling cause
that produced the effect.

When the vote came to Bailie Anderson, of Leith, I looked in his face. I
saw he was going to vote guilty in support of our faction, but I gave him a
look that staggered him, and I repeated it at every turn of his eye. He called
the state of the vote to gain time ; then 1 saw that Patic durst not vote agamst
me, and accordingly his voice decided it by one.

I then returned joyfully into ilie rourt with the state of the vote in my hand,

and said, "' My lord, the jury by a plurality of voices find George Gordon,

Marquess of Huntly Not guilty." Never did I see a whole bencli so

astounded ; the matter had been settled and over again settled with them all,

I. 28

434 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

and the justice's clerk had composed, it was said, a condemning speech of so
tremendous a nature, that it was to astonish all the nations of the world, and
even convert the Pope of Rome ; but 1 baulked them all for once, and my
lord justice clerk's speech was lost.

The Marquess had had a powerful party in the house, all desponding ; for
when the sentence of the jury was heard, the voices of the audience rose
gradually to a tumult of applause, at which the judges were highly offended ;
but the old hero, turning round, and bowing to the crowd with the tear in his
eye, the thunders of approbation were redoubled. I never rejoiced more, nor
was prouder of anything than of the brave old peer's acquittal, and I
perceived that his feelings nearly overcame him. He looked at me with
an unstable and palsied look, as if striving in vain to recognise me ; but that
very afternoon he sent his chariot to my house, with a kind request that I
would visit him, which I did, and found himself surrounded by the chief men
of his clan, all crazed with joy, and almost ready to worship me. He showed
them the state of the vote with pride, proving that my two votes and influence
saved his life. I did not deny it, but acknowledged that I had striven hard for
it, and at one time had given him up for lost. I then told him the story of
Patie Anderson, at which he laughed very heartily, but still he did not
recognise me as his old attendant.

At length when we were going to part, he said, " You have indeed saved
my life, Bailie, from a combination of my inveterate enemies, and if ever it
lie in my power to confer a benefit on you or yours, you shall not need to
ask it, but only find means of letting me know such a thing."

" I have saved your life before now, my lord," said I ; " and though I got
no reward then, or look for any now, yet if it lie in my power I would do the
same again."

He looked unsteadily and anxiously at me, and bit his lips, as if struggling
with former reminiscences ; and I then noted with pain, for the first time,
how much the old chief was altered. He seemed, both in body and mind, no
more than the wreck of what he once was.

" I think I remember the name," said he ; " but it is so long ago, and my
memory is so often at fault now-a-days. Yet the name is a singular one. Are
you not brother to the Bishop of Galloway ? "

" I am, my lord," returned I ; " and the same who risked his honour and
his neck in saving your life from imminent danger, the last time you were a

f)risoner in Edinburgh Castle. You cannot have forgot that adventure .'' — at
east I never shall."

" I remember every circumstance of it quite well," said he ; " and I thought
you were the man, or nearly connected with him ; but I thought it degrading
to you to allude to it. I could not believe that the young adventurer who es-
caped with me, and followed me to the North, could now be the first man in
Edinburgh, both in influence and respectabihty. Well, I cannot help being
struck at the singularity of this case. It is very remarkable that I should
have been twice indebted for my life to one who had no interest in preserving
it, and in whom I took no interest I fear I requited you very indifferently,
for as I remember nothing of our parting, I am sure I must have used
you very ill."

" Your son used me very ill, my lord," said I ; " yea, behaved to me in a
most brutal manner ; but I never attached any of the blame of that to your
lordship. Be assured that I shall live to pay him back in his own coin ; and
that with interest. None have ever yet escaped me, either for a good turn or
a bad one. As for you, my lord, I have always admired your character for
bravery and for honour ; and, dreaded as you are by the party whose principles
I have espoused, yet I scorned to see you wronged and persecuted to the
death. You and I are quits, my lord, but not so with your son Enzie."

" George is a hot-headed, obstinate fool," said he. " But no more of that.
I leave him to take care of himself In the mean time, you shall accompany
me to the North once more, and I will let you see some little difference about

LIFE OF AN EDINBURGH BAIUE. 435

Castle Huntly since the last time you saw it. I want to introduce my
deliverer to all my friends."

" I fear I shall lose credit with my own party if I attach myself thus close'/
to your lordship," said I. " I have already astounded them a good deal by
my efforts for your acquittal, and must not kick at them altogether."

" I understand, I understand," said he, thoughtfully. " Well, that may alier
the view I took of the matter. But I really wish it had been otherwise, and
that you had gone. It might — it should have turned out for your good."

" Nay, my lord, I am not established here on a foundation so shallow as to
fear any party for an act of justice. I will think of your invitation, and pro-
bably accept of it."

I then took my leave, for I saw the old man like to drop from his chair with
frailty and fatigue of spirits. He squeezed my hand, and held it for a good
while in his without speaking, and he could not so much as say good night
when I went away. I saw now that he was fast waning away from this life ;
and judging from his manner, that he meant to do me some favour, I judged
it prudent to put myself in the way, and accompany his lordship home. I was
never a man greedy of substance, but I account every man to blame who
keeps himself out of fortune's way ; so the very next day I called on his lord-
ship, but he was confined to bed, and engaged with two notaries ; therefore I
saw him not. He grew worse and worse, and I was afraid he never would
see Castle Huntly again. It was in the spring of 1636 that the above men-
tioned trial and acquittal took place ; and about the beginning of summer,
the Marquess supposing himself better, requested the fulfilment of my promise,
and again repeated that it should be for my good. I did not think him better,
for I thought him fast descending to the grave, as he looked \&ry ill, and had
the lines of death deeply indented on his face ; but judging that it might be
requisite for my behoof that he should be home before his demise, to arrange
and sign some documents, I urged his departure very much, and as an induce-
ment, stated that unless he went immediately, I could not accompany him,
nor see him in the North for the space of a whole year.

Accordingly we set out, as far as I remember, on the 3d of June ; but we
made poor speed, for the Marquess could not bear his chariot to go much
faster than at a snail's pace, and only on the most level ways. So, after a
wearisome course, we arrived at Dundee on the loth, and the next day the
Marquess could not be removed. There were none of his family but one son-
in-law of our retinue, and I was applied to for every thing, so that I
had a poor time of it "Ask the bailie." "Enquire at the bailie." "The
bailie must procure us this thing and the other thing ; " was in every body's
mouth. Had I been six bailies, not to say men, I could not have performed
all that was expected of me.

I had now lost all hope of my legacy, and would gladly have been quit of
my charge, but could not think to leave the old hero in so forlorn a state ; for
Lord Douglas having posted on to Castle Huntly, I had the sole charge, as it
were, of the dying man. I rode with him in his chariot the last day he was
on the road ; after that, he took all his cordials from my hand, and on the
afternoon of the 13th, he died in my arms in the house of Mr. Robert Murray,
a gentleman of that place ; for though his lady had arrived the day before,
she was so ill, she could not sit up.

He was a hero to the last, and had no more dread of death than of a night's
quiet repose ; but I was convinced he died a true Catholic, for all so often as
he had been compelled to renounce his religion by the Committee of Estates
and the General Assembly.

Mr. Bannerman and Mr. Stewart, two notaries public, arrived from Edin-
burgh, and took charge of the papers and deeds which the deceased carried
with him. I wanted to return home, but these gentlemen dissuaded me, and
I confess that some distant hopes of emolument prevailed on me to await that
sjjlendid funeral, which certainly surpassed all I have ever yet beheld, and
which I shall now attempt to describe as truly as a frail memory retains it

436 THE ET TRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

[The Bailie's description of the funeral procession from Dundee to the
cathedral at Elgin, is minute and tedious ; but if true, it is utterly astonishing
in such an age of anarchy and confusion. Some part of the management of
the charities having been assigned by appointment to the Bailie, his old
friend Lord Gordon of Enzie, now the Marquess of Huntly, and he, came once
more in contact. But honest Archy, now being head bailie and chief moving
spring in the council and city of Edinburgh, and in the hope of being Lord
Provost ne.\t year, all by the inllucnce of Argyle, also a privileged man, went
through his department without taking the least notice of the heir and chief of
the family for whom he was acting ; but the Marquess discovered in the end
who he was and all their former connection, and certainly treated him scurvily.
I must copy his account of this.]

On the Tuesday following, the will and testament of the late Marquess was
read in the great hall, and all the servants and oflicers were suffered to be
present : but when the new Marquess cast his eyes on me, he asked " what
was my business there ? "

I answered " that his lordship would perceive that by and by ; and that at
all events I had as good a right to be there as others of his father's old ser-
vants ; " and being a little nettled, I said what, perhaps, I should not have
said, " for," added I, " it is possible that neither yourself nor any of them
ever had the honour of twice saving your father's life as I have had."

" You saved my father's life, sir .-* you saved my father's life .'' " said he dis-
dainfully. " You never had the power, sir, to save the life of one of my father's
cats. Leave the mansion immediately. I know you well for a traitor and a
spy of the house of Argyle."

A sign from Mr. Bannerman, the agent, now brought me up to him, before
I ventured a reply. He gave me a hint of something that shall be nameless,
and at the same time waved me toward the door, that the Marquess might
think I was ordered out by the notary as well as himself. So I went toward
the hall door, and before going out, I turned and said —

" This castle and hall are your own, my lord, and you must be obeyed. I
am therefore compelled reluctantly to retire, but before going I order you, Mr.
Robert Bannerman and Mr. Robert Stewart, again to close up these docu-
ments and proceed no further ; no, not so much as in reading another word
until you do it in my house in Edinburgh, before a committee of the Lords
of Session."

The Marquess laughed aloud, while his face burned with indignation ;
but to his astonishment the men of law began folding up their papers at my
behest.

" Gentlemen, pray go on with the business in hand," said he ; " sure you are
not going to be silenced by this mad and self-important citizen V

The men after some jangle of law terms, declared they could not go on but
in my presence, as I was both a principal legatee, and a trustee on many
charities and funds. The great man's intolerable pride was hurt ; he grew
pale with displeasure ; and as far as I could judge, was within a hair's breadth
of ordering his marshal to seize both the men and their papers, and myself
into the bargain. The men thought so too, for they began enlarging on the
will being registered and inviolable, save by a breach of all law and decorum ;
and that same Dame Decorum at length came to the proud aristocrat's aid,
and with a low bow, and a sneer of scorn upon his countenance, he pointed to
one of the chairs of state, and requested me to be seated.

I did as I was desired, for in a great man's presence, I accounted it always
the worst of manners to object to his request, and I saw by the faces of the
assembly, that I had more friends at that moment than the new-made Marquess
himself.

Well, the men went on with the disposal of lands, rents, and fees ; all of
which seemed to give great satisfaction, till they came to the very last codicil,
wherein the late worthy Marquess bequeathed to me his palace in the Canon-
gate with all that it contained ; and all because 1 had, at two different times,

LIFE OF AN EDINBURGH BAILIE. 437

saved him from an immediate and disgraceful death. It has been alleged by
some that 1 have been a proud and conceited man all my life ; but it is well
known to ray friends that the reverse of this is the truth. I never was,
however, so proud of worldly recommendation and worldly honours, as I was
at that moment. Mr. Stewart, who was then reading, when he came to the
clause, made a loud hem as if clearing his voice, and then went on in a louder
tone : —

" I give, leave, and bequeath to the worthy and honourable Bailie .A.rchibald
Sydeserf, my house in the Canongate with all its appurtenances, entrances,
and offices, and all within and without the houses that belongeth to me, save
and except the two stables above the water gate, and the bed of state in the
southern room, all of which were presents from the Duke of Chatelherault. my
grandfather, to me and mine, and must therefore be retained in my family.
The rest I bequeath, &c., &c., to the wortliy Mr. Sydeserf, and all for having
twice, of his own accord and free will, and without any hope of reward,
further than the love of honour and the approbation of a good conscience,
delivered me from immediate death by the hands of my implacable
enemies."

I confess when I heard this read out in a strong, mellow, and affecting
tone, I could not resist crying ; the tears ran down my cheeks, and I was
obliged to dight them with my sleeve, and snifter like a whipped boy. I
at length ventured to lift my eyes through tears to the face of the new
Marquess, sure of now spying symptoms of a congenial feeling ; but instead
of that, I perceived his face turned half aside, while he was literally gnawing
his lip in pride and vexation ; and when the clerk had finished, he said with
a burst of breath, as if apostrophizing himself — " Never shall he inherit it, 01
ou.irht that it contains."

Now, thou'ijht I, surely the spirit that worketh in the children of disobedience
hath taken full and free possession of his haughty mind, else he could never
be so void of all respect both for the dead and living.

After this proud exclamation there was a pause. "Humph?" said the
clerk ; " humph," said a dozen and more of voices throughout the hall.
" Humph ?" said I, by way of winding up the growl, and gave my head a
significant nod, as much as if I had said, "we'll see about that, my lord."
My heart again burnt within me, and I resolved once more to be even with
this haughty chief if ever it lay in my power.

J lodged that night in the town of Huntly, waiting on Messrs. Bannerman
and Stewart, for we had conjointly hired a guard to attend us to Aberdeen ;
but in the middle of the night my landlord came in to me with a crazed look,
and asked me if I was sleeping. I said, "Yes." "Then,'' said he, "you
must waken yourself up as fast as you can, for there is a gentleman in the
house who has called expressly to see you. For God's sake, sir, make haste
and come to him."

"A gentleman called on me !" said I ; "pray, sir, who takes it on him to
disturb me, a stranger, at these untimeous hours ? Tell him 111 see him to-
morrow as early as he likes."

" Oh, God bless your honour, it is to-morrow already," said mine host,
with apparent trepidation, " and therefore you must come to him without a
moment's delay."

" What is the matter, sir ?" said I. " Who is it ?— what is the matter?'

" Oh, it is one of the chieftains of the Gordons," ^aid he ; " and that you
will find. I know very well who it is, but as to what is the matter, there you
puzzle me ; for unless it be some duel business, I cannot conceive what it is.
All that I can come at is, that your life is in danger — hope you have not
offended any of the Gordons, sir?"

" I will not leave my room, sir, at this untimeous hour," said I, rather too
much agitated. " It is my domicile for the present, and I debar all
intrusions. If it is on an affair of duelling, you may toll the gentleman
that I fight no duels, f am a magistrate, a Christian, and an elder of the

438 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

Reformed Church, and tlierefore it does not become such a man as me to
fiyht duels.''

*' God bless your honour," said the fellow, laughing with the voice of a
highland bull. " Come and tell all this to the gentleman himself, I am no
judge of such matters. An elder of the Reformed Church, are you ? What
church is that ? Are you for the king or the covenant ? I should like to know,
for all depends on that here."

I have forgot what answer I made to this, for while I was speaking, a
furious rap came on my chamber door ; I was so much alarmed that I could
neither breathe nor speak for a short space, nevertheless I took the matter
with that calm resolution that became a man and a magistrate.

" Yes, sir, yes ; coming, sir," cried mine host. Then whispering me — "for
mercy's sake get up and come away, sir," said he ; and he actually took hold
of my wrist, and began a-pulling to bring me over the bed. I resisted with
the resolution of keeping my ground, but a voice of thunder called outside the
door, " George, you dog, why don't you bring the gentleman away, as I ordered

you

?"

" He will not come, sir. He'll not stir a foot," said the landlord.

" But he must come, and that without a moment's delay," said the same
tremendous voice.

" I told him so, sir," said the landlord ; but for all that he will not stir. The
gentleman, sir, is a magistrate, and an elder of the Reformed Kirk, and never
fights any duels."

"G — d's curse!" cried the impatient monster, and burst open the door.
He was a man of gigantic stature, between sixty and seventy years of age,
and covered with a suit of heavy armour. " I'll tell you what it is, sir," said
he ; " you must either arise on the instant, and dress yourself and come along
with me, else I will be under the disagreeable necessity of carrying you off as
you are. Don't ask a single question, nor make a single remark, for there is
not a moment to lose."

" Well, well, sir, since it must be so, it shall be as you desire," said I, rising
and dressing myself with perfect coolness. I even joked about the Gordons,
and their summary mode of proceeding with strangers; and hinted at some of
the late decrees in council against them.

" The Gordons care very little about what is decreed against them in Edin-
burgh," replied he ; " particularly by a set of paltry innovators."

" I fear they are much altered for the worse since I lived among them,"
said I.

" It is the times that are altered for the worse, and not we," said he. "The
character of men must conform to their circumstances, Mr. Sydeserf. Of that
you have had some experience, and you will have more ere long."

He said this in sullen and thoughtful mood, and I was confounded at
thinking whereto all this tended, though I was certain it could not be towards
good. The most probable conjecture I could form was, that the Marquess had
sent for me, either to shut me up in one of the vaults of the old castle, or throw
me off the bridge into the river, to let me know how to speak to a Gordon in
the hows of Strathbogie. But there was no alternative for the present ; so I
marched down stairs before the venerable and majestic warrior, in perfect
good humour ; and lo, and behold ! when I went to the door, there was a
whole company of cavalr)', well mounted, with drawn swords in their hands,
and my horse standing saddled in the midst of them, held by a trooper stand-
ing on foot.

" Good morrow to you, gentlemen," said I heartily.

" Good morrow, sir," growled a few voices in return.

" Now mount, sir, mount," said the chief of this warlike horde ; I did so, and
away we rode I knew not whither.

It was about the darkest time of a summer night when we set out, but the
rij^ht being quite short, it soon bc^Mn to grow light, and I then could not but
admire the figure of the old chieftain, who still kept by my left hand and at the

LIFE OF AN EDINBURGH BAILIE. 439

head of the cavalcade. He appeared sullen and thoughtful, was clad in com-
plete heavy armour, rode with his drawn sword in his hand, a pair of pistols
in his belt, and a pair of tremendous horse pistols slung at his saddle-bow. He
appeared likewise to be constantly on the look-out, as if afraid of a surprise ;
but all this while I took matters so coolly, that I never so much as enquired
where he was conveying me.

However, about the sun rising, to my great wonder, I came into the ancient
town of Inverur)', which I knew at first sight, and in which I had friends.
This was the very way I wanted to go, and I could not comprehend to what fate
I was destined. We halted behind a thicket on the right bank of the way, and
a scout was sent into the town, who instantly returned with the information that
it was occupied by a party of the rebels. How heartily I wished myself in the
hands and power of these same rebels ; but such a thing was not to be
suffered. The veteran ordered his troop to make ready for a charge, and putting
me from his right hand into the middle of the body, he made choice of some of
his friends to support him, and went into the town at a sharp troL No man
meddled with us, but we saw there was a confusion in the town, and people
running as if mad here and there. However, when we came to the old bridge
over the Don, it was guarded, and a party of infantry were forming on the
other side. To force the bridge was impossible, for scarcely could two
troopers ride abreast on it, and they had scaffolds on each side, from which
they could have killed every man of us. I was terrified lest our leader should
have attempted it, for he hesitated ; but, wheeling to the left, he took the ford.
The party then opened a brisk fire on us, and several of the Gordons fell, one
of them among my horse's feet to my great hazard. I thought the men were
mad, for I could not at all see what reason they had for fighting, and am certain
a simple explanation on either side would have prevented it. The Gordons
rode out of the river full drive on the faces of their enemies, discharged their
carbines and pistols, though not with much effect, as far as I could judge, foi
few of the party fell ; however, they all fled toward a wood on a rising ground
close by, and a few were cut down before they entered it. From that they
fired in safety on the Gordons, who were terribly indignant, but were obliged to
draw off, at which I was exceedingly glad, for I expected every moment for
more than an hour to be shot, without having it in my power either to fight
or tlee.

We rode into Kintore, and the old veteran, placing a guard at each end of
the town, led me to the hostel along with six of his chief men and friends, and
entertained us graciously. The strong drink cheered up his grave and severe
visage, and I thought I never saw a face of more interest. All men may judge
of my utter amazement, when he addressed me in a set speech to the following
purport.

" No wonder that my heart is heavy to-day, worthy sir ; hem ! I have had
a most disagreeable part to perform." — I trembled. — " So I have, hem ! I have
lost my chief, who was as a brother, a father to me from my childhood, — Who
was a bulwark around his friends, and the terror of his enemies. Scotland
shall never again behold such a nobleman as my late brave kinsman and chief.
You may then judge with what feelings I regard you, when I tell you that I
have met you before, though you remember me not. I was in the mock court
of justice that day when the old hero was tried by a jury of his sworn enemies,
and when your unexampled energy, honour, and influence alone saved his life.
I met you at his house that evening, and had the pleasure of embracing you
once. I had nothing to bestow on you but my sword ; but I vowed to myself
that night, that if ever you needed it, it should be drawn in your defence. The
usage you received yesterday cut me to the heart. I heard more than I will
utter. Lord Gordon is now my chief, and I will fight for him while I have a
drop of blood to spend ; but he shall never be hacked by old Alexander
Gordon in any cause that is unjust. I neither say that your life was in immi-
nent danger, nor that it was not ; but I trembled for it, and resolved to make
sure work. You are now out of the territory of the Gordons, and lose not 9

440 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

moment's time until you are fairly in Edinburgh. Vou will find some there
from Castle Huntly before you. It cuts me to the heart that 1 should
ever have been obliged to do a deed in opposition to the inclinations and even
the commands of my chief — but what I have done I have done. Farewell ;
and Cod be your speed. You and old Glen-bucket may haply meet again."

My heart was so full that I could not express myself, and it was probably as
well that 1 did not make too great a palaver ; for I merely said in return, that
tlicre was nothing in nature that I revered or admired, so much as a due re-
sj ect for the memory of the good and the great that had been removed from
this scene of things : and on that ground principally 1 took this act of his as
the very highest compliment that could have been paid me.

[The Bailie then hasted to Edinburgh, where he found matters going
grievously to his injur)'. His party had combined against him, in the full per-
suasion that he had joined the adverse side, and for all his former interest, he
ould never force himself forward again until Argyle's return from London,
'1 he Marquess of Huntly had moreover taken possession of his father's house,
and shut the doors of it in the Bailie's face, and then a litigation ensued, which
perhaps more than any thing renovated his influence once more in the city.

Argyie never lost sight of his dependant's interest, and appears to have paid
a deference to him that really goes far to establish the position which the
Bailie always takes in the estimation of himself. There is at all events, one
thing for which he cannot be too much praised. The king had been accus-
tomed to nominate the Provost and Bailie of Edinburgh each year. From this
we may infer, that some favourite noblemen engaged in the administration of
Scottish affairs, and who had some object to gain in and through the magis-
trates of Edinburgh, gave the king in such a list as he wanted, and then that
his Majesty signed this list, and sent it to the council, with orders to choose
their men. The Bailie was the first man to withstand this arbitrary procedure
and he carried his point, not perhaps by the fairest and most open means, but
he </;Vf gain it, which was a privilege of high moment to the city, if the inhabi-
tants had made a good use of it ; but the tricks of one party against another
were not more prevalent nor more debasing, than it appears they are at this
day of boasted freedom and enlargement ; only the nobles had then to canvass
for the magistrates, whereas the magistrates have to canvass for themselves.
But in fact, some of the Bailie's narratives, if copied, would be regarded as
satires on the proceedings of the present age.

We shall therefore pass over this part of the memoirs, and proceed to one of
greater import, which commences with the beginning of the civil wars in Scot-
land. The Bailie had taken the covenant at an early period, and continued firm
and true to that great bond of reformation. The great Montrose was, it seems, at
one time, a strenuous covenanter ; for the Bailie says he was present at St.
Andrews when the said Montrose swore the covenant ; and that there was a
number of gentlemen and noblemen took it on the same day of April 1637,
and that forthwith he began to raise men in his own country', all of whom he
forced to take the covenant before they were embodied in his anny.

The Marquis of Huntly, continued the Bailie, having raised an army in the
North, for the avowed purpose of crushing the covenanters, I was verj' strenu-
ous at that meeting that they should take him in time, and rather carry the
%var into his own country than suffer him to wreak his pride and vengeance
on his covenanting neighbours. The thing being agreed to, the gentlemen of
Fife and Angus instantly set about raising men, and I returned to Edinburgh,
and engaging Sir William D'ck, the Lord Provost, and all the Council in the
same cause, in the course of nine days we raised a hundred and seventy-two
men whom I undertook to lead to our colonel, which 1 did with the assistance
of two good officers — but 1 had a captain that w.is worse than nobody.

If it had not been for Lieutenant Thorburn, who had served abroad, these
men would never have been kept in subordination by me, for they were mostly
ragamuffins of the lowest order ; drinkers, swearers, and frequenters of brothels,
and 1 having the purse a-keepiug, never engaged in such a charge in my life.

LIFE OF AN EDINBURGH BAILIE. 441

Truly I thought shame of our city covenanters, for they were a very bad look-
va'^s, set of men. They hid good arms, which they did not well know how to use,
but save a cap they had no other uniform. Some had no shoes, and some had
shoes without hose, while others had no clothing at all save a ragged coat and
apron. We lodged a night at Inverkeithing, and there being no chaplain, I
said prayers with them, and desired to see them all at worship again by six in
the morning. I then paid them at the rate of half amerk a-piece for two days.
But next morning at the appointed time, of my whole army only thirteen ap-
piared at head-quarters to attend worship. I asked of these where all the
rest were, and they replied that the greater part of them were mortal drunk.
I asked if my officers were drunk likcv.ise, and they told me that Thomas
Wilson, the tallow-chandler, was the dnmkest of any ; but as for Thorbum,
he was doing all that he could to muster the troop, to no purpose.

I then stood up and made a speech to the few men that I had, wherein I
represented to them the enormous impropriety in men, who had risen up in
defence of their religion and liberties, abandoning themselves to drunkenness,
the mother of every vice. I then begged heaven for their forgiveness, in a
short prayer, and forthwith dispatched my remnant to assist the lieutenant in
rousing their inebriated associates.

" You must draw them together with the cords of men," said I ; " and if
necessar)-, you must even use the rod of moderate correction ; I mean you
must strip off their clothes, and scourge them with whips."

The men smiled at my order, and went away promising to use their en-
deavour. I followed, and found Thorburn in a back ground to the west of the
town, having about half of the men collected, but keeping them together with
the greatest difficulty. As for Wilson, he was sitting on an old dike laughing,
and so drunk I could not know what he said ; I went up and began to expos-
tulate with him, but all the apology I could get was vacant and provoking
laughter, and some such words as these — " It is really grand ! " then " he, he,
he. Bailie. I say. Bailie, it is really grand ! What would Montrose say if he
saw — if he saw this ? Eh ? O, I beg his pardon ; I do, I do, I beg his pardon.
But after all, it is really grand ! he— he — he," <S:c.

Those that were at all sober continued to drag in their companions to the
rendezvous ; but some of them were so irritated at being torn from their cups,
that they fought desperate battles with their conductors. One of them ap-
peared so totally insubordinate, that I desired he might bepunished, to which
Thorburn assenting at once, he was tied to a tree, and his shirt tirled over his
head. He exclaimed bitterly against this summary way of punishment, and
appealed to the captain. I said to Thorburn I certainly thought it as well to
have Wilson's consent ; and then a scene occurred that passes all description.
Thorburn went up to him, and says, " Captain, shall I or shall I not give John
Hill a hundred lashes for rioting and insubordination ? "

" For what ? " says Wilson, without lifting his head that hung down near his
knee — " some board in the nation ? what's that .'* "

" He has refused to obey orders, sir, and rebelled."

" Lick him, lick him weel ! thresh him soundly. Refused to obey orders
and rebelled ! he's no blate ! Thorburn, I say, hck him weel; skelp him till
the blood rins off at his heels."

The order was instantly obeyed, but the troop, instead of being impressed
with awe, never got such sport before. They laughed till they held their sides,
and some actually slid off at a corner to have a parting glass in the mean time.

" Thorbum, what shall be done to get these men once more embodied and
set on the way .•* " said I.

" Faith, sir, there are just two ways of dding it, and no more," said he.
"We must either wait patiently till their money is spent or set th.e town on
file ; and on mine honour I would do the latter, for it is a cursed shabby place,
and the people are even worse than ours."

"Thit would be a desperate rcsnnce, sir," says I. " It is not customar>'
to sloken one fire by kindling another. Cause proclamation to be made at

442 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

the drum's head that every man who does not join the troop in marching order
in a quarter of an hour, shall be taken up and punished as a deserter.

This brought together the greater part, but sundry remained, and I left a
party to bring them up as deserters, unluckily the captain was one of them.
Him I reprimanded very severely, for he was in the council, and being a poor
spendthrift, had got this office for a little lucre, which I considered no great
honour to our fraternity.

Nothing further occurred during the next two days, and the third we reached
the army, which was drawing to a head about Brechin, Fettercairn, and
Montrose. Our colonel, who was then only Earl of Montrose, met me at
Brechin, and many were the kind things he said to me. I told him 1 was
ashamed to meet him, for that 1 had brought him a set of the greatest repro-
bates that I believed ever breathed since the days of Sodom and Gomorrah,
and that I really was afraid they would entail a curse on the army of the church.

He smiled good naturedly, and said, " Keep your mind at ease about that,
Bailie ; if the Church and the land in general can both establish their rights
and purge themselves at the same time, there are two great points gained.
Are they able, well-bodied men ? "

" Their bodies are not so much amiss, my lord," said I, " but as to their
immortal part I tremble to think of that." He joked with me, and said some-
thing about soldiers' souls which I do not choose to repeat, as it had rather a
tincture of flippancy and irreverence for divine things. He expressed himself
perfectly well pleased with the men, saying, " he would soon make them ex-
cellent fellows, and begged that we would send him thrice as many greater
ragamuffins if I could get them, for that he would reform them more in one
year than all the preachers in .Scotland would do in twenty." I said he did
not yet know them, and gave him a hint of their horrid insubordination. My
lord was not naturally a merry man, but mild, gentlemanly, and dignified,
nevertheless, he laughed aloud at this, saying, " it was I that did not know
them, for he would answer to me for their perfect subordination."

I then sounded him on his plans of carrying on the war, and tried all I
could to induce him to an instant attack on the Marquess of Huntly. But I
found him not so easily swayed as the town council of Edinburgh, for when I
could not manage them by reason, I found it always possible to do so by
intrigue and stratagem ; but here my reasoning failed me, and I had no
further resource. He assured me that Huntly was more afraid of us than we
were of him, and though he was encouraging the Aberdonians to their own
destruction, he would take care not to meddle with our levies ; and, therefore,
that these should not be led into his bounds until they were fairly drilled, so
as to be a match for the best men in Strathbogie. " How could I lead these
men into battle at present ? " added he.

" If you could, my lord," said I, for I wanted to lose my arguments with as
good a grace as I could : " If you could, my lord, you could do more than I
could, for, notwithstanding all the influence I seemed to have possessed with
our people, notwithstanding threats and scourges, I could not get them out of
Inverkeithing, where there was some wretched drink, almost for a whole day ;
nay, not till Lieutenant Thorburn came to me with a grave face, and requested
permission to fire the town about them."

He laughed exceedingly at this ; nay, he even laughed until he was obliged
to sit down and hold a silk napkin to his face. Thus were all my arguments
for instant and imperious war with Huntly lost, in the hopes of which alone I
had taken the charge of these recruits to the north, yea, even though I assured
Montrose, from heaven, that in any engagement with Huntly in which I took
a part there was a certainty of ample and absolute success, so perfectly as-
sured was I of having day about with him. He answered me that there was
no gentleman of whose counsel and assistance he would be happier to avail
himself in such an emergency, but that the harvest was not yet ripe, nor the
reapers duly prepared ; but whenever these important circumstances fitted, I
should be duly apprised, and have his right ear in the progress of the war.

LIFE OF AN EDINBURGH BAILIE. 443

I have dwelt rather longer on these reminiscences, because he turned out
50 great a man, and so great a scourge to the party he then espoused with so
much zeal. Sorry was I when he deserted the good cause, and though some
of our own side were the primary cause of his defect, yet I comforted myself
with this, that he had not been chosen by the Almighty to effect the freedom
of this land. But often did 1 think with deep regret that if the covenanting
party had still been blessed with Argyle's political talents, and Montrose's
warlike and heroic accomplishments, we had remained invincible to all sects,
parties, and divisions. As for the great and supreme Marquess of Huntly, 1
despised him as much as I hated him, well knowing that his intolerable pride
would never sulTer him to co-operate with any other leader, and what could
the greatest chief of the kingdom do by himself

Montrose was as good as his word, for early in the spring, he wrote for
some ammunition and mortars, and requested that I might be permitted to
bring the supplies, as a siege of Aberdeen and a battle with Huntly could be
no longer postponed ; and he added in a postscript, " Inform my worthy
friend the Bailie that Captain Thorbum and a detachment of the Edinburgh
troop shall meet him at Inverkeithing, as a suitable escort to the fireworks."

Accordingly, on the 3d of February, 1639, I again took the road to the
north, at the head of a good assortment of warlike stores, the most of which
our new General Lesley had just taken out of the Castle of Dalkeith. Money
was sorely awanting, but some of the leading men of the committee contrived
to borrow a good round sum. My friend Sir William Dick lent them in one
day no less than 40,000 marks, against my counsel and advice. They like-
wise applied to me, but I only shook my head ; Argj-le was even so ungener-
ous as to urge it, but I begged his lordship, who was at the head of the
committee, to show me the example, and I would certainly follow it to the
utmost of my power. This silenced his lordship, and pleased the rest of the
committee well, for the truth is, that Argj'le would never advance a farthing.

Well, north 1 goes with the supplies, and, as our colonel had promised, a
detachment of my former rascals, under Thorburn, met me at Inverkeithing.
Had all the committee of estates sworn it, I could not have believed that such
a difference could have been wrought on men. They were not only perfect
soldiers, but gentlemen soldiers ; sober, regular, and subordinate, and I
thenceforward concluded, that no one could calculate what such a man as
Montrose was capable of performing.

He welcomed me with the same gentlemanly ease and affability as formerly,
but I could not help having a sort of feeling that he was always making rather
sport of me in his warlike consultations. He had a field-day at Old Montrose,
on a fine green there, and at every evolution he asked my opinion with regard
to the perfectness of the troops in the exercise. I knew not what to say
sometimes, but 1 took the safe side ; I always commended.

At our messes we spoke much of the approaching campaign. The men of
Aberdeen had fortified their city in grand style, and depending on Huntly's
co-operation without, they laughed at us, our army, and tenets, beyond meas-
ure. There was a young gentleman, a Captain Marshall, in our mess, who
repeated their brags often for sport, and as he spoke in their broad dialect, he
never failed setting the mess in a bray of laughter. Montrose always encour-
aged this fun, for it irritated the officers against the Aberdeen people and the
Gordons, beyond measure. I positively began to weary for the attack myself,
and resolved to have due vengeance on them for their despite and mockery
of the covenant.

On the 27th of March, we set out on our march in the evening. The two
regiments trained by Montrose took the van ; men excellently appointed,
most of them having guns, and the rest long poles with steel heads as sharp
as lancets, most deadly weapons. Lord Douglas's regiment marched next,
and the new-raised Fife and M earns men brought up the rear. I went with
tlie artillery and baggage. During our marcli, men were placed on all the
loads that no passenger might pass into Aberdeen witii the news of our

44-! THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

approach. Parties were also dispatched to the North roads, who got plenty to
do ; for the heroes of Aberdeen having got notice of our advance, sent mes-
sengers off full speed by ever>' path, to apprise Huntly of their danger, and
request his instant descent. Our men caught these fellows galloping in the
most dreadful desperation, and took all their despatches from them. One
after another they came, and no doubt some of them would find their way,
but never one came from Huntly in return. 1 saw one of these heralds of
dismay caught myself by our rear guard near a place called Banchary, for
they were trying even that road, and I was a good deal diverted by the lad's
running, which, had it not been for his manifest alarm, would have deceived
some of us. They brought him to me in the dusk of the evening, no chief
officer being nigh at the time. He was mounted on a grey pony, and both
that and he were covered over with foam and mud. Something of the fol-
lowing dialogue ensued.

" Where may you be bound, my good lad, in such a hurry and so late ? "

" Oo fath, sur, am jeest gaun a yurrant o mce muster's. That's a', sur :
jeest a wee buttie yurrant o' mee muster's."

" Who is your master?"

" Oo he's a juntlemun o' the town, sur."

" The provost ? "

" The prcvice ! Him a previce ! Nhaw."

" You are not a servant of the provost's, then ?"

"Am nae a servunt to nee buddy."

" How far are you going? "

" Oo am jeest gaun up to the brugg o' Dee yunder.**

"What to do?"

" Oo am jeest gaun to bring three or four horse lads o' bruggs and sheen
that's needit for the wars. There will mawbe be some beets among them tee
aw, cudna be saying for that, for they ca't them jeest bruggs and sheen. But
aw think it's lukely there will be some beets. Me muster was varra feared
that the nibels wud chuck them fra ma is aw cum down, but he was no feared
for them tucking myscll."

This was a great stretch of low cunning. He perceived we needed the
shoes, and thought we would let him pass, that we might catch him with them
on his return, and some of our Serjeants winked to me to let him go, but I
suspected the drift.

" Have you no letters or dispatches about you, young man ? " rejoined I ;
" for if you have you are in some danger at present, notwithstanding all your
lies about the brogs and shoes and small mixture of boots."

" Oo aw wut vveel, sur, I ha nee duspatches, nor naithing o' the kind, but
jeest a wee buttie lattur to the sheemuker."

" Show it me."

" Fat have ye to dee wi' the peer sheemuker's buttie lattur ? "

I ordered two officers to search him. But they that had seen his looks
when a packet was taken from his bosom with this direction !

"to the most honourable

AXD most noble

THE MARQUESS OF HUNTLY."

I read out the direction in his hearing. "Ay, my lad !" added I, "this is
a head shoemaker with whom your people deal for their bruggs and tlieir
sheenr

He scratched his head. " Dumm them !" said he ; "they tulled mee that
lutter was till a sheemuker."

What more could be said to the poor fellow ? He was taken into custody,
and the packet forwarded to our commander.

All the dispatches manifested the utmost trepidation in the good folks of
Aberdeen. They urged the Marquess, by every motive they could suggest,

LIFE OF AN EDINBURGH BAILIE. 445

lo come down on Montrose's rear while they defended their city again^it i..;i»;
and that between two fires, he and his army would be easily annihilaioJ,
while if he (Huntly) suffered that single opportunity to pass, their city would
be sacked and burnt, and then Montrose would turn his victorious arms
against him, and root out him and his whole clan.

Montrose perceived from these the necessity of despatch, and accordinfjly
on the morning of the 30th of March he invested the city at tliree points wiih
a celerity of which I had no conception. There were likewise detachments
put to guard the two ferries of the Don and Dee, so that none might
escape. As I took no command on me in the battle, I went with the Laird
of Cairn- Greig and a few others to the top of an old ruin to see the bombard-
ment, and truly I never beheld such an uproar and confusion as there pre-
vailed on the first opening of our mortars and guns. Their three entrances
were all pallisaded and made very strong with redoubts, and without dispute
they might have defended themselves against an army double our strength, and
so perhaps they would, could they have depended on Huntly, which no man
ever dia vvho was not disappointed. But moreover the attack from within
was more violent than that from without. There were thousands of women
and children came rushing on the rear of the defenders of their city, scream-
ing and cr)'ing to get out to throw themselves on the mercy of Montrose,
rather than stay and be burnt to ashes. The provost, who stood at the post
of honour, and commanded the strongest phalan.x at the place .">f greatest
danger, was so overpowered by ladies, apparently in a state of derangement,
that he was driven perfectly stupid. Reasoning with them was out of the
question, and the provost could not well order his garrison to put them to the
sword.

Montrose led his own two regiments against the provost. Lord Douglas
attacked the middle part, and the Fife and .Straihniore regiments the north
one, defended by the brave Colonel Gordon. All the points were attacked at
once ;— the agonized cries of the women rose to such an extent that I actually
grew terrified ; for I thought the uproar and confusion of hell could not be
greater. It was impossible ^he provost could stand out, though he had been
the bravest man on earth. I must say so much for him. Colonel Gordon
withstood our men ; boldly repelled them, and had even commenced a pur-
suit Montrose eitlier had some dread or some wit of this, for he pushed the
provost with such force and vigour that in a very short time, maugre all his
efforts, men and women in thousands were seen tearing down the fortifica-
tions, levelling them with the soil ; and a deputation was sent to Montrose to
invite him to enter. But first and foremost he had measures to take with
Colonel Gordon, who in a little time would have turned the flank of our whole
army, but that hero being now left to himself, was soon surrounded, and
obliged to capitulate.

Our men were now drawn up in squares in all the principal streets, and
stood to arms, while a council of war was held, in which the plurality of
voices gave it for the city to be given up to plunder. The soldiers expected
it, and truly the citizens, I believed, hoped for nothing better. I confess I
voted for it, thinking my brave townsmen would have enjoyed it so much. I
know it was reported to my prejudice, that I expected a principal share of the
plunder myself ; and that it was for that single purpose I went on the expedi-
tion. Whoever raised that report, had no further grounds for it than that I
voted with the majority, several of them ministers and servants of the Lonl.
I did vote with them, but it was for an example to the other cities and towns
of our country, who still stood out against emancipation.

Montrose would, however, listen to none of us. His bowels yearned over
the city to spare it, and he did spare it ; but to plague us, he made m.igis-
trates, ministers, and every principal man in the city, swear the covenant on
their knees, at the point of the sword ; and also fined them in a sum by way
of war charges, of which he did not retain one mark to himself.

We now turned our face toward the Highlands, lo t.»kc order with Huntly,

446 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

and with a light and exulting heart did I take the way, assured of victory.
I missed no opportunity, by the way, of reprobating that chief's conduct in
first stirring up the good Aberdonians to resist the measures of the Scottish
parliament and the committee of estates, and then hanging back and suffer-
ing them to lie at our mercy, when, in truth, he might have come with the
whole Highlands at his back to their relief ; for at that time, save the Camp-
bells and the Forbes's, there was not a clan in the whole Highlands sided
with us.

Montrose could say nothing for Huntly, but neither would he say much
against him, till he saw how he would behave. The honest man had, how-
ever, most valiantly collected his clansmen (who had long been ready at an
hour's warning) for the relief of Aberdeen on the evening after it was taken !
Ay, that he had ! He had collected 1700 foot, and 400 gallant horsemen
under the command of old Glen-bucket, and his son. Lord Gordon, and had
even made a speech to them ; and set out at their head a distance of full five
miles, to create a stem diversion in favour of the gallant and loyal citizens of
Aberdeen. At the head of this gallant array he marched forth, until, at a place
called Cabrach, he was apprised by some flyers whom he met on the way,
that the Earl of Montrose with a gallant army was in full march against him —
that Aberdeen was taken and plundered, and all the magistrates, ministers,
and chief men put to the sword.

I would have given a hundred pounds, (Scots I mean,) to have been there
to have seen my old friend Enzie's plight, now the invincible Marquess of
Huntly. He called a parley on the instant ; ordered his puissant army to
disappear, to vanish in the adjoining woods, and not a man of them to be
seen in arms as the invaders marched on ! and having given this annihilating
order, he turned his horse's head about and never drew bridle till he was at
the castle of Bogie in the upper district of the country. Thence he dis-
patched messengers to our commander, begging to know his terms of accom-
modation.

But these messengers would have been too late to have saved Huntly and
the castle, had it not been for the valour and presence of mind of old Glen-
bucket and his young chief, the Lord Gordon, who, venturing to infringe the
Marquess's sudden orders, withstood Montrose, and hovering nigh his van,
kept him in check for two whole days and a night. Montrose perceiving how
detrimental this stay would be to his purpose of taking his redoubted opponent
by surprise, sent off a party by night round the Buck, to come between the
Gordons and the bridge. The party, led by one Patrick Shaw, who knew
the country well, gained their point, and began to fire on the Gordon horse
by the break of day. Glen-bucket, somewhat astounded at this circumstance,
drew aside to the high ground, but perceiving Montrose coming briskly up on
him from the south-east, he drew off at a sharp trot, and tried to gain the
town, but there he was opposed by the foot that had crossed by the hill path.
There was no time to lose. We were coming hard up behind them when
Glen-bucket and Lord Gordon rushed upon our foot at the head of their close
body of horse. They could not break them although they cut down a number
of brave men, and the consequence was that all the men of the three first
ranks were unhorsed, and either slain or taken prisoners ; amongst the latter
were both young Lord Gordon and old Glen -bucket ; the rest scattered and
fled, and easily made their escape. The conflict did not last above six
minutes, yet short as it was, it was quite decisive.

I addressed old Glen-bucket with the greatest kindness and respect, but
with a grave and solemn aspect regretted his having taken arms against so
good a cause. He seemed offended at this, smiled grimly, and expressed his
wonder how any good man could be engaged in so bad ■& cause as that of the
Covenant He seemed much disappointed at the coldness of my manner. I
knew it would be so, but I had to take the measure of him .md his whole
clan ere I parted with them, and behaved a^ 1 did on a prmciple of con-
sistency.

LIFE OF AN EDINBURGH BAILIE. 447

We took in the town of Huntly, and there we received Huntly's messengers.
Montrose's conditions were absolute, namely, that the Gordon and all his
clan should take the covenant, and acquiesce in every one of the measures of
the committee : and the very next day Huntly came in person, with a few of
his principal friends, and submitted. I was sorry for this, for I wanted to
humble him effectually ; however, he and I had not done yet.

Montrose, anxious to deal with him in a manner suiting his high rank, did
not oblige him to take the covenant on his knees like the burgesses of Aber-
deen, but causing me to write out a paper, he told me he would be satisfied
if the Marquess signed that on oath, in name of himself, his clan, and kins-
men. I made it as severe as I could, nevertheless he signed it, subscribing
the oath.

Matters being now adjusted, and the two great men the greatest of friends,
Huntly and his friends accompanied us to Aberdeen on our way home, every
thing being now settled for which we took up arms : but when the Marquess
came there and found that the city was tiot plundered nor the ladies out-
raged, nor the magistrates put to the sword, nor even so much as the tongues
of the ministers cut out that preached against the covenant, why the Marquess
began to recant, and rather to look two ways at one time. He expected to
be at the lord provost's grand funeral. Lord help him ! the provost was as
jolly, as fat, and as loquacious as ever. He expected to find all the ladies
half deranged in their intellects, tearing their hair, and like Jephthah's
daughter bewailing their fate on the mountains ; he never found the ladies
of Aberdeen so gay, and every one of their mouths was filled with the praises
of Montrose, his liberality, his kindness, and his gallantry ! This was a hard
bone for the proud Marquess to chew — a jaw-breaker that he could not
endure ; for the glory of a contemporary was his bane ; it drove all the solemn
league and covenant in his galled mind to a thing little short of blasphemy.
Moreover, he expected to have found all the college professors and ministers
of the gospel running about the streets, squeaking and jabbering with their
tongues cut out, and instead of which the men seemed to have had their
tongues loosed, all for the purpose of lauding his adversary, and preaching
up the benefits of the new covenant. Huntly saw that the reign of feudalism
was at an end, and with that his over-balancing power in the realm ; and
then reflecting how easily he might have prevented this, he was like to gnaw
off his fingers with vexation : and perhaps the thing that irritated his haughty
mind most of all, was his finding of that worship and reverence formerly paid
to him in Aberdeen now turned into scorn, while the consciousness of having
deserved it made his feelings still more acute.

In a word, the Marquess took the strunt, and would neither ratify some
further engagements which he had come under, nor stand to those he had
subscribed on oath, but begged of Montrose, as a last favour, that he would
release him from the bond of the covenant, the tenor of which he did not
understand and the principle of which he did not approve.

Montrose tried to reason calmly with him, but that made matters worse.
Then he told him, that he would yield so far to him as to release him
from his engagement for the present, but that indeed he feared he would
repent it. Grahame then rose, and bringing him his bond in his hand,
presented it to him with some regretful observations on his noble friend's
vacillation.

Huntly begfan to express his thanks, but was unable, his face burnt to the
bone, for he was so proud that he could never express thanks either to God or
man, but he was mightily relieved from his dilemma when Montrose with a
stem voice ordered him to be put in confinement, and conducted a close
prisoner to Edinburgh ! I could hardly contain myself at the woeful change
that this order made on his features. It was marrow to my bones to see him
humbled thus far at the moment. I thought of his felling me down, and
kicking me in the mud, when I was in a situation in which I durst not resist ;
1 ar;;ucd Iikc\sibe of the way he uacd me with regard to hib worthy father's

448 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

bequest So as Montrose was striding out with tokens of displeasure on his
face, I called after him, " My Lord Montrose, as I lie under some old obliga-
tion to the r.oble Marquess, your prisoner, may I beg of you to be honoured
with the charge of conducting him to the gaol of Edinburgh ?"

" With all my heart, Bailie," returned he ; " only remember to see
him strictly guarded ; for it is now manifest that he is a traitor to our
cause."

Having till now shunned the Marquess's presence, he never knew till that
moment that I was at his right hand amongst the number of his enemies ;
and then he cast such a look of startled amazement at me ! It was as if one
had shouted in the other ear, The Philistines be upon thee, Sampson ! I
was cheated if at that moment the Marquess would not have signed ten solemn
leagues and ten covenants of any sort, to have been fairly out of his friend
the Bailie's clutches, and at the head of his clan again. But it would not do;
he was obliged to draw himself up, and submit to his fate.

Lord Aboyne and the Lords Lewis and Charles, Gordon of Glen-livet, and
other three ot the name, took the oaths for themselves, and were set at
liberty ; but Lord Gordon and old Glen-bucket, having been taken in arms
fighting against the army of the estates, were likewise conducted in bonds to
Edinburgh.

[The Bailie's inveteracy against the Marquess of Huntly continues the
string on which he delights to harp through the whole of these memoirs, and
it is perhaps the most amusing theme he takes up. I hope the character of
that nobleman is exaggerated ; indeed, it must be so, drawn by one having
such a deadly prejudice against him. For my part, having never, as far as I
remember, learned any thing of that nobleman further than what is delineated
m these manuscripts, I confess they have given me an idea of him as unfavour-
able as that of his father is exalted. It is a pity the Bailie should have been
a man possessed of such bitter remembrances, and a spirit of such lasting
revenge, for otherwise he seems rather to have been a good man, if measured
with the times. An acute and clear-headed man he certainly was in many
respects, but of all men the worst fitted for that which he appears to have
valued himself most on, the conducting of a campaign as^ainst the enetnies of
the covenant. Indeed I cannot be sure, for all that I have seen, for what
purpose the leaders took him always to be of their council on such occasions,
but there can be no doubt of the fact. We must give one further little
relation in his own words, before we have done w-ith him at this time, and
then we shall accompany him into actions of greater moment]

\ had settled every thing with my Lord Montrose how I was to act when I
came to Edinburgh ; accordingly I committed Huntly and his gallant son to
the castle, where they were put into close confinement as state prisoners.
Glen-bucket besought me to suffer him to accompany them, but I informed
him that my strict orders were to take him to a common gaol in the high
street He said it was but a small request that he might be suffered to
accompany his '.hiet, which he knew my interest could easily procure for him,
and he again intreated me to use it I promised that I would, but in the
mean time he must be content to go as directed, to which he was obliged to
submit, but with his accustomed gravity and gloominess.

When we came to the gate of the castle, I perceived Sir William Dick, our
provost, and Bailie Edgar, whom I had appointed to meet us, so I turned
and said to my prisoner, " Sir Alexander, I do not choose to expose you in
bonds in Edinburgh street at noon-day."

" It does not signify, sir," said he ; "I am quite indifferent."

" I cannot yield to have it so," said I. " Soldiers, take oft his chains ! and
do you walk on before us as a guard of honour. Yes, as a guard of honour,
for honour is a sufficient guard for the person of Sir Alexander Gordon,
of (ilen-bucket"

Morose and sullen as he was, he could not help being pleased with this ;
he rose as it were a foot higher, and as soon as the soldiers removed his bonds

LIFE OF AN EDINBURGH BAILIE. 449

I returned him his sword. At that moment the Lord Provost accosted him,
but his mind being confused he made a slight obeisance, and was going
to pass on.

"Sir Alexander," said I, "this is my friend, the honourable Sir William
Dick, Lord Provost of Edinburgh ?"

Glen-bucket started, and then, with the politeness of two courtiers, the two
old knights saluted one another. I then introduced Bailie Edgar and Mr.
Henderson, and after that we walked away, two on each side of Glen-bucket.
He did not well understand this apparent courtesy, for I perceived by his face
that he thought it a species of mockery. He spake little. 1 only remember
of one expression that dropped from him as it were spontaneously. It was an
exclamation, and came with a burst of breath — " Hah ! on my honour, this is
a guard of honour indeed ! "

As we approached the Tolbooth he cast a look at the iron gratings, and was
going to stop at the principal entrance, but I desired him to walk on, for his
apartment was a little farther this way. When we came to my house, which
was one short stair above the street, I went before him to lead the way, and
on opening the house door, the trance (passage) was completely dark by
chance, none of the doors leading from it being open. " Come this way, sir,"
said I, "follow me, and take care of the steps." I looked behind me, and
saw, between me and the light, his tall athletic form, stooping as if aware of
some danger by a quick descent : he had an arm stretched out and a hand
impressed against each wall, and was shovelling his feet along the trance for
fear of precipitating himself down some abyss or dungeon. I could hardly
help bursting out into a fit of laughter, but I stood at the inner door till his
great hands came upon my head grasping his way, I then threw open my
dining-room door and announced my prisoner by name. Sir Alexander Gordon
of Glen-bucket, and he walked in.

Nothing could equal the old warrior's surprise, when he was welcomed by
nine of the most elegant and most respectable ladies of the land. Some of
them even took him in their arms and embraced him, for none present were
ignorant of the noble part he had acted with regard to me. All were alike kind
and attentive to him. I introduced several of them to him by name. " This,
Sir Alexander, is my sister, Lady Sydeserf ; this, sir, is Lady Campbell,
younger, of Glenorchy ; this is Lady Dick," &c., &c. His bow to each was
the most solemn and profound imaginable, at length he bolted straight up as
with a jerk, and turning to me said in what he meant for a very sprightly
manner, " On mine honour. Sir Bailie, but you have a good assortment of
state prisoners at present. Are these, sir, all rebels against this new govern-
ment, called the ' committee of estates ?' Hey? If so, sir, I am proud to be
of the number."

" These are all my prisoners for the day and the night, and all happy to
see you are of their number, Sir Alexander."

Nothing could give me greater pleasure than the hilarity of the old warrior
that night. He was placed next to my sister-in-law at the head of the table,
the company consisted of twenty-three, the wine circulated freely, and Glen-
bucket fairly forgot for that evening the present cloud under which the
Gordons lay, and that there were such things as covenanters and anti-
covenanters in the realm.

After the ladies retired, he took fits of upright thoughtfulness ; (these are
the Bailie's own words,) as still not knowing how he was to act, or what state
he occupied. I perceived it, and taking him aside into a private room told
him that he was free and at liberty to go and come as he chose, either to his
chief or to his home, or to remain at large in Edinburgh, where my house and
all my servants should be his own.

He thanked me most politely, but refused to accept of his freedom, save on

the condition that he should be at liberty to fight for his king and his chief

whenever called upon. This was rather above my commission, but seeing

that good manners compelled mo, I con<c(lccl, without hesitation taking the

I. J9

450 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

responsibility on myself, and we then joined our jovial friends, and spent the
evening in the utmost hilarity.

[It is well known that the annals of that day are of a sanguine description.
The Bailie took a deep interest in the struggle, and often describes the inci-
dents manifestly as he felt them. The amazement of the country on learning
that the king was coming with a powerful army to invade it ; the arrival of
his navy in the Firth of Forth, and the wiles made use of to draw the king's
commander-in-chief, the Marquess of Hamilton, over to the covenanting
party, in which they seem to have succeeded ; for there seems to have been
no faith kept in that age, and less with the king than any other person ; these
are all described by the liailie with his usual simplicity. He describes two
meetings that he and some others had with the Marquess, one on board his
sJiip, and one at midnight on shoie, and these disclosures show how the poor
king's confidence was abused. He had 3,000 soldiers on board, and twenty
large ships well manned, yet the Marquess would not suffer one of them to
stir a foot in support of the king. The Lord Aboyne hearing of this strong
armament, and grieved that his father and elder brother shouid still be kept
in bonds by the covenanters, raised the Gordons once more, and sent word to
Hamilton to join him, and they could then get such conditions for the king
as he should require of the covenanters. But the latter worthies had made
sure of Hamilton before. He sent evasive answers to Aboyne, suffering him
to raise his clan and advance southward in hopes of support, till lo ! he was
met by his late adversary Montrose, at the bridge of Dee, with a great army,
though not very well appointed."

The Bailie was not personally in this battle, for the best of reasons, because
the Marquess of Huntly was not there in person to oppose him. The Bailie
had his great enemy safely under lock and key, else there is little doubt that
the former would have been at the battle, which he however describes as
taken from the mouth of his friend Captain Thorbum.

He says, the army of the Gordons amounted to about 2,500 men, among
whom were two strong bodies of horse. Montrose had 4,000, but all new
raised men, though many of them inured to battle in former times. The
Gordons were well posted on the two sides of the river Dee, but Montrose
took them somewhat by surprise, which he seldom failed to do with his ene-
mies. The battle was exceedingly fierce. Three times did the body of the
Gordons on the south side of the river repel the attack of Montrose's squad-
rons, and defend the bridge ; and the third time, if the Gordons durst have
left their station, they had so far disordered the main or middle column of the
covenanters, that without all doubt they might have put them to the rout
Montrose was terribly alarmed at that instant, for a general attack of the
Gordons which he half confessed would have been ruin. But the young Lord
Aboyne, with all the bravery of a hero, wanted experience ; he lost that
opportunity, and with it the battle. For Montrose being left at leisure, new-
modelled his army ; and some field-pieces which he had formerly left at
Brechin Castle arriving at that instant, he advanced once more, won the
bridge of Dee, and in a short time gained possession of the field of battle.
Still the young lord drew off his troops to the high grounds with such skill,
that the conquerors could make no impression on them. The carnage was
nearly equal on both sides.

The Bailie never speaks favourably of the king. He says, in one place,
they were more plagued with him than any thing else. They never derived
good from his plans, which tended always much more to derange their mea-
sures than cement them. But of the jealousies and heartburnings of the
covenanting lords, he expresses himself with real concern.]

The falling off of Montrose from our party, (says he,) was a great grief of
mind to me, though some of our leaders seemed to rejoice at it. Lesley and
Argyle bore all the blame, for they were jealous of his warrior fame and bril-
liant successes, and took every opportunity that occurred to slight him. Yea,
and as I loved the man, I was not more sorry at his loss to us than for the

LIFE OF AN EDINBURGH BAILIE. 451

loss of his soul ; for he had now broken his most solemn oaths and engage-
ments, and lifted up the heel against the Most High, settmg him as it were at
defiance, after all the zeal he had shown in his cause. I had great fears that
a curse was gone forth against us, because of the leaguing of men together,
whom I knew to be of very different principles ; and, among other things, it
was matter of great grief when Hamilton and General Ruthven, leaguing to-
gether, set the Marquess of Huntly and his son the Lord Gordon both at liberty ;
whereas it was manifest to every well-disposed Christian, that the good cause
would have been much better served by cutting off both their heads. Argyle
might have hindered this, but chose not to intermeddle, Huntly being his
brother-in-law, but it was all sham, fur he both dreaded him and hated him
as much as I did. Indeed I was so much displeased with my Lord Argyle's
carriage at this time, that I at one time resolved to decline his patronage for
the future, and also to cease supporting him in his political views, which 1 had
uniformly done hitherto. He cheated the men of Athol, and falsifying his
honour, took their leaders prisoners, and then marching a whole army of
hungry Highlanders down among the peaceable inhabitants, plundered and
laid waste the whole country, burnt Castle Farquhar belonging to the Earl ut
Airly, and also sacked Airly Castle, spoiling some even of Montrose's own
kin. Was it any wonder that the latter was disgusted at such behaviour?
But the country was now getting into a state of perfect anarchy and confusion,
so that after Montrose's imprisonment and hard trial about signing the Cum-
bernauld bond, I perceived that we had for ever done with him."

[We must now pass over several years, the history of which is entirely made
up of plot and counterplot, raising and disbanding of armies, projects of great
import, all destroyed by the merest accidents, — truculent treaties, much par-
ade, and small execution ; and follow our redoubted Bailie once more to the
field of honour, the place of all others for which he was least fitted, and on
which he valued himself most. Indeed, if we except his account of the last
parliament which the king held in Scotland, and the last dinner which he
gave to his nobility, there is nothing very original in the memoir. The de-
scription of these is affecting, but as the writer was a professed opponent
to the king's measures, it might not be fair to give such pictures as genuine.]

In April 1644, being then one of the commission of the general assembly,
I was almost put beside myself, for we had the whole business of the nation tu
manage ; and my zeal both for our religious and civil liberties was such that
I may truly say I was eaten up with it. The committee of estates attempted
nothing without us, with us they could do every thing. We had been employed
the whole of the first day of our meeting in receiving the penitences and con-
fessions of the Earl of Lanark, who had taken a decided part against the
covenant. We dreaded him for a spy sent by the king, and dealt very
severely with him ; but at length he expressed himself against the king with
so much rancour, that we knew he was a true man, and received him into the
covenant with many prayers and supplications.

On retiring to my own house, I sat down all alone to ponder on the occur-
rences of the day, and wondered not a little when a chariot came to my door,
and softly and gently one tapped thereat. I heard some whispering at the
door, as with my servant maid, and then the chariot drove off again. I sat
cocking up my ears, wondering who this could be, until a gentleman entered
wrapped in an ample cloak. He saluted me familiarly, but I did not know
him till he had laid aside his mantle and taken me by the hand. It was my
lord the Marquess of Argyle ; I was astonished, and my cogitations troubled
me greatly. '' My lord," said I, " God bless you ! Is it yourself?"

" Did you not know me, my dear Bailie?'

" How could 1, not knowing you to be in this country? I took you to be in
London, watching over our affairs there in parliament, and I was very loath
to believe it was your ghost."

" Well, here I am. Bailie, post from thence, and on an affair that much con-
cerns every friend to tlie covenant and the rcfonncd religion. Our affairs

452 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

with his majesty are all blown up. This we expected and foresaw, and we
must now arm in good earnest for our country and religion. Our affairs go
on well in general ; but, O Bailie ! I have received heavy news since my
arrival. Montrose has set up the kings standard on the Border, and is
appointed governor and commander-in-chief in Scotland, and my brother-in-
law Huntly, that most turbulent and factious of human beings, is appointed
lieutenant-general for the whole realm under him ; and while tlie former is
raising all the malignants on the two sides the Border, the latter is raising the
whole north against us. What think you of these news, Baihe.-' Have we
not great reason to bestir ourselves, and unite all our chief men together, in
interest as well as principle, and that without loss of time ?"

" I tremble at the news, my lord," returned I, " but merely for the blood
that I see must be shed in Scotland ; for I am no more afraid of the triumph
of our cause than I am of a second deluge, having the same faith in the pro-
mises relating to them both. Besides, my lord, the danger is not so great as
you imagine from the coalition. The Marquess of Huntly, friend as he is of
yours, will never act in subordination with any created being, for his pride
and his jealousy will not let him. He may well mar the enterprises of the
other, but never will further them. The other is a dangerous man, I acknow-
ledge it. His equal is not in the kingdom ; but he is a forsworn man, and
how can such a man prosper .'' I blame you much, my lord, for the loss of
him. Your behaviour there has been so impolitic, that I could never trust
you with the whole weight of our concerns so well again."

" Why, Bailie," returned he, impatiently, " that man wanted to be every
thing. I made all the concessions i could ultimately, but they would not do ;
the time was past. He was a traitor to the cause at heart, so let that pass.
Let us now work for the best. To-morrow the danger must all be disclosed,
both in the committee and the Assembly's conunission, and I desired this
private conference with you, that what I propose in the one, you may propose
in the other."

" It was prudently and wisely considered, my lord," said I ; "for our only
safeguard in this perilous time, is a right understanding with one another.
That which either of us proposes will not be put off without a fair trial ; and
when it turns out that we have both proposed the same thing and the same
measures, these must appear to our coadjutors as founded in reason and
experience."

" Exactly my feelings," added he ; " and neither of us must give up our
points, but bring to a fair trial by vote, should there be any opposition. There
must be two armies raised, or embodied, rather, without delay. Who are to
be the commanders ?"

" Your lordship is without doubt entitled to be the commander of one,"
said 1.

" Granting this, whom are we to propose for the other ?" said he.

" Not having previously thought of the matter, I am rather at a loss,"
said I.

" It rests between the Earls of Callander and Lothian," said he.

" Then I should think the latter the most eligible," returned 1 ; " Callander
has already refused a command under our auspices."

" We must not lose that nobleman. Bailie, make what sacrifice we will.
Besides, he has the king's confidence, and the circumstance of his being our
general will be an excellent blind to those who are still wavering. Do you
take me, Bailie .-' Did your clear, long-winded comprehension never take that
view of the matter .-"'

" You are quite right, my lord," said I. " The justice of your remark is
perfectly apparent. I shall then propose you for the northern army, and
Livingstone for the southern."

"Very well," said his lordship, "and I shall propose Livingstone, as you
call him, for the south, and Lothian for the north ; for I'll rather give up my
privilege to him than lose his interest It is most probable I will be nominated

LIFE OF AN EDINBURGH BAILIE. 453

in his place. On this, then, we are agreed. But there is another thing, my
dear Bailie, which I want done without delay, and I beg you will have the
kindness to propose and use it to-morrow. \Ve must loose all the thunders
of the church against our enemies. I have already seen how it weakei.s
their hands. We must have the great excommunication pronounced on them
all without delay ; and as the proposal will come better from you than me, I
entrust you with it."

" It is a dreadful affair that, my lord," said I ; " I am not very fond of the
honour. It leaves no room for repentance. Neither do I as yet know on
whom to have it executed.''

" The church is at liberty to take it off again on the amendment of the
parties," said he ; " and as 1 have full intelligence of all, I will give you a li^t
of the leading malignants, against whom to issue the curse."

I was obliged to acquiesce rather against my inclination, and he gave me
the hst from his pocket. " Now, be sure to tix on a divine that will e.xecuie
it in the most resolute manner,'' added he. " It will mar their levies for
once."

" It is a terrible aflfair," said I, " to be gone deliberately about for any sinister
purpose."

" It is what they justly deserve," said he. " They are renegades and repro-
bates, ever\- man of them ; liars and covenant-breakers ; let the curse be
poured out on them. And now, my dear friend, if it turns out that I must
lead the covenanting army against my brother-in-law, I will not proceed a
foot without your company. You shall be my chief counsellor, and ne.xt to
myself both in honour and emolument. In short, you shall command both
the army and me. Give me your promise."

" I think I can serve you more at home, my lord," said I.

" No you cannot," said he. " You have an indelinable power over Huntly.
I have seen extraordinary instances of it. He has no more power to stand
before you than before a thunder-bolt. Your very name has a charm over
him. I was in his company last year when your name chanced to be men-
tioned. To my astonishment, every lineament of his frame and I'eature of
his countenance underwent a sudden alteration, becoming truly diabolical.
' Wretch ! poltroon ! dog that he is !' exclaimed he furiously ; ' I'll crush the
varlet with my foot, as I would do the meanest reptile !'"

" I will go with you, my lord,' said I. " There shall be nothing more of it
We will let him see who can crush best. Crush me with his foot ! The
proud obstreporous changeling ! 1 will let him see who will take the door of
the parliament-house first, ere long ! They would not cut otT his head when
they had him, though I brought him in chains to them like a wild beast, and
told them what he was.''

" That's right," said the Marquess ; " I like to see you show a proper spirit.
Now remember to push home the excommunication. The great one let it be.
Give them it soundly."

" It shall be done, my lord," said I, "if my influence and exertion can bear
it through. And, moreover, I will lead the van of your army in the northern
expedition myself in person. I shall command the wing or centre against
Huntly, wherever he is. It is not proper that two brothers command against
each other."

We then conversed about many things in a secret and confidential manner
till a late hour, when I likewise muffled myself up in a cloak and conveyed
his lordship home.

The very next day, as soon as the prayer was ended, I arose in my seat,
and announced the news of the two risings in opposition to the covenant, and
all our flourishing measures ; and proposed that we should, without a moment's
delay, come to a conclusion how the danger might be averted. I was seconded
by the Rev. Mr. Blair, who confirmed my statement as far as i elated to the
north. Of Montrose none of them had heard. I assured them of the fact,
and proposed the Earl of Callander to levy and lead the army of the south,

454 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

aad Argyle that of the north ; at the same time stating my reasons for my
choice, which I deemed unanswerable. There was not one dissentient voice,
provided the convention of estates acquiesced in the choice.

I then made a speech of half an hour's length, recommending that the
sword of the Spirit should likewise be unsheathed against them, and that, as
a terror to others, these rebels against the true reformed religion should be
consigned over to the spirit of disobedience, under whose influence they had
thus raised the bloody banner of civil war. I was seconded by Mr. Robert
Douglas, a great leader of our church ; but we were both opposed by Sir
William Campbell, another ruling elder like myself, and that with such
energy that I was afraid the day was lost, the moderator, Mr. David Dickson,
a silly man, being on his side. We carried it, however, by a majority, and
Mr. John Adamson was chosen for the important work.

The crowd that day at the high church was truly terrific, and certainly Mr.
Adamson went through the work in a most imposing and masterly manner.
My heart quaked, and all the hairs of my head rose on end ; a^.d I repented
me of having been the moving cause of consigning so many precious souls to
endless perdition. 1 could sleep none all the following night, and had
resolved to absent myself from the commission the next day, and spend it in
fasting and humiliation, but at eleven o'clock I was sent for on express to
attend, and on going 1 found new cause for grief and repentance.

I had given in a list of eight for excommunication, precisely as Argyle gave
them to me. I did not so much as know some of them, but took them on
my great patron's word. They were the Marquess of Huntly, of course he
was the first ; the two Irvines, of Drum ; the Laird of Haddo, and his
steward ; the Lairds of Skeen and Tipperty ; and Mr. James Kennedy,
secretary to Huntly. Judge then of my grief and confusion, when on going
into my place I found Mr. Robert Skeen there, entering a protest against our
proceedings, in as far as related to his brother, the Laird of Skeen, whom he
assured us was as true t(? the cause as any present ; and he gave us, as I thought,
indubitable proofs of it.

I was overcome with confusion and astonishment, and wist not what to say
for myself, for 1 could not with honour disclose the private communication
between Argyle and me. I got up to address the meeting, but my feelings
and my conscience were so much overcome, that I could not come to any
point that bore properly on the subject. Whereon Sir William Campbell,
wlio had opposed the motion from the beginning, rose and said, " Mr.
Moderator, it is evident the gentleman is nonplussed, and cannot give
any proper explanation. I'll do it for him ; the gentleman, sir, is like
ourselves, he acts by commission ; yes, sir, I say like us, he acts by
commission. We do so with our eyes open, in the name and by the
appointment of all our brethren ; but he acts, sir, with his eyes shut ; he acts,
sir, blindfolded, and solely by the direction of another. Is it any wonder, sir,
that such a man should run into blunders.'' But since the thing hath
happened why let it pass. What is a man's soul to us .•* Let him go to the
devil with the rest, I see very little difference it makes."

This raised a laugh in the court at my expense, so loud, and so much out
of reason, that the moderator reprimanded the court at large, and called
Sir William to order. But I stood corrected, humbled, and abashed, never
having got such a rub before. After all, the gentleman turned out a rank
malignant, and was as active against the covenanting principles as any man
of the day.

Argyle, whose influence with the churchmen was without a parallel, and
almost without bounds, soon raised three strong regiments, and could have
raised as many more. The ministers of Fife and Angus preached all the
Sunday on tlie glory of standing up for the good work of the heart, and
whosoever did not rise for the work of the Lord and contribute less or more
according to his means, would be blotted out of the book of life ; they
likewise, every one of thcni, announced the eternal curse laid on their

LIFE OF AN EDINBURGH BAILIE. 41,5

enemies. It was a time of awe and dread, and fearful workings of the
spirits of men.

The consequence of these preachings and anathemas was, that on the
Monday whole multitudes of the people came to the ministers to enrol
themselves for the war, so that the latter had nothing ado but to pick and
choose. Many came with forty's and fifty's, one or two with a hundred, and
the minister of Cameron, honest man, came with three. Accordingly, some
day early in May, I have forgot the day, we proceeded once more to the
north, against the Marquess of Huntly. We had 3,000 foot, and nearly
500 horse, and I believe every man's blood in the army, as well as my own,
was boiling with indignation and resentment against the disturber of the
public peace.

I went in the character of Argyle's friend and counsellor, but he was so
kind, that he frequently caused me to issue the general orders myself, and all
his servants were at my command. We had three companies of the black
coats with us, raised by the church, and dressed in her uniform ; and, though
the malignant part of the country laughed exceedingly at them, my opinion
was, that they were a \txy valuable corps ; — mostly the sons of poor gentle-
men and farmers, well educated, fearless, resolute fellows, excellent takers of
meat, and good prayers. I looked on their presence as a great safeguard for
the army.

Well, as soon as we crossed the Tay, I took one of these fellows, named
Lawrence Hay, a shrewd clever fellow, and dressing him smartly up as an
officiating clergyman, with cloak, cocked hat, and bands, I despatched him
away secretly, into the middle of the country' of the Gordons, to bring me
intelligence of all that was going on there, knowing that he would meet with
nothing but respect and reverence in his route. I likewise gave him letters
to two covenanting clergymen of my acquaintance, but told to none of them
the purport of my black cavaher's mission, which he executed to a wonder.
He had even had the assurance to go into the midst of Huntly's host, as a
licentiate for the episcopal church, and converse with his officers. After an
absence of three nights and days, he returned to me at the fords of the Dee,
and very opportunely did he arrive.

It will easily be conceived, that I had not that full confidence in my present
commander that I had in my former one ; and for one main reason— 1 saw that
he had not that full confidence in himself ; so that I was obliged to venture a
little on my own bottom. Well, when we came the length of the Dee, Argyle
was at a stand, not having heard aught of Huntly's motions or strength, and
we proposed that we should turn to the east, to take in Aberdeen and the
populous districts, and prevent Huntly's levies there.

At that very important nick of time my private messenger arrived, and gave
me the following account. — Huntly's officers were loading us with the most
horrid curses and invectives, on account of the excommunication. The
people in the villages, instead of enlisting, fled from the faces of the officers,
as from demons ; and that even of the force they had collected, there were
few whose hearts and hands were not weakened ; and that Huntly's sole
dependance lay on getting reasonable terms of accommodation, and for that
only he with difficulty kept his forces together. This was the substance of
all he had gathered, principally from the country people, and he assured me
I might rely on it. This was blithe news to me. He told me, likewise, that
he was called in before Huntly, who examined him regarding all the news of
the south. At length he came to this.

" Know you aught of the covenanter's army.'"'

" 1 was in St. Johnston when they were there, my lord ; saw all their array,
and heard the names of the leaders, some of which I have forgot."

" What may be the amount of their army .-"'

"The numbers are considerable. 1 think Mr. Norris.with whom I iodgcri,
said they anxnintcd to 5,000, but ihcy arrr badly cquippctl. hndly trained, an<l
far worse commanded. Your trocips may venture to oik ouniir tliein one to two."

456 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

" Why, I heard that Argyle had the command."

" Not at all, my lord, he has the least command in the army ; he only
commands the horse. Lord Kinghom has a regiment, he is no great head
you know ; Lord Elcho has another. But the commander-in-chief is, I assure
you, a ridiculous body, a bailie of Edinburgh."

"Thank you kindly for the character, Mr. Hay," said I; "thank you
kindly." I was, however, highly pleased with the fellow's ingenuity. " Thank
you kindly, Mr. Lawrence," said L " Well, what did the Marquess say to
that.?"

" Say to that ! " exclaimed he. "Why, the man went out of his reason the
moment I mentioned your name. I never beheld anything equal to it ! I
cannot comprehend it. His countenance altered; his eyes turned out, and
his tongue swelled in his mouth, so that he could hardly pronounce the words.
Then he began and cursed you for a dog of hell, and cursed, and cursed you,
till he fell into a sort of convulsion, and his officers carried him away. What
in this world is the meaning of it ?"

"The meaning of it is, sir," said I, — and I said it with a holy sublimity of
manner — " The meaning of it is, sir, that he knows I am born to chastise him
in this world, and to be his bane in a world to come."

The poor fellow gaped and stared at me in dumb amazement. I made him
a present of loo merks, and the horse that he had rode on, which he accepted of
without again moving his tongue.

This was at midnight, and the next morning early, Argyle called a council
of war, and proposed turning aside from the direct route, and strengthening
ourselves to the eastward. The rest of the officers acquiesced, but 1 held
my peace and shook my head.

" What ! does our worthy friend the Bailie not approve of this measure,"
said Argyle.

" I disapprove of it mainly and decidedly," said L " Or, if you will lead
the army to the eastward, give me but Freeland's Perth dragoons, and as many
chosen men foot soldiers, and I will engage with these few to push straight
onward, brave the wild beast in his den, scatter his army of hellish malignants
like chaff" ; and if I don't bring you Huntly, bound head and foot, his horse
will be swifter than mine. I know the power that is given me, and I will do
this, or never trust my word again."

" My lords and right trusty friends," said Argyle, " you have all heard our
honoured friend the Bailie's proposal. You have likewise witnessed the energy
with which it has been made, — so diff"erent from his accustomed modest, mild,
and diffident manner, — a sure pledge to me that he is moved to the under-
taking by the Spirit of the Most High ; I therefore propose that we should
grant him the force he requests, and trust him with the bold adventure."

" If my cavalry are to be engaged," said the Laird of Freeland, " I must
necessarily fight at their head."

"That you shall, and I will ride by your side, sir," said I. " But remember
you are to fight when I bid you, and pursue when I bid you ; as to the flying
part, I leave that to your own discretion."

" Well said, Bailie ! " cried Argyle : " you are actually grown a hero of the
first order." The officers wondered at me, and the common men were seized
with a holy ardour, and strove who should have the honour of going on the
bold expedition. I was impatient to be gone, having taken my measures, and
accordingly I got 400 cavalry, among whom were the three companies of black
dragoons, and mounting 400 foot soldiers behind them, I took the road at their
head, telling them that, save to feed the horses, we halted no more till we drew
up before the enemy. The Laird of Freeland led the horse, and young Char-
teris of Elcho, the foot. W^e rode straight on to the north, and at even crossed
the Don at a place called the Old Ford, or Auldford, — a place subsequently
rendered famous for the triumph of iniquity.

The weather was fine, and the waters very low ; and I proposed, after feed-
ing our horses, that we should travel all night, and surprise the Gordons early

LIFE OF AN EDINBURGH BAILIE. 457

in the morning. Accordingly we set out, but on leaving the Dee, we got itto
a wild mountain path, and there being a thick dry haze on the hills, we lost
our way altogether, and knew not whither we were journeying, north or south.
At length we arrived at a poor village, having a Highland name, which 1 could
not pronounce, and there asked a guide for the town of Huntly. The men
were in great consternation, running from one house to another ; for our array
through the haze appeared, even to my own eyes, to increase sevenfold.

We at length procured a guide by sheer compulsion ; I placed him on a
horse before a dragoon, with orders to kill him if he attempted to make his
escape, and I assured him, that on the return of day, if I found that he had
not led us by the direct path, I would cut him all into small pieces. Poinding
out that the hamlet belonged to the Gordons, I was very jealous of the fellow,
and kept always beside him myself. " Now are you sure, you rascal, that you
are leading us in a straight line for Huntly?"

" Huhay ; and tat she pe. She pe leading you as straight, sir, as a very
tree, as straight as a whery rhope, sir."

" Had we deviated much ere we arrived at your village .'' "

" I dhont knhow, sir. Far did you pe casting them 1 "

" Casting what ? "

" Why, them divots you speaked of."

" I mean, had we gone far astray? "

" Hu, very far indheed, sir, you could not have ghone as far astray in te
whoule world."

One of my black dragoons, a great scholar and astronomer, now came rid-
ing up and says, " I can tell your honour that I got a glimpse of the heavens
through the mist, just now, and saw the polar star ; this fellow is leading you
straight to the north-west, in among the mountains, and very near in a direct
line from Huntly."

" Fats te mahn saying ? " cried the guide.

I seized him by the throat, and taking a naked sword in my hand, I said,
" Swear to me by the great God, sirrah, that you are conducting me straight
to Huntly, else I run you through the body this instant."

" Huhay, she will swear py te muckle Cot as Ihong as you Ihike."

I then put the oath to him, making him repeat it after me, which he did till
I came to the words straight to Huntly. To these he objected, and refused
to repeat them ; I asked the reason, and he said, " Cot pless you, sir, no man
can go straight here py rheason of the woots, and te rhocks, and te hills, and
te mhountains. We must just go or we can find an opening."

" The man speaks good sense," said 1, " and we are all fools ; lead on, my
good fellow."

When he found that he was out of danger for the present, his natural an-
tipathy against us soon began again to show itself, and he asked at me
sneeringly, —

" And pe tat your swear in te sassenach ? Tat is your creat pig oath, I
mean."

I answered in the affirmative.

" Phoo, phoo ! " cried he, "Ten I would nhot kiv a podle for an hundred
tousand of tem. You will nhot pe tat bittie stick in my hand te petter of it.
Put you will soon pe an fhine rhoats nhow, and haxellent speed you
will pe."

He was laughing when he said this, and the trooper who was behind him,
perceiving that he was leading straight on a thicket, asked him what he meant
by that, but all that he said was, " Huhay, you shall soon be on haxellent
rhoats now ;" so saying, he plunged his horse into a bog, where it lloundcrcd
and fell. The dragoon that guarded theguide threw himself off, and tumbled
heels-over-head ; but the guide, who was free of the stirrups, flung himself olT
more nimbly, and the next moment dived into the thicket Sundry pieces
were let off after him, but they miyht as well have shot against a brazen wall.
He laughed aloud, and called out, " Huhay, fiic away, fire away ; you pe te

45^ THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

fery coot shotters, and you pe an haxellent rhoats now ; ha, ha, ha, you pe an
ta haxellent rhoats nhovv."

We saw no more of our guide, and knew not what to do ; but finding a fine
green recess in the wood, we alighted and baited our horses, the men refreshed
themselves, and at day-break I sung the six last verses of the 74th psalm, in
which the whole army joined me, making most grand and heavenly music in
that wild Highland wood. I then prayed fervently for direction and success
against our enemies, while all the army kneeled around me on the grass.
After that the men rose greatly encouraged and in high spirits.

We rushed from the hills straight upon Huntly before noon, but met no army
there. We got intelligence that the army of the Gordons had divided ; that
Sir George Gordon had led one of the divisions to the eastward, into the braes
of the Ithan, and had fortified the castle of Haddo, and that the ministers
were raising the whole country around him to join Argyle, for the sentence of
excommunication had broken the anns of the Gordons. That the Marquess
of Huntly had retired up the country with the rest, and had stationed them in
fastness, while himself lay in the castle of Auchendoun. We rode straight on
for Auchendoun, in hopes still to take him by surprise, although our friends
assured us that our approach was known last night through all the rows of
Strathbogie, for it seemed the men of the village we came to among the hills
had run and raised the alarm.

About noon we came in sight of the Gordons, drawn up on a hill to the
south of the river, but owing to the inequalities of the ground, we could form
no right estimate of their numbers. Young Elcho was for an immediate
attack, but that I protested against as a thing impracticable, owing to the situa-
tion of the ground. The hill was full of shelves, lying all one above another, so
that they served as natural bulwarks, and to surmount them with troops of horse
was impossible ; therefore, I proposed to march straight on to the castle, to
take order with the Marquess himself, for the whole bent and bias of my in-
clination led me to that. Charteris grumbled, and would fain have been at
handicuffs, but the laird of Freeland agreeing with me, we rode on, and the
army of Gordons kept its station, only saluting us with a few volleys of
musquetry as we passed, which did not wound above five men, and killed not
one.

The castle of Auchendoun being difficult of access by a regular army, we
formed our men at a little distance to the north east, and I sent Major
Ramsay with a trumpet to summon the Gordons to surrender. The constable
asked in whose name he was thus summoned, — Ramsay replied, " In the name
of the king, and the committee of estates." The constable said, " That as to
the latter he had not yet learned to acknowledge its power, but he had no orders
from his lord to hold out the castle against the king, whose true and loyal
subject he ever professed to be. After a good deal of reasoning, the gentle-
man, on having Ramsay's word, came over to me and conversed with all
freedom. I remember little of what passed, for there was only one thing that
struck me to the heart ; the Marquess had left the castle that mornitig, with
six horsemen only in his company / !

There was a stunning blow for me ! I thought I had him in the lurch, but
behold he was gone, I wist not whither. I instantly chose out twenty ol
my black dragoons, and leaving the officers to settle with the Gordons as best
they could, I set off in pursuit of their chief. 1 soon got traces of him, and
pursued hotly on his track till the fall of evening, when I lost him in this
wise.

He had quitted his horse, and crossed the Spey in a boat, while two of the
gentlemen who rode with him led off the rest of the horses down the south
side of the river. I followed in the same direction, but could never discover
at what place these horses crossed the river, for no ford we could find, the
banks being all alike precipitous, and the river tumbling and roaring through
one continuous gullet. We passed the night most uncomfortably, in an old
barn, and the next morning, getting a ford, we proceeded on the road, to

LIFE OF AN EDINBURGH BAILIE. 4_«;o

Elgin, but lost all traces of the object of our pursuit. My troopers tried to
persuade me to return, but I would not listen to them, and therefore I turned
westward again, until I came to the very boatmen who had ferried Huntly
over the water the evening before. They told me that he left them on foot
with four attendants, and that they were all so laden with gold and silver,
that if their horses did not not come round in a circuit and meet them, they
could not travel two miles further.

This sharpened our stomachs exceedingly, and we set out after the enemy at
a bold gallop. We had not ridden far, till we were informed by a hind, that
the Marquess and his friends were lodged in a farmer's house straight before
us, occupied by a gentleman named John Gordon ; that the Marquess had
changed his name, but several there knew him, and that it was reported that
they were laden with treasure, which they were unable to carry with them.
In an instant we were at the house, which we surrounded and took by assault,
there being none in it but John Gordon and a lad, and two maidens, all of
whom we took prisoners. We searched the house but and ben, outside and
inside, but no Marquess nor Lord found we, but we found two bags, in which
were contained a thousand crowns of gold. I then examined all the prisoners
on oath, and released them ; but Mr. Gordon was very sore displeased at the
loss of the gold which I carried with me. " Sir, that gold is neither yours nor
mine," said he ; " it was left me in charge ; I swore to hide it, and return it
to the owner when called for, and it shows no gentleman nor good Christian
to come and take away other people's gold without either ceremony or leave."

"This money, Mr. Gordon, belongs to a traitor to the state," said I, — "to
one that with the help of it was going to kindle up the flames of rebellion and
civil war, and in taking it, I do good service both to God and man ; and there-
fore, do you take care, Mr. Gordon, that I do not cause your head to be
chopped off, for thus lodging and furthering a malignant and intercommuned
traitor. For the money, I will answer to a higher power than is vested in you,
or him that deputed you the charge ; and will cause you in a few days, if I
return in peace, to be taken up and tried by the legal authorities.'

In the mean time one of my black dragoons had been busy kissing one of
John Gordon's maidens and from her he had learned many particulars that
came not out on oath. She told him the colours of all the horses and the dresses
of the men. The Marquess was dressed in tartan trews of the Mackintosh
stripes, had a black bonnet on his head, and was entitled the Major. She told
the way the men went, and much of their conversation over-night which she
heard. The man they called the Major acknowledged that he was bewitched,
and the rest joined with him, marvelhng exceedingly at a power some hellish
burgess of Edinburgh exercised over him ; and sundry other things did this
maiden disclose.

But from one particular set down here, it was evident the Marquess was im-
pressed with a horrid idea that I was to work his destruction, and feared to
look me in the face more than he feared the spirits of the infernal regions. I
;iad the same impressions. I knew I would some time or other vanquish him
and have my full revenge for all his base and unworthy dealings toward me.
A good lesson to all men in power to do that which is just and right. As it
was, my very name unmanned him, and made him desert his whole clan, —
who, amid their native fastness, might have worn us out, or cut us in pieces, —
bundle up his treasures, and gallop for his life.

Had I ridden straight for Forres that morning, I would have been there long
before him ; but suspecting that he had fled westward into the Highlands, I
returned to Gordon's house, and was now quite behind him. On we rode,
without stop or stay, to the town of Forres, having speerings of the party all
the way ; but when we came there, they were still a-head of us, having ridden
briskly through the town without calling. We pushed on to the town of
Finran, but there our evil luck predominated, no such people having been seen
there. We wist not then where to turn, but thcm'^ht of inirsuing tij) the
coast; and as we were again settmg out, whom bhould we meet but

i6o THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

my worthy friend Master John Monro, minister of Inverallen, who was
abroad on the business of the Estates. From him we learned, that live gen-
tlemen at the village on the other side of the bay were making a mighty stir
about getting a boat, — that they seemed pursued men, and that two of the
party who arrived first were so much alamied, that they took to the boat pro-
vided for the whole, and had left their friends to their shift.

As there were only five of the party we were pursuing, I now suspected that
two had been despatched the night before to procure this boat, and knowing
the Marquess to be of the latter party, I was sure he was left behind. We
made all the speed to the place that our horses were able, but they were sore
forcspent, and just as we arrived we saw a great bustle about the quay, and a
small boat with four oars left it. I immediately discovered the Marquess, with
his tartan trews and black bonnet, and hailing the boat, I desired her to
return. The helmsman and rowers seemed disposed to obey, but a great
bustle arose in the boat, and one of the rowers who leaned on his oar was
knocked down, a gentleman took his place, and away shot the boat before the
wind. I ordered my party to fire into her, but then a scene of riot and confusion
took place. The men and all the women of the village flew on us like people
distracted, seized on our guns, took my black dragoons by the throats,
scratched their faces, tore their hair, and dared them for the souls that were
within them, to fire one shot at the boat manned by their own dear and
honest men.

It was vain to contend : the boat was soon out of reach, so I was
obliged to yield to these rude villagers and make matters up with them as well
as I could ; but I was indeed a grieved man for having taken so much trouble
in vain, and letting the great disturber of the country's peace escape again
and again, as it were, from under my nose.

We took some rest and refreshment at the village, and after communing
long with myself, I determined still to keep on the pursuit ; to ride westward,
cross the Firth to Rothiemay, and ride towards Sutherland, to intercept the
Marquess on his landing. Accordingly, we set out once more, much against
the opinion of my men, who contended that we were too small a party to
penetrate into those distant regions ; but nothing could divert me from my
purpose, knowing as I did that Inverness, and all those bounds, were in
favour with our party and true men. But behold that very night we were all
surprised and taken prisoners in the town of Nairn, by Captain Logie and a
full troop of the Gordons, who, getting some intelligence of their chief's dan-
ger, had been on the alert for his rescue.

When 1 was brought before this young officer to be examined, I found him
a very impertinent and forward fellow, although 1 answered all his questions
civilly. When I told him I was pursuing the Marquess of Huntly, to bring
him to suffer for all his crimes, he cursed me for a dog, and said the times
were come to a sad pass indeed when such a cur as 1 dared to pursue after
the Marquess of Huntly, a nobleman whose shoes I was not entitled to wipe.
He called me a puny burgess, a canting worthless hypocrite, and every
opprobrious title that he could invent : took all my hoard of gold, tied my feet
and the feet of my black dragoons below the bellies of our horses, and led us
away captives into the country of the Gordons. I gave the young gentleman
several hints to beware how he maltreated me, for that I was a dangerous
personage, and never missed setting my foot on the necks of my enemies ; but
all my good advice tended only to make him worse. He used us very ill, and
at length brought us prisoners to the castle of Haddo, commanded by Sir
George Gordon, and fully provided for a siege.

We lay for some days without knowing what was going on, often hearing
the din of muskets and somecannonry, whereby we understood that Argyle or
some of his officers had come before the castle, and sorely did we regret that
we had it not in our power to let our state be known to our friends.

But there was one thing that I discovered which could scarcely have been
kept from our ears ; 1 perceived there were divisions within the castle, and

LIFE OF AN EDINBURGH BAILIE. 461

that the other chieftains of the Gordon race were disgusted with Haddo's
procedure. On this subject I kept my mind to myself, and the third day after
we were immured, we had a Uttle more hberty granted us, and were rather
more civilly treated,jthen I knew the besieged were afraid, and wished to
make their peace. I was right. Argyle had heard from our friends in
Morayshire of our capture, and insisted on our release before he would enter
into any accommodation with the besieged. We were accordingly liberated,
and all my gold restored to me, and joyfully was I received by Argyle and his
friends, who lauded my zeal exceedingly, although they did make some sport
of the expedition of my black dragoons and me, which they denominated
" Ihe black raid:'

By this time, Master John Gordon was brought in a prisoner, as also two
of the boatmen who carried the Marquess over to Caithness, where they had
left him, still posting his way to the north. Such a violent fright did that
great and proud person get from a man whom he had bitterly wronged, and
his few black dragoons, that he never looked over his shoulder till he was
concealed among the rocks, on the shores of the northern ocean.

Finding that Lord Gordon, the Marquess's eldest son, had, either through
choice or compulsion, joined his uncle Argyle, I got John Gordon and before
his face, Argyle's, and several others, consigned to the young lord his father's
treasure that I had captured, for which I got great praise. 1 knew well enough
Argyle would not suffer any part of it to revert to the Huntlys again. The
brave young lord looked much dissatisfied ; I was rather sorry for him, for
our troops had wasted his father's lands very much.

It is only necessary to note here, that the 800 men whom I left at Auchen-
doun met with little opposition in those parts. They entered the castle and
plundered it of a good deal of stores, and then marched rank and file on the
army that was encamped on the shelvy hill, but that melted away before
them, for the men saw they had nothing for which to fight.

As soon as I got private talk with Argyle, I informed him of the strength
of the castle, and the likelihood there was that we would lose many lives be-
fore it ; but I added, " I am convinced that Sir George's violent measures,
are any thing but agreeable to the greater part of the gentlemen within, for he
is a boisterous and turbulent person, and they cannot brook his rule. My
advice therefore, is, that you offer all within the castle free quarter, providing
they will deliver up the laird, and the insolent captain Logie, to answer for
their share in this insurrection."

Argyle returned for answer, " that he approved of my pacific measures,
having no wish to shed his countrymen's blood, but that surely the soldiers
would never be so base as to give up their leaders."

I said, " that I conceived the matter deserved a trial, as the sparing of
human blood was always meritorious in the sight both of God and man."

Accordingly Argyle, who never in his life rejected my counsel but once,
which he afterwards repented, — he, I say, came before the castle, and by pro-
clamation offered the terms suggested by me. The proffer was no sooner
made than the gates were thrown open, Argyle and his friends were admitted,
and Sir George Gordon and Captain Logie delivered into our hands, well
bound with ropes. 1 asked the captain how he did ; but he would not speak,
and after^vards, when he did speak, he answered me as proudly and as in-
solently as ever. My kind friend and patron did me the honour that day to
say, before sundry noblemen and gentlemen, that he esteemed my advice as if
one inquired at the oracles of God.

And now the rebels being wholly cither reduced or scattered, we returned
straight to Edinburgh, with our two prisoners, and had their heads chopped
off, publicly, on the 19th of July, at the Market-Cross.

[This was summary work with a vengeance ! If this narrative of the honest
Bailie's detail be, as it professes, nothing but simple literal facts, it is certainly
an extraordiiiaiy story, and may well be denominated a remarkable passage
in his hfe. IJut without all doubt, his stories of the Marquess, ol Hiintly luubl

462 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES,

be swallowed with caution ; for such a rooted hatred and opposition could
not fail to produce exaggeration. The idea which the writer entertains of
having a power over the destiny of that nobleman, invested in him by the
Almighty, as a reward for fonner injuries, is among the most curious super-
stitions of the age.

In the following parliament, a Sir John Smith, and our friend the Bailie,
represent the city of Edinburgh ; on which occasion, the latter has the honour
of knighthood conferred on him. We must, notwithstanding, still denominate
him by our old familiar title, the Bai/if, as it sounds best in our ears, and gives
a novelty to the great events in which he was engaged.

His details of parliamentary business are jumbles of confusion and absurdity,
and contain many decrees unworthy the councils of a nation struggling for
their liberties, civil and religious ; we must therefore follow the Bailie to his
next great exploit in the field, and leave his civic and parliamentary annals to
those curious in such matters.]

Some day about the close of the year, [this must have boen a.d. 1644,] I
received a letter from Argyle, entreating me to attend him in the West High-
lands, as he never stood more in need of my council and assistance, than at
that instant ; he being about to set out on an expedition against a powerful
army, commanded by dangerous and experienced leaders.

I answered that I liked not having any thing to do with Montrose, for I
knew his decision, and stood in dread of him, therefore I judged my assistance
would rather be prejudicial to the good cause and my noble friend, than
otherwise ; and that moreover, I had no liberty of absence from the council
of the nation ; but I would never lose sight of furthering his supplies and
interests where I was.

But all this would not serve, I got another letter express from Dumbarton,
adjuring me to come to him without any loss of time, for in my absence he
found a blank in his counsels and resolutions which could not otherwise be
supplied ; and to bring my reverend friend Mr. Mungo Law with me, to assist
us with his prayers. To whet me on a little more he added, that Huntly had
again issued from his concealment, and had crossed Glen-Roy at the head of
a regiment of the Gordons, to urge on and further Montrose's devas-
tations.

This kindled my ardour to a flame, and without this instigation I would
not have gone : for I felt assured, even in the most inward habitation of my
heart, that I was decreed and directed from above, to be a scourge to Huntly,
and an adder in his path, until I should bring his haughty brow to the dust.
Accordingly, Mr. Law and I set out, in the very depth of winter, and after a
difficult journey we arrived at Dumbarton Castle, where we found our prin-
cipal covenanting leaders assembled in council, and a powerful army in
attendance.

Argyle's plan was to march straight into Mid-Lorn, which the royal army
then wasted without mercy ; and in this proposal he was joined by General
Baillie. At this momentous crisis, Mr. Law and I arrived, and were welcomed
by Argyle with open arms. — " Now, my Lords," said he, good-naturedly, "we
have had one Baillit^s opinion, let me now request that of another j and if he
gives the same verdict, my resolution is fixed, for this has been always an
Achitophel to me."

" My lord, said I, " the counsel of Achitophel was at last turned to foolish-
ness, so may that of mine, or of any man, however eminent for wisdom ; for
we are all erring and fallible creatures, vain of our endowments, and wise in
our own conceits ; but we can do nothing but what is given us to do. Never-
theless, my lord, my advice shall be given in sincerity, and may the Lord
direct the issue."

My lord of Argyle was well pleased with this prelude, for besides that he
loved a simple speech, he strove always to exalt me in the eyes of his compeers;
and so, bowing and beckoning me to proceed, he took his seat, while 1 spoke
as follows :

LIFE OF AN EDINBURGH BAILIE. 463

" My lords, and most worthy committee of directors of this inspired
expedition : it appears to me quite unmethodical to transport the whole of
this brave army into the West Highlands, at this inclement season, and leave
the whole of the populous districts to the eastward exposed and unprotected.
Vou will see that no sooner have we penetrated those snowy regions, and
reached the shores of the western sea, than Montrose and his army of wild
Highlanders, who account nothing of seasons, will instantly stretch off like a
herd of deer, and fall on the towns and fertile districts to the eastward ; leaving
us entangled among the fortresses of the mountains, from whence we may
not be able to extricate ourselves before the approach of summer. My advice
therefore is, that all the army, save the 500 ordained by the committee to
assist Argyle, do return with their leaders, and defend the populous and rich
districts of the east ; and no sooner shall Argyle appear in his own country
than his own brave clan will flock to him in such numbers, that Montrose
and bis ragamuffins will never dare to face them, and then shall we have
them between two tires that shall enclose and hem them in, and destroy them
root and branch."

Lord Balcarras spake next, and approved of my plan without hesitation.
Crawford Lindsay doing the same, it was approven and adopted without
delay, though not much, as I thought, to Argyle's satisfaction. Three regiments
returned to Angus, and 500 men went with Argyle. We lingered about Ros-
neath for three days, until a messenger arrived vvith the news of Colonel
Campbell, of Auchinbreck, having arrived from Ireland, with twenty other
experienced officers, who were raising the country of Kintyre. We then
hasted away, and after a most dreadful march, came in upon the shores of
Lochfine. What a woful scene was there presented to us of devastation and
blood ! the hamlets smoked in every direction ; beasts lay houghed and dying
in the field by hundreds ; whole troops of men were found lying slain and
stripped, while women and children were cowering about the rocky shores,
and dying of cold and want. Cursed be the man that promotes a civil war
in his country, and among his kindred ; and may the hand of the Lord be on
him for evil and not for good !

The Lauchlans and Gregors were still hanging over the remnants of that
desolated place, but they fled to the snowy hills, and loaden as they were with
spoil, we were not able to follow them. At Ouchter we met with the brave
Sir Duncan Campbell, of Auchinbreck, who had already raised 400 gallant
men, so that we were now above 1000 strong, and with these we marched to
Inveraray. The frost continued exceedingly sharp, but the snow not being
so deep as on the hills to the east, the people flocked in to us from all
directions, every one craving to be led against the devourers of their country.
The complaints were grievous, and not without cause ; it was a shame that
the plundering of that fine and populous country had not been put a stop to
sooner. Suspected the Marquess greatly to blame. As for Sir Duncan, he
was out of all temper on perceiving the desolation wrought in the country,
and breathed nothing but vengeance against the northern clans. I verily
believe, if arms could have been had, that Argyle might have raised six, if
not ten thousand men ! but, the greatest part of the arms was carried oft' or
destroyed. As it was, he had his choice of men, and selected none but
the stoutest and bravest of the clan, many of them sons of gentlemen ; so
that when the army separated at Loch-Awe we had not fewer than 3400
fighting men.

Our greatest loss of all was the want of information relating to the state of
the country. Notwithstanding the turmoil that was in the land, we knew
nothing of what was passing beyond the distance of a few miles ; but all
accounts agreed that .Montrose was flying rapidly before us, his clans being
loaded with booty, and eager to deposit that at their homes. Of course, we
knew that a dispersion of his army must take place in the first instance, and
eager we were to harass him before he could again collect them.

As to the aflairs of the east, we knew nothing with certainty, save that we

4^4 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

had one good army in that quarter, though vvliereabouts we did not know.
We heard the Gordons were up, but knew nothing of their motions or whether
they had joined with Montrose. The Frazers and M'Kenzies were also i^
arms, but whether lor the king or the covenant we did not know, as some
said the one way and some the other. All we knew for certain was that
Montrose was flying, that his Highlanders must disperse for awhile, and that
it was our duty to keep up with him, and do him all the evil we could. This
was also the desire of the whole army, for never were men marched against
an enemy held in more perfect detestation.

I went with the western division of the army, which passed next to the sea
and the provision ships; so also did Argyle, Niddery, and Provost Campbell;
but the bold Sir Duncan led the other division by wilds almost impervious,
through the country of the M'Keans. We plundered the country of the
Stuarts of Appin, and our drivers brought in sundry small preys. When we
came to Kinloch-Leven, we learned that Sir Duncan of Auchenbreck had
crossed over into Lochaber before us, and was laying the country of the
Camerons altogether waste. We followed on in his track, and overtook him
at even, lying by the side of a frith awaiting our arrival. He had been with-
stood by the Camerons of Glen-Nevis, who beat in his drivers, killed several
of them, and still hung over his array in the recesses of the hills above.

On the 30th of January, at noon, we reached a fine old fortress, where we
pitched our camp, and here we were at a great loss how to proceed. Our
water-carriage failing us here, we could not transport our necessary baggage
farther. The wind had turned round to the north-east, straight in our faces,
and therefore to pursue Montrose in that direction any further, seemed
impracticable for the present. A council of war was called ; Auchenbreck
urged a speedy pursuit, as did sundry other gentlemen of his kindred ; but
he was an impetuous man, and therefore I took the opposite side, more to be
a check on his rashness than from a disapproval of his measures, and Argyle
instantly leaned to my counsel.

But we were now in an enemy's country to all intents, and every precaution
was necessary. Accordingly, Argyle and Auchenbreck stationed the army in
divisions, in the most secure and warlike manner. This was on the Friday
evening, and on the Saturday Auchenbreck pushed on our advanced guard
about seven or eight miles forward on Montrose's track, for his desire was
either to overtake Montrose by the way, while his troops were scattered with
the spoil, or reach Inverness and join the army there in garrison. But now
the strangest event fell out to us that ever happened to men.

On the Saturday, about noon, two men were brought in prisoners that had
escaped from Montrose's army, and were returning to Moidart ; and from
them we learned that Montrose had reached Loch-Nigs — that his army was
reduced more than one-half by desertions and leaves of absence — that the
remainder was greatly dispirited, as he meditated a march into Badenoch and
from that to Buchan, a dreadful march in such weather. We swallowed all
this for truth, and I believe the men told the truth as far as they knew. But
behold at the very time Argyle was questioning them in my presence, there
comes news that the advanced guard of Montrose's army and ours had had
a sharp encounter at the ford of the river Spean ; that the latter had been
defeated with a severe loss, and was in full retreat on the camp.

" Secure the two traitors," cried Sir Duncan, and mounting he galloped
through the camp, marshalling the troops under their several ofticers in gallant
style. Argyle, Kilmere, and myself remained questioning the deserters. They
declared the thing impossible, as they had come in the very line of march,
and neither saw nor heard of a retrograde motion, and offered to answer with
their lives for the truth of their statement

Argyle was convinced, so was 1 ; so were all who heard the men's assevera-
tions, and the simplicity with which they were delivered. The captain of the
advanced euard was sent for, and strictly examined. He could not tell
whether the army of Montrose had returned, and came against us or not.

LIFE OF AN EDINBURGH BAILIE. 465

" I had led my men over the river Spean, on the ice," said he, " lest it should
break up, as a thaw seemed to be coming on. They went sliding over in
some irregularity, and all the while I perceived the bare heads of a few fellows
peeping over the ridge, immediately before us. I took them for boys, or
country people ; yet still, as the men came over, I drew them up on the
opposite side to this. When about two-thirds were over, a whole regiment of
armed men came rushing down on us at once, running with all their force,
and uttering the most terrible shouts. We had lirm footing, and I thought might
have repelled them, but some of our men who were scrambling on the ice at the
time returned, and began a making for this side. Flight of all things is the
most contagious. I have often seen it, and on seeing this I lost hope. In
five minutes after this my regiment broke, and ran for it ; and many were
killed, or taken floundering on the ice. We, however, drew up on the near
bank, and retreated in order. I there got a full view of the men, and knew
them for a regiment of the M'Donalds ; but whether Keppoch's men of the
braes, or M'Ranald's, I could not distinguish."

We were all convinced that this check was nothing more than the Lochaber
clans trying to impede our march, till Montrose got out of the fastnesses of
the mountains, but Auchenbreck was doubtful, and caused our army to rest on
their arms all night, sure of this, that if Montrose had returned, he would try
to surprise us by a night attack. The night passed in quietness, save the com-
motion of the elements, which became truly awful. The evening had been
light ; for the sky, though troubled like, was clear, and the moon at the full.
But at midnight the thaw commenced ; the winds howled, and the black
clouds hung over the pale mountains, and whirled in eddies so terrific, that
my heart was chilled within me ! and my spirit shrunk at the madness of
mankind, to be thus seeking one another's lives amid the terrors of the storm
and the commotion of conflicting tempests. I spent the night in fasting and
prayer, fervently committing us and our cause to the protection of the
Almighty.

My noble friend had no more rest than myself. He lodged in the same
house with me down on the shore, but in a different apartment ; messengers
arrived every half hour, and still he was impatient for the return of the next.
About four in the morning he sent for me, and on hasting to his apartment,
I was grieved to the heart at seeing him so much agitated. He was lying on
his field couch with all his clothes on, save his coat, and his head swathed
with flannel above his tasselled night cap. When I went in, he was com-
plaining to his attendants of the uncertainty in which Sir Duncan kept him,
and saying it was most strange that it could not be ascertained whether an
army withstood us or only an adverse clan. I saw he wished it the latter,
and that with an earnestness that greatly discomposed him ; his attendants
seemed even shy of communicating their true sentiments, and sided with their
lord in conjecturing that the troops that opposed our march was only a party
raised by some of the chieftains of Lochaber, to impede and harass us in the
pursuit.

When the Marquess perceived me, he called me to him, and addressed me
with his wonted courtesy, asking how I did, and how I had rested, but without
giving me time to answer, began a complaining of headache and fever ; said it
was most unfortunate in our present circumstances, but that it behoved not
him to complain, seeing it was the Lord's will to lay that affliction on his
unworthy servant. My heart failed me when I heard him speak in this guise.
I could not answer him, but taking his hand, I lelt his pulse, and found both
from that, and the heat on his skin, that he was fevered to a considerable
degree. I knew it arose shcerly from agitation and want of rest, but 1 had
not the face to tell him so, only I desired him to compose himself until the
morning, and that then the fresh air and the e.xercise of the muster would
invigorate his spirits ; and that in the mean time I would go out and see that
all was safe, and the martial lines in proper order.

1 took my cloak^ mounted my horse, and with a heavy heart rode out lo the
I. 30

466 THE ETTRICK :SHEPHERD'S TALES.

plain on which our army lay in close files, flanked by the old fortress and a
bay of the P'irth on the left, and an abrupt steep on the right. The morning
was dismally dark, and the rain and sleet pouring in torrents, but the wind was
somewhat abated. I rode about for some time among the lines, and was
several times challenged in Gaelic, for in the hurry at head quarters I had
neglected to bring a guide with me. I tried to find my way back again, but
could not make it out, for not a man could 1 find who could speak English,
until at length I was brought to the young laird of Kilrennan, and he spake
it but right indifferently. I asked him to lead me to Auchenbreck. He
replied as well as he could, that it might not be easily done, for he had been
moving about all night from line to line, keeping every one on the alert.

I asked him Sir Duncan's opinion of this army that seemed to have risen
out of the earth. —

" .Sir Duncan is shy of giving his opinion," said he, "but from the concern
that he manifests, it is apparent that he dreads danger."

" What is your own opinion .''" said I.

" 1 would not give a rush for the danger," said he. " It is merely caused by
Keppoch's men, and the tail of the Camerons, collected to harass us a little. I
will undertake with my Glenorchy regiment alone, to drive them like a herd of
deer. If Montrose have come from Lochness since Friday morning, across
the Braes of Lochaber, he and his army must have come on wings."

Not knowing the country I had nothing to say; but in searching for Sir
Duncan, we came among the Lowland regiment, which we brought with us
from Dumbarton. A group of these were in wann discussion on the present
state of affairs. Campbell addressed them in Gaelic; but 1 held my peace,
eager to hear their sentiments.

" Wha is they ? " whispered one.

" Hout, hout, — twa o' our heeland offisher's, — they dinna ken a word we're
speakin."

"Then, David, what have you to say to my argument?"

•*! have to say, John Tod, that nane kens what Montrose will do but them
that hae foughten under him, as I hae doon. His plans are aboon a' our
capacities : for let me tell ye, John, if ye be gaun to calculate on ony o' Mon-
trose's measures, ye maun fix on the ane that's maist unlikely to a' others
that could be contrived be mortal men."

" But dea*- Davie, man, the thing's impossible."

" It's a grit lee, man. I tell ye, John Tod, he does a thing the better that
it's impossible."

" Hout, hout I there's nae arguifying wi' you ava gin ye say that But
Davie, ye see, if the way be that lang, an' that rough, that a single man
couldna' travel it in a black-weather day, how could a hale army traverse it
through snaw and ice?"

" It's a' that ye ken about the matter, John Tod. Do ye no ken that Mon-
trose's army's a' cavalry ? "

" What ? his fit sodgers an' a' ? Are a' his bare-hurdied clans muntit on
horses ? "

" Ay, that they ir, John. Fit an' horse an' a' is turned cavalry. Have nae
they ta'en awa near three thoosand o' the pick o' the horses in a' Argyle? Ay,
when they came down the deel's stairs, every man had a pony to ride, an' ane to
carry his wallet : and let me tell you, Jock Tod, thae ponies can travel a hun-
dir mile i' the day ; an' for roads, they like an ill ane far better nor a good
ane. I'm neither a prophet, nor a prophet's son, but I venture to predict that
Montrose, an' a' his clans at his back, will rise out o' the stomach of that glen
the morn, an' like a tlood frae the mountains, bear the red-haired Campbells,
an' us wi' them, into the waves o' the sea."

" Fat pe te Sassenach tog saying ? "' said young Kilrennan.

" He is threatening to drive his enemies into the waves of the sea,"
said I.

" He will drive them to the rocks in te first place," said CampbelL Shortly

LIFE OF AN EDINBURGH BAILIE. 467

after that we found Sir Duncan of Auchetibreck, whose care and concern for
his kinsmen could not be equalled, and with him I had a conference of con-
siderable length. He had been able to discover nothing. If there was an
army, it was kept in close concealment, but he was disposed to think there
was one, else the flying parties would not have been so bold ami forward.
"They are at this moment," said he, "' hovering so nigh our columns there on
the right, as to be frequently exchanging volleys with them by way of saluta-
tion. A band of caterans would scarcely dare to do so. But if God spare
us to see the light of day, our doubts shall soon be at an end."

" Do you mean to begin the attack, or to await it," said I.

"I never wait an attack," returned he; "for my kinsmen have not
experience in military tactics enough to repel one, by awaiting it firmlv,
or forming and wheeling at the word of command, in which one single mis-
take would throw all into irremediable confusion. I must begin the attack,
and then I can depend on my Campbells for breaking a front line to pieces
with the best clans among them."

I then took him aside, and in his ear told him of the state in which I
left the Marquess ; that he really ivas ill, and, as I judged, somewhat
delirious.

He sighed deeply, and said a sight of him mounted at the head of his men,
was better than a thousand spears ; that he never could vmderstand his chief,
for he had seen instances in which he showed the most determined courage,
but that, most unaccountably, he had not the command of it at all times, and
never when most required. " As it is," continued he, " we must never expose
him in his present nervous state, to set a ruinous example to the men, who adore
him. Do you, therefore, detain him till the battle is fairly begun, and then,
when the first step of the race is taken, you shall see him the bravest of the
brave."

I applauded the wisdom of Sir Duncan, and said it was the very step I was
anxious for him to take, being certain that the Marquess, in his present state
of trepidation, would only derange his measures ; and, at all events, I was
sure he would not suffer the army to be moved out of their present strong
position to be led to the attack.

" In the name of God keep him to yourself, — keep him to yourself," said he
vehemently. " Do you call that a strong position.'' It is the very reverse
for a Highland army. We are too closely crammed together, and an attack
of an hundred horse from that ridge would ruin our fine array in one inst:int.
That a strong position ! I would not give yon ridge of rock for a thousand
of such positions. Good morrow. My kindest respect to my chief, and icU
him all is safe. I must be going, and see what is going on yonder ; " for at
that time some volleys of musketry echoed fearfully among the rocks up
towards the bottom of Ben- Nevis.

I called Sir Duncan back for a moment, and intreated him not to engage
in battle till the Sabbath was over, if it lay in his power to avoid it ; for I
dreaded that the hand of God would be laid in a visible manner on the first
who broke that holy day by shedding the blood of their brethren and country-
men. But he only shook his head, and said with his back towards me, " We
warriors are often compelled to that which we would most gladly shun."

The day began to break as I left him, and I could not help contemplating
once more the awful scene that hung impending over these ireful and kin-
dred armies. The cliffs of the towering hills that overhung them were spotted
by the thaw, which gave them a wild speckled appearance in the grey light
of the morning, and all their summits were wrapped in clouds of the deepest
sable, as if clothed in mourning for the madness of the sons of men. 'I he
thought, too, that it was a Sabbath morning, wlien we out^lit all to have btcn
conjoined in praising and blessing the name of our Maker, and the Rcdeenier
of our souls; — while, instead of that, we were all longing and yearning to
mangle and deface the forms tiiat bore his iinaj;e, anil send their souls to
their gieat account out of the luidbt of a heinous transgression. The impres-

468 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

sions of that Sabbath morning will never depart from my heart ; and since
that day, Febiuary the 2nd, 1645, I have held gloomy impressions as a sure
foreioken of bad fortune.

There were 500 Glenorchy men, commanded by my late acquaintance
young Archibald Campbell, of Kilrennan, son to Campbell, of Bein-Muie,
with whom he had lately threatened to annihilate the whole host that belea-
guered us. These at day-break, were advanced toward the right, to take
possession of a ridge that commanded the last entrance from an hundred
glens, and ravines behind. They were attacked in a tumultuous and irregu-
lar manner, apparently by a body of men squatted here and there on the
height, which, as soon as the Campbells gained, they quitted retreating
toward the hills, and calling in Gaelic to one another. I saw this movement
and retreat, and never beheld aught more conclusive, 1 was convinced they
were a herd of caterans, sent to harass us and retreat to their inaccessible
fastnesses on the approach of danger. With this impression fixed on my
mind, I went in again to my noble friend, in excellent spirits. I found him
equipped for the field, but looking even worse than before, though pretending
that he was a great deal better. I assured him of what I believed to be the
truth, that the opposing army was nothing more than some remnants of the
malignant clans collected after depositing their spoil, to attend us on our
march, and impede it as much as lay in their power ; for that I myself had
seen them put to (light by the Glenorchy regiment, and chased to the hills
like so many wild goats or ragged kyloes.

The spirits of the Marquess brightened up a little, but there either was a
lurking disease, or a lurking tremor, that had overcome him. He lifted his
hand to his brow, and gave thanks to God that we were thus allowed to enjoy
his holy day in peace and quietness ; he then asked for Mr. Law, and being
told that he was on board the galley, he proposed that we should go to him,
and join in our morning devotions.

The Marquess's splendid galley, THE Faith, lay within half a bowshot of
the shore, immediately behind the house where we quartered, but the store-
ship lay farther away behind the mouth of the river. A Utile gilded boat with
pennant and streamers, and having THE HOPE painted in golden letters on
her stern, bore us on board, and we had not well put off from the shore till
the thunders of musketry and field-pieces began anew to echo among the
rocks. The Marquess lifted his eyes to Ben Nevis, and remarked what a
tumultuous sound was produced by the storm and the rushing torrents ; for
by this time the floods of melted snow that poured from the mountains were
truly terrific ;) he made no allusion at all to the sounds of the battle that
mingled in the uproar, which were then quite audible, although it was but
partially commenced.

He was the first conducted on board. There were eight or nine of us, and
I was about the last, or rather I think the very last. Every one having
something to take on board with him, I had a good while to sit astern, and I
observed the Marquess lift his eyes to the hill, and instantly his countenance
changed from dark to a deadly paleness, and from that to a hvid blue.
My very hairs rose on my head, for I had bad forebodings, and I dreaded
that his fine army was broken. I hasted on board, and soon was aware of
the cause of his alarm It was the bray of trumpets audibly mixing with the
roar of the elements, producing an effect awfully sublime, but appalling to
those who but now hoped to spend a Sabbath in the e.\ercises of devo-
tion.

" Is not that the sound of trumpets I hear }" said Argyle.

" It is, my lord,'' said I.

" In the name of God, what does it portend .'"' said he.

" It portends, my lord, that Montrose is leading a regiment of horse on to
the onset."

•'Then God prosper and shield the right," cried he emphati< ;illy ; 'Mr.
Law, let us to our devotions shortly, and commit our cause to the Lord

LIFE OF AN EDINBURGH BAIUL. 469

o. ilosts. Then to the battle-field, where our presence may be much
wanted.'

Mr. Law led the way to the cabin. I did not go down. I could not ; for
with all the desire to join in prayer that a poor dependent creature could
inherit, 1 wanted the ability; so much were my thoughts and eyes riveted on
the scene before me.

The Marquess had a curious gilded tube on board, with glass in it, which
brought distant objects close to the eye. 1 got possession of this, and saw
the battle with perfect accuracy. Auchenbreck had put his troops in motion
to the right, in order to begin the attack ; he had also taken a position on a
broken rising ground behind the valley. The Glenorchy regiment of 500 men
still kept their position in advance to the right, and it was there the battle
began. They were attacked by a regiment of Irish, headed by some brave
ofticers, and as they out-numbered ours, the Glenorchy men lost ground
reluctantly, and were beaten from their commanding station. They were
forced to give way, but were in nowise broken. There appeared to be no
horses in this part of the battle, but the three regiments of Macdonalds, who
were all on the right, were flanked on both sides by strong bodies of horse.
The Camerons, Stewarts, and some other inland clans, formed the centre,
and the other two Irish regiments were behind. Our lowland regiment was
on the left, the rest being all Campbells. I cannot now distinguish them by
the names of their colonels ; but, to give them justice, they appeared all alike
eager and keen on the engagement ; and there is not a doubt but their too
great intensity on revenge ruined the fortune of the day.

The Glenorchy regiment, as I said, was beaten back, and this being in
view of the whole army, there was an instant call, from rank to rank, for
support to brave young Bein-More. Auchenbreck ordered off the third line
to reinforce the Glenorchy regiment, and then such a rush took place towards
that point, that it appeared like utter madness and insubordination. But so
eager were the Campbells to make up the first appearance of a breach in
their line, that they left both their centre and left wing uncovered and
weakened. Montrose lost not a moment on beholding this : he galloped
across in front of the M'Donalds, and shouted to them to charge. They
were not slack ; pouring down into the valley, in three columns, they attacked
the Campbells with loud shouts. The latter received them bravely ; their
lines bowed and waved, but did not break ; and I could not distinguish that
very many fell on either side. But Montrose now, at the head of a large
body of horse, made a dash off at the right, with a terrible clang of trumpets
and other noisy and sinful instruments, as if he meant to place himself in the
rear of our army.

The pangs that I felt at this moment are unutterable. When the Campbells
made the rush to the right, they quickly repelled the Irish, and drove them
out of my sight ; but when Montrose and the M'Donalds came with such
force on our left, then quite weakened, little as I knew of military tactics, I
trembled for the fate of the day. Auchenbreck was as brave an officer as
lived, but he had been used to command troops regularly trained, and he
tried to manoeuvre this army in the same manner. It would not do. In
bringing his force round to support the left, now in such jeopardy, the whole
body of the troops got into most ine.xtricable confusion, very much occasioned
by the clamour and appearance of the horse. Alack! if they had known
how little they had to fear ! The greater part of the horses were merely an
appearance, and no more ; they were new listed, and sufficiently awkward,
as were also the men who rode them. I saw them capering and wheeling,
and throwing their riders, affrighted almost to madness at the trumpets and
shots ; yet with these ragged colts did that mighty renegade amaze the hearts
of the army of the Covenant.

If Auchcnl)reck had but called out — "See, yonder are the M'Donalds
beatitig our brethren, nm down the slope, and nit them all to pieces," I am
sure they would have done it or fallen i> tdo att^^mpt ; but. in place of that,

470 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

ii& tried to mancEuvre the army by square and rule, till the whole went
wrong, and then ever>' man saw he was wrong without the power of putting
himself right. The whole army was, for the space of an hour, no otherwise
than an immense drove of highland kyloes all in a stir, running hither and
thither ; sometimes with a swing the one way and sometimes the other, as if
driven by blasts of wind. All this while, they never thought of giving way,
although the Camerons were in the midst of them, slaughtering them like
sheep ; the fierce M'Donalds breaking through and through their irregular
line, and the horse tlanking them on the side next the sea.

For a long time I could distinguish Montrose's front in regular columns
bearing onwards through a mass of confusion, but at length the two armies
appeared to mingle in one, and to move southward with a slow and troubled
motion. Still the army of the Campbells did not break up and run. Every
man seemed resolved to stand and fight it out, could he have known how to
have done it, or found support on one side or the other. They knew not the
art of flight; they reeled, they staggered, and waved like a troubled sea, but
no man turned his back and fled. To rally the front was impossible, for the
clans were through and through it ; but I saw several officers attempting to
rally lines in the rear, and so glad were the Campbells of anything like a
rallying-point, that they rushed towards these embryo files with an eagerness
that in a few minutes annihilated them.

The lowland regiment, commanded by Colonel Cobron, behaved exceed-
ingly well. It was never broken ; when the retreat began, I saw that regiment
defile to its left, lean its left wing on the southwest turret of the huge old castle,
and sustain for a space the whole power of Montrose's right wing. The horse
never attempted to break them, but a strong regiment of the M'Donalds, by
some styled the Ranald regiment, drew up in front of the lowlanders. These
either did not like their appearance, or liked better to smite the Campbells,
for they passed on to the general carnage, and the lowlanders kept their
ground, and took quiet possession of the castle.

The only other thing that I noted in the general confusion was a last attempt
of Auchenbreck to turn the left of Montrose's line up nigh to the bottom of
the steep. A Highland regiment was pushing onward there, said by some to
be the Stewarts, whether of Alhol or Appin I wot not, as if with intent to gain
the glen and cut off the retreat. Against these Sir Duncan went up at the
head of a small number of gentlemen, but the gallant hero was the very first
man that fell, and the rest fought over him till they were all cut dowTi. The
rout by degrees became general, and the brave and high-spirited Campbells
were slaughtered down without the power of resistance.

However much was said to mitigate the loss sustained that day, it was verj-
great ; for in fact that goodly army was almost annihilated. When the flyers
came to the river of Glen-Leven, it was roaring like a sea, and covered with
floating snow and ice. It was utterly impassable by man or beast. The
Campbells had no alternative, for they chose rather to trust the God of the
elements than the swords of their inveterate foes. They plunged in like sheep
into the washing-pool. Scarcely a man of them escaped ! They were borne by
the irresistible torrent into the ocean in a few moments, where we saw their
bodies floating in hundreds as we sailed along. And moreover, in endeavour-
ing to drag a large body on board, the rope broke, and they were all
drowned likewise.

This is a true description of that fatal engagement, which need not be
doubted, for though I write from memor}', the impressions made on my mind
that day were not such as to be ever obliterated. I cannot state the loss, for
I never knew it, nor do I believe the Marquess ever knew it or enquired after
it. As far as I could judge from a distant view, there was not a man escaped,
save a few hundreds that forced their way to the steep, and scattered among
tne rocks on the south and west sides of Ben-Nevis.

T must now return back to where I left off ; namely at the commencement
ot prayers on board of Argyle's meteor galley The Faith,

LIFE OF AN EDINBURGH BAILIE, 471

Mr. ]\Iungo Law, instead of making the prayers short that morning, as the
Marquess had ordered him, made them as long again as usual, for which he
was sharply reproved afterwards ; but after my lord the Marquess had kneeled
down and joined in the homily, he could not with any degree of decency
leave it.

When he came up, two pages were waiting orders. They had been sent
express from the army. I heard him saying — " Tell Sir Duncan not to attack,
but keep his strong position in which I placed him. But I will go with the
orders myself."

" No no, my lord, do not mention it now," said I. " It is too late. The
battle will be won or lost before you can reach it and give an order."

" I will go ; I must go ; " said he vehemently. " No man shall hinder me,
to go and either conquer or die at the head of my people.'

I held him by the robe. The two henchmen waited in the boat "Speak
to him, Mr. Law," cried L " Speak to my lord. Would it not be madness
in him to go ashore now, and perhaps derange Sir Duncan's plan of fight, and
then, whatever evil betides, my lord will be blamed."

Mr. Law, who was a powerful man — though not so tall as the Marquess,
yet twice as thick, — came forward, and clasped his brawny arms round above
the Marquess's, at the same time addressing him in the words of Scripture —
" Nay, thou shalt not depart ; neither shalt thou go hence ; for if these thy
people fly, they will not care for them, and if half of them die they will not
care for them, for lo ! art thou not worth ten thousand of them ; therefore, is it
not better that thou succour them out of the ship ?"

The Marquess, thus compelled, was obliged reluctantly to give up his
resolution, which he did with many groans and grievous complaints. 1 was
resolved he should not go, for I knew Sir Duncan dreaded him, and so did I ;
therefore I carried my point half by wiles.

It has been reported all over this country that he was in the battle, and fled
whenever he saw his rival Montrose and the royal standard. No such thing ;
he never was in the field that morning. He arranged all the corps the even-
ing before, and gave out general orders ; slept at head-quarters, and only
went on board when he believed Montrose to be a hundred miles off, and the
army of the Campbells to be in no danger. He was afterwards restrained by
main force from going ashore, which would only have been selling his life for
nothing, as the day was, in effect, irrecoverably lost at an early hour. The
lowland regiment defended themselves in the old fortress against the whole of
Montrose's conquering army till he was obliged to grant them honourable
terms, and they all returned to their homes in peace. The strength of the
mighty, the brave, and the Christian clan Campbell, was by that grievous
blow broken for ever. The Faith and Hope sailed disconsolate down Loch-
aber. Argyle and I, and seven others, bore straight to the Clyde, and from
thence hasted to Edinburgh, where we were the first to lay the matter before
the Committee of Estates, and received the nation's thanks for our good
behaviour.

[I had great doubts of the BaiHe's sincerity in this, till I found the following
register in Sir James Balfour's Annals, vol. ii. p. 272 — 3 :
" Wedenesday, 12 Feb. Sessio I.

" This day the Marquese of Argyle came to the housse and maide a fuUe
relatione of all hes praceidingis sence his last going away from this.

" The housse war fully satisfied with my lord Marquese of Argylis relatione
and desyred the pressydent in their names to rander him hartly thankis
for his grit painis and trauellis takin for the publicke weille and withall
intreated to continew in so ladable a coursse of doing for the goode peace
of the countrey."

The battle was on the 2nd ; this was on the 12th ; so that before they sailed
round the Mull of Kintyre they must have lost very little time in examining
the loss sustained or the state of that ruined country.

These are the most notable passages in the life of this extraordinary person ;

472 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

and it is with regret that I must draw them to a close. He was a mncyistrate ;
a ruling elder ^ii the church ; sat in three Scottish parliaments, and lived to
see many wonderful changes and revolutions. He at length triumphed over
his old inveterate foe the Marquess of Huntly, receiving him at the Water
Gate as a state prisoner, and conducting him to that gaol from which he
never again emerged till taken to the block. But the lively interest that the
Bailie took in this bloody affair, both with the church and state, 1 am rather
inclined to let drop into oblivion ; while, on the other hand, the manner in
which he speaks of the death of his old friend and benefactor, does honour to
his heart and the steadiness of his principles. I shall copy only a few
sentences here, and no more.]

" From the first day that Charles resumed the sceptre of his fathers, nay
from the hour that Argyle placed the crown on the young monarch's head, the
fortunes of my noble friend began to decline. Me soon perceived that the
king was jealous of him, and therefore he parted from his company, and left
him to his fate. He had for twenty years been at the head of Scottish affairs,
both in church and state ; and much labour and toil did he undergo for the
good of his country, but now the summer of his earthly glory was past, and he
was left like a withered oak standing aloof from the forest he had so lung
shielded from the blast.

" When General Dean brought him prisoner to Edinburgh, I got liberty to
attend him in his confinement, and not a day passed over my head in which I
did not visit him. I had always regarded him both as a good and a great
man, with some few constitutional failings ; but his character never rose so
high as when he was plunged in the depth of adversity.

" When he and I were in private, and spoke our sentiments freely, he did
not think highly of the principles or capacities of Charles the Second ; for his
principles, both civil and religious, inclined him to a commonwealth, or a mon-
archy greatly restricted. It was said the young king soon discovered some-
thing so contracted and selfish in his character, that he was glad to be rid of
his company ; but I knew his character better than the prolligate monarch
did, and such a discovery never was made by me. There was no man truer
to his friends or more generous to his dependants, and from the support of
the Protestant religion he never once swerved. I was twice examined on his
trial, and could have told more than I did regarding him and Cromwell. One
could not say that his trial was unfair, admitting the principle on which he
was tried to have been relative. But during a long life I learned to view our
state trials of Scotland as a mere farce ; for what was a man's greatest glory
and honour this year, was very like to bring him to the block the next. What
could be a surer test of this than to see the good Marquess of Argyle's grey
head set upon the same pole on which his rival's, the Marquess of Montrose,
had so lately stood."

[The other circumstances mentioned by the Bailie are recorded in every
history of that period. But he prayed with and for his patron night and day
during his last trial ; dined with him on the day of his execution, took farewell
of him at the foot of the scaffold, and running home betook him to his bed
from which he did not rise for a month. He could not believe that the country
would suffer a deed so enomious to be committed as the sacrificing such a man
as Argyle, nor would he credit the account of his death for many days. From
that time forth he had no more heart for business ; and his political interest
in the city being at an end, he retired from society and traffic, and pined in
secret over the miserable and degraded state of his country, and the terrors
that seemed once more to hang over the reformed religion. He could not go
to his door without seeing the noblest head in the realm set up as a beacon of
disgrace ; the lips that had so often flowed with the words of truth and right-
eousness falling from their hold, the eye of majesty decaying in the socket,
and the dark grey hairs bleaching in the winds of heaven. This was a sight
his wounded sjiirit could not brook, and his bodily health and strength decayed
beneath the pressure. But he lived to remove that honoured head from the

LIFE OF AN EDINBURGH BAILIE. 473

gaol where it had so long stood a beacon of disgrace to a whole country ; to
carry it with all funeral honours into the land which it had ruled, and deposit
it in the tomb where the bones of the noble martyr were reposing. Then re-
turning home the worthy Bailie survived only a few days. He followed his
noble and beloved patron into the land of peace and forj^^etfulness. His body
was carried to Elgin, the original burial place of his fathers, and by a singular
casualty, his head laid precisely at the Marquess of Huntly's feet]

JULIA M'KENZIE:

A HIGHLAND TALE.

The following extraordinary story was told to me by Lady Brewster, a High-
land lady herself, the sole daughter of the celebrated Ossian M'Pherson ; and
she assured me that every sentence of it was literally and substantially true.
If the leading events should then be at all doubted, to that amiable lady 1 appeal
for the truth of them, and there are many in the north of Scotland, who from
their family traditions can substantiate the same.

It was never till the time of the wars of Montrose, that the chiefs and
chieftainships of the Highlands came to be much disputed, and held in esti-
mation. The efficiency of the clans had been fairly proven, and ever)- pro-
prietor was valued according to the number of vassals that acknowledged him
as their lord and rose at his command, and in proportion with these was his
interest with the rulers of the realm.

It was at that time, however, that the following horrible circumstances
occurred in a great northern family, now for a long time on the wane, and
therefore, for the sake of its numerous dependants and relatives, to all of whom
the story is well known, I must alter the designations in a small degree, but
shall describe the scene so that it cannot be mistaken.

Castle-Garnet, as we shall call the residence of the great chief to whom I
allude, stands near to the junction of two notable rivers in the north Highlands
of Scotland, having tremendous mountains behind it towards the west, and a
fine river and estuary towards the east. The castle overhangs the principal
branch of the river, which appears here and there through the ancient trees,
foaming and boiling far below. It is a terrible but grand situation, and a
striking emblem of the stormy age in which it had been reared. Below it,
at a short distance, a wooden bridge crossed the river at its narrowest and
roughest part. The precipitous banks on each side were at least twenty
fathoms deep, so that a more tremendous passage cannot be conceived. Thai
bridge was standing in my own remembrance, and though in a very dilapi-
dated state, I have crossed it a little more than forty years ago. It was reared
of oak rough and unhewn as it had come from the forest, but the planks were
of prodigious dimensions. They rested on the rocks at each end, and met on
a strange sort of scaffolding in the middle, that branched out from one row of
beams. It had neither buttress nor balustrade ; yet, narrow as it was, troojts
of horse were known to have crossed on it, there being no passable ford near.

But the ancient glory of Castle-Garnet had sunk into decay during the tur-
bulent reigns of the Stuarts, whosf policy it was to break the strength of the
too powerful noblemen, chiefs, and barons by the ami of one another. The
ancient and head title of that powerful family had passed away, but a stem of
nobility still remained to the present chief, in the more modern title of Lord
Edirdale. He was moreover the sole remaining,' hranrh of (lie hou-^e, and his
influence was prodigious ; the chief of a powerful clan. l{ut on his demise,

474 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

the estate and chieftainship were likely to devolve on the man whom, above
all others in the world, he and his people hated ; to the man who had
deprived him and them of wealth and honours ; and who, though a near blood
relation, was, at the very time 1 am treating of, endeavouring to undermine
and ruin him.

This being a hard pill to swallow, Edirdale, by the advice of his chieftains,
married Julia, the flower of all the M'Kenzies, while both were yet very young.
She was lovely as an angel, kind, virtuous, and compliant, the darling of her
husband and his whole clan ; but, alas ! years came and passed by, and no
child appeared to heir the estate of Glen-Garnet and lordship of Edirdale.
What was to be done ? The clan was all in commotion, and the chieftains
held meeting after meeting, in all of which it was unanimously agreed that it
were better that ten of the chief ladies of the clan should perish than that the
whole clan itself, and all that it possessed, should fall under the control of the
hated Nagarre.

When the seventh year of the marriage had elapsed, a deputation of the
chief men, headed by the veteran Camoch, the next in power to the chief,
waited on Lord Edirdale, and boldly represented to him the absolute neces-
sity of parting with his lady, either by divorce or death. He answered them
with fury and disdain, and dared them ever to mention such a thing to him
again. But old Carnoch told him flatly that without them he was nothing,
and they were determined that not only his lady, but all the chief ladies of
tlie clan should rather perish, than that his people should become bond slaves
to the hateful tyrant Nagarre. Their lord hearing them assume this high and
decisive tone, was obliged to succumb. He said it was indeed a hard case,
but if the Governor of the universe saw meet that their ancient line should
end in him, the decree could not be reversed ; and to endeavour to do so by
a crime of such magnitude, would only bring a tenfold curse upon them. He
said, moreover, that he and his lady were still both very young, not yet at the
prime of life, and there was every probability that she might yet be the
mother of many children ; but that, at all events, she was the jewel of hi^
heart, and that he was determined much rather to part with all his land, and
with all his people, than to part with her.

Carnoch shook his grey locks and said, the laUer part of his speech was a
very imprudent and cruel answer to his people's request, and which they
little deserved at his hand. But for that part of it which regarded his lady's
youth, it bore some show of reason, and on that score alone, they would post-
pone compulsion for three years, and then, for the sake of thousands who
looked up to him as their earthly father, their protector, and only hope, it be-
hoved him to part with her and take another ; for on that effort the very
existence of the clan and the name depended.

Three years present a long vista of existence to any one, and who knows
what events may intervene to avert a dreaded catastrophe. Lord Edirdale
accepted the conditions, and the leading cadets of the family returned to their
homes in peace. The third year came, being the tenth from the chiefs mar-
riage, and still there was no appearance of a family. The Lady Julia remained
courteous and beautiful as ever, and quite unconscious of any discontent or
combination against her. But alas ! her doom had been resolved on by the
whole clan, male and female, for their dissatisfaction now raged like a hurri-
cane, and every tongue among them denounced her death or removaL
Several of the old dames had combined to take her off by poison, but their
agent, as soon as she saw Lady Julia's lovely face, relented and destroyed the
potion. They then tried enchantment, which also failed ; and there was
nothing for it but another deputation, which, on the very day that the stipu-
lated three years expired, arrived at the castle, with old Camoch once more
at their head.

The chief now knew not what to do. He had given his word to his clan,
their part had been fulfilled— his behoved to be so. He had not a word to
say. A splendid dinner was prepared and spread ; such a dinner as had

JULIA MACKENZIE. 475

never graced the halls of Castle-Garnet. Lady Julia took her seat at the
head of the table, shining in the silken tartan of the clan, and dazzling with
gold and jewels. She seemed never before so lovely, so affable, and so per-
fectly bewitching, so that when she rose and left them there was hardly a dry
eye in the hall ; nor had one of them a word to say, — all sat silent and gazed
at one another.

The chief seized that moment of feeling and keen impression, to implore
his kinsmen for a further reprieve. He said he found that to part with that
darling of his heart and of all hearts, was out of his power ; death and oblivion
were nothing to it ; that his life was bound up in her, and, therefore, consent
to her death he never could, and to divorce and banish her from his side
would be to her a still worse death than the other, for that she lived but in
his affections, and he was certain that any violence done to her would drive
him distracted, and he should never more lead his clan to the field ; he spoke
very feelingly too of her courtesy and affectionate interest in him and his
whole clan. The gentlemen wept, but they made no reply ; they entered into
no stipulations, but parted from their lord as they met with him, in a state of
reckless despair ; but as they were already summoned to the field to fight the
enemies of the king, they thought it prudent to preser\'e the peace and equa-
nimity of the clan for the present, and afterwards to be ruled by circumstan-
ces, but ultimately to have their own way.

Shortly after this, the perturbation of Lord Edirdale's mind threw him into
a violent fever, and his whole clan into the last degree of consternation. They
thought not then of shedding their lady's blood, for in the event of their chiefs
demise, she was their only rallying point to preserve them from the control of
Nagarre, the next of blood ; and as all the cadets of the family manifested so
much kindness and attention both to himself and lady, he became impressed
with the idea that his Julia's beauty and virtue had subdued all their hearts as
well as his own, and that his kinsmen felt incapable of doing her any injury,
or even of proposing such a thing. This fond conceit, working upon his
fancy, was the great mean of restoring him to health after his life had been
despaired of, so that in the course of five months he was quite well.

But news of dreadful import arrived from the south, and the chief was again
summoned to march southward with his whole strength to the assistance of
Montrose, who was in great jeopardy, with enemies before and behind. The
chief obeyed, but could only procure arms for 300 men, and with these he
inarched by night, and after a sharp scuffle with the clnns of Monro and
Forbes, reached Montrose's camp just in time to bear a part in the bloody
battle of the Don, fought on the 2nd of July, 1645, ^^^ '" which they did
great execution on the left wing of the army of the Parliament, pursued with
great inveteracy, and returned to their glens loaden with spoil, without losing a
man, save two whom they left wounded ; and as the royal army then left the
highlands, our old friends, the chieftains of the clan, began to mutiny in private
against their chieftain with more intensity than ever. They had now seen
several instances of the great power and influence of an acknowledged
patriarchal chief, and felt that without such the clan would be annihilated ;
and they saw, from the face of the times, that theirs must rally so as to pre-
serve the balance of power in the north. Something behoved to be done —
any thing but falling under Nagarre, and the clan losing its power and name
in his. Prophets, sybils, and second-sighters were consulted, and a fearful
doom read, which could not be thoroughly comprehended.

A deputation once more waited on the chief, but it was not to crave the
dismission of his lady, but only a solemn pilgrimage to the shrine of St. Bothan,
on Christmas ; for that they had learned from a combination of predictions,
that from such a pilgrimage alone, and the nature and value of the offering
bequeathed, an heir was to arise to the great house of Glen-Garnet and Kdir-
dale ; and that from the same predictions they had also been assured, that the
clan was never to fall under the sway of the cursed Nagarre.

Lord Ediidale was delighted. His beloved, his darling Julia, was now to

476 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

be his own for ever. He invited all the cadets of the family and all their
ladies to assist in the grand procession. But Christmas brought such a storm
with it, that scarcely a human being could look out of doors ; it was dreadful
Though the weather at that season throughout the Highlands is generally of
the most boisterous description, this winter exceeded them all. The snow feH
to an unprecedented depth, and on Christmas eve, such a tempest of wind
and rain commenced as the oldest inhabitant of that clime had never wit-
nessed. The country became waist-deep of lapper or half melted snow ;
impassable torrents poured from every- steep ; so that when the morning of
Christmas appeared, all hopes of the grand procession were given up, for the
rivers were flooded to an enormous degree, and instead of the whole gentlemen
and ladies of the clan, only four chieftains, the most interested and nearest of
kin, appeared at the castle, and these at the risk of their lives. All of them
declared that the procession must take place that very day, at whatever toil
or trouble, for that no other subsequent one to the end of the world could
have the desired effect. A part of the way was perilous, but the distance to
walk was short ; so Julia, who was prepared for the event, with her usual sweet
complaisance, wrapped herself well up, and away they went on their gloomy
pilgrimage. At their very first outset they had to cross the river by Drochaid-
maide, (the wooden-bridge, I suppose.) Never was there such a scene
witnessed in Scotland. The river was more than half way up the linn, roaring
and thundering on with a deafening noise, while many yawning chasms be-
tween the planks, showed to the eye of the passenger its dazzling swiftness,
and all the while the frail fabric was tottering like a cradle. Lady Julia's
resolution failed her, a terror came over her heart, and she drew back from
the dreadful scene ; but on seeing the resolute looks of all the rest, she sur-
mounted her terror, and closing her eyes she laid fast hold of her husband's
arm, and they two led the way. Carnoch and his nephew, Barvoolin, were
next to them, and Auchnasheen and Monar last ; and just a little after passing
the crown of the bridge, Carnoch and Barvoolin seized Lady Julia, and in one
moment plunged her into the abyss below. The act was so sudden, that she
had not time to utter a scream nor even to open her eyes, but descending like
a swan in placid silence, she alighted on the middle of the surface of the fleet
torrent. Such was its density and velocity, that iron, lead, or a feather bore
all the same weight there. The lady fell on her back, in a half sitting
posture. She did not dip an inch, but shot down on the torrent as swift as
an arrow out of a bow ; and at the turn of the river round a rocky promon-
tory, she vanished from their view.

The moment that the lady was tossed from Droichaidmaide, the four chief-
tains seized on her husband and bore him back to the castle in their arms.
He was raving mad : — he only knew that he had lost his lady, by what means
he did not comprehend. At first he cursed Barvoolin, and swore that he saw
his hand touching her ; but the other assuring him that he only did so to pre-
vent the dizzy and distracted leap, and the rest all averring the same thing,
before night they had persuaded him that the terror of the scene had produced
a momentary madness, and that the Lady Julia in a fit had flung herself over.

Men on horseback were despatched on the instant to the meeting of the
tide with the river, where all the boats were put in recjuisition ; but in that
unparallelled flood both of tide and stream, the body of Lady Julia could not
be found. This was a second grievous distress to her lord ; but so anxious
were the clansmen for his safety, that they would not suffer him to assist in
the search. He had loved his lady with the deepest, purest affection of
which the heart of man is capable ; for his pathetic lamentations over her loss
often affected the old devotees of clanship to the heart, and they began to
repent them of the atrocious deed they had committed ; particularly when, —
after representing to him that he lived and acted not only for himself but for
thousands beside, and that since it had pleased the Almighty, in his over-
ruling, to take from his side in a terrific way the bcni;^n creature who alone
stood between them and all their hopes, it behoved him by all means to take

JULIA MACKEA'ZIE. 477

another wife without delay, in order to preserve the houses of their f.ithers from
utter oblivion, and themselves, their sons, and daughters, from becoming the
vassals and slaves of an abhorred house. — "These are indeed powerful reasons,
my friends," said he: "I have always acknowledged with deep regret that Heaven
should have decreed it. But man has not these things in his power, and
though there are some hearts so much swayed by self-interest that it becomes
the motive of all their actions and modulates all their feelings, such heart is
not mine, for there are certain lengths it can go and no farther. As soon as
it forgets my Julia, I shall take to myself another wife, but when that may be
I have no mode of calculation. How can I woo another bride .'' I could only
woo her as Julia ; I could only exchange love and marriage-vows with her as
Julia; and when I awoke in the morning and found that another than Julia
had slept in my bosom, I should go distracted, and murder both her and my-
self. Believe me, my dear and brave kinsmen, when I assure you, that the
impression of my lost Julia is so deeply engraven on my heart that it can take
no other. Whenever I feel that possible, I will yield to your intreaties, but
not till then."

This was a cutting speech to the old proud cadets of the family, and made
them scowl and shake their heads in great indignation as well as sorrow.
They had brought innocent blood on their heads, and made matters only
worse. While Lady Julia was alive, there was some chance remaining for
family heirs, for alas ! she had been cut off in her twenty-ninth year ; but now
there was none, and they began to repent them heartily of what they had
done.

While matters were in this state, — while the fate of Lady Julia was the sole
topic of conversation up stairs at the castle, it was no less so down stairs, but
in the latter, conviction appeared arrayed in different habiliments. The secrets
and combinations of a clan are generally known through all its ramifications,
except to the person combined against. It is, or rather was, a trait in tiie
character of this patriarchal race, and rather a mean subservient one, that
they only saw, heard, felt, and acted in conformity with their chiefs and
superiors, and they never betrayed their secrets. In the present instance,
perhaps Lady Julia was the only person of the whole clan who did not know
of the dissatisfaction that prevailed, and the great danger she was in. The
menials, of course, strongly suspected that their lady's death had been effected
by stratagem, taking all things into view, yet they were so servile, that liear-
ing their lord and his relatives thought otherwise and spoke otherwise, they did
the same. But there was one little beautiful pestilent girl, named Ecky
M'Kenzie, who was Lady Julia's foster-sister, and had come from her own
country or district with her, who was loud and bitter against the subordinate
chieftains, — and old Carnoch, as the head and leader of them, in particular, —
asserting boldly that he had murdered their lady and deceived their lord, be-
cause he knew he was next of kin to the chief, and that he and his family
would succeed him, as the clan would never submit to Nagarre, which he
knew full well. The rest of the menials accused her of uttering falsehoods,
and threatened to expose her ; but they gathered around, and gaped and
stared upon one another at her bold asseverations. " I know it all," she would
add. " I know all how that angelic creature was hated, combined against,
and murdered by your vile servile race, and particularly by that old serpent
Carnoch, who has all this while acted as huntsman to a pack of blood-hounds.
But vengeance will overtake him. There will a witness appear at the castle
in a few days who shall convict him to the satisfaction of the whole world ;
and I know, for I have it from the country beyond the grave, that I shall soon
see him lying a mangled corpse between the castle wall and the precipice
which overhangs the river."

These asseverations were so unreserved and violent, that one Angus .Seers
went direct and told his lord every thing that Ecky had said, adding, th.it
unless she was made to hold her tongue, she would bring disgrace on the
whole rlan. The chief judged for himself in that instance ; happy had it been

478 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

for him if he had clone so always ; but nothing in the world was now of inter-
est to him save what related to his late lady. So after dinner, while seven of the
duniwastles (or gentlemen) of the clan were present, he sent for Ecky
M'Kenzie up stairs, after saying to his friends, '"There is a little vLxen of a
maid here, who was related to my lost lady, her foster-sister and confidante,
who is spreading such reports against you and me, and maintaining them with
such audacity, that I must call her to account for it

" Ecky come up here ; stand before me, and look me in the face. What
wicked and malicious reports are those that you have been spreading so
broadly and asserting so confidently before my domestics ? "

" I have asserted nothing but the truth, my lord, and nothing that I will not
stand to before you and all your friends ; ay, and before the very man whom
I have accused."

" Ecky, you cannot assert any thing for a truth of which you were not an
eye-witness."

" Can I not ! I know otherwise, however. Much is revealed to me that I
never saw. So you think I do not know who murdered my dear lady ? You
might know, considering the former proposals which were made to you. But
if you are really so blinded that you do not know, which I think you are, I
shall tell you. It was by the hand of those two men who now sit on your right
and left hand ; in particular, by that old fiend, Carnoch, who has for years
been hatching a plot against your beloved Julia, and who at last executed it in
a moment of terror and confusion. Ay, and not unassisted by his tremendous
nephew there, the redoubted Barvoolin. You may scowl — I care not. I
know the foundation of your devilish plot. My lord does not know the princi-
pal motive. And for a poor selfish consideration you have taken the life of a
lady than whom a more pure, lovely, and affectionate creature never drew the
breath of life. Ay, well may you start, and well may the tears drop from
your dim remorseless eyes. You know I have told you the truth, and you are
welcome to ruminate on it."

" What do I see ? Why do you weep, cousin ? " said the chief to Carnoch.

" It is, my lord, because in my researches into futurity, I discovered that
the death of Lady Julia was to bring about my own. I had forgotten the pre-
diction, unconscious how one life could hang upon another, until this minx's
bold and false assertion reminded me of it, and convinced me that she herself
would be the cause of it. My lord, shall such audacity and falsehood pass
unpunished under your roof.?"

" Nothing shall pass — but punishment must' follow conviction, not antecede
it. Now, Ecky they are all present who witnessed my lady's death ? You did
not, that we know of."

"Did I not? Let the murderers see to that. Do you think that I was
going to let her cross the river that day with these hell-hounds without look-
ing after her.? They know well that I am telling the truth, and I will brin;.,' it
home to them. Let them beware of their necks." And she made a circle with
her finger round her own."

The chief was struck dumb with astonishment at hearing his kinsmen so
boldly accused to their faces, and it is probable that at that moment he began
to suspect their guilt and duplicity, but Carnoch, springing to his feet, drew
his sword, and said fiercely, " My lord, this is not to be borne, nor shall it.
That infatuated girl must die to-night."

" Not so fast, Carnoch !" cried the elfin, shaking her little white fist in his
face. " No Carnoch, I must w^/die to-night, nor will I for your pleasure. I
know that your relentless heart will seek my death to-night, knowing your
danger from me ; but I will sleep far beyond the power of your cruel arm to-
night, and have communication, too, with her whom that arm put down.
And note well what I say : Take not my word for the certainty of these
men's guilt If a witness does not arrive at the castle, my lord, in less than
three days, that shall convict them to your satisfaction,- ay, and a witness
iiom another country too, — then I give you liberty to cut me all to pieces, aud

JULIA MACKEA'Z..:. 479

feed the crows and the eagles with me. No, Caraoch, I mubt not die to-niglii,
for I must live till 1 convince my too easy and conhding lord. As for you,
murderers, you need no conviction ; you know well that I am telling the
truth. Carnoch, 1 had a dream that I found you lying a mangled corpse at
the bottom of the castle wall, and I know it will be fulfilled. But, O, 1 hope
you will be hung first ! Good night, sir ; and remember, I wont die to-night,
but will live out of despite to you ! "

"What does the baggage mean?"' said the guilty compeers, staring at one
another ; " ' she will give us liberty to cut her all in pieces, if a witness
against us do not appear from another country ; and that she will have
communication with her late lady to-night.' What does the infernal little
witch mean ?"

" Her meaning is far beyond my comprehension," said Edirdale ; " not so
her assertion. Would to God that I did not suspect it this night as bearing
on the truth. But it is easy for us to wait three days, and see the issue
of this strange witness's intelligence. After that we shall bring the minx to
judgment."

" She may have escaped beyond our power before that time," said Carnoch ;
" as I think she was threatening as much to-night. The reptile should
be arrested at once. My advice, therefore, is, that she be put down this very
night, or confined to the dungeon. I myself shall undertake to be her
jailor."

" I stand her security that she shall be forthcoming at the end of three days,
either dead or alive," said the chief.

There was no more to be said, not another word on that head ; but on the
girl's asseverations many words passed. Though the guiltiest of the associates
pretended to hold the prediction light before the chief, it was manifest that it
annoyed them in no ordinary degree ; for they all sat with altered faces,
dreading that a storm was brewing around them, which would burst upon
their heads. Old Carnoch, in particular, had his visage changed to that of
an unhappy ghost. He was a strange character, brave, cruel, and attached
to his clan and his chief ; but never was there a more superstitious being
lived in that superstitious country. He believed in the second-sight, and was
constandy tampering with the professors of it. He durst not go a voyage to
Ireland to see or assist a body of his clansmen there, without first buying a
fair wind from a weird woman who lived in Skye. He believed in apparitions,
and in the existence of land and water spirits, all of which took cognizance of
human affairs. Therefore Ecky's threatenings, corresponding with some
previously conceived idea arisingfrom enchantments and predictions, impressed
him so deeply that he was rather like a man beside himself. An unearthly
witness coming from beyond the grave to charge him with the crime of which
he well knew he was guilty, was more than ke could contemplate and retain
his reason. He had no intention of remaining any longer there, and made
preparations for going away ; but his lord shamed him out of his cowardly
resolution, and said that his flying from the castle in tliat manner was tanta-
mount to a full confession. On that ground, he not only adjured but ordered
him to remain, and await the issue of the extraordinary accusation.
The evening following, it being the first after Ecky's examination, Carnoch
took his nephew apart, and proposed a full confession, which the other opposed
most strenuously, assuring his uncle that in the spirit of regret that preyed on
the chief, he would hang them both without the least reluctance ; " and
moreover," added he, "a girl's word, who only saw from a distance, cannot
overturn the testification of four gentlemen who were present. No, no,
Carnoch, since we have laid our lives at stake for the good of our people, let
us stand together till the last."

The dinner was late that evening, and the chief perceiving the depression
of his kinsmen's spirits, plied them well with wine; but Carnoch continued
quite nf^rvous and excited in an extraordinary degree,— the wine made him
worse. His looks were wild and unstable, and his voice loud and intermatciii ;

48o THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

and whenever the late lady of the mansion was named, the tears blinded bis
eyes. In this distracted sort of way the wassail was proceeding, when just as
the sand-glass was running the ninth hour, they were interrupted by the
arrival of an extraordinary guest.

It was a dark night in January. The storm which had ragedfor many days
had died away, and a still and awful calm succeeded. The sky was over-
spread with a pall of blackness. It was like the house of death after the last
convulsions of nature ; and the arrival of any guest at the castle in such a
night, and by such paths, was enough to strike the whole party with conster-
nation. The din of conversation in the chiefs dining apartment had reached
its acme for the evening, for just then a rap came to the grand entrance door,
at which none but people of the highest quality presumed to approach.
Surely there must have been something very equivocal in that tap, for never
was there another made such an impression on the hearts and looks of so
many brave and warlike men. The din of ebriety was hushed at once ; a
black and drumbly dismay was imprinted on every countenance, and every
eye, afraid of meeting the gleams of terror from another, was fixed on the
door. Light steps were heard approaching by the great staircase ; they came
close to the back of the door of the appartment, where they paused a con-
siderable space — and an awful pause that was for those within. The door
was at length opened slowly and hesitatingly, and in glided, scarcely moving,
Ecky M'Kenzie, with a snow-white sheet around her, a face as pale as death,
and a white napkin around her head. Well she knew the character of the
man she hated ; she fixed one death-like look on Carnoch, and raising her
forefinger, pointed at him, — then, retreating, she introduced Lady Julia !

This is no falsehood — no wild illusion of a poet's brain. It is a fact as well
authenticated as any event in the annals of any family in Britain. Yes ; at
that moment Lady Julia entered, in the very robes in which she had been
precipitated from the bridge. Her face was pale, and her look to the chieftains
severe ; still she was the Lady Julia in every lineament. A shudder and a
smothered expression of hoiTor issued from the circle. Carnoch, in one
moment, rushed to the casement at the further end of the apartment ; it
opened on hinges, and Ecky had intentionally neglected to bolt it. He pulled
it open, and threw himself from it. Barvoolin followed his example, but none
of the rest having actually imbrued their hands in their lady's blood, they
waited the issue ; but so terror-smitten were they all, that not one perceived
the desperate exit of the two chieftains, save the apparition itself which uttered
an eldrich scream as each of them disappeared. These yells astounded the
kinsmen with double amazement, laying all their faculties asleep in a torpid
numbness. But their souls were soon aroused by new excitations ; for the
incidents, as they came all rushing on one another, were quite beyond their
comprehension. The apparition fixed its eyes, as if glistening with tears, on
one of them only, then spreading forth its arms, and throwing its face towards
heaven as if in agony, it exclaimed, " No one to welcome me back to my own
home !" The chief assumed the same posture, but had not power to speak
or move, till the apparition, flying to him with the swiftness of lightning,
clasped him in her arms, laid her head upon his bosom, and wept. " God of
my fathers ! it is my Julia, my own Julia, as I live and breathe," cried he in
an ecstacy. It was the Lady Julia herself.

" Pray, Mr. Shepherd, does not this require some explanation ?"

" It does. Madam, which is forthcoming immediately, in as few sentences
as I can make you understand it."

On the side of the river opposite to the castle, and consequently in another
country, according to the idiomatic phrase constantly used in that land, there
lived a bold native yeoman, called Mungo M'Craw, miller, of Clackmullin (I
cannot help the alliteration, it is none of my making) ; but in those days
mill-ponds and mill-lades, with their sluices and burns, to say nothing about
the mill-stones and mill-wheels, were in a very rude ineffective state. Sucli a
moMiiiig as that was about Clackmullin ! Mungo was ofi.cn heard to dccLre

JULIA MACKENZIE. 481

— "Tat tere was not peing her equal from the flood of No till te tay of
shudgement, however long she might be behind."

That great Christmas flood had been a prototype of the late floods in
Morayshire so movingly described by the Hon. Noah Lauder Dick. For
one thing, it levelled Mungo M'Craw's weirs and sluices as if no such things
had existed ; and what was worse, as the dam came off at the acute angle
of the river, the flood followed on in that straightforward direction, and
threatened instant destruction, not only to the mill and the kiln, but to the
whole Mill town, which stood a little more elevated ; and there was Mungo,
with his son Quinten, his daughter Diana, and his stout old wife ycleped
Mistress M'Craw, toiling between death and life, rearing a rampart of
defence with wood, stones, divots, and loads of manure from the dunghill.

They were not tr)'ing to stop the mighty torrent, that was out of the power
of man, but to give it a cast by their habitation ; and there were they plunging
and working at a terrible rate ; Mungo scolding and calling for further exertion.
" Ply, ply, you goslings of te Teal Mor, else we shall all be swept away out of
te world wid tat roaring ocean of destruction tat pe coming roaring down
from te hills and te corvies. Oh, Mistress M'Craw, cannot you be plying
tese creat pig shenteel hands of yours. Haif you not te fears of Cot before
your eyes, nor M'Tavish Mar, tat you will pe rolling your creat druim in tat
ways. Go fill all te sacks in te mill with dung, and let us pe plunging tem
into te preach. Diana, you mumping rosy chick, what are you thoughting
upon? I teclare you pe not carrying creat above ten stones of dung at a time.
You pe too small at te curp, and better for a dunnewastle's leman tan te
miller's daughter of Clach-Mhuillian on a floody tay. Quintain, oh you great
mastiff dog, you creat lazy puppy of a cucannech, do you not see tat we shall
pe all carried away from te univarse of Cot, unless you ply as never man
plied peforc .'' "

" Father, is Keppoch charged "i "

" Malluchid ! If I do not pe preaking your head for you. What does te
creat bhaist want with te gun just now .'"'

" Because here is a swan coming on us full sail."

" Then damh palmahar ! run and bring Keppoch. She is always charged,
clean and dry, and let us have a pluff at te swan, come of te mill what will.
Life of my soul ! if she pe not a drowned lady instead of a swan ! Mistress
M'Craw, and you young witch, Diana, where pe your hearts and your souls
now? Och now tere will pe such splashing and squalling, and hoo-hooing,
tat I shall have more ado with te living tan te dead, for women's hearts pe all
made of oladh-heighis. There now, I have lost my grand shot, and shall
lose my good mill and all te gentle's corn, and te poor fears' likewise. Alas !
dear soul, a warmer and a drier couch would have fitted you creat petter to-
day ! Come, help me to carry her, you noisy, thoughtless, noisy cummers,
and help me to carry her in. What ! howling and wringing your hands ?
See, give me hold of all your four arms, and let her head hang down, that
the drumbly water may run out at her mouth like a mill-spout."

" No, no, Mungo, keep up my head, I am little the worse. My head has
never yet been below the water."

" As I shall pe sworn before te tay of shudgement, it is te creat and cood
lady of Edirdale. Cot pe wid my dhear and plcssed matam, how tid you
come here ? "

" Even as you see, Mungo. But put me into your warm bed, and by
and by I shall tell you all ; for 1 have had a dreadful voyage to your habita-
tion ; but it has been a rapid one. It is not above half a minute since I
lost hold of my husband's arm on the dizzy cradle on the top of Drochaid-
maide.''

With many exclamations and prayers and tears, the Lady Julia was put

into bed, and nursed with all the care and affection of which the honest and

kind hearted miller and his family were capable. She bound them all to

secrecy until she thought it time to reveal herself ; but her recovery was not

I. 31

482 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

so sudden as might have been expected. An undefinable terror preyed upon
her spirits, which she found it impossible to remove — a terror of that which
was past. It was a feeling of horror that was quite unbrookable — a worm
that gnawed at her heart, and almost drank up the fountain of existence. It
was a painful, thrilling suspicion that her husband had tossed her over. She
had not the heart nor the capability of mentioning this to any at the mill, and
that made the impression on her health and spirits ; but she resolved to
remain there in quiet concealment till the mystery of her intended death was
satisfactorily cleared up to her.

She then offered Quinten, the young miller, a high bribe, if he would go
privately to the castle, and procure her a secret conference with her humble
cousin and foster-sister, Ecky M'Kenzie.

" Och, dear heart," said Mistress M'Craw, " he needs no bribe to go
privately to Miss Ecky M'Kenzie. He is oftener there than at the kirk. It
would require a ver)' high bribe to keep him away ; and she is so cunning
and handy that neither your ladyship nor any about the castle have ever
discovered them. I shall answer for that errand being cheerfully and faith-
fully perfomied, but if the boy take one highland penny for his trouble I'll
feed him on black bearmeal brochen for a month."

Poor Ecky cried bitterly for joy, and was so delighted that she actually
threw her handsome arms around the great burly miller's neck and kissed
him ; but she would tarry none to court that night, but forced Quinten to
return to Clackmullin with her.

The meeting of the two was affecting and full of the deepest interest, but I
may not dwell on it, but haste to a conclusion ; for a long explanatory con-
clusion is like the fifth act of a play, a wearisome supplement.

At that meeting, Ecky first discovered to her lady the horrible combination
that had existed so long to take her off, but knowing the chief's stedfast
resolution, never either to injure or part with her, she never told all that she
knew for fear of giving her deac lady uneasiness ; that they never would have
accomplished their purpose, had it not been for the sham pilgrimage to St.
Bothan's shrine ; and that the two kinsmen seized her in a moment of con-
fusion, and hurled her over the bridge ; then all the four seized on their lord,
and bore him into the castle, where they convinced his simple and too-
confiding heart that his lady had, of her own accord, taken the dizzy and
distracted leap.

She was now convinced of her husband's innocency, and that the love he
had ever expressed towards her was sincere ; and as she lived but in his
affections, all other earthly concerns appeared to her but as nothing ; and to
have the proofs of their own consciences, the two settled the time, manner,
and mode of her return, which was all contrived by the affectionate Ecky,
and put in practice according to her arrangement, and the above-narrated
catastrophe was the result.

On going out with torches, the foremost of which was borne by Ecky
M'Kenzie, they found old Carnoch lying at the bottom of the wall next to the
river, vrith his neck broken, and his body otherwise grievously mangled ; and
Barvoolin very much crushed by his fall. He made a full confession to Lady
Julia, and at her intercession was pardoned, as being only the organ of a
whole clan, but he proved a lametar to the day of his death. His confession
to the lady in private was a curious one, and shows the devotedness of that
original people to their respective clans and all that concerns them ; — he said,
" that finding after many trials they could make nothing of her lord, they
contrived that pilgrimage to the shrine of St. Bothan's to intercede with the
saint to take pity on their race ; but they had resolved that she should never
return from that devout festival. They had no idea of drowning until the
tremendous flood came, which frustrated the other plan. They meant to
have taken her off by poison, and had brought a bottle of poisoned wine with
them, which was to have been presented to each of the ladies of rank who
should sit on high with the Lady Julia, in a small golden chalice, and it appear-

JULTA MACKENZIE. 483

ing impossible to make exceptions, they had resolved to sacrifice the whole to
bear their lady company.

But the far best part of the stor>^ is yet to come. Whether it was the
sleeping for a fortnight on a hard heather bed, or the subsisting for that time
on milk-brose and butter, or whether the ducking and correspondent fright,
wrought a happy change on Lady Julia, I know not : but of this I am certain,
that within a twelvemonth from the date of her return to the castle she gave
birth to a comely daughter, and subsequently to two sons ; and the descend-
ants of that affectionate couple occupy a portion of their once extensive
patrimonial domains to this day.

ADAM BELL:

A TALE OF FEUD, MYSTERY, AND MURDER.

This tale, which may be depended on as in every part true, is singular, for
the circumstances of it being insolvable either from the facts that have been dis-
covered relating to it, or by reason ; for though events sometimes occur among
mankind, which at the time seem inexplicable, yet there being always some
individuals acquainted with the primary causes of those events, they seldom
fail of being brought to light before all the actors in them, or their confidants,
are removed from this state of existence. But the causes which produced the
events here related, have never been accounted for in this world : even con-
jecture is left to wander in a labyrinth, unable to get hold of the thread that
leads to the catastrophe.

Mr. Bell was a gentleman of Annandale, in Dumfriesshire, in the south of
Scotland, the proprietor of a considerable estate in that district, part of which
he occupied himself He lost his father when he was an infant, and his mother
dying when he was about twenty years of age, left him the sole proprietor of the
estate, besides a large sum of money at interest, for which he was indebted,
m a great measure, to his mother's parsimony during his minority. His person
was tall, comely, and athletic, and his whole delight was in warlike and violent
exercises. He was the best horseman and marksman in the county, and
valued himself particularly upon his skill in the broadsword. Of this he often
boasted aloud, and regretted that there was not one in the country whose skill
was in some degree equal to his own.

In the autumn ot 1745, after being for several days busily and silently em-
ployed in preparing for his journey, he left his own house, and went for Edin-
burgh, giving, at the same time, such directions to his servants, as indicated
his intention of being absent for some time.

A few days after he had left his home, in the morning while his housekeeper
was putting the house in order for the day, her master, as she thought, entered
by the kitchen door, the other being bolted, and passed her in the middle of the
floor. He was buttoned in his greatcoat, which was the same he had on when
he went from home ; he likewise had the same hat on his head, and the same
whip in his hand which he took with him. At sic;ht of him she uttered a
shriek, but recovering her surprise, instantly said to him, " You have not stayed
so long from us, sir." He made no reply, but went sullenly into his own room,
without throwing off his greatcoat. After a pause of about five minutes, she
followed him into the room — he was standing at his desk with his back
towards her — she asked him if lie wished to have a fire kindled.'' and after-
wards if hewas well enough ? but he still made no reply to any of these (jucstions.
She was astonished, and returned into the kitchen. After tarrying about other

484 i'^-li-"- ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

five minutes, he went out at the front door, it being then open, and walked
delilierately towards the bank of the river Kinnel, which was deep and wooded,
and in that he vanished from her sight. The woman ran out in the utmost
consternation to acquaint the men who were servants belonging to the house ;
and coming to one of the ploughmen, she told him that their master was come
home, and had certainly lost his reason, for that he was wandering about the
house and would not speak. The man loosed his horses from the plough and
came home, listened to the woman's relation, made her repeat it again and
again, and then assured her that she was raving, for their master's horse was
not in the stable, and of course he could not be come home. — However, as she
persisted in her asseveration with every appearance of sincerity, he went into
the linn to see what was become of his mysterious master. He was neither
to be seen nor heard of in all the country ! — It was then concluded that the
housekeeper had seen an apparition, and that something had befallen their
master ; but on consulting with some old people skilled in those matters, they
learned, that when a wraith or apparition of a living person appeared while
the sun was up, instead of being a prelude of instant death, it prognosticated
very long life ; and, moreover, that it could not possibly be a ghost that she
had seen, for they always chose the night season for making their visits. In
short, though it was the general topic of conversation among the servants,
and the people in their vicinity, no reasonable conclusion could be formed on
the subject.

The most probable conjecture was, that as Mr. Bell was known to be so
fond of arms, and had left his home on the very day that Prince Charles
Stuart and his Highlanders defeated General Hawley on Falkirk moor, he had
gone either with him or the Duke of Cumberland to the north. It was, how-
ever, afterwards ascertained, that he had never joined any of the armies. Week
passed after week, and month after month, but no word of Mr. Bell. A female
cousin was his nearest living relation ; her husband took the management
of his affairs ; and concluding that he had either joined the army, or drowned
himself in the Kinnel, when he was seen go into the linn, made no more
inquiries after him.

About this very time, a respectable farmer, whose surname was M'Millan,
and who resided in the neighbourhood of Musselburgh, happened to be in
Edinburgh about some business. In the evening he called upon a friend who
lived near Holyrood House ; and being seized with an indisposition, they per-
suaded him to tarry with them all night. About the middle of the night he
grew exceedingly ill, and not being able to find any rest or ease in his bed,
imagined he would be the better of a walk. He put on his clothes, and that he
might not disturb the family, slipped quietly out at the back door, and walked
in St. Anthony's Garden behind the house. The moon shone so bright that
it was almost as light as noonday, and he had scarcely taken a single turn,
until he saw a tall man enter from the other side, buttoned in a drab-coloured
greatcoat. It so happened, that at that time M'Millan stood in the shadow
of the wall, and perceiving that the stranger did not observe him, a thought
struck him that it would not be amiss to keep himself concealed ; that he
might see what the man was going to be about. He walked backwards and
forwards for some time in apparent impatience, looking at his watch every
minute, until at length another man came in by the same way, buttoned like-
wise in a greatcoat, and having a bonnet on his head. He was remarkably
stout made, but considerably lower in stature than the other. They exchanged
only a single word ; then turning both about, they threw off their coats, drew
their swords, and began a most desperate and well-contested combat.

The tall gentleman appeared to have the advantage. He constantly gained
ground on the other, and drove him half round the division of the garden in
which they fought. Each of them strove to fight with his back towards the
moon, so that she might shine full in the face of his opponent ; and many rapid
wheels were made for the purpose of gaining this position. The engagementwas
long and obstinate, and by the desperate thrusts that were frequently aimed on

ADA.}r BELL, 485

both sides, it was evident that they meant one another's destruction. They came
at length within a few yards of ttie place where M'Millan still stood concealed.
They were both out of breath,and at that instant a small cloud chancing to over-
shadow the moon, one of them called out, " Hold, we can't see." — They un-
covered their heads, wiped their faces, and as soon as the moon emerged froin
the cloud, each resumed his guard. Surely that was an awful pau^e ! and
short, indeed, was the stage between it and eternity with the one I The tall
gentleman made a lounge at the other, who parried and returned it ; and as
the former sprung back to avoid the thrust, his foot slipped, and he stumbled
forward towards his antagonist, who dexterously met his breast in the fall with
the point of his sword, and ran him through the body. He made only one
feeble convulsive struggle, as if attempting to rise, and expired almost
instantaneously.

M'Millan was petrified with horror ; but conceiving himself to be in a
perilous situation, having stolen out of the house at that dead hour of the
night ; he had so much presence of mind as to hold his peace, and to keep
from interfering in the smallest degree.

The surviving combatant wiped his sword with great composure ; — put on
his bonnet — covered the body with one of the great coats — took up the other,
and departed ; M'Millan returned quietly to his chamber without awakening
any of the family. His pains were gone ; but his mind was shocked and
exceedingly perturbed; and after deliberating until morning, he determined to
say nothing of the matter; and to make no living creature acquainted witli
what he had seen ; thinking that suspicion would infallibly rest on him.
Accordingly he kept his bed next morning until his friend brought him the
tidings, that a gentleman had been murdered at the back of the house during
the night He then arose and examined the body, which was that of a young
man ; seemingly from the country, having brown hair, and fine manly fea-
tures. He had neither letter, book, nor signature of any kind about him, that
could in the least lead to a discovery of who he was ; only a common silver
watch was found in his pocket, and an elegant sword was clasped in his cold
bloody hand, which had an A. and B. engraved on the hilt. The sword
had entered at his breast, and gone out at his back a little below the left
shoulder. He had likewise received a slight wound on the sword arm.

The body was carried to the dead-room, where it lay for eight days, and
though great numbers inspected it, yet none knew who, or whence the de-
ceased was, and he was at length buried among the strangers in the Grey-
friars Churchyard-

Sixteen years elapsed before M'Millan once mentioned the circumstance
of his having seen the duel, to any person, but, at that period, being in Annan-
dale receiving some sheep that he had bought, and chancing to hear of the
astonishing circumstances of Bell's disappearance, he divulged the whole. —
The time, the description of his person, his clothes, and above all, the sword
with the initials of his name engraven upon it, confirmed the fact beyond the
smallest shadow of doubt, that it was Mr. Bell whom he had .seen killed in
the duel behind the Abbey. But who the person was that slew him, how the
quarrel commenced, or who it was that appeared to his housekeeper, remains
to this day a profound secret, and is likely to remain so, until that day when
every deed of darkness shall be brought to light.

Some have even ventured to blame M'Millan for the whole, on account of
his long concealment of facts ; and likewise in consideration of his uncom-
mon bodily strength, and daring disposition, he being one of the boldest and
most enterprising men of the age in which be lived ; but all who knew him
despised such insinuations, and declared them to be entirely inconsistent with
his character, which was most honourable and disinterested ; and be'^-de liia
tale has everv appeuiauce ol tiulh. '' riuiii> cbt ocul..iua tcaiis unus qi.ain
auriti decern."

486 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

DUNCAN CAMPBELL:

OR, THE FATTHFUL DOG.

Duncan Campbell came from the Highlands, when six years of age, to live
with an old maiden aunt in Edinburgh, and attend the school. Mis mother
was dead ; but his father had supplied her place, by marrying his house-
keeper. Duncan did not trouble himself about these matters, nor indeed
about any other matters, save a black foal of his father's, and a large saga-
cious colley, named Oscar, which belonged to one of the shepherds. There
being no other boy save Duncan about the house, Oscar and he were con-
stant companions, — with his garter tied round Oscars neck, and a piece of
deal tied to his big bushy tail, Duncan would often lead him about the green,
pleased with the idea that he was conducting a horse and cart. Oscar sub-
mitted to all this with great cheerfulness, but whenever Duncan mounted to
ride on him, he found means instantly to unhorse him, either by galloping, or
rolling himself on the green. When Duncan threatened him, he looked sub-
missive and licked his face and hands ; when he corrected him with the whip
he cowered at his feet ;— matters were soon made up. Oscar would lodge no
where during the night but at the door of the room where his young friend
slept, and woe be to the man or woman who ventured to enter it at untimely
hours.

When Duncan left his native home he thought not of his father, nor any of
the servants. He was fond of the ride, and some supposed that he scarcely
even thought of the black foal ; but when he saw Oscar standing looking him
ruefully in the face, the tears immediately blinded both his eyes. He caught
him round the neck, hugged and kissed him, — " Good bye, Oscar," said he
blubbering ; — "good bye, God bless you, my dear Oscar." Duncan mounted
before a servant, and rode away — Oscar still followed at a distance, until he
reached the top of the hill — he then sat down and howled ; — Duncan cried
till his little heart was like to burst. — "What ails you ?" said the servant.
" I will never see my poor honest Oscar again," said Duncan, "an' my heart
canna bide it."

Duncan stayed a year in Edinburgh, but he did not make great progress in
learning. He did not approve highly of attending the school, and his aunt
was too indulgent to compel his attendance. She grew extremely ill one day
— the maids kept constantly by her, and never regarded Duncan. He was an
additional charge to them, and they never loved him, but used him harshly.
It was now with great difficulty that he could obtain either meat or drink-
In a few days after his aunt was taken ill, she died. All was in confusion,
and poor Duncan was like to perish with hunger ; — he could find no person
in the house ; but hearing a noise in his aunt's chamber, he went in, and
beheld them dressing the corpse of his kind relation ; — it was enough. — Dun-
can was horrified beyond what mortal breast was able to endure ; — he hasted
down the stair, and ran along the High Street, and South Bridge, as fast as
his feet could carry him, crying incessantly all the way. He would not have
entered that house again, if the world had been offered to him as a reward.
Some people stopped him, in order to ask what was the matter ; but he could
only answer them by exclaiming, "O ! dear ! O ! dear !" and, struggling till
he got free, held on his course, careless whither he went, provided he got far
enough from the horrid scene he had so lately witnessed. Some have sup-
posed, and I believe Duncan has been heard to confess, that he then imagined
ne was running for the Highlands, but mistook the direction. However that
was, he continued his course until he came to a place where two ways met, a
little south of Grange TolL Here he sat down, and his frenzied passion sub-
sided into a soft melancholy ;- -he cried no more, but sobbed excessively ;
fixed his eyes on the ground, and made some strokes in the dust with his finger.

DUNCAN CAMPBELL. 487

A sight just then appeared, which somewhat cheered, or at least interested
his heavy and forlorn heart — it was a large drove of Highland cattle. They
were the only creatures like acquaintances that Duncan had seen for a twelve-
month, and a tender feeling of joy, mixed with regret, thrilled his heait at the
sight of their white horns and broad dew-laps. As the van passed him, he
thought their looks were particularly gruff and sullen ; he soon perceived the
cause, they were all in the hands of Englishmen ;— poor e.xiles like himself ;
— going far away to be killed and eaten, and would never see the Highland
hills again !

When they were all gone by, Duncan looked after them and wept anew ;
but his attention was suddenly called away to something that softly touched
his feet ; he looked hastily about — it was a poor hungry lame dog, squatted
on the ground, licking his feet, and manifesting the most extravagant joy.
Gracious Heaven ! it was his own beloved and faithful Oscar ! starved,
emaciated, and so crippled, that he was scarcely able to walk ! He was now-
doomed to be the slave of a Yorkshire peasant, (who, it seems, had either
bought or stolen him at Falkirk,) the generosity and benevolence of whose
feelings were as inferior to those of Oscar, as Oscar was inferior to him in
strength and power. It is impossible to conceive a more tender meeting than
this was ; but Duncan soon observed that hunger and misery were painted in
his friend's looks, which again pierced his heart with feelings unfclt before.
" I have not a crumb to give you, my poor Oscar ! " said he — " I have not a
crumb to eat myself, but I am not so ill as you are." The peasant whistled
aloud. Oscar well knew the sound, and clinging to the boy's bosom, leaned
his head upon his thigh, and looked in his face, as if saying, "O Duncan,
protect me from yon ruffian." The whistle was repeated, accompanied by a
loud and surly call. Oscar trembled, but fearing to disobey, he limped away
reluctantly after his unfeeling master, who, observing him to linger and look
back, imagined he wanted to effect his escape, and came running back to
meet him. Oscar cowered to the earth in the most submissive and imploring
manner, but the peasant laid hold of him by the ear, and uttering many im-
precations, struck him with a thick staff till he lay senseless at his feet.

Every possible circumstance seemed combined to wound the feelings of
poor Duncan, but this unmerited barbarity shocked him most of all. He
hasted to the scene of action, weeping bitterly, and telling the man that he
was a cruel brute ; and that if ever he himself grew a big man he would
certainly kill him. He held up his favourite's head that he might recover his
breath, and the man knowing that he could do little without his dog, waited
patiently to see what would be the issue. The animal recovered, and
stammered away at the heels of his tyrant without daring to look behind him.
Duncan stood still, but kept his eyes eagerly fixed upon Oscar, and the farther
he went from him, the more strong his desire grew to follow him. He looked
the other way, but all there was to him a blank, — he had no desire to stand
where he was, so he followed Oscar and the drove of cattle.

The cattle were weary and went slowly, and Duncan, getting a little goad
in his hand, assisted the men greatly in driving them. One of the drivers
gave him a penny, and another gave him twopence ; and the lad who had the
charge of the drove, observing how active and pliable he was, and how far he
had accompanied him on the way, gave him sixpence ; this was a treasure to
Duncan, who, being extremely hungry, bought three penny rolls as he passed
through a town ; one of these he ate himself, another he gave to Oscar ; and
the third he carried below his arm in case of further necessity. He drove on
all the day, and at night the cattle rested upon a height, which, by his descrip-
tion, seems to have been that between Gala Water and Middlcton. Duncan
went off at a si<i>', in company with Oscar, to e.it his roll, ai\d, taking shelter
behind an old earthen wall, they shared their dry meal must lovingly between
them, " Ere it was quite finiahcd, Duncan, being fatigued, dropped into a pro-
found slumber, out nf which he did not awake until the next morning was far
ailv.mced. lingh hmcn, cattle, and Oscar, all were gimc. Duman found
himself alone on a wild height in what *'oniUry or kingdom he knew not. He

488 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

sat for some time in a callous stupor, rubbing his eyes and scratching his
head, but quite irresolute what was farther necessary for him to do, until he
was agreeably surprised by the arrival of Oscar, who (although he had gone
at his master's call in the morning) had found means to escape and seek the
retreat of his young friend and benefactor. Duncan, without reflecting on the
consequences, rejoiced in the event, and thought of nothing else but further-
ing his escape from the ruthless tyrant who now claimed him. For this
purpose he thought it would be best to leave the road, and accordingly he
crossed it, in order to go over a waste moor to the westward. He had not
got forty paces from the road, until he beheld the enraged Englishman running
towards him without his coat, and having his staff heaved over his shoulder.
Duncan's heart fainted within him, knowing it was all over with Oscar, and
most likely with himself. The peasant seemed not to have observed them, as
he was running, and rather looking the other way ; and as Duncan quickly
lost sight of him in a hollow place that lay between them, he crept into a bush
of heath, and took Oscar in his bosom ; — the heath was so long ♦hat it almost
closed above them ; the man had observed from whence the dog started in
the morning, and hasted to the place, expecting to find him sleeping beyond
the old earthen dike ; he found the nest, but the birds were flown ; — he called
aloud ; Oscar trembled and clung to Duncan's breast ; Duncan peeped from
his purple covert, like a heath-cock on his native waste, and again beheld the
ruffian coming straight towards them, with his staff still heaved, and fury in
his looks ; — when he came within a few yards he stood still, and bellowed
out : " Oscar, yho, yho ! " Oscar quaked, and crept still closer to Duncan's
breast ; Duncan almost sunk in the earth ; " D n him," said the English-
man, " if I had hold of him I should make both him and the little thievish
rascal dear at a small price ; they cannot be far gone, — I think I hear them ; "
he then stood listening, but at that instant a farmer came up on horseback,
and having heard him call, asked him if he had lost his dog ? The peasant
answered in the affirmative, and added, that a blackguard boy had stolen him.
The farmer said that he met a boy with a dog about a mile forward. During
this dialogue, the farmer's dog came up to Duncan's den, — smelled upon him,
and then upon Oscar, — cocked his tail, walked round them growling, and then
behaved in a very improper and uncivil manner to Duncan, who took all
patiently, uncertain whether he was yet discovered. But so intent was the
fellow upon the farmer's intelligence, that he took no notice of the discovery
made by the dog, but ran off without looking over his shoulder.

Duncan felt this a deliverance so great that all his other distresses vanished ;
and as soon as the man was out of his sight, he arose from his covert, and ran
over the moor, and ere it was long, came to a shepherd's house, where he got
some whey and bread for his breakfast, which he thought the best meat he
had ever tasted, yet shared it with Oscar.

Though I had his history from his own mouth, yet there is a space here
which it is impossible to relate with any degree of distinctness or interest. He
was a vagabond boy, without any fixed habitation, and wandered about
Herriot Moor, from one farm-house to another, for the space of a year ; stay-
ing from one to twenty nights in each house, according as he found the people
kind to him. He seldom resented any indignity offered to himself, but who-
ever insulted Oscar, or offered any observations on the impropriety of their
friendship, lost Duncan's company the next morning. He stayed several months
at a place called Dewar, which he said was haunted by the ghost of a piper ;
that piper had been murdered there many years before, in a manner somewhat
mysterious, or at least unaccountable; and there was scarcely a night on which
he was not supposed either to be seen or heard about the house. Duncan
slept in the cow-house, and was terribly harassed by the piper ; he often
heard him scratching about the rafters, and sometimes he would groan like a
man dying, or a cow that was choked in the band ; but at length lie saw him
at his side one night, which so discomposed him, that he was obliged to leave
the place, after being ill for many days. 1 shall give this story in Duncan's
own words, which I have often heard him repeat without any variation.

DUNCAN CAMPBELL. 489

" I had been driving some young cattle to the heights of Willcnslee— it
grew late before I got home — 1 \fas thinking, and thinking, how cruel it was
to kill the poor piper ! to cut out his tongue, and stab him in the back. I
thought it was no wonder that his ghost took it extremely ill ; when, all on a
sudden, I perceived a light before me ; — I thought the wand in my hand was
all on fire, and threw it away, but I perceived the light glide slowly by my
right foot, and burn behind me ; — I was nothing afraid, and turned about to
look at the light, and there I saw the piper, who was standing hard at my
back, and when I turned round he looked me in the face." " What was he
like, Duncan ? " " He was like a dead body ! but I got a short view of him ;
for that moment all around me grew dark as a pit ! — I tried to run, but sunk
powerless to the earth, and lay in a kind of dream, I do not know how long ;
when I came to myself, I got up, and endeavoured to run, but fell to the
ground every two steps. I was not a hundred yards from the house, and I
am sure I fell upwards of a hundred times. Next day I was in a high fever ;
the servants made me n little bed in the kitchen, to which I was confined by
illness many days, during which time I suffered the most dreadful agonies by
night, always imagining the piper to be standing over me on the one side or
the other. As soon as I was able to walk, I left Dewar, and for a long
time durst neither sleep alone during the night, nor stay by myself in
the daytime."

The superstitious ideas impressed upon Duncan's mind by this unfortunate
encounter with the ghost of the piper, seem never to have been eradicated ;
a strong instance of the power of early impressions, and a warning how much
caution is necessary in modelling the conceptions of the young and tender
mind, for, of all men I ever knew, he is the most afraid of meeting with
apparitions. So deeply is his imagination tainted with this startling illusion,
that even the calm disquisitions of reason have proved quite inadequate to
the task of dispelling it. Whenever it wears late, he is always on the look-out
for these ideal beings, keeping a jealous eye upon every bush and brake, in
case they should be lurking behind them, ready to fly out and surprise him
every moment ; and the approach of a person in the dark, or any sudden
noise, always deprives him of the power of speech for some time.

After leaving Dewar, he again wandered about for a few weeks ; and it
appears that his youth, beauty, and peculiarly destitute situation, together
with his friendship for his faithful Oscar, had interested the most part of the
country people in his behalf ; for he was generally treated with kindness. He
knew his father's name, and the name of his house ; but as none of the people
he visited had ever before heard of either the one or the other, they gave
themselves no trouble about the matter.

He stayed nearly two years in a place called Cowhaur, until a wretch, with
whom he slept, struck and abused him one day. Duncan, in a rage, flew to
the loft, and cut all his Sunday hat, shoes, and coat, in pieces ; and not dar-
ing to abide the consequences, decamped that night.

He wandered about for some time longer, among the farmers of Tweed and
Yarrow ; but this life was now become exceedingly disagreeable to him. He
durst not sleep by himself, and the servants did not always choose to allow a
vagrant boy and his great dog to sleep with them.

It was on a rainy night, at the close of harvest, that Duncan came to my
father's house. I remember all the circumstances as well as the transactions
of yesterday. The whole of his clothing consisted only of a black coat,
which, having been made for a full-grown man, hung fairly to his heels ; the
hair of his head was rough, curly, and weather-beaten ; but his face was ruddy
and beautiful, bespeaking a healthy body, and a sensible feeling heart. Oscar
was still nearly as large as himself, and the colour of a fox, having a white
stripe down his face, with a ring of the same colour around his neck, and was
the most beautiful coUey I had ever seen. My heart was knit to Duncan at
the first sight, and I wept for joy when I saw my parents so kind to him. My
mother, in particular, could scarcely do any thing else than converse with
Duncan for several days. I was always of the party, and listened with won-

490 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

der and admiration : but often have these adventures been repeated to me.
My parents, who soon seemed to feel the same concern for him as if he had
been their own son, clothed him in blue drugget, and bought him a smart little
Highland bonnet ; in which dress he looked bO charming, that I would not
let them have peace until I got one of the same. Indeed, all that Duncan
said or did was to me a pattern ; for I loved him as my own life. At my own
request, which he persuaded me to urge, I was permitted to be his bed-fellow,
and many a happy night and day did I spend with Duncan and Oscar.

As far as I remember, we felt no privation of any kind, and would have
been completely happy, iif it had not been for the fear of spirits. When the
conversation chanced to turn upon the Piper of Dewar, the Maid of Flora, or
the Pedlar of Thirlestane Mill, often have we lain with the bed-clothes drawn
over our heads till nearly suffocated. We loved the fairies and the brownies,
and even felt a little partiality for the mermaids, on account of their beauty
and charming songs ; but we were a little jealous of the water-kelpies, and
always kept aloof from the frightsome pools. We hated the devil most
heartily, although we were not much afraid of him ; but a ghost ! oh, dread-
ful I the names, ghost, spirit, or apparition, sounded in our ears hke the knell
of destruction, and our hearts sunk within us as if pierced by the cold icy
shaft of death. Duncan herded my father's cows all the summer — so did I —
we could not live asunder. We grew such expert fishers, that the speckled
trout, with all his art, could not elude our machinations : we forced him from
his watery cove, admired the beautiful shades and purple drops that were
painted on his sleek sides, and forthwith added him to our number without
reluctance. We assailed the habitation of the wild bee, and rifled her of all
her accumulated sweets, though not without encountering the most detennined
resistance. My father's meadows abounded with hives ; they were almost in
every swath — in every hillock. When the swarm was large, they would beat
us off, day after day. In all these desperate engagements, Oscar came to our
assistance, and, provided that none of the enemy made a lodgment in his
lower defiles, he was always the last combatant of our party on the field. I
do not remember of ever being so much diverted by any scene I ever wit-
nessed, or laughing as immoderately as I have done at seeing Oscar involved in
a moving cloud of wild bees, wheeling, snapping on all sides, and shaking his
ears incessantly.

The sagacity which this animal possessed is almost incredible, while his
undaunted spirit and generosity would do honour to every servant of our own
species to copy. Twice did he save his master^s life : at one time when at-
tacked by a furious bull, and at another time when he fell from behind my
father, off a horse in a flooded river. Oscar had just swimmed across, but
instantly plunged in a second time to his master's rescue. He first got hold
of his bonnet, but that coming off, he quitted it, and again catching him by
the coat, brought him to the side, where my father reached him. He waked
Duncan at a certain hour every morning, and would frequently turn the cows of
his own will, when he observed them wrong. If Duncan dropped his knife,
or any other small article, he would fetch it along in his mouth ; and if sent
back for a lost thing, would infallibly find it When sixteen years of age, after
being unwell for several days, he died one night below his master's bed. On
the evening before, when Duncan came in from the plough, he came from his
hiding-place, wagged his tail, licked Duncan's hand, and returned to his
death-bed. Duncan and I lamented him with unfeigned sorrow, buried him
below the old rowan tree at the back of my father's garden, placing a square
stone at his head, which was still standing the last time I was there. With
great labour, we composed an epitaph letween us, which was once carved on
tliat stone ; the metre was good, but the stone was so hard, and the engraving
so faint, that the characters, like those of our early joys, are long ago defaced
and extinct.

Often have I heard my mother relate with enthusiasm, the manner in which
she and my father first discovcicd the dawnings of goodness and facility of
conception in Duncan's mind, though, I confess, dearly as 1 loved him, these

DUNCAN CAMPBELL. 491

circumstances escaped my observation. It was my father's invariable cubtom
to pray with the family every night before they retired to rest, to thank the
Almighty for his kindness to them during the byegone day, and to beg his
protection through the dark and silent watches of the night. I need not inform
any of my readers, that that amiable (and now too much neglected and despised)
duty, consisted in singing a few stanzas of a psalm, in which all the family
joined their voices with my father's, so that the double octaves of the various
ages and sexes swelled the simple concert. He then read a chapter from the
Bible, going straight on from beginning to end of the Scriptures. The prayer
concluded the devotions of each evening, in which the downfall of Antichrist
was always strenuously urged, the ministers of the Gospel remembered, nor
was any friend or neighbour in distress forgot.

The servants of a family have, in general, liberty either to wait the evening
prayers, or retire to bed as they incline, but no consideration whatever could
induce Duncan to go one night to rest without the prayers, even though both
wet and weary, and entreated by my parents to retire, for fear of catching cold.
It seems that I had been of a more complaisant disposition ; for I was never
very hard to prevail with in this respect ; nay, my mother used to say, that I
was extremely apt to take a pain about my heart at that time of the night,
and was, of course, frequently obliged to betake me to the bed before the
worship commenced.

It might be owing to this that Duncan's emotions on these occasions escaped
my notice. He sung a treble to the old church tunes most sweetly, for he
had a melodious voice ; and when my father read the chapter, if it was in any
of the historical parts of Scripture, he would lean upon the table, and look
him in the face, swallowing every sentence with the utmost avidity. At one
time, as my father read the 45th chapter of Genesis, he wept so bitterly, that
at the end my father paused, and asked what ailed him.' Duncan told him
that he did not know.

At another time, the year following, my father, in the course of his evening
devotions, had reached the 19th chapter of the book of Judges ; when he
began reading it, Duncan was seated on the other side of the house, but ere
it was half done, he had stolen up close to my father's elbow. " Consider of
it, take advice, and speak your minds," said my father, and closed the book.
" Go on, go on, if you please, sir," said Duncan — "go on, and let's hear what
they said about it." My lather looked sternly in Duncan's face, but seeing him
abashed on account of his hasty breach of decency, without uttering a word,
he again opened the Bible, and read the 20th chapter throughout, notwith-
standing of its great length. Next day Duncan was walking about with the
Bible below his arm, begging of every one to read it to him again and again.
This incident produced a conversation between my parents, on the expenses
and utility of education ; the consequence of which was, that the week
following, Duncan and I were sent to the parish school, and began at the
same instant to the study of that most important and fundamental branch of
literature, the A, B, C ; but my sister Mary, who was older than I, was already
an accurate and elegant reader.

This reminds me of another anecdote of Duncan, with regard to family
worship, which I have often heard related, and which 1 myself may well
remember. .My father happening to be absent over night at a fair, when the
usual time of worship arrived, my mother desired a lad, one of the servants,
to act as chaplain for that night ; the lad declined it, and slunk away to his
bed. My muiher testified her regret that we should all be obliged to go
prayerless to our beds for that night, observing, that she did not remember
the time when it had so happened before. Duncan said, he thought wc might
contrive to manage it amongst us, and instantly proposed to sing the psalm
and pray, if Mary would read the chapter. To tliis my mother with some
hesitation agreed, remarking, that if he prayed as he could, with a pure heart,
his prayer had as good a chance of being accepted as some others that were
beller worded. Duncan could not then read, but having learned several
p^aluu) from Mary by rote, he caused her :>eck out the place, and :>ung the

49= THE ETTRICK ^'HEPHERD'S TALES.

23rd Psalm from end to end with great sweetness and decency. Mary read a
chapter in the New Testament, and then (my mother having a child on her
knee) we three kneeled in a row, while Duncan prayed thus : — " O Lord, be
thou our God, our guide, and our guard unto death, and through death,"
— that was a sentence my father often used in prayer : Duncan had laid hold
of it, and my mother began to think that he had often prayed previous to that
time. — " O Lord, thou " — continued Duncan, but his matter was exhausted ;
a long pause ensued, which I at length broke by bursting into a loud fit of
laughter. Duncan rose hastily, and without once lifting up his head, went
crying to his bed ; and as I continued to indulge in laughter, my mother, for
my irreverent behaviour, struck me across the shoulders with the tongs. Our
evening devotions terminated exceedingly ill ; I went crying to my bed after
Duncan, even louder than he, and abusing him for his useless prayer, for
which I had been nearly felled.

By the time that we were recalled from school to herd the cows next
summer, we could both read the Bible with considerable facility. But
Duncan far excelled me in perspicacity ; and so fond was he of reading Bible
history, that the reading of it was now our constant amusement Often have
Mary, and he, and I, lain under the same plaid, by the side of the corn or
meadow, and read chapter about on the Bible for hours together, weeping
over the failings and fall of good men, and wondering at the inconceivable
might of the heroes of antiquity. Never was man so delighted as Duncan
was when he came to the history of Samson, and afterwards of David and
Goliah ; he could not be satisfied until he had read it to every individual with
whom he was acquainted, judging it to be as new and as interesting to every
one as it was to himself. I have seen him standing by the girls, as they
were milking the cows, reading to them the feats of Samson ; and, in short,
harassing every man and woman about the hamlet for audience. On
Sundays, my parents accompanied us to the fields, and joined in our
delightful e.xercise.

Time passed away, and so also did our youthful delights ! — but other cares
and other pleasures awaited us. As we advanced in years jmd strength, we
quitted the herding, and bore a hand in the labours of the farm. Mary, too,
was often our assistant. She and Duncan were nearly of an age — he was
tall, comely, and affable ; and if Mary was not the prettiest girl in the parish,
at least Duncan and I believed her to be so, which with us amounted to the
same thing. We often compared the other girls in the parish with one
another, as to their beauty and accomplishments, but to think of comparing
any of them with Mary, was entirely out of the question. She was, indeed,
the emblem of truth, simplicity, and innocence, and if there were few more
beautiful, there were still fewer so good and amiable ; but still as she advanced
in years, she grew fonder and fonder of being near Duncan ; and by the time
she was nineteen was so deeply in love, that it aftected her manner, her
spirits, and her health. At one time she was gay and frisky as a kitten ; she
would dance, sing, and laugh violently at the most trivial incidents. At other
times she was silent and sad, while a languishing softness overspread her
features, and added greatly to her charms. The passion was undoubtedly
mutual between them; but Duncan, either from a sense of honour or some
other cause, never declared himself farther on the subject, than by the most
respectful attention and tender assiduities. Hope and fear thus alternately
swayed the heart of poor Mary, and produced in her deportment that variety
of affections, which could not fail of rendering; the sentiments of her artless
bosom legible to the eye of experience.

In this state matters stood, when an incident occurred which deranged our
happiness at once, and the time arrived when the kindest and most affectionate
httle social band of friends, that ever panted to meet the wishes of each other,
were obliged to part.

About forty years ago the flocks of southern sheep, which have since that
period inundated the Highlands, had not found their way over ihe Grampian
mountains, and the native flocks of that scquesteied country were so scanty.

DUNCAN CAMPBELL, 493

that it was found necessary to transf>ort small quantities of wool annually to
the north, to furnish materials for clothing the inhabitants. During two
months of each summer, the hill countries of the lowlands were inundated by
hundreds of women from the Highlands, who bartered small articles of dress,
and of domestic import, for wool ; these were known by the appellation of
norlan netties ; and few nights passed during the wool season, that some of
them were not lodged at my father's house. It was from two of these that
Duncan learned one day who and what he was ; that he was the laird of
GleneUich's only son and heir, and that a large sum had been offered to any
person that could discover him. My parents certainly rejoiced in Duncan's
good fortune, yet they were disconsolate at parting with him ; for he had long
ago become as a son of their own ; and I seriously believe, that, from the day
they first met, to that on which the two norlan' netiies came to our house,
they never once entertained the idea of parting. For my part I wish that the
futties had never been born, or that they had stayed at their own home ; for
the thoughts of being separated from my dear friend made me sick at heart.
All our feelings were, however, nothing, when compared with those of my
sister Mary. From the day that the two women left our house, she was
no more seen to smile ; she had never yet divulged the sentiments of her
heart to any one, and imagined her love for Duncan a profound secret — no,

" She never told her love ;
But let concealment, like a worm i' the bud.
Feed on her damask cheek ; — she pined in thought ;
And, with a green and yellow melancholy,
She sat like patience on a monument,
Smiling at grief."

Our social glee and cheerfulness were now completely clouded ; we sat
down to our meals, and rose from them in silence. Of the few observations
that passed, every one seemed the progeny of embarrassment and discontent,
and our general remarks were strained and cold. One day at dinner time,
after a long and sullen pause, my father said, " I hope you do not intend to
leave us very soon, Duncan V " I am thinking of going away to-morrow,
sir," said Duncan. The knife fell from my mother's hand : she looked him
steadily in the face for the space of a minute. — " Duncan," said she, her voice
faltering, and the tears dropping from her eyes, — " Duncan, I never durst ask
you before, but I hope you will not leave us altogether ?" Duncan thrust the
plate from before him into the middle of the table — took up a book that lay
on the window, and looked over the pages — Mary left the room. No answer
was returned, nor any further inquiry made ; and our little party broke up in
silence.

When we met again in the evening, we were still all sullen. My mother
tried to speak of indifferent things, but it was apparent that her thoughts had
no share in the words that dropped from her tongue. My father at last said,
" You will soon forget us, Duncan, but there are some among us who will not
so soon forget you.' Mary again left the room, and silence ensued, until the
family were called together for evening worship. There was one sentence in
my father's prayer that night, which I think I yet remember word for word.
It may appear of little importance to those who are nowise interested, but it
affected us deeply, and left not a dry cheek in the family. It runs thus : " We
are an unworthy little flock, thou seest here kneeling before thee our God ;
but few as we are, it is probable we shall never all kneel again together before
thee in this world. We have long lived together in peace and happiness, and
hoped to have lived so much longer ; but since it is thy will that we part,
enable us to submit to that will with firmness ; and though thou scatter us to
the four winds of heaven, may thy Almighty arm still be about us for good,
and grant that we may all meet hereafter in another and a belter world.'

The next morning, after a restless night, Dunr:an rose early, put on his best
suit, and packed up some little ariirlcs to carry with him. I lay panting and
trembling, but pretended to be fast asleep. When he was r*»<»(|y to depart, he

494 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

took his bundle below his arm, came up to the side of the bed, and listened
if 1 was sleeping. He then stood long hesitating, looking wistfully to the
door, and then to me, alternately ; and 1 saw him three or four times wipe his
eyes. At length he shook me gently by the shoulder, and asked if I was
awake. I feigned to start, and answered as if half asleep. " I must bid you
farewell," said he, groping to get bold of my hand. " Will you not breakfast
with us, Duncan ?" said 1. " No," said he, " I am thinking that it is best to
steal away, for it will break my heart to take leave of your parents, and " —
"And who, Duncan .''" said 1. "And you," said he. "' Indeed, but it is not
best, Duncan," said 1 ; "we will all breakfast together for the last time, and
then take a formal and kind leave of each other.'' We did breakfast together,
and as the conversation turned on former days, it became highly interesting
to us all. When my father had returned thanks to heaven for our meal, we
knew what was coming, and began to look at each other. Duncan rose, and
after we had all loaded him with our blessings and warmest wishes, he
embraced my parents and me. — He turned about. — His eyes said plainly,
there is somebody still wanting, but his heart was so full he could not speak.
" What is become of Mary ?" said my father ; — Mary was gone. We searched
the house, the garden, and the houses of all the cottagers, but she was nowhere
to be found. — Poor lovelorn, forsaken Mary ! She had hid herself in the
ancient yew that grows in front of the old ruin, that she might see her lover
depart, without herself being seen, and might indulge in all the luxury of woe.
Poor Mary ! how often have I heard her sigh, and seen her eyes red with
weeping ; while the smile that played on her languid features, when ought was
mentioned to Duncan's recommendation, would have melted a heart of adamant.

I must pass over Duncan's journey to the north Highlands, for want of
room, but on the evening of the sixth day after leaving my father's house, he
reached the mansion-house of Glenellich, which stands in a little beautiful
woody strath, commanding a view of the Deu-Caledonian Sea, and part of the
Hebrides ; every avenue, tree, and rock, was yet familiar to Duncan's recol-
lection ; and the feelings of his sensible heart, on approaching the abode of
his father, whom he had long scarcely thought of, can only be conceived by a
heart like his own. He had, without discovering himself, learned from a
peasant that his father was still alive, but that he had never overcome the loss
of his son, for whom he lamented every day ; that his wife and daughter
lorded it over him, holding his pleasure at nought, and rendered his age
extremely unhappy ; that they had expelled all his old farmers and vassals,
and introduced the lady's vulgar, presumptuous relations, who neither paid
him rents, honour, nor obedience.

Old Glenellich was taking his evening walk on the road by which Duncan
descended the strath to his dwelling. He was pondering on his own misfor-
tunes, and did not even deign to lift his eyes as the young stranger approached,
but seemed counting the number of marks which the horses' hoofs had made
on the way. " Good e'en to you, sir, said Duncan ; — the old man started and
stared him full in the face, but with a look so unsteady and harassed, that he
seemed incapable of distinguishing any lineament or feature of it. " Good
e'en, good e'en," said he, wiping his brow with his arm, and passing by. —
What there was in the voice that struck him so forcibly it is hard to say. —
Nature is powerful. — Duncan could not think of ought to detain him ; and
being desirous of seeing how matters went on about the house, thought it best
to remain some days incog. He went into the forekitchen, conversed freely
with the servants, and soon saw his stepmother and sister appear. The
former had all the insolence and ignorant pride of vulgarity raised to wealth
and eminence ; the other seemed naturally of an amiable disposition, but was
entirely ruled by her mother, who taught her to disdain her father, all his
relations, and whomsoever he loved. On that same evening he came into
the kitchen, where she tlien was chatting with Duncan, to whom she seemed
attached at first sight. " Lexy, my de^r," said he, " did you see my specta-
cles ?" " Yes," said she, " I think 1 saw them on your nose to-day at
breakfast." " Well, but I have lost them since," said he. " You may take up

DUNCAN CAMPBELL. 495

the next you find, then, sir," said she. The servants laughed. " I might well
have known what information I would get of you,"' said he, regietfullv.

" How can you speak in such a style to your father, my dear lady ? •' said
Duncan. — " If 1 were he I would place you where you should learn better
manners. — It ill becomes so pretty a young lady to address an old father thus."
" He ! " said she, " who minds him ? " " He's a dotard, an old whining,
complaining, superannuated being, worse than a child." " But consider his
years," said Duncan ; " and besides, he may have met with crosses and losses
sufficient to sour the temper of a younger man. — You should at all events pity
and reverence, but never despise your father." The old lady now joined them.
" You have yet heard nothing, young man,'' said the old laird, " if you saw
how my heart is sometimes wrung. — Yes, 1 have had losses indeed." " You
losses ! " said his spouse ; — " No ; you have never had any losses that did not
in the end turn out a vast profit." — " Do you then account the loss of a loving
wife and a son nothing.? " said he. — " But have you not got a loving wife and
a daughter in their room ? " returned she ; " the one will not waste your for-
tune as a prodigal son would have done, and the other will take care of both
you and that, \s\iGVi you can no longer do either — the loss of your son indeed !
it was the greatest blessing you could have received ! " " Unfeeling woman ! "
said he ; " but Heaven may yet restore that son to protect the grey hairs of
his old father, and lay his head in an honoured grave." The old man's spirits
were quite gone — he cried like a child — his lady mimicked him — and, at this,
his daughter and servants raised a laugh. " Inhuman wretches ! " said
Duncan, starting up, and pushing them aside, " thus to mock the feelings of
an old man, even although he were not the lord and master of you all : but
take notice, the individual among you all that dares to offer such another
insult to him. 111 roast on that fire." The old man clung to him, and looked
him ruefully in the face. " You impudent beggarly vagabond ! " said the lady,
" do you know to whom you speak .'' — Servants, turn that wretch out of the
house, and hunt him with all the dogs in the kennel." " Softly, softly, good
lady," said Duncan, " take care that I do not turn you out of the house."
" Alas ! good youth," said the old laird, " you little know what you are about ;
for mercy's sake forbear : you are brewing vengeance both for yourself and
me." " Fear not," said Duncan, " I will protect you with my life." " Pray,
may I ask you what is your name "i " said the old man, still looking earnestly
at him. " That you may," replied Duncan, " no man has so good a right to
ask any thing of me as you have — I am Duncan Campbell your own son ! "
" M-m-m-my son ! " exclaimed the old man, and sunk back on a seat with a
convulsive moan. Duncan held him in his arms — he soon recovered, and
asked many incoherent questions — looked at the two moles on his right leg —
kissed him and then wept on his bosom for joy. " O God of heaven ! '' said
he, " it is long since I could thank thee heartily for any thing ; now I do
thank thee indeed, for I have found my son ! my dear and only son ! "

Contrary to what might have been expected, Duncan's pretty only sister,
Alexia, rejoiced most of all in his discovery. She was almost wild with joy
at finding such a brother, — the old lady, her mother, was said to have wept
bitterly in private, but knowing that Duncan would be her master, she be-
haved to him with civility and respect Every thing was committed to his
management, and he soon discovered, that besides a good clear estate, his
father had personal funds to a great amount. The halls and cottages of
Glenellich were filled with feasting, joy, and gladness.

It was not so at my father's house. Misfortunes seldom come singly.
Scarcely had our feelings overcome the shock which they had received bv the
loss of our beloved Duncan, when a more terrible misfortune overtook us. My
father, by the monstrous ingratitude of a friend whom he trusted, lost at once
the greater part of his hard-earned fortune. The blow came unexpectedly,
and distracted his personal affairs to such a degree, that an arrangement
seemed almost totally impracticable. He struggled on with securities for
several months ; but, perceiving that he was drawing his real friends into
danger, by their signing of bonds which he might never be able to rcdctin, he

496 THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S TALES.

lost heart entirely, and yielded to the torrent Maiys mind seemed to gain
fresh energy every day. The activity and diligence which she evinced in
managing the affairs of the farm, and even in giving advice with regard to
other matters, is quite incredible ; — often have I thought what a treasure that
inestimable girl would have been to an industrious man whom she loved. All
our efforts availed nothing, my father received letters of horning on bills to a
large amount, and we expected every day that he would be taken from us,
and dragged to a prison.

We were all sitting in our little room one day, consulting what was best to
be done — we could decide upon nothing, for our case was desperate — we were
fallen into a kind of stupor, but the window being up, a sight appeared that
quickly thrilled every heart with the keenest sensations of anguish. Two men
came riding sharply up by the back of the old school-house. " Yonder are
the officers of justice now," said my mother, " what shall we do?" We hurried
to the window, and all of us soon discerned that they were no other than some
attorney accompanied by a sheriff's officer. My mother entreated of my father
to escape and hide himself until this first storm was overblown, but he would
in no wise consent, assuring us that he had done nothing of which he was
ashamed, and that he was detemiined to meet every one face to face, and let
them do their worst ; so, finding all our entreaties vain, we could do nothing
but sit down and weep. At length we heard the noise of their horses at the
door. " You had better take the men's horses, James," said my father, " as
there is no other man at hand." " We will stay till they rap, if you please,"
said I. The cautious officer did not however rap, but, afraid lest his debtor
should make his escape, he jumped lightly from his horse, and hasted into
the house. When we heard him open the outer door, and his footsteps
approaching along the entry, our hearts fainted within us — he opened the door
and stepped into the room — it was Duncan ! our own dearly beloved Duncan.
The women uttered an involuntary scream of surprise, but my father ran and
got hold of one hand, and I of the other — my mother, too, soon had him in
her arms, but our embrace was short ; for his eyes fixed on Mary, who stood
trembling with joy and wonder in a corner of the room, changing her colour
every moment — he snatched her up in his arms and kissed her lips, and, ere
ever she was aware, her arms had encircled his neck. " O my dear Mary,"
said he, " my heart has been ill at ease since I left you, but I durst not then
tell you a word of my mind, for I little knew how I was to find affairs in the
place where I was going ; but ah ! you little illusive rogue, you owe me another
for the one you cheated me out of then ; " so saying, he pressed his lips again
to her cheek, and then led her to her seat. Duncan then recounted all his
adventures to us, with every circumstance of his good fortune — our hearts
were uplifted almost past bearing — all our cares and sorrows were now for-
gotten, and we were once more the happiest little group that ever perhaps sat
together. Before the cloth was laid for dinner, Mary ran out to put on her
white gown, and comb her yellow hair, but was surprised at meeting with a
smart young gentleman in the kitchen, with a scarlet neck on his coat, and a
gold-laced hat. Mary having never seen so fine a gentleman, made him a low
courtesy, and offered to conduct him to the room ; but he smiled, and told
her he was the squire's servant. We had all of us forgot to ask for the gentle-
man that came with Duncan.

Duncan and Mary walked for two hours in the garden that evening — we
did not know what passed between them, but the next day he asked her in
marriage of my parents, and never will I forget the supreme happiness ?nd
gratitude that beamed in every face on that happy occasion. I need not tell
my readers that my father's affairs were soon retrieved, or that I accompanied
my dear Mary a bride to the Highlands, and had the satisfaction of saluting
her as Mrs. Campbell, and Lady of Glenellich.

END OF POLMOOD SERIES.

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