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Title: The Faa's revenge, and other tales

Author: John Mackay Wilson

Various

Release date: April 6, 2025 [eBook #75771]

Language: English

Original publication: London: Gall and Inglis, 1892

Credits: Al Haines

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE FAA'S REVENGE, AND OTHER TALES ***

"He visited again and again the fountain in the grove,

and at last won from the lady the acceptance of his suit."—p. 60.

THE

FAA'S REVENGE

And Other Tales

By

JOHN MACKAY WILSON,

AND OTHERS.

London:

GALL AND INGLIS, 25 PATERNOSTER SQUARE,

AND EDINBURGH.

Contents

THE FAA'S REVENGE . . . . J. M. Wilson

THE RIVAL NIGHTCAPS . . . . Alexander Campbell

THE STORY OF CLARA DOUGLAS . . . . Walter Logan

COUNTRY QUARTERS . . . . Theodore Martin

THE MERCHANT'S DAUGHTER . . . . Alexander Campbell

MAY DARLING . . . . J. F. Smith

MORTLAKE: A LEGEND OF MORTON . . . . James Maidment

MAJOR WEIR'S COACH . . . . George Howell

WE'LL HAVE ANOTHER . . . . J. M. Wilson

THE

FAA'S REVENGE

OR THE

Laird of Clennel

BY JOHN MACKAY WILSON.

Brown October was drawing to a close—the breeze had acquired a degree of sharpness too strong to be merely termed bracing—and the fire, as the saying is, was becoming the best flower in the garden, for the hardiest and the latest plants had either shed their leaves, or their flowers had shrivelled at the breath of approaching winter—when a stranger drew his seat towards the parlour fire of the Three-Half-Moons Inn, in Rothbury. He had sat for the space of half-an-hour when a party entered, who, like himself (as appeared from their conversation), were strangers, or rather visitors of the scenery, curiosities, and antiquities in the vicinity. One of them having ordered the waiter to bring each of them a glass of brandy and warm water, without appearing to notice the presence of the first mentioned stranger, after a few remarks on the objects of interest in the neighbourhood, the following conversation took place amongst them:—

"Why," said one, "but even Rothbury here, secluded as it is from the world, and shut out from the daily intercourse of men, is a noted place. It was here that the ancient and famous northern bard, and unrivalled ballad writer, Bernard Rumney, was born, bred, and died. Here, too, was born Dr Brown, who, like Young and Home, united the characters of divine and dramatist, and was the author of 'Barbarossa,' 'The Cure of Saul,' and other works of which posterity and his country are proud. The immediate neighbourhood, also, was the birthplace of the inspired boy, the heaven-taught mathematician, George Coughran, who knew no rival, and who bade fair to eclipse the glory of Newton, but whom death struck down ere he had reached the years of manhood."

"Why, I can't tell," said another; "I don't know much about what you've been talking of; but I know, for one thing, that Rothbury was a famous place for every sort of games; and, at Fastren's E'en times, the rule was, every male inhabitant above eight years of age to pay a shilling, or out to the foot-ball. It was noted for its gamecocks, too—they were the best breed on the Borders."

"May be so," said the first speaker; "but though I should be loath to see the foot-ball, or any other innocent game which keeps up a manly spirit, put down, yet I do trust that the brutal practice of cock-fighting will be abolished, not only on the Borders, but throughout every country which professes the name of Christian; and I rejoice that the practice is falling into disrepute. But, although my hairs are not yet honoured with the silver tints of age, I am old enough to remember, that, when a boy at school on the Scottish side of the Border, at every Fastren's E'en which you have spoken of, every schoolboy was expected to provide a cock for the battle, or main, and the teacher or his deputy presided as umpire. The same practice prevailed on the southern Border. It is a very old, savage amusement, even in this country; and perhaps the preceptors of youth, in former days, considered it classical, and that it would instil into their pupils sentiments of emulation; inasmuch as the practice is said to have taken rise from Themistocles perceiving two cocks tearing at and fighting with each other, while marching his army against the Persians, when he called upon his soldiers to observe them, and remarked that they neither fought for territory, defence of country, nor for glory, but they fought because the one would not yield to, or be defeated by, the other; and he desired his soldiers to take a moral lesson from the barn-door fowls. Cock-fighting thus became among the heathen Greeks a political precept and a religious observance—and the Christian inhabitants of Britain, disregarding the religious and political moral, kept up the practice, adding to it more disgusting barbarity, for their amusement.

"Coom," said a third, who, from his tongue, appeared to be a thorough Northumbrian, "we wur talking about Rothbury, but you are goin' to give us a regular sarmin on cock-fighting. Let's hae none o' that. You was saying what clever chaps had been born here—but none o' ye mentioned Jamie Allan, the gipsy and Northumberland piper, who was born here as weel as the best o' them. But I hae heard that Rothbury, as weel as Yetholm and Tweedmouth Moor, was a great resort for the Faa or gipsy gangs in former times. Now, I understand that thae folk were a sort o' bastard Egyptians; and though I am nae scholar, it strikes me forcibly that the meaning o' the word gipsies is just Egypts, or Gypties—a contraction and corruption o' Gyptian!"

"Gipsies," said he who spoke of Rumney and Brown, and abused the practice of cock-fighting, "still do in some degree, and formerly did in great numbers, infest this county; and I will tell you a story concerning them."

"Do so," said the thorough Northumbrian; "I like a story when it's weel put thegither. The gipsies were queer folk. I've heard my faither tell many a funny thing about them, when he used to whistle 'Felton Loanin,' which was made by awd piper Allan—Jamie's faither." And here the speaker struck up a lively air, which, to the stranger by the fire, seemed a sort of parody on the well-known tune of "Johnny Cope."

The other then proceeded with his tale, thus:—

You have all heard of the celebrated Johnny Faa, the Lord and Earl of Little Egypt, who penetrated into Scotland in the reign of James IV., and with whom that gallant monarch was glad to conclude a treaty. Johnny was not only the king, but the first of the Faa gang of whom we have mention. I am not aware that gipsies get the name of Faas anywhere but upon the Borders; and though it is difficult to account for the name satisfactorily, it is said to have its origin from a family of the name of Fall or Fa', who resided here (in Rothbury), and that their superiority in their cunning and desperate profession, gave the same cognomen to all and sundry who followed the same mode of life upon the Borders. One thing is certain, that the name Faa not only was given to individuals whose surname might be Fall, but to the Winters and Clarkes—id genus omne—gipsy families well known on the Borders. Since waste lands, which were their hiding-places and resorts, began to be cultivated, and especially since the sun of knowledge snuffed out the taper of superstition and credulity, most of them are beginning to form a part of society, to learn trades of industry, and live with men. Those who still prefer their father's vagabond mode of life—finding that, in the northern counties, their old trade of fortune-telling is at a discount, and that thieving has thinned their tribe and is dangerous—now follow the more useful and respectable callings of muggers, besom-makers, and tinkers. I do not know whether, in etiquette, I ought to give precedence to the besom-maker or tinker; though, as compared with them, I should certainly suppose that the "muggers" of the present day belong to the Faa aristocracy; if it be not that they, like others, derive their nobility from descent of blood rather than weight of pocket—and that, after all, the mugger with his encampment, his caravans, horses, crystal, and crockery, is but a mere wealthy plebeian or bourgeois in the vagrant community.— But to my tale.

On a dark and tempestuous night in the December of 1628, a Faa gang requested shelter in the out-houses of the laird of Clennel. The laird himself had retired to rest; and his domestics being fewer in number than the Faas, feared to refuse them their request.

"Ye shall have up-putting for the night, good neighbours," said Andrew Smith, who was a sort of major-domo in the laird's household, and he spoke in a tone of mingled authority and terror. "But, sir," added he, addressing the chief of the tribe—"I will trust to your honour that ye will allow none o' your folk to be making free with the kye, or the sheep, or the poultry—that is, that you will not allow them to mistake ony o' them for your own, lest it bring me into trouble. For the laird has been in a fearful rage at some o' your people lately; and if onything were to be amissing in the morning, or he kenned that ye had been here, it might be as meikle as my life is worth."

"Tush, man!" said Willie Faa, the king of the tribe, "ye dree the death ye'll never die. Willie Faa and his folk maun live as weel as the laird o' Clennel. But, there's my thumb, not a four-footed thing, nor a feather o' a bird, shall be touched by me or mine. But I see the light is out in the laird's chamber window—he is asleep and high up amang the turrets—and wherefore should ye set human bodies in byres and stables in a night like this, when your Ha' fire is bleezing bonnily, and there is room eneugh around it for us a'? Gie us a seat by the cheek o' your hearth, and ye shall be nae loser; and I promise ye that we shall be off, bag and baggage, before the skreigh o' day, or the laird kens where his head lies."

Andrew would fain have refused this request, but he knew that it amounted to a command; and, moreover, while he had been speaking with the chief of the tribe, the maid-servants of the household, who had followed him and the other men-servants to the door, had divers of them been solicited by the females of the gang to have futurity revealed to them. And whether it indeed be that curiosity is more powerful in woman than in man (as it is generally said to be), I do not profess to determine; but certain it is, that the laird of Clennel's maid-servants, immediately on the hint being given by the gipsies, felt a very ardent desire to have a page or two from the sybilline leaves read to them—at least that part of them which related to their future husbands, and the time when they should obtain them. Therefore, they backed the petition or command of King Willie, and said to Andrew—

"Really, Mr Smith, it would be very unchristian-like to put poor wandering folk into cauld out-houses on a night like this; and, as Willie says, there is room enough in the Ha'."

"That may be a' very true, lasses," returned Andrew, "but only ye think what a dirdum there would be if the laird were to waken or get wit o't!"

"Fearna the laird," said Elspeth, the wife of King Willie—"I will lay a spell on him that he canna be roused frae sleep, till I, at sunrise, wash my hands in Darden Lough."

The sybil then raised her arms and waved them fantastically in the air, uttering, as she waved them, the following uncouth rhymes by way of incantation—

"Bonny Queen Mab, bonny Queen Mab,

Wave ye your wee bits o' poppy wings

Ower Clennel's laird, that he may sleep

Till I hae washed where Darden springs."

Thus assured, Andrew yielded to his fears and the wishes of his fellow-servants, and ushered the Faas into his master's hall for the night. But scarce had they taken their seats upon the oaken forms around the fire, when—

"Come," said the Faa king, "the night is cold, pinching cold, Mr Smith; and, while the fire warms without, is there naething in the cellar that will warm within? See to it, Andrew, man—thou art no churl, or thy face is fause."

"Really, sir," replied Andrew—and, in spite of all his efforts to appear at ease, his tongue faltered as he spoke—"I'm not altogether certain what to say upon that subject; for ye observe that our laird is really a very singular man; ye might as weel put your head in the fire there as displease him in the smallest; and though Heaven kens that I would gie to you just as freely as I would tak to mysel, yet ye'll observe that the liquor in the cellars is not mine, but his—and they are never sae weel plenished but I believe he would miss a thimblefu'. But there is some excellent cold beef in the pantry, if ye could put up wi' the like o' it, and the home-brewed which we servants use."

"Andrew," returned the Faa king, proudly—"castle have I none, flocks and herds have I none, neither have I haughs where the wheat, and the oats, and the barley grow—but, like Ishmael, my great forefather, every man's hand is against me, and mine against them—yet, when I am hungry, I never lack the flesh-pots o' my native land, where the moorfowl and the venison make brown broo together. Cauld meat agrees nae wi' my stomach, and servants' drink was never brewed for the lord o' Little Egypt. Ye comprehend me, Andrew?"

"Oh, I daresay I do, sir," said the chief domestic of the house of Clennel; "but only, as I have said, ye will recollect that the drink is not mine to give; and if I venture upon a jug, I hope ye winna think o' asking for another."

"We shall try it," said the royal vagrant.

Andrew, with trembling and reluctance, proceeded to the cellar, and returned with a large earthen vessel filled with the choicest home-brewed, which he placed upon a table in the midst of them.

"Then each took a smack

Of the old black jack,

While the fire burned in the hall."

The Faa king pronounced the liquor to be palatable, and drank to his better acquaintance with the cellars of the laird of Clennel; and his gang followed his example.

Now, I should remark that Willie Faa, the chief of his tribe, was a man of gigantic stature; the colour of his skin was the dingy brown peculiar to his race; his arms were of remarkable length, and his limbs a union of strength and lightness; his raven hair was mingled with grey; while, in his dark eyes, the impetuosity of youth and the cunning of age seemed blended together. It is in vain to speak of his dress, for it was changed daily as his circumstances or avocations directed. He was ever ready to assume all characters, from the courtier down to the mendicant. Like his wife, he was skilled in the reading of no book but the book of fate. Now, Elspeth was a less agreeable personage to look upon than even her husband. The hue of her skin was as dark as his. She was also of his age—a woman of full fifty. She was the tallest female in his tribe; but her stoutness took away from her stature. Her eyes were small and piercing, her nose aquiline, and her upper lip was "bearded like the pard."

While her husband sat at his carousals, and handing the beverage to his followers and the domestics of the house, Elspeth sat examining the lines upon the palms of the hands of the maid-servants—pursuing her calling as a spaewife. And ever as she traced the lines of matrimony, the sybil would pause and exclaim—

"Ha!—money!—money!—cross my loof again, hinny. There is fortune before ye! Let me see! A spur!—a sword!—a shield!—a gowden purse! Heaven bless ye! They are there!—there, as plain as a pikestaff; they are a' in your path. But cross my loof again, hinny, for until siller again cross it, I canna see whether they are to be yours or no."

Thus did Elspeth go on until her "loof had been crossed" by the last coin amongst the domestics of the house of Clennel; and when these were exhausted, their trinkets were demanded and given to assist the spell of the prophetess. Good fortune was prognosticated to the most of them, and especially to those who crossed the loof of the reader of futurity most freely; but to others, perils, and sudden deaths, and disappointments in love, and grief in wedlock, were hinted, though to all and each of these forebodings, a something like hope—an undefined way of escape—was pended.

Now, as the voice of Elspeth rose in solemn tones, and as the mystery of her manner increased, not only were the maid-servants stricken with awe and reverence for the wondrous woman, but the men-servants also began to inquire into their fate. And as they extended their hands, and Elspeth traced the lines of the past upon them, ever and anon she spoke strange words, which intimated secret facts; and she spoke also of love-makings and likings; and ever, as she spoke, she would raise her head and grin a ghastly smile, now at the individual whose hand she was examining, and again at a maid-servant whose fortune she had read; while the former would smile and the latter blush, and their fellow domestics exclaim—

"That's wonderfu'!—that dings a'!—ye are queer folk! hoo in the world do ye ken?"

Even the curiosity of Mr Andrew Smith was raised, and his wonder excited; and, after he had quaffed his third cup with the gipsy king, he, too, reverentially approached the bearded princess, extending his hand, and begging to know what futurity had in store for him.

She raised it before her eyes, she rubbed hers over it.

"It is a dark and a difficult hand," muttered she: "here are ships and the sea, and crossing the sea, the great danger, and a way to avoid it—but the gowd!—the gowd that's there! And yet ye may lose it a'! Cross my loof, sir—yours is an ill hand to spae—for it's set wi' fortune, and danger, and adventure."

Andrew gave her all the money in his possession. Now, it was understood that she was to return the money and the trinkets with which her loof had been crossed; and Andrew's curiosity overcoming his fears, he ventured to intrust his property in her keeping; for, as he thought, it was not every day that people could have everything that was to happen unto them revealed. But when she had again looked upon his hand—

"It winna do," said she—"I canna see ower the danger ye hae to encounter, the seas ye hae to cross, and the mountains o' gowd that lie before ye yet—ye maun cross my loof again." And when, with a woful countenance, he stated that he had crossed it with his last coin—

"Ye hae a chronometer, man," said she—"it tells you the minutes now, it may enable me to show ye those that are to come!"

Andrew hesitated, and, with doubt and unwillingness, placed the chronometer in her hand.

Elspeth wore a short cloak of faded crimson; and in a sort of pouch in it, every coin, trinket, and other article of value which was put into her hands were deposited, in order, as she stated, to forward her mystic operations. Now, the chronometer had just disappeared in the general receptacle of offerings to the oracle, when heavy footsteps were heard descending the staircase leading to the hall. Poor Andrew, the ruler of the household, gasped—the blood forsook his cheeks, his knees involuntarily knocked one against another, and he stammered out—

"For Heaven's sake, gie me my chronometer!—Oh, gie me it!—we are a' ruined!"

"It canna be returned till the spell's completed," rejoined Elspeth, in a solemn and determined tone—and her countenance betrayed nothing of her dupe's uneasiness; while her husband deliberately placed his right hand upon a sort of dagger which he wore beneath a large coarse jacket that was loosely flung over his shoulders. The males in his retinue, who were eight in number, followed his example.

In another moment, the laird, with wrath upon his countenance, burst into the hall.

"Andrew Smith," cried he, sternly, and stamping his foot fiercely on the floor, "what scene is this I see? Answer me, ye robber, answer me;—ye shall hang for it!"

"O sir! sir!" groaned Andrew, "mercy!—mercy!—O sir!" and he wrung his hands together and shook exceedingly.

"Ye fause knave!" continued the laird, grasping him by the neck—and dashing him from him, Andrew fell flat upon the floor, and his terror had almost shook him from his feet before—"Speak, ye fause knave!" resumed the laird; "what means your carousin' w' sic a gang? Ye robber, speak!" And he kicked him with his foot as he lay upon the ground.

"O sir!—mercy, sir!" vociferated Andrew, in the stupor and wildness of terror; "I canna speak!—ye hae killed me outright! I am dead—stone dead! But it wasna my blame—they'll a' say that, if they speak the truth."

"Out! out, ye thieves!—ye gang o' plunderers, born to the gallows!—out o' my house!" added the laird, addressing Willie Faa and his followers.

"Thieves! ye acred loon!" exclaimed the Faa king, starting to his feet, and drawing himself up to his full height—"wha does the worm that burrows in the lands o' Clennel ca' thieves? Thieves, say ye!—speak such words to your equals, but no to me. Your forebears came ower wi' the Norman, invaded the nation, and seized upon land—mine invaded it also, and only laid a tax upon the flocks, the cattle, and the poultry—and wha ca' ye thieves?—or wi' what grace do ye speak the word?"

"Away, ye audacious vagrant!" continued the laird; "ken ye not that the king's authority is in my hands?—and for your former plunderings, if I again find you setting foot upon ground o' mine, on the nearest tree ye shall find a gibbet."

"Boast awa—boast awa, man," said Willie; "ye are safe here for me, and mine winna harm ye; and it is a fougie cock indeed that darena craw in its ain barn-yard. But wait until the day when we may meet upon the wide moor, wi' only twa bits o' steel between us, and see wha shall brag then."

"Away!—instantly away!" exclaimed Clennel, drawing his sword, and waving it threateningly over the head of the gipsy.

"Proud, cauld-hearted, and unfeeling mortal," said Elspeth, "will ye turn fellow-beings from beneath your roof in a night like this, when the fox darena creep frae its hole, and the raven trembles on the tree?"

"Out! out! ye witch!" rejoined the laird.

"Farewell, Clennel," said the Faa king; "we will leave your roof, and seek the shelter o' the hill-side. But ye shall rue! As I speak, man, ye shall rue it!"

"Rue it!" screamed Elspeth, rising—and her small dark eyes flashed with indignation—"he shall rue it—the bairn unborn shall rue it—and the bann o' Elspeth Faa shall be on Clennel and his kin, until his hearth be desolate and his spirit howl within him like the tempest which this night rages in the heavens!"

The servants shrank together into a corner of the hall to avoid the rage of their master; and they shook the more at the threatening words of the weird woman, lest she should involve them in his doom; but he laughed with scorn at her words.

"Proud, pitiless fool," resumed Elspeth, more bitterly than before, "repress your scorn. Whom, think ye, ye treat wi' contempt? Ken ye not that the humble adder which ye tread upon can destroy ye—that the very wasp can sting ye, and there is poison in its sting? Ye laugh, but for your want of humanity this night, sorrow shall turn your head grey, lang before age sit down upon your brow."

"Off! off! ye wretches!" added the laird; "vent your threats on the wind, if it will hear ye, for I regard them as little as it will. But keep out o' my way for the future, as ye would escape the honours o' a hempen cravat, and the hereditary exaltation o' your race."

Willie Faa made a sign to his followers, and without speaking they instantly rose and departed; but, as he himself reached the door, he turned round, and significantly striking the hilt of his dagger, exclaimed—

"Clennel! ye shall rue it!"

And the hoarse voice of Elspeth without, as the sound was borne away on the storm, was heard crying—"He shall rue it!" and repeating her imprecations.

Until now, poor Andrew Smith had lain groaning upon the floor more dead than alive, though not exactly "stone dead" as he expressed it; and ever, as he heard his master's angry voice, he groaned the more, until in his agony he doubted his existence. When, therefore, on the departure of the Faas, the laird dragged him to his feet, and feeling some pity for his terror, spoke to him more mildly, Andrew gazed vacantly around him, his teeth chattering together, and he first placed his hands upon his sides, to feel whether he was still indeed the identical flesh, blood, and bones of Andrew Smith, or his disembodied spirit; and being assured that he was still a man, he put down his hand to feel for his chronometer, and again he groaned bitterly—and although he now knew he was not dead, he almost wished he were so. The other servants thought also of their money and their trinkets, which, as well as poor Andrew's chronometer, Elspeth, in the hurry in which she was rudely driven from the house, had, by a slip of memory, neglected to return to their lawful owners.

It is unnecessary to dwell upon the laird's anger at his domestics, or farther to describe Andrew's agitation; but I may say that the laird was not wroth against the Faa gang without reason. They had committed ravages on his flocks—they had carried off the choicest of his oxen—they destroyed his deer—they plundered him of his poultry—and they even made free with the grain that he reared, and which he could spare least of all. But Willie Faa considered every landed proprietor as his enemy, and thought it his duty to quarter on them. Moreover, it was his boisterous laugh, as he pushed round the tankard, which aroused the laird from his slumbers, and broke Elspeth's spell. And the destruction of the charm, by the appearance of their master, before she had washed her hands in Darden Lough, caused those who had parted with their money and trinkets to grieve for them the more, and to doubt the promises of the prophetess, or to

"Take all for gospel that the spaefolk say."

Many weeks, however, had not passed until the laird of Clennel found that Elspeth the gipsy's threat, that he should "rue it," meant more than idle words. His cattle sickened and died in their stalls, or the choicest of them disappeared; his favourite horses were found maimed in the mornings, wounded and bleeding in the fields; and, notwithstanding the vigilance of his shepherds, the depredations on his flocks augmented tenfold. He doubted not but that Willie Faa and his tribe were the authors of all the evils which were besetting him: but he knew also their power and their matchless craft, which rendered it almost impossible either to detect or punish them. He had a favourite steed, which had borne him in boyhood, and in battle when he served in foreign wars, and one morning when he went into his park, he found it lying bleeding upon the ground. Grief and indignation strove together in arousing revenge within his bosom. He ordered his sluthhound to be brought, and his dependants to be summoned together, and to bring arms with them. He had previously observed foot-prints on the ground, and he exclaimed—

"Now the fiend take the Faas, they shall find whose turn it is to rue before the sun gae down."

The gong was pealed on the turrets of Clennel Hall, and the kempers with their poles bounded in every direction, with the fleetness of mountain stags, to summon all capable of bearing arms to the presence of the laird. The mandate was readily obeyed; and within two hours thirty armed men appeared in the park. The sluthhound was led to the foot-print; and after following it for many a weary mile over moss, moor, and mountain, it stood and howled, and lashed its lips with its tongue, and again ran as though its prey were at hand, as it approached what might be called a gap in the wilderness between Keyheugh and Clovencrag.

Now, in the space between these desolate crags stood some score of peels, or rather half hovels, half encampments—and this primitive city in the wilderness was the capital of the Faa king's people.

"Now for vengeance!" exclaimed Clennel; and his desire of revenge was excited the more from perceiving several of the choicest of his cattle, which had disappeared, grazing before the doors or holes of the gipsy village.

"Bring whins and heather," he continued—"pile them around it, and burn the den of thieves to the ground."

His order was speedily obeyed, and when he commanded the trumpet to be sounded, that the inmates might defend themselves if they dared, only two or three men and women of extreme age, and some half-dozen children, crawled upon their hands and knees from the huts—for it was impossible to stand upright in them.

The aged men and women howled when they beheld the work of destruction that was in preparation, and the children screamed when they heard them howl. But the laird of Clennel had been injured, and he turned a deaf ear to their misery. A light was struck, and a dozen torches applied at once. The whins crackled, the heather blazed, and the flames overtopped the hovels which they surrounded, and which within an hour became a heap of smouldering ashes.

Clennel and his dependants returned home, driving the cattle which had been stolen from him before them, and rejoicing in what they had done. On the following day, Willie Faa and a part of his tribe returned to the place of rendezvous—their city and home in the mountains—and they found it a heap of smoking ruins, and the old men and the old women of the tribe—their fathers and their mothers—sitting wailing upon the ruins, and warming over them their shivering limbs, while the children wept around them for food.

"Whose work is this?" inquired Willie, while anxiety and anger flashed in his eyes.

"The Laird o' Clennel!—the Laird o' Clennel!" answered every voice at the same instant.

"By this I swear!" exclaimed the king of the Faas, drawing his dagger from beneath his coat, "from this night henceforth he is laird nor man nae langer." And he turned hastily from the ruins, as if to put his threat in execution.

"Stay, ye madcap!" cried Elspeth following him, "would ye fling away revenge for half a minute's satisfaction?"

"No, wife," cried he, "nae mair than I would sacrifice living a free and a fu' life for half an hour's hangin'."

"Stop, then," returned she, "and let our vengeance fa' upon him, so that it may wring his life away, drap by drap, until his heart be dry; and grief, shame, and sorrow burn him up, as he has here burned house and home o' Elspeth Faa and her kindred."

"What mean ye, woman?" said Willie, hastily; "if I thought ye would come between me and my revenge, I would drive this bit steel through you wi' as goodwill as I shall drive it through him."

"And ye shall be welcome," said Elspeth. She drew him aside, and whispered a few minutes in his ear. He listened attentively. At times he seemed to start, and at length, sheathing his dagger and grasping her hand, he exclaimed—"Excellent, Elspeth!—ye have it!—ye have it!"

At this period the laird of Clennel was about thirty years of age, and two years before he had been married to Eleanor de Vere, a lady alike distinguished for her beauty and accomplishments. They had an infant son, who was the delight of his mother, and his father's pride. Now, for two years after the conflagration of their little town, Clennel heard nothing of his old enemies the Faas, neither did they molest him, nor had they been seen in the neighbourhood, and he rejoiced in having cleared his estate of such dangerous visitors. But the Faa king, listening to the advice of his wife, only "nursed his wrath to keep it warm," and retired from the neighbourhood, that he might accomplish, in its proper season, his design of vengeance more effectually, and with greater cruelty.

The infant heir of the house of Clennel had been named Henry, and he was about completing his third year—an age at which children are, perhaps, most interesting, and when their fondling and their prattling sink deepest into a parent's heart—for all is then beheld on childhood's sunny side, and all is innocence and love. Now, it was in a lovely day in April, when every bird had begun its annual song, and flowers were bursting into beauty, buds into leaves, and the earth resuming its green mantle, when Lady Clennel and her infant son, who then, as I have said, was about three years of age, went forth to enjoy the loveliness and the luxuries of nature, in the woods which surrounded their mansion, and Andrew Smith accompanied them as their guide and protector. They had proceeded somewhat more than a mile from the house, and the child, at intervals breaking away from them, sometimes ran before his mother, and at others sauntered behind her, pulling the wild flowers that strewed their path, when a man, springing from a dark thicket, seized the child in his arms, and again darted into the wood. Lady Clennel screamed aloud, and rushed after him. Andrew, who was coming dreaming behind, got but a glance of the ruffian stranger—but that glance was enough to reveal to him the tall, terrible figure of Willie Faa, the gipsy king.

There are moments when, and circumstances under which even cowards become courageous, and this was one of those moments and circumstances which suddenly inspired Andrew (who was naturally no hero) with courage. He, indeed, loved the child as though he had been his own; and following the example of Lady Clennel, he drew his sword and rushed into the wood. He possessed considerable speed of foot, and he soon passed the wretched mother, and came in sight of the pursued. The unhappy lady, who ran panting and screaming as she rushed along, unable to keep pace with them, lost all trace of where the robber of her child had fled, and her cries of agony and bereavement rang through the woods.

Andrew, however, though he did not gain ground upon the gipsy, still kept within sight of him, and shouted to him as he ran, saying that all the dependants of Clennel would soon be on horseback at his heels, and trusting that every moment he would drop the child upon the ground. Still Faa flew forward, bearing the boy in his arm, and disregarding the cries and threats of his pursuer. He knew that Andrew's was not what could be called a heart of steel, but he was aware that he had a powerful arm, and could use a sword as well as a better man; and he knew also that cowards will fight as desperately, when their life is at stake, as the brave.

The desperate chase continued for four hours, and till after the sun had set, and the gloaming was falling thick on the hills. Andrew, being younger and unencumbered, had at length gained ground upon the gipsy, and was within ten yards of him when he reached the Coquet side, about a mile below this town, at the hideous Thrumb, where the deep river, for many yards, rushes through a mere chasm in the rock. The Faa, with the child beneath his arm, leaped across the fearful gulf, and the dark flood gushed between him and his pursuer. He turned round, and, with a horrid laugh, looked towards Andrew and unsheathed his dagger. But even at this moment the unwonted courage of the chief servant of Clennel did not fail him, and as he rushed up and down upon one side of the gulf, that he might spring across and avoid the dagger of the gipsy, the other ran in like manner on the other side; and when Andrew stood as if ready to leap, the Faa king, pointing with his dagger to the dark flood that rolled between them, cried—

"See, fool! eternity divides us!"

"And for that bairn's sake, ye wretch, I'll brave it!" exclaimed Andrew, while his teeth gnashed together; and he stepped back, in order that he might spring across with the greater force and safety.

"Hold, man!" cried the Faa; "attempt to cross to me, and I will plunge this bonny heir o' Clennel into the flood below."

"Oh, gracious! gracious!" cried Andrew, and his resolution and courage forsook him; "ye monster!—ye barbarian!—oh, what shall I do now!"

"Go back whence you came," said the gipsy, "or follow me another step and the child dies."

"Oh, ye butcher!—ye murderer!" continued the other—and he tore his hair in agony—"hae ye nae mercy?"

"Sic mercy as your maister had," returned the Faa, "when he burned our dwellings about the ears o' the aged and infirm, and o' my helpless bairns! Ye shall find in me the mercy o' the fasting wolf, o' the tiger when it laps blood!"

Andrew perceived that to rescue the child was now impossible, and with a heavy heart he returned to his master's house, in which there was no sound save that of lamentation.

For many weeks, yea months, the Laird of Clennel, his friends, and his servants, sought anxiously throughout every part of the country to obtain tidings of his child, but their search was vain. It was long ere his lady was expected to recover the shock, and the affliction sat heavy on his soul, while in his misery he vowed revenge upon all of the gipsy race. But neither Willie Faa nor any of his tribe were again seen upon his estates, or heard of in their neighbourhood.

Four years were passed from the time that their son was stolen from them, and an infant daughter smiled upon the knee of Lady Clennel; and oft as it smiled in her face, and stretched its little hands towards her, she would burst into tears, as the smile and the infantine fondness of her little daughter reminded her of her lost Henry.—They had had other children, but they had died while but a few weeks old.

For two years there had been a maiden in the household named Susan, and to her care, when the child was not in her own arms, Lady Clennel intrusted her infant daughter; for every one loved Susan, because of her affectionate nature and docile manners—she was, moreover, an orphan, and they pitied while they loved her. But one evening, when Lady Clennel desired that her daughter might be brought her in order that she might present her to a company who had come to visit them (an excusable, though not always a pleasant vanity in mothers), neither Susan nor the child were to be found. Wild fears seized the bosom of the already bereaved mother, and her husband felt his heart throb within him. They sought the woods, the hills, the cottages around; they wandered by the sides of the rivers and the mountain burns, but no one had seen, no trace could be discovered of either the girl or the child.

I will not, because I cannot, describe the overwhelming misery of the afflicted parents. Lady Clennel spent her days in tears and her nights in dreams of her children, and her husband sank into a settled melancholy, while his hatred of the Faa race became more implacable, and he burst into frequent exclamations of vengeance against them.

More than fifteen years had passed, and though the poignancy of their grief had abated, yet their sadness was not removed, for they had been able to hear nothing that could throw light upon the fate of their children. About this period, sheep were again missed from the flocks, and, in one night, the hen-roosts were emptied. There needed no other proof that a Faa gang was again in the neighbourhood. Now, Northumberland at that period was still thickly covered with wood, and abounded with places where thieves might conceal themselves in security. Partly from a desire of vengeance, and partly from the hope of being able to extort from some of the tribe information respecting his children, Clennel armed his servants, and taking his hounds with him, set out in quest of the plunderers.

For two days their search was unsuccessful, but on the third the dogs raised their savage cry, and rushed into a thicket in a deep glen amongst the mountains. Clennel and his followers hurried forward, and in a few minutes perceived the fires of the Faa encampment. The hounds had already alarmed the vagrant colony, they had sprung upon many of them and torn their flesh with their tusks; but the Faas defended themselves against them with their poniards, and, before Clennel's approach, more than half his hounds lay dead upon the ground, and his enemies fled. Yet there was one poor girl amongst them, who had been attacked by a fierce hound, and whom no one attempted to rescue, as she strove to defend herself against it with her bare hands. Her screams for assistance rose louder and more loud; and as Clennel and his followers drew near, and her companions fled, they turned round, and, with a fiendish laugh, cried—

"Rue it now!"

Maddened more keenly by the words, he was following on in pursuit, without rescuing the screaming girl from the teeth of the hound, or seeming to perceive her, when a woman, suddenly turning round from amongst the flying gipsies, exclaimed—

"For your sake!—for Heaven's sake! Laird Clennel! save my bairn."

He turned hastily aside, and, seizing the hound by the throat, tore it from the lacerated girl, who sank, bleeding, terrified, and exhausted, upon the ground. Her features were beautiful, and her yellow hair contrasted ill with the tawny hue of her countenance and the snowy whiteness of her bosom, which in the struggle had been revealed. The elder gipsy woman approached. She knelt by the side of the wounded girl.

"O my bairn!" she exclaimed, "what has this day brought upon me!—they have murdered you! This is rueing, indeed; and I rue too!"

"Susan!" exclaimed Clennel, as he listened to her words, and his eyes had been for several seconds fixed upon her countenance.

"Yes!—Susan!—guilty Susan!" cried the gipsy.

"Wretch!" he exclaimed, "my child!—where is my child?—is this"—and he gazed on the poor girl, his voice failed him, and he burst into tears.

"Yes!—yes!" replied she bitterly. "it is her—there lies your daughter—look upon her face."

He needed, indeed, but to look upon her countenance—disfigured as it was, and dyed with weeds to give it a sallow hue—to behold in it every lineament of her mother's, lovely as when they first met his eye and entered his heart. He flung himself on the ground by her side, he raised her head, he kissed her cheek, he exclaimed, "my child!—my child!—my lost one! I have destroyed thee!"

He bound up her lacerated arms, and applied a flask of wine, which he carried with him, to her lips, and he supported her on his knee, and again kissing her cheek, sobbed, "my child!—my own!"

Andrew Smith also bent over her and said, "Oh, it is her! there isna the smallest doubt o' that. I could swear to her among a thousand. She's her mother's very picture." And, turning to Susan, he added, "O Susan, woman, but ye hae been a terrible hypocrite!"

Clennel having placed his daughter on horseback before him, supporting her with his arm, Susan was set between two of his followers, and conducted to the hall.

Before the tidings were made known to Lady Clennel, the wounds of her daughter were carefully dressed, the dye that changed the colour of her countenance was removed, and her gipsy garb was exchanged for more seemly apparel.

Clennel anxiously entered the apartment of his lady, to reveal to her the tale of joy; but when he entered, he wist not how to introduce it. He knew that excess of sudden joy was not less dangerous than excess of grief, and his countenance was troubled, though its expression was less sad than it had been for many years.

"Eleanor," he at length began, "cheer up."

"Why, I am not sadder than usual, dear," replied she, in her wonted gentle manner; "and to be more cheerful would ill become one who has endured my sorrows."

"True, true," said he, "but our affliction may not be so severe as we have thought—there may be hope—there may be joy for us yet."

"What mean ye, husband?" inquired she, eagerly; "have ye heard aught—aught of my children?—you have!—you have!—your countenance speaks it."

"Yes, dear Eleanor," returned he, "I have heard of our daughter."

"And she lives?—she lives?—tell me that she lives!"

"Yes, she lives."

"And I shall see her—I shall embrace my child again?"

"Yes, love, yes," replied he, and burst into tears.

"When—oh, when?" she exclaimed, "can you take me to her now?"

"Be calm, my sweet one. You shall see our child—our long-lost child. You shall see her now—she is here."

"Here!—my child!" she exclaimed, and sank back upon her seat.

Words would fail to paint the tender interview—the mother's joy—the daughter's wonder—the long, the passionate embrace—the tears of all—the looks—the words—the moments of unutterable feeling.

I shall next notice the confession of Susan. Clennel promised her forgiveness if she would confess the whole truth; and he doubted not, that from her he would also obtain tidings of his son, and learn where he might find him, if he yet lived. I shall give her story in her own words.

"When I came amongst you," she began, "I said that I was an orphan, and I told ye truly, so far as I knew myself. I have been reared amongst the people ye call gipsies from infancy. They fed me before I could provide for myself. I have wandered with them through many lands. They taught me many things; and, while young, sent me as a servant into families, that I might gather information to assist them in upholding their mysteries of fortune-telling, I dared not to disobey them—they kept me as their slave—and I knew that they would destroy my life for an act of disobedience. I was in London when ye cruelly burned down the bit town between the Keyhaugh and Clovencrag. That night would have been your last, but Elspeth Faa vowed more cruel vengeance than death on you and yours. After our king had carried away your son, I was ordered from London to assist in the plot o' revenge. I at length succeeded in getting into your family, and the rest ye know. When ye were a' busy wi' your company, I slipped into the woods wi' the bairn in my arms, where others were ready to meet us; and long before ye missed us, we were miles across the hills, and frae that day to this your daughter has passed as mine."

"But tell me all, woman," cried Clennel, "as you hope for either pardon or protection—where is my son, my little Harry? Does he live?—where shall I find him?"

"As I live," replied Susan, "I cannot tell. There are but two know concerning him—and that is the king and his wife Elspeth; and there is but one way of discovering anything respecting him, which is by crossing Elspeth's loof, that she may betray her husband; and she would do it for revenge's sake, for an ill husband has he been to her, and in her old days he has discarded her for another."

"And where may she be found?" inquired Clennel, earnestly.

"That," added Susan, "is a question I cannot answer. She was with the people in the glen to-day, and was first to raise the laugh when your dog fastened its teeth in the flesh of your ain bairn. But she may be far to seek and ill to find now—for she is wi' those that travel fast and far, and that will not see her hindmost."

Deep was the disappointment of the laird when he found he could obtain no tidings of his son. But, at the intercession of his daughter (whose untutored mind her fond mother had begun to instruct), Susan was freely pardoned, promised protection from her tribe, and again admitted as one of the household.

I might describe the anxious care of the fond mother, as, day by day, she sat by her new-found and lovely daughter's side, teaching her, and telling her of a hundred things of which she had never heard before, while her father sat gazing and listening near them, rejoicing over both.

But the ray of sunshine which had penetrated the house of Clennel was not destined to be of long duration. At that period a fearful cloud overhung the whole land, and the fury of civil war seemed about to burst forth.

The threatening storm did explode; a bigoted king overstepped his prerogative, set at nought the rights and the liberties of the subject, and an indignant people stained their hands with blood. A political convulsion shook the empire to its centre. Families and individuals became involved in the general catastrophe; and the house of Clennel did not escape. In common with the majority of the English gentry of that period, Clennel was a stanch loyalist, and if not exactly a lover of the king, or an ardent admirer of his acts, yet one who would fight for the crown though it should (as it was expressed about the time) "hang by a bush." When, therefore, the parliament declared war against the king, and the name of Cromwell spread awe throughout the country, and when some said that a prophet and deliverer had risen amongst them, and others an ambitious hypocrite and a tyrant, Clennel armed a body of his dependants, and hastened to the assistance of his sovereign, leaving his wife and his newly-found daughter with the promise of a speedy return.

It is unnecessary to describe all that he did or encountered during the civil wars. He had been a zealous partizan of the first Charles, and he fought for the fortunes of his son to the last. He was present at the battle of Worcester, which Cromwell calls his "crowning mercy," in the September of 1651, where the already dispirited royalists were finally routed; and he fought by the side of the king until the streets were heaped with dead; and when Charles fled, he, with others, accompanied him to the borders of Staffordshire.

Having bid the young prince an affectionate farewell, Clennel turned back, with the intention of proceeding on his journey, on the following day, to Northumberland, though he was aware, that, from the part which he had taken in the royal cause, even his person was in danger. Yet the desire again to behold his wife and daughter overcame his fears, and the thought of meeting them in some degree consoled him for the fate of his prince, and the result of the struggle in which he had been engaged.

But he had not proceeded far when he was met by two men dressed as soldiers of the Parliamentary army—the one a veteran with grey hairs, and the other a youth. The shades of night had set in; but the latter he instantly recognised as a young soldier whom he had that day wounded in the streets of Worcester.

"Stand!" said the old man, as they met him; and the younger drew his sword.

"If I stand!" exclaimed Clennel, "it shall not be when an old man and a boy command me." And, following their example, he unsheathed his sword.

"Boy!" exclaimed the youth; "whom call ye boy?—think ye, because ye wounded me this morn, that fortune shall aye sit on your arm?—yield or try."

They made several thrusts at each other, and the old man, as an indifferent spectator, stood looking on. But the youth, by a dexterous blow, shivered the sword in Clennel's hand, and left him at his mercy.

"Now yield ye," he exclaimed; "the chance is mine now—in the morning it was thine."

"Ye seem a fair foe," replied Clennel, "and loath am I to yield, but that I am weaponless."

"Despatch him at once!" growled the old man. "If he spilled your blood in the morning, there can be no harm in spilling his the night—and especially after giein' him a fair chance."

"Father," returned the youth, "would ye have me to kill a man in cold blood?"

"Let him submit to be bound then, hands and eyes, or I will," cried the senior.

The younger obeyed, and Clennel, finding himself disarmed, submitted to his fate; and his hands were bound, and his eyes tied up, so that he knew not where they led him.

After wandering many miles, and having lain upon what appeared the cold earth for a lodging, he was aroused from a comfortless and troubled sleep, by a person tearing the bandage from his eyes, and ordering him to prepare for his trial. He started to his feet. He looked around, and beheld that he stood in the midst of a gipsy encampment. He was not a man given to fear, but a sickness came over his heart when he thought of his wife and daughter, and that, knowing the character of the people in whose power he was, he should never behold them again.

The males of the Faa tribe began to assemble in a sort of half circle in the area of the encampment, and in the midst of them, towering over the heads of all, he immediately distinguished the tall figure of Willie Faa, in whom he also discovered the grey-haired Parliamentary soldier of the previous night. But the youth with whom he had twice contended and once wounded, and by whom he had been made prisoner, he was unable to single out amongst them.

He was rudely dragged before them, and Willie Faa cried—"Ken ye the culprit?"

"Clennel o' Northumberland!—our enemy!" exclaimed twenty voices.

"Yes," continued Willie, "Clennel, our enemy—the burner o' our humble habitations—that left the auld, the sick, the infirm, and the helpless, and the infants o' our kindred to perish in the flaming ruins. Had we burned his house, the punishment would have been death; and shall we do less to him than he would do to us?"

"No! no!" they exclaimed with one voice.

"But," added Willie, "though he would have disgraced us wi' a gallows, as he has been a soldier, I propose that he hae the honour o' a soldier's death, and that Harry Faa be appointed to shoot him."

"All! all! all!" was the cry.

"He shall die with the setting sun," said Willie, and again they cried, "Agreed!"

Such was the form of trial which Clennel underwent, when he was again rudely dragged away, and placed in a tent round which four strong Faas kept guard. He had not been alone an hour, when his judge, the Faa king, entered, and addressed him—-

"Now, Laird Clennel, say ye that I haena lived to see day about wi' ye. When ye turned me frae beneath your roof, when the drift was fierce and the wind howled in the moors, was it not tauld to ye that ye would rue it!—but ye mocked the admonition and the threat, and, after that, cruelly burned us out o' house and ha'. When I came hame, I saw my auld mother, that was within three years o' a hunder, couring ower the reeking ruins, without a wa' to shelter her, and crooning curses on the doer o' the black deed. There were my youngest bairns, too, crouching by their granny's side, starving wi' hunger as weel as wi' cauld, for ye had burned a', and haudin' their bits o' hands before the burnin' ruins o' the house that they were born in, to warm them! That night I vowed vengeance on you; and even on that night I would have executed it, but I was prevented; and glad am I now that I was prevented, for my vengeance has been complete—or a' but complete. Wi' my ain hand I snatched your son and heir from his mother's side, and a terrible chase I had for it; but revenge lent me baith strength and speed. And when ye had anither bairn that was like to live, I forced a lassie, that some o' our folk had stolen when an infant, to bring it to us. Ye have got your daughter back again, but no before she has cost ye mony a sad heart and mony a saut tear; and that was some revenge. But the substance o' my satisfaction and revenge lies in what I hae to tell ye. Ye die this night as the sun gaes down; and, hearken to me now—the young soldier whom ye wounded on the streets o' Worcester, and who last night made you prisoner, was your son—your heir—your lost son! Ha! ha!—Clennel, am I revenged?"

"My son!" screamed the prisoner—"monster, what is it that ye say? Strike me dead, now I am in your power—but torment me not!"

"Ha! ha! ha!" again laughed the grey-haired savage—"man, ye are about to die, and ye know not that ye are born. Ye have not heard half I have to tell. I heard that ye had joined the standard o' King Charles. I, a king in my ain right, care for neither your king nor parliament; but I resolved to wear, for a time, the cloth o' old Noll, and to make your son do the same, that I might hae an opportunity o' meeting you as an enemy, and seeing him strike you to the heart. That satisfaction I had not; but I had its equivalent. Yesterday, I saw you shed his blood on the streets o' Worcester, and in the evening he gave you a prisoner into my hands that desired you."

"Grey-haired monster!" exclaimed Clennel, "have ye no feeling—no heart? Speak ye to torment me, or tell me truly, have I seen my son?"

"Patience, man!" said the Faa, with a smile of sardonic triumph—"my story is but half finished. It was the blood o' your son ye shed yesterday at Worcester—it was your son who disarmed ye, and gave ye into my power; and best o' a'! now, hear me! hear me! lose not a word!—it is the hand o' your son that this night, at sunset, shall send you to eternity! Now, tell me, Clennel, am I no revenged? Do ye no rue it?"

"Wretch! wretch!" cried the miserable parent, "in mercy strike me dead. If I have raised my sword against my son, let that suffice ye!—but spare, oh, spare my child from being an involuntary parricide!"

"Hush, fool!" said the Faa; "I have waited for this consummation o' my revenge for twenty years, and think ye that I will be deprived o' it now by a few whining words? Remember, sunset!" he added, and left the tent.

Evening came, and the disk of the sun began to disappear behind the western hills. Men and women, the old and the young, amongst the Faas, came out from their encampment to behold the death of their enemy. Clennel was brought forth between two, his hands fastened to his sides, and a bandage round his mouth, to prevent him making himself known to his executioner. A rope was also brought round his body, and he was tied to the trunk of an old ash tree. The women of the tribe began a sort of yell or coronach; and their king, stepping forward, and smiling savagely in the face of his victim, cried aloud—

"Harry Faa! stand forth and perform the duty your tribe have imposed on you."

A young man, reluctantly, and with a slow and trembling step, issued from one of the tents. He carried a musket in his hand, and placed himself in front of the prisoner, at about twenty yards from him.

"Make ready!" cried Willie Faa, in a voice like thunder. And the youth, though his hands shook, levelled the musket at his victim.

But, at that moment, one who, to appearance, seemed a maniac, sprang from a clump of whins behind the ash tree where the prisoner was bound, and, throwing herself before him, she cried—"Hold!—would you murder your own father? Harry Clennel!—would you murder your father? Mind ye not when ye was stolen frae your mother's side, as ye gathered wild flowers in the wood?"

It was Elspeth Faa.

The musket dropped from the hands of the intended executioner—a thousand recollections, that he had often fancied dreams, rushed across his memory. He again seized the musket, he rushed forward to his father, but, ere he reached, Elspeth had cut the cords that bound the laird, and placed a dagger in his hand for his defence, and, with extended arms, he flew to meet the youth, crying—"My son!—my son!"

The old Faa king shook with rage and disappointment, and his first impulse was to poniard his wife—but he feared to do so; for although he had injured her, and had not seen her for years, her influence was greater with the tribe than his.

"Now, Willie," cried she, addressing him, "wha rues it now? Fareweel for ance and a'—and the bairn I brought up will find a shelter for my auld head."

It were vain to tell how Clennel and his son wept on each other's neck, and how they exchanged forgiveness. But such was the influence of Elspeth, that they departed from the midst of the Faas unmolested, and she accompanied them.

Imagination must picture the scene when the long-lost son flung himself upon the bosom of his mother, and pressed his sister's hand in his. Clennel Hall rang with the sounds of joy for many days; and, ere they were ended, Andrew Smith placed a ring upon the finger of Susan, and they became one flesh—she a respectable woman. And old Elspeth lived to the age of ninety and seven years beneath its roof.

THE RIVAL NIGHTCAPS.

BY ALEXANDER CAMPBELL.

In the neighbourhood of the suburban village of Bridgeton, near Glasgow, there lived, a good many years ago, a worthy man, and an excellent weaver, of the name of Thomas Callender, and his wife, a bustling, active woman, but, if anything, a little of what is called the randy. We have said that Thomas's occupation was the loom. It was so; but, be it known, that he was not a mere journeyman weaver—one who is obliged to toil for the subsistence of the day that is passing over him, and whose sole dependence is on the labour of his hands. By no means. Thomas had been all his days, a careful, thrifty man, and had made his hay while the sun shone;—when wages were good, he had saved money—as much as could keep him in a small way, independent of labour, should sickness or any other casualty render it necessary for him to fall back on his secret resources. Being, at the time we speak of, however, suffering under no bodily affliction of any kind, but, on the contrary, being hale and hearty, and not much past the meridian of life, he continued at his loom, although, perhaps, not altogether with the perseverance and assiduity which had distinguished the earlier part of his brilliant career. The consciousness of independence, and, probably, some slight preliminary touches from approaching eild, had rather abated the energy of his exertions; yet Thomas still made a fair week's wage of it, as matters went. Now, with a portion of the honest wealth which he had acquired, Mr Callender had built himself a good substantial tenement—the first floor of which was occupied by looms, which were let on hire; the second was his own place of residence; and the third was divided into small domiciles, and let to various tenants. To the house was attached a small garden, a kail-yard, in which he was wont, occasionally, to recreate himself with certain botanical and horticultural pursuits, the latter being specially directed to the cultivation of greens, cabbages, leeks, and other savoury and useful pot herbs.

But Thomas's mansion stood not alone in its glory. A rival stood near. This was the dwelling of Mr John Anderson, in almost every respect the perfect counterpart of that of Mr Thomas Callender—a similarity which is in part accounted for by the facts that John was also a weaver, that he too had made a little money by a life of industry and economy, and that the house was built by himself. By what we have just said, then, we have shown, we presume, that Thomas and John were near neighbours; and, having done so, it follows, of course, that their wives were near neighbours also; but we beg to remark, regarding the latter, that it by no means, therefore, follows that they were friends, or that they had any liking for each other. The fact, indeed, was quite otherwise. They hated each other with great cordiality—a hatred in which a feeling of jealousy of each other's manifestations of wealth, whether in matters relating to their respective houses or persons, or those of their husbands, was the principal feature. Any new article of dress which the one was seen to display, was sure to be immediately repeated, or, if possible, surpassed by the other; and the same spirit of retaliation was carried throughout every department of their domestic economy.

Between the husbands, too, there was no great good will; for, besides being influenced, to a certain extent, in their feelings towards each other by their wives, they had had a serious difference on their own account. John Anderson, on evil purpose intent, had once stoned some ducks of Thomas Callender's out of a dub, situated in the rear of, and midway between the two houses; claiming said dub for the especial use of his ducks alone; and, on that occasion, had maimed and otherwise severely injured a very fine drake, the property of his neighbour, Thomas Callender. Now, Thomas very naturally resented this unneighbourly proceeding on the part of John; and, further, insisted that his ducks had as good a right to the dub as Anderson's. Anderson denied the justice of this claim; Callender maintained it; and the consequence was a series of law proceedings, which mulcted each of them of somewhere about fifty pounds sterling money, and finally ended in the decision that they should divide the dub between them in equal portions, which was accordingly done.

The good-will, then, towards each other, between the husbands, was thus not much greater than between their wives; but, in their case, of course, it was not marked by any of those outbreaks and overt acts which distinguished the enmity of their better halves. The dislike of the former was passive, that of the latter active—most indefatigably active; for Mrs Anderson was every bit as spirited a woman as her neighbour, Mrs Callender, and was a dead match for her in any way she might try.

Thus, then, stood matters between these two rival houses of York and Lancaster, when Mrs Callender, on looking from one of her windows one day, observed that the head of her rival's husband, who was at the moment recreating himself in his garden, was comfortably set off with a splendid, new striped Kilmarnock nightcap. Now, when Mrs Callender saw this, and recollected the very shabby, faded article of the same denomination—"mair like a dish-cloot," as she muttered to herself, "than onything else"—which her Thomas wore, she determined on instantly providing him with a new one; resolved, as she also remarked to herself, not to let the Andersons beat her, even in the matter of a nightcap. But Mrs Callender not only resolved on rivalling her neighbour, in the matter of having a new nightcap for her husband, but in surpassing her in the quality of the said nightcap. She determined that her "man's" should be a red one; "a far mair genteeler thing," as she said to herself, "than John Anderson's vulgar striped Kilmarnock." Having settled this matter to her own satisfaction, and having dexterously prepared her husband for the vision of a new nightcap—which she did by urging sundry reasons, totally different from those under whose influence she really acted, as she knew that he would never give in to such an absurdity as a rivalship with his neighbour in the matter of a nightcap: this matter settled then, we say, the following day saw Mrs Callender sailing into Glasgow, to purchase a red nightcap for her husband—a mission which, we need not say, she very easily accomplished. Her choice was one of the brightest hue she could find—a flaming article, that absolutely dazzled Thomas with the intensity of its glare, when it was triumphantly unrolled before him.

"Jenny," said the latter, in perfect simplicity of heart, and utter ignorance of the true cause of his wife's care of his comfort in the present instance—"Jenny, but that is a bonny thing," he said, looking admiringly at the gaudy commodity, into which he had now thrust his hand and part of his arm, in order to give it all possible extension, and thus holding it up before him as he spoke.

"Really it is a bonny thing," he replied, "and, I warrant, a comfortable."

"Isna't?" replied his wife, triumphantly. And she would have added, "How far prettier and mair genteeler a thing than John Anderson's!" But as this would have betrayed secrets, she refrained, and merely added, "Now, my man, Tammas, ye'll just wear't when ye gang about the doors and the yard. It'll mak' ye look decent and respectable—what ye wasna in that creeshy cloot that ye're wearin', that made ye look mair like a tauty bogle than a Christian man."

Thomas merely smiled at these remarks, and made no reply in words.

Thus far, then, Mrs Callender's plot had gone on swimmingly. There only wanted now her husband's appearance in the garden in his new red nightcap, where the latter could not but be seen by her rival, to complete her triumph; and this satisfaction she was not long denied. Thomas, at her suggestion (warily and cautiously urged, however) instantly took the field in his new nightcap; and the result was as complete and decisive as the heart of woman, in Mrs Callender's circumstances, could desire. Mrs Anderson saw the nightcap, guessed the cause of its appearance, and resolved to be avenged. In that moment, when her sight was blasted, her pride humbled, and her spirits roused, which they were all at one and the same time by the vision of Thomas Callender's new red nightcap, she resolved on getting her husband to strike the striped cap, and mount one of precisely the same description—better, if possible, but she was not sure if this could be had.

Now, on prevailing on her husband to submit to the acquisition of another new nightcap, Mrs Anderson had a much more difficult task to perform than her rival; for the cap that John was already provided with, unlike Thomas's, was not a week out of the shop, and no earthly good reason, one would think, could therefore be urged why he should so soon get another. But what will not woman's wit accomplish? Anything! As proof of this, if proof were wanted, we need only mention that Mrs Anderson did succeed in this delicate and difficult negotiation, and prevailed upon John, first, to allow her to go into Glasgow to buy him a new red nightcap, and to promise to wear it when it should be bought. How she accomplished this—what sort of reasoning she employed—we know not; but certain it is that it was so. Thus fully warranted, eagerly and cleverly did Mrs Anderson, on the instant, prepare to execute the mission to which this warrant referred. In ten minutes she was dressed, and in one more was on her way to Glasgow, to make the desiderated purchase. Experiencing of course as little difficulty in effecting this matter as her rival had done, Mrs Anderson soon found herself in possession of a red nightcap, as bright, every bit, as Mr Callender's; and this cap she had the happiness of drawing on the head of her unconscious husband, who, we need scarcely add, knew as little of the real cause of his being fitted out with this new piece of head-gear as his neighbour, Callender.

Thus far, then, with Mrs Anderson too, went the plot of the nightcaps smoothly; and all that she also now wanted to attain the end she aimed at, was her husband's appearance in his garden, with his new acquisition on.

This consummation she also quickly brought round. John sallied out with his red nightcap; and, oh, joy of joys! Mrs Callender saw it. Ay, Mrs Callender saw it—at once recognised in it the spirit which had dictated its display; and deep and deadly was the revenge that she vowed.

"Becky, Becky!" she exclaimed, in a tone of lofty indignation—and thus summoning to her presence, from an adjoining apartment, her daughter, a little girl of about ten years of age—"rin owre dereckly to Lucky Anderson's and tell her to gie me my jeely can immediately." And Mrs Callender stamped her foot, grew red in the face, and exhibited sundry other symptoms of towering passion. Becky instantly obeyed the order so peremptorily given; and, while she is doing so, we may throw in a digressive word or two, by the way of more fully enlightening the reader regarding the turn which matters seemed now about to take. Be it known to him, then, that the demand for the jelly pot, which was now about to be made on Mrs Anderson, was not a bonâ fide proceeding. It was not made in good faith; for Mrs Callender knew well, and had been told so fifty times, that the said jelly pot was no longer in existence as a jelly pot; and, moreover, she had been, as often as she was told this, offered full compensation, which might be about three farthings sterling money of this realm, for the demolished commodity. Moreover, again, it was three years since it had been borrowed. From all this, the reader will at once perceive what was the fact—that the sending for the said jelly pot, on the present occasion, and in the way described, was a mere breaking of ground previous to the performance of some other contemplated operations. It was, in truth, entirely a tactical proceeding—a dexterously and ingeniously-laid pretext for a certain intended measure which could not decently have stood on its own simple merits. In proof of this, we need only state, that it is beyond all question that nothing could have disappointed Mrs Callender more than the return of the desiderated jelly pot. But this, she knew, she had not to fear, and the result showed that she was right. The girl shortly came back with the usual reply—that the pot was broken; but that Mrs Anderson would cheerfully pay the value of it, if Mrs Callender would say what that was. To the inexpressible satisfaction of the latter, however, the message, on this occasion, was accompanied by some impertinences which no woman of spirit could tamely submit to. She was told, for instance, that "she made mair noise aboot her paltry, dirty jelly mug, a thousand times, than it was a' worth," and was ironically, and, we may add, insultingly entreated, "for ony sake to mak' nae mair wark aboot it, and a dizzen wad be sent her for't."

"My troth, and there's a stock o' impidence for ye!" said Mrs Callender, on her little daughter's having delivered herself of all the small provocatives with which she had been charged. "There's impidence for ye!" she said, planting her hands in her sides, and looking the very personification of injured innocence. "Was the like o't ever heard? First to borrow, and then to break my jeely mug, and noo to tell me, whan I'm seekin' my ain, that I'm makin' mair noise aboot it than it's a' worth. My certy, but she has a brazen face. The auld, wizzened, upsettin' limmer that she is! Set them up, indeed, wi' red nichtcaps!" Now, this was the last member of Mrs Callender's philippic, but it was by no means the least. In fact, it was the whole gist of the matter—the sum and substance, and we need not add, the real and true cause of her present amiable feeling towards her worthy neighbours, John Anderson and his wife. Adjusting her mutch now on her head, and spreading her apron decorously before her, Mrs Callender intimated her intention of proceeding instantly to Mrs Anderson's, to demand her jelly pot in person, and to seek, at the same time, satisfaction for the insulting message that had been sent her. Acting on this resolution, she forthwith commenced her march towards the domicile of John Anderson, nursing the while her wrath to keep it warm. On reaching the door, she announced her presence by a series of sharp, open-the-door-instantly knocks, which were promptly attended to, and the visitor courteously admitted.

"Mrs Anderson," said Mrs Callender, on entering, and assuming a calmness and composure of demeanour that was sadly belied by the suppressed agitation, or rather fury, which she could not conceal, "I'm just come to ask ye if ye'll be sae guid, Mem, as gie me my jeely mug."

"Yer jeely mug, Mrs Callender!" exclaimed Mrs Anderson, raising herself to her utmost height, and already beginning to exhibit symptoms of incipient indignation. "Yer jeely mug, Mrs Callender!" she repeated, with a provokingly ironical emphasis. "Dear help me, woman, but ye do mak' an awfu' wark aboot that jeely mug o' yours. I'm sure it wasna sae muckle worth; and ye hae been often tell't that it was broken, but that we wad willingly pay ye for't."

"It's no payment I want, Mrs Anderson," replied Mrs Callender, with a high-spirited toss of the head. "I want my mug, and my mug I'll hae. Do ye hear that?" And here Mrs Callender struck her clenched fist on the open side of her left hand, in the impressive way peculiar to some ladies when under the influence of passion. "And, since ye come to that o't, let me tell ye ye're a very insultin' ill-bred woman, to tell me that it wasna muckle worth, after ye hae broken't."

"My word, lass," replied Mrs Anderson, bridling up, with flushed countenance, and head erect, to the calumniator, "but ye're no blate to ca' me thae names i' my ain house."

"Ay, I'll ca' ye thae names, and waur too, in yer ain house, or onywhar else," replied the other belligerent, clenching her teeth fiercely together, and thrusting her face with most intense ferocity into the countenance of her antagonist. "Ay, here or onywhar else," she replied, "I'll ca' ye a mean-spirited, impident woman—an upsettin' impident woman! Set your man up, indeed, wi' a red nichtkep!"

"An' what for no?" replied Mrs Anderson with a look of triumphant inquiry. "He's as weel able to pay for't as you, and maybe, if a' was kent, a hantle better. A red nichtkep, indeed, ye impertinent hizzy!"

"'Od, an' ye hizzy me, I'll te-e-eer the liver out o' ye!" exclaimed the now infuriated Mrs Callender, at the same instant seizing her antagonist by the hair of the head and mutch together, and, in a twinkling, tearing the latter into a thousand shreds. Active hostilities being now fairly commenced, a series of brilliant operations, both offensive and defensive, immediately ensued. The first act of aggression on the part of Mrs Callender—namely, demolishing her opponent's head-gear—was returned by the latter by a precisely similar proceeding; that is, by tearing her mutch into fragments.

This preliminary operation performed, the combatants resorted to certain various other demonstrative acts of love and friendship; but now with such accompaniments of screams and exclamations as quickly filled the apartment which was the scene of strife with neighbours, who instantly began to attempt to effect a separation of the combatants. While they were thus employed, in came John Anderson, who had been out of the way when the tug of war began, and close upon his heels came Mr Callender, whose ears an alarming report of the contest in which his gallant spouse was engaged, had reached. Both gentlemen were, at the moment, in their red nightcaps, and might thus be considered as the standard bearers of the combatants.

"What's a this o't?" exclaimed Mr Anderson, pushing into the centre of the crowd by which the two women were surrounded.

"Oh, the hizzy!" exclaimed his wife, who had, at the instant, about a yard of her antagonist's hair rolled about her hand. "It's a' aboot your nichtkep, John, and her curst jeely mug. A' aboot your nichtkep, and the jeely mug."

Now, this allusion to the jelly pot John perfectly understood, but that to the nightcap he did not, nor did he attend to it; but, as became a dutiful and loving husband to do in such circumstances, immediately took the part of his wife, and was in the act of thrusting her antagonist aside, which operation he was performing somewhat rudely, when he was collared from behind by his neighbour, Thomas Callender, who, naturally enough, enrolled himself at once on the side of his better half.

"Hauns aff, John!" exclaimed Mr Callender—their old grudge fanning the flame of that hostility which was at this moment rapidly increasing in the bosoms of both the gentlemen, as he gave Mr Anderson sundry energetic tugs and twists, with a view of putting him hors de combat. "Hauns aff, neebor!" he said. "Hauns aff, if ye please, till we ken wha has the rich' o' this bisiness, and what it's a' aboot."

"Pu' doon their pride, Tam!—pu' doon their pride!" exclaimed Mrs Calender, who, although intently engaged at the moment in tearing out a handful of her opponent's hair, was yet aware of the reinforcement that had come to her aid. "Pu' doon their pride, Tam. Tak a claught o' John's nichtkep. The limmer says they're better able to afford ane than we are."

While Mrs Callender was thus expressing the particular sentiments which occupied her mind at the moment, John Anderson had turned round to resent the liberty which the former had taken of collaring him; and this resentment expressed, by collaring his assailant in turn. The consequence of this proceding was a violent struggle, which finally ended in a close stand-up fight between the male combatants, who both showed great spirit, although, not a great deal of science. John Anderson, in particular, had a fitting antagonist in Tom Callender, and the battle was so even between them that the other combatants with one consent paused to watch the struggle. As neither, however, seemed likely to be the conqueror, the fight again became general—the wives having quitted their holds of each other, and flown to the rescue of their respective husbands, now much in need of some wifely comfort. They were thus all bundled together in one indiscriminate and unintelligible melée. One leading object or purpose, however, was discernible on the part of the female combatants. This was to get hold of the red nightcaps—each that of her husband's antagonist; and, after a good deal of scrambling, and clutching, and pouncing, they both succeeded in tearing off the obnoxious head-dress, with each a handful of the unfortunate wearer's hair along with it. While this was going on, the conflicting, but firmly united mass of combatants, who were all bundled, or rather locked together in close and deadly strife, was rolling heavily, sometimes one way, and sometimes another, sometimes ending with a thud against a partition, that made the whole house shake, sometimes with a ponderous lodgment against a door, which, unable to resist the shock, flew open, and landed the belligerents at their full length on the floor, where they rolled over one another in a very edifying and picturesque manner.

But this could not continue very long, and neither did it. A consummation or catastrophe occurred, which suddenly, and at once, put an end to the affray. In one of those heavy lee-lurches which the closely united combatants made, they came thundering against the frail legs of a dresser, which was ingeniously contrived to support two or three tiers of shelves, which, again, were laden with stoneware, the pride of Mrs Anderson's heart, built up with nice and dexterous contrivance, so as to show to the greatest advantage. Need we say what was the consequence of this rude assault on the legs of the aforementioned dresser, supporting, as it did, this huge superstructure of shelves and crockery? Scarcely. But we will. Down, then, came the dresser; and down, as a necessary corollary, came also the shelves, depositing their contents with an astounding crash upon the floor—not a jug out of some eight or ten, of various shapes and sizes, not a plate out of some scores, not a bowl out of a dozen, not a cup or saucer out of an entire set, escaping total demolition. The destruction was frightful—unprecedented in the annals of domestic mishaps.

On the combatants, the effect of the thundering crash of the crockery, or smashables, as they have been sometimes characteristically designated, was somewhat like that which has been known to be produced in a sea-fight by the blowing up of a ship. Hostilities were instantly suspended; all looking with silent horror on the dreadful scene of ruin around them. Nor did any disposition to renew the contest return. On the contrary, there was an evident inclination, on the part of two of the combatants—namely, Mr Callender and his wife—to evacuate the premises. Appalled at the extent of the mischief done, and visited with an awkward feeling of probable responsibility, they gradually edged towards the door, and finally sneaked out of the house without saying a word.

"If there's law or justice in the land," exclaimed Mrs Anderson, in high excitation, as she swept together the fragments of her demolished crockery, "I'll hae't on Tam Callender and his wife. May I never see the morn, if I haena them afore the Shirra before a week gangs owre my head! I hae a set aff, noo, against her jeely mug, I think."

"It's been a bonny business," replied her husband; "but what on earth was't a' aboot?"

"What was't a' aboot!" repeated his wife, with some asperity of manner, but now possessed of presence of mind enough to shift the ground of quarrel, which, she felt, would compromise her with her husband. "Didna I tell ye that already? What should it be a' aboot but her confounded jeely mug! But I'll mak her pay for this day's wark, or I'm sair cheated. It'll be as bad a job this for them as the duck dub, I'm thinkin."

"We hadna muckle to brag o' there, oursels, guidwife," interposed her husband, calmly.

"See, there," said Mrs Anderson, either not heeding, or not hearing John's remark. "See, there," she said, holding up a fragment of one of the broken vessels, "there's the end o' my bonny cheeny jug, that I was sae vogie o', and that hadna its neebor in braid Scotland." And a tear glistened in the eye of the susceptible mourner, as she contemplated the melancholy remains, and recalled to memory the departed splendours of the ill-fated tankard. Quietly dashing, however, the tear of sorrow aside, both her person and spirit assumed the lofty attitude of determined vengeance; and, "she'll rue this," she now went on, "if there be ony law or justice in the kingdom. It'll be a dear jug to her, or my name's no what it is."

Equally indignant with his wife at the assault and battery committed by the Callenders, but less talkative, John sat quietly ruminating on the events of the evening, and, anon, still continuing to raise his hand, at intervals, to his mangled countenance. With the same taciturnity, he subsequently assisted Mrs Anderson to throw the collected fragments of the broken dishes into a hamper, and to carry and deposit said hamper in an adjoining closet, where, it was determined, they should be carefully kept, as evidence of the extent of the damage which had been sustained.

In the meantime, neither Mrs Thomas Callender nor Mr Thomas Callender felt by any means at ease respecting the crockery catastrophe. Although feeling that it was a mere casualty of war, and an unforeseen and unpremeditated result of a fair and equal contest, they yet could not help entertaining some vague apprehension for the consequences. They felt, in short, that it might be made a question whether they were not liable for the damage done, seeing that they had intruded themselves into their neighbour's house, where they had no right to go. It was under some such awkward fear as this that Mr Callender, who had also obtained an evasive account of the cause of quarrel, said, with an unusually long and grave face to his wife, on their gaining their own house, and holding at the same time a handkerchief to his still bleeding and now greatly swollen proboscis—

"Yon was a deevil o' a stramash, Mirran. I never heard the like o't. It was awfu. I think I hear the noise o' the crashin' plates and bowls in my lugs yet."

"Deil may care! Let them tak it!" replied Mrs Callender, endeavouring to assume a disregard of consequences which she was evidently very far from feeling. "She was aye owre vain o' her crockery; so that better couldna happen her."

"Ay," replied her husband; "but yon smashing o't was rather a serious business."

"It was just music to my lugs, then," said Mrs Callender, boldly.

"Maybe," rejoined her husband, "but I doot we'll hae to pay the piper. They'll try't ony way, I'm jalousin."

"Let them. There'll be nae law or justice in the country if they mak that oot," responded Mrs Callender, and exhibiting, in this sentiment, the very striking difference of opinion between the two ladies, of the law and justice of the land.

The fears, however, which Mr Callender openly expressed, as above recorded, and which his wife felt but concealed, were not groundless. On the evening of the very next day after the battle of the nightcaps, as Thomas Callender was sitting in his elbow chair, by the fire, luxuriously enjoying its grateful warmth, and the ease and comfort of his slippers and red nightcap, which he had drawn well down over his ears, he was suddenly startled by a sharp, loud rap at the door. Mrs Callender hastened to open it, when two papers were thrust into her hands by an equivocal-looking personage, who, without saying a word, wheeled round on his heel the instant he had placed the mysterious documents in her possession, and hastened away.

With some misgivings as to the contents of these papers, Mrs Callender placed them before her husband.

"What's this?" said the latter, with a look of great alarm, and placing his spectacles on his nose, preparatory to a deliberate perusal of the suspicious documents. His glasses wiped and adjusted, Thomas unfolded the papers, held them up close to the candle, and found them to be a couple of summonses, one for himself and one for his wife. These summonses, we need hardly say, were at the instance of their neighbour, John Anderson, and exhibited a charge of assault and battery, and claim for damages to the extent of two pounds fourteen shillings sterling, for demolition of certain articles of stoneware, &c., &c.

"Ay," said Thomas, laying down the fatal papers. "Faith, here it is, then! We're gaun to get it ruch and roun', noo, Jenny. I was dootin this. But we'll defen', we'll defen'," added Thomas, who was, or we rather suspect imagined himself to be, a bit of a lawyer, ever since the affair of the duck-dub, during which he had picked up some law terms, but without any accompanying knowledge whatever of their import or applicability. "We'll defen', we'll defen'," he said, with great confidence of manner, "and gie them a revised condescendence for't that they'll fin gayan teuch to chow. But we maun obey the ceetation, in the first place, to prevent decreet in absence, whilk wad gie the pursuer, in this case, everything his ain way."

"Defen'!" exclaimed Mrs Callender, with high indignation; "my faith, that we wull, I warrant them, and maybe a hantle mair. We'll maybe no be content wi' defendin', but strike oot, and gar them staun aboot."

"Noo, there ye show yer ignorance o' the law, Jenny," said her husband, with judicial gravity; "for ye see"—

"Tuts, law or no law," replied Mrs Callender, impatiently—"I ken what's justice and common-sense; an' that's eneuch for me. An' justice I'll hae, Tam," she continued, with such an increase of excitement as brought on the usual climax in such cases, of striking one of her clenched hands on her open palm—"An' justice I will hae, Tam, on thae Andersons, if it's to be had for love or money."

"We'll try't ony way," said her husband, folding up the summonses, and putting them carefully into his breeches-pocket. "Since it has come to this, we'll gie them law for't."

In the spirit and temper of bold defiance expressed in the preceding colloquy, Mr Callender and his wife awaited the day and hour appointed for their appearance in the Sheriff-Court at Glasgow. This day and hour in due time came, and, when it did, it found both parties, pursuers and defenders, in the awful presence of the judge. Both the ladies were decked out in their best and grandest attire, while each of their husbands rejoiced in his Sunday's suit. It was a great occasion for both parties. On first recognising each other, the ladies exchanged looks which were truly edifying to behold. Mrs Anderson's was that of calm, dignified triumph; and which, if translated into her own vernacular, would have said, "My word, lass, but ye'll fin' whar ye are noo." Mrs Calender's, again, was that of bold defiance, and told of a spirit that was unconquerable—game to the last being the most strongly marked and leading expression, at this interesting moment, of her majestic countenance. Close beside where Mrs Anderson sat, and evidently under her charge, there stood an object which, from the oddness of its appearing in its present situation, attracted a good deal of notice, and excited some speculation amongst those present in the Court, and which particularly interested Mrs Callender and her worthy spouse. This was a hamper—a very large one. People wondered what could be in it, and for what purpose it was there. They could solve neither of these problems; but the reader can, we dare say. He will at once conjecture—and, if he does so, he will conjecture rightly—that the hamper in question contained the remains of the smashables spoken of formerly at some length, and that it was to be produced in Court, by the pursuers, as evidence of the nature and extent of the damage done.

The original idea of bringing forward this article, for the purpose mentioned, was Mrs Anderson's; and, having been approved of by her husband, it had been that morning carted to the Courthouse, and thereafter carried to and deposited in its present situation by the united exertions of the pursuers, who relied greatly on the effect it would produce when its lid should be thrown open, and the melancholy spectacle of demolished crockery it concealed exhibited.

The case of Mr and Mrs Anderson versus Mr and Mrs Callender being pretty far down in the roll, it was nearly two hours before it was called. This event, however, at length took place. The names of the pursuers and defenders resounded through the courtroom, in the slow, drawling, nasal-toned voice of the crier. Mrs Anderson, escorted by her loving spouse, sailed up the middle of the apartment, and placed herself before the judge. With no less dignity of manner, and with, at least, an equal stateliness of step, Mrs Callender, accompanied by her lord and master, sailed up after her, and took her place a little to one side. The parties bong thus arranged, proceedings commenced. Mrs Anderson was asked to state her case. Mrs Anderson was not slow to accept the invitation. She at once began:—

"Ye see, my Lord, sir, the matter was just this—and I daur her there" (a look of intense defiance at Mrs Callender) "to deny a word, my Lord, sir, o' what I'm gaun to say; although. I daur say she wad do't if she could."

"My good woman," here, interposed the judge, who had a nervous apprehension of the forensic eloquence of such female pleaders as the one now before him, "will you have the goodness to confine yourself strictly to a simple statement of your case?"

"Weel, my Lord, sir, I will. Ye see, then, the matter is just this."

And Mrs Anderson forthwith proceeded to detail the particulars of the quarrel and subsequent encounter, with a minuteness and circumstantiality which, we fear, the reader would think rather tedious were we here to repeat. In this statement of her case, Mrs Anderson, having the fear of her husband's presence before her eyes, made no allusion whatever to the nightcaps, but rested the whole quarrel on the jelly pot. Now, this was a circumstance which Mrs Callender noted, and of which she, on the instant, determined to take a desperate advantage. Regardless of all consequences, and, amongst the rest, of discovering to her husband the underhand part she had been playing in regard to the affair of the nightcap, she resolved on publicly exposing, as she imagined, the falsehood and pride of her hated rival, by stating the facts of the case as to the celebrated nightcaps. To this revenge she determined on sacrificing every other consideration. To return, however, in the meantime, to the proceedings in Court.

The statements of the pursuers being now exhausted, the defenders were called upon to give their version of the story. On this summons, both Mrs Callender and her husband pressed themselves into a central position, with the apparent intention of both entering on the defence at the same time. And this proved to be the fact. On being specially and directly invited by the judge to open the case—

"Ye see, my Lord," began Mr Thomas Callender; "and—"

"My Lord, sir, ye see," began, at the same instant Mrs Thomas Callender.

"Now, now," here interposed the judge, waving his hand impatiently, "one at a time, if you please. One at a time."

"Surely," replied Mr Callender. "Staun aside, guidwife, staun aside," he said; at the same time gently pushing his wife back with his left hand as he spoke. "I'll lay doon the case to his Lordship."

"Ye'll do nae sic a thing, Tammas, I'll do't," exclaimed Mrs Callender, not only resisting her husband's attempt to thrust her into the rear, but forcibly placing him in that relative position; while she herself advanced a pace or two nearer to the bench. On gaining this vantage ground, Mrs Callender at once began, and with great emphasis and circumstantiality detailed the whole story of the nightcaps; carefully modelling it so, however, as to show that her own part in the transaction was a bonâ fide proceeding; on the part of her rival, the reverse; and that the whole quarrel, with its consequent demolition of crockery, was entirely the result of Mrs Anderson's "upsettin pride, and vanity, and jealousy." During the delivery of these details, the Court was convulsed with laughter, in which the Sheriff himself had much difficulty to refrain from joining.

On the husbands of the two women, however, they had a very different effect. Amazed, confounded, and grievously affronted at this unexpected disclosure of the ridiculous part they had been made to perform by their respective wives, they both sneaked out of Court, amidst renewed peals of laughter, leaving the latter to finish the case the best way they could. How this was effected we know not, as at this point ends our story of the Rival Nightcaps.

THE STORY OF CLARA DOUGLAS.

BY WALTER LOGAN.

"The maid that loves,

Goes out to sea upon a shattered plank,

And puts her trust in miracles for safety."—Old Play.

I am a peripatetic genius—a wanderer by profession—a sort of Salathiel Secundus, "doomed for a term," like the ghost of Hamlet's papa, "to walk the earth," whether I will or not. Here, however, the simile stops; for his aforesaid ghostship could traverse, if he chose, amid climes far away, while the circuit of my peregrinations is, has for sometime been, and must, for some short time more, necessarily be confined to the northern extremity of "our tight little island"—vulgo vocato—Scotland. In my day I have seen many strange sights, and met with many strange faces—made several hairbreadth 'scapes, and undergone innumerable perils by flood and field. On the wings of the wind—that is, on the top of a stage-coach—I have passed through many known and unknown towns and villages; have visited, on foot and on horseback, for my own special edification and amusement, various ancient ruins, foaming cataracts, interesting rocks, and dismal-looking caves, celebrated in Scottish story. But better far than that, and dearer to my soul, my foot has trod the floors of, I may say, all the haberdashers' shops north of the Tweed: in short, most patient reader, I am a travelling bagman.

In this capacity, I have, for years, perambulated among the chief towns of Scotland, taking orders from those who were inclined to give them to me, and giving orders to those who were not inclined to take them from me, unless with a douceur in perspective—viz., coachmen, waiters, barmaids, et hoc gittus omne. From those of the third class, many are the witching smiles lighting up pretty faces—many the indignant glances shot from deep love-darting eyes, when their under neighbours, the lips, were invaded without consent of parties—which have saluted me everywhere; for the same varied feelings, the same sudden and unaccountable likings and dislikings, have place in the breasts of barmaids as in those of other women. As is the case too with the rest of their sex, there are among them the clumsy and the handsome, the plain and the pretty, the scraggy and the plump, the old and the young; but of all the barmaids I ever met with, none charmed me more than did Mary of the Black Swan, at Altonby. In my eyes she inherited all the good qualities I have here enumerated,—that is to say, she was handsome, pretty, plump, and young, with a form neither too tall nor too short; but just the indescribable happy size between, set off by a manner peculiarly graceful.

It was on a delightful evening in the early spring, that I found myself seated, for the first time, in a comfortable little parlour pertaining to the Black Swan, and Mary attending on me—she being the chief, nay, almost the only person in the establishment, who could serve a table. I was struck with her loveliness, as well as captivated with her engaging manner, and though I had for thirty years defied the artifices of blind Cupid, I now felt myself all at once over head and ears in love with this village beauty. Although placed in so low a sphere as that in which I then beheld her, there was a something about her that proclaimed her to be of gentle birth. Whoever looked upon her countenance, felt conscious that there was a respect due to her which it is far from customary to extend to girls in waiting at an inn. Hers were

"Eyes so pure, that from their ray

Dark vice would turn abashed away."

Her feet were small and fairy-like, from which, if her voice, redolent of musical softness—that thing so desirable in woman—had not already informed me, I should have set her down as being of English extraction.

Several months elapsed ere it was again in my power to visit Altonby. During all that time, my vagrant thoughts had been of Mary—sleeping or waking, her form was ever present to my fancy. On entering the Black Swan, it was Mary who bounded forward to welcome me with a delighted smile. She seemed gratified at my return; and I was no less so at the cordiality of my reception. The month was July, and the evening particularly fine; so, not having business of much consequence to transact in the place, and Mary having to attend to the comforts of others beside myself, then sojourning at the Black Swan, I sallied forth alone—

"To take my evening's walk of meditation."

When one happens to be left per se in a provincial town, where he is alike unknowing and unknown—where there is no theatre or other place of amusement in which to spend the evening—it almost invariably happens that he pays a visit to the churchyard, and delights himself, for an hour or so, with deciphering the tombstones,—a recreation extremely healthful to the body, and soothing to the mind. It was to the churchyard on that evening I bent my steps, thinking, as I went along, seriously of Mary.

"What is she to me?" I involuntarily exclaimed; "I have no time to waste upon women: I am a wanderer, with no great portion of worldly gear. In my present circumstances it is impossible I can marry her; and to think of her in any other light were villanous. No, no! I will no longer cherish a dream which can never be realised."

And I determined that, on the morrow, I should fly the fatal spot for ever. Who or what Mary's relations had been, she seemed to feel great reluctance in disclosing to me. All I could glean from her was, that she was an orphan—that she had had a sister who had formed an unfortunate attachment, and broken their mother's heart—that all of her kindred that now remained was a brother, and he was in a foreign land.

The sun was resting above the summits of the far-off mountains, and the yew trees were flinging their dusky shadows over the graves, as I entered the burial-place of Altonby. The old church was roofless and in ruins; and within its walls were many tombstones over the ashes of those who, having left more than the wherewithal to bury them, had been laid there by their heirs, as if in token of respect. In a distant corner, I observed one little mound over which no stone had been placed to indicate who lay beneath: it was evidently the grave of a stranger, and seemed to have been placed in that spot more for the purpose of being out of the way than for any other. At a short distance from it was another mound, overtopped with grass of a fresher kind. As I stood leaning over a marble tombstone, gazing around me, a figure slowly entered at the farther end of the aisle, and, with folded arms and downcast eyes, passed on to those two graves. It was that of a young man of perhaps five-and-twenty, though a settled melancholy, which overspread his countenance, made him look five years older. I crouched behind the stone on which I had been leaning, fearful of disturbing him with my presence, or rousing his attention by my attempting to leave the place.

After gazing with a vacant eye for a few moments upon the graves, he knelt down between them. His lips began to move, but I heard not what he said. I thought he was praying for the souls of the departed; and I was confirmed in this by hearing him at last say, with an audible voice:—

"May all good angels guard thee, Clara Douglas, and thou, my mother!"

As he uttered these last words, he turned his eyes to the newer grave. I thought he was about to continue his prayer; but, as if the sight of the grave had awakened other feelings, he suddenly started up, and, raising his hands to heaven, invoked curses on the head of one whom he termed their "murderer!" That done, he rushed madly from the church. All this was very strange to me; and I determined, if possible, to ascertain whose remains those graves entombed.

On leaving the churchyard, I was fortunate enough to forgather with an old man, from whom I learned the melancholy story of her who occupied the older-looking grave. She was young and beautiful. Accident had deprived her father of that wealth which a long life of untiring industry had enabled him to lay past for his children; and he did not long survive its loss. Fearful of being a burden to her mother, who had a son and another daughter besides herself to provide for out of the slender pittance which remained to her on her husband's death, Clara Douglas accepted a situation as a governess, and sought to earn an honourable independence by those talents and accomplishments which had once been cultivated for mere amusement. The brother of Clara, shortly afterwards, obtained an appointment in the island of Madeira. Unfortunately for Clara, a young officer, a relative of the family in which she resided, saw her, and was smitten with her charms. He loved, and was beloved again. The footing of intimacy on which he was in the house, procured him many interviews with Clara. Suddenly his regiment was ordered to the Continent; and when the young ensign told the sorrowful tidings to Clara, he elicited from her a confession of her love.

Months passed away—Waterloo was fought and won—and Ensign Malcolm was among those who fell.

When the death list reached Scotland, many were the hearts it overpowered with grief; but Clara Douglas had more than one grief to mourn: sorrow and shame were too much to bear together, and she fled from the house where she had first met him who was the cause of all. None could tell whither she had gone. Her mother and sister were agonised when the news of her disappearance reached them. Every search was made, but without effect. A year all but two weeks passed away, and still no tidings of her, till that very day, two boys seeking for pheasants' nests upon the top of a hillock overgrown with furze—which the old man pointed out to me at a short distance from the place where we stood—accidentally stumbled upon an object beneath a fir-tree. It was the remains of a female in a kneeling posture. Beneath her garments, by which she was recognised as Clara Douglas, not a vestige of flesh remained. There was still some upon her hands, which had been tightly clasped together; and upon her face, which leant upon them. Seemingly she had died in great agony. It was supposed by some that she had taken poison.

"If your time will permit," added the old man, as he wiped away a tear, "I will willingly show you the place where her remains were found. It is but a short distance. Come."

I followed the old man in silence. He led the way into a field. We climbed over some loose stones thrown together, to serve as a wall of division at the farther extremity of it, and slowly began to ascend the grassy acclivity, which was on both sides bordered by a thick hedge, placed apart, at the distance of about thirty feet. When half way up, I could not resist the inclination I felt to turn and look upon the scene. It was an evening as fair as I had ever gazed on. The wheat was springing in the field through which we had just passed, covering it, as it were, with a rich green carpet. Trees and hills bounded the view, behind which the sun was on the point of sinking, and the red streaks upon the western sky "gave promise of a goodly day to-morrow."

If, thought I, the hour on which Clara Douglas ascended this hill was as lovely as this evening, she must indeed have been deeply bent upon her own destruction, to look upon the world so beautifully fair, and not wish to return to it again. We continued our ascent, passing among thick tangled underwood, in whose kindly grasp the light flowing garments of Clara Douglas must have been ever and anon caught as she wended on her way. Yet had she disregarded the friendly interposition. Along the margin of an old stone quarry we now proceeded, where the pathway was so narrow that we were occasionally compelled to catch at the furze bushes which edged it, to prevent ourselves from falling over into the gulf beneath. And Clara Douglas, thought I, must have passed along here, and must have been exposed to the same danger of toppling headlong over the cliff, yet she had exerted herself to pass the fatal spot unharmed, to save a life which she knew would almost the instant afterwards be taken by her own hand. Such is the inconsistency of human nature.

Our course lay once more through the midst of underwood, so thickly grown that one would have supposed no female foot would dare to enter it.

"Here," cried the old man, stopping beside a dwarfish fir-tree, "here is the spot where we found the mortal remains of Clara Douglas."

I pressed forward, and, to my surprise, beheld one other being than my old guide looking on the place. It was the same I had noticed at the grave of Clara Douglas, within the walls of the ruined church of Altonby. I thought it a strange coincidence.

Summer passed away, winter and spring succeeded, and summer came again, and with it came the wish to see Mary once more. However much I had before doubted the truth of the axiom, that "absence makes the heart grow fonder," I now felt the full force of its truth. My affection for Mary was, day after day, becoming stronger; and, in spite of the dictates of prudence, my determination never to see her again began to falter; and one evening I unconsciously found myself in the yard of the Black Swan. Well, since I had come there at any rate, it would be exceedingly foolish to go away again without speaking to Mary; so I called to the stable boy to put up my horse. The boy knew me, for I had once given him a sixpence for running a message, and he came briskly forward at my first call, no doubt with some indistinct idea of receiving another sixpence at some no very distant date.

"Eh! Mr Moir," said the boy, while I was dismounting, in answer to my question, "What news in the village?" "Ye'll no guess what's gaun to happen? Our Mary, the folk say, is gaun to be married!"

Our Mary! thought I, can our Mary be my Mary? And, to ascertain whether they were one and the same personage, I inquired of the boy who our Mary was.

"Ou!" replied he, "she's just barmaid at the inn here."

I started, now that this disclosure had unhinged my doubts; and subduing, as well as I was able, my rising emotion, I boldly asked, who was "the happy man."

"They ca' him a captain!" said the boy innocently; "but whether he's a sea captain, an offisher in the army, or a captain o' police, I'm no that sure. At ony rate, he aye gangs aboot in plain claes. He's been staying for a month here, an' he gangs oot but seldom, an' that only in the gloamin."

After thanking the boy, and placing the expected silver coin in his hand, I turned the corner of the house in my way towards the entrance, determined, with my own eyes and ears, to ascertain the truth of the boy's statement. The pace at which I was proceeding was so rapid, that, ere I was aware of the vicinity of any one, I came bump against the person of a gentleman, whom, to my surprise, I instantly recognised as the mysterious visitant to the grave of Clara Douglas, and to the spot where her relics were found. He seemed to regard me with a suspicious eye; for he shuffled past without uttering a word. His air was disordered, his step irregular, and his whole appearance was that of a man with whom care, and pain, and sorrow, had long been familiar.

Can this be the captain? was the thought which first suggested itself to me. It was a question I could not answer; yet I entered the Black Swan half persuaded that it was.

"Ah! Mr Moir," cried Mary, coming forward to welcome me in her usual way, the moment she heard my voice, "you have been long a stranger. I fancied that, somehow or other, I was the cause of it, for you went away last time without bidding me good-bye." I held her hand in mine, I saw her eyes sparkle, and the blush suffuse her cheek, and I muttered a confused apology. "Well! I am so glad to see you," she continued. "It was but yesterday I spoke of you to the captain."

"The captain," I repeated, while the pangs of jealousy, which had, during the last five minutes, been gradually lulled over to sleep, suddenly roused themselves. "Who is the captain, Mary?"

"Oh? I'm sure you will like him when you become acquainted with him," said she, blushing. "There is something so prepossessing about him, that really I defy any one not to like him." The animation with which she gave utterance to these words made me miserable, and I cursed the captain in my heart.

The next day passed over without my being able to obtain a sight of my rival; and, when I walked out in the afternoon, he had not yet risen. Mary's assigned reason for this was, that he was an invalid; but his was more the disease of the mind than of the body. In his memory there was implanted a deep sorrow, which time could never root out. In my walk, the churchyard and the venerable ruins of the church were visited—I stood again beside the grave of the hapless Clara Douglas, and her melancholy story afforded me a theme for sad reflection, which, for a while, banished Mary and all jealous fears from my mind.

It was evening when I reached "mine inn." On passing the parlour window, a sight met my eye which brought the colour to my cheeks. A tall, noble-looking man lay extended upon the sofa, while Mary leant over him in kindly solicitude, and, with marked assiduity, placed cushions for his head, and arranged his military cloak. This, then, must be the captain, and he and my mysterious friend were not the same. That was some consolation, however.

Thus as he lay, he held Mary's hand in his. My breast was racked with agony intense; for

Oh! what a host of killing doubts and fears,

Of melancholy musings, deep perplexities,

Must the fond heart that yields itself to love

Struggle with and endure."

Once I determined on flying from the scene, and leaving my rival in undisputed possession of the village beauty; but, having been resolved that no woman should ever have it in her power to say she made me wretched, I screwed my courage to the sticking place, and, on seeing Mary leave the parlour, I shortly afterwards entered it.

The stranger scarcely noticed my entrance, so intently was his attention fixed upon the perusal of a newspaper which he held in his hand. I sat down at the window, and, for want of something better to do, gazed with a scrutinising eye upon the gambols of the ducks and geese outside.

After some time, Mary came in to ask the captain what he would have for supper.

"This is the gentleman I spoke of," she said, directing her expressive glance towards me.

"Mr Moir must pardon my inattention!" said the stranger, laying down the paper; "I was not aware that my pretty Mary's friend was in the room."

His urbane manner, his soft winning voice, made me feel an irresistible impulse to meet his advances. He proposed that we should sup together, and I sat down at the table with very different feelings from those which had been mine on entering the parlour that evening. I felt inclined to encourage an intimacy with the man whom, but a short while before, I had looked upon with aversion.

As the night wore on, I became more and more captivated with the stranger. His conversation was brilliant and intellectual; and, when we parted for the night, I began to find fault with myself for having for a moment harboured dislike towards so perfect a gentleman. I resolved to stay a few days longer at Altonby, for the purpose of improving our acquaintance. The stranger—or, as he was called at the inn, "the captain," expressed delight when he was informed of my resolution; and, although he seldom rose before the afternoon, we spent many pleasant hours together.

On the evening of the third day of my sojourn, he expressed a wish that I would accompany him in a short walk. Notwithstanding his erect and easy carriage, there was a feebleness in his gait, which he strove in vain to contend against; and it was but too evident that a broken spirit, added to a shattered constitution, would speedily bring him to his grave.

Leading the way into the churchyard, to my surprise he stopped at the resting-place of the ill-starred lady, the story of whose untimely end I had so patiently listened to the last time I visited Altonby.

"I am exceedingly fortunate," said the captain, "in having met with one so kind as you, to cheer the last moments of my earthly pilgrimage. You smile—nay, I can assure you that I feel I am not long for this world. The object of my visit to this spot to-night, is to ask you to do me the favour, when I am dead, of seeing my remains laid here—here, beside this grave, o'er which the grass grows longer than on those around;" and he pointed to the grave of Clara Douglas. After a moment, he continued:—"Unlike other men, you have never annoyed me by seeking to inquire of me who or what I am; and, believe me, I feel grateful for it. I would not wish that you should ever know the history of the being who stands before you. When the earth closes over my coffin, think of him no more."

Although the captain had done me the honour of calling me unlike other men—a distinction most folks are so exceedingly desirous of obtaining—I must own that I had hitherto felt no common degree of curiosity concerning him; and now that there was no prospect of it being gratified, its desire increased tenfold, and I would now have given worlds, if I had had them, to have learned something of the birth, parentage, and education of the captain.

"And now," he added, "I beseech you, leave me for a short time—I would be alone."

In silence I complied, sauntering outside the ruins, and seeking to find, in my old avocation of perusing the tombstones, the wherewithal to kill the time during which the captain held communion with the dead; for I could not help thinking that it was for such a cause he had desired to be left to himself.

Ten—twenty minutes passed, and the captain did not appear. I retraced my steps, and again entered the ruins, by the farther end. The gloom which prevailed around—the monuments which intervened—and, above all, the distance at which I then was from the grave of Clara Douglas—prevented me from descrying the captain. I had advanced a few paces when I heard voices in high altercation. I stopped; and, as I did so, one of the speakers, in whose clear intonation I could recognise the captain, said—"On my word, I returned here the instant my wounds were healed—I returned to marry her—and my grief could not be equalled by yours when I heard of her melancholy fate."

"Liar!" exclaimed the other; "you ne'er intended such. My sister's wrongs call out aloud for vengeance; and here—here, between her grave and that of our sainted mother—your blood shall be offered up in atonement."

This was instantly followed by the report of a pistol. I rushed forward, and beheld, O horror! the captain stretched upon the ground, and the blood streaming from a wound in his breast. I caught a glimpse of his assassin, as he fled from the church; it was the stranger whom I had seen, on a former visit, at the grave of Clara Douglas, and beside the fir-tree where her remains had been found. I made a motion to follow him, but the captain waved me back—"Let him go," said he; "I forgive him. I have no wish that he should die upon the scaffold." So saying, he fell back exhausted; and, in my haste to procure assistance for him, I quite forgot the assassin, until it was too late.

The captain was conveyed to the Black Swan, where, with Mary to attend to his every want, he was, no doubt, as comfortable as if he had had a home to go to, and a beloved wife to smooth his dying pillow. Mary bestowed more than ordinary care and attention upon him, which, although she had declared to me that she could never love the captain so well as to marry him, should he ever condescend to make the offer, brought back occasionally a pang of jealousy to my heart. I could not exactly understand the extent of her regard for him.

Having business to transact at a neighbouring town, I left Altonby the next day, with a determination to return, ere the lapse of a week, to see the captain, I feared, for the last time. I had been but two days gone, when I received a note from Mary, informing me that he was daily becoming worse, and that it was the fear of his medical attendant that he could not live four-and-twenty hours. With the utmost speed, I therefore hastened back to the Black Swan, where, indeed, I saw that the surgeon had had quite sufficient reason for his prediction—the captain was greatly altered since I last saw him. Wan and emaciated, he lay in resignation upon his couch, calmly waiting the approach of death. He seemed quite composed.

Taking my hand in his, he reminded me of his wish regarding his burial-place. I assured him that it should strictly be complied with. A smile lighted up his pale countenance for an instant, as I pledged myself to this. He then drew from under his pillow a parcel of letters, tied together with a faded ribbon, and desired me to consign them one by one to the flames. With an eager eye, and a countenance full of excitement, did he watch them as they consumed away. I did not dare to examine minutely the address on the letters, but, from the glance I had of them, I could see they were all written in an elegant female hand. When all were gone—"And this," said he, "is like to human life—a blaze but for an instant, and then all is ashes." He paused, and then continued, as he held a small packet in his hand, more in soliloquy than if he were addressing me—"Here is the last sad relic I possess—shall I?—Yes! yes! it shall go as the others have gone. How soon may I follow it?" He stretched forth his hand towards me. I took the packet. Instantly, as if the last tie which bound him to the earth had been hastily snapped asunder, the captain fell backwards upon his couch. I thrust the packet into my bosom, and ran to afford him assistance. He was beyond human help—he was dead!

The grief of Mary knew no bounds when the dismal tidings were conveyed to her; she was like one distracted. Mine was more chastened and subdued.

The remains of the captain were duly consigned to that spot of earth he had pointed out to me. After his death, there was found a conveyance of all his property, which was pretty considerable, to Mary, accompanied with a wish that I would marry her. To this arrangement Mary was quite agreeable; and, accordingly, our nuptials were solemnised in about six months after the death of the captain. It was then that Mary confided to me that she was the sister of Clara Douglas; but when I made inquiry at her concerning the nature of her attachment to the captain, she always avoided answering, and seemed not to wish that his name should be mentioned in her hearing.

Several years passed, and I had forgotten all about the packet which the captain on his death-bed had placed in my hand, till one day, in looking for something else, which, of course, I could not find—(no one ever finds what he wants)—I accidentally stumbled upon the packet. Curiosity induced me to open it. A lock of black hair, tied with a piece of light-blue ribbon, and a letter, were its contents. Part of the letter ran thus:—"Enclosed is some of my hair—I don't expect you to keep it, for I have heard you say you did not like to have any such thing in your possession. I will not ask you, lest I might be refused; but if you give me some, I'll get it put into one of my rings, and shall never, never part with it." This letter bore the signature of Clara Douglas!

Here, then, was a solution of all the mystery. The captain was the lover of Clara, and this had been the cause of Mary's intimacy with him.

Of the fate of the brother I afterwards heard. He was killed in a street brawl one night in Paris, and Mary never knew that he was the assassin of the captain.

BON GUALTIER'S TALES.

BY THEODORE MARTIN.

COUNTRY QUARTERS.

A pleasanter little town than Potterwell does not exist in that part of her Majesty's dominions called Scotland. On one side, the hand of cultivation has covered a genial soil with richness and fertility. The stately mansion, "bosomed high in tufted trees," occasionally invites the eye, as it wanders over the landscape; while here and there the river Wimpledown may be seen peeping out amid the luxuriant verdure of wood and plain, and seeming to concentrate on itself all the radiance of any little sunshine that may be going. On the other side, again, are nothing but impracticable mountains—fine bluff old fellows—that evidently have an extensive and invincible contempt for Time, and, like other great ones of the earth, never carry any change about them. Look beyond these, and the prospect is indeed a fine one—a little monotonous, perhaps, but still a fine one—peak receding behind peak in endless series, a multitudinous sea of mountain tops, with noses as blue as a disappointed man's face, or Miss Harriet Martineau's stockings.

With a situation presenting such allurements for the devotees of the picturesque, is it wonderful that Potterwell became a favourite resort? By the best of good fortune, too, a spring close by, of a peculiarly nauseous character, had, a few years before the period we write of, attracted attention by throwing into violent convulsions sundry cows that had been so far left to themselves as to drink of it, besides carrying off an occasional little boy or so, as a sort of just retribution for so far suppressing his natural tastes as to admit it within his lips. Dr Scammony, however, had taken the mineral water under his patronage; and his celebrated pamphlet upon the medicinal properties of the Potterwell Mephitic Assafœtida Waters at once fixed their reputation, while it materially augmented his own. A general subscription was projected, with a view to the erection of a pump-room. The plan took amazingly; and, from being left to work its way out, as best it might, through the diseased and miserable weeds with which it was overgrown, the spring all at once found itself established in a handsome apartment, fitted up with a most benevolent attention to the wants of such persons as might repair thither with the probable chance—however little they might be conscious of the fact—of dying by a watery death.

It was a bright sparkling morning in August, and there was an exhilarating freshness in the air, that caused the heart to leap up, and make the spirit as unclouded as the blue sky overhead. The pump-room was thronged, and every one congratulated his neighbour on the beauty of the morning.

"At your post as usual, Stukely!" said a smartly dressed young man stepping up to Mr Stukeley—a well-known frequenter of the wells since their first celebrity—and shaking him warmly by the hand. "I do believe you are retained as a check upon the pump woman, that you keep such a strict look-out after her customers. How many doses has she administered to-day? Come now, out with your notebook, and let me see."

"Oh, my dear Frank, if you really want to know, I am the man for you—Old Cotton of Dundee, four and a half and his daughter, took off the balance of the six. What do you think I heard him whisper to her?—'Hoot, lassie, tak it aff, it's a' paid for;' and she, poor soul, was forced to gulp it down, that he might have the satisfaction of knowing that full value had been given for his penny. Then there was Runrig the farmer from Mid-Lothian, half-a-dozen. The man has a frame of iron, and a cheek as fresh as new-mown hay; but somebody had told him the water would do him good, and he has accordingly taken enough to make him ill for a fortnight. Then there was Deacon Dobie's rich widow—fat, fair, and forty—she got pretty well through the seventh tumbler; but, it's a way with her, when she begins drinking, not to know when to stop; which, by the way, may account for her having been, for some time, as she elegantly expresses it, 'gey an nervish ways, whiles.' After her came"—— And Stukeley was going on to enumerate the different visitors of the morning, checking them off upon his fingers as he proceeded, when his friend, Frank Preston, stopped him.

"For mercy's sake, have done; and tell me, if you can, who those two fops of fellows are at the foot of the room? They only came a week ago; and, though nobody knows who they are, they have made the acquaintance of half the people here."

"I see nothing very odd in that. I know nothing of the men; but they dress well, and are moderately good-looking, and have just sufficient assurance to pass off upon the uninitiated for ease of manner and fashionable breeding. A pair of parvenus, no doubt; but what is your motive for asking so particularly about them?"

"Oh, nothing, nothing! Only I am to meet them at the Cheeshams to-night, and I wished to know something of them."

"So, so! sets the wind in that quarter? A rival, Master Frank? It is there the shoe pinches, is it?"

"A rival—nonsense! What should I care whether the puppies are attentive to Emily Cheesham or not?"

"Why more to her than to her sister Fanny? I mentioned no names. Ha! Master Frank, you see I have caught you. Come, come, tell me what it is annoys you?"

"Well," stammered out Frank Preston,—"well, the fact is—the fact is, one of them has been rather particular in his attentions to Emily, and I am half-inclined to think she gives him encouragement."

"And, suppose she does, I see nothing in that but the harmless vanity of a girl, pleased to have another dangler under her spell."

"That is all very well, but I don't like it a bit. It may be so, and it may not. Her encouragement to him is very marked, and I don't feel easy under it at all, I don't."

"Why, Frank, you must both have a very poor opinion of Miss Emily, and be especially soft yourself, to give yourself any concern in the matter. If you have deemed her worthy of your regards, and she has given you warrant for thinking you have a claim upon them, and yet she now throws you off to make way for this newer lover, your course is a clear one. Turn from her at once, and fortify yourself with old Wither's lines—

'If she be not made for me,

What care I for whom she be?'"

"Excellent philosophy, if one could but act upon it. But what annoys me about the business is, that I am sure these fellows are a pair of snobs, and are playing themselves off for something greater than they are."

"Very possibly; but that is just a stronger reason for taking my advice. If Miss Emily can be gratified with the attentions of such persons, leave her to the full enjoyment of them. Don't make yourself miserable for her folly."

"Oh, I don't make myself miserable at all, not in the least; only, I should like to find out who the fellows are."

The young men of whom Preston and Stukeley had been speaking, and who now lounged up the room, describing semicircles with their legs at every step they took, were certainly never meant for the ordinary tear and wear of the hard-working every-day world. Their dress had too fine a gloss upon it for that, their hair much too gracefully disposed. They were both rather below the middle size, both dark in the complexion, but one of them much more so than the other. The darker slip of humanity had cultivated the growth of his hair with singular success. It fell away in masses from his forehead and temples, and curled, like the rings of the young vine, over the velvet collar that capped a coat of symmetrical proportions. Circling round the cheeks and below the chin, it somewhat obtruded upon the space which is generally occupied by the face, so that his head might truly be said to be a mass of hair, slightly interspersed with features. His friend, again, to avoid monotony, had varied the style of his upper works, and his locks were allowed to droop in long, lanky, melancholy tangles down his sallow cheeks; while, perched upon either lip, might be seen a feathery looking object, not to be accounted for, but on the supposition that it was intended to seduce the public into a belief of its being a moustache. Both were showily dressed. Both had stocks terminating in a cataract of satin that emptied itself into tartan velvet waistcoats, worn probably in honour of the country; both had gold chains innumerable, twisting in a multiplicity of convolutions across these waistcoats; both had on yellow kid gloves of unimpeachable purity, and both carried minute canes of imitation ebony, with which, at intervals, they flogged, one the right and the other the left leg, with the most painful ferocity. They were a noble pair; alike, yet, oh, how different!

"Eugene, my boy," said the darker of the two, in a tone of voice loud enough to let half the room hear the interesting communication, "we must see what sort of stuff this here water is—we must, positively."

"Roost eggs, Adolph, whisked in bilge-water, with a rusty tenpenny nail. Faugh! I'm smashed if I taste it."

"Not so bad that for you," returned Adolph, smiling faintly; "but you must really pay your respects to the waters."

"'Pon my soul, I shawn't. I had enough of that so't of thing in Jummany, the time I was ova with Ned Hoxham."

"That was the time, wasn't it, that you brought me over that choice lot of cigaws?"

"I believe it was," responded Eugene, with the most impressive indifference, as if he wished it to be understood that he had been so often there that he could not recall the particulars of any one visit.

"I know something of Seidlitz and Seltzer myself," resumed the darker Adonis, "and soda water too, by Jove! for that matter, and they're not bad things either, when one's been making a night of it; so I'll have a try at this Potterwell fluid, and see how it does for a change."

In this manner the two friends proceeded, to the infinite enlightenment of those about them, who, being greatly struck with their easy and facetious manners, stood admiringly by with looks of evident delight! The young men saw the impression they were making, and, desirous of keeping it up, went on to ask the priestess of the spring how often, and in what quantities, she found it necessary to doctor it with Glauber salts, brimstone, and assafœtida. The joke took immensely.

Such of the bystanders as could laugh—for the internal agitation produced by the cathartic properties of their morning draught, made that a somewhat difficult and dangerous experiment—did so; and various young men, of no very definite character, but who seemed to support the disguise of gentlemen with considerable pain to themselves, sidled up, and endeavoured to strike into conversation with our Nisus and Euryalus, thinking to share by contact the glory which they had won. All they got for their pains, however, was a stare of cool indifference. The friends were as great adepts in the art and mystery of cutting, as the most fashionable tailor could be; and, after volunteering a few ineffectual efforts at sprightliness, these awkward aspirants to fame were forced to fall back, abashed and crestfallen, into the natural insignificance of their character.

These proceedings did not pass unnoticed by Preston and his elderly friend, who made their own observations upon them, but were prevented from saying anything on the subject to each other by the entrance of a party, which diverted their attention in a different direction. These were no other than Mrs Cheesham and her two accomplished daughters, Miss Emily and Miss Fanny Cheesham. Mrs Cheesham's personal appearance may be passed over very briefly; as no one, so far as is known, ever cared about it but herself. She was vain, vulgar, and affected; fond of finery and display; and the one dominant passion of her life was to insinuate herself and her family into fashionable society, and secure a brilliant match for her daughters. They, again, were a pair of attractive, showy girls; Emily flippant, sparkling, lively; Fanny demure, reserved, and cold. Emily's eyes were dark and lustrous—you saw the best of them at once; and her look, alert and wicked. These corresponded well with a well-rounded figure, a rosy complexion, and full pouting lips, that were "ruddier than the cherry." Fanny was tall and "stately in her going;" pale, but without that look of sickliness which generally accompanies such a complexion; and her eyes, beautiful as they were when brought into play, were generally shrouded by the drooping of her eyelids, like those of one who is accustomed to be frequently self-inwrapt. With Emily you might sport in jest and raillery by the hour; but with Fanny you always felt, as it were, bound to be upon your best behaviour. They passed up the room, distributing nods of recognition, and occasionally stopping to allow Mrs Cheesham to give her invitations to a soirée musicale which she intended to get up that evening.

"Your servant, ladies," said old Stukeley, raising his hat, while his friend followed his example. "You are late. I was afraid we were not to have the pleasure of seeing you this morning. Pray, Miss Emily, what new novel or poem was it that kept you awake so late last night that you have lost half this glorious morning? Tell me the author's name, that I may punish the delinquent, by cutting up his book, in the next number of our Review?"

"Cut it up, and you will do more than I could; for I found myself nodding over the second page, and I feel the drowsiness about me still."

"The opiate—the opiate, Miss Emily? Who was its compounder? He must be a charmer indeed."

"Himself and his printer knows. Only some unhappy bard, who dubs us women 'the angels of life,' and misuses us vilely through a dozen cantos of halting verse. The poor man has forgot the story

'Of man's first disobedience, and the fruit

Of that forbidden tree, whose mortal taste

Brought death into the world and all our woe,

or he would have christened us daughters of Eve by a very different name."

"O you little rogue! you are too hard upon this devotee to your dear deluding sex. It is only his excess of politeness that has made him forget his historical reading."

"His politeness! Fiddlestick! I would as soon have a troop of boys inflict the intolerable tediousness of their calf-love upon me as endure the rhapsodies of a booby, who strips us of our good flesh and blood, frailties and all, to etherealize us into an incomprehensible compound of tears, sighs, moonshine, music, love, flowers, and hysterics."

"Emily, how you run on!" broke in Mrs Cheesham. "My dear Mr Stukeley, really you must not encourage the girl in her nonsense. I declare I sometimes think her tongue runs away with her wits."

"Better that, I'm sure, madam, than have it run away without them," responded Stukeley, in a deprecating tone, which threw Mrs Cheesham, whose intellect was none of the acutest, completely out.

"Girls, there are Mr Blowze and Mr Lilylipz," said Mrs Cheesham, looking in the direction of the friends, Adolph and Eugene; "you had better arrange with them about coming this evening."

Emily advanced with her sister to the engaging pair, who received them with that peculiar contortion of the body, between a jerk and a shuffle, which young men are in the habit of mistaking for a bow, and was soon deep in the heart of a flirtation with Adolph, while Fanny stood listening to the vapid nothings of Eugene, a very model of passive endurance. Frank Preston was anything but an easy spectator of this movement; nor was Emily blind to this; but, like a wilful woman, she could not forbear playing the petty tyrant, and exercising freely the power to torment which she saw that she possessed.

"You will be of our party to-night, gentlemen," continued Mrs Cheesham. "We are to have a little music. You are fond of music, Mr Stukeley, I know; and no pressing can be necessary to an amatoor like you, Mr Francis. I can assure you, you'll meet some very nice people. Mr and Mrs M'Skrattachan, highly respectable people—an old Highland family, and with very high connections. Mr M'Skrattachan's mother's sister's aunt—no, his aunt's mother's sister—yes, that was it—Mr M'Skrattachan's aunt's mother's sister; and yet I don't know—I dare say I was right before—at all events, it was one or other of them—married a second cousin—something of that kind—of the Duke of Argyle, by the mother's side They had a large estate in Skye a Ross-shire—I am not sure which, but it was somewhere thereabout."

Stukeley and Preston were glad to cover their retreat by acceptance of Mrs Cheesham's invitation; and, leaving her to empty the dregs of the details which she had begun into the willing ears of some of her more submissive friends, they made their escape from the pump-room.

Slopbole Cottage, where the Cheeshams were domiciliated during their sojourn at Potterwell, was situated upon the banks of the Wimpledown, at a distance of somewhat less than a quarter of a mile from the burgh. It had, at one time, been a farm-house; but, within a few years, it had been recast; and, by the addition of a bow window, a trellised door, and a few of the usual et ceteras, it had been converted into what is by courtesy termed a cottage ornée. It was an agreeable place for all that, shaded by the remnants of a fine old wood—the rustling of whose foliage made pleasant music, as it blended with the ever-sounding plash and rushing of the stream.

When Frank Preston arrived at Slopbole Cottage that evening, he found the drawing-room already well stocked with the usual components of a tea-party. The two exquisites of the morning he saw, to his dismay, were already there. Adolph was assiduously sacrificing to the charms and wit of Miss Emily, while his shadow, Eugene, was—but Preston did not care about that—as much engaged in Macadamising his great conceptions into small talk suitable for the intellectual capacity of Miss Fanny. Mrs Cheesham regarded these proceedings with entire satisfaction. The friends, to her mind, were men of birth, fashion, and fortune, and the very men for her daughters. Besides, there was a mystery about them that was charming. Nobody knew exactly who they were, although everybody was sure they were somebody. None but great people ever travel incog. They were evidently struck by her daughters. Things were in a fair train; and, if she could but make a match of it, Mrs Cheesham thought she might then fold her hands across, and make herself easy for life. Her daughters would be the wives of great men, and she was their mother, and every one knows what an important personage a wife's mother is.

"Two very fine young men, Mr Francis," said Mrs Cheesham. "Extremely intelligent people. And so good looking! Quite distingue, too. It is not every day one meets such people."

Frank Preston threw in the necessary quantity of "yes's," "certainly's," and so forth, while Mrs Cheesham continued—

"They seem rather taken with my girls, don't they? Mr Blowze is never away from Emily's side. His attentions are quite marked. Don't you think, now, they'd make a nice pair? They're both so lively—always saying such clever things. I never knew Emily so smart either; but that girl's all animation—all spirit. I always said Emily would never do but for a rattle of a husband—a man that could talk as much as herself. It does not do, you know, really it does not do, for the wife to have too much of the talk to herself. I make that a principle; and, as I often tell Cheesham, I let him have it all his own way, rather than argue a point with him."

This was, of course, an exceedingly agreeable strain of conversation to the lover, to whom it was no small relief, when Mrs Cheesham quitted his side to single out her musical friends for the performance of a quartette. At her summons, these parties were seen to emerge from the various recesses where they had been concealing themselves, in all the majesty of silence, as is the way with musical amateurs in general. Miss Fanny, who was really an accomplished performer, was called to preside at the pianoforte, and Mr Lilylipz rushed before to adjust the music-stool and turn over the leaves for her. Mr Blewitt got out his flute, and, after screwing it together, commenced a series of blasts upon it, which were considered necessary to the process of tuning. Mr Harrower, the violoncello player, turned up the wristbands of his coat, placed his handkerchief on his left knee, and, after a preliminary flourish or two of his hands, began to grind his violoncello into a proper sharpness of pitch. Not to be behind the rest, Mr Fogle screwed his violin strings first up, and then he screwed them down, and then he proceeded to screw them up again, with a waywardness of purpose that might have been extremely diverting, if its effects had not been so very distressing to the ears. Having thus begot a due degree of attention in their audience, the performers thought of trying how the results of their respective preparations tallied.

"Miss Fanny, will you be kind enough to sound your A?" lisped Mr Blewitt.

Miss Fanny did sound her A, and again a dissonance broke forth that would have thrown Orpheus into fits. It was then discovered that the damp had reduced the piano nearly a whole tone below pitch, and Mr Blewitt's flute could not be brought down to a level with it by any contrivance. The musicians, however, were not to be baulked in their purpose for this, and they agreed to proceed with the flute some half a tone higher than the other instruments. But there was a world of preliminary work yet to be gone through; tables had to be adjusted, and books had to be built upon music stands. But the tables would not stand conveniently, and the books would fall, and then all the work of adjustment and library architecture had to be gone over again. At last these matters were put to rights, and after a few more indefinite vagaries by Messrs Blewitt, Harrower and Fogle, the junto made a dash into the heart of one of Haydn's quartettes. The piano kept steadily moving through the piece. Miss Fanny knew her work, and she did it. The others did not know theirs, and they did for it. After a few faint squeaks at the beginning, Mr Blewitt's flute dropped out of hearing altogether, and, just as everybody had set it down as defunct, it began to give token of its existence by a wail or two rising through the storm of sounds with which the performance closed, and then made up its leeway by continuing to vapour away for some time after the rest had finished.

"Bless my heart, are you done?" cried Mr Blewitt, breaking off in the middle of a solo, which he found himself performing to his own astonishment.

Mr Harrower and Mr Fogle threw up their eyes with an intensity of contempt that defies description. To be sure, neither of them had kept either time or tune all the way through. Mr Harrower's violoncello had growled and groaned, at intervals, in a manner truly pitiable; and Mr Fogle's bow had done nothing but dance and leap, in a perpetual staccato from the first bar to the last, to the entire confusion of both melody and concord. But they had both managed to be in at the death, and were therefore entitled to sneer at the unhappy flutist. Mr Eugene Lilylipz, who had annoyed Miss Fanny throughout the performance, by invariably turning over the leaf at the wrong place, now broke into a volley of raptures, of which the words "Devaine" and "Chawming," were among the principal symbols. A buzz of approbation ran round the room, warm in proportion to the relief which the cessation of the Dutch concert afforded. Mr Harrower and his coadjutors grew communicative, and vented an infinite quantity of the jargon of dilettanteism upon each other, and upon those about them. They soon got into a discussion upon the merits of different composers, whose names served them to bandy to and fro in the battledore and shuttlecock of conversation. Beethoven was cried up to the seventh heaven by Mr Harrower for his grandeur and sublimity, and all that sort of thing.

"There is a Miltonic greatness about the man!" he exclaimed, throwing his eyes to the ceiling, in the contemplation of a visionary demigod. "A vastness, a massiveness, an incomprehensible—eh, eh?—ah, I can't exactly tell what, that places him far above all other writers."

"Every man to his taste," insinuated Mr Blewitt; "but I certainly like what I can understand best. Now I don't understand Beethoven; but I can understand Mozart, or Weber, or Haydn."

"It is very well if you do!" retorted the violoncellist, reflecting probably on the recent specimen Mr Blewitt had given of his powers. "It is more than everybody does, I can tell you."

"Od, gentlemen, but it's grand music onyhow, and exceeding justice you have done it, if I may speak my mind. But ye ken I'm no great shakes of a judge."

This was the opinion volunteered by Mr Cheesham, who saw the musicians were giving symptoms of that tendency to discord for which they are proverbial, and threw out a sop to their vanity, which at once restored them to order. As he said himself, Mr Cheesham was no great judge of music, nor, indeed, of any of the fine arts. He had read little, and thought less; and yet, since he had become independent of the world, he was fond of assuming an air of knowledge, that was exceedingly amusing. There was nothing, for instance, that he liked better to be talking about than history; and, nevertheless, that Hannibal was killed at the battle of Drumclog, and Julius Cæsar beheaded by Henry the Eight, were facts which he would probably have had no hesitation in admitting, upon any reasonable representation.

By this time, Mr Stukeley had joined the party, and was going his rounds, chatting, laughing, quizzing, and prosing, according to the different characters of the people whom he talked with. When he reached Mr Cheesham, he found him in earnest conversation with Mr Lilylipz regarding the ruins of Tinglebury, an abbey not far from Potterwell, of which the architecture was pronounced by Mr Lilylipz to be "suttinly transcendent beyond anything. It is of that pure Græco-Gothic, which was brought over by William the Conqueror, and went out with the Saxons."

Stukeley encouraged the conversation, drawing out the presumptuous ignorance of Mr Lilylipz and the rusty nomeanings of the parent Cheesham into strong relief.

"Gentlemen, excuse me for breaking up your tête-à-tête. Have you got upon 'Shakspeare, taste, and the musical glasses?'" said Miss Emily, joining the trio. "Mr Lilylipz, your friend tells me you sing. Will you break the dulness, and favour us?"

"Oh, I never do sing; and besides, I am suffering from hoarseness."

"Come, come," replied Miss Emily, "none of these excuses, or we shall expect to find a very Braham, at least."

"Now, really," remonstrated Mr Lilylipz.

"Oh, never mind his nonsense, Miss Cheesham," exclaimed Mr Blowze, from the other side of the room. "Lilylipz sings an uncommonly good song when he likes. Give us 'the Rose of Cashmere,' or 'She wore a wreath of Roses.' Come away, now—no humbug!"

"Oh, that will be delightful!—pray, do sing!" were the exclamations of a dozen voices at least. "Mr Lilylipz' song!" shouted the elderly gentlemen of the party; and, forthwith, an awful stillness reigned throughout the apartment. Upon this, Mr Lilylipz blew his nose, coughed thrice, and, throwing himself back in his chair, riveted his eyes, with the utmost intensity, upon a corner of the ceiling. Every one held back his breath in expectation, and the interesting young man opened upon the assemblage with a ballad all about an Araby maid, to whom a Christian knight was submitting proposals of elopement, which the lady appeared to be by no means averse to, for each stanza ended with the refrain, "Away, away, away!" signifying that the parties meant to be off somewhere as fast as possible. Mr Lilylipz had just concluded verse the first, and the "Away, away, away!" had powerfully excited the imagination of the young ladies present, when the door opened, and the clinking of crystal ware announced the inopportune entrance of a maidservant, bearing a trayful of glasses filled with that vile imbroglio of hot water and sugar, coloured with wine, which passes in genteel circles by the name of negus. All eyes turned towards the door, and Mrs Cheesham exclaimed, "Sally, be quiet!" but Mr Eugene was too much enrapt by his own performance to feel the disturbance, and he tore away through verse the second with kindling enthusiasm. "Away, away, away!" sang the vocalist, when a crash and a scream arrested his progress. The servant maid had dropped the tray, and the glasses were rolling to and fro upon the floor in a confusion of fragments, while the delinquent, Sally, shrieking at the top of her voice, was making her way out at the door with all the speed she was mistress of.

"What can that be?" cried one. "The careless slut!" screamed another. "Such thoughtlessness!" suggested a third. "What the deuce could the woman mean?" asked a fourth. "It's the last night she sets foot in my house!" exclaimed Mrs Cheesham, thrown off her dignity by the sudden shock.

"Bless me, you look unwell!" said Mr Cheesham to Mr Lilylipz, who had turned deadly pale, and was altogether looking excessively unhappy.

"Oh, it is nothing. Only a constitutional nervousness. The start, the surprise, that sort of thing, you know; but it will go off in a moment. I shall just take a turn in the air for a little, and I'll be quite better."

The ladies were engaged in the contemplation of the wreck at the other end of the room, and Mr Lilylipz, accompanied by his friend, stepped out at one of the drawing-room windows, which opened out upon the lawn. Frank Preston looked after them, and saw them in the moonlight, passing down the banks of the river among the trees, apparently engaged in earnest conversation.

"What do you think of this business, eh?" said Stukeley, rousing him from a reverie by a tap upon the shoulder. "Queerish a little, isn't it?"

"Queerish not a little, I think; and blow me if I don't get to the bottom of it, or a devil's in it. That girl knows something of Mr Eugene, I'll be sworn. We must get out of her what it is."

"Oh, no doubt she does. It wasn't the song that threw her off, although it was certainly vile enough for anything; it was himself; that is as clear as day. Let us off, hunt out the wench, and get the secret from her."

They left the room by the open window, and passing round the house to the servants' entrance, walked into the kitchen, where they found Sally labouring under strong excitement, as she narrated the incident which had led to her precipitate retreat from the drawing-room.

"To think of seeing him here; the base deceitful wretch! Cocked up in the drawing-room, forsooth, as if that were a place for him or the likes of him. Set him up, indeed—a pretty story. But I know'd as how he'd never come to no good!"

"Who is he, my dear?" inquired Stukeley.

"Who is he, sir!—who should he be but Tom Newlands, the son of Dame Newlands of our village."

"Oh, you must certainly be mistaken."

"Never a bit mistaken am I, sir. I have too good reason for remembering him, the wretch! Oh, if I had him here, I wouldn't give it him, I wouldn't? I'd sarve him out, the deludin' scoundrel. But he never was good for nothing since he went into the haberdashery line."

"A haberdasher, is he? Capital!—capital! The man of fashion, eh, Frank?"

"The young man of distingue appearance!"

"And who's his friend, Sally?"

"What! the other chap? Oh, I don't know anything about him, except that he's one of them man millinery fellows; and a precious bad lot they are, I know."

"Glorious!—glorious!" cried Stukeley, crying with delight, as he walked out of the place with his friend. "Here's a discovery for some folks, isn't it? The brilliant alliance, the high family, et cetera, et cetera, all dwindled into a measurer of tapes. Aren't you proud of having had such a rival?"

"Oh, come, don't be too hard upon me on that point. Mum, here we are at the drawing-room again. Not a word of what we have heard. If these scamps have made themselves scarce, as I think they have, good and well. But if they venture to show face here again, I shall certainly feel it to be my duty to pull their noses, and eject them from the premises by a summary process."

"Oh, never fear, they will not put you to the trouble. They are off for good and all, or I am no prophet."

Stukeley was right. The evening passed on, and the friends returned not. Infinite were the surmises which their absence occasioned, but the general conclusion was, that the interesting Mr Lilylipz had found himself worse, and had retired to his inn for the night, along with his faithful Achates. Morning came, but the friends did not make their appearance at the pumproom as usual. They were not at their inn; they were not in Potterwell. Whither they had wended, no one knew; but, like the characters in the ballad, which had been so oddly broken off, they were "away, away, away." They had come like shadows, and like shadows they had departed.

Some months afterwards, Mrs Cheesham and her daughter Emily entered one of the extensive drapery warehouses of Edinburgh, to invest a portion o' their capital in the purchase of mousseline de laine. They had seen an advertisement which intimated that no lady ought, in justice to herself, to buy a dress of this description without first inspecting that company's stock of the article. They were determined to do themselves justice, and they went accordingly.

"Eugene," said the superintendent of the place, "show these ladies that parcel of goods. A very superior article, indeed." Eugene! Eugene! the ladies had good reason to remember the name; and what was their surprise, on looking round, to see the exquisite of Potterwell bending under a load of dress pieces! If their surprise was great, infinitely greater was his dismay. His knees shook; his eyes grew dim; his head giddy. His hands lost their power, and, dropping the bundle, the unhappy Eugene stumbled over it in a manner painfully ignoble. Mrs and Miss Cheesham turned to quit the shop, when there, behind them, stood the dashing Adolph. "The enemy!" he exclaimed, and, ducking dexterously under the counter, disappeared among sundry bales that were piled beyond it. The lesson was not lost. Mrs Cheesham had had quite enough of quality-hunting to satisfy her; and Miss Emily found out that it was desirable to be wise as well as witty, and gave her hand to Frank Preston, who forgave her temporary apostacy, not only because it had been smartly punished by the result, but for the sake of the many estimable qualities which Miss Cheesham really possessed. Miss Fanny still roams, "in maiden meditation, fancy free;" but she cannot do so long, or there is no skill in man. At all events, when she does want a husband, she will not go in search of him to COUNTRY QUARTERS.

THE MERCHANT'S DAUGHTER.

BY ALEXANDER CAMPBELL.

On the western skirts of the Torwood—famous in Scottish story for its association with the names of Wallace and Bruce—there stood, in the middle of the sixteenth century, a farm-house of rather superior appearance for the period.

This house was occupied at the time of which we speak by a person of the name of Henderson, who farmed a pretty extensive tract of land in the neighbourhood.

Henderson was a respectable man; and although not affluent, was in tolerably easy circumstances.

The night on which our story opens, which was in the September of the year 1530, was a remarkably wild and stormy one. The ancient oaks of the Torwood were bending and groaning beneath the pressure of the storm; and, ever and anon, large portions of the dark forest were rendered visible, and a wild light thrown into its deepest recesses by the flashing lightning.

The night, too, was pitch-dark; and to add to its dismal character, a heavy drenching rain, borne on the furious blast, deluged the earth, and beat with violence on all opposing objects.

"A terrible night this, goodwife," said Henderson to his helpmate, as he double-barred the outer door, while she stood behind him with a candle to afford him the necessary light to perform this operation.

"I wish these streamers that have been dancing all night in the north may not bode some ill to poor Scotland. They were seen, I mind, just as they are now, eight nights precisely before that cursed battle of Flodden; and it was well judged by them that some serious disaster was at hand."

"But I have heard you say, goodman," replied David Henderson's better-half, who—the former finding some difficulty in thrusting a bar into its place—was still detained in her situation of candle-holder, "that the fight of Flodden was lost by the king's descending from his vantage-ground."

"True, good wife," said David; "but was not his doing so but a means of fulfilling the prognostication? How could it have been brought about else?"

The door being now secured, Henderson and his wife returned without further colloquy into the house; and shortly after, it being now late, retired to bed.

In the meantime, the storm continued to rage with unabated violence. The rush of the wind amongst the trees was deafening; and at first faintly, but gradually waxing louder, as the stream swelled with the descending deluge of rain, came the hoarse voice of the adjoining river on the blast as it boiled and raged along.

Henderson had been in bed about an hour—it was now midnight—but had been kept awake by the tremendous sounds of the tempest, when, gently jogging his slumbering helpmate—

"Goodwife," he said, "listen a moment. Don't you hear the voice of some one shouting without?"

They now both listened intently; and loudly as the storm roared, soon distinguished the tramp of horses' feet approaching the house.

In the next moment, a rapid succession of thundering strokes on the door, as if from the butt end of a heavy whip, accompanied by the exclamations of—

"Ho! within there! house, house!" gave intimation that the rider sought admittance.

"Who can this be?" said Henderson, making an attempt to rise; in which, however, he was resisted by his wife, who held him back, saying—

"Never mind them, David; let them just rap on. This is no time to admit visitors. Who can tell who they may be?"

"And who cares who they may be?" replied the sturdy farmer, throwing himself out of bed. "I'll just see how they look from the window, Mary;" and he proceeded to the window, threw it up, looked over, and saw beneath him a man of large stature, mounted on a powerful black horse, with a lady seated behind him.

"Dreadful night, friend," said the stranger, looking up to the window occupied by Henderson, and to which he had been attracted by the noise made in raising it. "Can you give my fellow-traveller here shelter till the morning? She is so benumbed with cold, so drenched with wet, and so exhausted by the fatigue of a long day's ride, that she can proceed no further; and we have yet a good fifteen miles to make out."

"This is no hostel, friend, for the accommodation of travellers," replied the farmer. "I am not in the habit of admitting strangers into my house, especially at so late an hour of the night as this."

"Had I been asking for myself," rejoined the horseman, "I should not have complained of your wariness; but surely you won't be so churlish as refuse quarters to a lady on such a night as this. She can scarce retain her seat on the saddle. Besides, you shall be handsomely paid for any trouble you may be put to."

"Oh do, good sir, allow me to remain with you for the night, for I am indeed very much fatigued," came up to the ear of Henderson, in feeble but silvery tones, from the fair companion of the horseman, with the addition, after a short pause, of "You shall be well rewarded for the kindness."

At a loss what to do, Henderson made no immediate reply, but, scratching his head, withdrew from the window a moment to consult his wife.

Learning that there was a lady in the case, and judging from this circumstance that no violence or mischief of any kind was likely to be intended, the latter agreed, although still with some reluctance, to her husband's suggestion that the benighted travellers should be admitted.

On this resolution being come to, Henderson returned to the window, and thrusting out his head, exclaimed, "Wait there a moment, and I will admit you."

In the next instant he had unbarred the outer door, and had stepped out to assist the lady in dismounting; but was anticipated in this courtesy by her companion, who had already placed her on the ground.

"Shall I put up your horse, sir?" said Henderson, addressing the stranger, but now with more deference than before; as, from his dress and manner, which he had now an opportunity of observing more closely, he had no doubt he was a man of rank.

"Oh no, thank you, friend," replied the latter. "My business is pressing, an I must go on; but allow me to recommend this fair lady to your kindest attention. To-morrow I will return and carry her away."

Saying this, he again threw himself on his horse—a noble-looking charger—took bridle in hand, struck his spurs into his side, and regardless of all obstacles, and of the profound darkness of the night, darted off with the speed of the wind.

In an instant after, both horse and rider were lost in the gloom; but their furious career might for some time be tracked, even after they had disappeared, by the streams of fire which poured from the fierce collision of the horse's hoofs with the stony road over which he was tearing his way with such desperate velocity.

Henderson in the meantime had conducted his fair charge into the house, and had consigned her to the care of his wife, who had now risen for the purpose of attending her.

A servant having been also called up, a cheerful fire soon blazed on the hearth of the best apartment in the house—that into which the strange lady had been ushered.

The kind-hearted farmer's wife now also supplied her fair guest with dry clothing and other necessaries, and did everything in her power to render her as comfortable as possible.

To this kindness her natural benevolence alone would have prompted her; but an additional motive presented itself in the youth and extreme beauty of the fair traveller, who was, as the farmer's wife afterwards remarked to her husband, the loveliest creature her eyes ever beheld. Nor was her manner less captivating; it was mild and gentle, while the sweet silvery tones of her voice imparted an additional charm to the graces of her person.

Her apparel, too, the good woman observed, was of the richest description; and the jewellery with which she was adorned, in the shape of rings, bracelets, etc., and which she deposited one after another on a table that stood beside her, with the careless manner of one accustomed to the possession of such things, seemed of great value.

A purse, also, well stored with golden guineas, as the sound indicated, was likewise thrown on the table with the same indifferent manner.

The wealth of the fair stranger, in short, seemed boundless in the eyes of her humble, unsophisticated attendant.

The comfort of the young lady attended to in every way, including the offer of some homely refreshment, of which, however, she scarcely partook, pleading excessive fatigue as an apology, she was left alone in the apartment to retire to rest when she thought proper; the room containing a clean and neat bed, which had always been reserved for strangers.

On rejoining her husband, after leaving her fair guest, a long and earnest conversation took place between the worthy couple as to who or what the strangers could be. They supposed, they conjectured, they imagined, but all to no purpose. They could make nothing of it beyond the conviction that they were persons of rank; for the natural politeness of the "guidwife" had prevented her asking the young lady any questions touching her history, and she had made no communication whatever on the subject herself.

As to the lady's companion, all that Henderson, who was the only one of the family who had seen him, could tell, was, that he was a tall, dark man, attired as a gentleman, but so muffled up in a large cloak, that he could not, owing to that circumstance and the extreme darkness of the night, make out his features distinctly.

Henderson, however, expressed some surprise at the abruptness of his departure, and still more at the wild and desperate speed with which he had ridden away, regardless of the darkness of the night and of all obstacles that might be in the way.

It was what he himself, a good horseman, and who knew every inch of the ground, would not have done for a thousand merks; and a great marvel he held it, that the reckless rider had got a hundred yards without horse and man coming down, to the utter destruction of both.

Such was the substance of Henderson's communications to his wife regarding the horseman. The latter's to him was of the youth and exceeding beauty of his fair companion, and of her apparently prodigious wealth. The worthy man drank in with greedy ears, and looks of excessive wonderment, her glowing descriptions of the sparkling jewels and heavily laden purse which she had seen the strange lady deposit on the table; and greatly did these descriptions add to his perplexity as to who or what this lady could possibly be.

Tired of conjecturing, the worthy couple now again retired to rest, trusting that the morning would bring some light on a subject which so sadly puzzled them.

In due time that morning came, and, like many of those mornings that succeed a night of storm, it came fair and beautiful. The wind was laid, the rain had ceased, and the unclouded sun poured his cheerful light through the dark green glades of the Torwood.

On the same morning another sun arose, although to shine on a more limited scene. This was the fair guest of David Henderson of Woodlands, whose beauty, remarkable as it had seemed on the previous night under all disadvantages, now appeared to surpass all that can be conceived of female perfection.

Mrs Henderson looked, and, we may say, gazed on the fair stranger with a degree of wonder and delight, that for some time prevented her tendering the civilities which she came for the express purpose of offering. For some seconds she could do nothing but obey a species of charm, for which, perhaps, she could not have very well accounted. The gentle smile, too, and melodious voice of her guest, seemed still more fascinating than on the previous evening.

In the meantime the day wore on, and there was yet no appearance of the lady's companion of the former night, who, as the reader will recollect, had promised to Henderson to return and carry away his fair lodger.

Night came, and still he appeared not. Another day and another night passed away, and still he of the black charger was not forthcoming.

The circumstance greatly surprised both Henderson and his wife; but it did not surprise them more than the lady's apparent indifference on the subject. She indeed joined, in words at least, in the wonder which they once or twice distantly hinted at the conduct of the recreant knight; but it was evident that she did not feel much of either astonishment or disappointment at his delay.

Again and again, another and another day came and passed away, and still no one appeared to inquire after the fair inmate of Woodlands.

It will readily be believed that the surprise of Henderson and his wife at this circumstance increased with the lapse of time. It certainly did. But however much they might be surprised, they had little reason to complain, so far, at any rate, as their interest was concerned, for their fair lodger paid them handsomely for the trouble she put them to. She dealt out the contents of her ample and well-stocked purse with unsparing liberality, besides presenting her hostess with several valuable jewels.

On this score, therefore, they had nothing to complain of; and neither needed to care, nor did care, how long it continued.

During all this time the unknown beauty continued to maintain the most profound silence regarding her history,—whence she had come, whither she was going, or in what relation the person stood to her who had brought her to Woodlands, and who now seemed to have deserted her.

All that the most ingeniously-put queries on the subject could elicit was, that she was an entire stranger in that part of the country; and an assurance that the person who brought her would return for her one day, although there were reasons why it might be some little time distant.

What these reasons were, however, she never would give the most remote idea; and with this measure of information were her host and hostess compelled to remain satisfied.

The habits of the fair stranger, in the meantime, were extremely retired. She would never go abroad until towards the dusk of the evening; and when she did she always took the most sequestered routes; her favourite, indeed only resort on these occasions, being a certain little retired grove of elms, at the distance of about a quarter of a mile from Woodlands.

The extreme caution the young lady observed in all her movements when she went abroad, a good deal surprised both Henderson and his wife; but, from a feeling of delicacy towards their fair lodger, who had won their esteem by her affable and amiable manners, they avoided all remark on the subject, and would neither themselves interfere in any way with her proceedings, nor allow any other member of their family to do so.

Thus was she permitted to go out and return whensoever she pleased without inquiry or remark.

Although, however, neither Henderson nor his wife would allow of any one watching the motions of their fair but mysterious lodger when she went abroad, there is nothing to hinder us from doing this. We shall therefore follow her to the little elm grove by the wayside, on a certain evening two or three days after her arrival in Woodlands.

Doing this, we shall find the mysterious stranger seated beside a clear sparkling fountain, situated a little way within the grove, that, first forming itself into a little pellucid lake in the midst of the greensward, afterwards glided away down a mossy channel eked with primroses.

All alone by this fountain sat the young lady, looking, in her surpassing features and the exquisite symmetry of her light and graceful form, the very nymph of the crystal waters of the spring—the goddess of the grove.

As she thus sat on the evening in question—it being now towards the dusk—the bushes, by which the fountain was in part shut in, were suddenly and roughly parted, and in the next moment a young man of elegant exterior, attired in the best fashion of the period, and leading a horse behind him by the bridle, stood before the half-alarmed and blushing damsel.

The embarrassment of the lady, however, was not much greater than that of the intruder, who appeared to have little expected to find so fair and delicate a creature in such a situation, or indeed to find any one else. He himself had sought the fountain, which he knew well, and had often visited, merely to quench his thirst.

After contemplating each other for an instant with looks of surprise and embarrassment, the stranger doffed his bonnet with an air of great gallantry, and apologised for his intrusion.

The lady, smiling and blushing, replied, that his appearance there could be no intrusion, as the place was free to all.

"True, madam," said the former, again bowing low; "but your presence should have made it sacred, and I should have so deemed it, had I been aware of your being here."

The only reply of the young lady to this gallant speech, was a profound curtsey, and a smile of winning sweetness which was natural to her.

Unable to withdraw himself from the fascinations of the fair stranger, yet without any apology for remaining longer where he was, the young man appeared for a moment not to know precisely what he should say or do next. At length, however, after having vainly hinted a desire to know the young lady's name and place of residence, his courtesy prevailed over every other more selfish feeling, and he mounted his horse, and, bidding the fair wood-nymph a respectful adieu, rode off.

The young gallant, however, did not carry all away with him that he brought,—he left his heart behind him; and he had not ridden far before he found that he had done so.

The surpassing beauty of the fair stranger, and the captivating sweetness of her manner, had made an impression upon him which was destined never to be effaced.

His, in short, was one of those cases in the matter of love, which, it is said, are laughed at in France, doubted in England, and true only of the warm-tempered sons and daughters of the sunny south,—love at first sight.

It was so. From that hour the image of the lovely nymph of the grove was to remain for ever enshrined in the inmost heart of the young cavalier.

He had met with no encouragement to follow up the accidental acquaintance he had made. Indeed, the lady's reluctance to give him any information whatever as to her name or residence, he could not but consider as an indirect intimation that she desired no further correspondence with him.

But, recollecting the old adage, that "faint heart never won fair lady," he visited again and again the fountain in the grove, and at last won from the lady the acceptance of his suit.

Having brought our story to this point, we shall retrace our steps a little way, and take note of certain incidents that occurred in the city of Glasgow on the day after the visit of him of the black charger at Woodlands.

Early on the forenoon of that day, the Drygate, then one of the principal streets of the city above named, exhibited an unusual degree of stir and bustle.

The causeway was thronged with idlers, who were ever and anon dashed aside, like the wave that is thrown from the prow of a vessel, by some prancing horseman, who made his way towards an open space formed by the junction of three different streets.

At this point were mustering a band of riders, consisting of the civil authorities of the city, together with a number of its principal inhabitants, and other gentlemen from the neighbourhood.

The horsemen were all attired in their best,—hat and feathers, long cloaks of Flemish broad-cloth, and glittering steel-handed rapiers by their sides.

Having mustered to about the number of thirty, they formed themselves into something like regular order, and seemed now to be but awaiting the word to march. And it was indeed so; but they were also awaiting he who was to give it. They waited the appearance of their leader. A shout from the populace soon after announced his approach.

"The Provost! the Provost!" exclaimed a hundred voices at once, as a man of large stature, and of a bold and martial bearing, mounted on a "coal-black steed," came prancing alongst the Drygate-head, and made for the point at which the horsemen were assembled.

On his approach, the latter doffed their hats respectfully—a civility which was gracefully returned by him to whom it was addressed.

Taking his place at the head of the cavalcade, the Provost gave the word to march, when the whole party moved onwards; and after cautiously footing it down the steep and ill-paved descent of the Drygate, took, at a slow pace, the road towards Hamilton.

The chief magistrate of Glasgow, who led the party of horsemen on the present occasion, was Sir Robert Lindsay of Dunrod—a powerful and wealthy baron of the neighbourhood, who had been chosen to that appointment, as all chief magistrates were chosen in those wild and turbulent times, on account of his ability to protect the inhabitants from those insults and injuries to which they were constantly liable at the hands of unprincipled power, and from which the laws were too feeble to shield them.

And to better hands than those of Sir Robert Lindsay, who was a man of bold and determined character, the welfare of the city and the safety of the citizens could not have been entrusted.

In return for the honour conferred on him, and the confidence reposed in him, he watched over the interests of the city with the utmost vigilance. But it was not to the general interest alone that he confined the benefits of his guardianship. Individuals, also, who were wronged, or threatened to be wronged, found in him a ready and efficient protector, let the oppressor or wrongdoer be whom he might.

Having given this brief sketch of the leader of the cavalcade, we resume the detail of its proceedings.

Holding on its way in a south-easterly direction, the party soon reached and passed Rutherglen Bridge; the road connecting Hamilton with Glasgow being then on the south side of the Clyde. But a little way farther had they proceeded, when the faint sound of a bugle was heard, coming apparently from a considerable distance.

"There he comes at last," said Sir David Lindsay, suddenly checking his I horse to await the coming up of his party, of which he had been riding a little way in advance, immersed in a brown study. "There he comes at last," he exclaimed, recalled from his reverie by the sound of the bugle. "Look to your paces gentlemen, and let us show some order and regularity as well as respect."

Obeying this hint, the horsemen, who had been before jogging along in a confused and careless manner, now drew together into a closer body; the laggards coming forward, and those in advance holding back.

In this order, with the Provost at their head, the party continued to move slowly onwards; but they had not done so for many minutes, when they descried, at the farther extremity of a long level reach of the road, a numerous party of horse approaching at a rapid, ambling pace, and seemingly straining hard to keep up with one who rode a little way in their front.

The contrast between this party and the Provost's was striking enough.

The latter, though exceedingly respectable and citizen-like, was of extremely sober hue compared to the former, in which flaunted all the gayest dresses of the gayest courtiers of the time. Long plumes of feathers waved and nodded in velvet bonnets, looped with gold bands; and rich and brilliant colours, mingling with the glitter of steel and silver, gave to the gallant cavalcade at once an imposing and magnificent appearance. In point of horsemanship, too, with the exception of Sir Robert Lindsay himself, and one or two other men of rank who had joined his party, the approaching cavaliers greatly surpassed the worthy citizens of St Mungo,—coming on at a showy and dashing pace, while the latter kept advancing with the sober, steady gait assimilative of their character.

On the two parties coming within about fifty paces of each other, Sir Robert Lindsay made a signal to his followers to halt, while he himself rode forward, hat in hand, towards the leader of the opposite party.

"Our good Sir Robert of Dunrod," said the latter, who was no other than James V., advancing half-way to meet the Provost, and taking him kindly and familiarly by the hand as he spoke. "How did'st learn of our coming?"

"The movements of kings are not easily kept secret," replied Sir Robert, evasively.

"By St Bridget, it would seem not," replied James, laughingly. "My visit to your good city, Sir Robert, I did not mean to be a formal one, and therefore had mentioned it only to one or two. In truth, I—I"—added James, with some embarrassment of manner—"I had just one particular purpose, and that of a private nature, in view. No state matter at all Sir Robert—nothing of a public character. So that, to be plain with you, Sir Robert, I could have dispensed with the honour you have done me in bringing out these good citizens to receive me; that being, I presume, your purpose. Not but that I should have been most happy to meet yourself, Sir Robert; but it was quite unnecessary to trouble these worthy people."

"It was our bounden duty, your Grace," replied Sir Robert, not at all disconcerted by this royal damper on his loyalty. "It was our bounden duty, on learning that your Grace was at Bothwell Castle, and that you intended visiting our poor town of Glasgow, to acknowledge the favour in the best way in our power. And these worthy gentlemen and myself could think of no better than coming out to meet and welcome your Grace."

"Well, well, since it is so, Sir Robert," replied the king, good-humouredly, "we shall take the kindness as it is meant. Let us proceed."

Riding side by side, and followed by their respective parties, James and the Provost now resumed their progress towards Glasgow, where they shortly after arrived, and where they were received with noisy acclamations by the populace, whom rumour had informed of the king's approach.

On reaching the city, the latter proceeded to the Bishop's Castle,—an edifice which has long since disappeared, but which at this time stood on or near the site of the Infirmary,—in which he intended taking up his residence.

Having seen the king within the castle gates, his citizen escort dispersed, and sought their several homes; going off, in twos and threes, in different directions.

"Ken ye, Sir Robert, what has brought his Grace here at present?" said an old wealthy merchant, who had been one of the cavalcade that went to meet James, and whom the Provost overtook as he was leisurely jogging down the High Street, on his way home.

"Hem," ejaculated Sir Robert. "Perhaps I have half a guess, Mr Morton. The king visits places on very particular sorts of errands sometimes. His Grace didn't above half thank us for our attendance to-day. He would rather have got somewhat more quietly into the city; but I had reasons for desiring it to be otherwise, so did not mind his hints about his wish for privacy."

"And no doubt he had his reasons for the privacy he hinted at," said Sir Robert's companion.

"You may swear that," replied the latter, laughingly. "Heard ye ever, Mr Morton, of a certain fair and wealthy young lady of the name of Jessie Craig?"

"John Craig's daughter?" rejoined the old merchant. "The same," said Sir Robert. "The prettiest girl in Scotland, and one of the wealthiest too."

"Well; what if the king should have been smitten with her beauty, having seen her accidently in Edinburgh, where she was lately? and what, if his visit to Glasgow just now should be for the express purpose of seeing this fair maiden? and what, if I should not exactly approve of such a proceeding, seeing that the young lady in question has, as you know, neither father nor mother to protect her, both being dead?"

"Well, Sir Robert, and what then?" here interposed Mr Morton, availing himself of a pause in the former's suppositious case.

"Why, then, wouldn't it be my bounden duty, worthy sir, as Provost of this city, to act the part of guardian towards this young maiden in such emergency, and to see that she came by no wrong?"

"Truly, it would be a worthy part, Sir Robert," replied the old merchant; "but the king is strong, and you may not resist him openly."

"Nay, that I would not attempt," replied the Provost. "I have taken quieter and more effectual measures. Made aware, though somewhat late, through a trusty channel, of the king's intended visit and its purpose, I have removed her out of the reach of danger, to where his Grace will, I rather think, have some difficulty in finding her."

"So, so. And this, then, is the true secret of the honour which has just been conferred on us!" replied Sir Robert's companion, with some indignation. "But the matter is in good hands when it is in yours, Provost. In your keeping we consider our honours and our interests are safe. I wish you a good day, Provost." And the interlocutors having by this time arrived at the foot of the High Street, where four streets joined, the old merchant took that which conducted to his residence, Sir Robert's route lying in an opposite direction.

From the conversation just recorded, the reader will at once trace a connection between Sir Robert Lindsay of Dunrod and he of the black charger who brought to Woodlands the fair damsel whom we left there. They were the same; and that fair damsel was the daughter of John Craig, late merchant of the city of Glasgow, who left an immense fortune, of which this girl was the sole heir.

In carrying the young lady to Woodlands, and leaving her there, Sir Robert, although apparently under the compulsion of circumstances, was acting advisedly. He knew Henderson to be a man of excellent character and great respectability; and in the secrecy and mystery he observed, he sought to preclude all possibility of his interference in the affair ever reaching the ears of the king. What he had told to old Morton, he knew would go no further; that person having been an intimate friend of the young lady's father, and of course interested in all that concerned her welfare.

The palace of a bishop was not very appropriate quarters for one who came on such an errand as that which brought James to Glasgow. But this was a circumstance that did not give much concern to that merry and somewhat eccentric monarch; and the less so, that the bishop himself happened to be from home at the time, on a visit to his brother of St Andrews.

Having the house thus to himself, James did not hesitate to make as free use of it as if he had been at Holyrood. It was not many hours after his arrival at the castle, that he summoned to his presence a certain trusty attendant of the name of William Buchanan, and thus schooled him in the duties of a particular mission in which he desired his services.

"Willie," said the good-humoured monarch, "at the further end of the Rottenrow of this good city of Glasgow—that is, at the western end of the said row—there stands a fair mansion on the edge of the brae, and overlooking the strath of the Clyde. It is the residence of a certain fair young lady of the name of Craig. Now, Willie, what I desire of you to do is this: you will go to this young lady from me, carrying her this gold ring, and say to her that I intend, with her permission, doing myself the honour of paying her a visit in the course of this afternoon.

"Make your observations, Willie, and let me know how the land lies when you return. But, pray thee, keep out of the way of our worthy knight of Dunrod; and if thou shouldst chance to meet him, and he should question thee, seeing that you wear our livery, breathe no syllable of what thou art about, otherwise he may prove somewhat troublesome to both of us. At any rate, to a certainty, he would crop thy ears, Willie; and thou knowest, king though I be, I could not put them on again, nor give thee another pair in their stead. So keep those thou hast out of the hands of Sir Robert Lindsay of Dunrod, I pray thee."

Charged with his mission, Willie, who had been often employed on matters of this kind before, proceeded to the street with the unsavoury name already mentioned; but, not knowing exactly where to find the house he wanted, he looked around him to see if he could see any one to whom he might apply for information. There happened to be nobody on the street at the time; but his eye at length fell on an old weaver—as, from the short green apron he wore, he appeared to be—standing at a door.

Towards this person Willie now advanced, discarding, however, as much as possible, all appearance of having any particular object in view; for he prided himself on the caution and dexterity with which he managed all such matters as that he was now engaged in.

"Fine day, honest man," said Willie, approaching the old weaver. "Gran wather for the hairst."

"It's just that, noo," replied the old man, gazing at Willie with a look of inquiry. "Just uncommon pleesant wather."

"A bit nice airy place up here," remarked the latter.

"Ou ay, weel aneuch for that," replied the weaver. "But air 'll no fill the wame."

"No very substantially," said Willie. "Some gran hooses up here, though. Wha's in that?" and he pointed to a very handsome mansion-house opposite.

"That's the rector o' Hamilton's," replied the weaver.

"And that ane there?"

"That's the rector o' Carstairs'."

"And that?"

"That's the rector o' Erskine's."

"'Od, but ye do leeve in a godly neighbourhood here," said Willie, impatient with these clerical iterations. "Do a' the best houses hereawa belang to the clergy?"

"Indeed, the maist feck o' them," said the weaver. "Leave ye them alane for that. The best o' everything fa's to their share."

"Yonder's anither handsome hoose, noo," said Willie, pointing to one he had not yet indicated. "Does yon belang to the clergy too?"

"Ou no; yon's the late Mr Craig's," replied the weaver; "ane o' oor walthiest merchants, wha died some time ago."

"Ou ay," said Willie, drily; "just sae. Gude mornin', friend." And thinking he had managed his inquiries very dexterously, he sauntered slowly away—still assuming to have no special object in view—towards the particular house just spoken of, and which, we need not say, was precisely the one he wanted.

It was a large isolated building, with an extensive garden behind, and stretching down the face of what is now called the Deanside Brae. On the side next the street, the entrance was by a tall, narrow, iron gate. This gate Willie now approached, but found it locked hard and fast. Finding this, he bawled out, at the top of his voice, for some one to come to him. After a time, an old woman made her appearance, and, in no very pleasant mood, asked him what he wanted.

"I hae a particular message, frae a very particular person, to the young leddy o' this hoose," replied Willie.

"Ye maun gang and seek the young leddy o' this hoose ither whars than here, then," said the old dame, making back to the house again, without intending any further communication on the subject.

"Do you mean to say that she's no in the hoose?" shouted Willie.

"Ay, I mean to say that, and mair too," replied the old crone. "She hasna been in't for a gey while, and winna be in't for a guid while langer; and sae ye may tell them that sent ye."

Saying this, she passed into the house; and by doing so, would have put an end to all further conference.

But Willie was not to be thus baffled in his object. Changing his tactics from the imperative to the wheedling, in which last he believed himself to be exceedingly dexterous—

"Mistress—I say, Mistress," he shouted, in a loud, but coaxing tone; "speak a word, woman—just a word or two. Ye maybe winna fare the waur o't."

Whether it was the hint conveyed in the last clause of Willie's address, or that the old woman felt some curiosity to hear what so urgent a visitor had to say, she returned to the door, where, standing fast, and looking across the courtyard at Willie, whose sly though simple-looking face was pressed against the iron bars of the outer gate, she replied to him with a—

"Weel, man, what is't ye want?"

"Tuts, woman, come across—come across," said Willie, wagging her towards him with his forefinger. "I canna be roarin' out what I hae to say to ye a' that distance. I might as weel cry it oot at the cross. See, there's something to bring ye a wee nearer."

And he held out several small silver coin through the bars of the gate. The production of the cash had the desired effect. The old woman, who was lame, and who walked by the aid of a short thick stick with a crooked head, hobbled towards him, and, having accepted the proffered coin, again asked, though with much more civility than before, what it was he wanted?

"Tuts, woman, open the yett," said Willie in his cagiest manner, "and I'll 'ell ye a' aboot it. It's hardly ceevil to be keeping a body speakin' this way wi' his nose thrust through atwixt twa cauld bars o' airn, like a rattin atween a pair o' tangs."

"Some folks are safest that way. though," replied the old woman, with something like an attempt at a laugh. "Bars o' airn are amang the best freens we hae sometimes. But as ye seem a civil sort o' a chiel, after a', I'll let ye in, although I dinna see what ye'll be the better o' that."

So saying, she took a large iron key from her girdle, inserted it in the lock, and in the next moment the gate grated on its hinges; yielding partly to the pressure of Willie from without, and partly to the co-operative efforts of the old woman from within.

"Noo," said Willie, on gaining the interior of the courtyard—"Noo," he said, affecting his most coaxing manner, "you and me'll hae a bit crack thegither, guidwife."

And, sitting down on a stone bench that ran along the front of the house, he motioned to the old lady to take a seat beside him, which she did.

"I understand, guidwife," began Willie, who meant to be very cunning in his mode of procedure, "that she's just an uncommon bonny leddy your mistress; just wonderfu'."

"Whaever tell't ye that, didna misinform ye," replied the old woman drily.

"And has mints o' siller?" rejoined Mr Buchanan.

"No ill aff in that way either," said the old woman.

"But it's her beauty—it's her extraordinar beauty—that's the wonder, and that I hear everybody speakin' aboot," said Willie. "I wad gie the price o' sax fat hens to see her. Could ye no get me a glisk o' her ony way, just for ae minute?"

"Didna I tell ye before that she's no at hame?" said the old dame, threatening again to get restive on Willie's hands.

"Od, so ye did; I forgot," said Mr Buchanan, affecting obliviousness of the fact. "Whaur may she be noo?" he added in his simplest and couthiest manner.

"Wad ye like token?" replied the old, lady with a satirical sneer.

"'Deed wad I; and there's mae than me wad like to ken," replied Willie; "and them that wad pay handsomely for the information."

"Really," said the old dame, with a continuation of the same sneer, and long ere this guessing what Willie was driving at. "And wha may they be noo, if I may speer?"

"They're gey kenspeckled," replied Mr Buchanan; "but that doesna matter. If ye canna, or winna tell me whaur Mistress Craig is, could ye no gie's a bit inklin' o' whan ye expect her hame?"

"No; but I'll gie ye a bit inklin' o' whan ye'll walk out o' this," said the old woman, rising angrily from her seat; "and that's this minute, or I'll set the dug on ye. Hisk, hisk—Teeger, Teeger!"

And a huge black dog came bouncing out of the house, and took up a position right in front of Willie; wagging his tail, as if in anticipation of a handsome treat in the way of worrying that worthy.

"Gude sake, woman," said Willie, rising in great alarm from his seat, and edging towards the outer gate—"What's a' this for? Ye wadna set that brute on a Christian cratur, wad ye?"

"Wadna I? Ye'd better no try me, frien', but troop aff wi' ye. Teeger," she added, with a significant look. The dog understood it, and, springing on Willie, seized him by one of the skirts of his coat, which, with one powerful tug, he at once separated from the body.

Pressed closely upon by both the dog and his mistress, Willie keeping, however, his face to the foe, now retreated towards the gate, when, just at the moment of his making his exit, the old lady, raising her staff, hit him a parting blow, which, taking effect on the bridge of his nose, immediately enlarged the dimensions of that organ, besides drawing forth a copious stream of claret. In the next instant the gate was shut and locked in the sufferer's face.

"Confound ye, ye auld limmer," shouted Willie furiously, and shaking his fist through the bars of the gate as he spoke, "if I had ye here on the outside o' the yett, as ye're in the in, if I wadna baste the auld hide o' ye. But my name's no Willie Buchanan if I dinna gar ye rue this job yet, some way or anither."

To these objurgations of the discomfited messenger the old lady deigned no word of answer, but merely shaking her head, and indulging in a pretty broad smile of satisfaction, hobbled into the house, followed by Tiger, wagging his tail, as much as to say, "I think we've given yon fellow a fright, mistress."

Distracted with indignation and resentment, Willie hastened back to the castle, and, too much excited to think of his outward appearance, hurried into the royal presence with his skirtless coat and disfigured countenance. which he had by no means improved by sundry wipes with the sleeve of his coat. On Willie making his appearance in this guise, the merry monarch looked at him for an instant in silent amazement, then burst into an incontrollable fit of laughter, which the grave, serious look of Willie showed he by no means relished. There was even a slight expression of resentment in the manner in which the maltreated messenger bore the merry reception of his light-hearted master.

"Willie, man," at length said James, when his mirth had somewhat subsided, "what's this has happened thee? Where gottest thou that enormous nose, man?"

"Feth, your Majesty, it may be a joke to you, but it's unco little o' ane to me," replied Willie, whose confidential duties and familiar intercourse with his royal master had led him to assume a freedom of speech which was permitted to no other, and which no other would have dared to attempt.

"I hae gotten sic a worryin' the day," he continued, "as I never got in my life before. Between dugs and auld wives, I hae had a bonny time o't. Worried by the tane and smashed by the tither, as my nose and my coat-tails bear witness."

"Explain yourself, Willie. What does all this mean?" exclaimed James, again laughing.

Willie told his story, finishing with the information that the bird was flown—meaning Jessie Craig. "Aff and awa, naebody kens, or 'll tell whaur."

"Off—away?" exclaimed the king, with an air of mingled disappointment and surprise. "Very odd," he added, musingly; "and most particularly unlucky. But we shall wait on a day or two, and she will probably reappear in that time; or we may find out where she has gone to."

On the day following that on which the incidents just related occurred, the curiosity of the good people in the neighbourhood of the late Mr Craig's house in Rottenrow was a good deal excited by seeing a person in the dress of a gentleman hovering about the residence just alluded to.

Anon he would walk to and fro in front of the house, looking earnestly towards the windows. Now he would descend the Deanside Brae, and do the same by those behind. Again he would return to the front of the mansion, and taking up his station on the opposite side of the street, would resume his scrutiny of the windows.

The stranger was thus employed, when he was startled by the appearance of some one advancing towards him, whom, it was evident, he would fain have avoided if he could. But it was too late. There was no escape. So, assuming an air of as much composure and indifference as he could, he awaited the approach of the unwelcome intruder. This person was Sir Robert Lindsay.

Coming up to the stranger with a respectful air, and with an expression of countenance as free from all consciousness as that which had been assumed by the former—

"I hope your Grace is well?" he said, bowing profoundly as he spoke.

"Thank you, Provost—thank you," replied James; for we need hardly say it was he.

"Your Grace has doubtless come hither," said the former gravely, "to enjoy the delightful view which this eminence commands.

"The precise purpose, Sir Robert," replied James, recovering a little from the embarrassment which, after all his efforts, he could not entirely conceal. "The view is truly a fine one, Provost," continued the king. "I had no idea that your good city could boast of anything so fair in the way of landscape. Our city of Edinburgh hath more romantic points about it; but for calm and tranquil beauty, methinks it hath nothing superior to the scene commanded by this eminence."

"There are some particular localities on the ridge of the hill here, however," said Sir Robert, "that exhibit the landscape to much better advantage than others, and to which, taking it for granted that your Grace is not over familiar with the ground, it will afford me much pleasure to conduct you."

"Ah! thank you, good Sir Robert—thank you," replied James. "But some other day, if you please. The little spare time I had on my hands is about exhausted, so that I must return to the castle. I have, as you know, Sir Robert, to give audience to some of your worthy councillors, who intend honouring me with a visit.

"Amongst the number I will expect to see yourself, Sir Robert." And James, after politely returning the loyal obeisance of the Provost, hurried away towards the castle.

On his departure, the latter stood for a moment, and looked after him with a smile of peculiar intelligence; then muttered, as he also left the spot—

"Well do I know what it was brought your Grace to this quarter of the town; and knowing this, I know it was for anything but the sake of its view. Fair maidens have more attractions in your eyes than all the views between this and John o' Groat's. But I have taken care that your pursuit in the present instance will avail thee little." And the good Provost went on his way.

For eight entire days after this did James wait in Glasgow for the return of Jessie Craig; but he waited in vain. Neither in that time could he learn anything whatever of the place of her sojournment. His patience at length exhausted, he determined on giving up the pursuit for the time at any rate, and on quitting the city.

The king, as elsewhere casually mentioned, had come last from Bothwell Castle. It was now his intention to proceed to Stirling, where he proposed stopping for two or three weeks; thence to Linlithgow, and thereafter returning to Edinburgh.

The purpose of James to make this round having reached the ears of a certain Sir James Crawford of Netherton, whose house and estate lay about half-way between Glasgow and Stirling, that gentleman sent a respectful message to James, through Sir Robert Lindsay, to the effect that he would feel much gratified if his Grace would deign to honour his poor house of Netherton with a visit in passing, and accept for himself and followers such refreshment as he could put before them.

To this message James returned a gracious answer, saying that he would have much pleasure in accepting the invitation so kindly sent him, and naming the day and hour when he would put the inviter's hospitality to the test.

Faithful to his promise, the king and his retinue, amongst whom was now Sir Robert Lindsay, who had been included in the invitation, presented themselves at Netherton gate about noon on the day that had been named.

They were received with all honour by the proprietor, a young man of prepossessing appearance, graceful manners, and frank address.

On the king and gentlemen of his train entering the house, they were ushered into a large banqueting ball, where was an ample table spread with the choicest edibles, and glittering with the silver goblets and flagons that stood around it in thick array. Everything, in short, betokened at once the loyalty and great wealth of the royal party's entertainer.

The king and his followers having taken their places at table, the fullest measure of justice was quickly done to the good things with which it was spread. James was in high spirits, and talked and rattled away with as much glee and as entire an absence of all kingly reserve as the humblest good fellow in his train.

Encouraged by the affability of the king, and catching his humour, the whole party gave way to the most unrestrained mirth. The joke and the jest went merrily round with the wine flagon; and he was for a time the best man who could start the most jocund theme.

It was while this spirit prevailed that Sir Robert Lindsay, after making a private signal to Sir James Crawford, which had the effect of causing him to quit the apartment on pretence of looking for something he wanted, addressing the king, said—

"May I take the liberty of asking your Grace if you have seen any particularly fair maidens in the course of your present peregrinations? I know your Grace has a good taste in these matters."

James coloured a little at this question and the remark which accompanied it but quickly regaining his self-possession and good-humour—

"No, Sir Robert," he said laughingly, "I cannot say that I have been so fortunate on the present occasion. As to the commendation which you have been pleased to bestow on my taste, I thank you, and am glad it meets with your approbation."

"Yet, your Grace," continued Sir Robert, "excellent judge as I know you to be of female beauty, I deem myself, old and staid as I am, your Grace's equal, craving your Grace's pardon; and, to prove this, will take a bet with your Grace of a good round sum, that you have never seen, and do not know, a more beautiful woman than the lady of our present host."

"Take care, Provost," replied James. "Make no rash bets. I know the most beautiful maiden the sun ever shone upon. But it would be ungallant and ungracious to make the lady of our good host the subject of such a bet on the present occasion."

"But our host is absent, your Grace," replied the Provost pertinaciously; "and neither he nor any one else, but your Grace's friends present, need know anything at all of the matter. Will your Grace take me up for a thousand merks?"

"But suppose I should," replied James, "how is the thing to be managed? and who is to decide?"

"Both points are of easy adjustment, your Grace," said Sir Robert. "Your Grace has only to intimate a wish to our host, when he returns, that you would feel gratified by his introducing his lady to you; and as to the matter of decision, I would, with your Grace's permission and approval, put that into the hands of the gentlemen present. Of course, nothing need be said of the purpose of this proceeding to either host or hostess."

"Well, be it so," said James, urged on by the madcaps around him, who were delighted with the idea of the thing. "Now, then, gentlemen," he continued, "the lady on whose beauty I stake my thousand merks is Jessie Craig, the merchant's daughter of Glasgow, whom, I think, all of you have seen."

"Ha! my townswoman," exclaimed Sir Robert, with every appearance of surprise. "On my word, you have made mine a hard task of it; for a fairer maiden than Jessie Craig may not so readily be found. Nevertheless, I adhere to the terms of my bet."

The Provost had just done speaking, when Sir James Crawford entered the apartment, and resumed his seat at table. Shortly after he had done so, James addressing him said—

"Sir James, it would complete the satisfaction of these gentlemen and myself with the hospitality you have this day shown us, were you to afford us an opportunity of paying our respects to your good lady; that is, if it be perfectly convenient for and agreeable to her."

"Lady Crawford will be but too proud of the honour, your Grace," replied Sir James, rising. "She shall attend your Grace presently."

Saying this, the latter again withdrew; and soon after returned, leading a lady, over whose face hung a long and flowing veil, into the royal presence.

It would require the painter's art to express adequately the looks of intense and eager interest with which James and his party gazed on the veiled beauty, as she entered the apartment and advanced towards them. Their keen and impatient scrutiny seemed as if it would pierce the tantalizing obstruction that prevented them seeing those features on whose beauty so large a sum had been staked. In this state of annoying suspense, however, they were not long detained. On approaching within a few paces of the king, and at the moment Sir James Crawford said, with a respectful obeisance, "My wife, Lady Crawford, your Grace," she raised her veil, and exhibited to the astonished monarch and his courtiers a surpassingly beautiful countenance indeed; but it was that of Jessie Craig.

"A trick! a trick!" exclaimed James, with merry shout, and amidst a peal of laughter from all present, and in which the fair cause of all this stir most cordially joined. "A trick, a trick, Provost! a trick!" repeated James.

"Nay, no trick at all, your Grace, craving your Grace's pardon," replied the Provost gravely. "Your Grace betted that Jessie Craig was mere beautiful than Lady Crawford. Now is it so? I refer the matter, as agreed upon, to the gentlemen around us."

"Lost! lost!" exclaimed half-a-dozen gallants at once.

"Well, well, gentlemen, since you so decide," said James, "I will instantly give our good Provost here an order upon our treasurer for the sum."

"Nay, your Grace, not so fast. The money is as safe in your hands as mine. Let it there remain till I require it. When I do, I shall not fail to demand it."

"Be it so, then," said James, when, placing his fair hostess beside him, and after obtaining a brief explanation—which we will, in the sequel, give at more length—of the odd circumstance of finding Jessie Craig converted into Lady Crawford, the mirth and hilarity of the party were resumed, and continued till pretty far in the afternoon, when the king and his courtiers took horse,—the former at parting having presented his hostess with a massive gold chain which he wore about his neck, in token of his good wishes,—and rode off for Stirling.

To our tale we have now only to add the two or three explanatory circumstances above alluded to.

In Sir James Crawford the reader is requested to recognise the young man who discovered Jessie Craig, then the unknown fair one, by the side of the fountain in the little elm grove at Woodlands.

Encouraged by and acting on the adage already quoted,—namely, that "faint heart never won fair lady,"—he followed up his first accidental interview with the fair fugitive from royal importunity with an assiduity that in one short week accomplished the wooing and winning of her.

While the first was in progress, Sir James was informed by the young lady of the reasons for her concealment. On this and the part Sir Robert Lindsay had acted towards her being made known to him, he lost no time in opening a communication with that gentleman, riding repeatedly into Glasgow himself to see him on the subject of his fair charge; at the same time informing him of the attachment he had formed for her, and finally obtaining his consent, or at least approbation, to their marriage. The bet, we need hardly add, was a concerted joke between the Provost, Sir James, and his lady.

When we have added that the circumstance of Sir Robert Lindsay's delay in returning for Jessie Craig, which excited so much surprise at Woodlands, was owing to the unlooked-for prolongation of the king's stay in Glasgow, we think we have left nothing unexplained that stood in need of such aid.

MAY DARLING, THE VILLAGE PRIDE.

BY J. F. SMITH.

It is a lovely spot, Grassyvale—"beautiful exceedingly." But its beauty is of a quiet, unimposing description; the characteristic feature of the landscape which would strike the eye of a spectator who surveyed it from the highest neighbouring eminence, is simply—repose. There are no mountains, properly so called, within a circuit of many miles—none of those natural pyramids which, in various parts of our beloved land of mountain and of flood, of battle and of song, rise in majestic grandeur, like columns of adamant to support the vault of heaven. The nearest are situated at such a distance that they appear like clouds, and might readily be mistaken for such, but for their deathlike stillness, and the everlasting monotony of their outline. No waterfalls hurl their bolts of liquid crystal into dark, frowning, wave-worn chasms, which had echoed to the thunder of their fall since the birth of time. There is no far-spreading forest—no yawning ravine, with "ebon shades and low-browed rocks"—no beetling cliff or precipice, "shagged" with brushwood, as Milton hath it. There is nothing of the grand, the sublime, the terrible, or the magnificent—there is only quiet; or, if the terms do not sound dissonant to "ears polite," modest, unassuming beauty, such as a rainbow, were it perpetually present in the zenith, might form a characteristic and appropriate symbol of. Nature has not here wrought her miracles of beauty on a Titanic scale. What, then, is so attractive about Grassyvale? it will be asked. We are not sure but we may be as much stultified with this question, as was the child in Wordsworth's sweet little poem, "We are seven" (which the reader may turn up at leisure, when the propriety of the comparison will be seen), and may be forced, after an unsuccessful attempt to justify ourselves for holding such an opinion, to maintain, with the same dogmatic obstinacy—it is beautiful. But the length of our story compels us to exclude a description of the landscape, which we had prepared.

* * * *

The village of Grassyvale, which is situated on the margin of a small stream, consists of about one hundred scattered cottages, all neatly whitewashed, and most of them adorned in front with some flowering shrub—wild brier, honeysuckle, or the like—whilst a "kail-yard" in the rear constitutes no inappropriate appendage. There is one of those dwellings conspicuous from the rest by its standing apart from them, and by an additional air of comfort and neatness which it wears, and which seems to hallow it like a radiant atmosphere. It is literally covered with a network of ivy, honeysuckle, and jasmine, the deep green of whose unvarnished leaf renders more conspicuous "the bright profusion of its scattered stars." The windows are literally darkened by a multitude of roses, which seem clustering and crowding together to gain an entrance, and scatter their "perfumed sweets" around the apartment. Near the cottage, there is also a holly planted—that evergreen tree which seems providentially designed by nature to cheer the dreariness of winter, and, when all is withered and desolate around, to remain a perpetual promise of spring. But we have more to do with this beautiful little dwelling than merely to describe its exterior.

Behind Grassyvale, the ground begins to swell, undulating into elevations of mild acclivity, on the highest of which stands the parish church, like the ark resting on Ararat—faith's triumph, and mercy's symbol. Numerous grassy hillocks scattered around indicate the cemetery where "the rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep." Amongst those memorials which are designed to perpetuate the recollection of virtue for a few generations—and which, with their appropriate emblems and inscriptions, preach so eloquently to the heart, and realize to the letter Shakspeare's memorable words, "sermons in stones"—there is one which always attracts attention. It is not a "storied urn, an animated bust"—one of those profusely decorated marble hatchments with which worldly grandeur mourns, in pompous but vain magnificence, over departed pride. No; it is only a small, unadorned slab, of rather dingy-coloured freestone; and the inscription is simply—"To the memory of May Darling, who was removed from this world to a better, at the early age of nineteen. She was an affectionate daughter, a loving sister, and a sincere Christian.

'Weep not for her whose mortal race is o'er;

She is not lost, but only gone before.'"

Ah! there are few, few indeed, for many miles round, who would pass that humble grave without heaving a sigh or shedding a tear for her who sleeps beneath—her who was so beloved, so admired by every one, as well as being the idol and pride of her own family, and whose romantic and untimely fate (cut off "i' the morn and liquid dew of youth") was the village talk for many a day.

John Darling, the father of our heroine, was, what is no great phenomenon amongst the peasantry of Scotland, a sober, industrious, honest man. In early life he espoused the daughter of an opulent farmer, whose marriage portion enabled him to commence life under very favourable auspices. But, in spite of obedience to the natural laws, the mildew of misfortune will blight our dearest hopes, however wisely our plans for the future may be laid, and however assiduously and judiciously they may be pursued. Untoward circumstances, which it would unnecessarily protract our narrative to relate, had reduced him, at the period to which our tale refers, to the condition of a field labourer. Death had, likewise, been busy singling out victims from amongst those who surrounded his humble, but cheerful fireside; and, of a large family, there only remained three, and he was a widower besides. May was the oldest; and, accordingly, the superintendence of the household devolved upon her. The deceased parent was of a somewhat haughty and reserved turn of mind, for the recollection of former affluence never forsook her; and this circumstance kept her much aloof from the less polished and sophisticated matrons of the village, and also rendered her a strict family disciplinarian. She concentrated her mind almost entirely upon the affairs of her own household; and her children were accordingly watched with a more vigilant eye, and brought up with more scrupulous care, than was usual with those around her. It was her pride, and "let it be her praise," to see them arrayed in more showy habiliments than those worn by their associates; and, to accomplish this darling object, what serious transmutation did her finery of former days undergo, as the mutilated robes descended from child to child, turned upside down, inside out, and otherwise suffering a metamorphosis at every remove! The dress of May, in particular—her first-born bud of bliss, the doted on of her bosom—was always attended to with special care; nor was the cultivation of her mind in any way overlooked. She very early inspired her with a love of reading, which increased with the development of her faculties, and many a day survived her by whom the passion had been awakened.

In person, May was slender; but her light, airy, sylph-like form was eminently handsome. Hair and eyes of intense depth of black contrasted admirably with a countenance which may be designated as transparent—it was nearly colourless; and only on occasions of unusual bodily exertion, or when some mental emotion suffused the cheek with a damask blush, would a tint of rosy red fluctuate over her pure skin. It can scarcely be called pale, however—it had nothing about it of that death-in-life hue which indicates the presence of disease.

"Oh, call it fair, not pale!"

The expression was at once amiable and intellectual—mellowed or blended, however, with a pensiveness which is usually but most erroneously called melancholy. Melancholy had nothing to do with a "mind at peace with all below—a heart, whose love was innocent." The countenance, in general, affords an index of the mental character—it takes its "form and pressure," as it were, from the predominant workings of that inward principle which is the source of thought and feeling. It is there that thought and feeling, those subtle essences, are made visible to the eye—it is there that mind may be seen. The most casual observer could not fail to perceive that the soul which spoke eloquently in the eye, "and sweetly lightened o'er the face" of May Darling, was a worshipper of nature, of poetry, and of virtue; for they are often combined—they have a natural relation to each other; and, when they exist simultaneously in one individual, a mind so constituted has a capacity for enjoying the most exalted pleasure of which humanity is susceptible. May Darling was indeed imaginative and sanguine in a very high degree; and books of a romantic or dramatic character were mines of "untold wealth" to her.

"Many are poets who have never penned

Their inspirations."

And, although the name of this rural beauty, this humble village-maiden, will be looked for in vain in the rolls of fame, she enjoyed hours of intense poetical inspiration. In short, both in her mental character, and in the style of her personal attractions, she rose far above her companions of the village. Need it be told that often, of a fine evening, she would steal away from her gay, romping, laughing associates, and, with a favourite author in her hand, and wrapt in a vision of "sweet coming fancies," follow the course of the stream which intersected her native vale, flowing along, pure and noiseless, like the current of her own existence?

The favourite haunt in which she loved to spend her leisure hours was a beautiful dell, distant about half-a-mile from the village. It was a place so lonely, so lovely, so undisturbed, that there—(but then all these fine old rural deities, those idols shrined for ages in Nature's own hallowed pantheon, have been expelled their temples, or broken by science—why should this be?)—there, if anywhere, the Genius of Solitude might be supposed to have fixed his abode. It was a broken piece of ground, intersected by several irregular banks, here projecting in hoar and sterile grandeur (not on an Alpine scale, however), and there, clothed with tufts of the feathery willow or old gnarled thorn. The earth was carpeted with its usual covering of emerald turf; and interwoven with it, in beautiful irregularity, were numerous wild flowers: the arum, with its speckled leaves and lilac blossoms; the hyacinth, whose enameled blue looks so charmingly in the light of the setting sun; and oxlips, cowslips, and the like—throwing up their variegated tufts, like nosegays presented by nature for some gentle creature, like May Darling, to gather up and lay upon her bosom. The air, of course, was permanently impregnated with the perfume which they breathed out—the everlasting incense of the flowers rising from the altars of Nature to her God. Such was the sanctuary in which May gleaned from books the golden thoughts of others, or held communion with her own; and well was it adapted for nursing a romantic taste, and giving a tenderer tone to every tender feeling.

The personal attractions of this sweet and lovely creature increased with her years, and she became the reigning belle of Grassyvale and all the country round. It followed, as a matter of course, that her admirers outnumbered her years; and that the possession of her affections was, with many a rustic Adonis, a subject which troubled the little kingdom of the soul, like the Babylonish garment. At every village fete—a wedding, a harvest home, or other rural festival—hers was the step most buoyant in the dance, hers the hand most frequently solicited, hers the form and face that riveted all eyes, and thrilled the heart of the ardent admirer "too much adoring." Amongst the other accomplishments of our heroine, skill in music was not the least prominent. Not that she excelled in those intricate graces which are often had recourse to by vocalists to conceal a bad voice, and atone for want of feeling and expression; but her "wood-note wild" was eminently characterised by the latter qualities of singing; and the effect which she produced was, accordingly, calculated to be lasting.

It must not be supposed, however, that the flattering unction of adulation, at best like the love of Kaled to Lara, "but half-concealed," had any pernicious influence over her mind. She was neither puffed up with vain conceit, nor display of haughty reserve and distance towards those who numbered fewer worshippers than herself; still humility of heart, which was "native there and to the manner born," characterised her deportment—nor was there any relaxation in the discharge of the household duties which devolved upon her; and the comfort of her father, and the proper care and culture of the younger branches of the family, were as faithfully attended to as if her deformity, instead of her beauty, had been proverbial. She folded the little flutterers under her wing, like a mother bird; and, if there was one thing more than another that she took delight in, it was the training of their young minds to the love and practice of virtue and religion, the only fountains whence happiness, pure and uncontaminated, can be drawn in this life.

"So passed their life—a clear united stream

By care unruffled; till, in evil hour"—

But we anticipate.

It was on a fine summer morning that May, with one of her little sisters, set out to visit the annual fair of the county town. Such an event naturally excites considerable interest over all the country round; and old and young, blind and cripple, male and female, pour along the public ways—not in "weary," but in light-hearted "droves"—full of eagerness and expectation, like the Jews to the pool of Bethesda, when the angel was expected to make his annual descent, and impart a healing virtue to its waters; for there there is to be found variety of amusement for every mind—from the Katerfelto wonderer, "wondering for his bread," down to the more humble establishment of the halfpenny showman, with his "glorious victory of Waterloo," his "golden beetle," or "ashes from the burning mountains." But, on the occasion to which we refer, there was an exhibition in the shape of a theatrical booth, which presented extraordinary attractions for May Darling; and, accordingly, after deliberately balancing the gratification which she anticipated, with the expense which it would cost (her exchequer was, of course, not very rich), she at length found herself comfortably seated near the front of the stage. The tragedy of "George Barnwell" was going off with prodigious eclat; and the performers had arrived at that scene where the hero is about to assassinate his uncle, when the insecure props that supported the gallery began to indicate a disposition to disencumber themselves of their burden, and, at last, finally gave way. The confusion which now ensued, not to mention the shrieks and other vocal notes of terror and dismay, it is needless to describe—these have nothing to do with our tale. Barnwell, instead of imbruing his hands in innocent blood, even "in jest," became the most active agent in rescuing his hapless audience from their perilous situation. He was a tall, handsome young man, of a very prepossessing exterior, and appeared to great advantage in his showy stage habiliments. The general rush was towards the door, the most likely avenue of escape which presented itself to the astonished rustics; but a few, amongst whom was our heroine, with more collected judgment and presence of mind, found a place of security on the stage. May was slightly bruised in her endeavours to shelter her young charge; and, although not much injured, her forlorn yet interesting appearance drew the attention of the histrionic Samaritan, and he kindly conducted her into the back settlements of the theatre. The affair was not of such a serious nature as might have been anticipated. A few dilapidated seats, and a score or two of trifling contusions, made up the sum total of the damage. A hat or two might have changed owners in the confusion; but these are things beneath the dignity of a tragedian to look after; and as soon as matters were adjusted on the grand theatre of commotion, he returned to the object of his first solicitude. She was seated on a stool, in what was dignified with the sounding appellation of a green-room—looking paler, and lovelier, and more loveable than ever. He quieted her apprehensions with respect to the catastrophe; for he was an adept in the art of imitation, and politely requested the honour of conducting her to her place of residence. It is not difficult to conceive what was the first impression which the request made upon the mind of May Darling; but the scruples of modest virgin innocence yielded at last to the importunities of the actor, and they left the scene of mirth and confusion together.

On their journey homewards, the conversation naturally turned upon the drama; and many a fine passage, which May admired, was recited to her with all the eloquence and stage artifice which the actor was master of. And he would speak feelingly of "the gentle lady married to the Moor;" her love—the love of Desdemona—pure, exalted, all-enduring—such as death alone could quench; her woe and her fate, so replete with all that can agonize the human soul, and awaken its profoundest sympathies;—of Ophelia—"the fair Ophelia," the young, the beautiful, and the gentle—her devoted, childlike affection, her mournful distraction, and her untimely doom;—of Miranda, the island bride—the being of enchantment—half earthly, half heavenly—around whom the spirits of the air hovered, and ministered unto as vassals;—of Imogen, the fair and faithful—the patient, long-suffering, and finally fortunate Imogen;—of Cordelia—she of the seraph-spirit, pure and peaceful—whose love for a father surpassed that of the Roman daughter;—of Perdita—"the prettiest low-born lass that ever ran on the greensward"—the shepherdess and the princess;—of Juliet—the martyr of passion—she who drew poison from earth's sweetest flower—love—and died thereby, by love's own flame "kindled she was and blasted." These, and many other creations of fancy, which omnipotent genius has rendered almost real historical personages—not shadow but substance—were the topics of discourse which were handled by our hero of the buskin, until the cottage of John Darling was reached. From the description which has been given of May's character, it need be no matter of surprise that the impression made upon her gentle bosom was profound; and, on taking leave of her, a request, on the part of Mr Henry Wilkinson (such was the tragedian's name) to be permitted to visit her on some future occasion, made under cover of a pretext to inquire after the state of her health, was acceded to. Again and again Mr Wilkinson visited the cottage, and poured into the ear of the humble, unsuspecting, and happy inmate, many a story of love, and hope, and joy—such as his knowledge of the drama, which was great, supplied him with.

"These things to hear

Would Desdemona seriously incline;

But still the house affairs would draw her thence:

Which ever as she could with haste dispatch

She'd come again, and, with a greedy ear.

Devour up his discourse."

Substitute the name of May Darling for that of Desdemona, and the description becomes perfect of our heroine's situation, whilst the result was similar: in a short time, the happiness of our village maiden was entirely at the disposal of Mr Wilkinson. Hitherto her heart had slept, like some untroubled lake, reflecting only heaven, and nature grand and beautiful around; but now its waters were darkened and disturbed by one single image—and that was her lover's. Her ears were no longer open to the murmurs of her native stream, or the gush of song from the fairy-winged and fairy-plumaged birds, whom she almost knew one from another: she only heard the music of her lover's voice. Her secluded dell was no longer visited alone; her walks were no longer solitary, or, if they were, it was only to meet him whom her heart loved, and to see if his speed "kept pace with her expectancy." Everything was beheld through one all-hallowing atmosphere—and that was love. It lay upon her soul like the shadow on the sundial, and time was measured by it. How, it will be asked, was all this looked upon by her father? With no favourable eye—nay, with many suspicious forebodings and prophetic fears.

It was about three months after the catastrophe which took place in the provincial theatre, that Mr Wilkinson made proposals of a union to May, which being accepted, the consent of her parent was next applied for. The advances of the actor were for a time checked by an uncompromising refusal; but May's father gradually became less peremptory, until there remained only one objection, but that was insurmountable—namely, the profession of Mr Wilkinson—one, in general, very obnoxious to a Scottish peasant. It was, however, finally obviated by the actor's promising to abandon it, and become a teacher of elocution in the town of H—. The father's consent was obtained at last, though with reluctance, and the day of their nuptials was fixed.

It was a beautiful evening, that which preceded the day when May Darling was to give her hand to the man for whom her heart cherished a love as deep, intense, and concentrated, as ever was awakened and nursed in woman's gentle bosom. The sun—just sinking through those vast masses of clouds which usually attend his exit, and assume, as he descends, various wild and fantastical shapes, and catch every hue, from the intense purple to the scarcely perceptible yellow—showered on the face of nature a stream of rich but mellowed radiance, which softened without obliterating the outlines of objects, and produced that "clear obscure, so softly dark, so darkly pure," which is so favourable to indulgence in tender emotions.

"Sweet hour that wakes the wish and melts the heart!"—

sweet hour, when reflection is deepest and feeling most profound—when the mind, abroad all day, busied with the concerns of this work-a-day world, comes home to itself, and broods, and sleeps, and dreams golden dreams—sunny, hope-illuminated dreams!—sweet hour, when the ties of social being which the day had severed are reunited, and around the household hearth the "old familiar faces" are assembled!—sweet hour, when the shades of evening, gradually deepening, are sufficient to conceal the blush which might mantle beauty's cheek, too warmly, fondly pressed, as, in a voice half sighs, half whispers, she confesses the secret of her love; and when, in the arms which gently enfold her yielding form, she seems, in the fine language of Rogers, to become less and less earthly,

"And fades at last into a spirit from heaven!"

'Twas at this enchanting hour that Wilkinson and his betrothed set out on one of those charming walks during which they had so often exchanged vows of mutual and eternal love. The road which they at first took was sufficiently retired to admit of their conversing aloud with unreserved confidence; but, continuing their journey, unconscious where they were going, they found themselves at last in the vicinity of the high road which leads to the town of H—. Turning to strike down a narrow hedge-row path, a moving spectacle presented itself to their observation. Upon a grassy knoll lay a female fast asleep, with a child at her breast, vainly attempting to force its little fingers within the folds of the handkerchief which concealed the bosom of its mother. May uttered a faint exclamation, somewhat between pity and fear; for she was taken by surprise. But her lover's astonishment was still greater than hers; for, after he had contemplated the careworn features of the wayfarer, he started, and, had not the increasing gloom of evening prevented any change of countenance from being perceptible, May might have seen his face turn ashy pale; but she felt the arm in which hers was fondly locked to tremble distinctly.

"This touches your feelings, Henry," said May; "but can we not, love, do something to alleviate the sufferings of this, no doubt, unfortunate female? Had I not better awake her, and conduct her to my father's, where refreshment and rest can be procured?"

"Nay, dearest love," said Wilkinson—"sleep is to the wretched the greatest boon that can be bestowed: let us leave her alone, nor deprive her of the only comfort which, possibly, she is capable of enjoying."

So saying, he hastily retired, bearing May, somewhat reluctantly, homewards; for her sympathy was much excited, and she would fain have carried her generous purpose into effect; but gave way to the entreaties of her lover, who had some miles to walk ere he could reach his place of residence. After seeing May safely beneath the domestic roof, Wilkinson bade farewell for the night to his betrothed bride, and took his departure, with the intention, he said, of immediately returning to H—. He did not proceed directly home, however; but, making a retrograde movement, he fell back upon the place where the fatigued traveller had been seen. She was gone when he arrived; and whether the circumstance gave him pleasure or the reverse, we have never been able to ascertain; but, at all events, he now set out in good earnest for H—. What should have interested Wilkinson so much in this apparently wandering mendicant?

On the evening which we have described, let the reader picture to himself two aged crones, comfortably seated upon a rough slab of wood, elevated two feet or so above the ground, by a massive block of granite which supported either end. This, together with the cottage wall against which their backs reclined, might, even with individuals more fastidious than its present occupants, have appeared a luxury little inferior to a sofa, especially in that bland and beautiful hour when daylight dies along the hills, and our feelings, partaking of the softness of the scene and hour, dispose us to be pleased, we ask not why and care not wherefore. On either hand was situated a door, over which hung suspended a very homely signboard. From one of these, the wayfarer might learn that good entertainment for man and beast could be supplied within, by Janet Baird, who, it appeared, was, by special permission of government, permitted to retail spirits, porter, ale, and other items. Lest any mistake should occur as to the nature of the invitation (or, perhaps, it was a ruse to provoke the alimentary faculties), there was a painting of the interior, representing a table, which seemed to groan under the weight of bottles, glasses, porter and ale cans, bread, cheese, and what not; whilst two jolly companions, with rubicund faces, where an infinity of good nature predominated, sat round it, each with a cup in hand, and both evidently sublimed by their potations far above this "dirty planet, the earth." At the entrance to the apartment was seen the landlady, who, with one hand pushed open the door, whilst the other, projecting forwards, supported a huge tankard, charged with the favourite beverage, which mantled or effloresced at the top, like a cauliflower. The neighbouring sign had fewer attractions for the weary traveller or the droughty villager, throwing out merely hints as to the condition of the reader's linen, by intimating that clothes might here undergo purification, and be mangled by the hour or peace (such was the orthography) by Nelly Gray.

The two neighbours lived on terms of the utmost harmony; for there was no rivalry of interests. Their callings were antipodes to each other—one being devoted to the decoration and comfortable appearance of the human exterior, whilst the other took special cognizance of the internal condition of the animal economy. They, of course, carried on a mutual traffic; but it was on the primitive principle of barter—the weekly account for washing and dressing which Janet owed, being duly balanced by her accommodating Nelly with a certain potent nostrum, which we shall not name, but merely describe as a sovereign remedy for aching bones and pains, and other complaints of the stomach, to which this petticoat Diogenes (for she likewise practised in a tub) was very subject, especially after washing a whole day, or impelling her crazy creaking machine for the same space of time. It was their invariable practice to spend an hour or two every evening in what is termed in the vernacular a "twa-handed crack," either seated out doors, or snugly immured in Janet's back parlour—a small dark room, encumbered with sundry articles of retail The subject of their conversation, on the present occasion, will immediately become apparent.

"They say he's gaun to learn folk ellykeashun," said Janet, in reference to May's lover.

"An' what's that, Janet?" asked the other.

"Ne'er a bit o' me kens very weel," rejoined Janet, "but, I'm thinkin it's the way the gentry speak, eghin an' owin, and sichin and sabbin, an' makin yer voice gang up an doun, like daft Jock playin on the fife."

"Hech, sirs, that's an idle kind o' way o' making ane's bread," sighed Janet. "It's naething else than begging. He'd better pit a napping hammer in his hand an' tak the roadside for an honest livelihood."

"'Deed, Nelly, it's my opinion he's been on the road before, following anither trade," said Janet. "I'm sair mistaen if he's no a hempie; an' we'll maybe hear mair aboot him yet than some folks wad like to ken o'. I never liked your land-loupers an' spoutin gentry a' my days. They're nae better than tinklers, that carry off whatever they lay their han's on, nae matter whether it's beast or body. It cowes the gowan hoo sae sensible a man as John Darling wad e'er hae looten his dochter tak up wi' sic like clamjamfrey. But he was aye owre easy wi' his family, an' gied them owre muckle o' their ain wull frae the first. But the mother was sair to blame in pittin sic daft-like notions intil a bairn's head as to read playactorin books an' novels. Wae am I to say sae, noo that she's whar the Lord wull."

"Is't true, Janet, that they're to be coupled i' the kirk?" asked Nelly. "They say the minister's taen an unco likin' to the lad; an', to mak' things look as genteel as possible, he's offered the use o' the kirk for marrying them in; an's to gie them a ploy forbye, after it's a' owre."

"Guid faith, it's a true saying—'The fat sow gets a' the draff,'" rejoined Janet. "It wad be lang or he did a turn like that for ony puir body like oorsels. The birkie doesna stand in need o' cash; for he gies saxpence to this ane, an' a shilling to the ither ane, for gauging errans. He micht hae provided something for the waddin folks doun at Michael Crummie's, whase tred's no sae brisk noo, sin' that kick-up wi' him an' the Mason Lodge folk, wha swore he gied them up ill whusky—an' that was, maybe, nae lee. He ne'er, since ever I mind, keepit the real stuff, like that o' mine. But see, Nelly, whatna puir, waebegone looking creature's that coming alang the road, scarcely able to trail ae leg after anither?—an' a bairn, too, help us a'!"

The object which drew the attention of the honest ale-wife was, as the reader may have already sagaciously conjectured, the same forlorn being whom May Darling and her lover had accidentally encountered. With a slow and faltering step, she approached the village dames, and inquired of them how far it was from the town of H—.

"Five miles guid," said Janet Baird, and continued—"but ye'll no' think o' gaun there the nicht; it's gettin dark, an' ye've mair need o' a while's rest; an', maybe, ye wa'dna be the waur o' something to support nature; for, wae's me! ye do look thin an' hungert like! Tak' her in by, Nelly, an' I'll fetch her some cordial, as weel as a morsel to eat."

So saying, she proceeded to her shop, for the purpose of making good her word, whilst Nelly followed up that part of the duty of relieving the stranger which devolved upon her, and conducted the "wearied one" into the interior of her humble domicile.

"Ye'll hae travelled a gey bit the day, na, I sudna wonder?" said Nelly.

"Yes," said the stranger, whom we shall now designate as Mrs B. "Since morning, I have prosecuted my journey with all the speed which want and weariness would permit of. But these were nothing, did I only know how it was to terminate."

Meantime, Janet had returned, bearing in her apron an ample stock of provisions; and, having heard the latter part of Mrs B.'s reply to Nelly, her curiosity was not a little excited to know something of her history. This she set about with the characteristic pawkiness (there is no purely English word sufficiently expressive) of the Scotch—that style of speaking which is half asking, half answering a question; and she was successful in her endeavours.

"It'll be the guidman that ye're gaun to meet at H—?" said Janet. "He'll be in the manufacturing line, nae doot; for there's little else done there; an', indeed, that itsel has faun sair aff sin' that dirt o' machinery was brought in to tak' the bread out o' the puir man's mouth."

"Yes—no; he is not in that line, nor do I know, indeed, if he is to be found there at all; but—but—excuse me, kind friends, for showing a little reserve touching one who"—

Here, however, her feelings overcame her; and, turning round to gaze on the helpless being that clung to her bosom, tears from her suffused eyes began to find a ready passage down her pale emaciated cheek—a channel with which they appeared to be familiar.

"He never saw thee, my little Henry, my sweet boy! Methinks, that cherub smile of innocence which lies upon that countenance, would be powerful enough to melt the icy feelings of his soul, and recall—. Pardon me, kind friends," she continued; "but the name of husband is associated in my mind with all that human nature can suffer of unmitigated, hopeless wretchedness. You see before you the victim of—. But you shall hear all."

She then commenced her history, recounting every circumstance of a tale of misery but too common. As it is, in some measure, connected with that of May Darling, we shall give a few of of its leading facts.

She was the daughter of a respectable farmer in the north of England, and, being an only child, received an accomplished education; and, from her engaging manners, personal attractions, and skill in music, she was much courted even by those who moved in the higher circles. At the house of a neighbouring clergyman, Mr G—, she was a very frequent visitor; and her charms captivated the heart of Dr G—, a young medical gentleman, and the nephew of the clergyman. On her part, however, there was no attachment, although the ardour with which Dr G— pressed his suit might have captivated a bosom less stubborn than hers. But another idol was shrined and secretly worshipped there. This was a Mr Henry Bolton, a fellow-student of Dr G—'s, who, in calling at the house of Mr G—, to see his friend the Doctor, was induced to spend a few days with him. His stay was protracted to weeks, months—in short, till the farmer's daughter and he, having come to an understanding with respect to the all important matter of love, agreed to join hands for better for worse. The marriage took place at a neighbouring town, where the couple remained for several months, living in a state of great privacy, for no one was in the secret of their union, not even the lady's father. The finances of Mr Bolton became exhausted; and a letter from his father having shut out all hope of succour from that quarter, he was thrown into a state of extreme dejection. His temper soured, and harshness towards his wife soon followed; for an application on her part to her father, to whom she was compelled by necessity to reveal her situation, met with a reception similar to the other. One day he dressed himself with more than usual care, packed up in a small parcel the principal part of his body clothes, and having told his wife that he meant to go as far as ——, naming a considerable town, which was situated at some miles distance, parted from her, like Ajut in "The Rambler," never to return. The sun arose and set, and arose again and again, and week after week, but still he came not; nor was she ever able to obtain the faintest trace of him. Her health began to droop, and, in the depth of her humiliation and misery, like the prodigal of old, she was compelled to seek for shelter under the paternal roof. Her father received her even with kindness; for time, the softener of affliction, the soother of wrath, had not passed over his head without exercising its due influence upon his feelings. Here she gave birth to a child, the baby which now lay at her breast. Time passed away, and still no intelligence of her runaway husband reached her, till, "about a week back," she said, "communication was made me by letter, that, if I would repair to the town of H—, I would hear something of my lost husband. Without the knowledge of my father, I have undertaken the journey; and God alone knows whether the information, so mysteriously conveyed to me, be true or false—whether my hopes will be disappointed or realised. A few hours, however, will be sufficient to set my mind at rest. I have wearied you, I fear; but my present wretched appearance required some explanation on my part—for, oh, it is difficult to lie under the suspicion of being a vagrant or vagabond, as heaven knows I am neither." And, clasping her hands and raising her eyes, she remained for a few minutes in that reverential but death-like attitude which is assumed when a human soul prays in agony.

Her painful narrative had its due influence upon the minds of those to whom it was addressed; and, although both admitted the propriety of proceeding to the town of H—, yet they earnestly exhorted her to remain with them for a night; and to this proposal she acceded. After breakfast next morning, Mrs B. (who must now be looked upon as one of the principal of our dramatis personæ) set out for the town of H—. What the nature of her reflections were, as she drew near the termination of her journey, may be readily conceived; but of their intensity no idea can be formed by any one except by the broken-hearted female who has passed through the same fiery ordeal of desertion and despair. She had arrived within a short distance of the town, when a chaise, driving rapidly down the principal entrance to it, attracted her attention. It approached; and from the favours which profusely adorned the driver, his team, and his vehicle, it was evident that some happy pair were destined soon to become its occupants. The blinds were all drawn up; but, as the chaise passed her, one of them was partially let down, and she heard some one from within instruct the driver to proceed to the manse by a road more retired than that usually taken. There was something in the tone of the voice (though indistinctly heard from the rattling of the wheels) which startled Mrs B. from a reverie in which she had been indulging, and made every fibre of her body to thrill, as if an electric discharge had shot through it. In mute astonishment, not unmingled with thick coming fancies, horrible forebodings, which, without assuming any definite form, were prophetic of woe, she fixed her eyes upon the retiring vehicle, and, rooted to the spot where she stood, motionless as a Niobe of stone, gazed and gazed till her eyeballs ached. "Can it be?" she at last exclaimed, with wild emotion—"can it be?—No—no—'tis but fancy; yet the place!—gracious powers!" Her eyes continued to follow the retiring wheels, fixed upon them she knew not by what mysterious power; and long she might have remained in this position, had not some person from behind softly addressed her. She turned round, and her eyes fell upon her former suitor, Dr G—. Let her astonishment be imagined—we will not attempt to give words to her feelings.

"It is to you, then," she said, after recovering from her surprise—"it is to you, Dr G—, that I am indebted for information regarding my lost husband."

"It is," he replied; "but not a moment is to be lost. Things are in a worse condition than they were when I dispatched my letter to you. But let us proceed instantly to Grassyvale. On the way I will inform you of all that has come to my knowledge regarding that monster—it were a profanation of language to call him husband." So saying, they commenced their journey, which we shall leave them to prosecute whilst we bring up some parts of our narrative necessarily left in the rear.

We need hardly say that the morning of her marriage was an anxious and a busy one to May Darling. It is true that she had plenty of assistance afforded her by the village matrons, and by a few youthful associates, whom she had singled out as especial favourites from amongst many who were regarded by her with affection. But still a fastidiousness of taste always seizes people on those occasions when they are desirous of appearing to the best advantage. Besides, when there are a number of lady's maids, all busily engaged in decorating a single individual, a difference of opinion relative to the various items of dress always takes place, and occasions much delay. One of them is clear that such and such a colour of ribbon will best suit the complexion of the wearer; another holds out strongly for an opposite hue; and a third silences them both by asserting that neither answer the colour of the bonnet. What sort of flowers would most fittingly ornament the hair, was also a subject of protracted debate; and half-an-hour was wasted in determining whether the ribbon which was to circle her waist like a zone, should hang down or not. Matters, however, were at last adjusted—the bride was arrayed, the hour of twelve was struck by a small wooden clock which ticked behind the door; and with the hour there arrived at the cottage a sort of rude palanquin, fashioned of birch-tree boughs, which intertwisted with each other, and were interwoven with branches of flowering shrubs; and upon this some of the kindest and blithest-hearted of the villagers had agreed to bear May to the kirk. Some modest scruples required to be overcome before she would be induced to avail herself of this mode of conveyance; and, after being seated, with the bridesmaid walking on one side, and John Darling on the other, the cavalcade began to move. Many hearty good wishes for the happiness of the bride from the elder people, and many joyous shouts from the younger part of the villagers, greeted the ears of the marriage party; whilst a pretty long train which drew itself out in the rear, sent up its rejoicings on the wind from a distance. But one step must bring us to the altar of Hymen. Side by side stood the bridegroom and the bride; and a more interesting, handsome, and apparently well-matched pair, never were seen in the same situation, as we are informed by the clergyman who officiated on the occasion. The ceremony proceeded with due formality—one moment more would have joined their hands, when a person who had just entered the church called to the clergyman to stay the nuptials; and, at the same moment, a shriek from a female who had entered along with him, rose so wild, thrilling, and distracted, that every bosom shook beneath its glittering attire.

"Base, inhuman miscreant!" shouted Dr G—, addressing himself to Wilkinson (which name must now be supplanted by his real one, Bolton), at the same time rushing forward to seize the bridegroom.

He, however, had ere this dropped the hand of May Darling—that hand which, till now, like Desdemona's, had "felt no age, nor known no sorrow"—and, unsheathing a dagger which was concealed about his person (doubtless one of his theatrical weapons), he threatened to make a ghost of any one who disputed his retreat from the church. His menacing attitude and wild gesticulations terrified every beholder, and even Dr G— gave way, allowing him unmolested to quit the sacred place which he was about to profane, and possibly might have stained with blood. Only one attempted to arrest him, and, for a short time, succeeded. It was his wife—she who the night previously had kindled up in his soul the fires of conscience, as she lay asleep, unsheltered save by heaven's blue canopy, and apparently an abandoned outcast.

"Henry," she said, holding up their child, and stretching forth her arms—"Henry, look on this dear pledge of our affection, the child of love, though born in bitterness and tears, the offspring of your choice—look on him, Henry, and let the voice of conscience in your breast, which must be heard now or hereafter, plead in his behalf. The helpless darling innocent—of what crime has he been guilty, that his natural protector should cast him forth to meet the buffetings of fate without a shield—that he should be launched upon the sea of life without an oar? If not for my sake, at least for the sake of little Henry—for he bears your name—restore us both to honour and society, by returning to the path of duty. The arms that have so often embraced you, will again encircle the neck to which they have clung so often and so fondly. O Henry. Henry! reflect for an instant on my destitute, outcast condition—without you, I am a weed cast from the rock, to be driven whithersoever the storm sets wildest. Think what my sufferings have been and must be!—God alone can estimate them. Henry, hear me." And, taking her child in one arm, she stretched out the other to detain him; but the heartless villain shook her rudely from him, and darted from the church.

What were May Darling's feelings during this heart-rending scene? She was not a spectator of it. The moment that the dreadful truth flashed upon her mind, she sank into the arms of her father, dead to consciousness and time. By the same conveyance which had brought her in triumph to the church, she was borne to her father's cottage, a wretched but a gentle maniac.

Days, weeks, months passed away, and she remained the same listless, mild, and inoffensive creature—a baby-woman, a human being ripe in years and an infant in thought, feeling, and everything mental. 'Tis painful to contemplate the situation of an individual overwhelmed by such a calamity under any circumstances; but, under the present, how terrible indeed! To be struck down at the altar, arrayed in bridal robes, and with all her hopes blooming around her—how does it humble human pride, set at nought all calculations of human happiness, and assign narrow limits to human hope! And yet there was mercy in the dispensation. Better unconscious almost of existence itself, than alive to all the horrors of a doom like that of May Darling. Better the vacant stare, and the look of silent indifference on all beneath the sun, than the wild gesticulations of violent grief, the shriek of woe, or the agony of despair, for the alleviation of which "hope never comes that comes to all."

Every means were had recourse to for rousing her from the dismal trance into which she had fallen, to dispel from her thoughts the gloomy, the dead images by which they were haunted; but in vain. Sometimes she would sit amongst her gay companions; and, whilst they laughed, chatted, and sung, as in former happy days, a faint smile would rekindle about her lips, so rosy once, so wan and withered now, and for a moment playing like a mental coruscation, would suddenly expire, and then she would droop again into the gloom of moody madness, and weep amidst all the gaiety that surrounded her—weep even like a child. If spoken to, she made no reply; but, lifting up her dark streaming eyes, sparkling through the humid medium in which they were suffused, like a star in motionless water, she would sing snatches of old songs about disappointed love, blighted hopes, and broken hearts. And the melancholy tones of her voice would sadden all around her, as if some powerful spell had suddenly passed over their minds like a cold wind, and frozen up the fount of joyous feeling; and they would weep, too—weep along with her; for she was so beloved, so good, so beautiful, so happy once, and so woe-begone and wretched now. Then would the gentle maniac start up on a sudden, as if some one had hastily summoned her, and, rushing towards home, would mutter, in a quick tone of voice—"I am coming—I am coming! I knew we would be in time!—I knew we would be in time! He is there!—he—he!—Who?" She was silent now. Many an eye was filled with tears as she passed through the straggling village of Grassyvale.

Winter had passed away—the vernal eruption of spring had been matured into the bloom, and the promise which spring gives of autumn, when May Darling, one evening, wandered forth from her father's cottage, attended only by a little sister. Striking into that beautiful and unfrequented path where she had last walked with him who, on the following day, was to have become her husband, she had arrived at the very spot where lay asleep, on the grassy bank, by the hedge-side, the wife of Bolton. A train of thought seemed suddenly to rush through her mind; for she sat, or rather dropped gently down. 'Twas the recollection of former events which had begun to be reanimated within her; and, though faint, it was sufficient to cause a temporary suspension of muscular energy: her sight became dim, only vague images being presented to the eye; and she might probably have fallen backwards, had not a person sprung through the hedge, and, putting his arms around her slender form, maintained her in an erect position. The individual who had thus so opportunely come to her assistance was closely wrapped up in a greatcoat, although the warmth of the weather rendered such a covering scarcely necessary. The upper part of his countenance was concealed by a slouched hat drawn pretty far down; but from what of it was visible, it was plain that care, remorse, and dissipation had gone far to modify its natural expression.

May gradually revived from her partial swoon; and the stranger, uncovering his head, and fixing his eyes upon the languid features which began to assume the hue of life and the expression of conscious being, said, in a low, trembling voice—

"May Darling, hear me—do not curse me—I am miserable enough without the malison of her whom"—But his feelings for a moment choked his utterance. "Through a thousand dangers and difficulties have I sought this interview, only that I might obtain your forgiveness, and acceptance of this small gift." Here he flung a purse down by her side. "Say you forgive me, May—breathe but the word, and, in a few days, an ocean shall roll between us."

But he spoke to ears which heard not. The moment that May recognised Bolton, reason was restored, but animation fled, and she sank dead for a time in his arms. He was about to take measures for her restoration, when the rapid trampling of horses' hoofs drew his attention in another direction; and, looking over the hedge-row, he perceived two horsemen, at a very little distance, advancing towards the village. He seemed to be aware of their errand and the cause of their speed; for, no sooner had he cast his eyes on them, than his head instinctively slunk down behind the hedge. But his precaution was too late. He had been seen; and, that night, he was led, a fettered man, to the gaol of H—, charged with highway robbery. We may as well conclude his history, as well as that of the other individuals who have been interwoven with our tale, before returning to May Darling.

Mr Henry Bolton was found guilty of the crime with which he was charged, and condemned to perish on the scaffold, although it was only his first offence, and, to do him justice, he had committed the crime for the purpose of having it in his power, in some measure, to requite May Darling for the injury which she had received at his hands. How wonderful are the ways of Providence in punishing the guilty! Actuated by a motive unquestionably virtuous, Bolton commits a capital crime, and the woman whom he had wronged becomes, unconsciously to herself, the ultimate cause of his punishment! However, by powerful intercession on the part of his friends, the sentence was commuted to transportation for life. But it was destined that he should end his days miserably. "Whoso sheddeth man's blood, by man shall his blood be shed." Bolton was virtually a murderer, as we shall see; and the curse could not be eluded by the decision of any earthly tribunal. 'Twas vain to attempt to fly from it. The vengeance of Heaven would have pursued him through all the regions of space; and, screened by the closest envelope of darkness and disguise, would have struck its victim down. In a skirmish with the natives of the place to which he had been transported, he was taken prisoner, and by them put to a cruel and lingering death.

After the painful interview with her husband in the church of Grassyvale, Mrs Bolton returned to her father, secluding herself from the world, and devoting her time to household duties and the education of her son. Rumours of the death of her husband penetrated at last to the remote part of the country where she resided, and, on its being officially authenticated, Dr G—, who had commenced practice in a neighbouring town, became a frequent visitor at the farm-house. His former courtship was renewed; and, when the days of mourning were over, and time had done much to alleviate grief, to restore the faded charms of Mrs Bolton, and to throw the events of the past into dimness and distance, they were united; and are still, according to the last accounts, living happily together, surrounded by a family of thriving children. Nelly Gray and Janet Baird still pursue their respective callings in Grassyvale; the latter never failing, on every possible occasion, to boast of her sagacity in detecting the real character of Mr Henry Wilkinson, alias Bolton. But let us return to the suffering May Darling.

She was borne to her cottage home insensible, in which state she remained all that night, and next day revived only to know that she was dying. Yes—the arrow that had pierced her was poisoned; but the venom, though fatal, worked slow. Gold is refined by fire, and the more intense the heat applied, the purer will the metal become. So is it with the human soul. It is made perfect through suffering; and the more it is destined to endure, the fitter will it become for taking a part with the choirs of saints and angels, when it shall have thrown aside the garment of mortality and mounted on high, like the unshadowed moon, through parted clouds. But May was happy, notwithstanding. In all her looks and movements were disclosed the peace of mind which passeth understanding. It was diffused, like light from heaven, over her countenance; it was heard, like a rich chord of music, in the tones of her voice; her every word and action betrayed its presence and all-prevailing power. Her Bible, although always a favourite study, became now her sole one; and by its all-hallowing influence, her mind looking down with calm complacency on all terrestrial things, had an early foretaste of immortality, in many a delightful contemplation of that abode and that felicity which shall reward the just.

"It was a delightful evening, about the middle of autumn," says the worthy clergyman to whom we have been indebted for many of the facts of the foregoing narrative, "that I was hastily summoned, by John Darling, to visit his daughter, who, he believed, was dying. I lost no time in proceeding to his cottage, and found that his conjecture was but too true. In an easy chair, placed at an open window which faced the west, reclined the victim of a broken heart. On her pale cheek death had impressed his seal, though there the deceitful rose tint fluctuated, which was not so in her days of health and hope. Her words, when she spake, and that was seldom, seemed to come forth without her breath; and the lightest down that ever was wafted through summer's air might have slept unfluttered on her lips. I kneeled down and prayed that the gentle spirit which was about to be released from its mortal bonds, might receive a welcome to the realms of life and light. She understood distinctly that she was dying; and in token that her mind was at perfect ease, she faintly uttered, when I had finished—"Yes! oh, yes!—Heaven! he—!" The words died unfinished on her tongue, and her spirit rose to its native sky.

MORTLAKE: A LEGEND OF MERTON.

BY JAMES MAIDMENT.

"Pray, sir, will you condescend to inform me by what title you presume to set your foot on my grounds? Have I not already warned you; and if I use you now severely, the blame must rest with yourself."

These words were addressed by Sir Thomas Bruce Vavasour, in an evident state of excitement, to a young lad apparently about nineteen, but in reality not much above sixteen, whom he met traversing the grounds of Merton. Tom Vallance did not condescend to inform his interrogator why he had presumed to intrude where his presence seemed far from welcome, or explain why, on the present occasion, he happened to have in his hand a gun, which suspicious folks might be apt to suppose was intended to create some little confusion among the game on this well-preserved estate. He returned no very distinct answer; but some inarticulate sounds issued from his mouth, which, no doubt, were intended to deprecate the rage of the hasty and irritable baronet; but which seemed to have the effect only of heightening his ire, as he turned round to his keeper, who, with one of the servants, was at his back, and bade them secure the fowling-piece with which the youth was furnished—a command which was instantly obeyed; and the lad, not prepared for the sudden attack, was without difficulty disarmed.

"Now, my lad," quoth Sir Thomas, "you had better be off, unless you wish me to use violence; for I will not allow my property to be trespassed upon, and my game destroyed, by you and the like of you."

Tom stood firm, scowling on the baronet. At length he gained nerve enough to say—

"Give me back my gun. You have no right to rob me, nor shall you."

"But you shall submit, my little cock-sparrow. Don't suppose I want to keep your twopenny-halfpenny pop gun. Here, John, just take Master Tom by the shoulders, and turn him off my grounds; and you, Peter, carry this rubbishy thing to Mrs Vallance, and tell her it would better become her to keep her son behind the counter of her shop, to serve her customers with farthing candles and brown soap, than allow him to vagabondize about the country poaching. If he does not mend his manners, I've a pretty good guess that some of those days he'll either take a voyage at the expense of his country, or get his neck thrust into a noose."

This was certainly impertinent. It was, moreover, unjust and uncalled for; as whatever might be laid to the charge of Tom Vallance, on account of his predilection for field sports, no impeachment lay otherwise to his moral character. But Sir Thomas was in a passion; and, like all persons in that state, spoke without reflection. Naturally of a hasty and irritable temper, he had received a letter that morning which excited his ire excessively, and as, upon issuing from the mansion, the lad Vallance crossed his path, the first burst of his wrath fell on his devoted head. Tom felt deeply the insult. He had been accustomed to a shake of the head, and sometimes a sharp word; but Sir Thomas, upon the whole, used him well enough; for, as his mother had been housekeeper in the family during the lifetime of Sir Marmaduke Vavasour, who had married the heiress of Merton, the lad was looked upon, or rather he looked upon himself, as a sort of licensed person on the grounds. To be deprived of his gun was bad, but to insinuate moral turpitude was worse; and, forgetful of the rank of his tormentor, he exclaimed—

"I am no thief—I am as honest as yourself, Sir Thomas; and bitterly, bitterly, shall you rue this day. When I set my foot next time on your grounds, it will be for no good to you."

Saying this he turned on his heel, and extricating himself suddenly from the hands of the servants, cleared a ditch which opposed his retreat, and was speedily out of reach.

The passion of Sir Thomas was not lessened by this unexpected reply, followed as it was by the speedy evasion of the speaker; and, as Tom was out of his reach, he transferred his wrath to the attendants, who were scolded in the most exemplary style, for not knocking the young rascal down. After indulging some time in this agreeable relaxation, he returned to the house, looking all the while, as his men said, "like a bear wi' a sair head."

Sir Thomas Bruce Vavasour was the third son of an English baronet of ancient lineage, who, by intermarriage with Isabella, daughter, and afterwards sole heiress of Reginald Bruce of Merton, in the county of Roxburgh, eventually carried that estate into his family. He had three brothers, two elder and one younger than himself. By the marriage contract, the English estate, which was considerable, was destined to the elder son, the Scotch one to the second son. Thomas got a commission, went abroad, and, after much battling about, attained the rank of General, when, by the death of his brother William, he succeeded to Merton; and, a few years afterwards, the demise of the eldest brother, who broke his neck whilst fox-hunting, gave him the extensive manor of Vavasour Castle, and the title of a baronet. The younger brother married an heiress, by whom he had one son, who, after his demise, he left under the guardianship of Sir Thomas—excluding Mrs Vavasour from all control. The uncle carefully superintended the education of his ward, became much attached to him, and, during the holidays, frequently took him to Merton, to the infinite displeasure of Mrs Richard Vavasour, who cordially hated her brother-in-law. When he grew up, those visits were discontinued, partly as he was studying for the bar, and partly to please his mother, whom he considered he was in duty bound to propitiate as much as he could—rather a difficult task, as she was a capricious fine lady, with violent and vindictive feelings. Edward was about four-and-twenty, and had formed an attachment to a lady—his equal in birth and fortune—but who did not meet with the mother's approbation. She demanded that the match should be broken off—Edward remonstrated—she persisted; and, after a war of words, matters remained precisely as they originally were, he avowing a fixed determination to make himself happy, notwithstanding Mrs Vavasour's threats of vengeance. This he accordingly did, and his mother, bursting a bloodvessel, soon afterwards died, leaving a sealed letter to be sent, after her demise, to Sir Thomas, whom she hated.

Three weeks had elapsed from the date of this interview, when, one evening early in the month of September, a party of farmers—for it was market day—were sitting after dinner in the public inn of the county town, when the landlord suddenly entered, exclaiming—

"Gracious!—a dreadful murder has just been committed. The laird of Merton has been killed in his own house!"

This announcement was received with equal astonishment and horror by those assembled; and the intruder had every possible question to answer as to the time, place, and person, that the half-muddled brains of those present could devise; and, such a babel of voices arose in sweet discord, that a gentleman, who sat in the parlour alone, and who had arrived by that day's mail, was so much disturbed as to ring violently to know why his meditations were thus so unharmoniously interrupted.

"Waiter!" said he, "why this disturbance? Cannot your farmers dine here without kicking up a riot?"

"O sir!—it's the murder!"

"What murder?"

"The General, sir, who lives at Merton, sir, found stabbed in his own sitting-room, sir!"

"Stabbed! do you say? It cannot be?"

"Quite true, sir, as I'm a waiter! And they have got the murderer in custody."

"Murderer!—impossible! What mean you?" exclaimed the traveller, hastily.

"Why, sir, the fellow that killed Sir Thomas is taken redhand, I think they call it."

"Who is he?"

"Just Tom Vallance, sir—an idle fellow to be sure, but the last person that I would have thought would do such a thing."

"What! the son of the old housekeeper?"

"Yes—do you know him, sir?"

"Not I—but I've heard of his mother. What inducement could he have to commit so dreadful a crime?"

"Revenge, sir!—The General, some two or three weeks since, seized his gun, and, poor gentleman, abused Tom fearfully, for he was in one of his terrifics; and Tom told him the next time he was on his grounds he would do for him—at least so it is said."

"Dreadful!—and what was this Tom Vallance, as I think you call him?"

"Nothing, sir! His mother is an industrious woman; and the lad was not that bad fellow, neither—but dreadfully idle. He had a good education; but his father dying two years since, Tom left school; and his mother, in place of sending him back, kept him at home: she was so fond of him that she let him do whatever he liked."

"How can she afford to maintain him?"

"She is very industrious, sir; and, as she was daft fond of him, every penny she could scrape together went into his pockets."

"Where is the accused?"

"Tom, sir, do you mean?—Why, before the Sheriff, making his declaration."

"Who succeeds the late baronet?"

"His nephew—a very nice chap. He was often at Merton when a lad; but he has not been here for many years. He'll be better liked than his uncle, though the old fellow was not so bad neither. But I must go, sir, for I hear the bell ringing in the travellers' room." So saying, he whipped his napkin under his arm, and withdrew with praiseworthy celerity.

The unknown traveller paced slowly up and down the room, apparently very much perplexed in his mind. He muttered—"Strange!—very strange!—caught in the room—a previous threat—all concurs." Shortly afterwards he again rang the bell, ordered in and paid his bill; and, taking a post-chaise to the next town, waited there only until the mail from Edinburgh to London stopped to change horses, and, having procured a seat, arrived in due time in the metropolis.

The investigation of facts connected with the death of Sir Thomas proceeded, and a strong case was made out against the accused. The two servants swore to the threat; and, although not giving exactly the waiter's version of it, made it pretty nearly as bad; for, not having heard the precise words, they supplied the defect in hearing by generalizing. "He threatened," they said, "to be revenged, and that he would come to the grounds for that purpose;" or used some such words, shewing a determined resolution of getting "amends" of their master. That the General met his death by a stab in the heart was plain enough; and that the servants found Tom beside him, grasping a bloody knife, was equally so. Presumptions were, therefore, strongly against him; nor did his declaration nor judicial statement help him much; for he admitted, after some little hesitation, that he had slipped into the grounds to redeem his threat of revenge by carrying off some very fine peaches, of which the General was very proud, and which he intended as a present to a neighbouring nobleman. Knowing that Sir Thomas was accustomed to take his siesta immediately after dinner, which was usually at five—for he followed a fashion of his own in this respect, which has, since his time, become popular—and that the gardener left at six, he lurked about the grounds till after that period, and then, easily getting into the garden, thought it prudent to see how the land lay before he proceeded to his labour of love.

The house of Merton was an old-fashioned building, or rather series of buildings, erected at different times; and the present possessor, who had a fancy for horticulture, had added an apartment, which opened by a glass door upon a terrace from which, by descending a few steps, he entered the garden. This room was, necessarily, remote from the rest of the mansion, and here Sir Thomas uniformly dined, summer and winter. After dinner was removed, and the dessert and wine placed on the table, the servants withdrew, and were forbidden to enter till seven o'clock, when coffee was served. Of all this Tom was perfectly cognizant.

Now Tom asserted that, as a precautionary measure, he resolved to peep into the room in question, to ascertain whether Sir Thomas was asleep before he took his boyish revenge; and seeing the glass door which led into the garden open, he proceeded, cautiously and slowly, till he got there, when, looking in, he observed his old enemy lying on the floor on his face. Astonished at this, and forgetting all sense of personal risk, he advanced to raise the baronet, when he discovered that he was dead, and a knife lying beside the body, which he picked up. Fear tied up his tongue for some few seconds, and he had barely time to give utterance to an exclamation of horror, when, the door opening, the servant gave the alarm, and before he had time to collect his scattered senses he was a prisoner. All this might have been true, and perhaps the story would have been treated with more consideration than it obtained, had it not been for the previous threat, which naturally induced a strong suspicion against Tom. The result was that, after the ordinary form had been gone through, the unhappy youth was fully committed to take his trial for the murder of Sir Thomas Vavasour Bruce Vavasour of Vavasour and Merton, Baronet.

The heir, at this eventful period, was in England, whither the body was transmitted, and deposited in the Vavasour mausoleum.

Meanwhile, Tom remained for some weeks in the county jail in a condition far from enviable. All attempts to induce a confession of guilt were abortive; he persisted in his declaration of innocence; but, as parties accused are not usually in the habit of confessing their crimes, these protestations were not considered worth much. Indeed, the only person he could convince was his poor mother, who gave implicit confidence to his assertions.

A change, and one for the better, had come over the accused in prison. How bitterly did he regret his former idle moments—how deeply did he lament the burden he had been on his mother. Many a vow did he make, that if he could get quit of this charge, he would eschew his former course of life, and be all a fond parent could ask. About the tenth day before the approaching sittings, Tom was visited by a gentleman, who proffered his assistance as his adviser. He had heard, he said, of the case; and was anxious, on his mother's account, to afford his aid: but he required a full and ample statement, without any concealment. Tom answered he had nothing to conceal; and he recapitulated everything he had formerly stated.

The stranger listened attentively and, after his client had concluded, shook his head. "Tom! you may be innocent—there is the impress of truth in what you state, and I can hardly doubt you; but still the evidence against you is so strong, that if you go to trial, I am fearful—very fearful of the result."

Tom's face, which had brightened as the stranger commenced, became clouded ere the remarks were finished; and, when they terminated, he burst into tears. "O sir!" he sobbed, "have pity on a poor misguided lad, who never meant evil to any one—who is as innocent of the crime of which he is accused as you are. Save me, sir! O save me! if not on my own account, at least on that of my poor mother, who will break her heart if I am condemned."

"I would willingly save you if I could," was the rejoinder; "but I cannot influence juries—I cannot sway the Court."

"And must I die, then? Must I, before my time, go down to my grave dishonoured and disgraced? O sir! if it had pleased Heaven to visit me with a deadly sickness, I would have left the world without one sigh except for my mother. But to be degraded as a felon—to be branded as a murderer—it is too—too much." He became so agitated that grief choked his utterance.

The stranger, obviously affected, look his hand. "Tom, have you firmness? There is a way, perhaps."

"How!" exclaimed the lad, eagerly.

"This room is only one storey from the ground, and escape is possible."

"Escape! No! no! The windows are barred with iron; besides, if I escape, it looks like guilt, and I cannot bear that."

"But, will staying behind prove your innocence? Will your suffering the last penalty of the law convince the world that you did not commit the murder?"

"True—very true! If I live, my innocence may yet be proved—but how to get through the window."

"That can be easily managed, if you will act like a man. It is now early. I will be with you again before the prison shuts. Remember! not one word to your mother. You may console her by saying that your agent—for such I am—has given you hopes. Nothing more. Remember!" So saying, he departed.

* * * * * *

It was rather late when the stranger, who called himself Mortlake, returned. Tom had kept his promise; and, by affording his mother hopes of an acquittal, contrived to infuse a happiness to which her bosom had been for many a week a stranger.

"Now, Tom!" said Mr Mortlake, in a low tone, "attend to me. I have brought you a file, some aquafortis, and a silken ladder. Apply the liquid to the bars, and it will gradually eat into the iron—then use your file, and the first impediment to your flight will be removed. Next fix the silken ladder firmly, and your descent is easy. Do not begin your operations until the inmates of the jail are asleep. You may get everything ready by the evening of the day after the morrow. As the clock strikes twelve, assistance will be at hand, and descend with the first stroke, if all is right. Some one will be waiting for you. He will whisper into your ear 'follow,' and you must follow as speedily as possible. But, again, I caution you to keep this a secret from your mother. Buoy her up with hopes; talk confidently of your acquittal; that you are to have a learned barrister from Edinburgh. This will get wind, and prevent any suspicion of your intended escape. Once safe, your mother will receive due notice; and be assured she shall not be allowed to suffer one moment more of suspense than is absolutely necessary. You will not see me again in prison, I hope."

Tom's feelings were overcome. He seized Mortlake's hand, and pressed it to his lips, while tears flowed in torrents from his eyes. He could not speak.

Mortlake was affected. "And yet, poor kind-hearted boy," he said, "people could deem you guilty of a murder—how little did they know you. But away with tears. Be a man. You have a difficult part before you. See you flinch not!" Then changing his tone, and speaking loudly, "Well! I'm off to Edinburgh, where I shall see Andrew Crosbie. I have great faith in him; and, as he is not a greedy man, I dare say, Tom, I may get him to come here."

At this moment the jailer entered, saying it was time to leave; and Mortlake, pressing Tom's hand, bade him farewell, until his return from Edin burgh.

Tom treasured every word in his heart—not one syllable escaped his lips, that might induce the most suspicious person to imagine he contemplated flight. He spoke sensibly of his case; inducing his mother, and one or two persons, whom curiosity had prompted to visit him, to suppose that he was very sanguine of acquittal; and, as the fame of Andrew Crosbie extended over Scotland as a shrewd man and an able lawyer, this result was not thought by any means chimerical.

When the evening came, Tom commenced operations. He applied the liquid as directed, which soon corroded the iron at the bottom. The sides and top were more difficult, but their partial destruction was in time accomplished; and, when the eventful evening came, he had little difficulty in removing the grating. It was, of course, only injured at the ends; and, as the window was oblong, by altering the position of the grating, he obtained a substance sufficiently strong to which he attached the rope-ladder. Getting up to the window, he placed the grating reversed in the inside, and threw the ladder on the outside. To soften the fall of the iron after he had descended, he placed his mattress and bedclothes below; and, having thus made every preliminary arrangement, with the first stroke of twelve he commenced his descent; and, ere the last had died upon the breeze, the ground was reached in safety.

A figure, enveloped in a cloak, approached hurriedly, and whispered "follow!" He tossed a bundle to the fugitive, then turned to the left. The order was obeyed; and, after the lapse of an hour and a-half, Tom found himself in a wood, and the stranger opening a dark lantern—sliding shades at the side of which had previously been pulled down—disclosed to the eyes of Vallance the features of his agent, Mortlake.

The bundle was untied, and Tom found it to contain a capacious wrapper, a shawl, and bonnet with a veil. Those Tom was required to put on, and this matter being accomplished, the journey was resumed, and in about two hours they arrived at a small hamlet or village, where they found a gig waiting for them. Mortlake then addressed his companion:—"My dear Emily! be more composed—never mind your father—I will write to him, and all will yet be put to rights."

Tom, who had been previously instructed, spoke "small like a woman;" and, after some affected coyness, entered the carriage, when the parties drove off, leaving the man who had taken charge of the vehicle under the evident conviction that the strange man was a sad blackguard, and that the veiled lady was some unfortunate young woman who had been deluded away by his devices.

The news of Tom's escape excited universal astonishment, and no means were left untried to trace his footsteps; but every exertion was in vain, and his pursuers were completely at fault. It was universally admitted that some one must have furnished him with the implements that had procured his liberation; and his mother was, as a matter of course, the first one on whom suspicion lighted. The poor old woman, when the fact was announced, was equally amazed and pleased; but she could furnish no clue. Tom had seen a few people in prison, yet it was evident they had nothing to do with the escape. It was at last resolved that the agent was the accessory; but here the good people were at fault again, for no one, except the jailer, remembered having seen him, and he could give but a very imperfect description of him. He might be tall or so—rather think he was, but not sure—wore powder, and had, he believes, a black coat, but did not think he would know him again. This was all that could be elicited.

A reward of fifty pounds was offered by the magistrates for the capture of Tom; and Sir Edward Bruce Vavasour increased it to one hundred and fifty, expressing, at same time, his anxiety that the accused should be retaken.

Whilst all were in a state of excitement, fresh fuel was added to the flame by the following letter, bearing the Liverpool post-mark, which Mrs Vallance received from her son:—

"DEAREST MOTHER,—I am well, and as happy as one unjustly accused can be. Though fate has sundered us, you are ever in my thoughts. I have found a protector—fear not for me. You shall regularly hear from

"Your affectionate son," &c.

Beneath was written:—"Your son will yet be a blessing to you. Accept this trifle." And a twenty pound note was found enclosed.

"What a fool!" said the wise ones, "only to think of letting us know where he is." And, upon the hint, away trotted the officers with a criminal warrant, to be backed, as it is termed, by an English justice in Liverpool, where, to their great vexation, he was not to be found.

Meanwhile, the object of their pursuit was out of all danger. His friend and he at last found themselves on the road to Wooler.

"Tom!" said Mortlake, when they alighted at the inn, "you must pass for my wife. I have everything provided for that purpose in my portmanteau; meanwhile, keep down your veil, and wrap your cloak about you."

He then took out a complete suit of female apparel, and speedily his protegée was metamorphosed into a tall and handsome, although somewhat masculine, female. We need not tire our readers with a detail of the subsequent journey southward, and may only mention that Mortlake left the horse and gig at Wooler, where, obtaining a seat for himself and his companion in the mail, they arrived in safety at Barnet. Here Tom resumed his sex; and, in a new suit of clothes, appeared, as he really was, a good and intelligent looking young man.

From Barnet, the travellers proceeded in a chaise to London, where Mortlake took lodgings, and, after the lapse of a few days, disclosed to the youth his ulterior purposes.

"Mr Vallance!" said he.

"Do not call me 'Mr'—if you do, I shall think I have offended you."

"Well, Tom, then. Listen to what I have to say. You have been my companion now for nearly three weeks. During that time I have studied you, and the opinion I have formed is favourable. You possess good qualities and excellent talents: these have been obscured but not extinguished by your recent follies, not to give them a harsher name. By giving way to passion and using threats, which, from you, were ill-judged and ill-timed, you have barely escaped an ignominious death. Far be it from me to say that the late owner of Merlon was justified in the intemperate language he used; but you know that at times he had no control over himself, and you should have made allowances for what was really a disease. Of your innocence I have not the slightest doubt, otherwise I would never have aided your escape from jail. I think the lesson you have had is one you can never forget; and I prophesy that Thomas Vallance may yet assume that position in society which good conduct and perseverance ever secure."

Tom heard this eulogium, qualified as it was, with great delight. "Try me! O try me, my best friend!—give me an opportunity of evincing, by the propriety of my conduct, how much I feel your benevolence. To please you shall be the study of my future life."

"Well, Tom, you shall have a trial; but you must leave me, and cross the seas. It is not safe for either of us that you remain here."

Tom's countenance fell. "And must I leave you—the only being in the world, save my mother, whom I love? but your commands are to me as laws, and they shall be obeyed."

"Well, then—the family with which I am connected have large possessions in Antigua, and there is a wealthy mercantile establishment over which I have no inconsiderable control—so much so, that any recommendation from me or mine will meet with immediate attention. I shall place you there as a clerk; and if you discharge the duties of the office satisfactorily, means shall be afforded of advancing you: in one word, everything shall be made to depend upon your good behaviour. Preparations have already been making for your departure, and I have procured from the senior partner of Mortlake, Tresham, & Co., an order for your appointment, with a letter of recommendation to Mr Tresham, the resident partner, whose good graces I sincerely wish you may acquire."

"Mortlake!—is he a relation of yours?"

"Yes! but you must ask no questions—seek to know nothing beyond what I choose to disclose. You must renounce your name. You will therefore, in future, be known as Thomas Mortlake, the son of a distant relation of mine. Such is the legend that must be circulated. Now, write to your mother. Would to heavens! I could permit an interview, but that cannot be. Give me the letter, sealed if you choose, as I have a particular mode of transmitting it to her; and I wish it to appear, as the former one did, that it came from Liverpool. Be cautious and guarded in what you communicate, but mention that, in future, she shall have such an allowance as will make her easy for life. Now, farewell for a few hours, and be sure to have your letter ready when I return."

Tom was left to his own reflections. The letter to Mrs Vallance was written; and, by the time that Mortlake returned, Tom was sufficiently composed to veil his feelings, and meet him as of old.

"Everything is arranged," said Mortlake; "in a few days you sail from the Thames by the brig Tresham. You will have every accommodation afforded that a gentleman can require: a suitable wardrobe is preparing: in short, my dear young friend, you shall appear to these West Indians as their equal, and in such guise as suits the proud name of Mortlake. One thing more, and I have done. The present Baronet of Vavasour has, through his mother, property in Antigua, and is distantly related to the elder partner of the firm. You will, therefore, seem as if you knew him not; and even in regard to myself, I wish little or nothing said. That curiosity will be excited, I doubt not, but I leave you to baffle it."

Time passed with unusual rapidity—so, at least, Mr Thomas Mortlake opined; and the day of his departure having at length arrived, he was not a little startled when his friend made a very early appearance, accompanied by a young lady. Advancing towards him, she said—"Mr Mortlake! I am happy to have had this opportunity of seeing you previous to your departure, and of personally wishing you every success in the calling in which you are about to engage. Your friend has no secrets from me, and I am acquainted with every particular of your singular history."

"Yes!" exclaimed his protector; "I conceal nothing from this lady, and she feels as much interest in you as I do myself. We propose to accompany you to the ship."

Tom felt somewhat confused by this unexpected introduction; but that natural sense of propriety which is inherent in some minds, and which others vainly endeavour to acquire, enabled him to acquit himself in a manner that gave equal satisfaction to both visitors. The party then proceeded to the vessel, where Mortlake and the lady satisfied themselves that due provision had been made for the accommodation of their protegé.

"Mr Mortlake!" said the lady at parting, "I have used the freedom of an old friend, and placed in your cabin a small collection of books, which, I have no doubt, will materially help to deprive your voyage of half its tedium; and, when you arrive at the place of your destination, if you could devote any leisure hours to their study, be assured the benefit will be incalculable."

"Believe me," he answered, "my kind patrons, whatever may be my fate, I never can forget the wondrous acts of kindness that have been lavished on me. If an anxious desire to discharge the duties of my office—if a determination to surmount difficulties, coupled with a firm resolution to act fairly and honourably by my neighbours—can be taken as an earnest of my anxiety to please, on this you may rely; and if my exertions be crowned with success, the pleasure will be doubled when I remember it is all owing to you."

"Tom," said Mr Mortlake, "you are eloquent; but time flies, and we must part."

"I have but one request more—no doubt it is needless. Be kind! O be kind to my poor mother!"

"On that," replied the lady, "you may depend. And now, farewell!"

Tom took her hand, and pressed it respectfully to his lips; then, turning to his friend, tried to give utterance to "farewell!" The word would not pass his lips. Forgetting all difference of rank, he threw his arms around Mortlake's neck, and wept. In a moment, as if ashamed of his freedom, or want of manliness, he hastily withdrew from his embrace.

Mortlake was moved. He pressed the lad affectionately to his breast—"God bless you, my dear fellow; in me you have ever a steady friend. And now, farewell!"

They separated; and years elapsed ere Mortlake and his friend again met.

* * * *

Young Mortlake—for so he must in future be termed—suffered the usual inconveniences of a sea voyage; and if ever his boyish inclination, influenced by a perusal of the fascinating fiction of "Robinson Crusoe," had given him a fancy for the pleasures of a seafaring life, they yielded speedily to the irresistible effects of sea-sickness.

The vessel reached the island in about six weeks, and Tom presented his credentials to Mr Tresham, from whom he met a favourable reception. He had an apartment assigned to him in the house, and was treated as one of the family. To the duties of the counting-house, irksome in the outset, he soon became reconciled. His anxiety to please was not overlooked by his master, who, finding him able and apt, gradually raised both his rank and his salary. Before five years had elapsed, he was head clerk in the establishment. Favourites are not much liked; but Tom bore his honours so meekly, and was so obliging, without being obsequious, that his rise neither excited envy nor surprise—indeed, it was looked upon as a matter of course; and the astonishment would have been, not that he had risen, but that he had not risen in the establishment.

When he first arrived, he was pestered with questions as to birth, parentage, and education. These ordinary, but impertinent queries, he parried with equal good humour and tact. All that could be extracted from him was, that he was protected by Mr Mortlake, and that that was his own name. Mr Tresham, however, put no questions. Sir Edward Vavasour was rarely mentioned. Little was known of him, excepting that several thousands a-year were annually remitted to England as the produce of his estates. Latterly, Tom observed that these returns were made to account of Lord Mortlake. This puzzled him; and, upon a question to Tresham being hazarded, he coldly answered—

"The possessions of Sir Edward Vavasour belong now to Lord Mortlake; but remember the request of your benefactor—to ask no questions."

Other matters of more importance now occupied our hero's mind, and he gave himself no farther thoughts on the subject. The firstfruits of his labour were piously remitted to his mother, through his English correspondent. From her he (through the same channel) learned that Sir Edward Vavasour had given her a nice little cottage and garden, on the Vavasour estate, in England, rent-free, and that she had sold off everything in Merton, as the recollections there were unpleasant—the reason assigned being her former services as housekeeper in the family. No attempt had been made by him to elicit a confession of her son's residence. She farther stated, that she regularly received twenty pounds every half-year from some unknown person; and that she was, therefore, as happy as she could be in the absence of her son.

The letters from his patron were warm and affectionate. Some little presents Tom had ventured to make; and a few of those lovely tropical shells, transmitted to the unknown young lady, were cordially accepted, not so much for their value, as for the indications they afforded of the unabated regard of the giver. Tom devoted a certain portion of each day to study. His early education had been, so far as it went, good; and he was enabled, by severe application, to master the Roman authors, and enjoy their beauties.

The death of his mother, during the fourth year of his residence in the tropics, was a heavy blow to him. He had lived in hopes of coming back to Britain with a fortune sufficient to support her in affluence; but his pious intention was frustrated. One consolation he had, that the kind lady who, with his patron, took such an especial interest in his affairs, had watched over her dying moments, and afforded her every comfort.

In the tenth year of his sojourn, a great revolution in his fortunes took place. One morning, Mr Tresham called him into his private room.

"Mortlake," said he, "you have been now ten years in our service; and, during that time, I have never had cause to find the slightest fault with you. The demise of the senior partner compels me to visit England. Your patron has written me urgently to admit you as a partner; now, although his recommendation must have weight with me, I can assure you that I need no solicitation to do an act of justice. I rejoice, by adding your name to the firm, to show you how much I esteem you, and what unbounded confidence I have in you."

Tom justly felt gratified by this communication. He was grateful for the never-slumbering care of his English patron, and equally so for the personal regard of Tresham, who, having thus removed a considerable portion of the burdens of commerce upon his younger partner, left the island, and safely arrived in London, where, for several months, he was engaged in adjusting the company's accounts, and effecting a settlement with the representatives of the deceased. The business, meanwhile, went on under the name of Tresham, Mortlake, & Co., and was managed with as much prudence and profit by the junior partner as it had previously been by the senior one.

Tresham having realized a fortune, at the age of fifty resolved to return to England to enjoy it. Upon this occasion, his nephew, who had come out sometime after Tom, became a partner; and, just twenty years from the period of his advent, did Thomas Mortlake, Esq., resolve, at the age of thirty-six, to return to his native land, leaving the affairs of the company to be exclusively managed by young Tresham, who was fully adequate to the task.

He embarked in a vessel of the company's; and having had a fair wind, in a few weeks beheld the chalky cliffs of Old Albion. He found his patron and Tresham awaiting his landing, and a carriage ready to bear him away. The meeting was cordial. Twenty years had not affected his patron much. He was about forty-five years of age, but looked perhaps a little younger. There was a dignity about his manner which Tom had never previously remarked; but there was no lack of kindness; on the contrary, it was obvious at a glance that his return was most acceptable to his friend. Nor was Tresham less friendly.

As Tom stepped into the carriage, he was thunderstruck to observe a coat of arms on the panels, with a baron's coronet.

"Bless me, Mr Tresham, have you been raised to the Peerage?"

Tresham smilingly replied—

"Not yet. We don't know, however, what may happen. Irish peerages may be had cheap. The carriage is not mine: it belongs to one of our best customers, Lord Mortlake."

"Bless me!—how kind of his lordship!" was the rejoinder. "Is he, sir, a friend of yours?" turning to his patron.

"I think," was the answer, "I should know him better than most people; but come, tell me how affairs are going on in Antigua."

A desultory conversation followed, which lasted nearly the whole period of their journey. At last the vehicle approached a magnificent baronial seat, through a long avenue of lime trees, then in full blossom.

"Here we are!" said the older Mortlake. Upon leaving the carriage, Tom and his companions entered a spacious hall of the olden time, the proprieties of which had been carefully preserved, and which was pretty much in the same state as it had been during the reign of Elizabeth. Taking Tom by the hand, his friend welcomed him to his family residence, and told him that a lady up stairs—an old friend of his—was waiting to receive him. "But," added he, "you will perhaps require to go to your apartments."

Tom having put himself to rights, was led by Mortlake to the drawing-room, where he beheld his mysterious female visitant and a young lady of about nineteen, who, from her resemblance, it was not difficult to discover was the daughter of his host. Two fine-looking aristocratic lads, the one aged perhaps sixteen, and the other nearly eighteen, were standing beside their sister, chatting and laughing with Mr Tresham.

The lady rose to receive her guest, when Tresham interposing, exclaimed:—

"Allow me—Lady Mortlake, Mr Mortlake; Mr Mortlake, Lady Mortlake."

Tom was confused, certainly; but his good manners did not forsake him, and he expressed his gratification at again beholding the lady, in appropriate and feeling terms.

"Mr Mortlake," said she, "I am happy—very happy—to receive you at Vavasour, which, I trust, you will consider as your home." Turning to her daughter—"Emily, my love, this is Mr Mortlake, whom you have heard your father and myself talk of so frequently." He was then introduced to the sons, by whom he was received with equal kindness. His patron next took Tom aside.

"The mystery," said he, "will soon be explained; in me you behold Lord Mortlake; but, on that account, not less your sincere friend. No one, not even Tresham, but believes you to be a relation of the family, except Lady Mortlake and myself; so be collected, and assume a character which, some day or other, I hope confidently may be yours legally."

The latter words sounded strangely in our hero's ears; but this was a day of wonders, and when they were to end he could not conjecture.

"Sir Edward Vavasour?" he whispered.

"Is no more!" was the reply.

A week passed happily, and Mortlake, in the society he esteemed and respected, was superlatively blessed. One morning after breakfast, Lord Mortlake took him into the library, and, locking the door, bade him be seated.

"Mortlake," said his lordship, "the time for explanation is at hand; it ought not any longer to be delayed; but, before disclosing much that may astonish you, be assured that I make the disclosure without seeking any pledge of secrecy from you. I shall leave it entirely to yourself, when you have heard all, to take what course you may judge expedient."

"My Lord! do not think so meanly of the creature of your bounty as to suppose that, whatever may be the nature of your communication, I shall ever use it to your prejudice."

"Make no rash promises, Mr Mortlake. Here me, and decide. I told you Sir Edward Vavasour was no more and yet he is only so in one sense—his title is merged in a higher one: he is now Lord Mortlake!"

"Gracious Providence! Sir Edward Vavasour Lord Mortlake? Can it be possible?"

"It is possible; Lord Mortlake is before you. But hear me out. You are probably aware that the late Sir Thomas Vavasour had a younger brother Richard; and it has perhaps come to your knowledge that he was married to Miss Mortlake, a lady of birth and fortune, the daughter of an extensive proprietor in Antigua. Mrs Vavasour was a Creole by birth, and a woman of violent passions. Her husband led a very unenviable life—but let me pass that over. Of that marriage I was the sole offspring, and was named heir by my grandfather to his large estates, after the demise of my parents. This equitable arrangement of his property created a prejudice in my mother's mind against me, as she could not brook the idea of being interfered with in the use of that which she thought she was entitled to enjoy without control. When my father died, I was placed under the superintendence of my uncle, Sir Thomas, who, himself a proud and passionate man, had a great contempt for his equally proud and passionate sister-in-law; hence a new seed of enmity was sown.

"My mother wished to make a fine gentleman of me: my uncle detested the whole tribe of 'puppies,' and determined to make a man of me. He carefully provided for my education; and, at the proper time, sent me to the Temple, where I studied jurisprudence for a few years with considerable success. The heir of a large estate, my uncle never wished me to do more than acquire habits of industry and application. My mother did all she could to unsettle me—but in vain. I had a will of my own, and was by no means disposed to be come her vassal.

"She was descended, through the intermarriage of one of the Mortlakes with a co-heiress, of the ancient Baron: de Mortuo or Malo Lacu, who figured during the reign of the Edwards. This Mortlake was heir-male of the last baron; but his stock had come off before the family were ennobled. Now, Mrs Vavasour had a very intense desire to become Baroness de Malo Lacu, or Mortlake; and as she had a legal claim—being the undoubted representative of a co-heiress—it required political influence only to accomplish her object. My uncle could have effected this; but he gave the most decided opposition. He had no idea that the Vavasour name should be entombed, even in the sepulchre of the peerage. In his estimation, the Vavasours, who had fought with Cœur de Lion in the Holy Land, who had perished by dozens in the wars of the Roses, who had bled with Richmond at Bosworth, and who had taken up arms against the omnipotent Cromwell, were worth all the Mortlakes that ever breathed.

"For this opposition my uncle was never forgiven by Mrs Vavasour. She vowed vengeance, and she kept her vow. She presented a petition to the king, which was referred to the peers; and, after incurring enormous expense in proving her pedigree, she succeeded in obtaining a decision finding the barony in abeyance amongst the co-heirs of the last Lord Mortlake, and that she was the representative of the eldest co-heir. Thus far she got, but not one step farther. The desired writ of summons was withheld. Meanwhile, she got entangled in pecuniary difficulties. In this situation, she, to my surprise, applied to Sir Thomas for a loan. The result of this application may be anticipated; for, while refusing her request, my uncle took the opportunity of reading her a severe lecture upon her extravagance and ambition. She was in a towering rage upon receipt of his answer; but, as I was of age, I thought it my duty, especially as the Peerage proceedings were to my ultimate advantage, to raise a sum of money upon my eventual interest, by which means her debts were paid off. The consequence of this was that, whilst I propitiated my mother on the one hand, I offended my uncle on the other.

"I was at this time in love with the present Lady Mortlake. She was well connected, had fortune, and was sufficiently accomplished; but she did not come within my mother's list of advantageous wives. She was neither fashionable, nor cared about fashion; and could not disguise her contempt of idle and silly women of quality. My mother placed her interdict upon my nuptials. I remonstrated, but to no purpose; and, although under no obligation to consult my relatives, I wished at least to have the countenance of Sir Thomas, and I took the bold step of writing to him. To my gratification and surprise, I received a gracious answer; and, I presume, my mother's opposition was itself, in the estimation of my uncle, a sufficient recommendation. Acting upon his consent and approbation, I married; but the result was fatal to Mrs Vavasour, who, upon learning what had taken place, got into one of her tremendous passions, and burst a bloodvessel. After lingering a few weeks, she died, leaving behind her a letter, which was fated to be the cause of both our troubles. A few days after its transmission, I received an epistle from my uncle, which, from its incoherency, indicated, as I supposed, positive insanity. I resolved to lose no time in visiting him; but, as I wished my intended journey to be kept quiet, I gave out that I was merely going to Liverpool for a few days, where my wife had some relations. I arrived at Jedburgh; and, as Merton was not far off, I resolved to walk there; and I calculated that I should arrive about the time that my uncle was taking his evening siesta. Leaving my portmanteau at the inn, I proceeded on my way; and, as I was familiar with every inch of ground, took a by-path, which led into the policy, and which terminated in a door that opened into the garden. This door was kept open until the gardeners left their work, when it was locked for the night. I passed through, towards the stairs which descended from the terrace into the garden; and, in a few minutes, found myself in the presence of Sir Thomas.

"My uncle was not a little startled at my unexpected appearance. He had apparently partaken freely of wine—at least was in a state of excitement.

"'By what right do you come here'? was the first inquiry.

"'Why, my dear uncle, I was surprised at your late letter, and came personally to ascertain what you meant.'

"'Mean! and do you pretend, sir, to be ignorant of my meaning?'

"'Indeed, uncle, I am.'

"'Uncle—don't uncle me, sir—I am no uncle of yours.'

"I now thought his insanity undoubted.

"'Be composed, my dear sir,' I rejoined; 'do you not know Edward Vavasour, your attached nephew?'

"He rose—his eyes had a peculiar expression—one I had never witnessed before: naturally of a dark-grey, they seemed to take the hue of a fiery red, and they glared fearfully.

"'The house of Vavasour is doomed—its last hour has come;' and, saying these words, he drew from his pocketbook a letter, which he threw towards me. I seized it; and judge of my horror when I perceived this paper."

Lord Mortlake then took from his escritoire the following letter:—

"SIR THOMAS,—You have had your triumph—my triumph comes now. The despised Mortlake rejoices in the extinction of the proud Vavasour. Know, haughty man, Edward is not the son of your brother!"

"It is not possible to describe my feelings, Tom, at this instant—my head turned round. That the statement was false, I doubted not; for I knew better than Sir Thomas the deep feeling of hatred my mother could entertain, and did entertain, against us both.

"'Uncle, this letter is the legacy of an enemy—allow me to retain it, and I will bring positive evidence to disprove the assertion it contains.'

"My uncle was too much excited to listen to me. In a hoarse and angry voice, he muttered—

"'Give me the letter, you villain!'

"I endeavoured to pacify him, but without success; when, suddenly rising, he seized a knife, and, rushing forward, made a thrust at me with it. I avoided the blow, and retreated. He, incautiously advancing, lost his footing, and fell with the knife underneath. I hastily stepped forward to raise him, but had not strength to do so; for, by one of those strange and unaccountable accidents, which not unfrequently give the air of romance to real life, the point of the knife had been turned towards his body, and, passing between his ribs, had pierced his heart. He died in an instant. I endeavoured again to raise the body, but in vain. I drew out the knife, and blood then came with it. To describe my situation at this terrible moment is impossible: my uncle dead at my feet—no one to witness how the accident happened—I might be dragged as a felon to trial for his supposed murder. My grief for his unhappy end was soon absorbed in fears for my own safety—for, here was I, the apparent heir, discovered with the man to whom I was to succeed, a bleeding corpse beside me; then the quarrel between us—the stigma thrown upon me by my vindictive parent, which, for aught I knew, Sir Thomas might have bruited abroad—all this made me tremble. Even if acquitted, still the suspicious circumstances of the case would be greedily seized upon by the public, which never judges favourably, and a stain would have been cast upon the family name never to be effaced. My uncle was past all human assistance, and my remaining could not aid him. I therefore fled, unobserved by any one; and barely three hours had elapsed from my leaving the inn, until I was again its inmate. At a late hour I heard a noise of voices, which accorded ill with my morbid state of feeling. I rang to know the cause; and the answer to my inquiry was the announcement that a dreadful murder had been committed upon Sir Thomas Vavasour, and that you, Tom, had been taken into custody, under such circumstances as warranted the strongest presumption of your guilt.

"My astonishment could only be equalled by the horror I felt at having caused an innocent fellow-creature to be placed in hazard of his life. However, I was sufficiently collected; and, having learned that you could not be brought to trial for some time, I left the place with the firm resolution that, be the consequences what they might, not one hair of your head should be injured.

"I had no secrets from my wife, and to her I disclosed everything. After some deliberation, we agreed that it was best, if possible, to procure your escape from prison; as, if that could be accomplished, there would be no necessity for any disclosures to gratify the inquisitive and malicious. I resolved to act by myself, without the assistance of any one. My first object was to prevent any interference with yourself by any of the country writers; and this I accomplished easily enough, by creating an impression, that they would give offence to the new Baron of Merton if they ventured to assist you. Thus I deprived you of the advice of these worthies, which, after all, was no great loss. I should have regretted your imprisonment, had I not been informed that you were a mauvais sujet, and that the restraint would do you no harm, as it might induce you to reflect.

"With my wife's assistance, I procured a female dress, bonnet, and cloak. I also bought a file, a rope-ladder, and some aquafortis, as I thought it would be no very difficult matter to help you out of an old Scotch county jail. Lady Mortlake had an uncle resident a mile or two from Liverpool. This fact presented an ostensible object for a trip, and we set off together. I left her with her relative; and, crossing the country, I got to Jedburgh in good time. I was quite unknown, as, prior to my last eventful visit, many years had passed by since I had been in the county of Roxburgh. I gave myself out to be an Edinburgh writer, which was believed.

"I thus got free access to you, and the result I need not repeat. The gig I bought for the purpose, as well as the horse. I had them in readiness at a village at some distance, having given the landlord of the inn to believe that it was merely an ordinary case of elopement. In order to mystify the folks of Jedburgh, your letter was enclosed under cover to my wife, who herself drove to the post-office, and put it in the box, in this way destroying every possibility of detection. I caused the body of Sir Thomas to be interred at Vavasour, where his two brothers had previously been buried. This prevented the necessity of my personal presence at Merton, where perchance I might have been recognised as the person who left the counting-house so hurriedly on the day of the supposed murder. I have never lived at Merton since; it is occupied by the factor, and, in virtue of the deed of entail, the Scottish estates belong now to my second son. I induced your mother to reside on the English estate, where my wife could personally attend to her comfort. The rest you know. Our travels made me intimately acquainted with you, and I found you had talent, tolerable acquirements, and an affectionate heart; and I was determined to aid you, if you would be but true to yourself. Your vices were the result of idleness, and the foolish indulgence of a fond mother. Do not think me harsh when I say so; but, Tom, had you not been removed from her, you would have been lost. Oh, what have parents to answer for, by allowing their children to take their own way! From my connection with Antigua, I had no difficulty in providing for you. My cousin, Mr Edward Mortlake, managed my East India estates—a source of revenue to the company of which he was senior partner. I had merely to signify my wishes to place a young friend in his counting-house, and it was granted. Neither he nor Tresham knew your real history—they both thought you some off-shoot of the Mortlakes. The latter was expressly desired to conceal my name, and to avoid notice of the Vavasour family as much as possible. And he kept the secret well. My accession to the Vavasour estates brought without any trouble that which my misguided mother so much coveted; for, as my political support was not to be despised, ministers induced the king to terminate the abeyance, and I received my summons as Baron Mortlake. The story imposed upon my poor uncle by Mrs Vavasour was, as I was from the first assured, a malicious fiction of her own; for, luckily, I was able to trace out the whole circumstances connected with my birth; and the testimony of the nurse and medical man, which I obtained in a quiet way, were perfectly conclusive. Indeed, legally, my mother's declaration availed nothing; but I was anxious, morally, to satisfy myself, as far as I could, that I was the son of her marriage with Mr Richard Vavasour. I have now told you all. As I was the accidental cause of your perilous situation and loss of character, it was but common justice to assist you as far as lay in my power. You have raised yourself to respectability and affluence, partly by my recommendation, but principally by your own exertions. You owe me, therefore, nothing; and, on the contrary, I am still considerably your debtor. If, after reflection, you think a disclosure necessary to clear the reputation of Tom Vallance, you have my full permission to make it."

"Never, my dear lord—or, if you will allow me to term you, my dear friend—shall I make the slightest use of your confidence. You have, from a worthless and idle vagabond, metamorphosed me into a reputable and honest man. Tom Vallance has ceased to exist; but the heart of Tom Mortlake is too deeply attached to his benefactor ever to do anything that would cause him the slightest pain."

"You are a noble fellow, Tom, and well deserve your fortune."

Several months after this conversation, the public journals announced that "Thomas Mortlake, Esq., of the firm of Tresham, Mortlake, & Tresham, was married, by special licence, at Vavasour, to Emily, eldest daughter of the Right Honourable Edward Lord Mortlake." If an accomplished and sweet-tempered wife, a fine family, an attached friend, good health, and a competent fortune, could make any one happy, then was Tom Mortlake the happiest of men.

MAJOR WEIR'S COACH: A LEGEND OF EDINBURGH.*

BY GEORGE HOWELL.

* A legend similar to that here given was current in Glasgow a number of years ago, and for ages before. The hero's name was Bob Dragon, whose income, when alive, was said to have been one guinea a minute. His coachman and horses were said, as those of the Major, to want the heads. The most curious trait of the Glasgow goblin horses, was that they went to the river to drink, although they had no heads. The superstitions of most European countries have a similar origin; the Germans have their spectre huntsman; the coaches and horses of Major Weir and Bob Dragon are of the same character. The antiquary will find the trial of Major Weir in Pitcairn's "Criminal Trials;" and the lover of such stories may consult "Satan's Invisible World Discovered."

It was towards the end of September, early in the seventies of the last century, or it might be the end of the sixties—it matters not much as to the year—but it was in the month of September, when parties and politics had set the freemen and burgesses of the Royal Burghs by the ears—when feasting and caballing formed almost their whole employment. The exaltation of themselves or party friends to the civic honours engrossed their whole attention, and neither money nor time was grudgingly bestowed to obtain their objects. The embellishment and improvement of the city of Edinburgh were keenly urged and carried on by one party, at the head of which was Provost Drummond. He was keenly opposed by another, which, though fewer in number, and not so well organized, was not to be despised; for it only wanted a leader of nerve to stop or utterly undo all that had been done, and keep the city, as it had been for more than a century, in a position of stately decay. The wild project of building a bridge over the North Loch was keenly contested; and ruin and bankruptcy were foretold to the good town, if the Provost and his party were not put out of the Council before it was begun to be carried into execution.

The heavens were illuminated by a glorious harvest moon, far in her southings; the High Street was deep in shade, like a long dark avenue; the dim oil lamps, perched high upon their wooden posts, few and far between, gleamed in the darkness like glow-worms—as two portly figures were seen in earnest discourse, walking, not with steady step, up the High Street.

"By my troth, Deacon!" said one of them, "I fear Luckie Bell has had too much of our company this night. I had no idea it was so late. There is the eighth chime of St Giles: what hour will strike?"

"Deil may care for me, Treasurer Kerr!" hiccuped the Deacon.

"Preserve me, Deacon!" replied the Treasurer, "it has struck twelve! What shall I say to the wife? It's to-morrow, Deacon! it's to-morrow!"

"Whisht, man, whisht! and no speak with such a melancholy voice," said the other. "Are you afraid of Kate? What have we to do with to-morrow? It is a day we shall never see, were we to live as long as Methusalem; for, auld as he was, he never saw 'to-morrow.' It's always to come with its cares or joys." And the Deacon stood and laughed aloud at his conceit. "Let to-morrow care for itself, Tom, say I. What can Kate say to you? What the deil need you care? Have we not had a happy evening? Have we not been well employed?" And they again moved on towards the Castlehill, where the Deacon resided.

Thomas Kerr was treasurer of the incorporation, and hoped at this election to succeed his present companion, whose influence in the incorporation was great, and to secure which he was, for the time, his humble servant, and assiduous in his attentions to him—so much so, that, although his own domicile was in St Mary's Wynd, at the other extremity of the High Street, his ambition had overcome his fears of his better half, and, still ascending the long street, he resolved to accompany the Deacon home; not, however, without some strong misgivings as to what he might encounter on his return. Both were in that happy state of excitement when cares and fears press lightly on the human mind; but the Deacon, who had presided at the meeting, and spoken a good deal, was much more overcome than his Treasurer; and the liquor had made him loquacious.

"Tom, man," again said the Deacon, "you walk by my side as douce as if you were afraid to meet Major Weir in his coach, on your way down the wynd to Kate. Be cheerful, man, as I am. Tell her she will be Deaconess in a fortnight, and that will quiet her clatter, or I know not what will please her; they are all fond of honours. We have done good work this night—secured two votes against Drummond; other three would graze him. Pluck up your spirit, Tom, and be active; if we fail, the whole town will be turned upside down—confound him, and his wild projects, of what he calls improvements! The deil be in me if I can help thinking—and it sticks in my gizzard yet—that he was at the bottom of the pulling down of my outside stair, by these drunken fellows of masons; the more by token that, when, after much trouble, I discovered them, and had them all safe in the guardhouse, he took a small bail, and only fined them two shillings a-piece, when it caused me an expense of ten good pounds to repair the mischief they had done; and, more than that, I was forced to erect it inside the walls; for they would not allow me to put it as it was, or grant me a Dean of Guild warrant on any other terms. They said it cumbered the foot-pavement, although, as you know, it had stood for fifty years. From that day to this, I have been his firm opponent, in and out of the Council. Tom, are you asleep? Where are your eyes? What high new wall is this? See, see, man!"

"This beats all he has done yet!" said the Treasurer; "a high white wall across the High Street, and neither slap nor style that I can see! Wonderful, wonderful! A strange man that Provost!"

"He has done it to vex me, since I came down to Luckie Bell's," replied the Deacon. "It was not there in the early part of the evening. He must have had a hundred masons at it. But I'll make him repent this frolic to-morrow in the Council, or my name is not Deacon Dickson!"

"What can he mean by it, Deacon?" rejoined the other. "I see no purpose it can serve, for my part."

"But it does serve a purpose," hiccuped the Deacon; "it will prevent me from getting home. It was done through malice against me, for the efforts I am making to get him and his party out of the Council."

During the latter part of this discourse, they had walked, or rather struggled, from side to side of the street. Between the pillars that, before the great fires in Edinburgh, formed the base of the high tenement standing there, and St Giles' Church, being the entrance into the Parliament Square, and between St Giles' and the Exchange buildings, the full moon threw a stream of light, filling both the openings, and leaving all above and below involved in deep shade. It was the moon's rays thus thrown upon the ground, and reaching up to the second windows of the houses, that formed the wall which the two officials observed.

"Deil tak' me," ejaculated the Deacon, "but this is a fine trick to play upon the Deacon of an incorporation in his own town! Were it not for exposing myself at this untimeous hour, I would raise the town, and pull it down at the head of the people. Faith, Tom, I will do it!" And he was on the point of shouting aloud at the pitch of his voice, when the more prudent Treasurer put his hand upon the mouth of the enraged Deacon.

"For mercy's sake, be quiet!" said he. "What are you going to be about? Is this a time of night for a member of Council to make a riot, and expose himself in the High Street? To-morrow will be time enough to pull it down by force, if you cannot get a vote of the Council to authorize it. No doubt that is a round about way and a sair climb; but just, like a wise and prudent man, as you always are, put up with it for one night, and come along down the Fishmarket Close, up the Cowgate, and climb the West Bow, to the Deaconess, who, I have no doubt, is weary waiting on you."

"Faith, Tom, I am in part persuaded you advise well for once," replied the Deacon; "so I will act upon it, although I am your Deacon, and all advice ought to come from me."

And away they trudged. Both were corpulent men; but the Deacon having been several times in the Council, was by much the heavier of the two. Down they went by the Fishmarket Close, and up the Cowgate, the Deacon, sulky and silent, meditating all the way vengeance against the Provost; but, in ascending the steep and winding Bow, his patience entirely left him; he stopped, more than once, to wipe the perspiration from his brow, recover his breath, and mutter curses on the head of the official. At length they reached the Deacon's home, where his patient spouse waited his arrival. Without uttering a word, he threw himself upon a chair, placing his hat and wig upon a table. It was some minutes before he recovered his breath sufficiently to answer the questions of his anxious wife, or give vent to the anger that was consuming him. At length, to the fifty times put questions of—

"Deacon, what has vexed you so sorely? what has happened to keep you so late?" he broke forth—

"What vexes me? what has kept me so late? You may with good reason inquire that, woman. Our pretty Provost is the sole cause. You may be thankful that you have seen my face this night." And he commenced and gave an exaggerated account of the immense wall that the Provost had caused to be built, from the Crames to the Royal Exchange, reaching as high as the third storey of the houses; and the great length of time he had been detained in examining it, to discover a way to get over or through it—all which the simple Deaconess believed, and heartily joined her husband in abusing the Provost.

"Had a wall been built across the Castlehill," she said, "when the Highlandmen were in the town, and the cannon balls flying down the street, I could have known the use of it; but to build a wall between the Crames and the Royal Exchange, to keep the Lawnmarket and Castlehill people from kirk and market—surely the man's mad!"

The Treasurer had been for some time gone ere the worthy couple retired to rest, big with the events that were to be transacted on the morrow, for the downfall of the innovating Provost. The morning was still grey, the sun was not above the horizon, when the Deaconess, as was her wont, arose to begin her household duties; but, anxious to communicate the strange conduct of the Provost, in raising the wall of partition in the city, she seized her water stoups, and hurried to the public well at the Bow-head, to replenish them, and ease her overcharged mind of the mighty circumstance. Early as the hour was, many of the wives of the good citizens were already there, seated on their water stoups, and awaiting their turn to be supplied—their shrill voices mixing with those of the more sonorous tones of the Highland water-carriers, and rising in violent contention on the stillness of the morning, like the confusion of Babel.

The sensation caused by the relation of the Deaconess of her husband's adventure of the preceding evening, was nothing impaired by the story being related at second-hand. Arms were raised in astonishment as she proceeded with her marvellous tale of the high wall built in so short a space by the Provost. After some time spent in fruitless debate, it was agreed that they should go down in a body and examine this bold encroachment upon the citizens—and away they went, with the indignant Deaconess at their head.

For some hundred feet down the Lawnmarket, the buildings of the jail and Luckenbooths hid that part of the street from the phalanx of Amazons; but, intent to reconnoitre where the wall of offence was said to stand, they reached the Luckenbooths, and a shout of laughter and derision burst from the band. The Deaconess stood petrified, the image of shame and anger. No wall was there—everything stood as it had done for years!

"Lucky Dickson," cried one, "ye hae gien us a gowk's errand. I trow the Deacon has been fu' yestreen. Where is the fearfu' wa' ye spak' o', that he neither could get through nor owre? Ha! ha! ha!"

"Did ye really believe what he told you, Mrs Dickson?" screamed another. "It was a silly excuse for being owre late out with his cronies. He surely thinks you a silly woman to believe such tales. Were my husband to serve me so, I would let him hear of it on the deafest side of his head."

"You need not doubt but that he shall hear of it," responded the Deaconess; "and that before long. But, dear me, there must have been some witchcraft played off upon him and the Treasurer last night; for, as true as death, they baith said they saw it with their een. There's been glamour in it. I fear Major Weir is playing more tricks in the town than riding his coach. There was no cause to tell me a lie as an excuse, for I am always happy to see him come hame safe at ony hour."

By this time they had returned to the well, where they resumed their water vessels and hurried home, some to report the strange adventure the Deacon had encountered the evening before, and the Deaconess to tell her better half of the delusion he had been under. Before breakfast time, the story was in everyone's mouth, from the Castle to the Abbey-gate, and as far as the town extended. On a clear moonlight night, for many years afterwards, Deacon Dickson's dike was pointed out by the inhabitants; and at jovial parties, we have heard it said—"Sit still a little longer; we are all sober enough to get over Deacon Dickson's wall."

The Treasurer, who was not so muddled by the effect of the evening's entertainment as the Deacon, yet still impressed by the idea of the wall, proceeded homewards by the same route whereby he had reached the Deacon's, but now much refreshed by the walk, and night, or rather morning air—for it was nearly one o'clock. As he approached the Bow-foot Well, the sobbing of a female broke the stillness of the night: he paused for a few minutes, and, looking towards the spot from whence the sound came, urged by `humanity, he drew more near, till he perceived an aged female almost concealed by the dark shade of the well, against which she leaned to support herself. As soon as he saw her distinctly, with an emotion of grief and surprise he exclaimed—

"Mrs Horner!—what has happened? Why are you here at this untimeous hour? What's the cause of your grief?"

"Thomas Kerr," replied she, "I am a poor unfortunate woman, whom God alone can help. Pass on, and leave me to my misery." And she buried her face in her hands, while the large drops of anguish welled through her withered fingers.

"I cannot leave you here in such a state," said he again. "Come home, my good woman, and I shall accompany you."

"I have no home," washer sad reply. "Alas! I have no home, but the grave. I am a poor, silly, undone woman, in my old age. Comfortable, and even rich as I was, I am now destitute. I have neither house nor hall to cover my grey hairs. Oh, if I were only dead and buried out of this sinful world, to hide the shame of my own child. An hour is scarce passed since I thought my heart would burst in my bosom before I would be enabled to reach the Greyfriars' Churchyard, to lay my head upon Willie Horner's grave, and the graves of my innocent babes, that sleep in peace by his side. I feared my strength would fail; for all I wish, is to die there. I did reach the object of my wish, and laid myself upon the cold turf, and prayed for Death to join as he had separated us; but my heart refused to break, and tears that were denied me before, began to stream from my eyes. The fear of unearthly sights came strong upon me, stronger even than my grief. Strange moaning and sounds came on the faint night wind, from Bloody Mackenzie's tomb, and the bright moonlight made the tombstones look like unearthly things. I rose and fled. I will tarry here, and die in sight of the gallows stone; for it was here my only brother fell, killed by a shot from cruel Porteous' gun; and on the fatal tree which that stone is meant to support, my grandfather cheerfully gave his testimony for the covenanted rights of a persecuted kirk. Leave me, Thomas Kerr—leave me to my destiny. I can die here with pleasure; and it is time I were dead. To whom can a mother look for comfort or pity, when her own son has turned her out upon a cold world? I am as Rachel mourning for her children. I will not be comforted." And the mourner wrapped her mantle round her head with the energy of despair, and, bending it upon the well, burst anew into an agony of sobs and tears.

The Treasurer felt himself in an awkward situation. He paused, and began to revolve in his mind what was best to be done at the moment—whether to obey the widow or the dictates of humanity. His better feeling prompted him to stay and do all in his power for the mourner, whom he had known in happier times; but his caution and avarice, backed by the dread of his spouse, urged him, with a force he felt every moment less able to resist, to leave her and hurry home. As he stood irresolute, the voice of the stern monitor sounded in the auricles of his heart like the knell of doom, and roused into fearful energy feelings he had long treated lightly, or striven to suppress when they rose upon him with great force. He ran like a guilty criminal from the spot. The wailings of the crushed and pitiable object he had left, had given them a force he had never before known, and he urged his way down the Cowgate-head as if he wished to fly from himself—the traces of the evening's enjoyments having fled, and their place being supplied by the pangs of an awakened conscience. There was, indeed, too much cause for his agitation, often hinted at by his acquaintance, but in its full extent only known in his own family—a striking similarity between the situation of his own mother and that of Widow Horner. The cases of the two aged individuals agreed in all points, save that he had not yet turned her out of doors; and conscience told him that even that result had been prevented, more by the patient endurance of his worthy parent herself, than any kindly feeling upon the part of her son.

The father of the Treasurer, and the husband of Widow Horner, had both been industrious, and, for their rank in life, wealthy burgesses of the city. At their death, they had left their widows with an only child to succeed them and be a comfort to their mothers, who had struggled hard to retain and add to the wealth, until their sons were of age to succeed and manage it for themselves. Their sole and rich reward, as they anticipated, would be the pleasure of witnessing the prosperity of their sons. That they would be ungrateful, was an idea so repugnant to their maternal feelings, that, for a moment, it was never harboured in their bosoms. A cruel reality was fated to falsify their anticipations.

The Treasurer had, before he was twenty-five years of age, married a woman whom his fond mother had thought unworthy of her son; and to prevent the marriage she had certainly done all that lay in her power. Her endeavours and remonstrances had only served to hasten the event she wished so much to retard and hinder from taking place; the consequence was, that the hated alliance was completed several weeks before she was made aware of it by the kindness of a gossiping neighbour or two. Much as she felt, and sore as her heart was wrung, she, like a prudent woman, shed her tears of bitter anguish at the want of filial regard in her son, in secret. She at once resolved to pardon this act of ingratitude, and, for her son's sake, to receive her unwelcome daughter-in-law with all the kindness she could assume on the trying occasion. Not so her daughter-in-law, who was of an overbearing, subtile, and vindictive turn of mind. The mother of her husband had wounded her pride: she resolved never to forget or forgive; and, before she had crossed her threshold, a deep revenge was vowed against her as soon as it was in her power to execute it. The first meeting was embarrassing on both sides; each had feelings to contend against and disguise; yet it passed off well to outward appearance—the widow, from love to her son, striving to love his wife—the latter, again, with feigned smiles and meekness, affecting to gain her mother-in-law's esteem; and so well did she act her part, that, before many days after their first interview had passed, Thomas was requested to bring his wife into the house, to reside in the family, and to save the expense of a separate establishment. From that hour the house of Widow Kerr began to cease to be her own, for the first few months almost imperceptibly. Thomas, although a spoiled child, was not naturally of an unfeeling disposition, but selfish and capricious from over-indulgence. Amidst all his faults, there was still a love and esteem of his mother, which his wife, seeing it would be dangerous openly to attack, had resolved to undermine, and therefore laid her wicked schemes accordingly. In the presence of her husband, she was, for a time, all smiles and affability; but, in his absence, she said and did a thousand little nameless things to tease and irritate the good old dame. This produced complaints to her son, who, when he spoke to his wife of them, was only answered by her tears and lamentations, for the misery she suffered in being the object of his mother's dislike. To himself she referred, if she did not do all in her power to please his mother. These scenes had become of almost daily occurrence, and were so artfully managed, that the mother had the appearance of being in the fault. Gradually the son's affection became deadened towards his parent; she had ceased to complain, and now suffered in silence. For her there was no redress—for, in a fit of fondness, she had made over to her son all she possessed in the world; she was thus in his power; yet her heart revolted at exposing his cruelty. The revenge of the wife was not complete even after the spirit of the victim was completely crushed, and she had ceased to complain. Often the malignant woman would affect lowness of spirits, and even tears, refusing to tell the cause of her grief until urged by endearments, and obtaining an assurance that he would not regard her folly in yielding to her feeling; but she could not help it—were it not for her love to him, she knew not in what she had ever offended his mother, save in preferring him to every other lover who had sought her hand. Thus, partly by artifice, but more by her imperious turn of mind, which she had for years ceased to conceal, the Treasurer was completely subdued to her dictation; and, by a just retribution, he was punished for his want of filial affection, for he was as much the sufferer from her temper as his mother was the victim of her malice. With a crushed heart, the old woman ate her morsel in the kitchen, moistened by her tears. Even her grandchildren were taught to insult and wound her feelings. So short-sighted is human nature, the parents did not perceive that by this proceeding they were laying rods in pickle for themselves, which, in due time, would be brought into use, when the recollection of their own conduct would give tenfold poignancy to every blow.

On the occasion to which we have alluded, the situation and wailing of Widow Horner still rung in the ears of the Treasurer. All his acts of unkindness to his parent passed before him like a hideous phantasmagoria as he hurried down the Cowgate. He even became afraid of himself, as scene after scene arose to his awakened conscience—all the misery and indignities that had been heaped upon his parent by his termagant wife, he himself either looking on with indifference, or supporting his spouse in her cruelty. Goaded by remorse, he still hurried on. The celerity of his movements seemed to relieve him. He had formed no fixed resolution as to how he was to act upon his arrival at home. A dreamy idea floated in his tortured mind that he had some fearful act to perform to ease it, and do justice to his parent; yet, as often as he came to the resolution to dare every consequence, his courage would again quail at the thought of encountering one who had, in all contentions ever been the victor, and riveted her chains the more closely around him on every attempt he had made to break them. In this pitiable state, he had got as far towards home as the foot of the College Wynd, when the sound of a carriage approaching rapidly from the east roused him and put all other thoughts to flight. With a start of horror and alarm, he groaned—"The Lord have mercy upon me! The Major's coach! If I see it, my days are numbered." And, with an effort resembling the energy of despair, he rushed into a stair-foot, and, placing both his hands upon his face to shut out from his sight the fearful object, supported himself by leaning upon the wall. As the sound increased, so did the Treasurer's fears; but what words can express his agony when it drew up at the foot of the very stair in which he stood, and a sepulchral voice issued from it—

"Is he here?"

"Just come," was the reply in a similar tone.

"Then all's right."

"O God! have mercy on my sinful soul!" screamed the Treasurer, as he sank senseless out of the foot of the stair upon the street.

How long he remained in this state, or what passed in the interval, he could give no account. When he awoke to consciousness, he found himself seated in a carriage jolting along at a great speed, supported on each side by what appeared to him headless trunks; for the bright moonlight shone in at the carriage window, and exhibited two heads detached from their bodies dangling from the top. The glance was momentary. Uttering a deep groan, he shut his eyes to avoid the fearful sight. He would have spoken; but his palsied tongue refused to move, even to implore for mercy. Wringing his hands in despair, he would have sunk to the bottom of the coach upon his knees, but was restrained by the two figures. He felt their grasp upon his arms, firm as one of his own vices. The same fearful voice he had first heard fell again on his ear—"Sit still. Utter no cry. Make a clean breast, as you hope for mercy at the Major's tribunal. He knows you well, but wishes to test your truth. Proceed!"

With a memory that called up every deed he had ever done, and sunk to nothingness any of the actions he had at one time thought good, he seemed as if he now stood before his Creator. All his days on earth appeared to have been one long black scene of sin and neglected duties. His head sunk upon his breast, and the tears of repentance moistened his bosom. When he had finished his minute confession, a pause ensued of a few minutes. The moon, now far in the west, was sinking behind a dense mass of clouds. The wind began to blow fitfully, with a melancholy sound, along the few objects that interrupted its way, and around the fearful conveyance in which he sat, more dead than alive. The measured tramp of the horses, and rattling of the carriage, fell on his ear like the knell of death. He felt a load at his heart, as if the blood refused to leave it and perform its functions. Human nature could not have sustained itself under such circumstances much longer. The carriage stopped; the door opened with violence; his breathing became like a quick succession of sobs; his ears whizzed, almost producing deafness. Still he was fearfully awake to every sensation; a painful vitality seemed to endow every nerve with tenfold its wonted activity; all were in action at the moment; his whole frame tingled; and the muscles seemed to quiver on his bones. The same hollow voice broke the silence.

"Thomas Kerr, your sincerity and contrition has delivered you from my power this once. Beware of a relapse. Go; do the duty of a son to your worthy parent. You have been a worse man than ever I was on earth. I have my parents' blessing with me in the midst of my sufferings; and there is a soothing in it which the wretched can alone feel."

Quick as thought he was lifted from the coach and seated upon the ground. With the speed of a whirlwind, as it ap peared to him, the carriage disappeared and the sound died away. For some time he sat bewildered, as if he had fallen from the clouds. Gradually he began to breathe more freely, and felt as if a fearful nightmare had just passed away. Slowly the events of the night rose in regular succession. The forlorn and desolate widow; the hideous spectres in the coach, that, without heads, spake and moved with such energy—the whole now passed before him so vividly that he shuddered. At first he hoped all had been a fearful dream; but the cold, damp ground on which he sat banished the fond idea. He felt, in all its force, that he was now wide awake, as he groped with his hands and touched the damp grass beneath him. All around was enveloped in impenetrable darkness. Not one star shone in the murky sky. How much of the night had passed, or where he at present was, he had no means to ascertain. The first use he made of his restored faculties was to rise upon his knees, and pour out his soul to God, imploring pardon and protection in this hour of suffering. He rose with a heart much lightened, and felt his energies restored. Stumbling onwards, he proceeded, he knew not whither, until, bruised by falls and faint from exhaustion, he again seated himself upon a stone, to wait patiently the approach of dawn. Thus, melancholy and pensive, he sat, eager to catch the faintest sound; but all was silent as the grave, save the faint rustling of the long grass waving around him in the night breeze that was chilling his vitals, as it, in fitful gusts, swept past him. The hope of surviving the night had almost forsaken him, when the distant tramp of a horse fell on his longing ears. Then the cheerful sound of a popular air, whistled to cheer the darkness, gladdened his heart. In an ecstasy of pleasure, he sprung to his feet. The rolling of wheels over the rugged road was soon added to the cheering sounds. With caution he approached them over hedge and ditch, until, dark as it was, he could discern the object of his search almost before him—a carrier's cart, with the driver seated upon the top, whistling and cracking his whip to the time.

"Stop friend, for mercy's sake, and take me up beside you."

"Na, na," replied the carrier; "I will do no such foolish action. Hap, Bassie! hap!" And, smacking his whip, the horse increased its speed. "Come not near my cart, or I will make Cæsar tear you in pieces. Look to him, Cæsar!" And the snarling of a dog gave fearful warning to the poor Treasurer to keep at a distance; but, rendered desperate by his situation, he continued to follow, calling out—

"Stop, if you are a Christian; for mercy's sake, stop and hear me. I am a poor lost creature, sick and unable to harm, but rich enough to reward you, if you will save my life. I am no robber, but a decent burgess and freeman of Edinburgh; and where I am at present I cannot tell."

"Woo, Bassie! woo!" responded the carrier. "Silence, Cæsar! Preserve us from all evil! Amen! Sure you cannot be Thomas Kerr, whose shop is in Saint Mary's Wynd?"

"The very same; but who are you that know my voice?"

"Who should I be," rejoined he, "but Watty Clinkscales, the Berwick carrier, on my way to the town; for you may know well enough that Wednesday morning is my time to be in Edinburgh; but come up beside me, man, and do not stand longer there. If you have lost yourself, as you say, I will with pleasure give you a ride home this dark morning; but tell me how, in all the world, came you to be standing at the Figgate Whins, instead of being in your warm bed? I am thinking, friend Kerr, you have been at a corporation supper last night."

While the carrier was speaking, the Treasurer mounted the cart, and took his seat beside him. They moved slowly on. To all the questions of the carrier, evasive answers were returned; the Treasurer felt no desire to be communicative. As they reached the Watergate, the first rays of morning shone upon Arthur's Seat and the Calton Hill. Before they entered, the Treasurer dismounted, having first rewarded the carrier for his trouble, and proceeded to his home by the South Back of the Canongate, faint and unwell. When he reached his own door, he was nearly exhausted. It was opened to him by his anxious mother, who had watched for him through the whole night. Alarmed by his haggard and sickly appearance, timidly she inquired what had happened to him, to cause such an alteration in his looks in so short a time. The tears started into his eyes as he looked at her venerable form, degraded by her attire. He took her hand in both his, and, pressing it to his lips, faltered out—

"Oh, my mother! can you pardon your undutiful son? Only say you will forgive me."

"Tammy, my bairn," she replied, "what have I to pardon? Is not all my pleasure in life to see you happy? What signifies what becomes of me the few years I have to be on earth? But you are ill, my son—you are very ill!"

"I am indeed very unwell, both in body and mind," said he. "Say you pardon me, for the manner in which I have allowed you to be treated since my marriage; and give me your blessing, lest I die without hearing you pronounce it."

"Bless you, my Thomas, and all that is yours, my son! with my blessing, and the blessing of God, which is above all riches! But go to your bed, my bairn, and do not let me make dispeace in the family."

At this moment his spouse opened the door of the bedroom, and began, in her usual manner, to rate and abuse him for keeping untimeous hours. Still holding his mother's hand in his, he commanded her, in a voice he had never before assumed to her, to be silent. She looked at him in amazement, as if she had doubted the reality of his presence; and was on the point of becoming more violent, when his fierce glance, immediately followed by the sunken, sickly look which one night of suffering had given him, alarmed her for his safety, and she desisted, anxiously assisting his mother to undress and put him to bed.

He soon fell into a troubled sleep, from which he awoke in the afternoon, unrefreshed and feverish. His wife was seated by his bed when he awoke. Turning his languid eye towards her, he inquired for his mother. A scene of angry altercation would have ensued; but he was too ill to reply to the irritating language and reproaches of his spouse. The anger increased his fever, and delirium came on towards the evening. A physician was sent for, who at once pronounced his life to be in extreme danger; and, indeed, for many days it was despaired of.

The horrors of that night were the theme of his discourse while the fever raged in his brain. The smallest noise, even the opening of a door, made him shriek and struggle to escape from those who watched him. His efforts were accompanied by cries for mercy from Major Weir; his bed was the coach, and his wife and mother the headless phantoms. Clinkscales had told the manner and where he had found him, on the morning he was taken ill. The sensation this excited through the city became extreme. Deacon Dickson told the hour in which he left his house, and the language of the sufferer filled up the space until he was met by the carrier. The nocturnal apparition of the Major's carriage had, for many years, been a nursery tale of Edinburgh. Many firmly believed in its reality. There were not awanting several who affirmed they had seen it; and scarce an inhabitant of the Cowgate or St Mary's Wynd, but thought they had heard it often before the present occurrence.

That the Treasurer had by some means been transported to the Figgate Whins in the Major's coach, a great many firmly believed; for two of the incorporation, on the same night, had been alarmed by a coach driving furiously down the Cowgate; but they could not describe its appearance, as they had hid themselves until it passed, fearful of seeing the spectre carriage and its unearthly attendants. It was at least certain that, of late, many had been aroused out of their sleep by the noise of a carriage; and, the report gaining ground, the terror of the citizens became so great that few chose to be upon any of the streets after twelve at night, unless urged by extreme necessity. This state of foolish alarm, as the magistrates called it, could not be allowed to continue within their jurisdiction; and they resolved to investigate the whole affair. Several were examined privately; but the Treasurer was too ill to be spoken to, even by his friend the Deacon. There was a strange harmony in the statements of several who had really distinctly heard the sounds of horses' feet, and the rumbling of a carriage, and the ravings of the unfortunate Treasurer. The authorities were completely at a stand how to proceed. Several shook their heads, and looked grave; others proposed to request the ministers of the city to watch the Major's carriage, and pray it out of the city. But the Provost's committee sent for the captain of the train bands, and consulted with him: he agreed to have twelve of the band and six of the town-guard in readiness by twelve at night, to waylay the cause of annoyance, should it make its appearance, and unravel the mystery. That there was some unlawful purpose connected with it, several of the Council had little doubt. These meetings were private, and the proceedings are not on record to guide us. It was with considerable difficulty the captain could get the number of his band required for the duty; they chose rather to pay the fine, believing it to be a real affair of diabeleria; for their earliest recollections were associated with the truth of the Major's night airings. For several nights the watch was strictly kept by many of the citizens; but in vain. No appearance disturbed the usual stillness of the night in the city; not even the sound of a carriage was heard. The whole affair gradually lost its intense interest, and ceased to be the engrossing theme of conversation. The sceptics triumphed over their believing acquaintance, and the mysterious occurrence was allowed to rest.

The election week for Deacon of the Crafts at length arrived. All was bustle among the freemen; the rival candidates canvassing and treating, and their partisans bustling about everywhere. City politics ran high; but the Treasurer, although recovered, was still too weak to take an active part in the proceedings. Deacon Dickson, on this account, redoubled his exertions—for the indisposition of his Treasurer had deranged his plans; and it was of great importance, in his eyes, to have one of his party elected in his place. Had Kerr been able to move about, to visit and flatter his supporters, his election was next to certain, so well had the whole affair been managed. Kerr was accordingly dropped by him, and a successor pitched upon, who could at this eventful period aid him in his efforts against the candidate of the Drummondites, as the supporters of the Provost were called.

On the Thursday, when the long lists were voted, the Deacon carried his list, and every one of the six were tried men, and hostile to the innovations of the Provost and his party. The Deacon was in great spirits, and told the Treasurer, whom he visited as soon as his triumph was secure, that, if not cut off the list, in shortening the leet, his election was sure. On the list coming down from the Council, neither Kerr nor the person Dickson wished were on the leet; both had been struck off; and the choice behoved to fall upon one of three, none of whom had hoped, at this time, to succeed to office. Their joy was so much the greater, and the election dinner not less substantial.

It was the evening of the election, closely bordering upon the morning—for all respected the Sabbath Day, and, even on this joyous occasion, would not infringe upon it—that a party of some ten or twelve were seen to issue from one of the narrow closes in the High Street, two and two, arm in arm, dressed in the first style of fashion, with bushy wigs, cocked hats, and gold-headed canes. At their head was, now Old Deacon Dickson, and his successor in office. They were on their way, accompanying their new Deacon home to his residence, near the foot of Saint Mary's Wynd in the Cowgate, and to congratulate the Deaconess on her husband's elevation to the Council. None of them were exactly tipsy; but in that middle state when men do not stand upon niceties, neither are scared by trifles. The fears of the Major's coach were not upon them; or, if any thought of it came over them, their numbers gave them confidence. Leaving the High Street, they proceeded down Merlin's Wynd to the Cowgate. Scarce had the head of the procession emerged from the dark thoroughfare, when the sound of a carriage, in rapid advance, fell on their astonished ears. The front stood still, and would have retreated back into the Wynd, but could not; for those behind, unconscious of the cause of the stoppage, urged on and forced them out into the street. There was not a moment for reflection, scarce to utter a cry, before the fearful equipage was full upon them. Retreat was still impossible; and those in front, by the pressure from behind, becoming desperate by their situation, the two Deacons seized the reins of the horses, to prevent their being ridden over. In a second, the head of the coachman (held in his hand!) was launched at Deacon Dickson, with so true an aim that it felled him to the ground, with the loss of his hat and wig. Though stunned by the blow, his presence of mind did not forsake him. Still holding on by the reins, and dragged by the horses, he called lustily for his companions to cut the traces. The head of the coachman, in the meantime, had returned to his hand, and been launched forth with various effect, on the aggressors. Other heads flew from the windows on each side, and from the coach-box, in rapid, darting motions. The cries of the assailants resounded through the stillness of the night; fear had fled their bosoms; there was scarce one but had received contusions from the flying heads, and rage urged them to revenge. Candles began to appear at the windows, exhibiting faces pale with fear. Some of the bolder of the male inhabitants, recognising the voice of some relative or acquaintance in the cries of the assailants, ran to the street and joined the fray. Dickson, who had never relinquished his first hold, recovered himself, severely hurt as he was by the feet of the horses, which were urged on, short as the struggle was, up to the College Wynd, in spite of the resistance. At the moment the carriage reached the foot of the wynd, the door on the left burst open, and two figures leaped out, disappearing instantly, although closely pursued. In the confusion of the pursuit, the coachman also disappeared. No one could tell how, or in what manner he had fled: he appeared to fall from the box among the crowd; and, when several stooped to lift and secure him, all that remained in their hands was a greatcoat with basket work within the shoulders, so contrived as to conceal the head and neck of the wearer, to which was fastened a stout cord, the other end of which was attached to an artificial head, entangled in the strife between the horses and the pole of the coach. Two similar dresses were also found inside. The coach was heavily laden; but with what, the authorities never could discover, although envious persons said that several of the tradesmen's wives in the Cowgate afterwards wore silk gowns that had never before had one in their family, had better and stronger tea at their parties, and absolutely abounded in tobacco for many weeks. But whether these were the spoils of the combat with the infernal coach, or the natural results of successful industry, was long a matter of debate.

As for the coach and horses, they became the prize of Deacon Dickson and his friends, never having been claimed by the Major. The sensation created on the following day by the exaggerated reports of the fearful recountre and unheard of bravery of the tradesmen, was in proportion to the occasion. Several of the assailants were reported to have been killed, and, among the rest, the Deacon. For several days, the inn-yard of the White Hart was crowded to excess to view the carriage and horses. As for the Deacon, no doubt, he was considerably bruised about the legs; but the glory he had acquired was a medicine far more efficacious to his hurts than any the Faculty could have prescribed. At the first toll of the bells for church, he was seen descending from the Castle Hill towards the Tron Church, limping much more, many thought, than there was any occasion for, supported by his golden-headed cane on one side, and holding by the arm of the Deaconess on the other. With an affected modesty, which no general after the most brilliant victory could better have assumed, he accepted the congratulations he had come out to receive. When he entered the church, a general whisper ran through it, and all eyes were upon him, while the minister had not yet entered. This was the proudest moment of his life. He had achieved, with the assistance of a few friends, what the train-bands and city guard had failed to accomplish; that it was more by accident and against his will he had performed the feat, he never once allowed to enter his mind, and stoutly denied when he heard it hinted at by those who envied him the glory he had acquired.

As soon as the afternoon service was over, he proceeded to the Treasurer's house, to congratulate him on his re-election to the treasurership, and give a full account of his adventure. To his exaggerated account, Kerr listened with the most intense interest; a feeling of horror crept over his frame as the Deacon dwelt upon the blow he had received from the coachman's head, and the efficacious manner in which the two inside phantoms had used theirs, concluding with—

"It was a fearful and unequal strife—devils against mortal men."

"Do you really think they were devils, Deacon? Was it really their own heads they threw about?" said the Treasurer.

"I am not clear to say they were devils," replied the other; "but they fought like devils. Severe blows they gave, as I feel at this moment. They could not be anything canny; for they got out from among our hands like a flash of light."

The Deacon's vanity would have tempted him to say he believed them to be not of this earth; but the same feeling restrained him. Where there had been so many actors in the affair, he had as yet had no opportunity of learning their sentiments; and, above all things, he hated to be in a minority, or made an object of ridicule. Turning aside the direct question of the Treasurer, he continued—

"Whatever they were, the horses are two as bonny blacks as any gentleman could wish to put into his carriage. By my troth, I have made a good adventure of it. I mean to propose, and I have no doubt I shall carry my motion, that they and the Major's coach be sold, and the proceeds spent in a treat to the incorporation. Make haste, man, and get better. You are as welcome to a share as if you had been one of those present; although, indeed, I cannot give you a share of the glory of putting Major Weir and his devils to the rout—and no small glory it is, on the word of a deacon, Treasurer."

The load that had for many days pressed down the Treasurer's spirits gradually passed off as the Deacon proceeded, and a new light shone on his mind; his countenance brightened up.

"Deacon," he said, "the truth begins to dawn upon me, and I feel a new man. Confess at once that the whole has been a contrivance of the smugglers to run their goods, availing themselves of the real Major's coach. It was a bold game, Deacon, and, like all unlawful games, a losing one in the end. Still, it is strange what inducement they could have had for their cruel conduct to me on that miserable night, or how I was enabled to survive, or retained my reason. I have been often lost in fearful misery upon this subject since the fever left me; but you, my friend, have restored peace to my mind."

And they parted for the evening. The Treasurer's recovery was now most rapid. In a few days, all traces of his illness were nearly obliterated, and he went about his affairs as formerly. An altered man—all his wife's influence for evil was gone for ever; calmly and dispassionately he remonstrated with her; for a few days she struggled hard to retain her abused power; tears and threatened desertion of his house were used—but he heard her unmoved, still keeping his stern resolve with a quietness of manner which her cunning soon perceived it was not in her power to shake. She ceased to endeavour to shake it. His mother was restored to her proper station, and all was henceforth peace and harmony.

Several years had rolled on. The deaconship was, next election, bestowed upon Treasurer Kerr. He had served with credit, and his business prospered. The adventure with the Major's coach was only talked of as an event of times long past, when, one forenoon, an elderly person, in a seaman's dress, much soiled, entered his workshop, and, addressing him by name, requested employment. Being very much in want of men at the time, he at once said he had no objections to employ him, if he was a good hand.

"I cannot say I am now what I once was in this same shop," he replied. "It is long since I forsook the craft; but, if you are willing to employ me, I will do my best."

The stranger was at once engaged, and gave satisfaction to his employer—betraying a knowledge of events that had happened to the family, and that were only traditionary to his master. His curiosity became awakened; to gratify which, he took the man home, one evening, after his day's work was over. For some time after they entered the house, the stranger became pensive and reserved—his eyes, every opportunity, wandering to the mother of his master with a look of anxious suspense. At length, he arose from his seat, and said, in a voice tremulous with emotion—

"Mistress! my ever-revered mistress! have you entirely forgot Watty Brown, the runaway apprentice of your husband?"

"Watty Brown, the yellow-haired laddie," ejaculated she, "I can never forget. He was always a favourite of mine. You cannot be him; your hair is grey."

"My good mistress, old and grey-headed as you see me," said he, "I am Watty Brown; but much has passed over my once yellow head to bleach it white as you see. My master here was but an infant in your arms when I left Edinburgh. Often have I rocked him in his cradle. After all that has passed, I am here again, safe. I am sure there is no one present would bring me into trouble for what is now so long past."

"How time flies!" said she. "The Porteous mob is in my mind as if it had happened last week. O Watty! you were always a reckless lad. Sore, sore you have rued, I do not doubt, that night. Do tell us what has come of you since."

"Well, mistress, you recollect there was little love between the apprentices of Edinburgh and Captain Porteous. All this might have passed off in smart skirmishes on a king's birthday, or so; but his brutal behaviour at poor Robinson's execution, and slaughter of the townsmen, could not be forgiven by lord or tradesman. Well, as all the land knows, he was condemned, and all were satisfied; for the guilty was to suffer. But his pardon came; the bloodshedder of the innocent was to leave the jail as if he had done nothing wrong! Was this to be endured? Murmurs and threats were in every tradesman's mouth; the feuds of the apprentices were quelled for a time; all colours joined in hatred of the murderer. Yet no plan of operations was adopted. In this combustible frame of mind, the drums of the city beat to arms. I rushed from this very house to know the cause, and saw the trades' lads crowding towards the jail. I inquired what was their intention.

"'To execute righteous judgment!'" a strange voice said, in the crowd.

"I returned to the shop; and, taking the forehammer as the best weapon I could find in my haste, with good will joined, and was at the door amongst the foremost of those who attempted to break it open. Numbers had torches. Lustily did I apply my hammer to its studded front. Vainly did I exert myself, until fire was put to it, when it at length gave way. As I ceased from my efforts, one of the crowd, carrying a torch, put a guinea into my hand, and said—

"'Well done, my good lad. Take this; you have wrought for it. If you are like to come to trouble for this night's work, fly to Anstruther, and you will find a friend.'"

"While he spoke, those who had entered the jail were dragging Porteous down the stairs. My heart melted within me at the piteous sight. My anger left me, as his wailing voice implored mercy. I left the throng, who were hurrying him up towards the Lawnmarket, and hastened back to the workshop, where I deposited the hammer, and threw myself upon my bed; but I could not remain. The image of the wretched man, as he was dragged forth, appeared to be by my side. Partly to know the result, partly to ease my mind, I went again into the street. The crowds were stealing quietly to their homes. From some neighbour apprentices I learned the fatal catastrophe. I now became greatly alarmed for my safety, as numbers who knew me well had seen my efforts against the door of the jail. Bitterly did I now regret the active part I had taken. My immediate impulse was to fly from the city; but in what direction I knew not. Thus irresolute, I stood at the Netherbow Port, where the same person that gave me the guinea at the jail-door approached to where I stood. Embracing the opportunity, I told him the fear I was in of being informed upon, when the magistrates began to investigate and endeavour to discover those who had been active in the affair.

"'Well, my good fellow, follow me. It will not serve your purpose standing there.'

"There were about a dozen along with him. We proceeded to the beach at Fisherrow—going round Arthur's Seat, by Duddingston—and were joined by many others. Two boats lay for them, on the beach, at a distance from the harbour. We went on board, and set sail for Fife, where we arrived before morning dawned. I found my new friend and acquaintance was captain and owner of a small vessel, and traded to the coast of Holland. He scrupled not to run a cargo upon his own account, without putting the revenue officers to any trouble, either measuring or weighing it. He had been the intimate friend of Robinson, and often sailed in the same vessel. I joined his crew; and, on the following day, we sailed for Antwerp. But why should I trouble you with the various turns my fortunes have taken for the last thirty-seven years? At times, I was stationary, and wrought at my trade; at others, I was at sea. My home has principally been in Rotterdam; but my heart has ever been in Auld Reekie. Many a time I joined the crew of a lugger, and clubbed my proportion of the adventure; my object being—more than the gain—to get a sight of it; for I feared to come to town, being ignorant as to how matters stood regarding my share in the Porteous riot. We heard, in Holland, only of the threats of the Government; but I was always rejoiced to hear that no one had been convicted. Several years had passed before it was safe for me to return; and, when it was, I could not endure the thought of returning to be a bound apprentice, to serve out the few months of my engagement that were to run when I left my master. Years passed on. I had accumulated several hundred guilders, with the view of coming to end my days in Edinburgh, when I got acquainted with a townsman deeply engaged in the smuggling line. I unfortunately embarked my all. He had some associates in the Cowgate, who disposed of, to great advantage, any goods he succeeded in bringing to them. His colleagues on shore had provided a coach and horses, with suitable dresses, to personate Major Weir's carriage, agreeably to the most approved description. The coach and horses were furnished by an innkeeper, whom they supplied with liquors at a low rate. My unfortunate adventure left the port, and I anxiously waited its return for several months; but neither ship nor friend made their appearance. At length he came to my lodgings in the utmost poverty—all had been lost. Of what use was complaint? He had lost ten times more than I had—everything had gone against him. His narrative was short. He reached the coast in safety, and landed his cargo in port, when he was forced to run for it, a revenue cutter coming in sight. After a long chase, he was forced to run his vessel on shore, near St Andrew's, and got ashore with only his clothes, and the little cash he had on board. He returned to where his goods were deposited—all that were saved. The coach was rigged out, and reached the Cowgate in the usual manner, when it was attacked and captured, in spite of stout resistance, by a party of citizens. What of the goods remained in the neighbourhood of Musselburgh were detained for the loss of the horses and coach. I was now sick of Holland, and resolved to return, poor as I left it, to the haunts of my happiest recollections. To be rich, and riches still accumulating, in a foreign land, the idea of what we can at any time enjoy—a return—makes it bearable. But poverty and disappointment sadden the heart of the exile; and make the toil that would be counted light at home, a burden that sinks him early in a foreign grave.

"Did your partner make no mention of carrying off one of the townsmen in the coach?" said the Treasurer.

"Excuse me, master, for not mentioning it," replied Walter. "He did give me a full account of all that happened to you, and all you said; and regretted, when he heard of your illness, what, at the time, he was forced to do in self-preservation. When you fell out of the stair he meant to enter, he knew not who you were—a friend he knew you could not be, for only other two in the city had his secret. That you were a revenue officer, on the look-out for him, was his first idea. He was as much alarmed as you, until he found you were insensible. Not a moment was to be lost. The goods were hurried out, and you placed in the carriage, which was on its way from town, before you showed any symptoms of returning consciousness. His first intention was to carry you on board his lugger, and convey you to Holland, then sell you to the Dutch East India Company, that you might never return to tell what you had been a witness of that night. The terror you were in, the sincerity of your confession, and belief that you were in the power of the Major, saved you from the miserable fate he had fixed for you. Pity struggled against the caution and avarice which urged him to take you away. Pity triumphed—you had been both play and school-fellows in former years. You were released—you know the rest."

The wife and mother scarce breathed, while Wattie related the danger the Treasurer had been in; he himself gave a shudder. All thanked God for his escape. Wattie Brown continued in his employ, as foreman over his work, and died about the year 1789. Widow Horner did not long survive that night of intense anguish—she died of a broken heart in her son's house. It was remarked by all, that, while Thomas Kerr prospered, Walter Horner, who was at one time much the richer man, gradually sank into the most abject circumstances, and died a pensioner on his incorporation, more despised than pitied. And thus ends our tale of Major Weir's famous night airings in Edinburgh.

WE'LL HAVE ANOTHER.

By JOHN MACKAY WILSON.

When the glass, the laugh, and the social "crack" go round the convivial table, there are few who may not have heard the words, "We'll have another!" It is an oft-repeated phrase—and it seems a simple one; yet, simple as it appears, it has a magical and fatal influence. The lover of sociality yieldeth to the friendly temptation it conveys, nor dreameth that it is a whisper from which scandal catcheth its thousand echoes—that it is a phrase which has blasted reputation—withered affection's heart—darkened the fairest prospects—ruined credit—conducted to the prison-house, and led to the grave. When our readers again hear the words, let them think of our present story.

Adam Brown was the eldest son of a poor widow who kept a small shop in a village near the banks of the Teviot. From his infancy, Adam was a mild retiring boy, and he was seldom seen to join in the sports of his schoolmates. On the winter evenings, he would sit poring over a book by the fire, while his mother would say—"Dinna stir up the fire, bairn; ye dinna mind that coals are dear; and I'm sure ye'll hurt yoursel' wi' pore, poring ower your books—for they're never out o' your hand." In the summer, too, Adam would steal away from the noise of the village to some favourite shady nook by the river side; and there, on the gowany brae, he would, with a standard author in his hand, "crack wi' kings," or "hold high converse with the mighty dead." He was about thirteen when his father died; and the Rev. Mr Douglas, the minister of the parish, visiting the afflicted widow, she said "she had had a sair bereavement, yet she had reason to be thankfu' that she had ae comfort left, for her poor Adam was a great consolation to her; every night he had read a chapter to his younger brithers—and, oh, sir," she added, "it wad make your heart melt to have heard my bairn pray for his widowed mother." Mr Douglas became interested in the boy, and finding him apt to learn, placed him for another year at the parish school at his own expense. Adam's progress was all that his patron could desire. He became a frequent visitor at the manse, and was allowed the use of the minister's library. Mr Douglas had a daughter who was nearly of the same age as his young protegé. Mary Douglas was not what could be called beautiful, but she was a gentle and interesting girl. She and Adam read and studied together. She delighted in a flower-garden, and he was wont to dress it, and he would often wander miles, and consider himself happy when he obtained a strange root to plant in it.

Adam was now sixteen. It was his misfortune, as it has been the ruin of many, to be without an aim. His mother declared that she "was at a loss what to make him; but," added she, "he is a guid scholar, that is ae thing, and CAN DO is easy carried about." Mr Douglas himself became anxious about Adam's prospects: he evinced a dislike to be apprenticed to any mechanical profession, and he was too old to remain longer a burden upon his mother. At the suggestion of Mr Douglas, therefore, when about seventeen, he opened a school in a neighbouring village. Some said that he was too young; others, that he was too simple, that he allowed the children to have all their own way; and a few even hinted that he went too much back and forward to the manse in the adjoining parish to pay attention to his school. However these things might be, certain it is the school did not succeed; and, after struggling with it for two years, he resolved to try his fortune in London.

He was to sail from Leith, and his trunk had been sent to Hawick to be forwarded by the carrier. Adam was to leave his mother's house early on the following morning; and, on the evening preceding his departure, he paid his farewell visit to the manse. Mr Douglas received him with his wonted kindness; he gave him one or two letters of recommendation, and much wholesome advice, although the good man was nearly as ignorant of what is called the world, as the youth who was about to enter it. Adam sat long and said little, for his heart was full and his spirit heavy. He had never said to Mary Douglas, in plain words, that he loved her—he had never dared to do so; and he now sat with his eyes anxiously bent upon her, trembling to bid her farewell. She, too, was silent. At length he rose to depart; he held out his hand to Mr Douglas; the latter shook it affectionately, adding—"Farewell, Adam!—may Heaven protect you against the numerous temptations of the great city." He turned towards Mary—he hesitated, his hands dropped by his side—"Could I speak wi' you a moment?" said he, and his tongue faltered as he spoke. With a tear glistening in her eyes, she looked towards her father, who nodded his consent, and she arose and accompanied Adam to the door. They walked towards the flower-garden—he had taken her hand in his—he pressed it, but he spoke not, and she offered not to withdraw it. He seemed struggling to speak; and, at length, in a tone of earnest fondness, he nervously said, "Will you not forget me, Mary?"

A half-smothered sob Was her reply, and a tear fell on his hand.

"Say you will not," he added, yet more earnestly.

"O Adam!" returned she, "how can you say forget!—never!—never!"

"Enough! enough!" he continued, and they wept together.

It was scarce daybreak when Adam rose to take his departure, and to bid his mother and his brethren farewell. "Oh!" exclaimed she, as she placed his breakfast before him; "is this the last meal that my bairn's to eat in my house?" He ate but little; and she continued, weeping as she spoke—"Eat, hinny, eat; ye have a lang road before ye;—and, O Adam, aboon everything earthly, mind that ye write to me every week; never think o' the postage—for, though it should tak' my last farthing, I maun hear frae ye."

He took his staff in his hand, and prepared to depart. He embraced his younger brothers, and tears were their only and mutual adieu. His parent sobbed aloud. "Fareweel, mother!" said he, in a voice half choked with anguish—"Fareweel!"

"God bless my bairn!" she exclaimed, wringing his hand; and she leaned her head upon his shoulder and wept as though her heart would burst. In agony he tore himself from her embrace, and hurried from the house; and, during the first miles of his journey, at every rising ground, he turned anxiously round, to obtain another lingering look of the place of his nativity; and, in the fulness and bitterness of his feelings, he pronounced the names of his mother, and his brethren, and of Mary Douglas, in the same breath.

We need not describe his passage to London, nor tell how he stood gazing wonderstruck, like a graven image of amazement, as the vessel winded up the Thames, through the long forest of masts, from which waved the flags of every nation.

It was about mid-day, early in the month of April, when the smack drew up off Hermitage Stairs, and Adam was aroused from his reverie of astonishment by a waterman, who had come upon deck, and who, pulling him by the button-hole, said—"Boat, master? boat?" Adam did not exactly understand the question, but, seeing the other passengers getting their luggage into the boats, he followed their example. On landing, he was surrounded by a group of porters, several of whom took hold of his trunk, all inquiring, at the same moment, where he wished it taken to. This was a question he could not answer. It was one he had never thought of before. He looked confused, and replied, "I watna."

"Watna!" said one of the Cockney burden-bearers—"Watna! there ain't such a street in all London."

Adam was in the midst of London, and he knew not a living soul among its millions of inhabitants. He knew not where to go; but, recollecting that one of the gentlemen to whom Mr Douglas had recommended him was a Mr Davidson, a merchant in Cornhill, he inquired—

"Does ony o' ye ken a Mr Davison, a merchant in Cornhill?"

"Vy, I can't say as how I know him," replied a porter; "but, if you wish your luggage taken there, I will find him for you in a twinkling."

"And what wad ye be asking to carry the bit box there?" said Adam, in a manner betokening an equal proportion of simplicity and caution.

"Hasking?" replied the other—"vy, I'm blessed if you get any one to carry it for less than four shillings."

"I canna afford four shillings," said Adam, "and I'll be obleeged to ye if ye'll gi'e me a lift on to my shoulder wi' it, and I'll carry it mysel'."

They uttered some low jests against his country, and left him to get his trunk upon his shoulders as he best might. Adam said truly that he could not afford four shillings; for, after paying his passage, he had not thirty shillings left in the world.

It is time, however, that we should describe Adam more particularly to our readers. He was dressed in a coarse grey coat, with trowsers of the same colour, a striped waistcoat, a half-worn broad-brimmed hat, and thick shoes studded with nails, which clattered as he went. Thus arrayed, and with his trunk upon his shoulders, Adam went tramping and clattering along East Smithfield, over Towerhill, and along the Minories, inquiring at every turning—"If any one could direct him to Mr Davison's, the merchant in Cornhill?" There was many a laugh, and many a joke, at poor Adam's expense, as he went trudging along, and more than once the trunk fell to the ground as he came in contact with the crowds who were hurrying past him. He had been directed out of his way; but at length he arrived at the place he sought. He placed his burden on the ground—he rang the bell—and again and again he rung, but no one answered. His letter was addressed to Mr Davison's counting-house. It was past business hours, and the office was locked up for the day. Adam was now tired, disappointed, and perplexed. He wist not what to do. He informed several "decent-looking people," as he said, "that he was a stranger, and he would be obleeged to them if they could recommend him to a lodging." He was shown several, but the rent per week terrified Adam. He was sinking under his burden, when, near the corner of Newgate Street, he inquired of an old Irish orange-woman, if "she could inform him where he would be likely to obtain a lodging at the rate of eighteenpence or two shillings a-week?"

"Sure, and it's I who can, jewel," replied she, "and an iligant room it is, with a bed his Holiness might rest his blessed bones on, and never a one slapes in it at all but my own boy, Barney; and, barring when Barney's in dhrink—and that's not above twice a-week—you'll make mighty pleasant sort of company together."

Adam was glad to have the prospect of a resting-place of any sort before him at last, and with a lighter heart and a freer step he followed the old orange-woman. She conducted him to Green Dragon Court, and desiring him to follow her up a long, dark, dirty stair, ushered him into a small, miserable-looking garret, dimly lighted by a broken sky-light, while the entire furniture consisted of four wooden posts without curtains, which she termed a bed, a mutilated chair, and a low wooden stool. "Now, darlint," said she, observing Adam fatigued, "here is a room fit for a prince; and, sure, you won't be thinking half-a-crown too much for it?"

"Weel," said Adam, for he was ready to lie down anywhere, "we'll no' quarrel about a sixpence."

The orange-woman left him, having vainly recommended him "to christen his new tenement with a drop of the cratur." Adam threw himself upon the bed, and, in a few minutes, his spirit wandered in its dreams amidst the "bonny woods and braes" of Teviotdale. Early on the following day he proceeded to the counting-house of Mr Davison, who received him with a hurried sort of civility—glanced over the letter of introduction—expressed a hope that Mr Douglas was well—said he would be happy to serve him—but he was engaged at present, and if Mr Brown would call again, if he should hear of anything he would let him know. Adam thanked him, and, with his best bow (which was a very awkward one), withdrew. The clerks in the outer office tittered as poor Adam, with his heavy hob-nailed shoes, tramped through the midst of them. He delivered the other letter of introduction, and the gentleman to whom it was addressed received him much in the same manner as Mr Davison had done, and his clerks also smiled at Adam's grey coat, and gave a very peculiar look at his clattering shoes, and then at each other. Day after day he repeated his visits to the counting-houses of these gentlemen—sometimes they were too much engaged to see him, at others they simply informed him that they were sorry they had heard of nothing to suit him, and continued writing, without noticing him again; while Adam, with a heavy heart, would stand behind their desk, brushing the crown of his brown broad-brimmed hat with his sleeve. At length, the clerks in the outer office merely informed him their master had heard of nothing for him. Adam saw it was in vain—three weeks had passed, and the thirty shillings which he had brought to London were reduced to ten.

He was wandering disconsolately down Chancery Lane, with his hands thrust in his pockets, when his attention was attracted to a shop, the windows and door of which were covered with written placards, and on these placards were the words, "Wanted, a Book-keeper"—"Wanted, by a Literary Gentleman, an Amanuensis"—in short, there seemed no sort of situation for which there was not a person wanted, and each concluded with "inquire within." Adam's heart and his eyes overflowed with joy. There were at least half-a-dozen places which would suit him exactly—he was only at a loss now which to choose upon—and he thought also that Mr Douglas's friends had used him most unkindly in saying they could hear of no situation for him, when here scores were advertised in the streets. At length he fixed upon one. He entered the shop. A sharp, Jewish-looking little man was writing at a desk—he received the visitor with a gracious smile.

"If you please, sir," said Adam, "will ye be so good as inform me where the gentleman lives that wants the bookkeeper?"

"With pleasure," said the master of the register office; "but you must give me five shillings, and I will enter your name."

"Five shillings!" repeated Adam, and a new light began to dawn upon him. "Five shillings, sir, is a deal o' money, an', to tell you the truth, I can very ill afford it; but, as I am much in want o' a situation, maybe you wad tak' half-a-crown."

"Can't book you for that," said the other; "but give me your half-crown, and you may have the gentleman's address."

He directed him to a merchant in Thames Street. Adam quickly found the house; and, entering with his broad-brimmed hat in his hand, and scraping the hob-nails along the floor—"Sir," said he, "I'm the person Mr Daniells o' Chancery Lane has sent to you as a bookkeeper."

"Mr Daniells—Mr Daniells," said the merchant; "don't know any such person—have not wanted a bookkeeper these six months."

"Sir," said Adam, "are ye no' Mr Robertson, o' 54 Thames Street?"

"I am," replied the merchant; "but," added he, "I see how it is. Pray, young man, what did you give this Mr Daniells to recommend you to the situation?"

"Half-a-crown, sir," returned Adam.

"Well," said the other, "you have more money than wit. Good morning, sir, and take care of another Mr Daniells."

Poor Adam was dumfoundered; and, in the bitterness of his spirit, he said London was a den o' thieves. I might tell you how his last shilling was expended—how he lived upon bread and water—how he fell into arrears with the orange-woman for the rent of his garret—how she persecuted him—how he was puzzled to understand the meaning of the generous words, "Money lent;" how the orange-woman, in order to obtain her rent, taught him the mystery of the three golden balls; and how the shirts—which his mother had made him from a web of her own spinning—and his books, all that he had, save the clothes upon his back, were pledged—and how, when all was gone, the old landlady turned him to the door, houseless, friendless, pennyless, with no companion but despair. We might have dwelt upon these things, but must proceed with his history.

Adam, after enduring privations which would make humanity shudder, obtained the situation of assistant-porter in a merchant's office. The employment was humble, but he received it joyfully. He was steady and industrious, and it was not long until he was appointed warehouseman; and his employer, finding that, in addition to his good qualities, he had received a superior education, made him one of his confidential clerks. He had held the situation about two years. The rust, as his brother-clerks said, was now pretty well rubbed off Scotch Adam. His hodden grey was laid aside for the dashing green, his hob-nailed shoes for fashionable pumps, and his broad-brimmed hat for a narrow-crowned beaver; his speech, too, had caught a sprinkling of the southern accent; but, in other respects, he was the same inoffensive, steady, and serious being as when he left his mother's cottage.

His companions were wont "to roast" Adam, as they termed it, on what they called his Methodism. They had often urged him to accompany them to the theatre; but, for two years, he had stubbornly withstood their temptations. The stage was to Adam what the tree of knowledge was to his first namesake and progenitor. He had been counselled against it, he had read against it, he had heard sermons against it; but had never been within the walls of a theatre. The Siddons, and her brother John Kemble, then in the zenith of their fame, were filling not only London but Europe with their names. One evening they were to perform, together—Adam had often heard of them—he admired Shakspeare—his curiosity was excited, he yielded to the solicitations of his companions, and accompanied them to Covent Garden. The curtain was drawn up. The performance began. Adam's soul was riveted, his senses distracted. The Siddons swept before him like a vision of immortality—Kemble seemed to draw a soul from the tomb of the Cæsars; and, as the curtain fell, and the loud music pealed, Adam felt as if a new existence and a new world had opened before him, and his head reeled with wonder and delight. When the performance was concluded, his companions proposed to have a single bottle in an adjoining tavern; Adam offered some opposition, but was prevailed upon to accompany them. Several of the players entered—they were convivial spirits, abounding with wit, anecdote, and song. The scene was new, but not unpleasant to Adam. He took no note of time. He was unused to drink, and little affected him. The first bottle was finished. "WE'LL HAVE ANOTHER," said one of his companions. It was the first time Adam had heard the fatal words, and he offered no opposition. He drank again—he began to expatiate on divers subjects—he discovered he was an orator. "Well done, Mr Brown," cried one of his companions, "there's hope of you yet—we'll have another, my boy—three's band!" A third bottle was brought; Adam was called upon for a song. He could sing, and sing well too; and, taking his glass in his hand, he began—

"Stop, stop, we'll ha'e anither gill,

Ne'ermind a lang-tongued beldame's yatter;

They're fools wha'd leave a glass o' yill

For ony wife's infernal clatter.

"There's Bet, when I gang hame the night,

Will set the hail stairhead a ringin'—

Let a' the neebours hear her flyte,

Ca' me a brute, and stap my singin'.

"She'll yelp about the bairns' rags—

Ca' me a drucken gude-for-naethin'!

She'll curse my throat an' drouthy bags,

An' at me thraw their duddy claethin'!

"Chorus, gentlemen—chorus!" cried Adam, and continued—

"The fient a supper I'll get there—

A dish o' tongues is a' she'll gie me!

She'll shake her nieve and rug her hair,

An' wonder how she e'er gaed wi' me!

She vows to leave me, an' I say,

'Gang, gang! for dearsake!—that's a blessin'!'

She rins to get her claes away,

But—o' the kist the key's amissin!

"The younkers a' set up a skirl,

They shriek an' cry—'O dinna, mither!'

I slip to bed, and fash the quarrel

Neither ae way nor anither.

Bet creeps beside me unco dour,

I clap her back, an' say—'My dawtie!'

Quo' she—'Weel, weel, my passion's ower,

But dinna gang a-drinkin', Watty.'"

"Bravo, Scotchy!" shouted one. "Your health and song, Mr Brown," cried another. Adam's head began to swim—the lights danced before his eyes—he fell from his chair. One of his friends called a hackney coach; and, half insensible of where he was, he was conveyed to his lodgings. It was afternoon on the following day before he appeared at the counting-house, and his eyes were red, and he had the languid look of one who has spent a night in revelry. That night he was again prevailed upon to accompany his brother-clerks to the club-room, "just," as they expressed it, "to have one bottle to put all right." That night he again heard the words—"We'll have another," and again he yielded to their seduction.

But we will not follow him through the steps and through the snares by which he departed from virtue and became entangled in vice. He became an almost nightly frequenter of the tavern, the theatre, or both, and his habits opened up temptations to grosser viciousness. Still he kept up a correspondence with Mary Douglas, the gentle object of his young affections, and for a time her endeared remembrance haunted him like a protecting angel, whispering in his ear and saving him from depravity. But his religious principles were already forgotten; and, when that cord was snapped asunder, the fibre of affection that twined around his heart did not long hold him in the path of virtue. As the influence of company grew upon him, her remembrance lost its power, and Adam Brown plunged headlong into all the pleasures and temptations of the metropolis.

Still he was attentive to business—he still retained the confidence of his employer—his salary was liberal—he still sent thirty pounds a-year to his mother; and Mary Douglas yet held a place in his heart, though he was changed—fatally changed. He had been about four years in his situation when he obtained leave for a few weeks to visit his native village. It was on a summer afternoon when a chaise from Jedburgh drove up to the door of the only public-house in the village. A fashionably dressed young man alighted, and, in an affected voice, desired the landlord to send a porter with his luggage to Mrs Brown's. "A porter, sir?" said the innkeeper—"there's naething o' the kind in the toun; but I'll get twa callants to tak' it alang."

He hastened to his mother's. "Ah! how d'ye do?" said he, slightly shaking the hands of his younger brothers; but a tear gathered in his eye as his mother kissed his cheek. She, good soul, when the first surprise was over, said "she hardly kenned her bairn in sic a fine gentleman." He proceeded to the manse, and Mary marvelled at the change in his appearance and his manner; yet she loved him not the less; but her father beheld the affectation and levity of his young friend, and grieved over them.

He had not been a month in the village when Mary gave him her hand, and they set out for London together.

For a few weeks after their arrival, he spent his evenings at their own fireside, and they were blest in the society of each other. But it was not long until company again spread its seductive snares around him. Again he listened to the words—"We'll have another"—again he yielded to their temptations, and again the force of habit made him its slave. Night followed night, and he was irritable and unhappy, unless in the midst of his boon companions. Poor Mary felt the bitterness and anguish of a deserted wife; but she upbraided him not—she spoke not of her sorrows. Health forsook her cheeks, and gladness had fled from her spirit; yet as she nightly sat hour after hour waiting his return, as he entered, she welcomed him with a smile, which not unfrequently was met with an imprecation or a frown. They had been married about two years. Mary was a mother, and oft at midnight she would sit weeping over the cradle of her child, mourning in secret for its thoughtless father.

It was her birthday, her father had come to London to visit them; she had not told him of her sorrows, and she had invited a few friends to dine with them. They had assembled; but Adam was still absent. He had been unkind to her; but this was an unkindness she did not expect from him. They were yet awaiting, when a police-officer entered. His errand was soon told. Adam Brown had become a gambler, as well as a drunkard—he had been guilty of fraud and embezzlement—his guilt had been discovered, and the police were in quest of him. Mr Douglas wrung his hands and groaned. Mary bore the dreadful blow with more than human fortitude. She uttered no scream—she shed no tears; for a moment she sat motionless—speechless. It was the dumbness of agony. With her child at her breast, and, in the midst of her guests, she flung herself at her father's feet. "Father!" she exclaimed, "for my sake!—for my helpless child's sake—save! oh, save my poor husband!"

"For your sake, what I can do I will do, dearest," groaned the old man.

A coach was ordered to the door, and the miserable wife and her father hastened to the office of her husband's employer.

When Adam Brown received intelligence that his guilt was discovered from a companion, he was carousing with others in a low gambling-house. Horror seized him, and he hurried from the room, but returned in a few minutes. "We'll have another!" he exclaimed, in a tone of frenzy—and another was brought. He half filled a glass—he raised it to his lips—he dashed into it a deadly poison, and, ere they could stay his hand, the fatal draught was swallowed. He had purchased a quantity of arsenic when he rushed from the house.

His fellow-gamblers were thronging around him, when his injured wife and her grey-headed father entered the room. "Away, tormentors!" he exclaimed, as his glazed eyes fell upon them, and he dashed his hand before his face.

"My husband! my dear husband!" cried Mary, flinging her arms around his neck. "Look on me, speak to me!"

He gazed on her face—he grasped her hand. "Mary, my injured Mary!" he exclaimed convulsively, "can you forgive me—you—you? O God; I was once innocent! Forgive me, dearest!—for our child's sake, curse not its guilty father!"

"Husband!—Adam!" she cried, wringing his hand—"come with me, love, come—leave this horrid place—you have nothing to fear—your debt is paid."

"Paid!" he exclaimed, wildly—"Ha! ha!—Paid!" These were his last words—convulsions came upon him, the film of death passed over his eyes, and his troubled spirit fled.

She clung round his neck—she yet cried "Speak to me!"—she refused to believe that he was dead, and her reason seemed to have fled with his spirit.

She was taken from his body and conveyed home. The agony of grief subsided into a stupor approaching imbecility. She was unconscious of all around; and, within three weeks from the death of her husband, the broken spirit of Mary Douglas found rest, and her father returned in sorrow with her helpless orphan to Teviotdale.

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Table of Contents

THE FAA'S REVENGE

THE RIVAL NIGHTCAPS.

THE STORY OF CLARA DOUGLAS.

BON GUALTIER'S TALES.

THE MERCHANT'S DAUGHTER.

MAY DARLING, THE VILLAGE PRIDE.

MORTLAKE: A LEGEND OF MERTON.

MAJOR WEIR'S COACH: A LEGEND OF EDINBURGH.*

WE'LL HAVE ANOTHER.

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