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Walter Scott: Chronicles of the Canongate

[1. Introduction]

INTRODUCTION
TO

CHRONICLES OF THE CANONGATE.

The preceding volume of this Collection concluded the last of the pieces originally published
under the _nominis umbra_ of The
Author of Waverley; and the circumstances
which rendered it impossible for the writer
to continue longer in the possession of his
incognito, were communicated in 1827, in the
Introduction to the first series of Chronicles
of the Canongate,---consisting (besides a biographical sketch of the imaginary chronicler)
of three tales, entitled ``The Highland Widow,'' ``The Two Drovers,'' and ``The Surgeon's
Daughter.'' In the present volume the two
first named of these pieces are included, together with three detached stories, which appeared
the year after in the elegant compilation
called ``The Keepsake.'' The ``Surgeon's Daughter'' it is thought better to defer
until a succeeding volume, than to

``Begin and break off in the middle.''

I have, perhaps, said enough on former occasions of the misfortunes which led to the
dropping of that mask under which I had, for
a long series of years, enjoyed so large a portion of public favour. Through the success of
those literary efforts, I had been enabled to
indulge most of the tastes, which a retired
person of my station might be supposed to
entertain. In the pen of this nameless romancer, I seemed to possess something like the secret
fountain of coined gold and pearls vouchsafed
to the traveller of the Eastern Tale; and no
doubt believed that I might venture, without
silly imprudence, to extend my personal expenditure considerably beyond what I should
have thought of, had my means been limited
to the competence which I derived from inheritance, with the moderate income of a professional
situation. I bought, and built, and
planted, and was considered by myself, as by
the rest of the world, in the safe possession
of an easy fortune. My riches, however, like
the other riches of this world, were liable to
accidents, under which they were ultimately
destined to make unto themselves wings and
fly away. The year 1825, so disastrous to
many branches of industry and commerce,
did not spare the market of literature; and
the sudden ruin that fell on so many of the
booksellers, could scarcely gave been expected
to leave unscathed one, whose career had
of necessity connected him deeply and extensively with the pecuniary transactions of that
profession. In a word, almost without one
note of premonition, I found myself involved
in the sweeping catastrophe of the unhappy
time, and called on to meet the demands of
creditors upon commercial establishments
with which my fortunes had long been bound
up, to the extent of no less a sum than one
hundred and twenty thousand pounds.

The author having, however rashly, committed his pledges thus largely to the hazards of
trading companies, it behoved him, of course,
to abide the consequences of his conduct, and,
with whatever feelings, he surrendered on the
instant every shred of property which he had
been accustomed to call his own. It became
vested in the hands of gentlemen, whose integrity, prudence, and intelligence, were combined
with all possible liberality and kindness
of disposition, and who readily afforded every
assistance towards the execution of plans, in
the success of which the author contemplated
the possibility of his ultimate extrication, and which were of such a nature, that, had assistance of this sort been withheld, he could have
had little prospect of carrying them into effect. Among other resources which occurred, was
the project of that complete and corrected
edition of his Novels and Romances, (whose
real parentage had of necessity been disclosed
at the moment of the commercial convulsions
alluded to,) which has now advanced with
unprecedented favour nearly to its close; but
as he purposed also to continue, for the behoof
of those to whom he was indebted, the exercise
of his pen in the same path of literature,
so long as the state of his countrymen should
seem to approve of his efforts, it appeared to
him that it would have been an idle piece of
affectation to attempt getting up a new _incognito_, after his original visor had been thus
dashed from his brow. Hence the personal
narrative prefixed to the first work of fiction
which he put forth after the paternity of the
``Waverley Novels'' had come to be publicly
ascertained: and though many of the particulars
originally avowed in that Notice have
been unavoidably adverted to in the prefaces
and notes to some of the preceding volumes
of the present collection, it is now reprinted
as it stood at the time, because some
interest is generally attached to a coin or medal struck on a special occasion, as expressing,
perhaps, more faithfully than the same
artist could have afterwards conveyed, the
feelings of the moment that gave it birth. The
Introduction to the first series of Chronicles
of the Canongate ran, then, in these words:

INTRODUCTION.

All who are acquainted with the early history of the Italian stage are aware, that Arlechino
is not, in his original conception, a
mere worker of marvels with his wooden
sword, a jumper in and out of windows, as
upon our theatre, but, as his party-coloured
jacket implies, a buffoon or clown, whose
mouth, far from being eternally closed, as
amongst us, is filled, like that of Touchstone,
with quips, and cranks, and witty devices, very
often delivered extempore. It is not easy to
trace how he became possessed of his black
vizard which was anciently made in the resemblance of the face of a cat; but it seems
that the mask was essential to the performance
of the character, as will appear from the following theatrical anecdote:---

An actor on the Italian stage permitted at the Foire du St Germain, in Paris, was renowned
for the wild, venturous, and extravagant
wit, the brilliant sallies and fortunate
repartees, with which he prodigally seasoned
the character of the party-coloured jester.
Some critics, whose good-will towards a favourite performer was stronger than their
judgment, took occasion to remonstrate with
the successful actor on the subject of the
grotesque vizard. They went wilily to their
purpose, observing that his classical and attic
wit, his delicate vein of humour, his happy
turn for dialogue, were rendered burlesque and
ludicrous by this unmeaning and bizzare disguise, and that those attributes would become
far more impressive, if aided by the spirit of
his eye and the expression of his natural features. The actor's vanity was easily so far
engaged as to induce him to make the experiment. He played Harlequin barefaced, but
was considered on all hands as having made a
total failure. He had lost the audacity which
a sense of incognito bestowed, and with it all
the reckless play of raillery which gave vivacity to his original acting. He cursed his advisers,
and resumed his grotesque vizard; but,
it is said, without ever being able to regain
the careless and successful levity which the
consciousness of the disguise had formerly bestowed.

Perhaps the Author of Waverley is now about to incur a risk of the same kind, and
endanger his popularity by having laid aside
his incognito. It is certainly not a voluntary
experiment, like that of Harlequin; for it was
my original intention never to have avowed
these works during my lifetime, and the original manuscripts were carefully preserved,
(though by the care of others rather than
mine,) with the purpose of supplying the necessary evidence of the truth when the period
of announcing it should arrive.* But the

These manuscripts are at present (August 1831) advertised for public sale, which is an addition, though a small one, to other annoyances.

affairs of my publishers having unfortunately
passed into a management different from their
own, I had no right any longer to rely upon
secrecy in that quarter; and thus my mask,
like my Aunt Dinah's in ``Tristram Shandy,''
having begun to wax a little threadbare about
the chin, it became time to lay it aside with a
good grace, unless I desired it should fall in
pieces from my face, which was now become
likely.

Yet I had not the slightest intention of selecting the time and place in which the disclosure
was finally made; nor was there any
concert betwixt my learned and respected
friend Lord Meadowbank and myself upon
that occasion. It was, as the reader is probably aware, upon the 23d February last, at a
public meeting, called for establishing a professional Theatrical Fund in Edinburgh, that
the communication took place. Just before
we sat down to table, Lord Meadowbank*

One of the Supreme Judges of Scotland, termed Lords of Council and Session.

asked me privately, whether I was still anxious
to preserve my incognito on the subject of
what were called the Waverley Novels? I did
not immediately see the purpose of his lordship's question, although I certainly might
have been led to infer it, and replied, that the secret had now of necessity become known to
so many people that I was indifferent on the
subject. Lord Meadowbank was thus induced,
while doing me the great honour of proposing
my health to the meeting, to say something
on the subject of these Novels, so strongly
connecting them with me as the author, that
by remaining silent, I must have stood convicted, either of the actual paternity, or of the
still greater crime of being supposed willing to receive indirectly praise to which I had no just title. I thus found myself suddenly and unexpectedly placed in the confessional, and had
only time to recollect that I had been guided
thither by a most friendly hand, and could not,
perhaps, find a better public opportunity to lay down a disguise, which began to resemble that
of a detected masquerader.

I had therefore the task of avowing myself, to the numerous and respectable company assembled, as the sole and unaided author of
these Novels of Waverley, the paternity of
which was likely at one time to have formed
a controversy of some celebrity, for the ingenuity with which some instructors of the public
gave their assurance on the subject, was extremely persevering. I now think it further
necessary to say, that while I take on myself
all the merits and demerits attending these
compositions, I am bound to acknowledge with
gratitude, hints of subjects and legends which
I have received from various quarters, and
have occasionally used as a foundation of my
fictitious compositions, or woven up with them
in the shape of episodes. I am bound, in particular, to acknowledge the unremitting kindness
of Mr Joseph Train, supervisor of excise
at Dumfries, to whose unwearied industry I
have been indebted for many curious traditions,
and points of antiquarian interest. It
was Mr Train who brought to my recollection
the history of Old Mortality, although I myself
had had a personal interview with that celebrated wanderer so far back as about 1792,
when I found him on his usual task. He was
then engaged in repairing the gravestones of
the Covenanters who had died while imprisoned
in the Castle of Dunnottar, to which many
of them were committed prisoners at the period
of Argyle's rising; their place of confinement
is still called the Whigs' Vault. Mr Train,
however, procured for me far more extensive
information concerning this singular person,
whose name was Patterson, than I had been
able to acquire during my own short conversation with him.* He was (as I think I have

See, for some further particulars, the notes to Old Mortality, in the present collective edition.

somewhere already stated) a native of the
parish of Closeburn, in Dumfries-shire, and
it is believed that domestic affliction, as well as devotional feeling, induced him to commence
the wandering mode of life, which he
pursued for a very long period. It is more
than twenty years since Robert Patterson's
death, which took place on the high-road near
Lockerby, where he was found exhausted and
expiring. The white pony, the companion of
his pilgrimage, was standing by the side of its
dying master; the whole furnishing a scene
not unfitted for the pencil. These particulars
I had from Mr Train.

Another debt, which I pay most willingly, I owe to an unknown correspondent (a lady),*

The late Mrs Goldie.

who favoured me with the history of the upright
and high-principled female, whom, in
the Heart of Mid-Lothian, I have termed Jeanie
Deans. The circumstance of her refusing to
save her sister's life by an act of perjury, and undertaking a pilgrimage to London to obtain
her pardon, are both represented as true by
my fair and obliging correspondent; and they
led me to consider the possibility of rendering
a fictitious personage interesting by mere dignity of mind and rectitude of principle, assisted
by unpretending good sense and temper,
without any of the beauty, grace, talent, accomplishment, and wit, to which a heroine of
romance is supposed to have a prescriptive
right. If the portrait was received with interest by the public, I am conscious how much
it was owing to the truth and force of the original sketch, which I regret that I am unable
to present to the public, as it was written with much feeling and spirit.

Old and odd books, and a considerable collection of family legends, formed another
quarry, so ample, that it was much more likely
that the strength of the labourer should be exhausted than that materials should fail. I
may mention, for example's sake, that the terrible catastrophe of the Bride of Lammermoor
actually occurred in a Scottish family of rank.
The female relative, by whom the melancholy
tale was communicated to me many years
since, was a near connexion of the family in
which the event happened and always told it
with an appearance of melancholy mystery,
which enhanced the interest, She had known,
in her youth, the brother who rode before the
unhappy victim to the fatal altar, who, though
then a mere boy, and occupied almost entirely
with the gaiety of his own appearance in the
bridal procession, could not but remark that
the hand of his sister was moist, and cold as
that of a statue. It is unnecessary further to
withdraw the veil from this scene of family
distress, nor, although it occurred more than
a hundred years since, might it be altogether
agreeable to the representatives of the families concerned in the narrative. It may be proper
to say, that the events alone are imitated;
but I had neither the means nor intention of
copying the manners, or tracing the characters,
of the persons concerned in the real story.

Indeed, I may here state generally, that although I have deemed historical personages
free subjects of delineation, I have never on
any occasion violated the respect due to private life. It was indeed impossible that traits
proper to persons, both living and dead, with
whom I have had intercourse in society, should
not have risen to my pen in such works as
Waverley, and those which followed it. But
I have always studied to generalize the portraits, so that they should still seem, on the
whole, the productions of fancy though possessing some resemblance to real individuals.
Yet I must own my attempts have not in
this last particular been uniformly successful.
There are men whose characters are so peculiarly marked, and the delineation of some
leading and principal feature, inevitably places the whole person before you in his individuality. Thus, the character of Jonathan Oldbuck, in
the Antiquary, was partly founded on that of
an old friend of my youth, to whom I am indebted for introducing me to Shakspeare, and
other invaluable favours; but I thought I had
so completely disguised the likeness, that his
features could not be recognised by any one
now alive. I was mistaken, however, and indeed
had endangered what I desired should be
considered as a secret; for I afterwards learned that a highly respectable gentleman, one of the
few surviving friends of my father,* and an

James Chalmers, Esq. solicitor at law, London, who died during the publication of the present edition of these Novels. (Aug. 1831.)

acute critic, had said, upon the appearance of
the work, that he was now convinced who was
the author of it, as he recognised, in the Antiquary of Monkbarns, traces of the character
of a very intimate friend of my father's family.

I may here also notice, that the sort of exchange of gallantry, which is represented as
taking place betwixt the Baron of Bradwardine
and Colonel Talbot, is a literal fact. The real
circumstances of the anecdote, alike honourable
to Whig and Tory, are these:---

Alexander Stewart of Invernahyle,---a name which I cannot write without the warmest recollections of gratitude to the friend of my
childhood, who first introduced me to the Highlands, their traditions, and their manners,---
had been engaged actively in the troubles of
1745. As be charged at the battle of Preston
with his clan, the Stewarts of Appine, he saw
an officer of the opposite army standing alone
by a battery of four cannon, of which he discharged three on the advancing Highlanders,
and then drew his sword. Invernahyle rushed
on him, and required him to surrender, ``Never
to rebels!'' was the undaunted reply, accompanied with a lounge, which the Highlander
received on his target; but instead of using
his sword in cutting down his now defenceless
antagonist, he employed it in parrying the blow
of a Lochaber axe, aimed at the officer by the
Miller, one of his own followers, a grim-looking old Highlander, whom I remember to have
seen. Thus overpowered, Lieutenant Colonel
Allan Whitefoord, a gentleman of rank and
consequence, as well as a brave officer, gave up his sword, and with it his purse and watch,
which Invernahyle accepted, to save them from
his followers. After the affair was over, Mr
Stewart sought out his prisoner, and they were
introduced to each other by the celebrated
John Roy Stewart, who acquainted Colonel
Whitefoord with the quality of his captor, and
made him aware of the necessity of receiving
back his property, which he was inclined to
leave in the hands into which it had fallen. So
great became the confidence established betwixt
them, that Invernahyle obtained from the Chevalier his prisoner's freedom upon parole; and
soon afterwards, having been sent back to the
Highlands to raise men he visited Colonel
Whitefoord at his own house, and spent two
happy days with him and his Whig friends,
without thinking, on either side, of the civil
war which was then raging.

When the battle of Culloden put an end to the hopes of Charles Edward, Invernahyle,
wounded and unable to move, was home from
the field by the faithful zeal of his retainers. But, as he had been a distinguished Jacobite,
his family and property were exposed to the
system of vindictive destruction, too generally
carried into execution through the country of
the insurgents. It was now Colonel Whitefoord's
turn to exert himself, and he wearied
all the authorities, civil and military, with his solicitations for pardon to the saver of his life, or at least for a protection for his wife and
family. His applications were for a long time
unsuccessful: ``I was found with the mark of
the Beast upon me in every list,'' was Invernahyle's expression. At length Colonel Whitefoord
applied to the Duke of Cumberland, and
urged his suit with every argument which he
could think of. Being still repulsed, he took
his commission from his bosom, and, having
said something of his own and his family's
exertions in the cause of the House of Hanover,
begged to resign his situation in their service, since he could not be permitted to show
his gratitude to the person to whom he owed
his life. The Duke, struck with his earnestness, desired him to take up his commission,
and granted the protection required for the
family of Invernahyle.

The Chieftain himself lay concealed in a cave near his own house, before which a small body
of regular soldiers, were encamped. He could
hear their muster-roll called every morning,
and their drums beat to quarters at night, and
not a change of the sentinels escaped him. As
it was suspected that he was lurking somewhere
on the property, his family were closely
watched, and compelled to use the utmost precaution in supplying him with food. One of
his daughters, a child of eight or ten years old, was employed as the agent least likely to be
suspected. She was an instance among others,
that a time of danger and difficulty creates a
premature sharpness of intellect. She made
herself acquainted among the soldiers, till she
became so familiar to them, that her motions
escaped their notice; and her practice was, to
stroll away into the neighbourhood of the cave,
and leave what slender supply of food she carried for that purpose under some remarkable
stone, or the root of some tree, where her father might find it as he crept by night from his
lurking-place. Times became milder, and my
excellent friend was relieved from proscription
by the Act of Indemnity. Such is the interesting story which I have rather injured than
improved, by the manner in which it is told in
Waverley.

This incident, with several other circumstances illustrating the Tales in question, was
communicated by me to my late lamented
friend, William Erskine, (a Scottish Judge,
by the title of Lord Kinedder,) who afterwards
reviewed with far too much partiality
the Tales of my Landlord, for the Quarterly
Review of January 1817.* In the same article,

Lord Kinedder died in August 1822. Eheu! (Aug. 1831)

are contained other illustrations of the Novels, with which I supplied my accomplished friend,
who took the trouble to write the review. The
reader who is desirous of such information,
will find the original of Meg Merrilees, and I
believe of one or two other personages of the
same cast of character, in the article referred
to.

I may also mention, that the tragic and savage circumstances which are represented as
preceding the birth of Allan MacAulay, in
the Legend of Montrose, really happened in
the family of Stewart of Ardvoirlich. The
wager about the candlesticks, whose place
was supplied by Highland torch-bearers, was
laid and won by one of the MacDonalds of
Keppoch.

There can be but little amusement in winnowing out the few grains of truth which are
contained in this mass of empty fiction.
may, however, before dismissing the subject,
allude to the various localities which have
been affixed to some of the scenery introduced
into these Novels, by which, for example,
Wolf's-Hope is identified with Past-Castle in
Berwickshire,---Tillietudlem with Draphane in
Clydesdale,---and the valley in the Monastery,
called Glendearg, with the dale of the river
Allan, above Lord Somerville's villa, near Melrose. I can only say, that, in these and other
instances, I had no purpose of describing any
particular local spot; and the resemblance
must therefore be of that general kind which
necessarily exists between scenes of the same
character. The iron-bound coast of Scotland
affords upon its headlands and promontories
fifty such castles as Wolf's-Hope; every
county has a valley more or less resembling
Glendearg; and if castles like Tillietudlem,
or mansions like the Baron of Bradwardine's,
are now less frequently to be met with, it is
owing to the rage of indiscriminate destruction, which has removed or ruined so many
monuments of antiquity, when they were not
protected by their inaccessible situation.*

I would particularly intimate the Kaim of Uric, on the eastern coast of Scotland, as having suggested an idea for the tower called Wolf's-Crag, which the public more generally identified with the ancient tower of Fast-Castle.

The scraps of poetry which have been in most cases tacked to the beginning of chapters
in these Novels, are sometimes quoted either
from reading or from memory, but, in the general case, are pure invention. I found it too
troublesome to turn to the collection of the
British Poets to discover apposite mottos, and,
in the situation of the theatrical mechanist,
who, when the white paper which represented
his shower of snow was exhausted, continued
the storm by snowing brown, I drew on my
memory as long as I could, and, when that
failed, eked it out with invention. I believe
that, in some cases, where actual names are
affixed to the supposed quotations, it would be
to little purpose to seek them in the works of
the authors referred to. In some cases, I have
been entertained when Dr Watts and other
graver authors, have been ransacked in vain for
stanzas for which the novelist alone was responsible.

And now the reader may expect me, while in the confessional, to explain the motives why
I have so long persisted iii disclaiming the
works of which I am now writing. To this it
would be difficult to give any other reply, save that of Corporal Nym---It was the authors
humour or caprice for the time. I hope it will
not be construed into ingratitude to the public, to whose indulgence I have owed my _sang
froid_ much more than to any merit of my own,
if I confess that I am, and have been, more indifferent to success, or to failure, as an author,
than may be the case with others, who feel
more strongly the passion for literary fame,
probably because they are justly conscious of
a better title to it. It was not until I had attained the age of thirty years that I made any
serious attempt at distinguishing myself as an
author; and at that period, men's hopes, desires, and wishes, have usually acquired something
of a decisive character, and are not eagerly
and easily diverted into a new channel. When
I made the discovery,---for to me it was one,
---that by amusing myself with composition,
which I felt a delightful occupation, I could
also give pleasure to others, and became aware
that literary pursuits were likely to engage in
future a considerable portion of my time, I felt some alarm that I might acquire those habits
of jealousy and fretfulness which have lessened, and even degraded, the character even of great
authors, and rendered them, by their petty
squabbles and mutual irritability, the laughing-stock of the people of the world. I resolved,
therefore, in this respect to guard my
breast, perhaps an unfriendly critic may add,
my brow, with triple brass,* and as much as

Not altogether impossible, when it is considered that I have been at the bar since 1792. (Aug. 1831.)

possible to avoid resting my thoughts and
wishes upon literary success, lest I should endanger my own peace of mind and tranquillity
by literary failure. It would argue either stupid apathy, or ridiculous affectation, to say

that I have been insensible to the public applause,
when I have been honoured with its
testimonies; and still more highly do I prize

the invaluable friendships which some temporary
popularity has enabled me to form among
those of my contemporaries most distinguished
by talents and genius, and which I venture to
hope now rest upon a basis more firm than the
circumstances which gave rise to them. Yet
feeling all these advantages as a man ought to
do, and must do, I may say, with truth and
confidence, that I have, I think, tasted of the
intoxicating cup with moderation, and that I
have never, either in conversation or correspondence, encouraged discussions respecting
my own literary pursuits. On the contrary, I
have usually found such topics, even when introduced from motives most flattering to myself,
rather embarrassing and disagreeable.

I have now frankly told my motives for concealment, so far as I am conscious of having
any, and the public will forgive the egotism of
the detail, as what is necessarily connected
with it. The author, so long and loudly called
for, has appeared on the stage, and made his
obeisance to the audience. Thus far his conduct
is a mark of respect. To linger in their
presence would be intrusion.

I have only to repeat, that I avow myself in print, as formerly in words, the sole and unassisted author of all the Novels published
as works of the ``Author of Waverley.'' I
do this without shame, for I am unconscious
that there is any thing in their composition
which deserves reproach, either on the score
of religion or morality; and without any feeling of exultation, because, whatever may have
been their temporary success, I am well aware
how much their reputation depends upon the
caprice of fashion; and I have already mentioned the precarious tenure by which it is
held, as a reason for displaying no great avidity in grasping at the possession.

I ought to mention, before concluding, that twenty persons, at least, were, either from intimacy, or from the confidence which circumstances
rendered necessary, participant of this
secret; and as there was no instance, to my
knowledge, of any one of the number breaking
faith, I am the more obliged to them, because
the slight and trivial character of the mystery
was not qualified to inspire much respect in
those intrusted with it. Nevertheless, like Jack the Giant-Killer, I was fully confident in the
advantage of my ``Coat of Darkness,'' and had
it not been from compulsory circumstances, I
would have indeed been very cautious how I
parted with it.

As for the work which follows, it was meditated, and in part printed, long before the avowal
of the novels took place, and originally commenced with a declaration that it was neither
to have introduction nor preface of any kind.
This long proem, prefixed to a work intended
not to have any, may, however, serve to show
how human purposes, in the most trifling, as
well as the most important affairs, are liable
to be controlled by the course of events.
Thus, we begin to cross a strong river with
our eyes and our resolution fixed on that
point of the opposite shore, on which we purpose to land; but, gradually giving way to
the torrent, are glad, by the aid perhaps of
branch or bush, to extricate ourselves at some
distant and perhaps dangerous landing-place,
much farther down the stream than that on
which we had fixed our intentions.

  Hoping that  the  Courteous  Reader  will
afford to a known and familiar acquaintance

some portion of the favour which he extended
to a disguised candidate for his applause, I
beg leave to subscribe myself his obliged humble servant,

                         WALTER SCOTT.

Abbotsford, _October_ 1, 1827.

Such was the little narrative which I thought proper to put forth in October 1827: nor
have I much to add to it now. About to
appear for the first time in my own name in
this department of letters, it occurred to me
that something in the shape of a periodical
publication might carry with it a certain air of novelty, and I was willing to break, if I may
so express it, the abruptness of my personal
forthcoming, by investing an imaginary coadjutor with at least as much distinctness of individual existence as I had ever previously
thought it worth while to bestow on shadows
of the same convenient tribe. Of course, it
had never been in my contemplation to invite
the assistance of any real person in the sustaining of my quasi-editorial character and
labours. It had long been my opinion, that
any thing like a literary _picnic_ is likely to
end in suggesting comparisons, justly termed
odious, and therefore to be avoided: and, indeed, I had also had some occasion to know,
that promises of assistance, in efforts of that
order, are apt to be more magnificent than the
subsequent performance. I therefore planned
a Miscellany, to be dependent, after the old
fashion, on my own resources alone, and
although conscious enough that the moment
which assigned to the Author of Waverley
``a local habitation and a name,'' had seriously endangered his spell, I felt inclined to adopt
the sentiment of my old hero Montrose, and
to say to myself, that in literature, as in war,

``He either fears his fate too much,
Or his deserts are small,
Who dares not put it to the touch,
To win or lose it all.''

To the particulars explanatory of the plan of these Chronicles, which the reader is presented
with in Chapter II. by the imaginary Editor,
Mr Croftangry, I have now to add, that the
lady, termed in his narrative, Mrs Bethune
Balliol, was designed to shadow out in its
leading points the interesting character of a
dear friend of mine, Mrs Murray Keith,* whose

The Keiths of Craig, in Kincardineshire, descended from John Keith, fourth son of William, second Earl Marischal, who got from his father, about 1480, the lands of Craig, and part of Garvock, in that county. In Douglas's Baronage, 443 to 445, is a pedigree of that family. Colonel Robert Keith of Craig (the seventh in descent from John) by his wife, Agnes, daughter of Robert Murray of Murrayshall, of the family of Blackbarony, widow of Colonel Stirling, of the family of Keir, had one son; viz. Robert Keith of Craig, ambassador to the court of Vienna, afterwards to St Petersburgh, which latter situation he held at the accession of King George III.,---who died at Edinburgh in 1774. He married Margaret, second daughter of Sir William Cunningham of Caprington, by Janet, only child and heiress of Sir James Dick of Prestonfield; and, among other children of this marriage, were, the late well-known diplomatist, Sir Robert Murray Keith, K. B., a general in the army, and for some time ambassador at Vienna; Sir Basil Keith, Knight, captain in the navy, who died governor of Jamaica; and my excellent friend, Anne Murray Keith, who ultimately came into possession of the family estates, and died not long before the date of this Introduction, (1831.)

death occurring shortly before had saddened
a wide circle, much attached to her, as well
for her genuine virtue and amiable qualities of
disposition, as for the extent of information
which she possessed, and the delightful manner
in which she was used to communicate it.
In truth, the author had, on many occasions,
been indebted to her vivid memory for the
_substratum_ of his Scottish fictions---and she
accordingly had been, from an early period, at
no loss to fix the Waverley Novels on the
right culprit.

In the sketch of Chrystal Croftangry's own history, the author has been accused of
introducing some not polite allusions to respectable living individuals: but he may safely, he
presumes, pass over such an insinuation. The
first of the narratives which Mr Croftangry
proceeds to lay before the public, ``The Highland Widow,'' was derived from Mrs Murray
Keith, and is given, with the exception of a few additional circumstances---the introduction of
which I am rather inclined to regret---very
much as the excellent old lady used to tell the
story. Neither the Highland cicerone Macturk,
nor the demure washingwoman, were
drawn from imagination: and on re-reading
my tale, after the lapse of a few years, and
comparing its effect with my remembrance of
my worthy friend's oral narration, which was
certainly extremely affecting, I cannot but suspect myself of having marred its simplicity by
some of those interpolations, which, at the time when I penned them, no doubt passed with
myself for embellishments.

The next tale, entitled ``The Two Drovers,'' I learned from another old friend, the late
George Constable, Esq. of Wallace-Craigie,
near Dundee, whom I have already introduced
to my reader as the original Antiquary of
Monkbarns. He had been present, I think, at
the trial at Carlisle, and seldom mentioned the
venerable judges charge to the jury, without
shedding tears,---which had peculiar pathos,
as flowing down features, carrying rather a
sarcastic or almost a cynical expression.

This worthy gentleman's reputation for shrewd Scottish sense---knowledge of our national antiquities---and a racy humour, peculiar
to himself, must be still remembered. For
myself, I have pride in recording that for
many years we were, in Wordsworth's language,

     ``------- a pair of friends, though I was young,
     And `George was seventy-two.''

                                   W. S.

Abbotsford, _Aug_. 15,1831.
[2. Introduction Appendix]

APPENDIX

TO

INTRODUCTION.

[It has been suggested to the Author, that it might be well to reprint here a detailed account of the public dinner alluded to in the foregoing Introduction, as given in the newspapers of the time; and the reader is accordingly presented with the following extract from the Edinburgh Weekly Journal for
Wednesday, 28th February, 1827.]

THEATRICAL FUND DINNER.

Before proceeding with our account of this very interesting festival---for so it may be termed ---it is our duty to present to our readers the following letter, which we have received from the
President.

TO THE EDITOR OF THE EDINBURGH WEEKLY
JOURNAL.

Sir,---I am extremely sorry I have not leisure to correct the copy you sent me of what I am
stated to have said at the Dinner for the Theatrical Fund. I am no orator; and upon such occasions
as are alluded to, I say as well as I can
what the time requires.

However, I hope your reporter has been more accurate in other instances than in mine. I have corrected one passage, in which I am made to
speak with great impropriety and petulance, respecting the opinions of those who do not approve
of dramatic entertainments. I have restored what I said, which was meant to be respectful, as every objection founded in conscience is, in my opinion, entitled to be so treated. Other errors I left as I found them, it being of little consequence whether I spoke sense or nonsense, in what was merely intended for the purpose of the hour.

I am, sir,
Your obedient servant,

                                    Walter Scott.

_Edinburgh, Monday_.

The Theatrical Fund Dinner, which took place on Friday, in the Assembly Rooms, was conducted
with admirable spirit. The Chairman, Sir Walter
Scott, among his other great qualifications, is well fitted to enliven such an entertainment. His manners are extremely easy, and his style of speaking
simple and natural, yet full of vivacity and point; and he has the art, if it be art, of relaxing into a certain homeliness of manner, without losing one particle of his dignity. He thus takes off some of that solemn formality which belongs to such meetings, and, by his easy and graceful familiarity,
imparts to them somewhat of the pleasing character of a private entertainment. Near Sir W. Scott
sat the Earl of Fife, Lord Meadowbank, Sir John
Hope of Pinkie, Bart., Admiral Adam, Baron Clerk Rattray, Gilbert Innes, Esq., James Walker, Esq., Robert Dundas, Esq., Alexander Smith, Esq., &c.

The cloth being removed, ``Non Nobis Domine'' was sung by Messrs Thorne, Swift, Collier,
and Hartley, after which the following toasts were given from the chair:---

``The King''---all the honours.

``The Duke of Clarence and the Royal Family.''

The Chairman, in proposing the next toast, which he wished to be drunk in solemn silence,
said it was to the memory of a regretted prince, whom we had lately lost. Every individual would
at once conjecture to whom he alluded. He had
no intention to dwell on his military merits. They had been told in the senate; they had been repeated in the cottage; and whenever a soldier was the
theme, his name was never far distant. But it was chiefly in connexion with the business of this meeting, which his late Royal Highness had condescended
in a particular manner to patronise, that
they were called on to drink his health. To that charity he had often sacrificed his time, and had given up the little leisure which he had from important business. He was always ready to attend
on every occasion of this kind, and it was in that view that he proposed to drink to the memory of
his late Royal Highness the Duke of York.---
Drunk in solemn silence.

The Chairman then requested that gentlemen would fill a bumper as full as it would hold, while he would say only a few words. He was in the
habit of hearing speeches, and he knew the feeling with which long ones were regarded. He was sure
that it was perfectly unnecessary for him to enter into any vindication of the dramatic art, which they had come here to support. This, however, be
considered to be the proper time and proper occasion for him to say a few words on that love of representation which was an innate feeling in human
nature. It was the first amusement that the child had---it grew greater as he grow up; and, even in the decline of life, nothing amused so much as
when a common tale is told with appropriate personification. The first thing a child does is to ape
his schoolmaster, by flogging a chair. The assuming a character ourselves, or the seeing others
assume an imaginary character, is an enjoyment
natural to humanity. It was implanted in our very nature, to take pleasure from such representations,

at proper times and on proper occasions. In   all
ages the theatrical art had kept  pace  with  the  improvement
of mankind, and with the progress of

letters and the fine arts. As man has advanced
from the ruder stages of society, the love of dramatic representations has increased, and all works
of this nature have been improved, in character
and in structure. They had only to turn their eyes to the history of ancient Greece, although he did not pretend to be very deeply versed in its ancient drama. Its first tragic poet commanded a body of troops at the battle of Marathon. Sophocles and
Euripides were men of rank in Athens, when
Athens was in its highest renown. They shook
Athens with their discourses, as their theatrical works shook the theatre itself. If they turned to France in the time of Louis the Fourteenth, that era which is the classical history of that country, they would find that it was referred to by all
Frenchmen as the golden age of the drama there.
And also in England, in the time of Queen Elizabeth, the drama was at its highest pitch, when the
nation began to mingle deeply and wisely in the
general politics of Europe, not only not receiving laws from others, but giving laws to the world,
and vindicating the rights of mankind. (Cheers.) There have been various times when the dramatic
art subsequently fell into disrepute. Its professors have been stigmatized; and laws have been
passed against them, less dishonourable to them
than to the statesmen by whom they were proposed, and to the legislators by whom they were
adopted. What were the times in which these
laws were passed? Was it not when virtue was
seldom inculcated as a moral duty, that we were
required to relinquish the most rational of all our amusements, when the clergy were enjoined celibacy, and when the laity were denied the right to
read their Bibles? He thought that it must have
been from a notion of penance that they erected
the drama into an ideal place of profaneness, and spoke of the theatre as of the tents of sin. He did not mean to dispute, that there were many excellent persons who thought differently from him, and
he disclaimed the slightest idea of charging them with bigotry or hypocrisy on that account. He
gave them full credit for their tender consciences, in making these objections, although they did not appear relevant to him. But to these persons,
being, as he believed them, men of worth and
piety, he was sure the purpose of this meeting
would furnish some apology for an error, if there be any, in the opinions of those who attend. They would approve the gift, although they might differ in other points. Such might not approve of going to the Theatre, but at least could not deny that they might give away from their superfluity, what was required for the relief of the sick, the support of the aged, and the comfort of the afflicted. These were duties enjoined by our religion itself. (Loud cheers.)

The performers are in a particular manner entitled to the support or regard, when in old age or
distress, of those who had partaken of the amusements of those places which they render an ornament
to society. Their art was of a peculiarly delicate and precarious nature. They had to serve
a long apprenticeship. It was very long before
even the first-rate geniuses could acquire the mechanical knowledge of the stage business. They
must languish long in obscurity before they can
avail themselves of their natural talents; and after that, they have but a short space of time, during which they are fortunate if they can provide the means of comfort in the decline of life. That
comes late, and lasts but a short time; after which

they are left dependent. Their limbs fail---their
teeth are loosened---their voice is lost---and they
are left, after giving happiness to others, in a most
disconsolate state. The public were liberal and
generous to those deserving their protection. It

was a sad thing to be dependent on the favour, or, be might say, in plain terms, on the caprice, of the public; and this more particularly for a class of persons of whom extreme prudence is not the
character. There might be instances of opportunities being neglected; but let each gentleman tax
himself, and consider the opportunities they had neglected, and the sums of money they had wasted; let every gentleman look into his own bosom, and say whether these were circumstances which would soften his own feelings, were he to be plunged into distress. He put it to every generous bosom---
to every better feeling---to say what consolation was it to old age to be told that you might have

made provision at a time which had been neglected
---(loud cheers),---and to find it objected, that if
you had pleased you might have been wealthy.
He had hitherto been speaking of what, in theatrical
language, was called _stars_, but they were

sometimes falling ones. There were another class of sufferers naturally and necessarily connected with the theatre, without whom it was impossible to go on. The sailors have a saying, every man
cannot be a boatswain. If there must be a great
actor to act Hamlet, there must also be people to act Laertes, the King, Rosencrantz, and Guildenstern, otherwise a drama cannot go on. If even
Garrick himself were to rise from the dead, he
could not act Hamlet alone. There must be generals, colonels, commanding-officers, subalterns.
But what are the private soldiers to do? Many
have mistaken their own talents, and have been
driven in early youth to try the stage, to which they are not competent. He would know what to
say to the indifferent poet and to the bad artist. He would say that it was foolish, and he would

recommend to the poet to become a scribe, and the
artist to paint sign-posts---(loud laughter).---But
you could not send the player adrift, for if he
cannot play Hamlet, he must play Guildenstern.
Where there are many labourers, wages must be

low, and no man in such a situation can decently support a wife and family, and save something off his income for old age. What is this man to do
in latter life? Are you to cast him off like an
old hinge, or a piece of useless machinery, which has done its work? To a person who had contributed to our amusement, this would be unkind,
ungrateful, and unchristian. His wants are not of his own making, but arise from the natural sources of sickness and old age. It cannot be denied that there is one class of sufferers to whom no imprudence can be ascribed, except on first entering on
the profession. After putting his band to the dramatic plough, be cannot draw back; but must continue
at it, and toil, till death release him from
want, or charity, by its milder influence, steps in to render that want more tolerable. He had little more to say, except that he sincerely hoped that the collection to-day, from the number of respectable gentlemen present, would meet the views entertained by the patrons. He hoped it would do
so. They should not be disheartened. Though
they could not do a great deal, they might do
something. They had this consolation, that every thing they parted with from their superfluity would do some good. They would sleep the better themselves when they have been the means of giving
sleep to others. It was ungrateful and unkind, that those who had sacrificed their youth to our amusement should not receive the reward due to them,
but should be reduced to hard fare in their old
age. We cannot think of poor Falstaff going to
bed without his cup of sack, or Macbeth fed on
bones as marrowless as those of Banquo.---(Loud
cheers and laughter.)---As he believed that they were all as fond of the dramatic art as he was in his younger days, he would propose that they
should drink ``The Theatrical Fund,'' with three times three.

Mr Mackay rose, on behalf of his brethren, to return their thanks for the toast just drunk. Many of the gentlemen present, he said, were perhaps
not fully acquainted with the nature and intention of the institution, and it might not be amiss to enter into some explanation on the subject. With whomsoever the idea of a Theatrical Fund might have
originated, (and it had been disputed by the surviving relatives of two or three individuals,) certain
it was, that the first legally constituted Theatrical Fund owed its origin to one of the brightest ornaments of the profession, the late David Garrick.
That eminent actor conceived that, by a weekly
subscription in the Theatre, a fund might be raised among its members, from which a portion might
be given to those of his less fortunate brethren, and thus an opportunity would be offered for prudence to provide what fortune had denied---a comfortable provision for the winter of life. With the welfare of his profession constantly at heart, the zeal
with which he laboured to uphold its respectability, and to impress upon the minds of his brethren, not only the necessity, but the blessing of independence, the Fund became his peculiar care. He
drew up a form of laws for its government, procured, at his own expense, the passing of an Act
of Parliament for its confirmation, bequeathed to it a handsome legacy, and thus became the Father of the Drury-Lane Fund. So constant was his
attachment to this infant establishment, that be chose to grace the close of the brightest theatrical life on record, by the last display of his transcendent talent, on the occasion of a benefit for this child of his adoption, which ever since has gone by the name of the Garrick Fund. In imitation of his.
noble example, Funds had been established in
several provincial theatres in England; but it remained for Mrs Henry Siddons and Mr William
Murray to become the founders of the first Theatrical

Fund in Scotland. (Cheers.) This Fund commenced
under the  most  favourable  auspices;  it  was
liberally  supported  by  the  management,  and  highly
patronised by the public. Notwithstanding, it fell
short in the accomplishment of its intentions.
What those intentions were, he (Mr Mackay)

need not recapitulate, but they failed; and he did not hesitate to confess that a want of energy on the part of the performers was the probable cause. A new set of Rules and Regulations were lately
drawn up, submitted to and approved of at a general meeting of the members of the Theatre; and
accordingly the Fund was re-modelled on the 1st
of January last. And here he thought he did but
echo the feelings of his brethren, by publicly acknowledging the obligations they were under to
the management, for the aid given, and the warm
interest they had all along taken in the welfare of the Fund. (Cheers.) The nature and object of
the profession had been so well treated of by the President, that he would say nothing; but of the numerous offspring of science and genius that court precarious fame, the Actor boasts the slenderest claim of all; the sport of fortune, the creatures of fashion, and the victims of caprice---they are seen, beard, and admired, but to be forgot---they leave no trace, no memorial of their existence---they
``come like shadows, so depart.'' (Cheers.) Yet
humble though their pretensions be, there was no profession, trade, or calling, where such a combination of requisites, mental and bodily) were indispensable. In all others the principal may practise

after he has been visited by the afflicting hand of
Providence---some by the loss of limb---some of
voice---and many, when the faculty of the mind is
on the wane, may be assisted by dutiful children,
or devoted servants. Not so the Actor---he must

retain all he ever did possess, or sink dejected to a mournful home. (Applause.) Yet while they
are toiling for ephemeral theatric fame, how very few ever possess the means of hoarding in their
youth that which would give bread in old age!
But now a brighter prospect dawned upon them,
and to the success of this their infant establishment they looked with hope, as to a comfortable
and peaceful home in their declining years. He
concluded by tendering to the meeting, in the
name of his brethren and sisters, their unfeigned thanks for their liberal support, and begged to
propose the health of the Patrons of the Edinburgh Theatrical Fund. (Cheers.)

Lord Meadowbank said, that by desire of his Hon. Friend in the chair, and of his Noble Friend at his right hand, he begged leave to return thanks for the honour which had been conferred on the
Patrons of this excellent Institution. He could
answer for himself---he could answer for them all ---that they were deeply impressed with the meritorious objects which it has in view, and of their
anxious wish to promote its interests. For himself, he hoped he might be permitted to say, that
he was rather surprised at finding his own name
as one of the Patrons, associated with so many
individuals of high rank and powerful influence. But it was an excuse for those who had placed
him in a situation so honourable and so distinguished, that when this charity was instituted, he happened to hold a high and responsible station under
the Crown, when he might have been of use in
assisting and promoting its objects. His Lordship much feared that he could have little expectation, situated as he now was, of doing either; but
he could confidently assert, that few things would give him greater gratification than being able to contribute to its prosperity and support; and, indeed when one recollects the pleasure which at
all periods of life he has received from the exhibitions of the stage, and the exertions of the
meritorious individuals for whose aid this fund has been established, he must be divested both of gratitude and feeling who would not give his best
endeavours to promote its welfare. And now
that he might in some measure repay the gratification which had been afforded himself, he would
beg leave to propose a toast, the health of one of the Patrons, a great and distinguished individual, whose name must always stand by itself, and which, in an assembly such as this, or in any other assembly of Scotsmen, can never be received, (not
he would say with ordinary feelings of pleasure or of delight,) but with those of rapture and enthusiasm. In doing so he felt that he stood in a somewhat
new situation. Whoever had been called
upon to propose the health of his Hon. Friend to whom he alluded, some time ago, would have found himself enabled, from the mystery in which certain matters were involved, to gratify himself and his auditors by allusions which found a responding
chord in their own feelings, and to deal in the language, the sincere language, of panegyric, without
intruding on the modesty of the great individual to whom be referred. But it was no longer possible, consistently with the respect to one's auditors, to use upon this subject terms either of mystification, or of obscure or indirect allusion. The
clouds have been dispelled---the _darkness visible_

has been cleared away---and the Great Unknown
---the minstrel of our native land---the mighty
magician who has rolled back the current of time,
and conjured up before our living senses the men
and the manners of days which have long passed

away, stands revealed to the hearts and the eyes of his affectionate and admiring countrymen. If he
himself were capable of imagining all that belonged to this mighty subject---were he even able to give utterance to all that as a friend, as a man, and as a Scotsman, he must feel regarding it, yet knowing, as he well did, that this illustrious individual was not more distinguished for his towering talents, than for those feelings which rendered such allusions ungrateful to himself, however sparingly introduced, he would, on that account, still refrain from
doing that which would otherwise be no less
pleasing to him than to his audience. But this his Lordship hoped he would be allowed to say, (his
auditors would not pardon him were be to say less,) we owe to him, as a people, a large and heavy
debt of gratitude. He it is who has opened to
foreigners the grand and characteristic beauties of our country. It is to him that we owe that our
gallant ancestors and the struggles of our illustrious patriots---who fought and bled in order to
obtain and secure that independence and that liberty we now enjoy---have obtained a fame no
longer confined to the boundaries of a remote and comparatively obscure nation, and who has called down upon their struggles for glory and freedom the admiration of foreign countries. He it is who has conferred a new reputation on our national character, and bestowed on Scotland an imperishable name,
were it only by her having given birth to himself. (Loud and rapturous applause.)

Sir Walter Scott certainly did not think that, in coming here to-day, he would have the task of acknowledging, before 300 gentlemen, a secret
which, considering that it was communicated to more than twenty people, had been remarkably well kept. He was now before the bar of his country, and
might be understood to be on trial before Lord
Meadowbank as an offender; yet he was sure that
every impartial jury would bring in a verdict of Not Proven. He did not now think it necessary
to enter into the reasons of his long silence. Perhaps caprice might have a considerable share in it.
He had now to say, however, that the merits of
these works, if they had any, and their faults, were entirely imputable to himself. (Long and loud
cheering.) He was afraid to think on what he had done. ``Look on't again I dare not.'' He had thus far unbosomed himself, and he knew that it would be reported to the public. He meant, then, seriously to state, that when he said he was the author,
he was the total and undivided author. With the
exception of quotations, there was not a single
word that was not derived from himself, or suggested in the course of his reading. The wand was
now broken, and the book buried. You will allow
me further to say, with Prospero, it is your breath that has filled my sails, and to crave one single toast in the capacity of the author of these novels; and he would dedicate a bumper to the health of
one who has represented some of those characters, of which he had endeavoured to give the skeleton, with a degree of liveliness which rendered him
grateful. He would propose the health of his friend Bailie Nicol Jarvie, (loud applause)---and he was sure, that when the author of Waverley and Rob Roy drinks to Nicol Jarvie, it would be received with that degree of applause to which that gentleman has always been accustomed, and that they would take care that on the present occasion it should be =prodigious=! (Long and vehement applause.)

Mr Mackay, who here spoke with great humour in the character of Bailie Jarvie.---My conscience! My worthy father the deacon could not have believed that his son could hae had sic a compliment
paid to him by the Great Unknown!

Sir Walter Scott.---The Small Known now, Mr Bailie.

Mr Mackay.---He had been long identified with the Bailie, and he was vain of the cognomen which he had now worn for eight years; and he questioned if any of his brethren in the Council had given
such universal satisfaction. (Loud laughter and applause.) Before he sat down, he begged to propose
``the Lord Provost and the City of Edinburgh.''

Sir Walter Scott apologized for the absence of the Lord Provost, who had gone to London on
public business.

Tune---``Within a mile of Edinburgh town.''

Sir Walter Scott gave, ``The Duke of Wellington and the army.''

Glee---``How merrily we live.''

``Lord Melville and the Navy, that fought till they left nobody to fight with, like an arch sportsman who clears all and goes after the game.''

Mr Pat. Robertson---They had heard this evening a toast, which had been received with intense delight, which will be published in every
newspaper, and will be hailed with joy by all Europe. He had one toast assigned him which he had
great pleasure in giving. He was sure that the
stage had in all ages a great effect on the morals and manners of the people. It was very desirable that the stage should be well regulated; and there was no criterion by which its regulation could be better determined than by the moral character and personal respectability of the performers. He was not one of those stern moralists who objected to the Theatre. The most fastidious moralist could
not possibly apprehend any injury from the stage of Edinburgh, as it was presently managed, and
so long as it was adorned by that illustrious individual, Mrs Henry Siddons, whose public exhibitions
were not more remarkable for feminine
grace and delicacy, than was her private character for every virtue which could be admired in domestic life. He would conclude with reciting a few
words from Shakspeare, in a spirit not of contradiction to those stern moralists who disliked the
Theatre, but of meekness:---``Good my lord, will you see the players well bestowed? do you hear,
let them be well used, for they are the abstract and brief chronicles of the time.'' He then gave ``Mrs Henry Siddons, and success to the Theatre-Royal of Edinburgh.''

Mr Murray.---Gentlemen, I rise to return thanks for the honour you have done Mrs Siddons, in doing which I am somewhat difficulted,
from the extreme delicacy which attends a brother's

expatiating upon a sister's claims to honours
publicly paid---(hear, hear)---yet, Gentlemen, your
kindness emboldens me to say, that were I to give
utterance to all a brother's feelings, I should not
exaggerate those claims. (Loud applause.) I

therefore, Gentlemen, thank you most cordially
for the honour you have done her, and shall now request permission to make an observation on the establishment of the Edinburgh Theatrical Fund.
Mr Mackay has done Mrs Henry Siddons and myself
the honour to ascribe the establishment to us;
but no, Gentlemen, it owes its origin to a higher source---the publication of the novel of Rob Roy ---the unprecedented success of the opera adapted from that popular production. (Hear, hear.) It
was that success which relieved the Edinburgh
Theatre from its difficulties, and enabled Mrs Siddons to carry into effect the establishment of a
fund she had long desired, but was prevented from effecting, from the unsettled state of her theatrical concerns. I therefore hope that, in future
years, when the aged and infirm actor derives relief from this fund, he will, in the language of the gallant Highlander, ``Cast his eye to good old Scotland, and not forget Rob Roy.'' (Loud applause.)

Sir Walter Scott here stated, that Mrs Siddons wanted the means but not the will of beginning
the Theatrical Fund. He here alluded to
the great merits of Mr Murray's management, and
to his merits as an actor, which were of the first order, and of which every person who attends the Theatre must be sensible; and after alluding to
the embarrassments with which the Theatre had
been at one period threatened, be concluded by
giving the health of Mr Murray, which was drunk
with three times three.

Mr Murray.---Gentlemen, I wish I Could believe, that, in any degree, I merited the compliments
with which it has pleased Sir Walter Scott
to preface the proposal of my health, or the very flattering manner in which you have done me the
honour to receive it. The approbation of such an assembly is most gratifying to me, and might encourage feelings of vanity, were not such feelings
crushed by my conviction, that no man holding the situation I have so long held in Edinburgh, could have failed, placed in the peculiar circumstances in which I have been placed. Gentlemen, I shall not insult your good taste by eulogiums upon your
judgment or kindly feeling; though to the first I owe any improvement I may have made as an actor, and certainly my success as a Manager to the
second. (Applause.) When, upon the death of
my dear brother the late Mr Siddons, it was proposed that I should undertake the management of
the Edinburgh Theatre, I confess I drew back,
doubting my capability to free it from the load of debt and difficulty with which it was surrounded. In this state of anxiety, I solicited the advice of one who had ever honoured me with his kindest
regard, and whose name no member of my profession can pronounce without feelings of the deepest
respect and gratitude---I allude to the late Mr
John Kemble. (Great applause.) To him I
applied; and with the repetition of his advice I shall cease to trespass upon your time-(Hear,
hear.)-``My dear William, fear not; integrity
and assiduity must prove an overmatch for all difficulty; and though I approve your not indulging a
vain confidence in your ownability, and viewing with respectful apprehension the judgment of the audience you have to act before, yet be assured that
judgment will ever be tempered by the feeling
that you are acting for the widow and the fatherless.'' (Loud applause.) Gentlemen, those words
have never passed from my mind; and I feel convinced that you have pardoned my many errors,
from the feeling that I was striving for the widow and the fatherless. (Long and enthusiastic applause followed Mr Murray's address.)

Sir Walter Scott gave the health of the Stewards.

Mr Vandenhoff.---Mr President and Gentlemen, the honour conferred upon the Stewards, in the
very flattering compliment you have just paid us, calls forth our warmest acknowledgments. In tendering you our thanks for the approbation you have
been pleased to express of our humble exertions, I would beg leave to advert to the cause in which we have been engaged. Yet, surrounded as I am
by the genius---the eloquence of this enlightened city, I cannot but feel the presumption which ventures to address you on so interesting a subject.
Accustomed to speak in the language of others, I feel quite at a loss for terms wherein to clothe the sentiments excited by the present occasion. (Applause.) The nature of the Institution which has
sought your fostering patronage, and the objects which it contemplates, have been fully explained to you. But, gentlemen, the relief which it proposes is not a gratuitous relief---but to be purchased by the individual contribution of its members towards the general good. This Fund lends no encouragement to idleness or improvidence; but it offers
an opportunity to prudence, in vigour and youth, to make provision against the evening of life and its attendant infirmity. A period is fixed, at
which we admit the plea of age as an exemption
from professional labour. It is painful to behold the veteran on the stage (compelled by necessity) contending against physical decay, mocking the
joyousness of mirth with the feebleness of age,
when the energies decline, when the memory
fails, and ``the big manly voice, turning again towards childish treble, pipes and whistles in the
sound.'' We would remove him from the mimic
scene, where fiction constitutes the charm; we
would not view old age caricaturing itself. (Applause.) But as our means may be found, in time
of need, inadequate to the fulfilment of our wishes ---fearful of raising expectations, which we may be unable to gratify-desirous not ``to keep the word of promise to the ear, and break it to the hope''--- we have presumed to court the assistance of the
friends of the drama to strengthen our infant institution. Our appeal has been successful, beyond
oar most sanguine expectations. The distinguished patronage conferred on us by your presence on
this occasion, and the substantial support which your benevolence has so liberally afforded to our institution, must impress every member of the
Fund with the most grateful sentiments---sentiments which no language can express, no time obliterate. (Applause.) I will not trespass longer on
your attention. I would the task of acknowledging our obligation had fallen into abler hands. (Hear, hear.) In the name of the Stewards, I most respectfully and cordially thank you for the honour
you have done us, which greatly overpays our
poor endeavours. (Applause.)

[This speech, though rather inadequately reported, was one of the best delivered on this occasion.
That it was creditable to Mr Vandenhoff's
taste and feelings, the preceding sketch will show; but how much it was so, it does not show.]

Mr J. Cay gave Professor Wilson and the University of Edinburgh, of which he was one of the
brightest ornaments.

Lord Meadowbank, after a suitable eulogium, gave the Earl of Fife, which was drunk with three times three.

Earl Fife expressed his high gratification at the honour conferred on him. He intimated his
approbation of the institution, and his readiness to promote its success by every means in his power. He concluded with giving the health of the Company of Edinburgh.

Mr Jones, on rising to return thanks, being received with considerable applause, said he was truly grateful for the kind encouragement he had experienced, but the novelty of the situation in which he now was, renewed all the feelings he
experienced when he first saw himself announced
in the bills as a young gentleman, being his first appearance on any stage. (Laughter and applause.) Although in the presence of those whose indulgence had, in another sphere, so often shielded
him from the penalties of inability, be was unable to execute the task which had so unexpectedly devolved upon him in behalf of his brethren and
himself. He therefore begged the company to
imagine all that grateful hearts could prompt the most eloquent to utter, and that would be a copy of their feelings. (Applause.) He begged to trespass another moment on their attentions, for the
purpose of expressing the thanks of the members
of the Fund to the Gentlemen of the Edinburgh
Professional Society of Musicians, who, finding
that this meeting was appointed to take place on the same evening with their concert, had in the
handsomest manner agreed to postpone it. Although it was his duty thus to preface the toast he
had to propose, he was certain the meeting required no farther inducement than the recollection of the pleasure the exertions of those gentlemen had
often afforded them within those walls, to join
heartily in drinking ``Health and prosperity to
the Edinburgh Professional Society of Musicians.'' (Applause.)

Mr Pat. Robertson proposed ``the health of Mr Jeffrey,'' whose absence was owing to indisposition. The public was well aware that he was
the most distinguished advocate at the bar; he was likewise distinguished for the kindness, frankness, and cordial manner in which he communicated
with the junior members of the profession, to the esteem of whom his splendid talents would always entitle him.

Mr J. Maconochie gave ``the health of Mrs Siddons, senior---the most distinguished ornament of the stage.''

Sir W. Scott said, that if any thing could reconcile him to old age, it was the reflection that he
had seen the rising as well as the setting sun of Mrs Siddons. He remembered well their breakfasting

near to the theatre---waiting the whole day
---the crushing at the doors at six o'clock---and
their going in and counting their fingers till seven
o'clock. But the very first step---the very first
word which she uttered, was sufficient to overpay

him for all his labours. The house was literally electrified; and it was only from witnessing the effects of her genius, that he could guess to what a pitch theatrical excellence could be carried.
Those young gentlemen who have only seen the
setting sun of this distinguished performer, beautiful and serene as that was, must give us old fellows, who have seen its rise and its meridian, leave to hold our heads a little higher.

Mr Dundas gave ``The memory of Home, the author of Douglas.''

Mr Mackay here announced that the subscription for the night amounted to L.280; and he expressed gratitude for this substantial proof of their
kindness. [We are happy to state that subscriptions have since flowed in very liberally.]

Mr Mackay here entertained the company with a pathetic song.

Sir Walter Scott apologized for having so long forgotten their native land. He would now give Scotland, the Land of Cakes. He would give
every river, every loch, every hill, from Tweed to Johnnie Groat's house--every lass in her cottage and countess in her castle; and may her sons stand by her, as their fathers did before them, and he who would not drink a bumper to his toast, may
he never drink whisky more!

Sir Walter Scott here gave Lord Meadowbank, who returned thanks.

Mr H. G. Bell said, that he should not have ventured to intrude himself upon the attention of the assembly, did be not feel confident, that the toast he begged to have the honour to propose,
would retake amends for the very imperfect manner in which be might express his sentiments regarding it. It had been said, that notwithstanding
the mental supremacy of the present age, notwithstanding that the page of our history was studded
with names destined also for the page of immortality, ---that the genius of Shakspeare was extinct,
and the fountain of his inspiration dried up. It might be that these observations were unfortunately correct, or it might be that we were bewildered
with a name, not disappointed of the reality,
---for though Shakspeare had brought a Hamlet,
an Othello, and a Macbeth, an Ariel, a Juliet, and a Rosalind, upon the stage, were there not authors living who had brought as varied, as exquisitely painted, and as undying a range of characters into our hearts? The shape of the mere mould into
which genius poured its golden treasures was surely a matter of little moment,---let it be called a Tragedy, a Comedy, or a Waverley Novel. But even
among the dramatic authors of the present day, he was unwilling to allow that there was a great and palpable decline from the glory of preceding ages, and his toast alone would bear him out in denying the truth of the proposition. After eulogizing the names of Baillie, Byron, Coleridge, Maturin, and others, he begged to have the honour of proposing the health of James Sheridan Knowles.

Sir Walter Scott.---Gentlemen, I crave a bumper all over. The last toast reminds me of a neglect of duty. Unaccustomed to a public duty of this
kind, errors in conducting the ceremonial of it may be excused, and omissions pardoned. Perhaps I
have made one or two omissions in the course of the evening, for which I trust you will grant me your pardon and indulgence. One thing in particular I have omitted, and I would now wish to make
amends for it, by a libation of reverence and respect to the memory of Shakspeare. He was a
man of universal genius, and from a period soon
after his own era to the present day, he has been universally idolized. When I come to his honoured name, I am like the sick man who hung up his
crutches at the shrine, and was obliged to confess that he did not walk better than before. It is
indeed difficult, gentlemen, to compare him to any other individual. The only one to whom I can at
all compare him, is the wonderful Arabian dervish, who dived into the body of each, and in this way became familiar with the thoughts and secrets of their hearts. He was a man of obscure origin,
and, as a player, limited in his acquirements, but he was born evidently with a universal genius.
His eyes glanced at all the varied aspects of life, and his fancy portrayed with equal talents the king on the throne, and the clown who crackles his
chestnuts at a Christmas fire. Whatever note he
takes, he strikes it just and true, and awakens a corresponding chord in our own bosoms. Gentlemen, I propose ``The memory of William Shakspeare.''

Glee,---``Lightly tread, 'tis hallowed ground.''

After the glee, Sir Walter rose, and begged to propose as a toast the health of a lady, whose living merit is not a little honourable to Scotland. The toast (said he) is also flattering to the national vanity of a Scotchman, as the lady whom I intend to propose is a native of this country. From the public her works have met with the most favourable reception. One piece of hers, in particular, was often acted here of late years, and gave pleasure of no mean kind to many brilliant and fashionable audiences. In her private character she (he begged leave to say) is as remarkable, as in a public
sense she is for her genius. In short, he would
in one word name-``Joanna Baillie.''

This health being drunk, Mr Thorne was called on for a song, and sung, with great taste and feeling, ``The Anchor's weighed.''

W. Menzies, Esq., Advocate, rose to propose the health of a gentleman for many years connected at intervals with the dramatic art in Scotland.
Whether we look at the range of characters he
performs, or at the capacity which he evinces in executing those which he undertakes, he is equally to be admired. In all his parts he is unrivalled. The individual to whom he alluded is, (said he)

well known to the gentlemen present, in the characters
of Malvolio,  Lord  Ogleby,  and  the   Green
Man; and,  in  addition  to  his  other  qualities,  he
merits, for his perfection in these characters, the
grateful sense of this meeting. He would wish, in
the first place, to drink his health as an actor; but

he was not less estimable in domestic life, and as a private gentleman; and when be announced him
as one whom the chairman had honoured with his
friendship, he was sure that all present would cordially join him in drinking ``The health of Mr
Terry.''

  Mr  William  Allan,  banker,  said,   that   he   did
not rise with the intention of making a speech. He
merely wished to contribute in a few words to the
mirth of the evening---an evening which certainly

had not passed off without some blunders. It had been understood---at least be had learnt or supposed, from the expressions of Mr Pritchard---that
it would be sufficient to put a paper, with the name of the contributor, into the box, and that the gentleman thus contributing would be called on for the
money next morning. He, for his part, had committed a blunder, but it might serve as a caution
to those who may be present at the dinner of next year. He had merely put in his name, written on
a slip of paper, without the money. But he would recommend that, as some of the gentlemen might
be in the same situation, the box should be again sent round, and he was confident that they, as well as he, would redeem their error.

Sir Walter Scott said, that the meeting was somewhat in the situation of Mrs Anne Page, who
had L.300 and possibilities. We have already got, said he, L.280, but I should like, I confess, to have the L.300. He would gratify himself by proposing the health of ail honourable person, the Lord
Chief Baron, whom England has sent to us, and
connecting with it that of his ``yokefellow on the bench,'' as Shakspeare says, Mr Baron Clerk---
The Court of Exchequer.

Mr Baron CLERK regretted the absence of his learned brother. None, he was sure, could be more generous in his nature, or more ready to help a
Scottish purpose.

Sir Walter Scott.---There is one who ought to be remembered on this occasion. He is, indeed, well entitled to our grateful recollection---one, in short, to whom the drama in this city owes much. He succeeded, not without trouble, and perhaps at some considerable sacrifice, in establishing a theatre. The younger part of the company may not recollect the theatre to which I allude; but there are
some who with me may remember by name a place
called Carrubber's Close. There Allan Ramsay
established his little theatre. His own pastoral was not fit for the stage, but it has its admirers in those who love the Doric language in which it is written; and it is not without merits of a very peculiar kind. But, laying aside all considerations of
his literary merit, Allan was a good jovial honest fellow, who could crack a bottle with the best.--- The memory of Allan Ramsay.

Mr Murray, on being requested, sung, ``'Twas merry in the hall,'' and at the conclusion was greeted with repeated rounds of applause.

Mr Jones.---One omission I conceive has been made. The cause of the fund has been ably advocated, but it is still susceptible, in my opinion, of
an additional charm---

Without the smile from partial beauty won,
Oh, what were man?---a world without a sun

And there would not be a darker spot in poetry
than would be the corner in Shakspeare Square,
if, like its fellow, the Register Office, the Theatre were deserted by the ladies. They are, in fact,
our most attractive stars.---``The Patronesses of the Theatre---the Ladies of the City of Edinburgh.'' This toast I ask leave to drink with all
the honours which conviviality can confer.

Mr Patrick Robertson would be the last man willingly to introduce any topic calculated to interrupt the harmony of the evening; yet he felt himself treading upon ticklish ground when be approached the region of the Nor' Loch. He assured
the company, however, that he was not about to
enter on the subject of the Improvement bill. They all knew, that if the public were unanimous---if the consent of all parties were obtained---if the rights and interests of every body were therein

attended to, saved, reserved, respected, and excepted
---if every body agreed to it---and finally, a
most essential point---if nobody opposed it---then,
and in that case, and provided also, that due intimation
were given---the bill in question might pass
---would pass---or might, could, would, or should
pass---all expenses being defrayed.---(Laughter.)---
He was the advocate of neither champion,and would
neither avail himself of the absence of the Right
Hon. the Lord Provost, nor take advantage of the

non-appearance of his friend, Mr Cockburn.---
(Laughter.)---But in the midst of these civic broils, there had been elicited a ray of hope, that, at some future period, in Bereford Park, or some other place, if all parties were consulted and satisfied, and if intimation were duly made at the Kirk doors of all
the parishes in Scotland, in terms of the statute in that behalf provided---the people of Edinburgh
might by possibility get a new theatre.---(Cheers and laughter.)---But wherever the belligerent
powers might be pleased to set down this new
theatre, he was sure they all hoped to meet the
Old Company in it. He should therefore propose
---``Better accommodation to the Old Company
in the new theatre, site unknown.''---Mr Robertson's speech was most humorously given, and he
sat down amidst loud cheers and laughter.

Sir Walter Scott.---Wherever the new theatre is built, I hope it will not be large.
There are two errors which we commonly commit
---the one arising from our pride, the other from our poverty. If there are twelve plans, it is odds but the largest, without any regard to comfort, or an eye to the probable expense, is adopted. There was the College projected on this scale, and undertaken in the same manner, and who shall see the
end of it? It has been building all my life, and may probably last during the lives of my children, and my children's children. Let not the same prophetic hymn be sung, when we commence a new
theatre, which was performed on the occasion of
laying the foundation stone of a certain edifice, ``behold the endless work begun.'' Play-going
folks should attend somewhat to convenience. The new theatre should, in the first Place, be such as may be finished in eighteen months or two years; and, in the second place, it should be one in which we can hear our old friends with comfort. It is
better that a moderate-sized house should be crowded now and then, than to have a large Theatre
with benches continually empty, to the discouragement

of the actors, and the discomfort of the spectators.
---(Applause.)---He then commented in flattering
terms on the genius of Mackenzie and his
private worth, and concluded by proposing ``the
health of Henry Mackenzie, Esq.''

Immediately afterwards he said: Gentlemen,--- It is now wearing late, and I shall request permission to retire. Like Partridge I may say, ``non
sum qualis eram.'' At my time of day, I can agree with Lord Ogilvie as to his rheumatism, and say, ``There's a twinge.'' I hope, therefore, you will excuse me for leaving the chair.---(The worthy
Baronet then retired amidst long, loud, and rapturous cheering.)

Mr Patrick Robertson was then called to the chair by common acclamation.

Gentlemen, said Mr Robertson, I take the liberty of asking you to fill a bumper to the very brim. There is not one of us who will not remember, while he lives, being present at this day's festival, and the declaration made this night by the
gentleman who has just left the chair. That declaration has rent the veil from the features of the
Great Unknown---a name which must now merge
in the name of the Great Known. It will be
henceforth coupled with the name of Scott, which will become familiar like a household word. We

have heard the confession from his own immortal
lips---(cheering)---and we cannot dwell with too
much, or too fervent praise, on the merits of the
greatest man whom Scotland has produced.

After which, several other toasts were given, and Mr Robertson left the room about half-past
eleven. A few choice spirits, however, rallied
round Captain Broadhead of the 7th hussars, who
was called to the chair, and the festivity was prolonged till an early hour on Saturday morning.

The band of the Theatre occupied the gallery, and that of the 7th hussars the end of the room, opposite the chair, whose performances were greatly admired. It is but justice to Mr Gibb to state
that the dinner was very handsome (though slowly served in) and the wines good. The attention of
the stewards was exemplary. Mr Murray and Mr
Vandenhoff, with great good taste, attended on Sir Walter Scott's right and left, and we know that
he has expressed himself much gratified by their anxious politeness and sedulity.
[3. Introductory]

CHRONICLES

OF

THE CANONGATE.
CHAPTER I.
Mr Chrystal Croftangry's account of
Himself.
Sic itur ad astra.

``This is the path to heaven.'' Such is the ancient motto attached to the armorial bearings of
the Canongate, and which is inscribed, with greater or less propriety, upon all the public buildings, from the church to the pillory, in the ancient quarter of Edinburgh, which bears, or rather once
bore, the same relation to the Good Town that
Westminster does to London, being still possessed of the palace of the sovereign, as it formerly was dignified by the residence of the principal nobility and gentry. I may, therefore, with some propriety, put the same motto at the bead of the literary
undertaking by which I hope to illustrate the
hitherto undistinguished name of Chrystal Croftangry.

The public may desire to know something of an author who pitches at such height his ambitious expectations. The gentle reader, therefore---for I am much of Captain Bobadil's humour, and could to no other extend myself so far---the _gentle_ reader, then, will be pleased to understand, that I am
a Scottish gentleman of the old school, with a fortune, temper, and person, rather the worse for
wear. I have known the world for these forty
years, having written myself man nearly since
that period---and I do not think it is much mended. But this is an opinion which I keep to myself
when I am among younger folk, for I recollect,
in my youth, quizzing the Sexagenarians who
carried back their ideas of a perfect state of society to the days of laced coats and triple ruffles, and some of them to the blood and blows of the Forty-five: Therefore I am cautious in exercising the
right of censorship, which is supposed to be acquired by men arrived at, or approaching, the mysterious period of life, when the numbers of seven
and nine multiplied into each other, form what
sages have termed the Grand Climacteric.

Of the earlier part of my life it is only necessary to say, that I swept the boards of the Parliament-House with the skirts of my gown for the
usual number of years during which young Lairds

were in my time expected to keep term---got no
fees---laughed, and made others laugh---drank claret
at Bayle's, Fortune's, and Walker's---and eat
oysters in the Covenant Close.

Becoming my own master, I flung my gown at the bar-keeper, and commenced gay man on my
own account. In Edinburgh, I ran into all the
expensive society which the place then afforded. When I went to my house in the shire of Lanark,
I emulated to the utmost the expenses of men of
large fortune, and had my hunters, my first-rate pointers, my game-cocks, and feeders. I can more easily forgive myself for these follies, than for others of a still more blamable kind, so indifferently cloaked over, that my poor mother thought
herself obliged to leave my habitation, and betake herself to a small inconvenient jointure-house,
which she occupied till her death. I think, however, I was not exclusively to blame in this separation, and I believe my mother afterwards condemned
herself for being too hasty. Thank God,
the adversity which destroyed the means of continuing my dissipation, restored me to the affections
of my surviving parent.

My course of life could not last. I ran too fast to run long; and when I would have checked my
career, I was perhaps too near the brink of the
precipice. Some mishaps I prepared by my own
folly, others came upon me unawares. I put my
estate out to nurse to a fat man of business, who smothered the babe he should have brought back
to me in health and strength, and, in dispute with this honest gentleman, I found, like a skilful general, that my position would be most judiciously
assumed by taking it up near the Abbey of Holyrood.*

Note A. Holyrood.

It was then I first became acquainted with
the quarter, which my little work will, I hope,
render immortal, and grew familiar with those
magnificent wilds, through which the Kings of
Scotland once chased the dark-brown deer, but
which were chiefly recommended to me in those
days, by their being inaccessible to those metaphysical persons, whom the law of the neighbouring
country terms John Doe and Richard Roe. In
short, the precincts of the palace are now best
known as being a place of refuge at any time from all pursuit for civil debt.

Dire was the strife betwixt my quondam doer and myself; during which my motions were circumscribed, like those of some conjured demon,
within a circle, which, ``beginning at the northern gate of the King's Park, thence running northways, is bounded on the left by the King's garden-wall, and the gutter, or kennel, in a line wherewith
it crosses the High Street to the Watergate,
and passing through the sewer, is bounded
by the walls of the Tennis-court and Physic-garden, &c. It then follows the wall of the churchyard, joins the north west wall of St Ann's Yards,
and going east to the clack mill-house, turns southward to the turnstile in the King's park-wall, and
includes the whole King's Park within the Sanctuary.''

These limits, which I abridge from the accurate Maitland, once marked the Girth, or Asylum, belonging to the Abbey of Holyrood, and which,
being still an appendage to the royal palace, has retained the privilege of an asylum for civil debt. One would think the space sufficiently extensive for a man to stretch his limbs in, as, besides a reasonable proportion of level ground, (considering
that the scene lies in Scotland,) it includes within its precincts the mountain of Arthur's Seat, and the rocks and pasture land called Salisbury Crags. But yet it is inexpressible how, after a certain time had elapsed, I used to long for Sunday' which permitted me to extend my walk without limitation. During the other six days of the week I
felt a sickness of heart, which, but for the speedy approach of the hebdomadal day of liberty, I could hardly have endured. I experienced the impatience of a mastiff, who tugs in vain to extend the
limits which his chain permits.

Day after day I walked by the side of the kennel which divides the Sanctuary from the unprivileged part of the Canongate; and though the
month was July, and the scene the old town of
Edinburgh, I preferred it to the fresh air and verdant turf which I might have enjoyed in the King's
Park, or to the cool and solemn gloom of the portico which surrounds the palace. To an indifferent
person either side of the gutter would have seemed much the same---the houses equally mean, the
children as ragged and dirty, the carmen as brutal, the whole forming the same picture of low life in a deserted and impoverished quarter of a large city. But to me, the gutter, or kennel, was what the
brook Kedron was to Shimei; death was denounced
against him should he cross it, doubtless because it was known to his wisdom who pronounced the
doom, that from the time the crossing the stream was debarred, the devoted man's desire to transgress the precept would become irresistible, and he
would be sure to draw down on his head the penalty which he had already justly incurred by cursing
the anointed of God. For my part, all Elysium
seemed opening on the other side of the kennel,
and I envied the little blackguards, who, stopping the current with their little dam-dikes of mud, had a right to stand on either side of the nasty puddle which best pleased them. I was so childish as even to make an occasional excursion across, were it
only for a few yards, and felt the triumph of a
schoolboy, who, trespassing in an orchard, hurries back again with a fluttering sensation of joy and terror, betwixt the pleasure of having executed
his purpose, and the fear of being taken or discovered.

I have sometimes asked myself, what I should have done in case of actual imprisonment, since I could not bear without impatience a restriction
which is comparatively a mere trifle; but I really could never answer the question to my own satisfaction. I have all my life hated those treacherous
expedients called _mezzo-termini_, and it is possible with this disposition I might have endured more
patiently an absolute privation of liberty, than the more modified restrictions to which my residence in the Sanctuary at this period subjected me. If, however, the feelings I then experienced were to increase in intensity according to the difference between a jail and my actual condition, I must have hanged myself, or pined to death; there could have been no other alternative.

Amongst many companions who forgot and neglected me of course, when my difficulties seemed
to be inextricable, I had one true friend; and that friend was a barrister, who knew the laws of his country well, and, tracing them up to the spirit of equity and justice in which they originate, had
repeatedly prevented, by his benevolent and manly exertions, the triumphs of selfish cunning over
simplicity and folly. He undertook my cause,
with the assistance of a solicitor of a character similar to his own. My quondam doer had ensconced
himself chin-deep among legal trenches, hornworks, and, covered ways; but my two protectors shelled him out of his defences, and I was at length a free man, at liberty to go or stay wheresoever my mind listed.

I left my lodgings as hastily as if it had been a pest-house; I did not even stop to receive some
change that was due to me on settling with my
landlady, and I saw the poor woman stand at her
door looking after my precipitate flight, and shaking her head as she wrapped the silver which she
was counting for me in a separate piece of paper, apart from the store in her own moleskin purse.
An honest Highlandwoman was Janet MacEvoy,
and deserved a greater remuneration, had I possessed the power of bestowing it. But my eagerness
of delight was too extreme to pause for explanation with Janet. On I pushed through the
groups of children, of whose sports I had been so often a lazy lounging spectator. I sprung over
the gutter as if it had been the fatal Styx, and I a ghost, which, eluding Pluto's authority, was making its escape from Limbo lake. My friend had
difficulty to restrain me from running like a madman up the street; and in spite of his kindness and
hospitality, which soothed me for a day or two, I was not quite happy until I found myself aboard of a Leith smack, and, standing down the Frith with a fair wind, might snap my fingers at the retreating outline of Arthur's Seat, to the vicinity of which I had been so long confined.

It is not my purpose to trace my future progress through life. I had extricated myself, or rather had been freed by my friends, from the brambles
and thickets of the law, but, as befell the sheep in the fable, a great part of my fleece was left behind me. Something remained, however; I was in the
season for exertion, and, as my good mother used to say, there was always life for living folk. Stern necessity gave my manhood that prudence which
my youth was a stranger to. I faced danger, I
endured fatigue, I sought foreign climates, and
proved that I belonged to the nation which is proverbially patient of labour and prodigal of life. Independence, like liberty to Virgil's shepherd, came
late, but came at last, with no great affluence in its train, but bringing enough to support a decent appearance for the rest of my life, and to induce
cousins to be civil, and gossips to say, ``I wonder who old Croft will make his heir? he must have
picked up something, and I should not be surprised if it prove more than folk think of.''

My first impulse when I returned home was to rush to the house of my benefactor, the only
man who had in my distress interested himself in my behalf. He was a snuff-taker, and it had been the pride of my heart to save the _ipsa corpora_ of the first score of guineas I could hoard, and to have them converted into as tasteful a snuff-box as Rundell and Bridge could devise. This I had thrust
for security into the breast of my waistcoat, while, impatient to transfer it to the person for whom it was destined, I hastened to his house in Brown's Square. When the front of the house became
visible, a feeling of alarm checked me. I had been long absent from Scotland, my friend was some
years older than I; he might have been called to the congregation of the just. I paused, and gazed on the house, as if I had hoped to form some conjecture from the outward appearance concerning
the state of the family within. I know not how it was, but the lower windows being all closed and
no one stirring, my sinister forebodings were rather strengthened. I regretted now that I had not
made enquiry before I left the inn where I alighted from the mail-coach. But it was too late; so I hurried on, cager to know the best or the worst which
I could learn.

  The  brass-plate  bearing   my   friend's   name   and
designation was still on the door, and when it
was opened, the old domestic appeared a good
deal older I thought than he ought naturally

to have looked, considering the period of my absence. ``Is Mr Sommerville at home?'' said I,
pressing forward.

  ``Yes, sir,'' said John, placing himself in opposition
to my entrance, ``he is at home, but------''

``But he is not in,'' said I. ``I remember your phrase of old, John. Come, I will step into his room, and leave a line for him.''

John was obviously embarrassed by my familiarity. I was some one, lie saw, whom he ought to
recollect, at the same time it was evident he remembered nothing about me.

  ``Ay, sir, my master is in, and in his own room,
but------''

I would not hear him out, but passed before him towards the well-known apartment. A young lady
came out of the room a little disturbed, as it seemed, and said, ``John, what is the matter?''

``A gentleman, Miss Nelly, that insists on seeing my master.''

``A very old and deeply indebted friend,'' said I, ``that ventures to press myself on my much-respected benefactor on my return from abroad.''

  ``Alas, sir,'' replied she, ``my uncle would be
happy to see you, but------''

At this moment, something was heard within the apartment like the falling of a plate, or glass, and immediately after my friend's voice called
angrily and eagerly for his niece. She entered the room hastily, and so did I. But it was to see a
spectacle, compared with which that of my benefactor stretched on his bier would have been a
happy one.

The easy-chair filled with cushions, the extended limbs swathed in flannel, the wide wrapping-gown and nightcap, showed illness; but the dimmed
eye, once so replete with living fire, the blabber lip, whose dilation and compression used to give such character to his animated countenance,---the stammering tongue, that once poured forth such
floods of masculine eloquence, and had often swayed the opinion of the sages whom he addressed,---all these sad symptoms evinced that my friend was in the melancholy condition of those, in whom the
principle of animal life has unfortunately survived that of mental intelligence. He gazed a moment at me, but then seemed insensible of my presence, and went on---he, once the most courteous and well-bred! ---to babble unintelligible but violent reproaches against his niece and servant, because he himself had dropped a teacup in attempting to Place it on a table at his elbow. His eyes caught a momentary fire from his irritation; but he struggled in vain for words to express himself adequately, as, looking from his servant to his niece and then to the
table, he laboured to explain that they had placed it (though it touched his chair) at too great a distance from him.

The young person, who had naturally a resigned Madonna-like expression of countenance, listened to his impatient chiding with the most humble submission, checked the servant, whose less delicate
feelings would have entered on his justification, and gradually, by the sweet and soft tone of her voice, soothed to rest the spirit of causeless irritation.

She then cast a look towards me, which expressed, ``You see all that remains of him whom you
call friend.'' It seemed also to say, ``Your longer presence here can only be distressing to us all.''

``Forgive me young lady,'' I said, as well as tears would permit; ``I am a person deeply obliged to your uncle. My name is Croftangry.''

``Lord! and that I should not hae minded ye, Maister Croftangry,'' said the servant. ``Ay, I mind my master had muckle fash about your job.
I hae heard him order in fresh candles as midnight chappit, and till't again. Indeed, ye had aye his gude word, Mr Croftangry, for a' that folks said about you.''

``Hold your tongue, John,'' said the lady, somewhat angrily; and then continued, addressing herself
to me, ``I am sure, sir, you must be sorry to
see my uncle in this state. I know you are his
friend. I have heard him mention your name, and wonder he never heard from you.'' A new cut this, and it went to my heart. But she continued, ``I really do not know if it is right that any should--- If my uncle should know you, which I scarce think

possible, he would be much affected, and the doctor
says that any agitation------But here comes Dr------
to give his own opinion.''

  Dr ------ entered.  I had left him a middle-aged
man; he was now an elderly one; but still the same
benevolent Samaritan, who went about doing good,
and thought the blessings of the poor as good a

recompense of his professional skill as the gold of the rich.

He looked at me with surprise, but the young lady said a word of introduction, and I, who was known to the doctor formerly, hastened to complete it. He recollected me perfectly, and intimated
that he was well acquainted with the reasons
I had for being deeply interested in the fate of his patient. He gave me a very melancholy account
of my poor friend, drawing me for that purpose a little apart from the lady. ``The light of life,'' he said, ``was trembling in the socket; he scarcely expected it would ever leap up even into a momentary flash, but more was impossible.'' He then
stepped towards his patient, and put some questions, to which the poor invalid, though he seemed
to recognise the friendly and familiar voice, answered only in a faltering and uncertain manner.

The young lady, in her turn, had drawn back when the doctor approached his patient. ``You see how it is with him,'' said the doctor, addressing me; ``I have heard our poor friend, in one of the most eloquent of his pleadings, give a description of this very disease, which he compared to the tortures inflicted by Mezentius, when he chained the
dead to the living. The soul, he said, is imprisoned in its dungeon of flesh, and though retaining its natural and unalienable properties, can no more
exert them than the captive enclosed within a prison-house can act as a free agent. Alas! to see
him, who could so well describe what this malady was in others, a prey himself to its infirmities! I shall never forget the solemn tone of expression with which he summed up the incapacities of the

paralytic,---the deafened ear, the dimmed eye, the
crippled limbs,---in the noble words of Juvenal---

                                    ------` omni
     Membrorum damno major, dementia, qu<ae> nec
     Nomina servorum, nec vultum agnoscit amici.' ''

As the physician repeated these lines, a flash of intelligence seemed to revive in the invalid's eye--- sunk again---again struggled, and he spoke more
intelligibly than before, and in the tone of one eager to say something which he felt would escape him unless said instantly. ``A question of death-bed,

a question of death-bed, doctor---a reduction
_ex capite lecti_---Withering against Wilibus---about
the _morbus sonticus_.  I  pleaded  the  cause  for  the
pursuer---I, and---and---Why, I shall forget my
own name---I,and---he that was the wittiest and
the best-humoured man living---''

The description enabled the doctor to fill up the blank, and the patient joyfully repeated the name

suggested.  ``Ay, ay,'' he said, ``just he---Harry
---poor Harry---'' The light in his eye died
away, and he sunk back in his easy-chair.

``You have now seen more of our poor friend, Mr Croftangry,'' said the physician, ``than I dared venture to promise you; and now I must take my
professional authority on me, and ask you to retire. Miss Sommerville will, I am sure, let you know if a moment should by any chance occur when her
uncle can see you.''

What could I do? I gave my card to the young lady, and, taking my offering from my bosom---
``if my poor friend,'' I said, with accents as broken almost as his own, ``should ask where this came
from, name me; and say from the most obliged and most grateful man alive. Say, the gold of which it is composed was saved by grains at a time, and was hoarded with as much avarice as ever was a
miser's:---to bring it here I have come a thousand miles, and now, alas, I find him thus!''

I laid the box on the table, and was retiring with a lingering step. The eye of the invalid was caught by it, as that of a child by a glittering toy, and with infantine impatience he faltered out enquiries of Dis niece. With gentle mildness she repeated again
and again who I was, and why I came, &c. I was about to turn, and hasten from a scene so painful, when the physician laid his hand on my sleeve--- ``Stop,'' he said, ``there is a change.''

There was indeed, and a marked one. A faint glow spread over his pallid features---they seemed

to gain the look of intelligence which belongs to
vitality---his eye once more kindled---his lip coloured---
and drawing himself up out of the listless posture
he had hitherto maintained, he rose without
assistance.  The doctor and the servant ran to give

him their support. He waved them aside, and they were contented to place themselves in such a postion behind as might ensure against accident, should
his newly-acquired strength decay as suddenly as it had revived.

``My dear Croftangry,'' he said, in the tone of kindness of other days, ``I am glad to see you returned---

You find me but poorly---but my little
niece here and Dr ------ are very kind---God bless
you, my dear friend! we shall not meet again till
we meet in a better world.''

I pressed his extended hand to my lips---I pressed it to my bosom---I would fain have flung myself
on my knees; but the doctor, leaving the patient to the young lady and the servant, who wheeled
forward his chair, and were replacing him in it, hurried me out of the room. ``My dear sir,'' he said, ``you ought to be satisfied; you have seen our poor invalid more like his former self than he has been for months, or than he may be perhaps
again until all is over. The whole Faculty could not have assured such an interval---I must see whether any thing can be derived from it to improve
the general health---Pray, begone.'' The last argument hurried me from the spot, agitated by a crowd
of feelings, all of them painful.
When I had overcome the shock of this great
disappointment, I renewed gradually my acquaintance with one or two old companions, who, though
of infinitely less interest to my feelings than my unfortunate friend, served to relieve the pressure of actual solitude, and who were not perhaps the less open to my advances, that I was a bachelor
somewhat stricken in years, newly arrived from
foreign parts, and certainly independent, if not wealthy.
I was considered as a tolerable subject of speculation by some, and I could not be burdensome to
any: I was therefore, according to the ordinary
rule of Edinburgh hospitality, a welcome guest in several respectable families; but I found no one who could replace the loss I had sustained in my best friend and benefactor. I wanted something
more than mere companionship could give me, and
where was I to look for it?---among the scattered remnants of those that had been my gay friends of yore?---alas;

Many a lad I loved was dead,
And many a lass grown old.

Besides, all community of ties between us had
ceased to exist, and such of former friends as were still in the world, held their life in a different tenor from what I did.
Some had become misers, and were as eager in
saving sixpence as ever they had been in spending a guinea. Some had turned agriculturists---their talk was of oxen, and they were only fit companions for graziers. Some stuck to cards, and
though no longer deep gamblers, rather played
small game than sat out. This I particularly despised. The strong impulse of gaming, alas! I
had felt in my time---it is as intense as it is criminal; but it produces excitation and interest, and I
can conceive how it should become a passion with strong and powerful minds. But to dribble away
life in exchanging bits of painted pasteboard round a green table, for the piddling concern of a few shillings, can only be excused in folly or superannuation. It is like riding on a rocking-horse, where
your utmost exertion never carries you a foot forward; it is a kind of mental tread-mill, where you
are perpetually climbing, but can never rise an
inch. From these hints, my readers will perceive I am incapacitated for one of the pleasures of old age, which, though not mentioned by Cicero, is
not the least frequent resource in the present day ---the club-room, and the snug hand at whist.
To return to my old companions: Some frequented
public assemblies, like the ghost of Beau
Nash, or any other beau of half a century back,
thrust aside by tittering youth, and pitied by those of their own age. In fine, some went into devotion, as the French term it, and others, I fear, went
to the devil; a few found resources in science and letters; one or two turned philosophers in a small way, peeped into microscopes, and became familiar with the fashionable experiments of the day. Some took to reading, and I was one of them.
Some grains of repulsion towards the society
around me---some painful recollections of early
faults and follies---some touch of displeasure with living mankind, inclined me rather to a study of antiquities, and particularly those of my own country. The reader, if I can prevail on myself to
continue the present work, will probably be able to judge, in the course of it, whether I have made any useful progress in the study of the olden times.
I owed this turn of study, in part, to the conversation of my kind man of business, Mr Fairscribe,
whom I mentioned as having seconded the
efforts of my invaluable friend, in bringing the cause on which my liberty and the remnant of my
property depended, to a favourable decision. He had given me a most kind reception on my return. He was too much engaged in his profession for me to intrude on him often, and perhaps his mind was too much trammelled with its details to permit his being willingly withdrawn from them. In short,
he was not a person of my poor friend Somerville's expanded spirit, and rather a lawyer of the ordinary class of formalists, but a most able and excellent man. When my estate was sold, he retained some
of the older title-deeds, arguing, from his own
feelings, that they would be of more consequence to the heir of the old family than to the new purchaser. And when I returned to Edinburgh, and
found him still in the exercise of the profession to which he was an honour, he sent to my lodgings
the old family-bible, which lay always on my father's table, two or three other mouldy volumes,
and a couple of sheep-skin bags, full of parchments and papers, whose appearance was by no
means inviting.
The next time I shared Mr Fairscribe's hospitable dinner, I failed not to return him due thanks
for his kindness, which acknowledgment, indeed, I proportioned rather to the idea which I knew he
entertained of the value of such things, than to the interest with which I myself regarded them. But the conversation turning on my family, who were
old proprietors in the Upper Ward of Clydesdale, gradually excited some interest in my mind;
and when I retired to my solitary parlour, the first thing I did was to look for a pedigree, or sort of history of the family, or House of Croftangry, once of that Ilk, latterly of Glentanner. The discoveries which I made shall enrich the next chapter.

CHAPTER II.

In which Mr Croftangry continues his Story.

``What's property, dear Swift? I see it alter
From you to me, from me to Peter Walter.''

                                             Pope.

``Croftangry---Croftandrew---Croftanridge---
Croftandgrey---for sa mony wise hath the name
been spellit---is weel known to be ane house of grit
antiquity; and it is said, that King Milcolumb, or

Malcolm, being the first of our Scottish princes quha removit across the Firth of Forth, did reside and occupy ane palace at Edinburgh, and had there ane valziant man, who did him man-service, by
keeping the croft, or corn-land, which was tilled for the convenience of the King's household, and was thence callit Croft-an-ri, that is to say, the King his croft; quhilk place, though now coverit with biggings, is to this day called Croftangry, and lyeth near to the royal palace. And whereas that some of those who bear this auld and honourable
name may take scorn that it ariseth from the tilling of the ground, quhilk men account a slavish occupation, yet we ought to honour the pleugh and
spade, seeing we all derive our being from our father Adam, whose lot it became to cultivate the
earth, in respect of his fall and transgression.
``Also we have witness, as weel in holy writt
as in profane history, of the honour in quhilk husbandrie was held of old, and how prophets have
been taken from the pleugh, and great captains
raised up to defend their ain countries, sic as Cincinnatus, and the like, who fought not the common
enemy with the less valiancy that their arms had been exercised in halding the stilts of the pleugh, and their bellicose skill in driving of yauds and owsen.
``Likewise there are sindry honorable families,
quhilk are now of our native Scottish nobility, and have clombe higher up the brae of preferment than what this house of Croftangry hath done, quhilk
shame not to carry in their warlike shield and insignia of dignity, tile tools and implements the
quhilk their first forefathers exercised in labouring the croft-rig, or, as the poet Virgilius calleth it eloquently, in subduing the soil. And no doubt
this ancient house of Croftangry, while it continued to be called of that Ilk, produced many worshipful and famous patriots, of quhom I now pr<ae>termit the names; it being my purpose, if God shall spare me life for sic ane pious officium, or duty, to resume the first part of my narrative touching the house of Croftangry, when I can set down at length the
evidents, and historical witness anent the facts which I shall allege, seeing that words, when they are unsupported by proofs, are like seed sown on the naked rocks, or like an house biggit on the flitting and faithless sands.''
Here I stopped to draw breath; for the style of
my grandsire, the inditer of this goodly matter, was rather lengthy, as our American friends say. Indeed, I reserve the rest of the piece until I can
obtain admission to the Bannatyne Club,* when I

This Club, of which the Author of Waverley has the honour to be President, was instituted in February 1823, for the purpose of printing and publishing works illustrative of the history, literature, and antiquities of Scotland. It continues to prosper, and has already rescued from oblivion many curious materials of Scottish History.

propose to throw off an edition, limited according to the rules of that erudite Society, with a facsimile of the manuscript, emblazonry of the family arms, surrounded by their quartering, and a handsome
disclamation of family pride, with _H<ae>c nos novinus esse nihil_, or _Vix ea nostra voco_.
In the meantime, to speak truth, I cannot but
suspect, that though my worthy ancestor puffed
vigorously to swell up the dignity of his family, we had never, in fact, risen above the rank of middling proprietors. The estate of Glentanner came to us by the intermarriage of my ancestor with Tib Sommeril, termed by the southrons Sommerville,* a

The ancient Norman family of the Sommervilles came into this island with William the Conqueror, and established one branch in Gloucestershire, another in Scotland. After the lapse of 700 years, the remaining possessions of these two branches were united in the person of the late Lord Sommerville, on the death of his English kinsman, the well-known author of ``The Chase.''

daughter of that noble house, but I fear on what my great-grandsire calls ``the wrong side of the blanket.'' Her husband, Gilbert, was killed fighting, as the _Inquisitio post mortem_ has it, ``_sub vexillo regis, apud pr<ae>lium juxta Branxton_, lie _Floddenfield_.''
We had our share in other national misfortunes
---were forfeited, like Sir John Colville of the Dale, for following our betters to the field of Langside; and, in the contentious times of the last Stewarts, we were severely fined for harbouring and resetting intercommuned ministers; and narrowly escaped
giving a martyr to the Calendar of the Covenant, in the person of the father of our family historian. He ``took the sheaf from the mare,'' however,
as the MS. expresses it, and agreed to accept
of the terms of pardon offered by government, and sign the bond, in evidence he would give no farther ground of offence. My grandsire glosses over his father's backsliding as smoothly as he can, and comforts himself with ascribing his want of resolution
to his unwillingness to wreck the ancient name and family, and to permit his lands and lineage to fall under a doom of forfeiture.
``And indeed,'' said the venerable compiler, ``as, praised be God, we seldom meet in Scotland with
these belly-gods and voluptuaries, whilk are unnatural enough to devour their patrimony bequeathed
to them by their forbears in chambering and wantonness, so that they come, with the prodigal son,
to the husks and the swine-trough; and as I have the less to dreid the existence of such unnatural Neroes in mine own family to devour the substance of their own house like brute beasts out of mere gluttonie and Epicurishnesse, so I need only warn mine descendants against over hastily meddling
with the mutations in state and in religion, which have been near-hand to the bringing this poor
house of Croftangry to perdition, as we have shown more than once. And albeit I would not that
my successors sat still altogether when called on by their duty to Kirk and King; yet I would have them wait till stronger and walthier men than
themselves were up, so that either they may have the better chance of getting through the day; or, failing of that, the conquering party having some fatter quarry to live upon, may, like gorged hawks, spare the smaller game.''
There was something in this conclusion which at
first reading piqued me extremely, and I was so
unnatural as to curse the whole concern, as poor, bald, pitiful trash, in which a silly old man was saying a great deal about nothing at all. Nay, my
first impression was to thrust it into the fire, the rather that it reminded me, in no very flattering manner, of the loss of the family property, to which the compiler of the history was so much attached, in the very manner which he most severely reprobated. It even seemed to my aggrieved feelings,
that his unprescient gaze on futurity, in which he could not anticipate the folly of one of his descendants, who should throw away the whole inheritance
in a few years of idle expense and folly, was meant as a personal incivility to myself, though written fifty or sixty years before I was born.
A little reflection made me ashamed of this feeling of impatience, and as I looked at the even, concise, yet tremulous hand in which the manuscript
was written, I could not help thinking, according to an opinion I have heard seriously maintained, that something of a man's character may be conjectured from his handwriting. That neat, but crowded and constrained small hand, argued a man of a good
conscience, well regulated passions, and, to use his own phrase, an upright walk in life; but it also indicated narrowness of spirit, inveterate prejudice,
and hinted at some degree of intolerance, which, though not natural to the disposition, had arisen out of a limited education. The passages from Scripture and the classics, rather profusely than happily
introduced, and written in a half-text character to mark their importance, illustrated that peculiar sort of pedantry which always considers the argument
as gained, if secured by a quotation. Then the
flourished capital letters, which ornamented the commencement of each paragraph, and the name
of his family and of his ancestors, whenever these occurred in the page, do they not express forcibly the pride and sense of importance with which the author undertook and accomplished his task? I
persuaded myself, the whole was so complete a portrait of the man, that it would not have been a more
undutiful act to have defaced his picture, or even to have disturbed his bones in his coffin, than to destroy his manuscript. I thought, for a moment, of presenting it to Mr Fairscribe; but that confounded passage about the prodigal and swine-trough---
I settled at last it was as well to lock it up
in my own bureau, with the intention to look at it no more.
But I do no know how it was, that the subject
began to sit nearer my heart than I was aware of, and I found myself repeatedly engaged in reading descriptions of farms which were no longer mine, and boundaries which marked the property of
others. A love of the _natale solum_, if Swift be right in translating these words, ``family estate,'' began to awaken in my bosom; the recollections of my
own youth adding little to it, save what was connected with field-sports. A career of pleasure is
unfavourable for acquiring a taste for natural beauty, and still more so for forming associations of a
sentimental kind, connecting us with the inanimate objects around us.
I had thought little about my estate, while I possessed and was wasting it, unless as affording the
rude materials out of which a certain inferior race of creatures, called tenants, were bound to produce (in a greater quantity than they actually did) a certain return called rent, which was destined to supply my expenses. This was my general view
of the matter. Of particular places, I recollected that Garval-hill was a famous piece of rough upland pasture, for rearing young colts, and teaching
them to throw their feet,---that Minion-burn had the finest yellow trout in the country,---that Seggycleugh was unequalled for woodcocks,---that Bengibbert-moors afforded excellent moorfowl-shooting,
and that the clear bubbling fountain called
the Harper's Well, was the best recipe in the world on the morning after a _Hard-go_ with my neighbour fox-hunters. Still these ideas recalled, by degrees, pictures, of which I had since learned to appreciate the merit---scenes of silent loneliness, where extensive moors, undulating into wild hills, were only
disturbed by the whistle of the plover, or the crow of the heath-cock; wild ravines creeping up into mountains, filled with natural wood, and which,
when traced downwards along the path formed by
shepherds and nutters, were found gradually to
enlarge and deepen, as each formed a channel to
its own brook, sometimes bordered by steep banks of earth, often with the more romantic boundary
of naked rocks or cliffs, crested with oak, mountain-ash, and hazel,---all gratifying the eye the more
that the scenery was, from the bare nature of the country around, totally unexpected.
I had recollections, too, of fair and fertile holms, or level plains, extending between the wooded
banks and the bold stream of the Clyde, which,
coloured like pure amber, or rather having the hue of the pebbles called Cairngorm, rushes over sheets of rock and beds of gravel, inspiring a species of awe from the few and faithless fords which it presents, and the frequency of fatal accidents, now
diminished by the number of bridges. These
alluvial holms were frequently bordered by triple and quadruple rows of large trees, which gracefully marked their boundary, and dipped their long arms into the foaming stream of the river. Other places I remembered, which had been described by the old huntsman as the lodge of tremendous wild-cats, or the spot where tradition stated the mighty stag to have been brought to bay, or where heroes, whose might was now as much forgotten, were said to
have been slain by surprise, or in battle.
It is not to be supposed that these finished landscapes became visible before the eyes of my imagination, as the scenery of the stage is disclosed
by the rising of the curtain. I have said, that I had looked upon the country around me, during
the hurried and dissipated period of my life, with the eyes indeed of my body, but without those of my understanding. It was piece by piece, as a
child picks out its lesson, that I began to recollect the beauties of nature which had once surrounded me in the home of my forefathers. A natural
taste for them must have lurked at the bottom of my heart, which awakened when I was in foreign
countries, and becoming by degrees a favourite
passion, gradually turned its eyes inwards, and
ransacked the neglected stores which my memory
had involuntarily recorded, and when excited, exerted herself to collect and to complete.
I began now to regret more bitterly than ever
the having fooled away my family property, the
care and improvement of which I saw might have
afforded an agreeable employment for my leisure, which only went to brood on past misfortunes, and increase useless repining. ``Had but a single
farm been reserved, however small,'' said I one
day to Mr Fairscribe, ``I should have had a place 1 could call my home, and something that I could call business.''
``It might have been managed,'' answered Fairscribe; ``and for my part, I inclined to keep the

mansion-house, mains, and some of the old family
acres together; but both Mr ------ and you were of
opinion that the money would be more useful.''

``True, true, my good friend,'' said I, ``I was a fool then, and did not think I could incline to be Glentanner with L.200 or L.300 a-year, instead of Glentanner with as many thousands. I was then
a haughty, pettish, ignorant, dissipated, broken down Scottish laird; and thinking my imaginary
consequence altogether ruined, I cared not bow
soon, or how absolutely, I was rid of every thing that recalled it to my own memory, or that of
others.''
``And now it is like you have changed your
mind?'' said Fairscribe. ``Well, fortune is apt to circumduce the term upon us; but I think she may allow you to revise your condescendence.''
``How do you mean, my good friend?''
``Nay,'' said Fairscribe, ```there is ill luck in averring till one is sure of his facts. I will look back on a file of newspapers, and to-morrow you
shall hear from me; come, help yourself---I have seen you fill your glass higher.''
``And shall see it again,'' said I, pouring out
what remained of our bottle of claret; ``the wine is capital, and so shall our toast be---To your fireside, my good friend. And now we shall go beg
a Scots song without foreign graces, from my little siren Miss Katie.''
The next day accordingly I received a parcel
from Mr Fairscribe with a newspaper enclosed,
among the advertisements of which, one was marked with a cross as requiring my attention. I read
to my surprise---

``DESIRABLE ESTATE FOR SALE:.

``By order of the Lords of Council and Session,
will be exposed to sale in the New Sessions House of Edinburgh, on Wednesday the 25th November,
18---, all and whole the lands and barony of Glentanner, now called Castle-Treddles, lying in the
Middle Ward of Clydesdale, and shire of Lanark,
with the teinds, parsonage and vicarage, fishings in the Clyde, woods, mosses, moors, and pasturages,'' &c, &c.
The advertisement went on to set forth the advantages of the soil, situation, natural beauties and
capabilities of improvement, not forgetting its being a freehold estate, with the particular polypus capacity of being sliced up into two, three, or, with a
little assistance, four freehold qualifications, and a hint that the county was likely to be eagerly contested between two great families. The upset price
at which ``the said lands and barony and others'' were to be exposed, was thirty years' purchase of the proven rental, which was about a fourth more than the property had fetched at the last sale. This, which was mentioned, I suppose, to show the improvable character of the land, would have given
another some pain; but let me speak truth of myself in good as in evil---it pained not me. I was
only angry that Fairscribe who knew something
generally of the extent of my funds, should have tantalized me by sending me information that my
family property was in the market, since he must have known that the price was far out of my reach.
But a letter dropped from the parcel on the floor, which attracted my eye, and explained the riddle. A client of Mr Fairscribe's, a monied man, thought of buying Glentanner, merely as an investment of money---it was even unlikely he would ever see it; and so the price of the whole being some thousand pounds beyond what cash he had on hand, this accommodating Dives would gladly take a partner in
the sale for any detached farm, and would make no objection to its including the most desirable part of the estate in point of beauty, provided the price was made adequate. Mr Fairscribe would take care l was not imposed on in the matter, and said in his card, he believed, if I really wished to make such a purchase, I had better go out and look at the
premises, advising me, at the same time, to keep a strict incognito; an advice somewhat superfluous, since I am naturally of a retired and reserved disposition.

CHAPTER III.

Mr Croftangry, inter alia, Revisits Glentanner.

Then sing of stage-coaches,
And fear no reproaches
For riding in one;
But daily be jogging,
Whilst, whistling and flogging,
Whilst, whistling and flogging,
The coachman drives on.

                                  Farquhar.

Disguised in a grey surtout which had seen service, a white castor on my head, and a stout Indian
cane in my hand, the next week saw me on the
top of a mail-coach driving to the westward.
I like mail-coaches, and I hate them. I like
them for my convenience, but I detest them for
setting the whole world a-gadding, instead of sitting quietly still minding their own business, and
preserving the stamp of originality of character which nature or education may have impressed on
them. Off they go, jingling against each other in the rattling vehicle till they have no more variety of stamp in them than so many smooth shillings--- the same even in their Welsh wigs and great coats, each without more individuality than belongs to a partner of the company, as the waiter calls them, of the North coach.
Worthy Mr Piper, best of contractors who ever
furnished four frampal jades for public use, I bless you when I set out on a journey myself; the neat coaches under your contract render the intercourse, from Johnnie Groat's House to Ladykirk and
Cornhill Bridge, safe, pleasant, and cheap. But, Mr Piper, you, who are a shrewd arithmetician,
did it never occur to you to calculate how many
fools' heads, which might have produced an idea
or two in the year, if suffered to remain in quiet, get effectually addled by jolting to and fro in these flying chariots of yours; how many decent countrymen become conceited bumpkins after a cattle-show
dinner in the capital, which they could not
have attended save for your means; how many
decent country parsons return critics and spouters, by way of importing the newest taste from Edinburgh? And how will your conscience answer one
day for carrying so many bonny lasses to barter
modesty for conceit and levity at the metropolitan Vanity Fair?
Consider, too, the low rate to which you reduce
human intellect. I do not believe your habitual customers have their ideas more enlarged than one of your coach-horses. They _knows the_ road, like the English postilion, and they know nothing beside. They date, like the carriers at Gadshill,
from the death of John Ostler;* the succession of

See the opening scene of the first part of Shakspeare's Henry IV.

guards forms a dynasty in their eyes; coachmen
are their ministers of state, and an upset is to them a greater incident than a change of administration. Their only point of interest on the road is to save the time, and see whether the coach keeps the hour. This is surely a miserable degradation of human
intellect. Take my advice, my good sir, and disinterestedly contrive that once or twice a quarter,
your most dexterous whip shall overturn a coachful of those superfluous travellers, _in terrorem_ to those who, as Horace says, ``delight in the dust raised by your chariots.''
Your current and customary mail-coach passenger, too, gets abominably selfish, schemes successfully for the best seat, the freshest egg, the right
cut of the sirloin. The mode of travelling is death to all the courtesies and kindnesses of life, and goes a great way to demoralize the character, and cause it to retrograde to barbarism. You allow us excellent dinners, but only twenty minutes to eat
them; and what is the consequence? Bashful
beauty sits on the one side of us, timid childhood on the other; respectable, yet somewhat feeble old age is placed on our front; and all require those acts of politeness which ought to put every degree

upon a level at the convivial board.  But have we
time---we the strong and active of the party---to
perform the duties of the table to the more retired
and bashful, to whom these little attentions are
due? The lady should be pressed to her chicken

---the old man helped to his favourite and tender slice---the child to his tart. But not a fraction of a minute have we to bestow on any other person
than ourselves; and the _prut-prut---tut-tut_ of the guard's discordant note, summons us to the coach, the weaker party having gone without their dinner, and the able-bodied and active threatened with indigestion, from having swallowed victuals like a
Lei'stershire clown bolting bacon.
On the memorable occasion I am speaking of I
lost my breakfast, sheerly from obeying the commands of a respectable-looking old lady, who once
required me to ring the bell, and another time to help the tea-kettle. I have some reason to think she was literally an _old Stager_, who laughed in her sleeve at my complaisance; so that I have sworn
in my secret soul revenge upon her sex, and all such errant damsels of whatever age and degree, whom
I may encounter in my travels. I mean all this
without the least ill-will to my friend the contractor, who, I think, has approached as near as any one
is like to do towards accomplishing the modest wish of the Amatus and Amata of the Peri Bathous,

Ye gods, annihilate but time and space,
And make two lovers happy.

I intend to give Mr P. his full revenge when I
come to discuss the more recent enormity of steamboats; meanwhile, I shall only say of both these
modes of conveyance, that

      There is no living with them or without them.

I am perhaps more critical on the ------ mail-coach
on this particular occasion, that I did not
meet all the respect from the worshipful company
in his Majesty's carriage that I think I was entitled

to. I must say it for myself, that I bear, in my own opinion at least, not a vulgar point about me. My face has seen service, but there is still a good set of teeth, an aquiline nose, and a quick grey eye, set a little too deep under the eyebrow; and a cue of the kind once called military, may serve to show that my civil occupations have been sometimes
mixed with those of war. Nevertheless, two idle young fellows in the vehicle, or rather on the top of it, were so much amused with the deliberation which I used in ascending to the same place of
eminence, that I thought I should have been obliged to pull them up a little. And I was in no
good-humour, at an unsuppressed laugh following
my descent, when set down at the angle, where a
cross road, striking off from the main one, led me towards Glentanner, from which I was still nearly five miles distant.
It was an old-fashioned road, which, preferring
ascents to sloughs, was led in a straight line over height and hollow, through moor and dale. Every object around me, as I passed them in succession, reminded me of old days, and at the same time
formed the strongest contrast with them possible. Unattended, on foot, with a small bundle in my
hand, deemed scarce sufficient good company for
the two shabby genteels with whom I had been
lately perched on the top of a mail-coach, I did not seem to be the same person with the young prodigal, who lived with the noblest and gayest in the
land, and who, thirty years before, would, in the same country, have been on the back of a horse
that had been victor for a plate, or smoking along in his travelling chaise-and-four. My sentiments were not less changed than my condition. I could quite well remember, that my ruling sensation in the days of heady youth, was a mere schoolboy's
eagerness to get farthest forward in the race in

which I had engaged; to drink as many bottles
as ------; to be thought as good a judge of a horse
as ------; to have the knowing cut of ------'s jacket.
These were thy gods, 0 Israel!

Now I was a mere looker-on; seldom an unmoved,
and sometimes an angry spectator, but still
a spectator only, of the pursuits of mankind. I felt how little my opinion was valued by those
engaged in the busy turmoil, yet I exercised it
with the profusion of an old lawyer retired from his profession, who thrusts himself into his neighbour's affairs, and gives advice where it is not
wanted, merely under pretence of loving the crack of the whip.
I came amid these reflections to the brow of a
hill, from which I expected to see Glentanner; a modest-looking yet comfortable house, its walls
covered with the most productive fruit-trees in
that part of the country, and screened from the
most stormy quarters of the horizon by a deep and ancient wood, which overhung the neighbouring
hill. The house was gone; a great part of the
wood was felled; and instead of the gentlemanlike mansion, shrouded and embosomed among its old
hereditary trees, stood Castle-Treddles, a huge
lumping four-square pile of freestone, as bare as my nail, except for a paltry edging of decayed
and lingering exotics, with an impoverished lawn stretched before it, which, instead of boasting deep green tapestry, enamelled with daisies, and with crowsfoot and cowslips, showed an extent of nakedness, raked, indeed, and levelled, but where
the sown grasses had failed with drought, and
the earth, retaining its natural complexion, seemed nearly as brown and bare as when it was newly
dug up.
The house was a large fabric, which pretended
to its name of castle only from the front windows being finished in acute Gothic arches (being, by the way, the very reverse of the castellated style), and each angle graced with a turret about the size of a pepper-box. In every other respect it resembled a large town-house, which, like a fat burgess,
had taken a walk to the country on a holiday,
and climbed to the top of an eminence to look
around it. The bright red colour of the freestone, the size of the building, the formality of its shape, and awkwardness of its position, harmonized as
ill with the sweeping Clyde in front, and the
bubbling brook which danced down on the right,
as the fat civic form, with bushy wig, gold-beaded cane, maroon-coloured coat, and mottled silk stockings, would have accorded with tile wild and magnificient scenery of Corehouse Linn.
I went up to the house. It was in that state of desertion which is perhaps the most unpleasant to look on, for the place was going to decay, without having been inhabited. There were about the
mansion, though deserted, none of the slow mouldering touches of time, which communicate to buildings, as to the human frame, a sort of reverence,
while depriving them of beauty and of strength.
The disconcerted schemes of the Laird of Castle-Treddles, had resembled fruit that becomes decayed
without ever having ripened. Some windows
broken, others patched, others blocked up
with deals, gave a disconsolate air to all around, and seemed to say, ``There Vanity had purposed
to fix her seat, but was anticipated by Poverty.''
To the inside, after many a vain summons, I
was at length admitted by an old labourer. The
house contained every contrivance for luxury and accommodation;---the kitchens were a model, and
there were hot closets on the office stair-case, that dishes might not cool, as our Scottish phrase
goes, between the kitchen and the hall. But instead of the genial smell of good cheer, these temples of Comus emitted the damp odour of sepulchral
vaults, and the large cabinets of cast-iron looked like the cages of some feudal Bastille. The eating-room and drawing-room, with an interior boudoir,
were magnificent apartments, the ceilings
fretted and adorned with stucco-work, which already was broken in many places, and looked in
others damp and mouldering; the wood panelling
was shrunk and warped, and cracked; the doors,
which had not been hung for more than two years, were, nevertheless, already swinging loose from
their hinges. Desolation, in short, was where enjoyment had never been; and the want of all the
usual means to preserve, was fast performing the work of decay.
The story was a common one, and told in a
few words. Mr Treddles, senior, who bought the
estate, was a cautious money-making person; his
son, still embarked in commercial speculations,
desired at the same time to enjoy his opulence and to increase it. He incurred great expenses, amongst which this edifice was to be numbered. To support these he speculated boldly, and unfortunately;
and thus the whole history is told, which may serve for more places than Glentanner.
Strange and various feelings ran through my
bosom, as I loitered in these deserted apartments, scarce bearing what my guide said to me about
the size and destination of each room. The first sentiment, I am ashamed to say, was one of gratified spite. My patrician pride was pleased, that
the mechanic, who had not thought the house of
the Croftangrys sufficiently good for him, had now experienced a fall in his turn. My next thought was as mean, though not so malicious. ``I have
had the better of this fellow,'' thought I; ``if I lost the estate, I at least spent the price; and Mr Treddles has lost his among paltry commercial engagements.''
``Wretch!'' said the secret voice within, ``darest thou exult in thy shame? Recollect how thy youth and fortune were wasted in those years, and triumph not in the enjoyment of an existence which levelled thee with the beasts that perish. Bethink thee, how this poor man's vanity gave at least bread to the labourer, peasant, and citizen; and his profuse expenditure, like water spilt on the ground, refreshed the lowly herbs and plants where it fell.
But thou! whom hast thou enriched, during thy
career of extravagance, save those brokers of the devil, vintners, panders, gamblers, and horse-jockeys?'' The anguish produced by this self-reproof
was so strong, that I put my hand suddenly to my forehead, and was obliged to allege a sudden megrim to my attendant, in apology for the action,
and a slight groan with which it was accompanied.
I then made an effort to turn my thoughts into
a more philosophical current, and muttered half
aloud, as a charm to lull any more painful thoughts to rest---

_Nunc ager Umbrieni sub nomine, nuper Ofelli Dictus, erit nulli proprius; sed cedit in usum Nunc mihi, nunc alii. Quocirca vivite fortes Fortiaque adversis opponite pectora rebus._*

Horace, Sat. II, Lib. 2. The meaning will be best conveyed to the English reader in Pope's imitation:---

What's property, dear Swift? you see it alter From you to me, from me to Peter Walter; Or in a mortgage prove a lawyer's share; Or in a jointure vanish from the heir.

* * * * * * Shades, that to Bacon could retreat afford, Become the portion of a booby lord; And Helmsley, once proud Buckingham's delight, Slides to a scrivener and city knight. Let lands and houses have what lords they will, Let us be fix'd, and our own masters still.

In my anxiety to fix the philosophical precept in my mind, I recited the last line aloud, which, joined to my previous agitation, I afterwards found
became the cause of a report, that a mad schoolmaster had come from Edinburgh, with the idea in
his head of buying Castle-Treddles.
As I saw my companion was desirous of getting
rid of me, I asked where I was to find the person in whose bands were left the map of the estate,
and other particulars connected with the sale. The

agent who had this in possession, I was told, lived
at the town of------; which I was informed, and
indeed knew well, was distant five miles and a
bittock, which may pass in a country where they
are less lavish of their land, for two or three more.

Being somewhat afraid of the fatigue of walking
so far, I enquired if a horse, or any sort of carriage was to be had, and was answered in the negative.
``But,'' said my cicerone, ``you may halt a blink till next morning at the Treddles Arms, a very decent house, scarce a mile off.''
``A new house, I suppose?'' replied I.
``Na, it's a new public, but it's an auld house: it was aye the Leddy's jointure-house in the Croftangry-folk's time; but Mr Treddles has fitted it
up for the convenience of the country. Poor man, he was a public-spirited man, when he had the
means.''
``Duntarkin a public house!'' I exclaimed.

``Ay?'' said the  fellow,  surprised  at  my  naming
the place by its former title, ``ye'll hae been in
this country before, I'm thinking?''

``Long since,'' I replied---``and there is good
accommodation at the what-d'ye-call-'em arms, and a civil landlord?'' This I said by way of saying something, for the man stared very hard at me.
``Very decent accommodation. Ye'll no be for
fashing wi' wine, I'm thinking, and there's walth o' porter, ale, and a drap gude whisky''---(in an

under tone) ``Fairntosh, if you can get on the lee-side
of the gudewife---for there is nae gudeman---
They ca' her Christie Steel.''

I almost started at the sound. Christie Steele! Christie Steele was my mother's body servant, her very right hand, and, between ourselves, something like a viceroy over her. I recollected her
perfectly; and though she had, in former times, been no favourite of mine, her name now sounded in my ear like that of a friend, and was the first word I had heard somewhat in unison with the associations around me. I sallied from Castle-Treddles, determined to make the best of my way to Duntarkin,
and my cicerone hung by me for a little way,
giving loose to his love of talking; an opportunity which, situated as he was, the seneschal of a deserted castle, was not likely to occur frequently.
``Some folk think,'' said my companion, ``that
Mr Treddles might as weel have put my wife as
Christie Steele into the Treddles Arms, for Christie had been aye in service, and never in the public line, and so it's like she is ganging back in the world, as I hear---now, my wife had keepit a
victualling office.''
``That would have been an advantage, certainly,'' I replied.
``But I am no sure that I wad ha' looten Eppie
take it, if they had put it in her offer.''
``That's a different consideration.''
``Ony way, I wadna ha' liked to have offended
Mr Treddles; he was a wee toustie when you
rubbed him again the hair---but a kind, weel-meaning man.''
I wanted to get rid of this species of chat, and finding myself near the entrance of a footpath

which made a short cut to Duntarkin, I put half-a-crown
into  my  guide's  band,  bade  him   good-evening,
and plunged into the woods.

``Hout, sir---fie, sir---no from the like of you---
stay, sir, ye wunna find the way that gate---Odd's
mercy, he maun ken the gate as weel as I do
mysell---weel, I wad like to ken wha the chield is.''

Such were the last words of my guide's drowsy,
uninteresting tone of voice; and glad to be rid of him, I strode out stoutly, in despite of large stones, briers, and _bad steps_, which abounded in the road I had chosen. In the interim, I tried as much as I could, with verses from Horace and Prior, and all who have lauded the mixture of literary with rural life, to call back the visions of last night and this morning, imagining myself settled in some detached farm of the estate of Glentanner,

Which sloping hills around enclose---
Where many a birch and brown oak grows;

when I should have a cottage with a small library, a small cellar, a spare bed for a friend, and live more happy and more honoured than when I had
the whole barony. But the sight of Castle-Treddles had disturbed all my own castles in the air. The realities of the matter, like a stone plashed into a limpid fountain, had destroyed the reflection of the objects around, which, till this act of violence, lay slumbering on the crystal surface, and I tried in vain to re-establish the picture which had been so rudely broken. Well, then, I would try it another way; I would try to get Christie Steele out
of her _public_, since she was not thriving in it, and she who had been my mother's governante should
be mine. I knew all her faults, and I told her history over to myself.
She was a grand-daughter, I believe, at least
some relative, of the famous Covenanter of the
name whom Dean Swift's friend, Captain Creichton, shot on his own staircase in the times of the
persecutions,* and had perhaps derived from her

Note B. Steele, a Covenanter, shot by Captain Creichton.

native stock much both of its good and evil properties. No one could say of her that she was the life
and spirit of the family, though, in my mother's time, she directed all family affairs; her look was austere and gloomy, and when she was not displeased with you, you could only find it out by her
silence. If there was cause for complaint, real or imaginary, Christie was loud enough. She loved
my mother with the devoted attachment of a younger sister, but she was as jealous of her favour to any one else as if she had been the aged husband of a coquettish wife, and as severe in her reprehensions as an abbess over her nuns. The command which
she exercised over her, was that, I fear, of a strong and determined over a feeble and more nervous
disposition; and though it was used with rigour, yet, to the best of Christie Steele's belief, she was urging her mistress to her best and most becoming course, and would have died rather than have recommended any other. The attachment of this
woman was limited to the family of Croftangry,
for she had few relations; and a dissolute cousin, whom late in life she had taken as a husband, had long left her a widow.
To me she had ever a strong dislike. Even from
my early childhood, she was jealous, strange as it may seem, of my interest in my mother's affections; she saw my foibles and vices with abhorrence, and without a grain of allowance; nor did she pardon the weakness of maternal affection, even when, by the death of two brothers, I came to be the only child of a widowed parent. At the time my disorderly conduct induced my mother to leave Glentanner,
and retreat to her jointure-house, I always
blamed Christie Steele for having influenced her resentment, and prevented her from listening to my vows of amendment, which at times were real and
serious, and might perhaps, have accelerated that change of disposition which has since, I trust taken place. But Christie regarded me as altogether a doomed and predestinated child of perdition, who was sure to hold on my course, and drag downwards whosoever might attempt to afford me support.
Still, though I knew such had been Christie's
prejudices against me in other days, yet I thought enough of time had since passed away to destroy
all of them. I knew, that when, through the disorder of my affairs, my mother underwent some
temporary inconvenience about money matters,
Christie, as a thing of course, stood in the gap, and having sold a small inheritance which had descended to her, brought the purchase-money to her mistress, with a sense of devotion as deep as that which inspired the Christians of the first age, when they
sold all they had, and followed the apostles of the church. I therefore thought that we might, in
old Scottish phrase, ``let byganes be byganes,'' and upon a new account. Yet I resolved, like a
skilful general, to reconnoitre a little before laying down any precise scheme of proceeding, and in the interim I determined to preserve my incognito.

CHAPTER IV.

Mr Croftangry bids adieu to Clydesdale.
Alas, how changed from what it once had been! 'Twas now degraded to a common inn.

                                             Gay.

An hour's brisk walking, or thereabouts, placed
me in front of Duntarkin, which had also, I found, undergone considerable alterations, though it had not been altogether demolished like the principal mansion. An inn-yard extended before the door of the
decent little jointure-house, even amidst the remnants of the holly hedges which had screened the
lady's garden. Then a broad, raw-looking, new-made road intruded itself up the little glen, instead of the old horseway, so seldom used that it was almost entirely covered with grass. It is a great
enormity of which gentlemen trustees on the highways are sometimes guilty, in adopting the breadth
necessary for an avenue to the metropolis, where all that is required is an access to some sequestered and unpopulous district. I do not say any thing of the expense; that the trustees and their constituents may settle as they please. But the destruction
of silvan beauty is great, when the breadth of
the road is more than proportioned to the vale
through which it runs, and lowers of course the
consequence of any objects of wood or water, or
broken and varied ground, which might otherwise
attract notice, and give pleasure. A bubbling runnel by the side of one of those modern Appian or
Flaminian highways, is but like a kennel,---the
little hill is diminished to a hillock,---the romantic hillock to a molehill, almost too small for sight.
Such an enormity, however, had destroyed the
quiet loneliness of Duntarkin, and intruded its
breadth of dust and gravel, and its associations of pochays and mail-coaches, upon one of the most sequestered spots in the Middle Ward of Clydesdale.
The house was old and dilapidated, and looked sorry for itself, as if sensible of a derogation; but the sign was strong and new, and brightly painted, displaying a heraldic shield three shuttles in a field
diapr<e'>, a web partly unfolded for crest, and two stout giants for supporters, each one holding a
weaver's beam proper. To have displayed this
monstrous emblem on the front of the house might have hazarded bringing down the wall, but for certain would have blocked up one or two windows.
It was therefore established independent of the
mansion, being displayed in an iron framework,
and suspended upon two posts, with as much wood
and iron about it as would have builded a brig;
and there it hung, creaking, groaning and screaming in every blast of wind, and frightening for five miles' distance, for aught I know, the nests of
thrushes and linnets, the ancient denizens of the little glen.
When I entered the place, I was received by
Christie Steele herself, who seemed uncertain whether to drop me in the kitchen, or usher me into a
separate apartment. As I called for tea, with something rather more substantial than bread and butter,
and spoke of supping and sleeping, Christie at
last inducted me into the room where she herself had been sitting, probably the only one which had a fire, though the month was October. This answered my plan; and, as she was about to remove
her spinning-wheel, I begged she would have the
goodness to remain and make my tea, adding, that I liked the sound of the wheel, and desired not to disturb her housewife-thrift in the least.
``I dinna ken, sir,''---she replied in a dry _rev<e^>che_ tone, which carried me back twenty years, ``I am nane of thae heartsome landleddies that can tell country cracks, and make themsells agreeable; and I was ganging to put on a fire for you in the Red Room; but if it is your will to stay here, he that pays the lawing maun choose the lodging.''
I endeavoured to engage her in conversation;
but though she answered with a kind of stiff civility, I could get her into no freedom of discourse
and she began to look at her wheel and at the door more than once, as if she meditated a retreat. I was obliged, therefore, to proceed to some special questions that might have interest for a person, whose ideas were probably of a very bounded description.
I looked round the apartment, being the same
in which I had last seen my poor mother. The
author of the family history, formerly mentioned, had taken great credit to himself for the improvements he had made in this same jointure-house of
Duntarkin, and how, upon his marriage, when his
mother took possession of the same as her jointure-house, ``to his great charges and expenses he
caused box the walls of the great parlour,'' (in which I was now sitting,) ``empanel the same, and plaster the roof, finishing the apartment with ane concave chimney, and decorating the same with
pictures, and a barometer and thermometer.'' And in particular, which his good mother used to say she prized above all the rest, he had caused his own portraiture be limned over the mantlepiece by a
skilful hand. And, in good faith, there he remained still, having much the visage which I was disposed to ascribe to him on the evidence of his
handwriting,---grim and austere, yet not without a cast of shrewdness and determination; in armour, though he never wore it, I fancy; one
hand on an open book, and one resting on the
hilt of his sword, though I dare say his head never ached with reading, nor his limbs with fencing.
``That picture is painted on the wood, madam,''
said I.
``Ay, sir, or it's like it would not have been
left there,---they took a' they could.''
``Mr Treddles's creditors, you mean?'' said I.
``Na,'' replied she, dryly, ``the creditors of another family, that sweepit cleaner than this poor
man's, because I fancy there was less to gather.''
``An older family, perhaps, and probably
more remembered and regretted than later possessors?''
Christie here settled herself in her seat, and
pulled her wheel towards her. I had given her
something interesting for her thoughts to dwell
upon, and her wheel was a mechanical accompaniment on such occasions, the revolutions of which
assisted her in the explanation of her ideas.

``Mair regretted---mair missed?---I liked ane
of the auld family very weel, but I winna say that
for them a'.  How should they be mair missed
than the Treddleses? The cotton mill was such

a thing for the country! The mair bairns a cottar body had the better; they would make their
awn keep frae the time they were five years
auld; and a widow wi' three or four bairns was a wealthy woman in the time of the Treddleses.''

``But the health of these poor children, my
good friend---their education and religious instruction------''

``For health,'' said Christie, looking gloomily at me, ``ye maun ken little of the warld, sir, if ye dinna ken that the health of the poor man's body, as weel as his youth and his strength, are all at the command of the rich man's purse. There never
was a trade so unhealthy yet, but men would fight to get wark at it for twa pennies a day aboon the common wage. But the bairns were reasonably
weel cared for in the way of air and exercise, and a very responsible youth heard them their carritch, and gied them lessons in Reediemadeasy.* Now,

``Reading made Easy,'' usually so pronounced in Scotland.

what did they ever get before? Maybe on a winter day they wad be called out to beat the wood
for cocks or sicklike, and then the starving weans would maybe get a bite of broken bread, and maybe no, just as the butler was in humour---that was
a' they got.''
``They were not, then, a very kind family to
the poor, these old possessors?'' said I, somewhat bitterly; for I had expected to hear my ancestors' praises recorded, though I certainly despaired of being regaled with my own.
``They werena ill to them, sir, and that is aye
something. They were just decent bien bodies;
---ony poor creature that had face to beg got an awmous and welcome; they that were shamefaced
gaed by, and twice as welcome. But they keepit
an honest walk before God and man, the Croftangrys, and, as I said before, if they did little good,
they did as little ill. They lifted their rents and spent them, called in their kain and eat them; gaed to the kirk of a Sunday, bowed civilly if folk took aff their bannets as they gaed by, and lookit as black as sin at them that keepit them on.''
``These are their arms that you have on the
sign?''
``What! on the painted board that is skirting
and groaning at the door?---Na, these are Mr
Treddles's arms---though they look as like legs as arms---ill pleased I was at the fule thing, that cost as muckle as would hae repaired the house from
the wa' stane to the rigging-tree. But if I am
to bide here, I'll hae a decent board wi' a punch bowl on it.''
``Is there a doubt of your staying here, Mrs
Steele?''
``Dinna Mistress me,'' said the cross old woman, whose fingers were now playing their thrift in a manner which indicated nervous irritation---``there was nae luck in the land since Luckie turned
Mistress, and Mistress my Leddy; and as for
staying here, if it concerns you to ken, I may stay if I can pay a hundred pund sterling for the lease, and I may flit if I canna; and so gude-e'en to you, Christie,''-and round went the wheel with much
activity.
``And you like the trade of keeping a public
house?''
``I can scarce say that,'' she replied. ``But
worthy Mr Prendergast is clear of its lawfulness, and I hae gotten used to it, and made a decent living, though I never make out a fause reckoning,
or give ony ane the means to disorder reason in
my house.''
``Indeed?'' said I; ``in that case, there is no wonder you have not made up the hundred pounds to
purchase the lease.''
``How do you ken,'' said she sharply, ``that I
might not have had a hundred punds of my ain
fee? If I have it not, I am sure it is my ain faut; and I wunna ca' it faut neither, for it gaed to her wha was weel entitled to a' my service.'' Again
she pulled stoutly at the flax, and the wheel went smartly round.
``This old gentleman,'' said I, fixing my eye on the painted panel, ``seems to have had his arms
painted as well as Mr Treddles---that is, if that painting in the corner be a scutcheon.''
``Ay, ay---cushion, just sae, they maun a' hae
their cushions; there's sma' gentry without that; and so the arms, as they ca' them, of the house of Glentanner, may be seen on an auld stane in the
west end of the house. But to do them justice,
they didna propale sac muckle about them as poor Mr Treddles did;---it's like they were better used to them.''
``Very likely.---Are there any of the old family in life, goodwife?''

``No,'' she replied; then added, after a moment's
hesitation---``not that I know of,''---and the wheel,
which had intermitted, began again to revolve.

``Gone abroad, perhaps?'' I suggested.
She now looked up, and faced me---``No, sir.
There were three sons of the last laird of Glentanner, as he was then called; John and William
were hopeful young gentlemen, but they died early ---one of a decline, brought on by the mizzles, the other lost his life in a fever. It would hae been lucky for mony ane that Chrystal had gane the
same gate.''
``Oh---he must have been the young spendthrift
that sold the property? Well, but you
should not have such an ill-will against him: remember necessity has no law; and then, goodwife,
be was not more culpable than Mr Treddles, whom
you are so sorry for.''
``I wish I could think sae, sir, for his mother's sake; but Mr Treddles was in trade, and though
be had no preceese right to do so, yet there was some warrant for a man being expensive that imagined be was making a mint of money. But this
unhappy lad devoured his patrimony, when he
kenned that he was living like a ratten in a Dunlap cheese, and diminishing his means at a' hands
---I canna bide to think on't.'' With this she
broke out into a snatch of a ballad; but little of mirth was there either in the tone or the expression:---

``For he did spend, and make an end
Of gear that his forefathers wan;
Of land and ware he made him bare,
So speak nae mair of the auld gudeman.''

``Come, dame,'' said I, ``it is a long lane that has no turning. I will not keep from you that I have heard something of this poor fellow, Chrystal Croftangry. He has sown his wild oats, as
they say, and has settled into a steady respectable man.''
``And wha tell'd ye that tidings?'' said she,
looking sharply at me.
``Not perhaps the best judge in the world of his character, for it was himself, dame.''
``And if he tell'd you truth, it was a virtue he did not aye use to practise,'' said Christie.
``The devil!'' said I, considerably nettled;
``all the world held him to be a man of honour.''
``Ay, ay! he would hae shot onybody wi' his
pistols and his guns, that had evened him to be a liar. But if he promised to pay an honest tradesman the next term-day, did he keep his word then?
And if he promised a puir silly lass to make gude her shame, did he speak truth then? And what
is that, but being a liar, and a black-hearted deceitful liar to boot?''
My indignation was rising, but I strove to suppress it; indeed, I should only have afforded my
tormentor a triumph by an angry reply. I partly suspected she began to recognise me; yet she testified so little emotion, that I could not think my
suspicion well founded. I went on, therefore, to say, in a tone as indifferent as I could command, ``Well, goodwife, I see you will believe no good of this Chrystal of yours, till he comes back and buys a good farm on the estate, and makes you his housekeeper.''
The old woman dropped her thread, folded her
hands, as she looked up to heaven with a face of apprehension. ``The Lord,'' she exclaimed, ``forbid! The Lord in his mercy forbid! Oh, sir! if
you really know this unlucky man, persuade him
to settle where folk ken the good that you say
he has come to, and dinna ken the evil of his former days. He used to be proud enough---O dinna
let him come here, even for his own sake.---He
used ance to have some pride.''
Here she once more drew the wheel close to her,
and began to pull at the flax with both hands--- ``Dinna let him come here, to be looked down
upon by ony that may be left of his auld reiving companions, and to see the decent folk that he
looked over his nose at look over their noses at him, baith at kirk and market. Dinna let him
come to his ain country to be made a tale about
when ony neighbour points him out to another,
and tells what he is, and what he was, and how he wrecked a dainty estate, and brought harlots to the door-cheek of his father's house, till he made it nae residence for his mother; and how it had been
foretauld by a servant of his ain house, that he was a ne'er-do-weel, and a child of perdition, and how her words were made good, and---''
``Stop there, goodwife, if you please,'' said I: ``you have said as much as I can well remember,
and more than it may be safe to repeat. I can
use a great deal of freedom with the gentleman
we speak of; but I think were any other person
to carry him half of your message, I would scarce insure his personal safety. And now, as I see the

night is settled to be a fine one, I will walk on to
------, where I must meet a coach to-morrow, as it
passes to Edinburgh.''

So saying, I paid my moderate reckoning, and
took my leave, without being able to discover whether the prejudiced and hard-hearted old woman
did, or did not, suspect the identity of her guest with the Chrystal Croftangry against whom she
harboured so much dislike.
The night was fine and frosty, though, when I
pretended to see what its character was, it might have rained like the deluge. I only made the excuse to escape from old Christie Steele. The horses
which run races in the Corso at Rome without any riders, in order to stimulate their exertion, carry each his own spurs, namely, small balls of steel, with sharp projecting spikes, which are attached to loose straps of leather, and, flying about in the violence of the agitation, keep the horse to his speed by pricking him as they strike against his flanks. The old woman's reproaches had the same effect on me, and urged me to a rapid pace, as if it had been possible to escape from my own recollections. In the best days of my life, when I
won one or two hard walking matches, I doubt if
I ever walked so fast as I did betwixt the Treddles Arms and the borough town for which I was
bound. Though the night was cold, I was warm
enough by the, time I got to my inn; and it required a refreshing draught of porter, with half
an hour's repose, ere I could determine to give
no farther thought to Christie and her opinions, than those of any other vulgar prejudiced old woman. I resolved at last to treat the thing _en
bagatelle_, and, calling for writing materials, I folded up a cheque for L.100, with these lines on the
envelope

Chrystal, the ne'er-do-weel,
Child destined to the deil,
Sends this to Christie Steele.

And I was so much pleased with this new mode of
viewing the subject, that I regretted the lateness of the hour prevented my finding a person to carry the letter express to its destination.

But with the morning cool reflection came.

I considered that the money, and probably more,
was actually due by me on my mother's account to Christie, who had lent it in a moment of great
necessity, and that the returning it in a light or ludicrous manner was not unlikely to prevent so
touchy arid punctilious a person from accepting a debt which was most justly her due, and which it became me particularly to see satisfied. Sacrificing then my triad with little regret, (for it looked better by candlelight, and through the medium of a
pot of porter, than it did by daylight, and with bohea for a menstruum,) I determined to employ
Mr Fairscribe's mediation in buying up the lease of the little inn, and conferring it upon Christie in the way which should make it most acceptable
to her feelings. It is only necessary to add, that my plan succeeded, and that Widow Steele even
yet keeps the Treddles Arms. Do not say, therefore, that I have been disingenuous with you,
reader; since, if I have not told all the ill of myself I might have done, I have indicated to you a
person able and willing to supply the blank, by
relating all my delinquencies, as well as my misfortunes.
In the meantime, I totally abandoned the idea
of redeeming any part of my paternal property,
and resolved to take Christie Steele's advice, as young Norval does Glenalvon's, ``although it
sounded harshly.''

CHAPTER V.

Mr Croftangry settles in the Canongate.

        ------If you will know my house,
        'Tis at the tuft of olives here hard by.
                                   _As You Like It._

By a revolution of humour which I am unable
to account for, I changed my mind entirely on my plans of life, in consequence of the disappointment, the history of which fills the last chapter. I began to discover that the country would not at all suit me; for I had relinquished field-sports, and felt no inclination whatever to farming, the ordinary vocation of country gentlemen; besides that, I had no
talent for assisting either candidate in case of an expected election, and saw no amusement in the
duties of a road trustee, a commissioner of supply, or even in the magisterial functions of the bench. I had begun to take some taste for reading; and a domiciliation in the country must remove me from the use of books, excepting the small subscription library, in which the very book which you want is uniformly sure to be engaged.
I resolved, therefore, to make the Scottish
metropolis my regular resting-place, reserving to myself to take occasionally those excursions, which, spite of all I have said against mail-coaches, Mr Piper has rendered so easy. Friend of our life and of our leisure, he secures by dispatch against loss of time, and by the best of coaches, cattle, and steadiest of drivers, against hazard of limb, and wafts us, as well as our letters, from Edinburgh to Cape Wrath, in the penning of a paragraph.
When my mind was quite made up to make Auld
Reekie my head-quarters, reserving the privilege of _exploring_ in all directions, I began to explore in good earnest for the purpose of discovering a suitable habitation. ``And whare trew ye I gaed?''
as Sir Pertinax says. Not to George's Square---

nor to Charlotte Square---nor to the old New
Town---nor to the new New Town---nor to the
Calton Hill; I went to the Canongate, and to the
very portion of the Canongate in which I had formerly
been immured, like the errant knight, prisoner

in some enchanted castle, where spells have
made the ambient air impervious to the unhappy
captive, although the organs of sight encountered no obstacle to his free passage.
Why I should have thought of pitching my tent
here I cannot tell. Perhaps it was to enjoy the pleasures of freedom, where I had so long endured the bitterness of restraint; on the principle of the officer, who, after he had retired from the army, ordered his servant to continue to call him at the hour of parade, simply that he might have the pleasure of saying---``D-n the parade!'' and turning
to the other side to enjoy his slumbers. Or perhaps I expected to find in the vicinity some little oldfashioned house, having somewhat of the _rus in
urbe_, which I was ambitious of enjoying. Enough, I went, as aforesaid, to the Canongate.
I stood by the kennel, of which I have formerly
spoken, and, my mind being at case, my bodily
organs were more delicate. I was more sensible

than heretofore, that, like the trade of Pompey in
Measure for Measure---it did in some sort---pah
---an ounce of civet, good apothecary!---Turning
from thence, my steps naturally directed themselves
to my own humble apartment, where my little
Highland landlady, as dapper and as tight as ever,

(for old women wear a hundred times better than
the hard-wrought seniors of the masculine sex,)
stood at the door, _teedling_, to herself a Highland song as she shook a table napkin over the forestair, and then proceeded to fold it up neatly for
future service.
``How do you, Janet?''
``Thank ye, good sir,'' answered my old friend,
without looking at me; ``but ye might as weel say Mrs MacEvoy, for she is na a'body's Shanet---
umph.''
``You must be my Janet, though, for all that---
have you forgot me?---Do you not remember
Chrystal Croftangry?''
The light, kind-hearted creature threw her napkin into the open door, skipped down the stair like

a fairy, three steps at once, seized me by the hands,
---both hands,---jumped up, and actually kissed me.
I was a little ashamed; but what swain, of somewhere
inclining to sixty, could resist the advances
of a fair contemporary? So we allowed the full

degree of kindness to the meeting,---_honi soit qui mal y pense_,---and then Janet entered instantly upon business. ``An' yell gae in, man, and see
your auld lodgings, nae doubt, and Shanet will pay ye the fifteen shillings of change that ye ran away without, and without bidding Shanet good day.
But never mind,'' (nodding good-humouredly,)
``Shanet saw you were carried for the time.''
By this time we were in my old quarters, and
Janet, with her bottle of cordial in one hand and the glass in the other, had forced on me a dram of usquebaugh, distilled with saffron and other herbs, after some old-fashioned Highland receipt. Then was unfolded, out of many a little scrap of paper, the reserved sum of fifteen shillings, which Janet had treasured for twenty years and upwards.
``Here they are,'' she said, in honest triumph,
``just the same I was holding out to ye when ye
ran as if ye had been fey. Shanet has had siller, and Shanet has wanted siller, mony a time since

that---and the gauger has come, and the factor has
come, and the butcher and baker---Cot bless us---
just like to tear poor auld Shanet to pieces; but
she took good care of Mr Croftangry's fifteen shillings.''

``But what if I had never come back, Janet?''
``Och, if Shanet had heard you were dead, she
would hae gien it to the poor of the chapel, to pray for Mr Croftangry,'' said Janet, crossing herself, for she was a Catholic;---``you maybe do not think it would do you cood, but the blessing of the poor can never do no harm.''
I agreed heartily in Janet's conclusion; and, as to have desired her to consider the hoard as her own property, would have been an indelicate return to her for the uprightness of her conduct, I requested her to dispose of it as she had proposed to do
in the event of my death, that is, if she knew any poor people of merit to whom it might be useful.
``Ower mony of them,'' raising the corner of her

checked apron to her eyes, ``e'en ower mony of
them, Mr Croftangry.---Och, ay---there is the puir
Highland creatures frae Glensbee, that cam down
for the harvest, and are lying wi' the fever---five
shillings to them, and half-a-crown to Bessie MacEvoy,
whose coodman, puir creature, died of the
frost, being a shairman, for a' the whisky he could
drink to keep it out o' his stamoch---and------''

But she suddenly interrupted the bead-roll of her proposed charities, and assuming a very sage look, and primming up her little chattering mouth, she went on in a different tone---``But, och, Mr Croftangry, bethink ye whether ye will not need a' this
siller yoursell, and maybe look back and think lang for ha'en kiven it away, whilk is a creat sin to forthink a wark o' charity, and also is unlucky, and
moreover is not the thought of a shentleman's son like yoursell, dear. And I say this, that ye may think a bit, for your mother's son kens that ye are no so careful as you should be of the gear, and I hae tauld ye of it before, jewel.''
I assured her I could easily spare the money,
without risk of future repentance; and she went
on to infer, that, in such a case, ``Mr Croftangry had grown a rich man in foreign parts, and was
free of his troubles with messengers and sheriff-officers, and siclike scum of the earth, and Shanet
MacEvoy's mother's daughter be a blithe woman
to hear it. But if Mr Croftangry was in trouble, there was his room, and his ped, and Shanet to wait on him, and tak payment when it was quite convenient.''
I explained to Janet my situation, in which she
expressed unqualified delight. I then proceeded to enquire into her own circumstances, and, though she spoke cheerfully and contentedly, I could see they were precarious. I had paid more than was
due; other lodgers fell into an opposite error, and forgot to pay Janet at all. Then, Janet being ignorant of all indirect modes of screwing money out
of her lodgers, others in the same line of life, who were sharper than the poor simple Highland woman, were enabled to let their apartments cheaper
in appearance, though the inmates usually found
them twice as dear in the long-run.
As I had already destined my old landlady to be
my housekeeper and governante, knowing her honesty, good-nature, and, although a Scotchwoman,
her cleanliness and excellent temper, (saving the short and hasty expressions of anger which Highlanders call a _fuff_,) now proposed the plan to her
in such a way as was likely to make it most acceptable. Very acceptable as the proposal was, as
I could plainly see, Janet, however, took a day to consider upon it; and her reflections against our next meeting had suggested only one objection,
which was singular enough.
``My honour,'' so she now termed me, ``would
pe for biding in some fine street apout the town; now Shanet wad ill like to live in a place where polish, and sheriffs, and bailiffs, and sic thieves and trash of the world, could tak puir shentlemen by the throat, just because they wanted a wheen
dollars in the sporran. She had lived in the bonny glen of Tomanthoulick---Cot, an ony of the vermint had come there, her father wad hae wared a
shot on them, and he could hit a buck within as
mony measured yards as e'er a man of his clan.
And the place here was so quiet frae them, they
durst na put their nose ower the gutter. Shanet owed nobody a bodle, but she couldna pide to see honest folk and pretty shentlemen forced away to prison whether they would or no; and then if
Shanet was to lay her tangs ower ane of the ragamuffin's heads, it would be, maybe, that the law
would gi'ed a hard name.''
One thing I have learned in life,---never to
speak sense when nonsense will answer the purpose as well. I should have had great difficulty
to convince this practical and disinterested admirer and vindicator of liberty, that arrests seldom
or never were to be seen in the streets of Edinburgh, and to satisfy her of their justice and necessity, would have been as difficult as to convert her
to the Protestant faith. I therefore assured her my intention, if I could get a suitable habitation, was to remain in the quarter where she at present dwelt. Janet gave three skips on the floor, and uttered as many short shrill yells of joy; yet doubt almost instantly returned, and she insisted on
knowing what possible reason I could have for
making my residence where few lived, save those
whose misfortunes drove them thither. It occurred to me to answer her by recounting the legend
of the rise of my family, and of our deriving our name from a particular place near Holyrood Palace. This, which would have appeared to most
people a very absurd reason for choosing a residence, was entirely satisfactory to Janet MacEvoy.
``Och, nae doubt I if it was the land of her fathers, there was nae mair to be said. Put it was
queer that her family estate should just lie at the town tail, and covered with houses, where the
King's cows, Cot bless them hide and horn, used
to craze upon. It was strange changes.'' She
mused a little, and then added, ``Put it is something better wi' Croftangry when the changes is
frae the field to the habited place, and not from the place of habitation to the desert; for Shanet, her nainsell, kent a glen where there were men as weel as there maybe in Croftangry, and if there
werena altogether sae mony of them, they were as good men in their tartan as the others in their broadcloth. And there were houses too, and if they
were not biggit with stane and lime, and lofted
like the houses at Croftangry, yet they served the purpose of them that lived there; and mony a braw bonnet, and mony a silk snood, and comely white
curch, would come out to gang to kirk or chapel
on the Lord's day, and little bairns toddling after; and now,---Och, Och, Ohellany, Ohonari! the
glen is desolate, and the braw snoods and bonnets are gane, and the Saxon's house stands dull and
lonely, like the single bare-breasted rock that the falcon builds on---the falcon that drives the heathbird frae the glen.''
Janet, like many Highlanders, was full of imagination; and, when melancholy themes came upon
her, expressed herself almost poetically, owing to the genius of the Celtic language in which she
thought, and in which, doubtless, she would have spoken, had I understood Gaelic. In two minutes the shade of gloom and regret had passed from her good-humoured features, and she was again the
little busy, prating, important old woman, undisputed owner of one flat of a small tenement in the
Abbey-yard, and about to be promoted to be housekeeper to an elderly bachelor gentleman, Chrystal
Croftangry, Esq.
It was not long before Janet's local researches
found out exactly the sort of place I wanted, and there we settled. Janet was afraid I would not be satisfied because it is not exactly part of Croftangry; but I stopped her doubts, by assuring her it
had been part and pendicle thereof in my forefathers' time, which passed very well.
I do not intend to possess any one with an exact knowledge of my lodging; though, as Bobadil
says, ``I care not who knows it, since the cabin is convenient.'' But I may state in general, that it is a house ``within itself,'' or, according to a newer phraseology in advertisements, self-contained, has a garden of near half an acre, and a patch
of ground with trees in front. It boasts five rooms and servants' apartments---looks in front upon the palace, and from behind towards the hill and crags of the King's Park. Fortunately the place had a name, which, with a little improvement, served to countenance the legend which I had imposed on
Janet, and would not perhaps have been sorry if I had been able to impose on myself. It was called Littlecroft; we have dubbed it Little Croftangry, and the men of letters belonging to the Post Office have sanctioned the change, and deliver letters
so addressed. Thus I am to all intents and purposes Chrystal Croftangry of that Ilk.
My establishment consists of Janet, an under
maid-servant, and a Highland wench for Janet to
exercise her Gaelic upon, with a handy lad who
can lay the cloth, and take care besides of a pony, on which I find my way to Portobello sands, especially when the cavalry have a drill; for, like an
old fool as I am, I have not altogether become indifferent to the tramp of horses and the flash of
weapons, of which, though no professional soldier, it has been my fate to see something in my youth. For wet mornings, I have my book---is it fine
weather, I visit, or I wander on the Crags, as the humour dictates. My dinner is indeed solitary,
yet not quite so neither; for though Andrew
waits, Janet, or,---as she is to all the world but her master, and certain old Highland gossips,---Mrs
MacEvoy, attends, bustles about, and desires to
see every thing is in first-rate order, and to tell me, Cot pless us, the wonderful news of the Palace for the day. When the cloth is removed, and I light my cigar, and begin to husband a pint of port, or a glass of old whisky and water, it is the rule of the house that Janet takes a chair at some distance, and nods or works her stocking, as she may be disposed; ready to speak, if I am in the talking humour,
and sitting quiet as a mouse if I am rather
inclined to study a book or the newspaper. At
six precisely she makes my tea, and leaves me to drink it; and then occurs an interval of time which most old bachelors find heavy on their hands. The theatre is a good occasional resource, especially if Will Murray acts, or a bright star of eminence
shines forth; but it is distant, and so are one or two public societies to which I belong; besides, these evening walks are all incompatible with the elbow-chair feeling, which desires some employment that may divert the mind without fatiguing
the body.
Under the influence of these impressions, I have sometimes thought of this literary undertaking. I must have been the Bonassus himself to have mistaken myself for a genius, yet I have leisure and
reflections like my neighbours. I am a borderer also between two generations, and can point out
more perhaps than others of those fading traces of antiquity which are daily vanishing; and I know
many a modern instance and many an old tradition, and therefore I ask---

What ails me, I may not, as well as they,
Rake up some threadbare tales, that mouldering lay In chimney corners, wont by Christmas fires
To read and rock to sleep our ancient sires?
No man his threshold better knows, than I
Brute's first arrival and first victory,
Saint George's sorrel and his cross of blood, Arthur's round board and Caledonian wood.

No shop is so easily set up as an antiquary's.
Like those of the lowest order of pawnbrokers, a commodity of rusty iron, a bag or two of hobnails, a few odd shoebuckles, cashiered kail-pots, and
fire-irons declared incapable of service, are quite sufficient to set him up. If he add a sheaf or two

of penny ballads and broadsides, he is a great man
---an extensive trader.  And then---like the pawnbrokers
aforesaid, if the author understands a little
legerdemain, he may, by dint of a little picking
and stealing, make the inside of his shop a great

deal richer than the out, and be able to show you things which cause those who do not understand
the antiquarian trick of clean conveyance, to wonder how the devil he came by them.
It may be said, that antiquarian articles interest but few customers, and that we may bawl ourselves as rusty as the wares we deal in without any one asking the price of our merchandise. But I do
not rest my hopes upon this department of my labours only. I propose also to have a corresponding
shop for Sentiment, and Dialogues, and Disquisition, which may captivate the fancy of those
who have no relish, as the established phrase goes, for pure antiquity;---a sort of green-grocer's stall erected in front of my ironmongery wares, garlanding the rusty memorials of ancient times with
cresses, cabbages, leeks, and water purpy.
As I have some idea that I am writing too well
to be understood, I humble myself to ordinary language, and aver, with becoming modesty, that I do
think myself capable of sustaining a publication of a miscellaneous nature, as like to the Spectator, or the Guardian, the Mirror, or the Lounger, as my
poor abilities may be able to accomplish. Not that I have any purpose of imitating Johnson, whose
general learning and power of expression I do not deny, but many of whose Ramblers are little better than a sort of pageant, where trite and obvious
maxims are made to swagger in lofty and mystic
language, and get some credit only because they
are not easily understood. There are some of the great moralist's papers which I cannot peruse without thinking on a second-rate masquerade, where
the best-known and least-esteemed characters in
town march in as heroes, and sultans, and so forth, and, by dint of tawdry dresses, get some consideration until they are found out.---It is not, however,
prudent to commence with throwing stones, just
when I am striking out windows of my own.
I think even the local situation of Little Croftangry may be considered as favourable to my undertaking. A nobler contrast there can hardly
exist than that of the huge city, dark with the
smoke of ages, and groaning with the various
sounds of active industry or idle revel, and the lofty and craggy hill, silent and solitary as the grave; one exhibiting the full tide of existence, pressing and precipitating itself forward with the force of an inundation; the other resembling some time-worn anchorite, whose life passes as silent and unobserved as the slender rill which escapes unheard, and scarce seen, from the fountain of his patron saint. The city resembles the busy temple, where the modern Comus and Mammon hold their
court, and thousands sacrifice ease, independence, and virtue itself, at their shrine; the misty and lonely mountain seems as a throne to the majestic but terrible Genius of feudal times, when the same divinities dispensed coronets and domains to those who had heads to devise, and arms to execute,
bold enterprises.
I have, as it were, the two extremities of the
moral world at my threshold. From the front door, a few minutes' walk brings me into the heart of a wealthy and populous city; as many paces from
my opposite entrance, places me in a solitude
as complete as Zimmerman could have desired.
Surely with such aids to my imagination, I may
write better than if I were in a lodging in the New Town, or a garret in the old. As the Spaniard
says, ``_Viamos---Caracco!_''
I have not chosen to publish periodically, my
reason for which was twofold. In the first place, I don't like to be hurried, and have had enough of duns in an early part of my life, to make me reluctant to hear of, or see one, even in the less awful
shape of a printer's devil. But, secondly, a periodical paper is not easily extended in circulation
beyond the quarter in which it is published. This work, if published in fugitive numbers, would
scarce, without a high pressure on the part of the bookseller, be raised above the Netherbow, and
never could be expected to ascend to the level of Prince's Street. Now I am ambitious that my
compositions, though having their origin in this Valley of Holyrood, should not only be extended
into those exalted regions I have mentioned, but also that they should cross the Forth, astonish the long town of Kirkaldy, enchant the skippers and
colliers of the East of Fife, venture even into the classic arcades of St Andrews, and travel as much farther to the north as the breath of applause will carry their sails. As for a southward direction, it is not to be hoped for in my fondest dreams. I
am informed that Scottish literature, like Scottish whisky, will be presently laid under a prohibitory duty. But enough of this. If any reader is dull enough not to comprehend the advantages which,
in point of circulation, a compact book has over a collection of fugitive numbers, let him try the
range of a gun loaded with hail-shot, against that of the same piece charged with an equal weight of lead consolidated in a single bullet.
Besides, it was of less consequence that I should have published periodically, since I did not mean to solicit or accept of the contributions of friends, or the criticisms of those who may be less kindly disposed. Notwithstanding the excellent examples which might be quoted, I will establish no
begging-box, either under the name of a lion's-head or an ass's. What is good or ill shall be mine
own, or the contribution of friends to whom I may have private access. Many of my voluntary assistants might be cleverer than myself, and then I
should have a brilliant article appear among my
chiller effusions, like a patch of lace on a Scottish cloak of Galashiels grey. Some might be worse,
and then I must reject them, to the injury of the feelings of the writer, or else insert them, to make my own darkness yet more opaque and palpable.
``Let every herring,'' says our old-fashioned proverb, ``hang by his own head.''
One person, however, I may distinguish, as she
is now no more, who, living to the utmost term of human life, honoured me with a great share of her friendship, as indeed we were blood-relatives in the Scottish sense---Heaven knows how many degrees
removed---and friends in the sense of Old England. I mean the late excellent and regretted Mrs Bethune Baliol. But as I design this admirable picture of the olden time for a principal character in my
work, I will only say here, that she knew and approved of my present purpose; and though she
declined to contribute to it while she lived, from a sense of dignified retirement, which she thought became her age, sex, and condition in life, she left me some materials for carrying on my proposed
work, which I coveted when I heard her detail them in conversation, and which now, when I have their substance in her own handwriting, I account far
more valuable than anything I have myself to offer. I hope the mentioning her name in conjunction
with my own, will give no offence to any of her numerous friends, as it was her own express pleasure
that I should employ the manuscripts, which she
did me the honour to bequeath me, in the manner
in which I have now used them. It must be added, however, that in most cases I have disguised names, and in some have added shading and colouring to
bring out the narrative.
Much of my materials, besides these, are derived from friends, living or dead. The accuracy of some of these may be doubtful, in which case I shall be happy to receive, from sufficient authority, the correction of the errors which must creep into traditional
documents. The object of the whole publication
is, to throw some light on the manners of
Scotland as they were, and to contrast them, occasionally, with those of the present day. My own
opinions are in favour of our own times in many
respects, but not in so far as affords means for exercising the imagination, or exciting the interest which attaches to other times. I am glad to be a writer or a reader in 1826, but I would be most
interested in reading or relating what happened
from half a century to a century before. We have the best of it. Scenes in which our ancestors
thought deeply, acted fiercely, and died desperately, are to us tales to divert the tedium of a winter's evening, when we are engaged to no party, or beguile a summer's morning, when it is too scorching
to ride or walk.
Yet I do not mean that my essays and narratives
should be limited to Scotland. I pledge myself to no particular line of subjects; but, on the contrary, say with Burns,

Perhaps it may turn out a sang,
Perhaps turn out a sermon.

I have only to add, by way of postcript to these preliminary chapters, that I have had recourse to Moliere's recipe, and read my manuscript over to my old woman, Janet MacEvoy.
The dignity of being consulted delighted Janet;
and Wilkie, or Allan, would have made a capital
sketch of her, as she sat upright in her chair, instead of her ordinary lounging posture, knitting
her stocking systematically, as if she meant every twist of her thread, and inclination of the wires, to bear burden to the cadence of my voice. I am afraid, too, that I myself felt more delight than I ought to have done in my own composition, and read a
little more oratorically than I should have ventured to do before an auditor, of whose applause I was not so secure. And the result did not entirely encourage my plan of censorship. Janet did indeed
seriously incline to the account of my previous life, and bestowed some Highland maledictions more
emphatic than courteous on Christie Steele's reception of a ``shentlemans in distress,'' and of her own mistress's house too. I omitted for certain reasons, or greatly abridged, what related to herself
But when I came to treat of my general views in
publication, I saw poor Janet was entirely thrown out, though, like a jaded hunter, panting, puffing, and short of wind, she endeavoured at least to keep up with the chase. Or rather her perplexity made her look all the while like a deaf person ashamed of his infirmity, who does not understand a word you are saying, yet desires you to believe that he does understand you, and who is extremely jealous that you suspect this incapacity. When she saw that some remark was necessary, she resembled exactly in her criticism the devotee who pitched on the
``sweet word Mesopotamia,'' as the most edifying note which she could bring away from a sermon.
She indeed hastened to bestow general praise on
what she said was all ``very fine;'' but chiefly dwelt on what I had said about Mr Timmerman, as she
was pleased to call the German philosopher, and
supposed he must be of the same descent with the Highland clan of M`Intyre, which signifies Son of the Carpenter. ``And a fery honourable name too ---Shanet's own mither was a M`Intyre.''
In short, it was plain the latter part of my introduction was altogether lost on poor Janet; and so,
to have acted up to Moliere's system, I should have cancelled the whole, and written it anew. But I do not know how it is; I retained, I suppose, some tolerable opinion of my own composition, though
Janet did not comprehend it, and felt loath to retrench those delilahs of the imagination, as Dryden
calls them, the tropes and figures of which are
caviar to the multitude. Besides, I hate re-writing, as much as Falstaff did paying back---it is a
double labour. So I determined with myself to
consult Janet, in future, only on such things as were within the limits of her comprehension, and hazard my arguments and my rhetoric on the public without her imprimatur. I am pretty sure she
will ``applaud it done.'' And in such narratives as come within her range of thought and feeling, I shall, as I first intended, take the benefit of her unsophisticated judgment, and attend to it deferentially ---that is, when it happens not to be in peculiar opposition to my own; for, after all, I say
with Almanzor---

Know that I alone am king of me.

The reader has now my who and my whereabout,
the purpose of the work, and the circumstances
under which it is undertaken. He has also a specimen of the author's talents, and may judge for
himself, and proceed, or send back the volume to the bookseller, as his own taste shall determine.

CHAPTER VI.

Mr Croftangry's Account of Mrs Bethune Baliol.

The moon, were she earthly, no nobler.

                                        Coriolanus.

When we set out on the jolly voyage of life,
what a brave fleet there is around us, as stretching our fresh canvass to the breeze, all ``shipshape and Bristol fashion,'' pennons flying, music playing, cheering each other as we pass, we are rather
amused than alarmed when some awkward comrade
goes right ashore for want of pilotage!---Alas!
when the voyage is well spent, and we look about us, toil-worn mariners, how few of our ancient consorts still remain in sight, and they, how torn and
wasted, and, like ourselves, struggling to keep as long as possible of the fatal shore, against which we are all finally drifting!
I felt this very trite but melancholy truth in all its force the other day, when a packet with a black seal arrived, containing a letter addressed to me by my late excellent friend Mrs Martha Bethune
Baliol, and marked with the fatal indorsation, ``To be delivered according to address, after I shall be no more.'' A letter from her executors accompanied the packet, mentioning that they had found in
her will a bequest to me of a painting of some
value, which she stated would just fit the space above my cupboard, and fifty guineas to buy a ring. And thus I separated, with all the kindness which we had maintained for many years, from a friend, who, though old enough to have been the companion of my mother, was yet, in gaiety of spirits, and admirable sweetness of temper, capable of being
agreeable, and even animating society, for those who write themselves in the vaward of youth; an
advantage which I have lost for these five-and-thirty years. The contents of the packet I had no difficulty in guessing, and have partly hinted at them
in the last chapter. But to instruct the reader in the particulars, and at the same time to indulge myself with recalling the virtues and agreeable
qualities of my late friend, I will give a short sketch of her manners and habits.
Mrs Martha Bethune Baliol was a person of
quality and fortune, as these are esteemed in Scotland. Her family was ancient, and her connexions
honourable. She was not fond of specially indicating her exact age, but her juvenile recollections
stretched backwards till before the eventful year 1745; and she remembered the Highland clans
being in possession of the Scottish capital, though probably only as an indistinct vision. Her fortune, independent by her father's bequest, was rendered opulent by the death of more than one brave brother, who fell successively in the service of their
@@@ 92
beside the gate, and acted as porter. To this office he had been promoted by my friend's charitable
feelings for an old soldier, and partly by an idea, that his bead, which was a very fine one, bore some resemblance to that of Garrick in the character of Lusignan. He was a man saturnine, silent, and
slow in his proceedings, and would never open the _porte coch<e`>re_ to a hackney coach; indicating the wicket with his finger, as the proper passage for all who came in that obscure vehicle, which was not
permitted to degrade with its ticketed presence the dignity of Baliol's Lodging. I do not think this peculiarity would have met with his lady's approbation, any more than the occasional partiality of
Lusignan, or, as mortals called him, Archy Macready, to a dram. But Mrs Martha Bethune Baliol,
conscious that, in case of conviction, she could never have prevailed upon, herself to dethrone the King of Palestine from the stone bench on which
he sat for hours, knitting his stocking, refused, by accrediting the intelligence, even to put him upon his trial; well judging that he would observe more wholesome caution if he conceived his character
unsuspected, than if be were detected, and suffered to pass unpunished. For after all, she said, it would be cruel to dismiss an old Highland Soldier for a peccadillo so appropriate to his country and profession.
The stately gate for carriages, or the humble
accommodation for foot-passengers, admitted into a narrow and short passage, running between two
rows of lime-trees, whose green foliage, during the spring, contrasted strangely with the swart complexion of the two walls by the side of which they
grew. This access led to the front of the house, which was formed by two gable ends, notched, and having their windows adorned with heavy architectural ornaments; they joined each other at right
angles; and a half circular tower, which contained the entrance and the staircase, occupied the point of junction, and rounded the acute angle. One of other two sides of the little court, in which there was just sufficient room to turn a carriage, was occupied by some low buildings answering the purpose of offices; the other, by a parapet surrounded
by a highly-ornamented iron railing, twined round with honeysuckle and other parasitical shrubs,
which permitted the eye to peep into a pretty suburban garden, extending down to the road called
the South Back of the Canongate, and boasting a
number of old trees, many flowers, and even some fruit. We must not forget to state, that the extreme cleanliness of the court-yard was such as
intimated that mop and pail had done their utmost in that favoured spot, to atone for the general dirt and dinginess of the quarter where the premises
were situated.
Over the doorway were the arms of Bethune
and Baliol, with various other devices carved in stone; the door itself was studded with iron nails, and formed of black oak; an iron rasp,* as it was

Note C. Iron Rasp.

called, was placed on it, instead of a knocker, for the purpose of summoning the attendants. He
who usually appeared at the summons was a smart
lad, in a handsome livery, the son of Mrs Martha's gardener at Mount Baliol. Now and then a servant girl, nicely but plainly dressed, and fully accoutred with stockings and shoes, would perform
this duty; and twice or thrice I remember being
admitted by Beauffet himself, whose exterior looked as much like that of a clergyman of rank as the
butler of a gentleman's family. He had been valet-de-chambre to the last Sir Richard Bethune Baliol,
and was a person highly trusted by the present
lady. A full stand, as it is called in Scotland, of garments of a dark colour, gold buckles in his
shoes, and at the knees of his breeches, with his hair regularly dressed and powdered, announced
him to be a domestic of trust and importance. His mistress used to say of him,

                              He's sad and civil,

And suits well for a servant with my fortunes.

As no one can escape scandal, some said that
Beauffet made a rather better thing of the place than the modesty of his old-fashioned wages would, unassisted, have amounted to. But the man was
always very civil to me. He had been long in the family; had enjoyed legacies, and laid by a something of his own, upon which he now enjoys ease
with dignity, in as far as his newly-married wife, Tibbie Shortacres, will permit him.
The Lodging---Dearest reader, if you are tired,
pray pass over the next four or five pages---was not by any means so large as its external appearance led people to conjecture. The interior accommodation was much cut up by cross walls and
long passages, and that neglect of economizing
space which characterises old Scottish architecture. But there was far more room than my old friend
required, even when she had, as was often the
case, four or five young cousins under her protection; and I believe much of the house was unoccupied.
Mrs Bethune Baliol never, in my presence,
showed herself so much offended, as once with a
meddling person who advised her to have the windows of these supernumerary apartments built up,
to save the tax. She said in ire, that, while she lived, the light of God should visit the house of her fathers; and while she had a penny, king and country should have their due. Indeed, she was
punctiliously loyal, even in that most staggering test of loyalty, the payment of imposts. Mr Beauffet told me he was ordered to offer a glass of wine
to the person who collected the income tax, and
that the poor man was so overcome by a reception so unwontedly generous, that he had wellnigh
fainted on the spot.
You entered by a matted anteroom into the
eating parlour, filled with old-fashioned furniture, and hung with family portraits, which, excepting one of Sir Bernard Bethune, in James the Sixth's time, said to be by Jameson, were exceedingly
frightful. A saloon, as it was called, a long narrow chamber, led out of the dining-parlour, and
served for a drawing-room. It was a pleasant
apartment, looking out upon the south flank of
Holyrood-house, the gigantic slope of Arthur's
Seat, and the girdle of lofty rocks, called Salisbury Crags;* objects so rudely wild, that the mind can

The Rev. Mr Bowles derives the name of these crags, as of the Episcopal city in the west of England, from the same root; both, in his opinion, which he very ably defends and illustrates, having been the sites of druidical temples.

hardly conceive them to exist in the vicinage of a populous metropolis. The paintings of the saloon came from abroad, and had some of them much
merit. To see the best of them, however, you
must be admitted into the very penetralia of the temple, and allowed to draw the tapestry at the
upper end of the saloon, and enter Mrs Martha's
own special dressing-room. This was a charming
apartment, of which it would be difficult to describe the form, it had so many recesses which were filled up with shelves of ebony, and cabinets of japan and _or molu_; some for holding books, of which Mrs
Martha had an admirable collection, some for a
display of ornamental china, others for shells and similar curiosities. In a little niche, half screened by a curtain of crimson silk, was disposed a suit of tilting armour of bright steel, inlaid with silver, which had been worn on some memorable occasion
by Sir Bernard Bethune, already mentioned; while over the canopy of the niche, hung the broadsword with which her father had attempted to change the fortunes of Britain in 1715, and the spontoon which her elder brother bore when he was leading on a
company of the Black Watch* at Fontenoy.

The well-known original designation of the gallant 42d Regiment. Being the first corps raised for the royal service in the Highlands, and allowed to retain their national garb, they were thus named from the contrast which their dark tartans furnished to the scarlet and white of the other regiments.

There were some Italian and Flemish pictures
of admitted authenticity, a few genuine bronzes
and other objects of curiosity, which her brothers or herself had picked up while abroad. In short, it was a place where the idle were tempted to become studious, the studious to grow idle---where
the grave might find matter to make them gay, and the gay subjects for gravity.
That it might maintain some title to its name,
I must not forget to say, that the lady's dressing-room exhibited a superb mirror, framed in silver
filigree work; a beautiful toilette, the cover of which was of Flanders lace; and a set of boxes
corresponding in materials and work to the frame of the mirror.
This dressing apparatus, however, was mere
matter of parade: Mrs Martha Bethune Baliol
always went through the actual duties of the toilette in an inner apartment, which corresponded
with her sleeping-room by a small detached staircase. There were, I believe, more than one of
those _turnpike stairs_, as they were called, about the house, by which the public rooms, all of which entered through each other, were accommodated
with separate and independent modes of access.
In the little boudoir we have described, Mrs Martha Baliol had her choicest meetings. She kept
early hours; and if you went in the morning, you must not reckon that space of day as extending
beyond three o'clock, or four at the utmost. These vigilant habits were attended with some restraint on her visitors, but they were indemnified by your always finding the best society, and the best information, which was to be had for the (lay in the

Scottish capital.  Without at all affecting the blue
stocking, she liked books---they amused her---and if
the authors were persons of character, she thought
she owed them a debt of civility, which she loved
to discharge by personal kindness.  When she gave

a dinner to a small party, which she did now and then, she had the good nature to look for, and the good luck to discover, what sort of people suited each other best, and chose her company as Duke
Theseus did his hounds,

matched in mouth like bells,
Each under each,*

Shakspeare's Midsummer Night's Dream, Act IV. Sc. I.

so that every guest could take his part in the cry; instead of one mighty Tom of a fellow, like Dr
Johnson, silencing all besides by the tremendous depth of his diapason. On such occasions she afforded _ch<e`>re exquise_; and every now and then there was some dish of French, or even Scottish derivation, which, as well as the numerous assortment
of _vins extraordinaires_ produced by Mr Beauffet, gave a sort of antique and foreign air to the entertainment, which rendered it more interesting.
It was a great thing to be asked to such parties, and not less so to be invited to the early _conversazione_, which, in spite of fashion, by dint of the best
coffee, the finest tea, and _chasse caf<e'>_ that would have called the dead to life, she contrived now and then to assemble in her saloon already mentioned, at the unnatural hour of eight in the evening. At such times, the cheerful old lady seemed to enjoy herself so much in the happiness of her guests, that they exerted themselves in turn to prolong her
amusement and their own; and a certain charm
was excited around, seldom to be met with in parties of pleasure, and which was founded on the
general desire of every one present to contribute something to the common amusement.
But although it was a great privilege to be admitted to wait on my excellent friend in the morning,
or be invited to her dinner or evening parties,
I prized still higher the right which I had acquired, by old acquaintance, of visiting Baliol's Lodging, upon the chance of finding its venerable inhabitant preparing for tea, just about six o'clock in the evening. It was only to two or three old friends that she permitted this freedom, nor was this sort of chance-party ever allowed to extend itself beyond five in number. The answer to those who
came later, announced that the company was filled up for the evening; which had the double effect, of making those who waited on Mrs Bethune Baliol in this unceremonious manner punctual in observing her hour, and of adding the zest of a little
difficulty to the enjoyment of the party.
It more frequently happened that only one or
two persons partook of this refreshment on the
same evening; or, supposing the case of a single gentleman, Mrs Martha, though she did not hesitate to admit him to her boudoir, after the privilege of the French and the old Scottish school,
took care, as she used to say, to preserve all possible propriety, by commanding the attendance of
her principal female attendant, Mrs Alice Lambskin, who might, from the gravity and dignity of
her appearance, have sufficed to matronize a whole boarding-school, instead of one maiden lady or
eighty and upwards. As the weather permitted,
Mrs Alice sat duly remote from the company in
a fauteuil behind the projecting chimney-piece, or in the embrasure of a window, and prosecuted in
Carthusian silence, with indefatigable zeal, a piece of embroidery, which seemed no bad emblem of
eternity.
But I have neglected all this while to introduce my friend herself to the reader, at least so far as words can convey the peculiarities by which her
appearance and conversation were distinguished.
A little woman, with ordinary features, and an
ordinary form, and hair, which in youth had no
decided colour, we may believe Mrs Martha, when
she said of herself that she was never remarkable for personal charms; a modest admission, which
was readily confirmed by certain old ladies, her contemporaries, who, whatever might have been
the youthful advantages which they more than hinted had been formerly their own share, were now,
in personal appearance, as well as in every thing else, far inferior to my accomplished friend. Mrs Marthas features had been of a kind which might
be said to wear well; their irregularity was now of little consequence, animated as they were by
the vivacity of her conversation; her teeth were excellent, and her eyes, although inclining to grey, were lively, laughing, and undimmed by time. A
slight shade of complexion, more brilliant than her years promised, subjected my friend amongst strangers to the suspicion of having stretched her foreign habits as far as the prudent touch of the
rouge. But it was a calumny; for when telling
or listening to an interesting and affecting story, I have seen her colour come and go as if it played on the cheek of eighteen.
Her hair, whatever its former deficiencies, was
now the most beautiful white that time could bleach, and was disposed with some degree of pretension, though in the simplest manner possible, so as to appear neatly smoothed under a cap of Flanders
lace, of an old-fashioned, but, as I thought, of a very handsome form, which undoubtedly has a
name, and I would endeavour to recur to it, if I thought it would make my description a bit more
intelligible. I think I have heard her say these favourite caps had been her mother's, and had come in fashion with a peculiar kind of wig used by the gentlemen about the time of the battle of Ramillies. The rest of her dress was always rather costly
and distinguished, especially in the evening. A silk or satin gown of some colour becoming her
age, and of a form, which, though complying to a certain degree with the present fashion, had always a reference to some more distant period, was garnished with triple ruffles; her shoes had diamond
buckles, and were raised a little at heel, an advantage which, possessed in her youth, she alleged her
size would not permit her to forego in her old age. She always wore rings, bracelets, and other ornaments of value, either for the materials or the workmanship; nay, perhaps she was a little profuse in
this species of display. But she wore them as
subordinate matters, to which the habits of being constantly in high life rendered her indifferent; the wore them because her rank required it, and
thought no more of them as articles of finery, than a gentleman dressed for dinner thinks of his clean linen and well-brushed coat, the consciousness of which embarrasses the rustic beau on a Sunday.
Now and then, however, if a gem or ornament
chanced to be noticed for its beauty or singularity, the observation usually led the way to an entertaining account of the manner in which it had been
acquired, or the person from whom it had descended to its present possessor. On such and
similar occasions my old friend spoke willingly, which is not uncommon, but she also, which is more rare, spoke remarkably well, and had in her little narratives concerning foreign parts, or former days, which formed an interesting part of her conversation, the singular art of dismissing all the usual
protracted tautology respecting time, place, and circumstances, which is apt to settle like a mist upon the cold and languid tales of age, and at the same time of bringing forward, dwelling upon, and illustrating, those incidents and characters which give point and interest to the story.
She had, as we have hinted travelled a good
deal in foreign countries; for a brother, to whom she was much attached, had been sent upon various missions of national importance to the continent, and she had more than once embraced the opportunity of accompanying him. This furnished a
great addition to the information which she could supply, especially during the last war, when the continent was for so many years hermetically scaled against the English nation. But, besides, Mrs
Bethune Baliol visited different countries, not in the modern fashion, when English travel in caravans
together, and see in France and Italy little besides the same society which they might have enjoyed
at home. On the contrary, she mingled when
abroad with the natives of those countries she
visited, and enjoyed at once the advantage of their society, and the pleasure of comparing it with that of Britain.
In the course of her becoming habituated with
foreign manners, Mrs Bethune Baliol had, perhaps, acquired some slight tincture of them herself.
Yet I was always persuaded, that the peculiar vivacity of look and manner---the pointed and appropriate action with which she accompanied what
she said---the use of the gold and gemmed _tabati<e`>re_, or rather I should say _bonbonni<e`>re_, (for she took no snuff, and the little box contained only a few pieces of candied angelica, or some such lady-like sweetmeat,) were of real old-fashioned Scottish
growth, and such as might have graced the
tea-table of Susannah, Countess of Eglinton,* the

Note D, Countess of Eglinton.

patroness of Allan Ramsay, or of the Hon. Mrs
Colonel Ogilvy, who was another mirror by whom
the maidens of Auld Reekie were required to dress themselves. Although well acquainted with the
customs of other countries, her manners had been chiefly formed in her own, at a time when great
folk lived within little space, and when the distinguished names of the highest society gave to Edinburgh
the _eclat_, which we now endeavour to derive
from the unbounded expense and extended
circle of our pleasures.
l was more confirmed in this opinion, by the
peculiarity of the dialect which Mrs Baliol used. It was Scottish, decidedly Scottish, often containing phrases and words little used in the present day. But then her tone and mode of pronunciation were as different from the usual accent of the ordinary Scotch patois, as the accent of St James's is from that of Billingsgate. The vowels were not pronounced much broader than in the Italian language,
and there was none of the disagreeable drawl which is so offensive to southern ears. In short, it seemed to be the Scottish as spoken by the ancient court of Scotland, to which no idea of vulgarity could be attached; and the lively manners and gestures with which it was accompanied, were so completely in
accord with the sound of the voice and the style of talking, that I cannot assign them a different origin. In long derivation, perhaps the manner
of the Scottish court might have been originally formed on that of France, to which it had certainly some affinity; but I will live and die in the belief, that those of Mrs Baliol, as pleasing as they were peculiar, came to her by direct descent from the high dames who anciently adorned with their presence the royal halls of Holyrood.

CHAPTER VII.
Mrs Baliol assists Mr Croftangry in his
Literary Speculations.

Such as I have described Mrs Bethune Baliol,
the reader will easily believe that when I thought of the miscellaneous nature of my work, I rested upon the information she possessed, and her communicative disposition, as one of the principal supports
of my enterprise. Indeed, she by no means
disapproved of my proposed publication, though
expressing herself very doubtful how far she could personally assist it---a doubt which might be perhaps set down to a little lady-like coquetry, which
required to be sued for the boon she was not unwilling to grant. Or, perhaps, the good old lady,
conscious that her unusual term of years must soon draw to a close, preferred bequeathing the materials in the shape of a legacy, to subjecting them
to the judgment of a critical public during her lifetime.
Many a time I used, in our conversations of the
Canongate, to resume my request of assistance,
from a sense that my friend was the most valuable depository of Scottish traditions that was probably now to be found. This was a subject on which my
mind was so much made up, that when I heard her
carry her description of manners so far back beyond her own time, and describe how Fletcher of Salton spoke, how Graham of Claverhouse danced,
what were the jewels worn by the famous Duchess
of Lauderdale, and how she came by them, I
could not help telling her I thought her some fairy, who cheated us by retaining the appearance of a
mortal of our own day, when, in fact, she had witnessed the revolutions of centuries. She was much
diverted when I required her to take some solemn oath that she had not danced at the balls given by Mary of Este, when her unhappy husband* occupied

The Duke of York, afterwards James II., frequently resided in Holyrood-house, when his religion rendered him an object of suspicion to the English Parliament.

Holyrood in a species of honourable banishment;
---or asked, whether she could not recollect Charles the Second, when he came to Scotland in 1650, and did not possess some slight recollections of the bold usurper, who drove him beyond the Forth.
``_Beau cousin_,'' she said, laughing, ``none of these do I remember personally; but you must
know there has been wonderfully little change on my natural temper from youth to age. From which it follows, cousin, that being even now something too young in spirit for the years which Time has marked me in his calendar, I was, when a girl, a little too old for those of my own standing, and as much inclined at that period to keep the society of elder persons, as I am now disposed to admit the company of gay young fellows of fifty or sixty
like yourself, rather than collect about me all the octogenarians. Now, although I do not actually
come from Elfland, and therefore cannot boast
any personal knowledge of the great personages
you enquire about, yet I have seen and heard
those who knew them well, and who have given
me as distinct an account of them as I could give you myself of the Empress Queen, or Frederick
of Prussia; and I will frankly add,'' said she,
laughing and offering her _bonbonni<e`>re_, ``that I have heard so much of the years which immediately succeeded the Revolution, that I sometimes am
apt to confuse the vivid descriptions fixed on my memory by the frequent and animated recitation
of others, for things which I myself have actually

witnessed.  I caught myself but yesterday describing
to Lord M------ the riding of the last
Scottish Parliament, with as much minuteness as
if I had seen it, as my mother did, from the balcony
in front of Lord Moray's Lodging in the
Canongate.''

``I am sure you must have given Lord M------ a
high treat.''

``I treated him to a hearty laugh, I believe,'' she replied; ``but it is you, you vile seducer of youth, who lead me into such follies. But I will be on my guard against my own weakness. I do not
well know if the wandering Jew is supposed to have a wife, but I should be sorry a decent middle-aged Scottish gentlewoman should be suspected of identity with such a supernatural person.''
``For all that, I must torture you a little more, _ma belle cousine_, with my interrogatories; for how shall I ever turn author unless on the strength of the information which you have so often procured me on the ancient state of manners?''
``Stay, I cannot allow you to give your points
of enquiry a name so very venerable, if I am expected to answer them. Ancient is a term for antediluvians. You may catechise me about the
battle of Flodden, or ask particulars about Bruce and Wallace, under pretext of curiosity after ancient manners; and that last subject would wake
my Baliol blood, you know.''
``Well, but, Mrs Baliol, suppose we settle our
era:---you do not call the accession of James the Sixth to the kingdom of Britain very ancient?''
``Umph! no, cousin---I think I could tell you
more of that than folk now-a-days remember,---for instance, that as James was trooping towards England, bag and baggage, his journey was stopped
near Cockenzie by meeting the funeral of the Earl of Winton, the old and faithful servant and follower of his ill-fated mother, poor Mary! It was
an ill omen for the _infare_, and so was seen of it, cousin.'' *

Note E. Earl of Winton.

I did not choose to prosecute this subject, well knowing Mrs Bethune Baliol did not like to be
much pressed on the subject of the Stewarts, whose misfortunes she pitied, the rather that her father had espoused their cause. And yet her attachment to the present dynasty being very sincere, and even ardent, more especially as her family had served his late Majesty both in peace and war, she experienced a little embarrassment in reconciling her
opinions respecting the exiled family, with those she entertained for the present. In fact, like many an old Jacobite, she was contented to be somewhat inconsistent on the subject, comforting herself, that _now_ every thing stood as it ought to do, and that there was no use in looking back narrowly on the right or wrong of the matter half a century ago.
``The Highlands,'' I suggested, ``should furnish you with ample subjects of recollection. You have witnessed the complete change of that primeval
country, and have seen a race not far removed from the earliest period of society, melted down into the great mass of civilisation; and that could not happen without incidents striking in themselves, and curious as chapters in the history of the human race.''
``It is very true,'' said Mrs Baliol; ``one would think it should have struck the observers greatly, and yet it scarcely did so. For me, I was no Highlander myself, and the Highland chiefs of old, of
whom I certainly knew several, had little in their manners to distinguish them from the Lowland
gentry, when they mixed in society in Edinburgh, and assumed the Lowland dress. Their peculiar
character was for the clansmen at home; and you
must not imagine that they swaggered about in
plaids and broadswords at the Cross, or came to the Assembly-Rooms in bonnets and kilts.''
``I remember,'' said I, ``that Swift, in his Journal, tells Stella he had dined in the house of a
Scots nobleman, with two Highland chiefs, whom
he had found as well-bred men as he had ever met with.''*

Extract of Journal to Stella.---``I dined to-day (12th March, 1712,) with Lord Treasurer and two gentlemen of the Highlands of Scotland, yet very polite men.'' Swift's _Works_, _Vol. III. p._ 7. _Edin._ 1824.

``Very likely,'' said my friend. ``The extremes
of society approach much more closely to each
other than perhaps the Dean of Saint Patrick's expected. The savage is always to a certain degree
polite. Besides, going always armed, and having a very punctilious idea of their own gentility and consequence, they usually behaved to each other
and to the lowlanders, with a good deal of formal politeness, which sometimes even procured them
the character of insincerity.''
``Falsehood belongs to an early period of society, as well as the deferential forms which we
style politeness,'' I replied. ``A child does not see the least moral beauty in truth, until he has been flogged half-a-dozen times. It is so easy, and apparently so natural, to deny what you cannot be easily convicted of, that a savage as well as a child lies to excuse himself, almost as instinctively as he raises his band to protect his head. The old saying, `confess and be hanged,' carries much argument
in it. I observed a remark the other day in
old Birrel. He mentions that M`Gregor of Glenstrae and some of his people had surrendered themselves to one of the Earls of Argyle, upon the express
condition that they should be conveyed safe
into England. The Maccallan Mhor of the day
kept the word of promise, but it was only to the ear. He indeed sent his captives to Berwick,
where they had an airing on the other side of the Tweed, but it was under the custody of a strong
guard, by whom they were brought back to Edinburgh, and delivered to the executioner. This,
Birrel calls keeping a Highlandman's promise.''*

Note F. M`Gregor of Glenstrae.

``Well,'' replied Mrs Baliol, ``I might add, that many of the Highland chiefs whom I knew in former days had been brought up in France, which
might unprove their politeness, though perhaps it did not amend their sincerity. But considering, that, belonging to the depressed and defeated faction in the state, they were compelled sometimes
to use dissimulation, you must set their uniform fidelity to their friends against their occasional falsehood to their enemies, and then you will not judge poor John Highlandman too severely. They
were in a state of society where bright lights are strongly contrasted with deep shadows.''
``It is to that point I would bring you, _ma belle cousine_,---and therefore they are most proper subjects for composition.''
``And you want to turn composer, my good
friend, and set my old tales to some popular tune? But there have been too many composers, if that
be the word, in the field before. The Highlands _were_ indeed a rich mine; but they have, I think, been fairly wrought out, as a good tune is grinded into vulgarity when it descends to the hurdy-gurdy and the barrel-organ.''
``If it be really tune,'' I replied, ``it will recover its better qualities when it gets into the
hands of better artists.''
``Umph!'' said Mrs Baliol, tapping her box,
``we are happy in our own good opinion this evening, Mr Croftangry. And so you think you can
restore the gloss to the tartan, which it has lost by being dragged through so many fingers?''
``With your assistance to procure materials, my
dear lady, much, I think, may be done.''
``Well---I must do my best, I suppose; though
all I know about the Gael is but of little consequence--- Indeed, I gathered it chiefly from Donald
MacLeish.''
``And who might Donald MacLeish be?''
``Neither bard nor sennachie, I assure you, nor
monk nor hermit, the approved authorities for old traditions. Donald was as good a postilion as ever drove a chaise and pair between Glencroe and Inverary. I assure you, when I give you my Highland
anecdotes, you will hear much of Donald MacLeish. He was Alice Lambskin's beau and mine
through a long Highland tour.''
``But when am I to possess these anecdotes?---
you answer me as Harley did poor Prior---

Let that be done which Mat doth say.
`Yea,' quoth the Earl, `but not to-day.' ''

``Well, _mon beau cousin_, if you begin to remind me of my cruelty, I must remind you it has struck nine on the Abbey clock, and it is time you were going home to Little Croftangry. For my promise to assist your antiquarian researches, be assured, I will one day keep it to the utmost extent.
It shall not be a Highlandman's promise, as your old citizen calls it.''
I by this time suspected the purpose of my
friend's procrastination; and it saddened my heart to reflect that I was not to get the information which I desired, excepting in the shape of a legacy. I found accordingly, in the packet transmitted to me after the excellent lady's death, several anecdotes respecting the Highlands, from which I have
selected that which follows, chiefly on account of its possessing great power over the feelings of my critical housekeeper, Janet M`Evoy, who wept most bitterly when I read it to her.
It is, however, but a very simple tale, and may
have no interest for persons beyond Janet's rank of life or understanding.
[4. Introductory Notes]

NOTE TO CHAPTER I.

Note A. Holyrood.

The reader may be gratified with Hector Boece's narrative of the original foundation of the famous abbey of Holyrood, or the Holy Cross, as given in Bellenden's translation:
``Eftir death of Alexander the first, his brothir David come out of Ingland, and wes crownit at Scone, the yeir of God MCXXIV yeiris, and did gret justice, eftir his coronation, in all partis of his realme. He had na weris during the time of King Hary; and wes so pietuous, that he sat daylie in judgement, to caus his pure commonis to have justice; and causit the actionis of his noblis to be decidit be his othir jugis. He gart ilk juge redres the skaithis that come to the party be his wrang sentence; throw quhilk, he decorit his realm with mony nobil actis, and ejeckit the vennomus custome of riotus cheir, quhilk wes inducit afore be Inglismen, quhen thay com with Quene Margaret; for the samin wes noisum to al gud maneris, makand his pepil tender and effeminat.
``In the fourt yeir of his regne, this nobill prince come to visie the madin Castell of Edinburgh. At this time, all the boundis of Scotland were ful of woddis, lesouris, and medois; for the countre wes more gevin to store of bestiall, than ony productioun of cornis; and about this castell was ane gret forest, full of haris, hindis, toddis, and sicklike maner of beistis. Now was the Rude Day cumin, called the Exaltation of the Croce; and, becaus the samin wes ane hie solempne day, the king past to his contemplation. Eftir the messis wer done with maist solempnitie and reverence, comperit afore him mony young and insolent baronis of Scotland, richt desirus to haif sum plesur and solace, be chace of hundis in the said forest. At this time wes with the king ane man of singulare and devoit life, namit Alkwine, channon eftir the ordour of Sanct Augustine, quhilk well lang time confessoure, afore, to King David in Ingland, the time that he wes Erle of Huntingtoun and Northumbirland. This religious man dissuadit the king, be mony reasonis, to pas to this huntis; and allegit the day wes so solempne, be reverence of the haly croce, that he suld gif him erar, for that day, to contemplation, than ony othir exersition. Nochtheles, his dissuasion is litill avalit; for the king wes finallie so provokit, be inoportune solicitatioun of his baronis, that he past, nochtwithstanding the solempnite of this day, to his hountis. At last, quhen he wes cumin throw the vail that lyis to the gret eist fra the said castell, quhare now lyis the Canongait, the stalk past throw the wod with sic noyis and din of rachis and bugillis, that all the bestis were rasit fra thair dennis. Now wes the king cumin to the fute of the crag, and an his nobilis severit, heir and thair, fra him, at thair game and solace; quhen suddenlie apperit to his sicht, the fairist hart that evir wes sene afore with levand creature. The noyis and din of this hart rinnand, as apperit, with awful and braid tindis, maid the kingis hors so effrayit, that na renzeis micht hald him; bot ran, perforce, ouir mire and mossis, away with the king. Nochtheles, the hart followit so fast, that he dang baith the king and his hors to the ground. Than the king kest abak his handis betwix the tindis of this hart, to haif savit him fra the strak thairof; and the haly croce slaid, incontinent, in his handis. The hart fled away with gret violence, and evanist in the same place quhare now springis the Rude Well. The pepil richt affrayitly, returnit to him out of all partis of the wod, to comfort him efter his trubill; and fell on kneis, devotly adoring the haly croce; for it was not cumin but sum hevinly providence, as weill apperis; for thair is na man can schaw of quhat mater it is of, metal or tre. Sone eftir, the king returnit to his castell; and in the nicht following, he was admonist, be ane vision in his sleip, to big ane abbay of channonis regular in the same place quhare he gat the croce. Als sone as he was awalkinnet, he schew his visions to Alkwine, his confessoure; and he na thing suspended his gud mind, bot erar inflammit him with maist fervent devotion thairto. The king, incontinent, send his traist servandis in France and Flanderis, and brocht richt crafty masonis to big this abbay; syne dedicat it in the honour of this haly croce. The croce remanit continewally in the said abbay, to tlie time of King David Bruce; quhilk was unhappily tane with it at Durame, quhare it is haldin yit in gret veneration.''---Boece, _book_ 12, _ch._ 16.
It is by no means clear what Scottish prince first built a palace, properly so called, in the precincts of this renowned seat of sanctity. The abbey, endowed by successive sovereigns and many powerful nobles with munificent gifts of lands and tithes, came, in process of time, to be one of the most important of the ecclesiastical corporations of Scotland; and as early as the days of Robert Bruce, parliaments were held occasionally within its buildings. We have evidence that James IV. had a royal lodging adjoining to the cloister; but it is generally agreed that the first considerable edifice for the accommodation of the royal family erected here was that of James V., anno 1525, great part of which still remains, and forms the north-western side of the existing palace. The more modern buildings which complete the quadrangle were erected by King Charles II. The name of the old conventual church was used as the parish church of the Canongate from the period of the Reformation, until James II. claimed it for his chapel royal, and had it fitted up accordingly in a style of splendour which grievously outraged the feelings of his Presbyterian subjects. The roof of this fragment of a once magnificent church fell in in the year 1768, and it has remained ever since in a state of desolation.---For fuller particulars, see the _Provincial Antiquities of Scotland,_ or the _History of Holyrood_, by Mr Charles Mackie.
The greater part of this ancient palace is now again occupied by his Majesty Charles the Tenth of France, and
the rest of that illustrious family, which, in former ages so closely connected by marriage and alliance with the house of Stuart, seems to have been destined to run a similar career of misfortune. _Requiescant in pace!_

NOTE TO CHAPTER III.
Note, B.---Steele, a covenanter, shot by Captain

                       Creichton.

The following extract from Swift's Life of Creichton gives the particulars of the bloody scene alluded to in the text:---
``Having drank hard one night, I (Creichton) dreamed that I had found Captain David Steele, a notorious rebel in one of the five farmers' houses on a mountain in the shire of Clydesdale, and parish of Lismahago, within eight miles of Hamilton, a place that I was well acquainted with. This man was head of the rebels, since the affair of Airs-Moss; having succeeded to Hackston, who had been there taken, and afterward hanged, as the reader has already heard; for, as to Robert Hamilton, who was then Commander-in-chief at Bothwell Bridge, he appeared no more among them, but fled, as it was believed, to Holland.
``Steele, and his father before him, held a farm in the estate of Hamilton, within two or three miles of that town. When he betook himself to arms, the farm lay waste, and the Duke could find no other person who would venture to take it; whereupon his Grace sent several messages to Steele, to know the reason why he kept the farm waste. The Duke received no other answer, than that he would keep it waste, in spite of him and the king too; whereupon his Grace, at whose table I had always the honour to be a welcome guest, desired I would use my endeavours to destroy that rogue, and I would oblige him for ever.

* * * * *

``I return to my story. When I awaked out of my dream, as I had done before in the affair of Wilson, (and I desire the same apology I made in the introduction to these Memoirs may serve for both,) I presently rose, and ordered thirty-six dragoons to be at the place appointed by break of day. When we arrived thither, I sent a party to each of the five farmers' houses. This villain Steele had murdered above forty of the king's subjects in cold blood; and, as I was informed, had often laid snares to entrap me; but it happened, that although he usually kept a gang to attend him, yet at this time he had none, when he stood in the greatest need, One of the party found him in one of the farmers' houses, just as I happened to dream. The dragoons first searched all the rooms below without success, till two of them bearing somebody stirring over their heads, went up a pair of turnpike stairs. Steele had put on his clothes, while the search was making below; the chamber where he lay was called the Chamber of Deese,*

Or chamber of state; so called from the _dais_, or canopy and elevation of floor, which distinguished the part of old halls which was occupied by those of high rank. Hence the phrase was obliquely used to signify state in general.

which is the name given to a room where the laird lies, when he comes to a tenant's house. Steele suddenly opening the door, fired a blunderbuss down at the two dragoons, as they were coming up the stairs; but the bullets grazing against the side of the turnpike, only wounded, and did not kill them. Then Steele violently threw himself down the stairs among them, and made towards the door to save his life, but lost it upon the spot; for the dragoons who guarded the house dispatched him with their broadswords. I was not with the
party when he was killed, being at that time employed in searching one of the other houses, but I soon found what had happened, by hearing the noise of the shot made with the blunderbuss; from which I returned straight to Lanark, and immediately sent one of the dragoons express to General Drummond at Edinburgh.''---_Swift's Works, Vol. XII. (Memoirs of Captain John Creichton_,) pages 57-59, Edit. Edinb. 1824.
Woodrow gives a different account of this exploit---``In December this year, (1686,) David Steil, in the parish of Lismahagow, was surprised in the fields by Lieutenant Creichton, and after his surrender of himself on quarters, he was in a very little time most barbarously shot, and lies buried in the churchyard there.''

NOTES TO CHAPTER VI.

Note C.---IRON RASP.

The ingenious Mr R. Chambers's Traditions of Edinburgh give the following account of the forgotten rasp or risp.
``This house had a _pin_ or _risp_ at the door, instead of the more modern convenience, a knocker. The pin, rendered interesting by the figure which it makes in Scottish song, was formed of a small rod of iron, twisted or notched, which was placed perpendicularly, starting out a little from the door, and bore a small ring of the same metal, which an applicant for admittance drew rapidly up and down the _nicks_, so as to produce a grating sound. Sometimes the rod was simply stretched across the _vizzying_ hole, a convenient aperture through which the porter could take cognisance of the person applying; in which case it acted also as a stanchion. These were almost all disused about sixty years ago, when knockers were generally substituted as more genteel. But knockers at that time did not long remain in repute, though they have never been altogether superseded, even by bells, in the Old Town. The comparative merit of knockers and pins was for a long time a subject of doubt, and many knockers got their heads twisted off in the course of the dispute.''

Chamber's _Traditions of Edinburgh_.

Note D.---Countess of Eglinton.

Susannah Kennedy, daughter of Sir Archibald Kennedy of Cullean, Bart. by Elizabeth Lesly, daughter of David Lord Newark, third wife of Alexander 9th Earl of Eglinton, and mother of the 10th and 11th Earls. She survived her husband, who died 1729, no less than fifty-seven years, and died March 1780, in her 91st year. Allan Ramsay's Gentle Shepherd, published 1726, is dedicated to her, in verse, by Hamilton of Bangour.
The following account of this distinguished lady is taken from Boswell's Life of Johnson by Mr Croker.
``Lady Margaret Dalrymple, only daughter of John Earl of Stair, married in 1700, to Hugh, third Earl of Loudoun. She died in 1777, aged _one hundred_. Of this venerable lady, and of the Countess of Eglintoune, whom Johnson visited next day, he thus speaks in his _Journey_.---`Length of life is distributed impartially to very different modes of life, in very different climates; and the mountains have no greater examples of age than the Lowlands, where I was introduced to two ladies of high quality, one of whom (Lady Loudoun) in her ninety-fourth year, presided at her table with the full exercise of all her powers; and the other, (Lady Eglintoun,) had attained her eighty-fourth year, without any diminution of her vivacity, and little reason to accuse time of depredations on her beauty.''

* * * * *

``Lady Eglintoune, though she was now in her eighty-fifth year, and had lived in the retirement of the country for almost half a century, was still a very agreeable woman. She was of the noble house of Kennedy, and had all the elevation which the consciousness of such birth inspires. Her figure was majestic, her manners high-bred, her reading extensive, and her conversation elegant. She had been the admiration of the gay circles of life, and the patroness of poets. Dr Johnson was delighted with his reception here. Her principles in church and state were congenial with his. She knew all his merit, and had heard much of him from her son, Earl Alexander, who loved to cultivate the acquaintance of men of talents in every department.''

* * * * *

``In the course of our conversation this day, it came out that Lady Eglintoune was married the year before Dr Johnson was born; upon which she graciously said to him, that she might have been his mother, and that she now adopted him; and when we were going away, she embraced him, saying, `My dear son, farewell!' My friend was much pleased with this day's entertainment, and owned that I had done well to force him out.''

* * * * *

``At Sir Alexander Dick's, from that absence of mind to which every man is at times subject, I told, in a blundering manner, Lady, Eglintoune's complimentary adoption of Dr Johnson as her son; for I unfortunately stated that her ladyship adopted him as her son, in consequence of her having been married the year _after_ he was born. Dr Johnson instantly corrected me. `Sir, don't you perceive that you are defaming the Countess? For, supposing me to be her son, and that she was not married till the year after my birth, I must have been her _natural_ son.' A young lady of quality who was present, very handsomely said, `Might not the son have justified the fault?' My friend was much flattered by this compliment, which he never forgot. When in more than ordinary spirits, and talking of his journey in Scotland, he has called to me, `Boswell, what was it that the young lady of quality said of me at Sir Alexander Dick's?' Nobody will doubt that I was happy in repeating it.''

NOTES TO CHAPTER VII.

Note E.---Earl of Winton.

The incident here alluded to is thus narrated in Nichols' Progresses of James I., Vol. III. p. 306.
``The family'' (of Winton) ``owed its first elevation to the union of Sir Christopher Seton with a sister of King Robert Bruce. With King James VI. they acquired great favour, who, having created his brother Earl of Dunfermline in 1599, made Robert, seventh Lord Seton, Earl of Winton in 1600. Before the King's accession to the English throne, his Majesty and the Queen were frequently at Seton, where the Earl kept a very hospitable table, at which all foreigners of quality were entertained on their visits to Scotland. His Lordship died in 1603, and was buried on the 5th of April, on the very day the King left Edinburgh for England. His Majesty, we are told, was pleased to rest himself at the south-west round of the orchard of Seton, on the high-way, tin the funeral was over, that he might not withdraw the noble company; and he said that he had lost a good, faithful, and loyal subject.''

Nichols' _Progresses of K. James I. Vol. III. p._ 306.

Note F.---MacGregor of Glenstrae.

The 2 of Octr: (1603) Allester MacGregor of Glenstrae
tane be the laird Arkynles, bot escapit againe; bot after taken be the Earle of Argyll the 4 of Januarii, and brought to Edr: the 9 of Januar: 1604, wt: 18 mae of hes friendes MacGregors. He wes convoyit to Berwick be the gaird, conform to the Earle's promes; for he promesit to put him out of Scottis grund: Sua, he keipit an Hielandman's promes, in respect he sent the gaird to convoy him out of Scottis grund; bot yai wer not directit to pairt wt: him, bot to fetchs him bak againe. The 18 of Januar, he came at evin againe to Edinburghe; and upone the 20 day, he was hangit at the crosse, and ij of his freindes and name, upon ane gallows: himself being chieff, he was hangit his awin hight above the rest of hes freindis.--- Birrel's _Diary_, (in Dalzell's _Fragments of Scottish History_,) p. 60-1.

[5. The Highland Widow]

THE

HIGHLAND WIDOW.
CHAPTER 1.
It wound as near as near could be,
But what it is she cannot tell;
On the other side it seemed to be,
Of the huge broad-breasted old oak-tree.

                              Coleridge.

Mrs Bethune Baliol's memorandum begins thus:---

It is five-and-thirty, or perhaps nearer forty years ago, since, to relieve the dejection of spirits occasioned by a great family loss sustained two or three months before, I undertook what was called the short Highland tour. This had become in some degree fashionable; but though the military roads were excellent, yet the accommodation was so indifferent that it was reckoned a little adventure to
accomplish it. Besides, the Highlands, though
now as peaceable as any part of King George's
dominions, was a sound which still carried terror, while so many survived who had witnessed the
insurrection of 1745; and a vague idea of fear was impressed on many, as they looked from the towers of Stirling northward to the huge chain of mountains, which rises like a dusky rampart to conceal
in its recesses a people, whose dress, manners, and language, differed still very much from those of their Lowland countrymen. For my part, I come
of a race not greatly subject to apprehensions
arising from imagination only. I had some Highland relatives, knew several of their families of distinction; and, though only having the company of
my bower-maiden, Mrs Alice Lambskin, I went on
my journey fearless.

But then I had a guide and cicerone, almost equal to Greatheart in the Pilgrim's Progress, in no less a person than Donald MacLeish, the postilion whom I hired at Stirling, with a pair of able-bodied horses, as steady as Donald himself, to drag
my carriage, my duenna, and myself, wheresoever
it was my pleasure to go.

Donald MacLeish was one of a race of post-boys, whom, I suppose, mail-coaches and steam-boats
have put out of fashion. They were to be found
chiefly at Perth, Stirling, or Glasgow, where they and their horses were usually hired by travellers, or tourists, to accomplish such journeys of business or pleasure as they might have to perform in the land of the Gael. This class of persons approached to the character of what is called abroad a _conducteur_; or might be compared to the sailing-master
on board a British ship of war, who follows
out after his own manner the course which the
captain commands him to observe. You explained
to your postilion the length of your tour, and the objects you were desirous it should embrace; and you found him perfectly competent to fix the places of rest or refreshment, with due attention that those should be chosen with reference to your convenience, and to any points of interest which you
might desire to visit.

The qualifications of such a person were necessarily much superior to those of the ``first ready,''
who gallops thrice-a-day over the same ten miles. Donald MacLeish, besides being quite alert at repairing all ordinary accidents to his horses and
carriage, and in making shift to support them,
where forage was scarce, with such substitutes as bannocks and cakes, was likewise a man of intellectual resources. He had acquired a general knowledge
of the traditional stories of the country which
he had traversed so often; and, if encouraged, (for Donald was a man of the most decorous reserve,)
he would willingly point out to you the site of the principal clan-battles, and recount the most remarkable legends by which the road, and the objects
which occurred in travelling it, had been distinguished. There was some originality in the
man's habits of thinking and expressing himself, his turn for legendary lore strangely contrasting with a portion of the knowing shrewdness belonging to his actual occupation, which made his conversation amuse the way well enough.

Add to this, Donald knew all his peculiar duties in the country which he traversed so frequently. He could tell, to a day, when they would ``be killing'' lamb at Tyndrum or Glenuilt; so that the
stranger would have some chance of being fed
like a Christian; and knew to a mile the last village where it was possible to procure a wheaten
loaf, for the guidance of those who were little familiar with the Land of Cakes. He was acquainted
with the road every mile, and could tell to an
inch which side of a Highland bridge was passable, which decidedly dangerous.* In short, Donald

This is, or was at least, a necessary accomplishment. In one of the most beautiful districts of the Highlands was, not many years since, a bridge bearing this startling caution, ``Keep to the right side, the left being dangerous.''

MacLeish was not only our faithful attendant and steady servant, but our humble and obliging friend; and though I have known the half-classical cicerone of Italy, the talkative French valet-de-place, and even the muleteer of Spain, who piques himself on being a maize-eater, and whose honour is not to be questioned without danger, I do not think I have ever had so sensible and intelligent a guide.

Our motions were of course under Donald's direction; and it frequently happened, when the weather
was serene, that we preferred halting to rest
his horses even where there was no established
stage, and taking our refreshment under a crag,
from which leaped a waterfall, or beside the verge of a fountain, enamelled with verdant turf and
wild-flowers. Donald had an eye for such spots, and though he had, I dare say, never read Gil Blas or Don Quixote, yet be chose such halting-places as Le Sage or Cervantes would have described.
Very often, as he observed the pleasure I took in conversing with the country people, he would manage to fix our place of rest near a cottage where
there was some old Gael, whose broadsword had
blazed at Falkirk or Preston, and who seemed the frail yet faithful record of times which had passed away. Or he would contrive to quarter us, as far as a cup of tea went, upon the hospitality of some parish minister of worth and intelligence, or some country family of the better class, who mingled
with the wild simplicity of their original manners, and their ready and hospitable welcome, a sort of courtesy belonging to a people, the lowest of whom are accustomed to consider themselves as being,
according to the Spanish phrase, ``as good gentlemen as the king, only not quite so rich.''

To all such persons Donald MacLeish was well known, and his introduction passed as current as if we had brought letters from some high chief of the country.

Sometimes it happened that the Highland hospitality, which welcomed us with all the variety of
mountain fare, preparations of milk and eggs, and girdle-cakes of various kinds, as well as more substantial dainties, according to the inhabitant's
means of regaling the passenger, descended rather too exuberantly on Donald MacLeish in the shape
of mountain dew. Poor Donald! he was on such
occasions like Gideon's fleece, moist with the noble element, which, of course, fell not on us. But it was his only fault, and when pressed to drink _doch-an-dorroch_ to my ladyship's good health, it would
have been ill taken to have refused the pledge, nor was he willing to do such discourtesy. It was, I repeat, his only fault, nor had we any great right to complain; for if it rendered him a little more talkative, it augmented his ordinary share of punctilious civility, and he only drove slower, and talked
longer and more pompously than when he had
not come by a drop of usquebaugh. It was, we
remarked, only on such occasions that Donald talked with an air of importance of the family of MacLeish; and we had no title to be scrupulous in censuring a foible, the consequences of which were
confined within such innocent limits.

We became so much accustomed to Donald's mode of managing us, that we observed with some
interest the art which he used to produce a little agreeable surprise, by concealing from us the spot where he proposed our halt to be made, when it
was of an unusual and interesting character. This was so much his wont, that when he made apologies at setting off, for being obliged to stop in
some strange solitary place, till the horses should eat the corn which be brought on with them for
that purpose, our imagination used to be on the
stretch to guess what romantic retreat he had
secretly fixed upon for our noontide baiting-place.

We had spent the greater part of the morning at the delightful village of Dalmally, and had gone upon the lake under the guidance of the excellent clergyman who was then incumbent at Glenorquhy,*

This venerable and hospitable gentleman's name was MacIntyre.

and had heard an hundred legends of the
stern chiefs of Loch Awe, Duncan with the thrum
bonnet, and the other lords of the now mouldering towers of Kilchurn.* Thus it was later than usual

Note A. Loch Awe.

when we set out on our journey, after a hint or two from Donald concerning the length of the way to
the next stage, as there was no good halting-place between Dalmally and Oban.

Having bid adieu to our venerable and kind cicerone, we proceeded on our tour, winding round
the tremendous mountain called Cruachan Ben,
which rushes down in all its majesty of rocks and wilderness on the lake, leaving only a pass, in
which, notwithstanding its extreme strength, the warlike clan of MacDougal of Lorn were almost
destroyed by the sagacious Robert Bruce. That
King, the Wellington of his day, had accomplished, by a forced march, the unexpected man<oe>uvre of forcing a body of troops round the other side of the mountain, and thus placed them in the flank
and in the rear of the men of Lorn, whom at the
same time he attacked in front. The great number of cairns yet visible, as you descend the pass on the westward side, shows the extent of the vengeance which Bruce exhausted on his inveterate
and personal enemies. I am, you know, the sister of soldiers, and it has since struck me forcibly that the man<oe>uvre which Donald described, resembled those of Wellington or of Bonaparte. He was a
great man Robert Bruce, even a Baliol must admit that; although it begins now to be allowed that
his title to the crown was scarce so good as that of the unfortunate family with whom he contended--- But let that pass.---The slaughter had been the
greater, as the deep and rapid river Awe is disgorged from the lake, just in the rear of the fugitives, and encircles the base of the tremendous
mountain; so that the retreat of the unfortunate fliers was intercepted on all sides by the inaccessible character of the country, which had seemed
to promise them defence and protection.*

Note B. Battle betwixt the Armies of the Bruce and Macdougal of Lorn.

Musing, like the Irish lady in the song, ``upon things which are long enough a-gone,''* we felt no

This is a line from a very pathetic ballad which I heard sung by one of the young ladies of Edgeworthstown in 1825. I do not know that it has been printed.

impatience at the slow, and almost creeping pace, with which our conductor proceeded along General Wade's military road, which never or rarely
condescends to turn aside from the steepest ascent, but proceeds right up and down bill, with the indifference to height and hollow, steep or level, indicated
by the old Roman engineers. Still, however,

the substantial excellence of these great works
---for such are the military highways in the Highlands---
deserved the compliment of the poet, who,
whether he came from our sister kingdom, and
spoke in his own dialect, or whether he supposed

those whom he addressed might have some national pretension to the second sight, produced the celebrated couplet---

Had you but seen these roads _before_ they were made, You would hold up your hands, and bless General Wade.

Nothing indeed can be more wonderful than to see these wildernesses penetrated and pervious in every quarter by broad accesses of the best possible construction, and so superior to what the country could
have demanded for many centuries for any pacific purpose of commercial intercourse. Thus the traces of war are sometimes happily accommodated to
the purposes of peace. The victories of Bonaparte have been without results; but his road over the Simplon will long be the communication betwixt
peaceful countries, who will apply to the ends of commerce and friendly intercourse that gigantic
work, which was formed for the ambitious purpose of warlike invasion.

While we were thus stealing along, we gradually turned round the shoulder of Ben Cruachan, and
descending the course of the foaming and rapid
Awe, left behind us the expanse of the majestic
lake which gives birth to that impetuous river.
The rocks and precipices which stooped down perpendicularly on our path on the right hand, exhibited
a few remains of the wood which once clothed
them, but which had, in latter times, been
felled to supply, Donald MacLeish informed us,
the iron-founderies at the Bunawe. This made
us fix our eyes with interest on one large oak, which grew on the left hand towards the river. It seemed a tree of extraordinary magnitude and picturesque beauty, and stood just where there appeared
to be a few roods of open ground lying
among huge stones, which had rolled down from
the mountain. To add to the romance of the situation, the spot of clear ground extended round the
foot of a proud-browed rock, from the summit of
which leaped a mountain stream in a fall of sixty feet, in which it was dissolved into foam and dew. At the bottom of the fall the rivulet with difficulty collected, like a routed general, its dispersed
forces, and, as if tamed by its descent, found a noiseless passage through the heath to join the
Awe.

I was much struck with the tree and waterfall, and wished myself nearer them; not that I thought of sketch-book or portfolio,---for, in my younger days, Misses were not accustomed to black-lead pencils, unless they could use them to some good purpose, ---but merely to indulge myself with a closer
view. Donald immediately opened the chaise door, but observed it was rough walking down the brae
and that I would see the tree better by keeping the road for a hundred yards farther, when it passed closer to the spot, for which he seemed, however, to have no predilection. ``He knew,'' he said, ``a far bigger tree than that nearer Bunawe, and it was a place where there was flat ground for the carriage to stand, which it could jimply do on these
braes;---but just as my leddyship liked.''

My ladyship did choose rather to look at the fine tree before me, than to pass it by in hopes of a finer; so we walked beside the carriage till we

should come to a point, from which, Donald assured
us, we might,  without  scrambling,  go  as  near
the tree as we chose, ``though he wadna advise
us to go nearer than the high-road.''

There was something grave and mysterious in Donald's sun-browned countenance when he gave
us this intimation, and his manner was so different from his usual frankness, that my female curiosity was set in motion. We walked on the whilst, and I found the tree, of which we had now lost sight by the intervention of some rising ground, was
really more distant than I had at first supposed. ``I could have sworn now,'' said I to my cicerone, ``that yon tree and waterfall was the very place where you intended to make a stop to-day.''

``The Lord forbid!'' said Donald, hastily.

``And for what, Donald? why should you be willing to pass so pleasant a spot?''

``It's ower near Dalmally, my leddy, to corn the beasts---it would bring their dinner ower near their breakfast, poor things:---an', besides, the place is not canny.''

``Oh! then the mystery is out. There is a bogle or a brownie, a witch or a gyre-carlin, a bodach or a fairy, in the case?''

``The ne'er a bit, my leddy---ye are clean aff the road, as I may say. But if your leddyship will just hae patience, and wait till we are by the place and out of the glen, I'll tell ye all about it. There is no much luck in speaking of such things in the place they chanced in.''

I was obliged to suspend my curiosity, observing, that if I persisted in twisting the discourse
one way while Donald was twining it another, I
should make his objection, like a hempen cord, just so much the tougher. At length the promised turn of the road brought us within fifty paces of the tree which I desired to admire, and I now saw to my surprise, that there was a human habitation
among the cliffs which surrounded it. It was a
hut of the least dimensions, and most miserable description, that I ever saw even in the Highlands.
The walls of sod, or _divot_, as the Scotch call it, were not four feet high---the roof was of turf, repaired with reeds and sedges---the chimney was composed of clay, bound round by straw ropes---and the
whole walls, roof and chimney, were alike covered with the vegetation of house-leek, rye-grass, and moss, common to decayed cottages formed of such
materials. There was not the slightest vestige of a kale-yard, the usual accompaniment of the very worst huts; and of living things we saw nothing, save a kid which was browsing on the roof of the hut, and a goat, its mother, at some distance, feeding betwixt the oak and the river Awe.

``What man,'' I could not help exclaiming, ``can have committed sin deep enough to deserve such
a miserable dwelling!''

``Sin enough,'' said Donald MacLeish, with a half-suppressed groan; ``and God he knoweth,
misery enough too;---and it is no man's dwelling neither, but a woman's.''

``A woman's!'' I repeated, ``and in so lonely a place---What sort of a woman can she be?''

``Come this way, my leddy, and you may judge that for yourself,'' said Donald. And by advancing a few steps, and making a sharp turn to the
left, we gained a sight of the side of the great broad-breasted oak, in the direction opposed to that in which we had hitherto seen it.

``If she keeps her old wont, she will be there at this hour of the day,'' said Donald; but immediately became silent, and pointed with his finger,
as one afraid of being overheard. I looked, and beheld, not without some sense of awe, a female
form seated by the stem of the oak, with her head drooping, her hands clasped, and a dark-coloured mantle drawn over her head, exactly as Judah is represented in the Syrian medals as seated under her
palm-tree. I was infected with the fear and reverence which my guide seemed to entertain towards
this solitary being, nor did I think of advancing towards her to obtain a nearer view until I had cast
an enquiring look on Donald; to which be replied in a half whisper---``She has been a fearfu' bad woman, my leddy.''

``Mad woman, said you,'' replied I, hearing him imperfectly; ``then she is perhaps dangerous?''

``No---she is not mad,'' replied Donald; ``for then it may be she would be happier than she is; though when she thinks on what she has done, and caused to be done, rather than yield up a hair-breadth of her ain wicked will, it is not likely she
can be very well settled. But she neither is mad nor mischievous; and yet, my leddy, I think you
had best not go nearer to her.'' And then, in a few hurried words, he made me acquainted with the
story which I am now to tell more in detail. I
heard the narrative with a mixture of horror and sympathy, which at once impelled me to approach
the sufferer, and speak to her the words of comfort, or rather of pity, and at the same time made
me afraid to do so.

This indeed was the feeling with which she was regarded by the Highlanders in the neighbourhood, who looked upon Elspat MacTavish, or the
Woman of the Tree, as they called her, as the
Greeks considered those who were pursued by the
Furies, and endured the mental torment consequent on great criminal actions. They regarded
such unhappy beings as Orestes and <OE>dipus, as being less the voluntary perpetrators of their
crimes than as the passive instruments by which
the terrible decrees of Destiny had been accomplished; and the fear with which they beheld them
was not unmingled with veneration.

I also learned farther from Donald MacLeish, that there was some apprehension of ill luck attending those who had the boldness to approach too
near, or disturb the awful solitude of a being so unutterably miserable; that it was supposed that whosoever approached her must experience in some respect the contagion of her wretchedness.

It was therefore with some reluctance that Donald saw me prepare to obtain a nearer view of the
sufferer, and that he himself followed to assist me in the descent down a very rough path. I believe his regard for me conquered some ominous feelings
in his own breast, which connected his duty on this occasion with the presaging fear of lame horses, lost linch-pins, overturns, and other perilous chances of the postilion's life.

I am not sure if my own courage would have carried me so close to Elspat, had he not followed. There was in her countenance the stern abstraction of hopeless and overpowering sorrow, mixed
with the contending feelings of remorse, and of the pride which struggled to conceal it. She guessed, perhaps, that it was curiosity, arising out of her uncommon story, which induced me to intrude on
her solitude---and she could not be pleased that a fate like hers had been the theme of a traveller's amusement. Yet the look with which she regarded me was one of scorn instead of embarrassment.
The opinion of the world and all its children could not add or take an iota from her load of misery; and, save from the half smile that seemed to intimate the contempt of a being rapt by the very intensity of her affliction above the sphere of ordinary
humanities, she seemed as indifferent to my
gaze, as if she had been a dead corpse or a marble statue.

Elspat was above the middle stature; her hair, now grizzled, was still profuse, and it had been of the most decided black. So were her eyes, in
which, contradicting the stern and rigid features of her countenance, there shone the wild and troubled light that indicates an unsettled mind. Her hair was wrapt round a silver bodkin with some attention to neatness, and her dark mantle was disposed
around her with a degree of taste, though the materials were of the most ordinary sort.

After gazing on this victim of guilt and calamity till I was ashamed to remain silent, though uncertain how I ought to address her, I began to express
my surprise at her choosing such a desert and deplorable dwelling. She cut short these expressions
of sympathy, by answering in a stern voice, without the least change of countenance or posture---
``Daughter of the stranger, he has told you my
story.'' I was silenced at once, and felt how little all earthly accommodation must seem to the mind
which had such subjects as hers for rumination.
Without again attempting to open the conversation, I took a piece of gold from my purse, (for
Donald had intimated she lived on alms,) expecting she would at least stretch her hand to receive
it. But she neither accepted nor rejected the gift ---she did not even seem to notice it, though twenty times as valuable, probably, as was usually offered. I was obliged to place it on her knee, saying involuntarily, as I did so, ``May God pardon you,
and relieve you!'' I shall never forget the look which she cast up to Heaven, nor the tone in which she exclaimed, in the very words of my old friend, John Home---

``My beautiful---my brave!''

It was the language of nature, and arose from the heart of the deprived mother, as it did from that gifted imaginative poet, while furnishing with appropriate expressions the ideal grief of Lady Randolph.

CHAPTER II.
O, I'm come to the Low Country,
Och, och, ohonochie,
Without a penny in my pouch
To buy a meal for me.
I was the proudest of my clan,
Long, long may I repine;
And Donald was the bravest man,
And Donald he was mine.

                                _Old Song_.

Elspat had enjoyed happy days, though her age
had sunk into hopeless and inconsolable sorrow and distress. She was once the beautiful and happy
wife of Hamish MacTavish, for whom his strength
and feats of prowess had gained the title of MacTavish Mhor. His life was turbulent and dangerous,
his habits being of the old Highland stamp,
which esteemed it shame to want any thing that
could be had for the taking. Those in the Lowland line who lay near him, and desired to enjoy
their lives and property in quiet, were contented to pay him a small composition, in name of protection money, and comforted themselves with the old proverb, that it was better to ``fleech the deil than
fight him.'' Others, who accounted such composition dishonourable, were often surprised by MacTavish Mhor, and his associates and followers, who
usually inflicted an adequate penalty, either in person or property, or both. The creagh is yet remembered, in which he swept one hundred and fifty
cows from Monteith in one drove; and how be
placed the laird of Ballybught naked in a slough, for having threatened to send for a party of the Highland Watch to protect his property.

Whatever were occasionally the triumphs of this daring cateran, they were often exchanged for reverses; and his narrow escapes, rapid flights, and the ingenious stratagems with which he extricated himself from imminent danger, were no less remembered and admired than the exploits in which
he had been successful. In weal or woe, through every species of fatigue, difficulty, and danger, Elspat was his faithful companion. She enjoyed
with him the fits of occasional prosperity; and
when adversity pressed them hard, her strength of mind, readiness of wit, and courageous endurance of danger and toil, are said often to have stimulated the exertions of her husband.

Their morality was of the old Highland cast, faithful friends and fierce enemies: the Lowland herds and harvests they accounted their own, whenever they had the means of driving off the one, or
of seizing upon the other; nor did the least scruple on the right of property interfere on such occasions. Hamish Mhor argued like the old Cretan warrior:

My sword, my spear, my shaggy shield,
They make me lord of all below;
For he who dreads the lance to wield,
Before my shaggy shield must bow.
His lands, his vineyards, must resign,
And all that cowards have is mine.

But those days of perilous, though frequently
successful depredation, began to be abridged, after the failure of the expedition of Prince Charles
Edward. MacTavish Mhor had not sat still on
that occasion, and he was outlawed, both as a traitor to the state, and as a robber and cateran. Garrisons were now settled in many places where a
red-coat had never before been seen, and the Saxon war-drum resounded among the most hidden recesses of the Highland mountains. The fate of MacTavish became every day more inevitable; and it
was the more difficult for him to make his exertions for defence or escape, that Elspat, amid his
evil days, had increased his family with an infant child, which was a considerable encumbrance upon the necessary rapidity of their motions.

At length the fatal day arrived. In a strong pass on the skirts of Ben Cruachan, the celebrated MacTavish Mhor was surprised by a detachment
of the Sidier Roy.* His wife assisted him heroically,

The Red Soldier.

charging his piece from time to time; and as
they were in possession of a post that was nearly unassailable, he might have perhaps escaped if his ammunition had lasted. But at length his balls
were expended, although it was not until he had
fired off most of the silver buttons from his waistcoat, and the soldiers, no longer deterred by fear
of the unerring marksman, who had slain three,
and wounded more of their number, approached
his stronghold, and, unable to take him alive, slew him, after a most desperate resistance.

All this Elspat witnessed and survived, for she had, in the child which relied on her for support, a motive for strength and exertion. In what manner she maintained herself it is not easy to say.
Her only ostensible means of support were a flock of three or four goats, which she fed wherever she pleased on the mountain pastures, no one challenging the intrusion. In the general distress of the
country, her ancient acquaintances had little to bestow; but what they could part with from their own necessities, they willingly devoted to the relief of others. From Lowlanders she sometimes
demanded tribute, rather than requested alms. She had not forgotten she was the widow of MacTavish Mhor, or that the child who trotted by her knee
might, such were her imaginations, emulate one day the fame of his father, and command the same influence which he had once exerted without control.
She associated so little with others, went so
seldom and so unwillingly from the wildest recesses of the mountains, where she usually dwelt with
her goats, that she was quite unconscious of the great change which had taken place in the country around her, the substitution of civil order for military violence, and the strength gained by the law and its adherents over those who were called in Gaelic song, ``the stormy sons of the sword.'' Her own diminished consequence and straitened circumstances
she indeed felt, but for this the death of MacTavish Mhor was, in her apprehension, a sufficing reason; and she doubted not that she should rise to her
former state of importance, when Hamish Bean (or Fair-haired James) should be able to wield the
arms of his father. If, then, Elspat was repelled rudely when she demanded any thing necessary
for her wants, or the accommodation of her little flock, by a churlish farmer, her threats of vengeance, obscurely expressed, yet terrible in their
tenor, used frequently to extort, through fear of her maledictions, the relief which was denied to her necessities; and the trembling goodwife, who gave meal or money to the widow of MacTavish
Mhor, wished in her heart that the stern old carlin had been burnt on the day her husband had his
due.

Years thus ran on, and Hamish Bean grew up, not indeed to be of his father's size or strength, but to become an active, high-spirited, fair-haired youth, with a ruddy cheek, an eye like an eagle, and all the agility, if not all the strength, of his formidable father, upon whose history and achievements his mother dwelt, in order to form her son's
mind to a similar course of adventures. But the young see the present state of this changeful world more keenly than the old. Much attached to his
mother, and disposed to do all in his power for her support, Hamish yet perceived, when he mixed
with the world, that the trade of the cateran was now alike dangerous and discreditable, and that if he were to emulate his father's prowess, it must be in some other line of warfare, more consonant to the opinions of the present day.

As the faculties of mind and body began to expand, he became more sensible of the precarious
nature of his situation, of the erroneous views of his mother, and her ignorance respecting the changes of the society with which she mingled so little. In visiting friends and neighbours, he became aware of the extremely reduced scale to which his parent was limited, and learned that she possessed little or nothing more than the absolute necessaries of life, and that these were sometimes on the point of failing. At times his success in fishing and the chase was able to add something to her subsistence; but he saw no regular means of contributing to her support, unless by stooping to servile labour, which, if he himself could have endured it, would, he
knew, have been like a death's-wound to the pride of his mother.

Elspat, meanwhile, saw with surprise, that Hamish Bean, although now tall and fit for the
field, showed no disposition to enter on his father's scene of action. There was something of the mother at her heart, which prevented her from urging
him in plain terms to take the field as a cateran, for the fear occurred of the perils into which the trade must conduct him; and when she would have
spoken to him on the subject, it seemed to her
heated imagination as if the ghost of her husband arose between them in his bloody tartans, and laying his finger on his lips, appeared to prohibit the topic. Yet she wondered at what seemed his want of spirit, sighed as she saw him from day to day lounging about in the long-skirted Lowland coat, which the legislature had imposed upon the Gael
instead of their own romantic garb, and thought
how much nearer he would have resembled her
husband, had he been clad in the belted plaid and short hose with his polished arms gleaming at his side.

Besides these subjects for anxiety, Elspat had others arising from the engrossing impetuosity of her temper. Her love of MacTavish Mhor had
been qualified by respect and sometimes even by fear; for the cateran was not the species of man who submits to female government; but over his
son she had exerted, at first during childhood, and afterwards in early youth, an imperious authority, which gave her maternal love a character of jealousy. She could not bear, when Hamish, with
advancing life, made repeated steps towards independence, absented himself from her cottage at such
season, and for such length of time as he chose, and seemed to consider, although maintaining towards her every possible degree of respect and kindness, that the control and responsibility of his actions rested on himself alone. This would have been
of little consequence, could she have concealed her feelings within her own bosom; but the ardour
and impatience of her passions made her frequently show her son that she conceived herself neglected and ill used. When he was absent for any length of time from her cottage, without giving intimation of his purpose, her resentment on his return
used to be so unreasonable, that it naturally suggested to a young man fond of independence, and
desirous to amend his situation in the world, to leave her, even for the very purpose of enabling him to provide for the parent whose egotistical
demands on his filial attention tended to confine him to a desert, in which both were starving in
hopeless and helpless indigence.

Upon one occasion, the son having been guilty of some independent excursion, by which the mother felt herself affronted and disobliged, she had
been more than usually violent on his return, and awakened in Hamish a sense of displeasure, which clouded his brow and cheek. At length, as she
persevered in her unreasonable resentment, his
patience became exhausted, and taking his gun
from the chimney corner, and muttering to himself the reply which his respect for his mother prevented him from speaking aloud, he was about to
leave the hut which he had but barely entered.

``Hamish,'' said his mother, ``are you again about to leave me?'' But Hamish only replied by looking at, and rubbing the lock of his gun.

``Ay, rub the lock of your gun,'' said his parent, bitterly; ``I am glad you have courage enough to fire it, though it be but at a roe-deer.'' Hamish started at this undeserved taunt, and cast a look of anger at her in reply. She saw that she had found the means of giving him pain.

``Yes,'' she said, ``look fierce as you will at an old woman, and your mother; it would be long ere you bent your brow on the angry countenance of a bearded man.''

``Be silent, mother, or speak of what you understand,'' said Hamish, much irritated, ``and that is
of the distaff and the spindle.''

``And was it of spindle and distaff that I was thinking when I bore you away on my back, through the fire of six of the Saxon soldiers, and you a wailing child? I tell you, Hamish, l know a hundred-fold more of swords and guns than ever you will;
and you will never learn so much of noble war by yourself, as you have seen when you were wrapped up in my plaid.''

``You are determined at least to allow me no peace at home, mother; but this shall have an end,'' said Hamish, as, resuming his purpose of leaving the hut, he rose and went towards the door.

``Stay, I command you,'' said his mother; ``stay! or may the gun you carry be the means of your
ruin---may the road you are going be the track of your funeral!''

``What makes you use such words, mother?'' said the young man, turning a little back---``they are not good, and good cannot come of them.
Farewell just now, we are too angry to speak together--- farewell; it will be long ere you see me
again.'' And he departed, his mother, in the first burst of her impatience, showering after him her maledictions, and in the next invoking them on her own head, so that they might spare her son's. She passed that day and the next in all the vehemence of impotent and yet unrestrained passion, now entreating Heaven, and such powers as were familiar
to her by rude tradition, to restore her dear son, ``the calf of her heart;'' now in impatient resentment, meditating with what bitter terms she should
rebuke his filial disobedience upon his return, and now studying the most tender language to attach
him to the cottage, which, when her boy was present, she would not, in the rapture of her affection,
have exchanged for the apartments of Taymouth
Castle.

Two days passed, during which, neglecting even the slender means of supporting nature which her situation afforded, nothing but the strength of a frame accustomed to hardships and privations of
every kind, could have kept her in existence, notwithstanding the anguish of her mind prevented
her being sensible of her personal weakness. Her dwelling, at this period, was the same cottage near which I had found her but then more habitable by the exertions of Hamish, by whom it had been in
a great measure built and repaired.

It was on the third day after her son had disappeared, as she sat at the door rocking herself, after
the fashion of her countrywomen when in distress or in pain, that the then unwonted circumstance occurred of a passenger being seen on the high-road
above the cottage. She cast but one glance at him ---he was on horseback, so that it could not be
Hamish, and Elspat cared not enough for any other being on earth, to make her turn her eyes towards him a second time. The stranger, however, paused opposite to her cottage, and dismounting from his pony, led it down the steep and broken path which conducted to her door.

``God bless you, Elspat MacTavish!''---She looked at the man as he addressed her in her native
language, with the displeased air of one whose
reverie is interrupted; but the traveller went on to say, ``I bring you tidings of your son Hamish.'' At once, from being the most uninteresting object, in respect to Elspat, that could exist, the form of the stranger became awful in her eyes, as that of a messenger descended from Heaven, expressly to
pronounce upon her death or life. She started from her seat, and with hands convulsively clasped together, and held up to Heaven, eyes fixed on the
stranger's countenance, and person stooping forward to him, she looked those enquiries, which her
faltering tongue could not articulate. ``Your son sends you his dutiful remembrance and this,'' said the messenger, putting into Elspat's hand a small purse containing four or five dollars.

``He is gone, he is gone!'' exclaimed Elspat; he has sold himself to be the servant of the Saxons, and I shall never more behold him! Tell me, Miles MacPhadraick, for now I know you, is it the price of the son's blood that you have put into the mother's hand?''

``Now, God forbid!'' answered MacPhadraick, who was a tacksman, and had possession of a considerable tract of ground under his Chief, a proprietor
who lived about twenty miles off---``God
forbid I should do wrong, or say wrong, to you, or to the son of MacTavish Mhor! I swear to you
by the hand of my Chief, that your son is well, and will soon see you; and the rest he will tell you himself.'' So saying, MacPhadraick hastened back up the pathway-gained the road, mounted his
pony, and rode upon his way.

CHAPTER III.

Elspat MacTavish remained gazing on the
money, as if the impress of the coin could have conveyed information how it was procured.

``I love not this MacPhadraick,'' she said to herself; ``it was his race of whom the Bard hath
spoken, saying, Fear them not when their words
are loud as the winter's wind, but fear them when they fall on you like the sound of the thrush's song. And yet this riddle can be read but one way: My
son hath taken the sword, to win that with strength like a man, which churls would keep him from with the words that frighten children.'' This idea, when once it occurred to her, seemed the more reasonable, that MacPhadraick, as she well knew, himself
a cautious man, had so far encouraged her husband's practices, as occasionally to buy cattle of
MacTavish, although he must have well known
how they were come by, taking care, however,
that the transaction was so made, as to be accompanied with great profit and absolute safety. Who
so likely as MacPhadraick to indicate to a young cateran the glen in which he could commence his
perilous trade with most prospect of success, who so likely to convert his booty into money? The
feelings which another might have experienced on believing that an only son had rushed forward on the same path in which his father had perished,
were scarce known to the Highland mothers of
that day. She thought of the death of MacTavish Mhor as that of a hero who had fallen in his proper trade of war, and who had not fallen unavenged.
She feared less for her son's life than for his dishonour. She dreaded on his account the subjection
to strangers, and the death-sleep of the
soul which is brought on by what she regarded as slavery.

The moral principle which so naturally and so justly occurs to the mind of those who have been educated under a settled government of laws that protect the property of the weak against the incursions of the strong, was to poor Elspat a book sealed
and a fountain closed. She had been taught to
consider those whom they call Saxons, as a race
with whom the Gael were constantly at war, and
she regarded every settlement of theirs within the reach of Highland incursion, as affording a legitimate object of attack and plunder. Her feelings
on this point had been strengthened and confirmed, not only by the desire of revenge for the death of her husband, but by the sense of general indignation entertained, not unjustly, through the Highlands of Scotland, on account of the barbarous and
violent conduct of the victors after the battle of Culloden. Other Highland clans, too, she regarded as the fair objects of plunder when that was
possible, upon the score of ancient enmities and deadly feuds.

The prudence that might have weighed the slender means which the times afforded for resisting
the efforts of a combined government, which had, in its less compact and established authority, been unable to put down the ravages of such lawless
caterans as MacTavish Mhor, was unknown to a
solitary woman, whose ideas still dwelt upon her own early times. She imagined that her son had
only to proclaim himself his father's successor in adventure and enterprise, and that a force of men as gallant as those who had followed his father's banner, would crowd around to support it when
again displayed. To her, Hamish was the eagle
who had only to soar aloft and resume his native place in the skies, without her being able to comprehend how many additional eyes would have
watched his flight, how many additional bullets
would have been directed at his bosom. To be
brief, Elspat was one who viewed the present state of society with the same feelings with which she regarded the times that had passed away. She had been indigent, neglected, oppressed, since the days that her husband had no longer been feared and
powerful, and she thought that the term of her
ascendence would return when her son had determined to play the part of his father. If she permitted her eye to glance farther into futurity, it
was but to anticipate that she must be for many a day cold in the grave, with the coronach of her
tribe cried duly over her, before her fair-haired Hamish could, according to her calculation, die
with his hand on the basket-hilt of the red claymore. His father's hair was grey, ere, after a hundred dangers, he had fallen with his arms in his
hands---That she should have seen and survived
the sight, was a natural consequence of the manners of that age. And better it was---such was her
proud thought---that she had seen him so die, than to have witnessed his departure from life in a smoky hovel---on a bed of rotten straw, like an over-worn hound, or a bullock which died of disease. But the hour of her young, her brave Hamish, was yet far distant. He must succeed---he must conquer, like his father. And when he fell at length,---for she anticipated for him no bloodless death,---Elspat would ere then have lain long in the grave, and
could neither see his death-struggle, nor mourn
over his grave-sod.

With such wild notions working in her brain, the spirit of Elspat rose to its usual pitch, or rather to one which seemed higher. In the emphatic language of Scripture, which in that idiom does not
greatly differ from her own, she arose, she washed and changed her apparel, and ate bread, and was
refreshed.

She longed eagerly for the return of her son, but she now longed not with the bitter anxiety of doubt and apprehension. She said to herself, that much must be done ere he could in these times arise to be an eminent and dreaded leader. Yet when she
saw him again, she almost expected him at the head of a daring band, with pipes playing, and banners flying, the noble tartans fluttering free in the wind, in despite of the laws which had suppressed, under severe penalties, the use of the national garb, and all the appurtenances of Highland chivalry. For all this, her eager imagination was content only to allow the interval of some days.

From the moment this opinion had taken deep and serious possession of her mind, her thoughts were bent upon receiving her son at the head of
his adherents in the manner in which she used to adorn her hut for the return of his father.

The substantial means of subsistence she had not the power of providing, nor did she consider that of importance. The successful caterans would bring with them herds and flocks. But the interior of her hut was arranged for their reception---the usquebaugh was brewed or distilled in a larger quantity
than it could have been supposed one lone woman
could have made ready. Her hut was put into such order as might, in some degree, give it the appearance of a day of rejoicing. It was swept and decorated with boughs of various kinds, like the house
of a Jewess, upon what is termed the Feast of the Tabernacles. The produce of the milk of her little flock was prepared in as great variety of forms as her skill admitted, to entertain her son and his associates whom she expected to receive along with
him.

But the principal decoration, which she sought with the greatest toil, was the cloud-berry, a scarlet fruit, which is only found on very high hills, and there only in small quantities. Her husband, or perhaps one of his forefathers, had chosen this as the emblem of his family, because it seemed at once to imply by its scarcity the smallness of their clan, and by the places in which it was found, the ambitious height of their pretensions.

For the time that these simple preparations of welcome endured, Elspat was in a state of troubled happiness. In fact, her only anxiety was that she might be able to complete all that she could do to welcome Hamish and the friends who she supposed
must have attached themselves to his band, before they should arrive, and find her unprovided for their reception.

But when such efforts as she could make had been accomplished, she once more had nothing left to engage her save the trifling care of her goats; and when these had been attended to, she had only to review her little preparations, renew such as were of a transitory nature, replace decayed branches and fading boughs, and then to sit down at her
cottage door and watch the road, as it ascended on the one side from the banks of the Awe, and on the other wound round the heights of the mountain,
with such a degree of accommodation to hill and
level as the plan of the military engineer permitted. While so occupied, her imagination, anticipating the future from recollections of the past, formed out of the morning mist or the evening cloud the

wild forms of an advancing band, which were then
called ``Sidier Dhu,''---dark soldiers---dressed in
their native tartan, and so named to distinguish
them from the scarlet ranks of the British army.
In this occupation she spent many hours of each

morning and evening.

CHAPTER IV.

It was in vain that Elspat's eyes surveyed the
distant path, by the earliest light of the dawn and the latest glimmer of the twilight. No rising dust awakened the expectation of nodding plumes or
flashing arms---the solitary traveller trudged listlessly along in his brown lowland great-coat, his
tartans dyed black or purple, to comply with or
evade the law which prohibited their being worn
in their variegated hues. The spirit of the Gael, sunk and broken by the severe though perhaps
necessary laws, that proscribed the dress and arms which he considered as his birthright, was intimated by his drooping head and dejected appearance. Not in such depressed wanderers did Elspat recognise the light and free step of her son, now, as she concluded, regenerated from every sign of Saxon
thraldom. Night by night, as darkness came, she removed from her unclosed door to throw herself
on her restless pallet, not to sleep, but to watch. The brave and the terrible, she said, walk by night ---their steps are heard in darkness, when all is silent save the whirlwind and the cataract---the timid deer comes only forth when the sun is upon the mountain's peak; but the bold wolf walks in
the red light of the harvest-moon. She reasoned in vain---her son's expected summons did not call her from the lowly couch, where she lay dreaming of his approach. Hamish came not.

``Hope deferred,'' saith the royal sage, ``maketh the heart sick;'' and strong as was Elspat's
constitution, she began to experience that it was unequal to the toils to which her anxious and immoderate affection subjected her, when early one
morning the appearance of a traveller on the lonely mountain-road, revived hopes which had begun to
sink into listless despair. There was no sign of Saxon subjugation about the stranger. At a distance she could see the flutter of the belted-plaid,
that drooped in graceful folds behind him, and the plume that, placed in the bonnet, showed rank and gentle birth. He carried a gun over his shoulder, the claymore was swinging by his side, with its
usual appendages, the dirk, the pistol, and the
_sporran mollach_.* Ere yet her eye had scanned all

The goat-skin pouch, worn by the Highlanders round their waist.

these particulars, the light step of the traveller was hastened, his arm was waved in token of recognition--- a moment more, and Elspat held in her
arms her darling son, dressed in the garb of his ancestors, and looking, in her maternal eyes, the fairest among ten thousand!

The first outpouring of affection it would be impossible to describe. Blessings mingled with
the most endearing epithets which her energetic
language affords, in striving to express the wild rapture of Elspat's joy. Her board was heaped
hastily with all she had to offer; and the mother watched the young soldier, as he partook of the
refreshment, with feelings how similar to, yet how different from, those with which she had seen him draw his first sustenance from her bosom!

When the tumult of joy was appeased, Elspat became anxious to know her son's adventures since they parted, and could not help greatly censuring his rashness for traversing the hills in the Highland dress in the broad sunshine,when the penalty
was so heavy, and so many red soldiers were abroad in the country.

``Fear not for me, mother,'' said Hamish, in a tone designed to relieve her anxiety, and yet somewhat embarrassed; ``I may wear the _breacan_* at

That which is variegated, _i.e._ the tartan.

the gate of Fort-Augustus, if I like it.''

``Oh, be not too daring, my beloved Hamish, though it be the fault which best becomes thy father's son---yet be not too daring! Alas, they fight
not now as in former days, with fair weapons, and on equal terms, but take odds of numbers and of
arms, so that the feeble and the strong are alike levelled by the shot of a boy. And do not think me unworthy to be called your father's widow, and your mother, because I speak thus; for God knoweth, that, man to man, I would peril thee against
the best in Breadalbane, and broad Lorn besides.''

``I assure you, my dearest mother,'' replied Hamish, ``that I am in no danger. But have you
seen MacPhadraick, mother, and what has he said
to you on my account?''

``Silver he left me in plenty, Hamish; but the best of his comfort was, that you were well, and would see me soon. But beware of MacPhadraick,
my son; for when he called himself the friend of your father, he better loved the most worthless
stirk in his herd, than he did the life-blood of MacTavish Mhor. Use his services, therefore, and pay
him for them---for it is thus we should deal with the unworthy; but take my counsel, and trust him not.''

Hamish could not suppress a sigh, which seemed to Elspat to intimate that the caution came too
late. ``What have you done with him?'' she
continued, eager and alarmed. ``I had money of
him, and he gives not that without value---he is none of those who exchange barley for chaff. Oh, if you repent you of your bargain, and if it be one which you may break off without disgrace to your truth or your manhood, take back his silver, and trust not to his fair words.''

``It may not be, mother,'' said Hamish; ``I do not repent my engagement, unless that it must
make me leave you soon.''

``Leave me! how leave me? Silly boy, think you I know not what duty belongs to the wife or
mother of a daring man? Thou art but a boy yet;
and when thy father had been the dread of the
country for twenty years, he did not despise my
company and assistance, but often said my help was worth that of two strong gillies.''

``It is not on that score, mother; but since I must leave the country---''

``Leave the country!'' replied his mother, interrupting him; ``and think you that I am like a
bush, that is rooted to the soil where it grows, and

must die if carried elsewhere? I have breathed
other  winds  than  these  of  Ben  Cruachan---I   have
followed your father to the wilds of Ross, and the
impenetrable  deserts   of   Y   Mac   Y   Mhor---Tush,
man, my limbs, old as they are, will bear me as
far as your young feet can trace the way.''

``Alas, mother,'' said the young man, with a faltering accent, ``but to cross the sea---''

``The sea! who am I that I should fear the sea? Have I never been in a birling in my life
---never known the Sound of Mull, the Isles of
Treshornish, and the rough rocks of Harris?''

``Alas, mother, I go far, far from all of these--- I am enlisted in one of the new regiments, and we go against the French in America.''

  ``Enlisted!'' uttered the astonished mother---
``against _my_ will---without _my_ consent---You could
not---you would not,''---then rising up, and assuming
a posture of almost imperial command, ``Hamish,
you =dared= not!''

``Despair, mother, dares every thing,'' answered Hamish, in a tone of melancholy resolution.
``What should I do here, where I can scarce get
bread for myself and you, and when the times are growing daily worse? Would you but sit down
and listen, I would convince you I have acted for the best.''

With a bitter smile Elspat sat down, and the same severe ironical expression was on her features, as, with her lips firmly closed, she listened
to his vindication.

Hamish went on, without being disconcerted by her expected displeasure. ``When I left you,
dearest mother, it was to go to MacPhadraick's
house; for although I knew he is crafty and worldly, after the fashion of the Sassenach, yet he is wise, and I thought how he would teach me, as it would cost him nothing, in which way I could mend our
estate in the world.''

``Our estate in the world!'' said Elspat, losing patience at the word; ``and went you to a base
fellow with a soul no better than that of a cowherd, to ask counsel about your conduct? Your
father asked none, save of his courage and his
sword.''

``Dearest mother,'' answered Hamish, ``how shall I convince you that you live in this land of our fathers, as if our fathers were yet living? You walk as it were in a dream, surrounded by the
phantoms of those who have been long with the
dead. When my father lived and fought, the great respected the Man of the strong right hand, and
the rich feared him. He had protection from MacAllan Mhor, and from Caberfae,* and tribute from

Caberfae---_Anglice_, the Stag's-head, the Celtic designation for the arms of the family of the high Chief of Seaforth.

meaner men. That is ended, and his son would
only earn a disgraceful and unpitied death, by the practices which gave his father credit and power

among those who wear the breacan.  The land is
conquered---its lights are quenched,---Glengary,
Lochiel, Perth, Lord Lewis, all the high chiefs are
dead or in exile---We may mourn for it, but we
cannot help it.  Bonnet, broadsword, and sporran

---power, strength, and wealth, were all lost on Drummossie-muir.''

``It is false!'' said Elspat, fiercely; ``you, and such like dastardly spirits, are quelled by your own faint hearts, not by the strength of the enemy; you are like the fearful waterfowl, to whom the least cloud in the sky seems the shadow of the eagle.''

``Mother,'' said Hamish, proudly, ``lay not faint heart to my charge. I go where men are wanted
who have strong arms and bold hearts too. I leave a desert, for a land where I may gather fame.''

``And you leave your mother to perish in want, age, and solitude,'' said Elspat, essaying successively every means of moving a resolution, which she
began to see was more deeply rooted than she had at first thought.

``Not so, neither,'' he answered; ``I leave you to comfort and certainty, which you have yet never known. Barcaldine's son is made a leader, and

with him I have enrolled myself; MacPhadraick
acts for him, and raises men,  and  finds  his  own  in
doing it.''

``That is the truest word of the tale, were all the rest as false as hell,'' said the old woman, bitterly.

``But we are to find our good in it also,'' continued Hamish; ``for Barcaldine is to give you a
shieling in his wood of Letter-findreight, with grass for your goats, and a cow, when you please to have one, on the common; and my own pay, dearest
mother, though I am far away, will do more than
provide you with meal, and with all else you can want. Do not fear for me. I enter a private gentleman; but I will return, if hard fighting and
regular duty can deserve it, an officer, and with half a dollar a-day.''

``Poor child!''---replied Elspat, in a tone of pity mingled with contempt, ``and you trust MacPhadraick?''

``I might mother''---said Hamish, the dark red colour of his race crossing his forehead and cheeks, ``for MacPhadraick knows the blood which flows
in my veins, and is aware, that should he break
trust with you, he might count the days which could bring Hamish back to Breadalbane, and number
those of his life within three suns more. I would kill him at his own hearth, did he break his word with me---I would, by the great Being who made
us both!''

The look and attitude of the young soldier for a moment overawed Elspat; she was unused to see
him express a deep and bitter mood, which reminded her so strongly of his father, but she resumed
her remonstrances in the same taunting manner in which she had commenced them.

``Poor boy!'' she said; ``and you think that at

the distance of half the world your threats will be
heard or thought of! But, go---go---place your neck
under him of Hanover's yoke, against whom every
true Gael fought to the death---Go, disown the
royal Stewart, for whom your father, and his fathers,

and your mother's fathers, have crimsoned
many a field with their blood.---Go, put your head under the belt of one of the race of Dermid, whose children murdered---Yes,'' she added, with a wild shriek, ``murdered your mother's fathers in their peaceful dwellings in Glencoe!---Yes,'' she again exclaimed, with a wilder and shriller scream, ``I was then unborn, but my mother has told me---and I attended to the voice of _my_ mother---well I remember her words!---They came in peace, and
were received in friendship, and blood and fire
arose, and screams and murder!''*

Note C. Massacre of Glencoe.

``Mother,'' answered Hamish, mournfully, but with a decided tone, ``all that I have thought over ---there is not a drop of the blood of Glencoe on the noble band of Barcaldine---with the unhappy
house of Glenlyon the curse remains, and on them God hath avenged it.''

``You speak like the Saxon priest already,'' replied his mother; ``will you not better stay, and
ask a kirk from MacAllan Mhor, that you may
preach forgiveness to the race of Dermid?''

``Yesterday was yesterday,'' answered Hamish, ``and to-day is to-day. When the clans are crushed and confounded together, it is well and wise that their hatreds and their feuds should not survive their independence and their power. He that cannot execute vengeance like a man, should not harbour useless enmity like a craven. Mother, young
Barcaldine is true and brave; I know that MacPhadraick counselled him, that he should not let
me take leave of you, lest you dissuaded me from my purpose; but he said, `Hamish MacTavish is
the son of a brave man, and he will not break his word.' Mother, Barcaldine leads an hundred of
the bravest of the sons of the Gael in their native dress, and with their fathers' arms---heart to heart ---shoulder to shoulder. I have sworn to go with him---He has trusted me, and I will trust him.''

At this reply, so firmly and resolvedly pronounced, Elspat remained like one thunderstruck, and
sunk in despair. The arguments which she had
considered so irresistibly conclusive, had recoiled like a wave from a rock. After a long pause, she filled her son's quaigh, and presented it to him with an air of dejected deference and submission.

``Drink,'' she said, ``to thy father's roof-tree, ere you leave it for ever; and tell me,---since the chains of a new King, and of a new Chief, whom
your fathers knew not save as mortal enemies, are fastened upon the limbs of your father's son,---tell me how many links you count upon them?''

Hamish took the cup, but looked at her as if uncertain of her meaning. She proceeded in a raised
voice. ``Tell me,'' she said, ``for I have a right to know, for how many days the will of those you have made your masters permits me to look upon you?
---In other words, how many are the days of my
life---for when you leave me, the earth has nought besides worth living for!''

``Mother,'' replied Hamish MacTavish, ``for six days I may remain with you, and if you will set
out with me on the fifth, I will conduct you in safety to your new dwelling. But if you remain here,
then I will depart on the seventh by daybreak--- then, as at the last moment, I =must= set out for Dunbarton, for if I appear not on the eighth day, I am subject to punishment as a deserter, and am dishonoured as a soldier and a gentleman.''

``Your father's foot,'' she answered, ``was free as the wind on the heath---it were as vain to say to him where goest thou, as to ask that viewless driver of the clouds, wherefore blowest thou. Tell me under what penalty thou must---since go thou
must, and go thou wilt---return to thy thraldom?''

``Call it not thraldom, mother, it is the service of an honourable soldier---the only service which is now open to the son of MacTavish Mhor.''

``Yet say what is the penalty if thou shouldst not return?'' replied Elspat.

``Military punishment as a deserter,'' answered Hamish; writhing, however, as his mother failed
not to observe, under some internal feelings, which she resolved to probe to the uttermost.

``And that,'' she said, with assumed calmness, which her glancing eye disowned, ``is the punishment of a disobedient hound, is it not?''

``Ask me no more, mother,'' said Hamish; ``the punishment is nothing to one who will never deserve it.''

``To me it is something,'' replied Elspat, ``since I know better than thou, that where there is power to inflict, there is often the will to do so without cause. I would pray for thee, Hamish, and I must know against what evils I should beseech Him who leaves none unguarded, to protect thy youth and
simplicity.''

``Mother,'' said Hamish, ``it signifies little to what a criminal may be exposed, if a man is determined not to be such. Our Highland chiefs used
also to punish their vassals, and, as I have heard, severely---Was it not Lachlan Maclan, whom we
remember of old, whose head was struck off by
order of his chieftain for shooting at the stag before him?''

``Ay,'' said Elspat, ``and right he had to lose it, since he dishonoured the father of the people even in the face of the assembled clan. But the chiefs were noble in their ire---they punished with the sharp blade, and not with the baton. Their punishments drew blood, but they did not infer dishonour.
Canst thou say, the same for the laws under whose yoke thou hast placed thy freeborn neck?''

  ``I cannot---mother---I cannot,'' said Hamish,
mournfully. ``I saw them punish a Sassenach for
deserting as they called it, his banner.  He was
scourged---I own it---scourged like a hound who
has offended an imperious master.  I was sick at
the sight---I confess it.  But the punishment of
dogs is only for those worse than dogs, who know

not how to keep their faith.''

``To this infamy, however, thou hast subjected thyself, Hamish,'' replied Elspat, ``if thou shouldst

give, or thy officers take, measure of offence against
thee.---I speak no more to thee on thy purpose.---
Were the sixth day from this morning's sun my
dying day, and thou wert to stay to close mine
eyes, thou wouldst run the risk of being lashed like

a dog at a post---yes! unless thou hadst the gallant heart to leave me to die alone, and upon my desolate hearth, the last spark of thy father's fire, and of thy forsaken mother's life, to be extinguished together!''---Hamish traversed the hut with an
impatient and angry pace.

``Mother,'' he said at length, ``concern not yourself about such things. I cannot be subjected to
such infamy, for never will I deserve it; and were I threatened with it, I should know how to die
before I was so far dishonoured.''

``There spoke the son of the husband of my heart!'' replied Elspat; and she changed the discourse, and seemed to listen in melancholy acquiescence, when her son reminded her how short the
time was which they were permitted to pass in
each other's society, and entreated that it might be spent without useless and unpleasant recollections respecting the circumstances under which
they must soon be separated.

  Elspat was now satisfied  that  her  son,  with  some
of his father's other properties, preserved the
haughty masculine spirit which rendered it impossible
to divert him from a resolution which he had

deliberately adopted. She assumed, therefore, an exterior of apparent submission to their inevitable separation; and if she now and then broke out into complaints and murmurs, it was either that she
could not altogether suppress the natural impetuosity of her temper, or because she had the wit to
consider, that a total and unreserved acquiescence might have seemed to her son constrained and suspicious, and induced him to watch and defeat the
means by which she still hoped to prevent his leaving her. Her ardent, though selfish affection for
her son, incapable of being qualified by a regard for the true interests of the unfortunate object of her attachment, resembled the instinctive fondness of the animal race for their offspring; and diving little farther into futurity than one of the inferior creatures, she only felt, that to be separated from Hamish was to die.

In the brief interval permitted them, Elspat exhausted every art which affection could devise, to
render agreeable to him the space which they
were apparently to spend with each other. Her
memory carried her far back into former days, and her stores of legendary history, which furnish at all times a principal amusement of the Highlander in his moments of repose, were augmented by an
unusual acquaintance with the songs of ancient
bards, and traditions of the most approved Seannachies and tellers of tales. Her officious attentions
to her son's accommodation, indeed, were so
unremitted as almost to give him pain; and be endeavoured quietly to prevent her from taking so
much personal toil in selecting the blooming heath for his bed, or preparing the meal for his refreshment. ``Let me alone, Hamish,'' she would reply
on such occasions; ``you follow your own will in departing from your mother, let your mother have hers in doing what gives her pleasure while you
remain.''

So much she seemed to be reconciled to the arrangements which he had made in her behalf, that
she could hear him speak to her of her removing
to the lands of Green Colin, as the gentleman was called, on whose estate he had provided her an asylum. In truth, however, nothing could be farther
from her thoughts. From what he had said during their first violent dispute, Elspat had gathered, that if Hamish returned not by the appointed time permitted by his furlough, he would incur the hazard of corporal punishment. Were he placed
within the risk of being thus dishonoured, she was well aware that be would never submit to the disgrace, by a return to the regiment where it might
be inflicted. Whether she looked to any farther probable consequences of her unhappy scheme,
cannot be known; but the partner of MacTavish
Mhor, in all his perils and wanderings, was familiar with an hundred instances of resistance or escape, by which one brave man, amidst a land of
rocks, lakes, and mountains, dangerous passes, and dark forests, might baffle the pursuit of hundreds. For the future, therefore, she feared nothing;
her sole engrossing object was to prevent
her son from keeping his word with his commanding officer.

With this secret purpose, she evaded the proposal which Hamish repeatedly made, that they
should set out together to take possession of her new abode; and she resisted it upon grounds apparently so natural to her character, that her son
was neither alarmed nor displeased. ``Let me
not,'' she said, ``in the same short week, bid farewell to my only son, and to the glen in which I
have so long dwelt. Let my eye, when dimmed
with weeping for thee, still look around, for
a while at least, upon Loch Awe and on Ben Cruachan.''

Hamish yielded the more willingly to his mother's humour in this particular, that one or two
persons who resided in a neighbouring glen, and
had given their sons to Barcaldine's levy, were
also to be provided for on the estate of the chieftain, and it was apparently settled that Elspat was
to take her journey along with them when they
should remove to their new residence. Thus, Hamish believed that he had at once indulged his
mother's humour, and insured her safety and accommodation. But she nourished in her mind
very different thoughts and projects!

The period of Hamish's leave of absence was fast approaching, and more than once he proposed to depart, in such time as to insure his gaining easily and early Dunbarton, the town where were
the head-quarters of his regiment. But still his mother's entreaties, his own natural disposition to linger among scenes long dear to him, and, above all, his firm reliance in his speed and activity, induced him to protract his departure till the sixth
day, being the very last which he could possibly afford to spend with his mother, if indeed he meant to comply with the conditions of his furlough.

CHAPTER V.

   But for your son, believe it---Oh, believe it---
   Most dangerously you have with him prevailed,
   If not most mortal to him.---
                                 _Coriolanus._

On the evening which preceded his proposed
departure, Hamish walked down to the river with
his fishing-rod, to practise in the Awe, for the last time, a sport in which be excelled, and to find, at the same time, the means for making one social
meal with his mother on something better than
their ordinary cheer. He was as successful as
usual, and soon killed a fine salmon. On his return homeward an incident befell him, which he
afterwards related as ominous, though probably
his heated imagination, joined to the universal
turn of his countrymen for the marvellous, exaggerated into superstitious importance some very ordinary and accidental circumstance.

In the path which he pursued homeward, he was surprised to observe a person, who, like himself, was dressed and armed after the old Highland
fashion. The first idea that struck him was, that the passenger belonged to his own corps, who,
levied by government, and bearing arms under royal authority, were not amenable for breach of the statutes against the use of the Highland garb or weapons. But he was struck on perceiving, as he
mended his pace to make up to his supposed comrade, meaning to request his company for the next
day's journey, that the stranger wore a white cockade, the fatal badge which was proscribed in the
Highlands. The stature of the man was tall, and there was something shadowy in the outline, which added to his size; and his mode of motion, which rather resembled gliding than walking, impressed Hamish with superstitious fears concerning the
character of the being which thus passed before
him in the twilight. He no longer strove to make up to the stranger, but contented himself with keeping him in view, under the superstition common to
the Highlanders, that you ought neither to intrude yourself on such supernatural apparitions as you may witness, nor avoid their presence, but leave it to themselves to withhold or extend their communication, as their power may permit, or the purpose
of their commission require.

Upon an elevated knoll by the side of the road, just where the pathway turned down to Elspat's
hut, the stranger made a pause, and seemed to await Hamish's coming up. Hamish, on his part, seeing it was necessary be should pass the object of his suspicion, mustered up his courage, and approached the spot where the stranger had placed himself;
who first pointed to Elspat's hut, and made, with arm and head, a gesture prohibiting Hamish to
approach it, then stretched his hand to the road which led to the southward, with a motion which
seemed to enjoin his instant departure in that direction. In a moment afterwards the plaided form
was gone---Hamish did not exactly say vanished,
because there were rocks and stunted trees enough to have concealed him; but it was his own opinion that be had seen the spirit of MacTavish Mhor,
warning him to commence his instant journey to
Dunbarton, without waiting till morning, or again visiting his mother's hut.

In fact, so many accidents might arise to delay his journey, especially where there were many ferries, that it became his settled purpose, though he
could not depart without bidding his mother adieu, that he neither could nor would abide longer than for that object; and that the first glimpse of next day's sun should see him many miles advanced towards Dunbarton. He descended the path, therefore,
and entering the cottage, he communicated,
in a hasty and troubled voice, which indicated
mental agitation, his determination to take his instant departure. Somewhat to his surprise, Elspat
appeared not to combat his purpose, but she urged him to take some refreshment ere he left her for ever. He did so hastily, and in silence, thinking on the approaching separation, and scarce yet believing it would take place without a final struggle
with his mother's fondness. To his surprise, she filled the quaigh with liquor for his parting cup.
``Go,'' she said, ``my son, since such is thy settled purpose; but first stand once more on thy
mother's hearth, the flame on which will be extinguished long ere thy foot shall again be placed
there.''

``To your health, mother!'' said Hamish, ``and may we meet again in happiness, in spite of your ominous words.''

``It were better not to part,'' said his mother, watching him as he quaffed the liquor, of which he would have held it ominous to have left a drop.

``And now,'' she said, muttering the words to herself, ``go---if thou canst go.''

``Mother,'' said Hamish, as he replaced on the table the empty quaigh, ``thy drink is pleasant to the taste, but it takes away the strength which it ought to give.''

``Such is its first effect, my son,'' replied Elspat; ``but lie down upon that soft heather couch, shut your eyes but for a moment, and, in the sleep of an hour, you shall have more refreshment than in the ordinary repose of three whole nights, could they be blended into one.''

``Mother,'' said Hamish, upon whose brain the

potion was now taking rapid effect, ``give me my
bonnet---I must kiss you and begone---yet it seems
as if my feet were nailed to the floor.''

``Indeed,'' said his mother, ``you will be instantly well, if you will sit down for half an hour---but half an hour: it is eight hours to dawn, and dawn were time enough for your father's son to begin such a journey.''

  ``I must obey you, mother---I feel I must,'' said
Hamish,  inarticulately;  ``but  call  me   when   the
moon rises.''

He sat down on the bed--reclined back, and almost instantly was fast asleep. With the throbbing glee of one who has brought to an end a difficult and troublesome enterprise, Elspat proceeded
tenderly to arrange the plaid of the unconscious slumberer, to whom her extravagant affection was doomed to be so fatal, expressing, while busied in her office, her delight, in tones of mingled tenderness and triumph. ``Yes,'' she said, ``calf of my
heart, the moon shall arise and set to thee, and so shall the sun; but not to light thee from the land of thy fathers, or tempt thee to serve the foreign prince or the feudal enemy! To no son of Dermid
shall I be delivered, to be fed like a bondswoman; but he who is my pleasure and my pride shall be
my guard and my protector. They say the Highlands are changed; but I see Ben Cruachan rear
his crest as high as ever into the evening sky---no one hath yet herded his kine on the depths of Loch Awe---and yonder oak does not yet bend like a
willow. The children of the mountains will be such as their fathers, until the mountains themselves shall be levelled with the strath. In these wild forests, which used to support thousands of the
brave, there is still surely subsistence and refuge left for one aged woman, and one gallant youth, of the ancient race and the ancient manners.''

While the misjudging mother thus exulted in the success of her stratagem, we may mention to
the reader, that it was founded on the acquaintance with drugs and simples, which Elspat, accomplished in all things belonging to the wild life which
she had led, possessed in an uncommon degree, and which she exercised for various purposes. With
the herbs, which she knew how to select as well as how to distil, she could relieve more diseases than a regular medical person could easily believe. She applied some to dye the bright colours of the tartan ---from others she compounded draughts of various powers, and unhappily possessed the secret of one which was strongly soporific. Upon the effects of this last concoction, as the reader doubtless has anticipated, she reckoned with security on delaying Hamish beyond the period for which his return was appointed; and she trusted to his horror for the apprehended punishment to which he was thus rendered liable, to prevent him from returning at all.

Sound and deep, beyond natural rest, was the sleep of Hamish MacTavish on that eventful evening, but not such the repose of his mother. Scarce
did she close her eyes from time to time, but she awakened again with a start, in the terror that her son had arisen and departed; and it was only on
approaching his couch, and hearing his deep-drawn and regular breathing, that she reassured herself of the security of the repose in which he was plunged.

Still, dawning, she feared, might awaken him, notwithstanding the unusual strength of the potion with which she had drugged his cup. If there remained a hope of mortal man accomplishing the
journey, she was aware that Hamish would attempt it, though he were to die from fatigue upon the
road. Animated by this new fear, she studied to exclude the light, by stopping all the crannies and crevices through which, rather than through any
regular entrance, the morning beams might find
access to her miserable dwelling; and this in order to detain amid its wants and wretchedness the
being, on whom, if the world itself had been at her disposal, she would have joyfully conferred it.

Her pains were bestowed unnecessarily. The sun rose high above the heavens, and not the fleetest stag in Breadalbane, were the hounds at his
heels, could have sped, to save his life, so fast as would have been necessary to keep Hamish's appointment. Her purpose was fully attained---her
son's return within the period assigned was impossible. She deemed it equally impossible, that he
would ever dream of returning, standing, as he
must now do, in the danger of an infamous punishment. By degrees, and at different times, she had
gained from him a full acquaintance with the predicament in which he would be placed by failing to
appear on the day appointed, and the very small
hope he could entertain of being treated with lenity.

It is well known, that the great and wise Earl of Chatham prided himself on the scheme, by which he drew together for the defence of the colonies those hardy Highlanders, who, until his time, had been the objects of doubt, fear, and suspicion, on the part of each successive administration. But some obstacles occurred, from the peculiar habits and temper of this people, to the execution of his patriotic project. By nature and habit, every
Highlander was accustomed to the use of arms,
but at the same time totally unaccustomed to, and impatient of, the restraints imposed by discipline upon regular troops. They were a species of militia, who had no conception of a camp as their
only home. If a battle was lost, they dispersed to save themselves, and look out for the safety of
their families; if won, they went back to their
glens to hoard up their booty, and attend to their cattle and their farms. This privilege of going and coming at pleasure, they would not be deprived
of even by their Chiefs, whose authority was in
most other respects so despotic. It followed as a matter of course, that the new-levied Highland
recruits could scarce be made to comprehend the
nature of a military engagement, which compelled a man to serve in the army longer than he pleased; and perhaps, in many instances, sufficient care was not taken at enlisting to explain to them the permanency of the engagement which they came under,
lest such a disclosure should induce them to change their mind. Desertions were therefore become
numerous from the newly-raised regiment, and the veteran General who commanded at Dunbarton,
saw no better way of checking them than by causing an unusually severe example to be made of a deserter from an English corps. The young Highland
regiment was obliged to attend upon the punishment, which struck a people, peculiarly jealous of
personal honour, with equal horror and disgust,
and not unnaturally indisposed some of them to the service. The old General, however, who had been regularly bred in the German wars, stuck to his
own opinion, and gave out in orders that the first Highlander who might either desert, or fail to appear at the expiry of his furlough, should be brought to the halberds, and punished like the culprit whom

they had seen in that condition.  No man doubted
that General --------- would keep his word rigorously
whenever severity was required, and Elspat,
therefore, knew that her son, when he perceived
that due compliance with his orders was impossible,

must at the same time consider the degrading
punishment denounced against his defection as inevitable, should be place himself within the General's
power.*

Note D. Fidelity of the Highlanders.

When noon was well passed, new apprehensions came on the mind of the lonely woman. Her son
still slept under the influence of the draught; but what if, being stronger than she had ever known
it administered, his health or his reason should be affected by its potency? For the first time, likewise, notwithstanding her high ideas on the subject
of parental authority, she began to dread the
resentment of her son, whom her heart told her
she had wronged. Of late, she had observed that his temper was less docile, and his determinations, especially upon this late occasion of his enlistment, independently formed, and then boldly carried
through. She remembered the stern wilfulness of his father when he accounted himself ill-used, and began to dread that Hamish, upon finding the deceit she had put upon him, might resent it even
to the extent of cutting her off, and pursuing his own course through the world alone. Such were
the alarming and yet the reasonable apprehensions which began to crowd upon the unfortunate woman, after the apparent success of her ill-advised
stratagem.

It was near evening when Hamish first awoke, and then he was far from being in the full possession either of his mental or bodily powers. From
his vague expressions and disordered pulse, Elspat at first experienced much apprehension; but she
used such expedients as her medical knowledge
suggested; and in the course of the night, she had the satisfaction to see him sink once more into a deep sleep, which probably carried off the greater part of the effects of the drug, for about sunrising she heard him arise, and call to her for his bonnet. This she had purposely removed, from a fear that he might awaken and depart in the night-time,without her knowledge.

``My bonnet---my bonnet,'' cried Hamish, ``it

is time to take farewell.  Mother, your drink was
too strong---the sun is up---but with the next morning
I will still see the double summit of the ancient
Dun.  My bonnet---my bonnet! mother, I
must be instant in my departure.'' These expressions

made it plain that poor Hamish was unconscious
that two nights and a day had passed since
he had drained the fatal quaigh, and Elspat had
now to venture on what she felt as the almost
perilous, as well as painful task, of explaining her machinations.

``Forgive me, my son,'' she said, approaching Hamish, and taking him by the hand with an air
of deferential awe, which perhaps she had not always used to his father, even when in his moody
fits.

``Forgive you, mother---for what?'' said Hamish, laughing; ``for giving me a dram that was
too strong, and which my head still feels this morning, or for hiding my bonnet to keep me an instant
longer? Nay, do _you_ forgive _me_. Give me the bonnet, and let that be done which now must be
done. Give me my bonnet, or I go without it;
surely I am not to be delayed by so trifling a want as that---I, who have gone for years with only a strap of deer's hide to tie back my hair. Trifle not, but give it me, or I must go bareheaded, since to stay is impossible.''

``My son,'' said Elspat, keeping fast hold of his hand, ``what is done cannot be recalled; could you borrow the wings of yonder eagle, you would arrive at the Dun too late for what you purpose,---
too soon for what awaits you there. You believe you see the sun rising for the first time since you have seen him set, but yesterday beheld him climb Ben Cruachan, though your eyes were closed to
his light.''

Hamish cast upon his mother a wild glance of extreme terror, then instantly recovering himself, said---``I am no child to be cheated out of my
purpose by such tricks as these---Farewell, mother, each moment is worth a lifetime.''

``Stay,'' she said, ``my dear---my deceived son! run not on infamy and ruin---Yonder I see the
priest upon the high-road on his white horse---ask him the day of the month and week---let him decide between us.''

With the speed of an eagle, Hamish darted up the acclivity, and stood by the minister of Glenorquhy, who was pacing out thus early to administer
consolation to a distressed family near Bunawe.

The good man was somewhat startled to behold an armed Highlander, then so unusual a sight, and apparently much agitated, stop his horse by the
bridle, and ask him with a faltering voice the day of the week and month. ``Had you been where
you should have been yesterday, young man,'' replied the clergyman, ``you would have known that
it was God's Sabbath; and that this is Monday,
the second day of the week, and twenty-first of the month.''

``And this is true?'' said Hamish.

``As true,'' answered the surprised minister,

``as that I yesterday preached the word of God to
this parish.---What ails you, young man?---are you
sick?---are you in your right mind?''

Hamish made no answer, only repeated to himself the first expression of the clergyman---``Had
you been where you should have been yesterday;'' and so saying, he let go the bridle, turned from the road, and descended the path towards the hut, with the look and pace of one who was going to execution. The minister looked after him with surprise;
but although he knew the inhabitant of the hovel, the character of Elspat had not invited him to open any communication with her, because she was
generally reputed a Papist, or rather one indifferent to all religion, except some superstitious observances which had been handed down from her
parents. On Hamish the Reverend Mr Tyrie had
bestowed instructions when he was occasionally
thrown in his way, and if the seed fell among the brambles and thorns of a wild and uncultivated
disposition, it had not yet been entirely checked or destroyed. There was something so ghastly in the present expression of the youth's features, that the good man was tempted to go down to the hovel, and enquire whether any distress had befallen the inhabitants, in which his presence might be consoling, and his ministry useful. Unhappily he did
not persevere in this resolution, which might have saved a great misfortune, as he would have probably become a mediator for the unfortunate young
man; but a recollection of the wild moods of such Highlanders as had been educated after the old
fashion of the country, prevented his interesting himself in the widow and son of the far-dreaded
robber MacTavish Mhor; and he thus missed an
opportunity, which he afterwards sorely repented, of doing much good.

When Hamish MacTavish entered his mother's hut, it was only to throw himself on the bed he
had left, and, exclaiming, ``Undone, undone!'' to give vent, in cries of grief and anger, to his deep sense of the deceit which had been practised on
him, and of the cruel predicament to which he was reduced.

Elspat was prepared for the first explosion of her son's passion, and said to herself, ``It is but the mountain torrent, swelled by the thunder shower. Let us sit and rest us by the bank; for all its present tumult, the time will soon come when we may
pass it dryshod.'' She suffered his complaints and his reproaches, which were, even in the midst of his agony, respectful and affectionate, to die away without returning any answer; and when, at length, having exhausted all the exclamations of sorrow
which his language, copious in expressing the feelings of the heart, affords to the sufferer, he sunk
into a gloomy silence, she suffered the interval to continue near an hour ere she approached her son's couch.

``And now,'' she said at length, with a voice in which the authority of the mother was qualified by her tenderness, ``have you exhausted your idle
sorrows, and are you able to place what you have gained against what you have lost? Is the false
son of Dermid your brother, or the father of your tribe, that you weep because you cannot bind yourself to his belt, and become one of those who must
do his bidding? Could you find in yonder distant country the lakes and the mountains that you leave behind you here? Can you hunt the deer of Breadalbane in the forests of America, or will the ocean
afford you the silver-scaled salmon of the Awe?
Consider, then, what is your loss, and, like a wise man, set it against what you have won.''

``I have lost all, mother,'' replied Hamish, ``since I have broken my word, and lost my honour. I
might tell my tale, but who, oh, who would believe me?'' The unfortunate young man again clasped
his hands together, and, pressing them to his forehead, hid his face upon the bed.

Elspat was now really alarmed, and perhaps wished the fatal deceit had been left unattempted. She had no hope or refuge saving in the eloquence of persuasion, of which she possessed no small
share, though her total ignorance of the world as it actually existed, rendered its energy unavailing. She urged her son, by every tender epithet which a parent could bestow, to take care for his own
safety.

  ``Leave me,'' she said, ``to baffle your pursuers.
I will save your life---I will save your honour---I
will tell them that my fair-haired Hamish fell from
the Corrie dhu (black precipice) into the gulf, of
which human eye never beheld the bottom.  I will

tell them this, and I will fling your plaid on the thorns which grow on the brink of the precipice, that they may believe my words. They will believe, and they will return to the Dun of the double-crest; for though the Saxon drum can call the living
to die, it cannot recall the dead to their slavish standard. Then will we travel together far northward to the salt lakes of Kintail, and place glens
and mountains betwixt us and the sons of Dermid.

We will visit the shores of the dark lake, and my
kinsmen---(for  was  not  my  mother  of   the   children
of  Kenneth,  and  will  they  not  remember  us   with
the affection of the olden time, which lives in  those
distant glens, where the Gael still dwell in their
nobleness, unmingled with the churl Saxons, or

with the base brood that are their tools and their slaves.''

The energy of the language, somewhat allied to hyperbole, even in its most ordinary expressions, now seemed almost too weak to afford Elspat the
means of bringing out the splendid picture which she presented to her son of the land in which she proposed to him to take refuge. Yet the colours were few with which she could paint her Highland paradise. ``The hills,'' she said, ``were higher and more magnificent than those of Breadalbane---Ben Cruachan was but a dwarf to Skooroora. The lakes were broader and larger, and abounded not only
with fish, but with the enchanted and amphibious animal which gives oil to the lamp.* The deer

The seals are considered by the Highlanders as enchanted princes.

were larger and more numerous---the white-tusked boar, the chase of which the brave loved best, was yet to be roused in those western solitudes---the men were nobler, wiser, and stronger, than the
degenerate brood who lived under the Saxon banner. The daughters of the land were beautiful,
with blue eyes and fair hair, and bosoms of snow, and out of these she would choose a wife for Hamish, of blameless descent, spotless fame, fixed and
true affection, who should be in their summer bothy as a beam of the sun, and in their winter abode as the warmth of the needful fire.''

Such were the topics with which Elspat strove to soothe the despair of her son, and to determine him, if possible, to leave the fatal spot, on which he seemed resolved to linger. The style of her
rhetoric was poetical, but in other respects resembled that which, like other fond mothers, she had
lavished on Hamish, while a child or a boy, in
order to gain his consent to do something he had no mind to; and she spoke louder, quicker, and
more earnestly, in proportion as she began to despair of her words carrying conviction.

On the mind of Hamish her eloquence made no impression. He knew far better than she did the actual situation of the country, and was sensible, that, though it might be possible to hide himself as a fugitive among more distant mountains, there was now no corner in the Highlands in which his
father's profession could be practised, even if he, had not adopted, from the improved ideas of the
time when he lived, the opinion that the trade of the cateran was no longer the road to honour and distinction. Her words were therefore poured into regardless ears, and she exhausted herself in vain in the attempt to paint the regions of her mother's kinsmen in such terms as might tempt Hamish to
accompany her thither. She spoke for hours, but she spoke in vain. She could extort no answer,
save groans and sighs, and ejaculations, expressing the extremity of despair.

At length, starting on her feet, and changing the monotonous tone in which she had chanted, as it were, the praises of the province of refuge, into the short, stern language of eager passion---``I am a fool,'' she said, ``to spend my words upon an
idle, poor-spirited, unintelligent boy, who crouches like a hound to the lash. Wait here, and receive your taskmasters, and abide your chastisement at their hands; but do not think your mother's eyes will behold it. I could not see it and live. My eyes have looked often upon death, but never upon dishonour. Farewell, Hamish!---We never meet
again.''

She dashed from the hut like a lapwing, and perhaps for the moment actually entertained the
purpose which she expressed, of parting with her son for ever. A fearful sight she would have
been that evening to any who might have met her
wandering through the wilderness like a restless spirit, and speaking to herself in language which will endure no translation. She rambled for hours, seeking rather than shunning the most dangerous
paths. The precarious track through the morass, the dizzy path along the edge of the precipice, or by the banks of the gulfing river, were the roads which, far from avoiding, she sought with eagerness, and traversed with reckless haste. But the
courage arising from despair was the means of saving the life, which, (though deliberate suicide
was rarely practised in the Highlands,) she was
perhaps desirous of terminating. Her step on the verge of the precipice was firm as that of the wild goat. Her eye, in that state of excitation, was so keen as to discern, even amid darkness, the perils which noon would not have enabled a stranger to
avoid.

Elspat's course was not directly forward, else she had soon been far from the bothy in which she had left her son. It was circuitous, for that hut was the centre to which her heartstrings were
chained, and though she wandered around it, she
felt it impossible to leave the vicinity. With the first beams of morning, she returned to the hut. Awhile she paused at the wattled door, as if ashamed that lingering fondness should have brought
her back to the spot which she had left with the purpose of never returning; but there was yet
more of fear and anxiety in her hesitation---of anxiety, lest her fair-haired son had suffered from
the effects of her potion---of fear, lest his enemies had come upon him in the night. She opened the
door of the hut gently, and entered with noiseless step. Exhausted with his sorrow and anxiety,
and not entirely relieved perhaps from the influence of the powerful opiate, Hamish Bean again
slept the stern sound sleep, by which the Indians are said to be overcome during the interval of their torments. His mother was scarcely sure that she actually discerned his form on the bed, scarce certain that her ear caught the sound of his breathing.
With a throbbing heart, Elspat went to the
fire-place in the centre of the hut, where slumbered, covered with a piece of turf, the glimmering
embers of the fire, never extinguished on a Scottish hearth until the indwellers leave the mansion
for ever.

``Feeble greishogh,''* she said, as she lighted,

Greishogh, a glowing ember.

by the help of a match, a splinter of bog pine
which was to serve the place of a candle; ``weak greishogh, soon shalt thou be put out for ever, and may Heaven grant that the life of Elspat MacTavish have no longer duration than thine!''

While she spoke she raised the blazing light towards the bed, on which still lay the prostrate limbs of her son, in a posture that left it doubtful whether he slept or swooned. As she advanced
towards him, the light flashed upon his eyes---he started up in an instant, made a stride forward
with his naked dirk in his hand, like a man armed to meet a mortal enemy, and exclaimed, ``Stand
off!---on thy life, stand off!''

``It is the word and the action of my husband,'' answered Elspat; ``and I know by his speech and
his step the son of MacTavish Mhor.''

``Mother,'' said Hamish, relapsing from his tone of desperate firmness into one of melancholy expostulation; ``oh, dearest mother, wherefore have
you returned hither?''

``Ask why the hind comes back to the fawn,'' said Elspat; ``why the cat of the mountain returns to her lodge and her young. Know you, Hamish,
that the heart of the mother only lives in the bosom of the child.''

``Then will it soon cease to throb,'' said Hamish, ``unless it can beat within a bosom that
lies beneath the turf.---Mother, do not blame
me; if I weep, it is not for myself but for you,

for my sufferings will soon be over; but yours
------O who but Heaven shall set a boundary to
them!''

Elspat shuddered and stepped backward, but almost instantly resumed her firm and upright position, and her dauntless bearing.

``I thought thou wert a man but even now,'' she said, ``and thou art again a child. Hearken to me yet, and let us leave this place together. Have I done thee wrong or injury? if so, yet do
not avenge it so cruelly---See, Elspat MacTavish, who never kneeled before even to a priest, falls prostrate before her own son, and craves his forgiveness.'' And at once she threw herself on her
knees before the young man, seized on his hand,
and kissing it an hundred times, repeated as often, in heart-breaking accents, the most earnest entreaties for forgiveness. ``Pardon,'' she exclaimed,
``pardon, for the sake of your father's ashes--- pardon, for the sake of the pain with which I bore thee, the care with which I nurtured thee!---Hear it, Heaven, and behold it, Earth---the mother asks pardon of her child, and she is refused!''

It was in vain that Hamish endeavoured to stem this tide of passion, by assuring his mother, with the most solemn asseverations, that he forgave entirely the fatal deceit which she had practised upon him.

``Empty words,'' she said; ``idle protestations, which are but used to hide the obduracy of your
resentment. Would you have me believe you, then leave the but this instant, and retire from a country which every hour renders more dangerous.---
Do this, and I may think you have forgiven me--- refuse it, and again I call on moon and stars,
heaven and earth, to witness the unrelenting resentment with which you prosecute your mother
for a fault, which, if it be one, arose out of love to you.

``Mother,'' said Hamish, ``on this subject you move me not. I will fly before no man. If Barcaldine should send every Gael that is under his
banner, here, and in this place, will I abide them; and when you bid me fly, you may as well command yonder mountain to be loosened from its foundations. Had I been sure of the road by which they
are coming hither, I had spared them the pains of seeking me; but I might go by the mountain,
while they perchance came by the lake. Here I
will abide my fate; nor is there in Scotland a voice of power enough to bid me stir from hence, and be obeyed.''

``Here, then, I also stay,'' said Elspat, rising up and speaking with assumed composure. ``I have
seen my husband's death---my eyelids shall not
grieve to look on the fall of my son. But MacTavish Mhor died as became the brave, with his
good sword in his right hand; my son will perish like the bullock that is driven to the shambles
by the Saxon owner who had bought him for a
price.''

``Mother,'' said the unhappy young man, ``you have taken my life; to that you have a right, for you gave it; but touch not my honour! It came
to me from a brave train of ancestors, and should be sullied neither by man's deed nor woman's
speech. What I shall do, perhaps I myself yet
know not; but tempt me no farther by reproachful words; you have already made wounds more
than you can ever heal.''

``It is well, my son,'' said Elspat, in reply. ``Expect neither farther complaint nor remonstrance
from me; but let us be silent, and wait the chance which Heaven shall send us.''

The sun arose on the next morning, and found the bothy silent as the grave. The mother and
son had arisen, and were engaged each in their
separate task---Hamish in preparing and cleaning his arms with the greatest accuracy, but with an air of deep dejection. Elspat, more restless in her agony of spirit, employed herself in making ready the food which the distress of yesterday had induced them both to dispense with for an unusual
number of hours. She placed it on the board before her son so soon as it was prepared, with the
words of a Gaelic poet, ``Without daily food, the husbandman's ploughshare stands still in the furrow; without daily food, the sword of the warrior
is too heavy for his hand. Our bodies are our
slaves, yet they must be fed if we would have their service. So spake in ancient days the Blind Bard to the warriors of Fion.''

The young man made no reply, but he fed on what was placed. before him, as if to gather strength for the scene which he was to undergo. When
his mother saw that be had eaten what sufficed
him, she again filled the fatal quaigh, and proffered it as the conclusion of the repast. But he started aside with a convulsive gesture, expressive at once of fear and abhorrence.

``Nay, my son,'' she said, ``this time surely, thou hast no cause of fear.''

``Urge me not, mother,'' answered Hamish; ``or put the leprous toad into a flagon, and I will drink but from that accursed cup, and of that mind-destroying potion, never will I taste more!''

``At your pleasure, my son,'' said Elspat, haughtily, and began, with much apparent assiduity, the various domestic tasks which had been interrupted during the preceding day. Whatever was
at her heart, all anxiety seemed banished from
her looks and demeanour. It was but from an
over activity of bustling exertion that it might have been perceived, by a close observer, that her actions were spurred by some internal cause of painful excitement; and such a spectator, too, might also have
observed bow often she broke off the snatches
of songs or tunes which she hummed, apparently
without knowing what she was doing, in order to
cast a hasty glance from the door of the hut. Whatever might be in the mind of Hamish, his demeanour
was directly the reverse of that adopted by his
mother. Having finished the task of cleaning and preparing his arms, which he arranged within the hut, he sat himself down before the door of the
bothy, and watched the opposite hill, like the fixed sentinel who expects the approach of an enemy.
Noon found him in the same unchanged posture,
and it was an hour after that period, when his mother, standing beside him, laid her hand on his
shoulder, and said, in a tone indifferent, as if she had been talking of some friendly visit, ``When
dost thou expect them?''

``They cannot be here till the shadows fall long to the eastward,'' replied Hamish; ``that is, even supposing the nearest party, commanded by Sergeant Allan Breack Cameron, has been commanded
hither by express from Dunbarton, as it is most
likely they will.''

``Then enter beneath your mother's roof once more; partake the last time of the food which she has prepared; after this, let them come, and thou shalt see if thy mother is an useless encumbrance in the day of strife. Thy hand, practised as it is, cannot fire these arms so fast as I can load them; nay, if it is necessary, I do not myself fear the flash or the report, and my aim has been held
fatal.''

``In the name of Heaven, mother, meddle not with this matter!'' said Hamish. ``Allan Breack is a wise man and a kind one, and comes of a good
stem. It may be, he can promise for our officers, that they will touch me with no infamous punishment; and if they offer me confinement in the dungeon, or death by the musket, to that I may not
object.''

``Alas, and wilt thou trust to their word, my foolish child? Remember the race of Dermid
were ever fair and false, and no sooner shall they have gyves on thy hands, than they will strip thy shoulders for the scourge.''

``Save your advice, mother,'' said Hamish, sternly; ``for me, my mind is made up.''

But though he spoke thus, to escape the almost persecuting urgency of his mother, Hamish would
have found it, at that moment, impossible to say upon what course of conduct he had thus fixed. On one point alone he was determined, namely, to abide
his destiny, be what it might, and not to add to the breach of his word, of which he had been involuntarily rendered guilty, by attempting to
escape from punishment. This act of self-devotion he conceived to be due to his own honour, and that of his countrymen. Which of his comrades would
in future be trusted, if he should be considered as having broken his word, and betrayed the confidence of his officers? and whom but Hamish Bean
MacTavish would the Gael accuse, for having verified and confirmed the suspicions which the Saxon
General was well known to entertain against the
good faith of the Highlanders? He was, therefore, bent firmly to abide his fate. But whether his
intention was to yield himself peaceably into the bands of the party who should come to apprehend
him, or whether he purposed, by a show of resistance, to provoke them to kill him on the spot, was
a question which he could not himself have answered. His desire to see Barcaldine, and explain
the cause of his absence at the appointed time,
urged him to the one course; his fear of the degrading punishment, and of his mother's bitter upbraidings, strongly instigated the latter and the
more dangerous purpose. He left it to chance to decide when the crisis should arrive; nor did he tarry long in expectation of the catastrophe.

Evening approached, the gigantic shadows of the mountains streamed in darkness towards the east
while their western peaks were still glowing with crimson and gold. The road which winds round
Ben Cruachan was fully visible from the door of
the bothy, when a party of five Highland soldiers, whose arms glanced in the sun, wheeled suddenly
into sight from the most distant extremity, where the highway is hidden behind the mountain. One
of the party walked a little before the other four, who marched regularly and in files, according to the rules of military discipline. There was no dispute, from the firelocks which they carried, and the
plaids and bonnets which they wore, that they were a party of Hamish's regiment, under a non-commissioned officer; and there could be as little doubt
of the purpose of their appearance on the banks of Loch Awe.

``They come briskly forward''---said the widow of MacTavish Mhor,---``I wonder how fast or how
slow some of them will return again! But they are five, and it is too much odds for a fair field. Step back within the hut, my son, and shoot from the
loophole beside the door. Two you may bring
down ere they quit the high-road for the footpath ---there will remain but three; and your father, with my aid, has often stood against that number.''

Hamish Bean took the gun which his mother offered, but did not stir from the door of the hut. He was soon visible to the party on the high-road, as was evident from their increasing their pace to a run the files, however, still keeping together like coupled greyhounds, and advancing with great rapidity. In far less time than would have been accomplished by men less accustomed to the mountains, they had left the high-road, traversed the
narrow path, and approached within pistol-shot of the bothy, at the door of which stood Hamish,
fixed like a statue of stone, with his firelock in his band, while his mother, placed behind him, and almost driven to frenzy by the violence of her passions, reproached him in the strongest terms which
despair could invent, for his want of resolution and faintness of heart. Her words increased the bitter gall which was arising in the young man's own
spirit, as be observed the unfriendly speed with which his late comrades were eagerly making towards him, like hounds towards the stag when he
is at bay. The untamed and angry passions which he inherited from father and mother, were awakened by the supposed hostility of those who pursued
him; and the restraint under which these passions had been hitherto held by his sober judgment,
began gradually to give way. The sergeant now
called to him, ``Hamish Bean MacTavish, lay down your arms and surrender.''

``Do _you_ stand, Allan Breack Cameron, and command your men to stand, or it will be the worse for us all.''

``Halt, men''---said the sergeant, but continuing himself to advance. ``Hamish, think what you do, and give up your gun; you may spill blood, but
you cannot escape punishment.''

  ``The scourge---the scourge---my son, beware
the scourge!'' whispered his mother.

``Take heed, Allan Breack,'' said Hamish. ``I would not hurt you willingly,---but I will not be taken unless you can assure me against the Saxon lash.''

``Fool!'' answered Cameron, ``you know I cannot. Yet I will do all I can. I will say I met you
on your return, and the punishment will be light--- but give up your musket---Come on, men.''

Instantly he rushed forward, extending his arm as if to push aside the young man's levelled firelock. Elspat exclaimed, ``Now, spare not your
father's blood to defend your father's hearth!'' Hamish fired his piece, and Cameron dropped dead. ---All these things happened, it might be said, in the same moment of time. The soldiers rushed
forward and seized Hamish, who, seeming petrified with what he had done, offered not the least resistance. Not so his mother, who, seeing the men
about to put handcuffs on her son, threw herself on the soldiers with such fury, that it required two of them to hold her, while the rest secured the
prisoner.

``Are you not an accursed creature,'' said one of the men to Hamish, ``to have slain your best
friend, who was contriving, during the whole march, bow he could find some way of getting you off
without punishment for your desertion?''

``Do you hear _that_, mother?'' said Hamish, turning himself as much towards her as his bonds would
permit-but the mother heard nothing, and saw
nothing. She had fainted on the floor of her hut. Without waiting for her recovery, the party almost immediately began their homeward march towards
Dunbarton, leading along with them their prisoner. They thought it necessary, however, to stay for a little space at the village of Dalmally, from which they despatched a party of the inhabitants to bring away the body of their unfortunate leader, while they themselves repaired to a magistrate to state what had happened, and require his instructions as to the farther course to be pursued. The crime
being of a military character, they were instructed to march the prisoner to Dunbarton without delay.

The swoon of the mother of Hamish lasted for a length of time; the longer perhaps that her constitution, strong as it was, must have been much
exhausted by her previous agitation of three days' endurance. She was roused from her stupor at
length by female voices, which cried the coronach, or lament for the dead, with clapping of hands and loud exclamations; while the melancholy note of
a lament, appropriate to the clan Cameron, played on the bagpipe, was heard from time to time.

Elspat started up like one awakened from the dead, and without any accurate recollection of the scene which had passed before her eyes. There
were females in the hut who were swathing the
corpse in its bloody plaid before carrying it from the fatal spot. ``Women,'' she said, starting up and interrupting their chant at once and their labour--- ``Tell me, women, why sing you the dirge
of MacDhonuil Dhu in the house of MacTavish
Mhor?''

``She-wolf, be silent with thine ill-omened yell,'' answered one of the females, a relation of the deceased, ``and let us do our duty to our beloved
kinsman! There shall never be coronach cried, or dirge played, for thee or thy bloody wolf-burd.*

Wolf-brood, _i. e_. wolf-cub.

The ravens shall eat him from the gibbet, and the foxes and wild-cats shall tear thy corpse upon the hill. Cursed be he that would sain your bones,
or add a stone to your cairn!''

``Daughter of a foolish mother,'' answered the widow of MacTavish Mhor, ``know that the gibbet
with which you threaten us, is no portion of our inheritance. For thirty years the Black Tree of
the Law, whose apples are dead men's bodies, hungered after the beloved husband of my heart; but
be died like a brave man, with the sword in his
hand, and defrauded it of its hopes and its fruit.''

``So shall it not be with thy child, bloody sorceress,'' replied the female mourner, whose passions
were as violent as those of Elspat herself.
``The ravens shall tear his fair hair to line their nests, before the sun sinks beneath the Treshornish islands.''

These words recalled to Elspat's mind the whole history of the last three dreadful days. At first, she stood fixed as if the extremity of distress had converted her into stone; but in a minute, the
pride and violence of her temper, outbraved as she thought herself on her own threshold, enabled her to reply---``Yes, insulting bag, my fair-haired boy may die, but it will not be with a white hand---it has been dyed in the blood of his enemy, in the
best blood of a Cameron---remember that; and
when you lay your dead in his grave, let it be his best epitaph, that he was killed by Hamish Bean
for essaying to lay hands on the son of MacTavish Mhor on his own threshold. Farewell---the shame of defeat, loss, and slaughter, remain with the clan that has endured it!''

The relative of the slaughtered Cameron raised her voice in reply; but Elspat, disdaining to continue the objurgation, or perhaps feeling her grief
likely to overmaster her power of expressing her resentment, had left the hut, and was walking forth in the bright moonshine.

The females who were arranging the corpse of the slaughtered man, hurried from their melancholy labour to look after her tall figure as it
glided away among the cliffs. ``I am glad she is gone,'' said one of the younger persons who assisted.

``I would as soon dress a corpse when the
great Fiend himself---God sain us---stood visibly
before us, as when Elspat of the Tree is amongst
us.---Ay---ay, even overmuch intercourse hath she
had with the Enemy in her day.''

``Silly woman,'' answered the female who had maintained the dialogue with the departed Elspat, ``thinkest thou that there is a worse fiend on earth, or beneath it, than the pride and fury of an offended woman, like yonder bloody-minded hag? Know
that blood has been as familiar to her as the dew to the mountain-daisy. Many and many a brave
man has she caused to breathe their last for little wrong they had done to her or theirs. But her
hough-sinews are cut, now that her wolf-burd must, like a murderer as he is, make a murderer's end.''

Whilst the women thus discoursed together, as they watched the corpse of Allan Breack Cameron, the unhappy cause of his death pursued her lonely way across the mountain. While she remained
within sight of the bothy, she put a strong constraint on herself, that by no alteration of pace or
gesture, she might afford to her enemies the triumph of calculating the excess of her mental agitation, nay, despair. She stalked, therefore, with a slow rather than a swift step, and, holding herself upright, seemed at once to endure with firmness that
woe which was passed, and bid defiance to that
which was about to come. But when she was beyond the sight of those who remained in the hut,
she could no longer suppress the extremity of her agitation. Drawing her mantle wildly round her, she stopped at the first knoll, and climbing to its summit, extended her arms up to the bright moon, as if accusing heaven and earth for her misfortunes, and uttered scream on scream, like those of an
eagle whose nest has been plundered of her brood. Awhile she vented her grief in these inarticulate cries, then rushed on her way with a hasty and
unequal step, in the vain hope of overtaking the party which was conveying her son a prisoner to
Dunbarton. But her strength, superhuman as it
seemed, failed her in the trial, nor was it possible for her, with her utmost efforts, to accomplish her purpose.

Yet she pressed onward, with all the speed which her exhausted frame could exert. When food became indispensable, she entered the first cottage;
``Give me to eat,'' she said; ``I am the widow of MacTavish Mhor---I am the mother of Hamish
MacTavish Bean,---give me to eat, that I may once more see my fair-haired son.'' Her demand was
never refused, though granted in many cases with a kind of struggle between compassion and aversion in some of those to whom she applied, which
was in others qualified by fear. The share she had had in occasioning the death of Allan Breack Cameron, which must probably involve that of her
own son, was not accurately known; but, from a
knowledge of her violent passions and former habits of life, no one doubted that in one way or other she had been the cause of the catastrophe; and
Hamish Bean was considered, in the slaughter
which he had committed, rather as the instrument than as the accomplice of his mother.

This general opinion of his countrymen was of little service to the unfortunate Hamish. As his captain, Green Colin, understood the manners and habits of his country, he had no difficulty in collecting from Hamish the particulars accompanying his
supposed desertion, and the subsequent death of
the non-commissioned officer. He felt the utmost compassion for a youth, who had thus fallen a victim to the extravagant and fatal fondness of a parent. But he had no excuse to plead which could rescue his unhappy recruit from the doom, which military discipline and the award of a court-martial denounced against him for the crime he had committed.

No time had been lost in their proceedings, and

as little was interposed betwixt sentence and execution.
General --------- had determined to make a
severe example of the first deserter who should fall
into his power, and here was one who had defended
himself by main force, and slain in the affray

the officer sent to take him into custody. A fitter subject for punishment could not have occurred
and Hamish was sentenced to immediate execution. All which the interference of his captain in his favour could procure, was that he should die a soldier's death; for there had been a purpose of executing him upon the gibbet.

The worthy clergyman of Glenorquhy chanced to be at Dunbarton, in attendance upon some church courts, at the time of this catastrophe. He visited his unfortunate parishioner in his dungeon,
found him ignorant indeed, but not obstinate, and the answers which he received from him, when
conversing on religious topics, were such as induced him doubly to regret, that a mind naturally
pure and noble should have remained unhappily so wild and uncultivated.

When he ascertained the real character and disposition of the young man, the worthy pastor made
deep and painful reflections on his own shyness and timidity, which, arising out of the evil fame that attached to the lineage of Hamish, had restrained him from charitably endeavouring to bring this
strayed sheep within the great fold. While the
good minister blamed his cowardice in times past, which had deterred him from risking his person,
to save, perhaps, an immortal soul, he resolved no longer to be governed by such timid counsels, but to endeavour, by application to his officers, to obtain a reprieve, at least, if not a pardon, for the
criminal, in whom he felt so unusually interested, at once from his docility of temper and his generosity of disposition.

Accordingly the divine sought out Captain Campbell at the barracks within the garrison.
There was a gloomy melancholy on the brow of
Green Colin, which was not lessened, but increased, when the clergyman stated his name, quality,
and errand. ``You cannot tell me better of the
young man than I am disposed to believe,'' answered the Highland officer; ``you cannot ask me to
do more in his behalf than I am of myself inclined,

and have already endeavoured to do.  But it is
all in vain.  General --------- is half a Lowlander
half an Englishman.  He has no idea of the high
and enthusiastic character which in these mountains
often brings exalted virtues in contact with

great crimes, which, however, are less offences of the heart than errors of the understanding. I
have gone so far as to tell him, that in this young man he was putting to death the best and the bravest of my company, where all, or almost all, are
good and brave. I explained to him by what
strange delusion the culprit's apparent desertion was occasioned, and how little his heart was accessary to the crime which his hand unhappily committed. His answer was, `These are Highland
visions, Captain Campbell, as unsatisfactory and vain as those of the second sight. An act of gross desertion may, in any case, be palliated under the plea of intoxication; the murder of an officer may be as easily coloured over with that of temporary insanity. The example must be made, and if it
has fallen on a man otherwise a good recruit, it will have the greater effect.'---Such being the General's unalterable purpose,'' continued Captain
Campbell, with a sigh, ``be it your care, reverend sir, that your penitent prepare by break of day tomorrow for that great change which we shall all
one day be subjected to.''

``And for which,'' said the clergyman, ``may God prepare us all, as I in my duty will not be
wanting to this poor youth.''

Next morning, as the very earliest beams of sunrise saluted the grey towers which crown the summit
of that singular and tremendous rock, the soldiers of the new Highland regiment appeared on
the parade, within the Castle of Dunbarton, and
having fallen into order, began to move downward by steep staircases, and narrow passages towards the external barrier-gate, which is at the very bottom of the rock. The wild wailings of the pibroch
were heard at times, interchanged with the drums and fifes, which beat the Dead March.

The unhappy criminal's fate did not, at first, excite that general sympathy in the regiment which would probably have arisen had he been executed
for desertion alone. The slaughter of the unfortunate Allan Breack had given a different colour
to Hamish's offence; for the deceased was much
beloved, and besides belonged to a numerous and
powerful clan, of whom there were many in the
ranks. The unfortunate criminal, on the contrary, was little known to, and scarcely connected with, any of his regimental companions. His father had been, indeed, distinguished for his strength and manhood; but he was of a broken clan, as those
names were called who had no chief to lead them
to battle.

It would have been almost impossible in another case, to have turned out of the ranks of the regiment the party necessary for execution of the sentence; but the six individuals selected for that
purpose, were friends of the deceased, descended, like him, from the race of MacDhonuil Dhu; and
while they prepared for the dismal task which
their duty imposed, it was not without a stern feeling of gratified revenge. The leading company of
the regiment began now to defile from the barrier-gate, and was followed by the others, each successively moving and halting according to the orders
of the Adjutant, so as to form three sides of an oblong square, with the ranks faced inwards. The fourth, or blank side of the square, was closed up by the huge and lofty precipice on which the Castle rises. About the centre of the procession,
bare-headed, disarmed, and with his hands bound, came the unfortunate victim of military law. He was deadly pale, but his step was firm and his eye as bright as ever. The clergyman walked by his
side---the coffin, which was to receive his mortal remains, was borne before him. The looks of his comrades were still, composed, and solemn. They felt for the youth, whose handsome form, and
manly yet submissive deportment had, as soon as
he was distinctly visible to them, softened the
hearts of many, even of some who had been actuated by vindictive feelings.

The coffin destined for the yet living body of Hamish Bean was placed at the bottom of the hollow square, about two yards distant from the foot
of the precipice, which rises in that place as steep as a stone wall to the height of three or four hundred feet. Thither the prisoner was also led, the
clergyman still continuing by his side, pouring
forth exhortations of courage and consolation, to which the youth appeared to listen with respectful devotion. With slow, and, it seemed, almost unwilling steps, the firing party entered the square,
and were drawn up facing the prisoner, about ten yards distant. The clergyman was now about to
retire---``Think, my son,'' he said, ``on what I have told you, and let your hope be rested on the anchor which I have given. You will then exchange a short and miserable existence here, for a life in which you will experience neither sorrow nor pain. ---Is there aught else which you can intrust to me to execute for you?''

The youth looked at his sleeve buttons. They were of gold, booty perhaps which his father had taken from some English officer during the civil wars. The clergyman disengaged them from his
sleeves.

``My mother!'' he said with some effort, ``give them to my poor mother!---See her, good father,
and teach her what she should think of all this. Tell her Hamish Bean is more glad to die than
ever he was to rest after the longest day's hunting. Farewell, sir---farewell!''

The good man could scarce retire from the fatal spot. An officer afforded him the support of his arm. At his last look towards Hamish, be beheld him alive and kneeling on the coffin; the few that were around him had all withdrawn. The fatal
word was given, the rock rung sharp to the sound of the discharge, and Hamish, falling forward with a groan, died, it may be supposed, without almost a sense of the passing agony.

Ten or twelve of his own company then came forward, and laid with solemn reverence the remains of their comrade in the coffin, while the
Dead March was again struck up, and the several
companies, marching in single files, passed the
coffin one by one, in order that all might receive from the awful spectacle the warning which it was peculiarly intended to afford. The regiment was then marched off the ground, and reascended the
ancient cliff, their music, as usual on such occasions, striking lively strains, as if sorrow, or even deep thought, should as short a while as possible be the tenant of the soldier's bosom.

At the same time the small party, which we before mentioned, bore the bier of the ill-fated Hamish to his humble grave, in a corner of the churchyard of Dunbarton, usually assigned to criminals.
Here, among the dust of the guilty, lies a youth, whose name, had he survived the ruin of the fatal events by which he was hurried into crime, might have adorned the annals of the brave.

The minister of Glenorquhy left Dunbarton immediately after he had witnessed the last scene of this melancholy catastrophe. His reason acquiesced in the justice of the sentence, which
required blood for blood, and he acknowledged
that the vindictive character of his countrymen
required to be powerfully restrained by the strong curb of social law. But still he mourned over
the individual victim. Who may arraign the bolt of Heaven when it bursts among the sons of the
forest; yet who can refrain from mourning, when
it selects for the object of its blighting aim the fair stem of a young oak, that promised to be the pride of the dell in which it flourished? Musing on these melancholy events, noon found him engaged in the mountain passes, by which he was to return to his still distant home.

Confident in his knowledge of the country, the clergyman had left the main road, to seek one of those shorter paths, which are only used by pedestrians, or by men, like the minister, mounted on
the small, but sure-footed, hardy, and sagacious horses of the country. The place which he now
traversed, was in itself gloomy and desolate, and tradition had added to it the terror of superstition, by affirming it was haunted by an evil spirit, termed _Cloght-dearg_, that is, Redmantle, who at all times, but especially at noon and at midnight, traversed the glen, in enmity both to man and the inferior creation, did such evil as her power was permitted to extend to, and afflicted with ghastly terrors those whom she had not license otherwise to hurt.

The minister of Glenorquhy had set his face in opposition to many of these superstitions, which he justly thought were derived from the dark ages of Popery, perhaps even from those of Paganism,
and unfit to be entertained or believed by the Christians of an enlightened age. Some of his more
attached parishioners considered him as too rash in opposing the ancient faith of their fathers; and though they honoured the moral intrepidity of
their pastor, they could not avoid entertaining and expressing fears, that he would one day fall a victim to his temerity, and be torn to pieces in the
glen of the Cloght-dearg, or some of those other haunted wilds, which he appeared rather to have a pride and pleasure in traversing alone, on the days and hours when the wicked spirits were supposed
to have especial power over man and beast.

These legends came across the mind of the clergyman; and, solitary as he was, a melancholy smile
shaded his cheek, as he thought of the inconsistency of human nature, and reflected how many
brave men, whom the yell of the pibroch would
have sent headlong against fixed bayonets, as the wild bull rushes on his enemy, might have yet feared to encounter those visionary terrors, which he
himself, a man of peace, and in ordinary perils no way remarkable for the firmness of his nerves, was now risking without hesitation.

As he looked around the scene of desolation, he could not but acknowledge, in his own mind, that it was not ill chosen for the haunt of those spirits, which are said to delight in solitude and desolation. The glen was so steep and narrow, that there
was but just room for the meridian sun to dart a few scattered rays upon the gloomy and precarious stream which stole through its recesses, for the most part in silence, but occasionally murmuring sullenly against the rocks and large stones, which seemed determined to bar its further progress. In winter, or in the rainy season, this small stream was a foaming torrent of the most formidable magnitude, and it was at such periods that it had torn
open and laid bare the broad-faced and huge fragments of rock, which, at the season of which we
speak, hid its course from the eye, and seemed disposed totally to interrupt its course. ``Undoubtedly,'' thought the clergyman, ``this mountain
rivulet, suddenly swelled by a water-spout, or
thunder-storm, has often been the cause of those accidents, which, happening in the glen called by her name, have been ascribed to the agency of the Cloght-dearg.''

Just as this idea crossed his mind, he heard a female voice exclaim, in a wild and thrilling accent, ``Michael Tyrie---Michael Tyrie!'' He looked
round in astonishment, and not without some fear. It seemed for an instant, as if the Evil Being, whose existence he had disowned, was about to appear for the punishment of his incredulity. This alarm did not hold him more than an instant, nor did it prevent his replying in a firm voice, ``Who calls---
and where are you?''

``One who journeys in wretchedness, between life and death,'' answered the voice; and the speaker, a tall female, appeared from among the fragments of rocks which had concealed her from view.

As she approached more closely, her mantle of bright tartan, in which the red colour much predominated, her stature, the long stride with which
she advanced, and the writhen features and wild
eyes which were visible from under her curch, would have made her no inadequate representative of the spirit which gave name to the valley. But Mr
Tyrie instantly knew her as the Woman of the
Tree, the widow of MacTavish Mhor, the now
childless mother of Hamish Bean. I am not sure
whether the minister would not have endured the
visitation of the Cloght-dearg herself, rather than the shock of Elspat's presence, considering her
crime and her misery. He drew up his horse instinctively, and stood endeavouring to collect his
ideas, while a few paces brought her up to his
horse's head.

``Michael Tyrie,'' said she, ``the foolish women of the Clachan* hold thee as a god---be one to me,

_i. e_. The village, literally the stones.

and say that my son lives. Say this, and I too will be of thy worship-I will bend my knees on the
seventh day in thy house of worship, and thy God shall be my God.''

``Unhappy woman,'' replied the clergyman, ``man forms not pactions with his Maker as with
a creature of clay like himself. Thinkest thou to chaffer with Him, who formed the earth, and spread out the heavens, or that thou canst offer aught of homage or devotion that can be worth acceptance
in his eyes? He hath asked obedience, not sacrifice; patience under the trials with which he afflicts us, instead of vain bribes, such as man offers to his changeful brother of clay, that he may be moved
from his purpose.''

``Be silent, priest!'' answered the desperate woman; ``speak not to me the words of thy white
book. Elspat's kindred were of those who crossed themselves and knelt when the sacring bell was
rung; and she knows that atonement can be made
on the altar for deeds done in the field. Elspat had once flocks and herds, goats upon the cliffs, and cattle in the strath. She wore gold around
her neck and on her hair---thick twists as those worn by the heroes of old. All these would she
have resigned to the priest---all these; and if he wished for the ornaments of a gentle lady, or the sporran of a high chief, though they had been great as Macallanmore himself, MacTavish Mhor would
have procured them if Elspat had promised them.
Elspat is now poor, and has nothing to give. But the Black Abbot of Inchaffray would have bidden
her scourge her shoulders, and macerate her feet by pilgrimage, and he would have granted his pardon to her when he saw that her blood had flowed,
and that her flesh had been torn. These were the priests who had indeed power even with the most
powerful---they threatened the great men of the
earth with the word of their mouth, the sentence of their book, the blaze of their torch, the sound of their sacring bell. The mighty bent to their will, and unloosed at the word of the priests those whom they had bound in their wrath, and set at
liberty, unharmed, him whom they had sentenced
to death, and for whose blood they had thirsted. These were a powerful race, and might well ask
the poor to kneel, since their power could humble the proud. But you!---against whom are ye strong, but against women who have been guilty of folly, and men who never wore sword? The priests of
old were like the winter torrent which fills this hollow valley, and rolls these massive rocks against each other as easily as the boy plays with the ball which he casts before him---But you! you do but
resemble the summer-stricken stream, which is
turned aside by the rushes, and stemmed by a bush of sedges---Woe worth you, for there is no help in you!''

The clergyman was at no loss to conceive that Elspat had lost the Roman Catholic faith without gaining any other, and that she still retained a vague and confused idea of the composition with
the priesthood, by confession, alms, and penance, and of their extensive power, which, according to her notion, was adequate, if duly propitiated, even to effecting her son's safety. Compassionating her situation, and allowing for her errors and ignorance, he answered her with mildness.

``Alas, unhappy woman! Would to God I could convince thee as easily where thou oughtest to seek, and art sure to find consolation, as I can assure you with a single word, that were Rome
and all her priesthood once more in the plenitude of their power, they could not, for largesse or penance, afford to thy misery an atom of aid or comfort.
---Elspat MacTavish, I grieve to tell you the
news.''

``I know them without thy speech,'' said the unhappy woman---``My son is doomed to die.''

``Elspat,'' resumed the clergyman, ``he _was_ doomed, and the sentence has been executed.''
The hapless mother threw her eyes up to heaven,
and uttered a shriek so unlike the voice of a human being, that the eagle which soared in middle air answered it as she would have done the call of her mate.

``It is impossible!'' she exclaimed, ``it is impossible! Men do not condemn and kill on the
same day! Thou art deceiving me. The people
call thee holy---hast thou the heart to tell a mother she has murdered her only child?''

``God knows,'' said the priest, the tears falling fast from his eyes, ``that were it in my power, I would gladly tell better tidings---But these which I bear are as certain as they are fatal---My own

ears heard the death-shot, my own eyes beheld thy
son's death---thy son's funeral.---My tongue bears
witness to what my ears heard and my eyes saw.''

The wretched female clasped her bands close together, and held them up towards heaven like a sibyl announcing war and desolation, while, in impotent yet frightful rage, she poured forth a tide
of the deepest imprecations.---``Base Saxon churl!'' she exclaimed, ``vile hypocritical juggler! May
the eyes that looked tamely on the death of my
fair-haired boy be melted in their sockets with
ceaseless tears, shed for those that are nearest and most dear to thee! May the ears that heard his
death-knell be dead hereafter to all other sounds save the screech of the raven, and the hissing of the adder! May the tongue that tells me of his
death and of my own crime, be withered in thy
mouth---or better, when thou wouldst pray with
thy people, may the Evil One guide it, and give
voice to blasphemies instead of blessings, until men shall fly in terror from thy presence, and the thunder of heaven be launched against thy head, and
stop for ever thy cursing and accursed voice! Begone, with this malison!---Elspat will never, never
again bestow so many words upon living man.''

She kept her word---from that day the world was to her a wilderness, in which she remained
without thought, care, or interest, absorbed in her own grief, indifferent to every thing else.

With her mode of life, or rather of existence, the reader is already as far acquainted as I have the power of making him. Of her death, I can tell him nothing. It is supposed to have happened
several years after she had attracted the attention of my excellent friend Mrs Bethune Baliol. Her
benevolence, which was never satisfied with dropping a sentimental tear, when there was room for
the operation of effective charity, induced her to make various attempts to alleviate the condition of this most wretched woman. But all her exertions could only render Elspat's means of subsistence less precarious, a circumstance which, though generally interesting even to the most wretched outcasts
seemed to her a matter of total indifference. Every attempt to place any person in her hut to take
charge of her miscarried, through the extreme resentment with which she regarded all intrusion on
her solitude, or by the timidity of those who had been pitched upon to be inmates with the terrible Woman of the Tree. At length, when Elspat became totally unable (in appearance at least) to turn
herself on the wretched settle which served her
for a couch, the humanity of Mr Tyrie's successor sent two women to attend upon the last moments
of the solitary, which could not, it was judged, be far distant, and to avert the possibility that she might perish for want of assistance or food, before she sunk under the effects of extreme age, or
mortal malady.

It was on a November evening, that the two women appointed for this melancholy purpose,
arrived at the miserable cottage which we have
already described. Its wretched inmate lay stretched upon the bed, and seemed almost already a lifeless corpse, save for the wandering of the fierce
dark eyes, which rolled in their sockets in a manner terrible to look upon, and seemed to watch
with surprise and indignation the motions of the strangers, as persons whose presence was alike
unexpected and unwelcome. They were frightened
at her looks; but, assured in each other's company, they kindled a fire, lighted a candle, prepared
food, and made other arrangements for the discharge of the duty assigned them.

The assistants agreed they should watch the bedside of the sick person by turns; but, about
midnight, overcome by fatigue, (for they had walked far that morning,) both of them fell fast asleep. When they awoke, which was not till after the
interval of some hours, the hut was empty, and the patient gone. They rose in terror, and went to
the door of the cottage, which was latched as it had been at night. They looked out into the darkness, and called upon their charge by her name.
The night-raven screamed from the old oak-tree,
the fox howled on the bill, the hoarse waterfall replied with its echoes, but there was no human
answer. The terrified women did not dare to make further search till morning should appear; for the sudden disappearance of a creature so frail as Elspat, together with the wild tenor of her history,
intimidated them from stirring from the hut. They remained, therefore, in dreadful terror, sometimes thinking they heard her voice without, and at other times, that sounds of a different description were mingled with the mournful sigh of the night-breeze, or the dash of the cascade. Sometimes, too, the latch rattled, as if some frail and impotent hand were in vain attempting to lift it, and ever and anon they expected the entrance of their terrible patient animated by supernatural strength, and in the company, perhaps, of some being more dreadful than herself. Morning came at length. They
sought brake, rock, and thicket in vain. Two
hours after daylight, the minister himself appeared, and, on the report of the watchers, caused the country to be alarmed, and a general and exact search
to be made through the whole neighbourhood of
the cottage and the oak-tree. But it was all in vain. Elspat MacTavish was never found, whether dead or alive; nor could there ever be traced the slightest circumstance to indicate her fate.

The neighbourhood was divided concerning the cause of her disappearance. The credulous thought that the evil spirit, under whose influence she seemed to have acted, had carried her away in the body; and there are many who are still unwilling, at untimely hours, to pass the oak-tree, beneath which,
as they allege. she may still be seen seated according to her wont. Others less superstitious supposed, that had it been possible to search the gulf of
the Corri Dhu, the profound deeps of the lake, or the whelming eddies of the river, the remains of Elspat MacTavish might have been discovered; as
nothing was more natural, considering her state of body and mind, than that she should have fallen in by accident, or precipitated herself intentionally into one or other of those places of sure destruction. The clergyman entertained an opinion of his
own. He thought that, impatient of the watch
which was placed over her, this unhappy woman's
instinct had taught her, as it directs various domestic animals, to withdraw herself from the sight of
her own race, that the death-struggle might take place in some secret den, where, in all probability, her mortal relics would never meet the eyes of
mortals. This species of instinctive feeling seemed to him of a tenor with the whole course of her
unhappy life, and most likely to influence her, when it drew to a conclusion.
[6. The Highland Widow Notes]

NOTES TO CHAPTER 1.

Note A.---Loch Awe.

``Loch Awe, upon the banks of which the scene of action took place, is thirty-four miles in length. The north side is bounded by wide muirs and inconsiderable hills, which occupy an extent of country from twelve to twenty miles in breadth, and the whole of this space is enclosed as by circumvallation. Upon the north it is barred by Loch Eitive, on the south by Loch Awe, and on the east by the dreadful pass of Brandir, through which an arm of the latter lake opens, at about four miles from its eastern extremity, and discharges the river Awe into the former. The pass is about three miles in length; its east side is bounded by the almost inaccessible steeps which form the base of the vast and rugged mountain of Cruachan. The crags rise in some places almost perpendicularly from the water, and for their chief extent show no space nor level at their feet, but a rough and narrow edge of stony beach. Upon the whole of these cliffs grows a thick and interwoven wood of all kinds of trees, both timber, dwarf, and coppice; no track existed through the wilderness, but a winding path, which sometimes crept along the precipitous height, and sometimes descended in a straight pass along the margin of the water. Near the extremity of the defile, a narrow level opened between the water and the crag; but a great part of this, as well as of the preceding steeps, was formerly enveloped in a thicket, which showed little facility to the feet of any but the martins and wild cats. Along the west side of the pass lies a wall of sheer and barren crags. From behind they rise in rough, uneven, and heathy declivities, out of the wide muir before mentioned, between Loch Eitive and Loch Awe; but in front they terminate abruptly in the most frightful precipices, which form the whole side of the pass, and descend at one fan into the water which fills its trough. At the north end of the barrier, and at the termination of the pass, lies that part of the cliff which is called Craiganuni; at its foot the arm of the lake gradually contracts its water to a very narrow space, and at length terminates at two rooks (called the Rocks of Brandir), which form a strait channel, something resembling the lock of a canal. From this outlet there is a continual descent towards Loch Eitive, and from hence the river Awe pours out its current in a furious stream, foaming over a bed broken with holes, and cumbered with masses of granite and whinstone.

``If ever there was a bridge near Craiganuni in ancient times, it must have been at the Rocks of Brandir. From the days of Wallace to those of General Wade, there were never passages of this kind but in places of great necessity, too narrow for a boat, and too wide for a leap; even then they were but an unsafe footway formed of the trunks of trees placed transversely from rock to rock, unstripped of their bark, and destitute of either plank or rail. For such a structure, there is no place in the neighbourhood of Craiganuni, but at the rocks above mentioned. In the lake and on the river, the water is far too wide; but at the strait, the space is not greater than might be crossed by a tall mountain pine, and the rocks on either side are formed by nature like a pier. That this point was always a place of passage, is rendered probable by its facility, and the use of recent times. It is not long since it was the common gate of the country on either side the river and the pass: the mode of crossing is yet in the memory of people living, and was performed by a little currach moored on either side the water, and a stout cable fixed across the stream from bank to bank, by which the passengers drew themselves across in the manner still practised in places of the same nature. It is no argument against the existence of a bridge in former times, that the above method only existed in ours, rather than a passage of that kind, which would seem the more improved expedient. The contradiction is sufficiently accounted for by the decay of timber in the neighbourhood. Of old, both oaks and firs of an immense size abounded within a very inconsiderable distance; but it is now many years since the destruction of the forests of Glen Eitive and Glen Urcha has deprived the country of all the trees of sufficient size to cross the strait of Brandir; and it is probable, that the currach was not introduced till the want of timber had disenabled the inhabitants of the country from maintaining a bridge. It only further remains to be noticed, that at some distance below the Rocks of Brandir, there was formerly a ford, which was used for cattle in the memory of people living; from the narrowness of the passage, the force of the stream, and the broken bed of the river, it was, however, a dangerous pass, and could only be attempted with safety at leisure and by experience.''---_Notes to the Bridal of Caolchairn_.

Note B.---Battle betwixt the Armies of the Bruce and Macdougal of Lorn.

``But the King, whose dear-bought experience in war had taught him extreme caution, remained in the Braes of Balquhidder till he had acquired by his spies and outskirries a perfect knowledge of the disposition of the army of Lorn, and the intention of its leader. He then divided his force into two columns, intrusting the command of the first, in which he placed his archers and lightest armed troops, to Sir James Douglas, whilst he himself took the leading of the other, which consisted principally of his knights and barons. On approaching the defile, Bruce dispatched Sir James Douglas by a pathway which the enemy had neglected to occupy, with directions to advance silently, and gain the heights above and in front of the hilly ground where the men of Lorn were concealed; and, having ascertained that this movement had been executed with success, he put himself at the head of his own division, and fearlessly led his men into the defile. Here, prepared as he was for what was to take place, it was difficult to prevent a temporary panic, when the yell which, to this day, invariably precedes the assault of the mountaineer, burst from the rugged bosom of Ben Cruachan; and the woods which, the moment before, had waved in silence and solitude, gave forth their birth of steel-clad warriors, and, in an instant, became instinct with the dreadful vitality of war. But although appalled and checked for a brief space by the suddenness of the assault, and the masses of rock which the enemy rolled down from the precipices, Bruce, at the head of his division, pressed up the side of the mountain. Whilst this party assaulted the men of Lorn with the utmost fury, Sir James Douglas and his party shouted suddenly upon the heights in their front, showering down their arrows upon them; and, when these missiles were exhausted, attacking them with their swords and battle-axes. The consequence of such an attack, both in front and rear, was the total discomfiture of the army of Lorn; and the circumstances to which this chief had so confidently looked forward, as rendering the destruction of Bruce almost inevitable, were now turned with fatal effect against himself. His great superiority of numbers cumbered and impeded his movements. Thrust, by the double assault, and by the peculiar nature of the ground, into such narrow room as the pass afforded, and driven to fury by finding themselves cut to pieces in detail, without power of resistance, the men of Lorn fled towards Loch Eitive, where a bridge thrown over the Awe, and supported upon two immense rocks, known by the name of the Rocks of Brandir, formed the solitary communication between the side of the river where the battle took place, and the country of Lorn. Their object was to gain the bridge, which was composed entirely of wood, and having availed themselves of it in their retreat, to destroy it, and thus throw the impassable torrent of the Awe between them and their enemies. But their intention was instantly detected by Douglas, who, rushing down from the high grounds at the head of his archers and light-armed foresters, attacked the body of the mountaineers, which had occupied the bridge, and drove them from it with great slaughter, so that Bruce and his division, on coming up, passed it without molestation; and, this last resource being taken from them, the army of Lorn were, in a few hours, literally cut to pieces, whilst their chief, who occupied Loch Eitive with his fleet, saw, from his ships, the discomfiture of his men, and found it impossible to give them the least assistance.''---Tytler's _Life of Bruce_.

NOTE TO CHAPTER IV.

Note C.--Massacre of Glencoe.

The following succinct account of this too celebrated event, may be sufficient for this place:---
``In the beginning of the year 1692, an action of unexampled barbarity disgraced the government of King William Ill. in Scotland. In the August preceding, a proclamation had been issued, offering an indemnity to such insurgents as should take the oaths to the King and Queen, on or before the last day of December; and the chiefs of such tribes, as had been in arms for James, soon after took advantage of the proclamation. But Macdonald of Glencoe was prevented by accident, rather than design, from tendering his submission within the limited time. In the end of December he went to Colonel Hill, who commanded the garrison in Fort William, to take the oaths of allegiance to the government ; and the latter having furnished him with a letter to Sir Colin Campbell, Sheriff of the county of Argyll, directed him to repair immediately to Inverary, to make his submission in a legal manner before that magistrate. But the way to Inverary lay through almost impassable mountains, the season was extremely rigorous, and the whole country was covered with a deep snow. So eager, however, was Macdonald to take the oaths before the limited time should expire, that, though the road lay within half a mile of his own house, he stopped not to visit his family, and, after various obstructions, arrived at Inverary. The time had elapsed, and the sheriff hesitated to receive his submission ; but Macdonald prevailed by his importunities, and even tears, in inducing that functionary to administer to him the oath of allegiance, and to certify the cause of his delay. At this time Sir John Dalrymple, afterwards Earl of Stair, being in attendance upon William as Secretary of State for Scotland, took advantage of Macdonald's neglecting to take the oath within the time prescribed, and procured from the King a warrant of military execution against that chief and his whole

clan.  This was done at the instigation of the Earl of Breadalbane,
whose lands the Glencoe men had plundered, and
whose treachery to government in negotiating with the Highland

clans, Macdonald himself had exposed. The King was accordingly persuaded that Glencoe was the main obstacle to the pacification of the Highlands ; and the fact of the unfortunate chief's submission having been concealed, the sanguinary orders for proceeding to military execution against his clan were in consequence obtained. The warrant was both signed and countersigned by the King's own hand, and the Secretary urged the officers who commanded in the Highlands to execute their orders with the utmost rigour. Campbell of Glenlyon, a captain in Argyll's regiment, and two subalterns, were ordered to repair to Glencoe on the first of February with a hundred and twenty men. Campbell being uncle to young Macdonald's wife, was received by the father with all manner of friendship and hospitality. The men were lodged at free quarters in the houses of his tenants, and received the kindest entertainment. Till the 13th of the month the troops lived in the utmost harmony and familiarity with the people ; and on the very night of the massacre, the officers passed the evening at cards in Macdonald's house. In the night Lieutenant Lindsay, with a party of soldiers, called in a friendly manner at his door, and was instantly admitted. Macdonald, while in the act of rising to receive his guest, was shot dead through the back with two bullets. His wife had already dressed ; but she was stripped naked by the soldiers, who tore the rings off her fingers with their teeth. The slaughter now became general, and neither age nor infirmity was spared. Some women, in defending their children, were killed; boys, imploring mercy, were shot dead by officers on whose knees they hung. In one place nine persons, as they sat enjoying themselves at table, were butchered by the soldiers. In Inverriggon, Campbell's own quarters, nine men were first bound by the soldiers, and then shot at intervals, one by one. Nearly forty persons were massacred by the troops; and several who fled to the mountains perished by famine and the inclemency of the season. Those who escaped owed their lives to a tempestuous night. Lieutenant-Colonel Hamilton, who had received the charge of the execution from Dalrymple, was on his march with four hundred men, to guard all the passes from the valley of Glencoe; but he was obliged to stop by the severity of the weather, which proved the safety of the unfortunate clan. Next day he entered the valley, laid the houses in ashes, and carried away the cattle

and spoil, which were divided among the officers and soldiers.''
---_Article_ ``Britain;'' _Encyc. Britannica---New edition_.

NOTE TO CHAPTER V.

Note D.---Fidelity of the Highlanders. Of the strong, undeviating attachment of the Highlanders to the person, and their deference to the will or commands of their chiefs and superiors---their rigid adherence to duty and principle---and their chivalrous acts of self-devotion to these in the face of danger and death, there are many instances recorded in General Stewart of Garth's interesting Sketches of the Highlanders and Highland Regiments, which might not inaptly supply parallels to the deeds of the Romans themselves, at the era when Rome was in her glory. The following instances of such are worthy of being here quoted:---

``In the year 1795, a serious disturbance broke out in Glasgow, among the Breadalbane Fencibles. Several men having been confined and threatened with corporal punishment, considerable discontent and irritation were excited among their comrades, which increased to such violence, that, when some men were confined in the guard-house, a great proportion of the regiment rushed out and forcibly released the prisoners. This violation of military discipline was not to be passed over, and accordingly measures were immediately taken to secure the ringleaders. But so many were equally concerned, that it was difficult, if not impossible, to fix the crime on any, as being more prominently guilty. And here was shown a trait of character worthy of a better cause, and which originated from a feeling alive to the disgrace of a degrading punishment. The soldiers being made sensible of the nature of their misconduct, and the consequent necessity of public example, _several men voluntarily offered themselves to stand trial_, and suffer the sentence of the law as an atonement for the whole. These men were accordingly marched to Edinburgh Castle, tried, and four condemned to be shot. Three of them were afterwards reprieved, and the fourth, Alexander Sutherland, was shot on Musselburgh Sands.

``The following demi-official account of this unfortunate misunderstanding was published at the time:---

`` `During the afternoon of Monday, when a private of the light company of the Breadalbane Fencibles, who had been confined for a military offence, was released by that company, and some other companies, who had assembled in a tumultuous manner before the guard-house, no person whatever was hurt, and no violence offered; and however unjustifiable the proceedings, it originated not from any disrespect or ill-will to their officers, but from a mistaken point of honour, in a particular set of men in the battalion, who thought themselves disgraced by the impending punishment of one of their number. The men have, in every respect, since that period conducted themselves with the greatest regularity, and strict subordination. The whole of the battalion seemed extremely sensible of the improper conduct of such as were concerned, whatever regret they might feel for the fate of the few individuals who had so readily given themselves up as prisoners, to be tried for their own and others' misconduct.'

``On the march to Edinburgh, a circumstance occurred, the more worthy of notice, as it shows a strong principle of honour and fidelity to his word and to his officer in a common Highland soldier. One of the men stated to the officer commanding the party, that he knew what his fate would be,
but that he had left business of the utmost importance to a friend in Glasgow, which he wished to transact before his death ; that, as to himself, he was fully prepared to meet his fate; but with regard to his friend, he could not die in peace unless the business was settled, and that, if the officer would suffer him to return to Glasgow, a few hours there would be sufficient, and he would join him before he reached Edinburgh, and march as a prisoner with the party. The soldier added, `You have known me since I was a child; you know my country and kindred, and you may believe I shall never bring you to any blame by a breach of the promise I now make, to be with you in full time to be delivered up in the Castle.' This was a startling proposal to the officer, who was a judicious, humane man, and knew perfectly his risk and responsibility in yielding to such an extraordinary application. However, his confidence was such, that he complied with the request of the prisoner, who returned to Glasgow at night, settled his business, and left the town before daylight to redeem his pledge. He took a long circuit to avoid being seen, apprehended as a deserter, and sent back to Glasgow, as probably his account of his officer's indulgence would not have been credited. In consequence of this caution, and the lengthened march through woods and over hills by an unfrequented route, there was no appearance of him at the hour appointed. The perplexity of the officer when he reached the neighbourhood of Edinburgh may be easily imagined. He moved
forward slowly indeed, but no soldier appeared; and unable to delay any longer, he marched up to the Castle, and as he was delivering over the prisoners, but before any report was given in, Macmartin, the absent soldier, rushed in among his fellow prisoners, all pale with anxiety and fatigue, and breathless with apprehension of the consequences in which his delay might have involved his benefactor.

``In whatever light the conduct of the officer (my respectable friend, Major Colin Campbell) may be considered, either by military men or others, in this memorable exemplification of the characteristic principle of his countrymen, fidelity to their word, it cannot but be wished that the soldier's magnanimous self-devotion had been taken as an atonement for his own misconduct and that of the whole, who also had made a high sacrifice, in the voluntary offer of their lives for the conduct of their brother soldiers. Are these a people to be treated as malefactors, without regard to their feelings and principles? and might not a discipline, somewhat different from the usual mode, be, with advantage, applied to them?''-Vol. II. p. 413-15. 3d Edit.

``A soldier of this regiment, (The Argyllshire Highlanders,) deserted, and emigrated to America, where he settled. Several years after his desertion, a letter was received from him, with a sum of money, for the purpose of procuring one or two men to supply his place in the regiment, as the only recompense he could make for `breaking his oath to his God and his allegiance to his King, which preyed on his conscience in such a manner, that he had no rest night nor day.'

``This man had had good principles early instilled into his mind, and the disgrace which be had been originally taught to believe would attach to a breach of faith now operated with full effect. The soldier who deserted from the 42d Regiment at Gibraltar, in 1797, exhibited the same remorse of conscience after he had violated his allegiance. In countries where such principles prevail, and regulate the character of a people, the mass of the population may, on occasions of trial, be reckoned on as sound and trustworthy.''-Vol. II. P. 218. 3d Edit.

``The late James Menzies of Culdares, having engaged in the rebellion of 1715, and been taken at Preston, in Lancashire, was carried to London, where he was tried and condemned, but afterwards reprieved. Grateful for this clemency, he remained at home in 1745, but, retaining a predilection for the old cause, he sent a handsome charger as a present to Prince Charles, when advancing through England. The servant who led and delivered the horse was taken prisoner, and carried to Carlisle, where he was tried and condemned. To extort a discovery of the person who sent the horse, threats of immediate execution in case of refusal, and offers of pardon on his giving information, were held out ineffectually to the faithful messenger. He knew, he said, what the consequence of a disclosure would be to his master, and his own life was nothing in the comparison; when brought out for execution, he was again pressed to inform on his master. He asked if they were serious in supposing him such a villain. If he did what they desired, and forgot his master and his trust, he could not return to his native country, for Glenlyon would be no home or country for him, as he would be despised and hunted out of the Glen. Accordingly he kept steady to his trust, and was executed. This trusty servant's name was John Macnaughton, from Glenlyon, in Perthshire; he deserves to be mentioned, both on account of his incorruptible fidelity, and of his testimony to the honourable principles of the people, and to their detestation of a breach of trust to a kind and honourable master, however great might be the risk, or however fatal the consequences, to the individual himself.''-Vol. 1. pp. 52, 53. 3d Edit.
[7. The Two Drovers Introduction]

Mr Croftangry introduces another tale.
Together both on the high lawns appeared.
Under the opening eyelids of the morn
They drove afield.

                          _Elegy on Lycidas_.

I have sometimes wondered why all the favourite occupations and pastimes of mankind go to the
disturbance of that happy state of tranquillity, that _Otium_, as Horace terms it, which he says is the object of all men's prayers, whether preferred from sea or land; and that the undisturbed repose, of which we are so tenacious, when duty or necessity compels us to abandon it, is precisely what we long to exchange for a state of excitation, as soon as we may prolong it at our own pleasure. Briefly, you have only to say to a man, ``remain at rest,'' and you instantly inspire the love of labour. The sportsman toils like his gamekeeper, the master of the
pack takes as severe exercise as his whipper-in, the statesman or politician drudges more than the professional lawyer; and, to come to my own case, the volunteer author subjects himself to the risk of painful criticism, and the assured certainty of mental and manual labour, just as completely as his needy brother, whose necessities compel him to
assume the pen.

These reflections have been suggested by an annunciation on the part of Janet, ``that the little
Gillie-whitefoot was come from the printing-office.''

``Gillie-blackfoot you should call him, Janet,'' was my response, ``for he is neither more nor less than an imp of the devil, come to torment me for _copy_, for so the printers call a supply of manuscript for the press.''

``Now, Cot forgie your honour,'' said Janet; ``for it is no like your ainsell to give such names to a faitherless bairn.''

``I have got nothing else to give him, Janet--- he must wait a little.''

``Then I have got some breakfast to give the bit gillie,'' said Janet; ``and he can wait by the fireside in the kitchen, till your honour's ready; and
cood enough for the like of him, if he was to wait your honour's pleasure all day.''

``But, Janet,'' said I to my little active superintendent, on her return to the parlour, after having
made her hospitable arrangements, ``I begin to
find this writing our Chronicles is rather more tiresome than I expected, for here comes this little
fellow to ask for manuscript---that is, for something to print---and I have got none to give him.''

``Your honour can be at nae loss; I have seen you write fast and fast enough; and for subjects, you have the whole Highlands to write about, and I am sure you know a hundred tales better than
that about Hamish MacTavish, for it was but about a young cateran and an auld carline, when all's
done; and if they had burned the rudas queen for a witch, I am thinking, may be, they would not
have tyned their coals---and her to gar her neer-do-weel son shoot a gentleman Cameron! I am
third cousin to the Camerons mysell---my blood
warms to them---And if you want to write about
deserters, I am sure there were deserters enough on the top of Arthur's Seat, when the MacRaas

broke out, and on that woful day beside Leith
Pier---Ohonari!''---

Here Janet began to weep, and to wipe her eyes with her apron. For my part, the idea I
wanted was supplied, but I hesitated to make use of it. Topics, like times, are apt to become common by frequent use. It is only an ass like Justice Shallow, who would pitch upon the overscutched
tunes, which the carmen whistled, and
try to pass them off as his _fancies_ and his _good-nights_. Now, the Highlands, though formerly a
rich mine for original matter, are, as my friend Mrs Bethune Baliol warned me, in some degree worn
out by the incessant labour of modern romancers
and novelists, who, finding in those remote regions primitive habits and manners, have vainly imagined that the public can never tire of them; and so kilted Highlanders are to be found as frequently, and
nearly of as genuine descent, on the shelves of a circulating library, as at a Caledonian ball. Much might have been made at an earlier time out of the history of a Highland regiment, and the singular revolution of ideas which must have taken place in the minds of those who composed it, when exchanging their native bills for the battle-fields of
the Continent, and their simple, and sometimes
indolent domestic habits for the regular exertions demanded by modern discipline. But the market
is forestalled. There is Mrs Grant of Laggan, has drawn the manners, customs, and superstitions of the mountains in their natural unsophisticated
state;* and my friend, General Stewart of Garth,*

Letters from the Mountains, 3 vols.---Essays on the Superstitions of the Highlanders---The Highlanders, and other Poems, &c.
The gallant and amiable author of the History of the Highland Regiments, in whose glorious services his own share had been great, went out Governor of St Lucie in 1828, and died in that island on the I8th of December 1829,---no man more regretted, or perhaps by a wider circle of friends and acquaintance.

in giving the real history of the Highland regiments, has rendered any attempt to fill up the
sketch with fancy-colouring extremely rash and
precarious. Yet I, too, have still a lingering fancy to add a stone to the cairn; and without calling in imagination to aid the impressions of juvenile recollection, I may just attempt to embody one or two scenes illustrative of the Highland character, and which belong peculiarly to the Chronicles of the Canongate, to the greyheaded eld of whom
they are as familiar as to Chrystal Croftangry.
Yet I will not go back to the days of clanship and claymores. Have at you, gentle reader, with a
tale of Two Drovers. An oyster may be crossed
in love, says the gentle Tilburina---and a drover may be touched on a point of honour, says the
Chronicler of the Canongate.
[8. The Two Drovers]

THE
TWO DROVERS.
CHAPTER 1.

It was the day after Doune Fair when my story commences. It had been a brisk market, several
dealers had attended from the northern and midland counties in England, and English money had
flown so merrily about as to gladden the hearts of the Highland farmers. Many large droves were
about to set off for England, under the protection of their owners, or of the topsmen whom they employed in the tedious, laborious, and responsible
office of driving the cattle for many hundred miles, from the market where they had been purchased,
to the fields or farm-yards where they were to be fattened for the shambles.

The Highlanders in particular are masters of this difficult trade of driving, which seems to suit them as well as the trade of war. It affords exercise for all their habits of patient endurance and
active exertion. They are required to know perfectly the drove-roads, which lie over the wildest
tracts of the country, and to avoid as much as possible the highways, which distress the feet of the
bullocks, and the turnpikes, which annoy the spirit of the drover; whereas on the broad green or grey track, which leads across the pathless moor, the herd not only move at ease and without taxation, but, if they mind their business, may pick up a
mouthful of food by the way. At night, the drovers usually sleep along with their cattle, let the
weather be what it will; and many of these hardy men do not once rest under a roof during a journey on foot from Lochaber to Lincolnshire. They
are paid very highly, for the trust reposed is of the last importance, as it depends on their prudence, vigilance and honesty, whether the cattle reach the final market in good order, and afford a profit to the grazier. But as they maintain themselves at their own expense, they are especially economical in that particular. At the period we speak of, a Highland drover was victualled for his long and
toilsome journey with a few handfulls of oatmeal and two or three onions, renewed from time to
time, and a ram's horn filled with whisky, which he used regularly, but sparingly, every night and
morning. His dirk, or _skene-dhu_, (_i.e_. black-knife,) so worn as to be concealed beneath the arm, or by the folds of the plaid, was his only weapon, excepting the cudgel with which he directed the movements
of the cattle. A Highlander was never so
happy as on these occasions. There was a variety in the whole journey, which exercised the Celt's curiosity and natural love of motion; there were the constant change of place and scene, the petty adventures incidental to the traffic, and the intercourse with the various farmers, graziers, and traders, intermingled with occasional merry-makings,
not the less acceptable to Donald that they were void of expense;---and there was the consciousness of superior skill; for the Highlander, a child
amongst flocks, is a prince amongst herds, and his natural habits induce him to disdain the shepherd's slothful life, so that he feels himself nowhere more at home than when following a gallant drove of his country cattle in the character of their guardian.

Of the number who left Doune in the morning, and with the purpose we have described, not a
_Glunamie_ of them all cocked his bonnet more
briskly, or gartered his tartan hose under knee over a pair of more promising _spiogs_, (legs,) than did Robin Oig M`Combich, called familiarly Robin
Oig, that is young, or the Lesser, Robin. Though small of stature, as the epithet Oig implies, and not very strongly limbed, he was as light and alert as one of the deer of his mountains. He had an elasticity of step, which, in the course of a long march,
made many a stout fellow envy him; and the manner in which he busked his plaid and adjusted his
bonnet, argued a consciousness that so smart a John Highlandman as himself would not pass unnoticed
among the Lowland lasses. The ruddy cheek, red
lips, and white teeth, set off a countenance, which had gained by exposure to the weather a healthful and hardy rather than a rugged hue. If Robin
Oig did not laugh, or even smile frequently, as indeed is not the practice among his countrymen, his
bright eyes usually gleamed from under his bonnet with an expression of cheerfulness ready to be
turned into mirth.

The departure of Robin Oig was an incident in the little town, in and near which he had many
friends, male and female. He was a topping person in his way, transacted considerable business on
his own behalf, and was intrusted by the best farmers in the Highlands, in preference to any other
drover in that district. He might have increased his business to any extent had he condescended to manage it by deputy; but except a lad or two,
sister's sons of his own, Robin rejected the idea of assistance, conscious, perhaps, how much his reputation depended upon his attending in person to
the practical discharge of his duty in every instance. He remained, therefore, contented with the highest premium given to persons of his description, and comforted himself with the hopes that few journeys to England might enable him to conduct business
on his own account, in a manner becoming his
birth. For Robin Oig's father, Lachlan M`Combich, (or _son of my friend_, his actual clan-surname
being M`Gregor,) had been so called by the celebrated Rob Roy, because of the particular friendship
which had subsisted between the grandsire of
Robin and that renowned cateran. Some people
even say, that Robin Oig derived his Christian
name from one as renowned in the wilds of Lochlomond as ever was his namesake Robin Hood, in
the precincts of merry Sherwood. ``Of such ancestry,'' as James Boswell says, ``who would not
be proud?'' Robin Oig was proud accordingly;
but his frequent visits to England and to the Lowlands had given him tact enough to know that pretensions, which still gave him a little right to distinction in his own lonely glen, might be both obnoxious
and ridiculous if preferred elsewhere. The
pride of birth, therefore, was like the miser's treasure, the secret subject of his contemplation, but
never exhibited to strangers as a subject of boasting.

Many were the words of gratulation and good-luck which were bestowed on Robin Oig. The
judges commended his drove, especially Robin's
own property, which were the best of them. Some thrust out their snuff-mulls for the parting pinch--- others tendered the _doch-an-dorrach_, or parting cup. All cried---``Good-luck travel out with you and come home with you.---Give you luck in the
Saxon market---brave notes in the _leabhar-dhu_,'' (black pocketbook,) ``and plenty of English gold in the _sporran_,'' (pouch of goat-skin.)

The bonny lasses made their adieus more modestly, and more than one, it was said, would have
given her best brooch to be certain that it was
upon her that his eye last rested as he turned towards the road.

Robin Oig had just given the preliminary ``Hoo-hoo!'' to urge forward the loiterers of the drove,
when there was a cry behind him.

``Stay, Robin---bide a blink. Here is Janet of Tomahourich---auld Janet, your father's sister.''

``Plague on her, for an auld Highland witch and spaewife,'' said a farmer from the Carse of
Stirling; ``she'll cast some of her cantrips on the cattle.''

``She canna do that,'' said another sapient of the same profession---``Robin Oig is no the lad to
leave any of them, without tying Saint Mungo's
knot on their tails, and that will put to her speed the best witch that ever flew over Dimayet upon a broomstick.''

It may not be indifferent to the reader to know that the Highland cattle are peculiarly liable to be taken, or infected, by spells and witchcraft, which judicious people guard against by knitting knots of peculiar complexity on the tuft of hair which terminates the animal's tail.

But the old woman who was the object of the farmer's suspicion seemed only busied about the
drover, without paying any attention to the drove. Robin, on the contrary, appeared rather impatient of her presence.

``What auld-world fancy,'' he said, ``has brought you so carly from the ingle-side this morning,
Muhme? l am sure I bid you good-even, and had
your God-speed, last night.''

``And left me more siller than the useless old woman will use till you come back again, bird of my bosom,'' said the sibyl. ``But it is little I would care for the food that nourishes me, or the fire that warms me, or for God's blessed sun itself, if aught but weal should happen to the grandson of my father. So let me walk the _deasil_ round you, that you may go safe out into the far foreign land, and come safe home.''

Robin Oig stopped, half embarrassed, half laughing, and signing to those around that he only complied with the old woman to soothe her humour. In
the meantime, she traced around him, with wavering steps, the propitiation, which some have thought has been derived from the Druidical mythology.
It consists, as is well known, in the person who makes the _deasil_ walking three times round the person who is the object of the ceremony, taking care to move according to the course of the sun. At once, however, she stopped short, and exclaimed, in a voice of alarm and horror, ``Grandson
of my father, there is blood on your hand.''

``Hush, for God's sake, aunt,'' said Robin Oig; ``you will bring more trouble on yourself with this Taishataragh'' (second sight) ``than you will be able to get out of for many a day.''

The old woman only repeated, with a ghastly look, ``There is blood on your hand, and it is English

blood.  The blood of the Gael is richer and
redder.  Let us see---let us------''

Ere Robin Oig could prevent her, which, indeed, could only have been by positive violence, so
hasty and peremptory were her proceedings, she
had drawn from his side the dirk which lodged in the folds of his plaid, and held it up, exclaiming, although the weapon gleamed clear and bright
in the sun, ``Blood, blood---Saxon blood again.
Robin Oig M`Combich, go not this day to England!''

``Prutt, trutt,'' answered Robin Oig, ``that will never do neither---it would be next thing to running the country. For shame, Muhme---give me
the dirk. You cannot tell by the colour the difference betwixt the blood of a black bullock and
a white one, and you speak of knowing Saxon
from Gaelic blood. All men have their blood from Adam, Muhme. Give me my skene-dhu, and let
me go on my road. I should have been half way
to Stirling brig by this time---Give me my dirk, and let me go.''

``Never will I give it to you,'' said the old woman--- ``Never will I quit my hold on your plaid,
unless you promise me not to wear that unhappy
weapon.''

The women around him urged him also, saying few of his aunt's words fell to the ground; and as the Lowland farmers continued to look moodily on the scene, Robin Oig determined to close it at any sacrifice.

``Well, then,'' said the young drover, giving the scabbard of the weapon to Hugh Morrison, ``you
Lowlanders care nothing for these treats. Keep
my dirk for me. I cannot give it you, because it was my father's; but your drove follows ours, and I am content it should be in your keeping, not in mine.---Will this do, Muhme?''

``It must,'' said the old woman---``that is, if the Lowlander is mad enough to carry the knife.''

The strong westlandman laughed aloud.

``Goodwife,'' said he, ``I am Hugh Morrison from Glenae, come of the Manly Morrisons of auld langsyne, that never took short weapon against a man
in their lives. And neither needed they: They
had their broadswords, and I have this bit supple,'' showing a formidable cudgel---``for dirking ower the board, I leave that to John Highlandman.---
Ye needna snort, none of you Highlanders, and
you in especial, Robin. I'll keep the bit knife, if you are feared for the auld spaewife's tale, and give it back to you whenever you want it.''

Robin was not particularly pleased with some part of Hugh Morrison's speech; but he had learned in his travels more patience than belonged to
his Highland constitution originally, and he accepted the service of the descendant of the Manly
Morrisons, without finding fault with the rather depreciating manner in which it was offered.

``If he had not had his morning in his bead, and been but a Dumfries-shire hog into the boot, he
would have spoken more like a gentleman. But
you cannot have more of a sow than a grumph. It's shame my father's knife should ever slash a haggis for the like of him,''

Thus saying, (but saying it in Gaelic,) Robin drove on his cattle, and waved farewell to all behind him. He was in the greater haste, because
he expected to join at Falkirk a comrade and brother in profession, with whom he proposed to travel
in company.

Robin Oig's chosen friend was a young Englishman, Harry Wakefield by name, well known at
every northern market, and in his way as much
famed and honoured as our Highland driver of
bullocks. He was nearly six feet high, gallantly formed to keep the rounds at Smithfield, or maintain the ring at a wrestling match; and although
he might have been overmatched, perhaps, among
the regular professors of the Fancy, yet, as a yokel or rustic, or a chance customer, he was able to
give a bellyful to any amateur of the pugilistic art. Doncaster races saw him in his glory, betting his guinea, and generally successfully; nor was there a main fought in Yorkshire, the feeders being persons of celebrity, at which he was not to be seen
if business permitted. But though a _sprack_ lad, and fond of pleasure and its haunts, Harry Wakefield was steady, and not the cautious Robin Oig
M`Combich himself was more attentive to the main chance. His holidays were holidays indeed; but
his days of work were dedicated to steady and persevering labour. In countenance and temper,
Wakefield was the model of Old England's merry
yeomen, whose clothyard shafts, in so many hundred battles, asserted her superiority over the nations, and whose good sabres, in our own time, are
her cheapest and most assured defence. His mirth was readily excited; for, strong in limb and constitution, and fortunate in circumstances, he was
disposed to be pleased with every thing about him; and such difficulties as he might occasionally encounter, were, to a man of his energy, rather matter
of amusement than serious annoyance. With
all the merits of a sanguine temper, our young
English drover was not without his defects. He
was irascible, sometimes to the verge of being
quarrelsome; and perhaps not the less inclined to bring his disputes to a pugilistic decision, because he found few antagonists able to stand up to him in the boxing ring.

It is difficult to say how Harry Wakefield and Robin Oig first became intimates; but it is certain a close acquaintance had taken place betwixt
them, although they had apparently few common
subjects of conversation or of interest, so soon as their talk ceased to be of bullocks. Robin Oig, indeed, spoke the English language rather imperfectly upon any other topics but stots and kyloes,
and Harry Wakefield could never bring his broad
Yorkshire tongue to utter a single word of Gaelic. It was in vain Robin spent a whole morning, during a walk over Minch Moor, in attempting to teach
his companion to utter, with true precision, the shibboleth _Llhu_, which is the Gaelic for a calf. From Traquair to Murder-cairn, the hill rung with the discordant attempts of the Saxon upon the unmanageable monosyllable, and the heartfelt laugh
which followed every failure. They had, however, better modes of awakening the echoes; for Wakefield could sing many a ditty to the praise of Moll,
Susan, and Cicely, and Robin Oig had a particular gift at whistling interminable pibrochs through all their involutions, and what was more agreeable to his companion's southern ear, knew many of the
northern airs, both lively and pathetic, to which Wakefield learned to pipe a bass. Thus, though
Robin could hardly have comprehended his companion's stories about horse-racing, and cock-fighting,
or fox-hunting, and although his own legends
of clan-fights and _creaghs_, varied with talk of Highland goblins and fairy folk, would have been caviare
to his companion, they contrived nevertheless
to find a degree of pleasure in each other's
company, which had for three years back induced
them to join company and travel together, when
the direction of their journey permitted. Each, indeed, found his advantage in this companionship; for where could the Englishman have found
a guide through the Western Highlands like Robin Oig M`Combich? and when they were on
what Harry called the _right_ side of the Border, his patronage, which was extensive, and his purse, which was heavy, were at all times at the service of his Highland friend, and on many occasions his liberality did him genuine yeoman's service.

CHAPTER II.
Were ever two such loving friends
How could they disagree?
O thus it was, he loved him dear,
And thought how to requite him,
And having no friend left but he,
He did resolve to fight him.

                            _Duke upon Duke_.

The pair of friends had traversed with their
usual cordiality the grassy wilds of Liddesdale, and crossed the opposite part of Cumberland, emphatically called The Waste. In these solitary
regions, the cattle under the charge of our drovers derived their subsistence chiefly by picking their food as they went along the drove-road, or sometimes by the tempting opportunity of a _start and
owerloup_, or invasion of the neighbouring pasture, where an occasion presented itself. But now the scene changed before them; they were descending
towards a fertile and enclosed country, where no such liberties could be taken with impunity, or
without a previous arrangement and bargain with
the possessors of the ground. This was more
especially the case, as a great northern fair was upon the eve of taking place, where both the Scotch and English drover expected to dispose of a part of
their cattle, which it was desirable to produce in the market, rested and in good order. Fields were therefore difficult to be obtained, and only upon high terms. This necessity occasioned a temporary separation betwixt the two friends, who went
to bargain, each as he could, for the separate accommodation of his herd. Unhappily it chanced
that both of them, unknown to each other, thought of bargaining for the ground they wanted on the
property of a country gentleman of some fortune, whose estate lay in the neighbourhood. The English drover applied to the bailiff on the property,
who was known to him. It chanced that the Cumbrian Squire, who had entertained some suspicions
of his manager's honesty, was taking occasional
measures to ascertain how far they were well
founded, and had desired that any enquiries about his enclosures, with a view to occupy them for a temporary purpose, should be referred to himself. As
however, Mr Ireby had gone the day before upon a journey of some miles distance to the northward, the bailiff chose to consider the check upon his full powers as for the time removed, and concluded that be
should best consult his master's interest, and perhaps his own, in making an agreement with Harry Wakefield. Meanwhile, ignorant of what his comrade
was doing, Robin Oig, on his side, chanced to be overtaken by a good-looking smart little man upon a pony, most knowingly bogged and cropped, as
was then the fashion, the rider wearing tight leather breeches, and long-necked bright spurs. This
cavalier asked one or two pertinent questions about markets and the price of stock. So Robin, seeing him a well-judging civil gentleman, took the freedom to ask him whether he could let him know if
there was any grass-land to be let in that neighbourhood, for the temporary accommodation of his
drove. He could not have put the question to
more willing ears. The gentleman of the buckskins was the proprietor, with whose bailiff Harry
Wakefield had dealt, or was in the act of dealing.

``Thou art in good luck, my canny Scot,'' said Mr Ireby, ``to have spoken to me, for I see thy
cattle have done their day's work, and I have at my disposal the only field within three miles that is to be let in these parts.''

``The drove can pe gang two, three, four miles very pratty weel indeed''---said the cautious Highlander; ``put what would his honour pe axing for
the peasts pe the head, if she was to tak the park for twa or three days?''

``We won't differ, Sawney, if you let me have six stots for winterers, in the way of reason.''

  ``And  which  peasts  wad  your  honour  pe   for
having?''

  ``Why---let me see---the two black---the dun
one---yon doddy---him with the twisted horn---the
brockit---How much by the head?''

``Ah,'' said Robin, ``your honour is a shudge--- a real shudge---I couldna have set off the pest six peasts petter mysell, me that ken them as if they were my pairns, puir things.''

``Well, how much per head, Sawney,'' continued Mr Ireby.

``It was high markets at Doune and Falkirk,'' answered Robin.

And thus the conversation proceeded, until they had agreed on the _prix juste_ for the bullocks, the Squire throwing in the temporary accommodation
of the enclosure for the cattle into the boot, and Robin making, as he thought, a very good bargain, provided the grass was but tolerable. The Squire walked his pony alongside of the drove, partly to show him the way, and see him put into possession of the field, and partly to learn the latest news of the northern markets.

They arrived at the field, and the pasture seemed excellent. But what was their surprise when
they saw the bailiff quietly inducting the cattle of Harry Wakefield into the grassy Goshen which
had just been assigned to those of Robin Oig
M`Combich by the proprietor himself! Squire
Ireby set spurs to his horse, dashed up to his servant, and learning what had passed between the
parties, briefly informed the English drover that his bailiff had let the ground without his authority, and that he might seek grass for his cattle wherever he would, since he was to get none there. At
the same time he rebuked his servant severely for having transgressed his commands, and ordered
him instantly to assist in ejecting the hungry and weary cattle of Harry Wakefield, which were just beginning to enjoy a meal of unusual plenty, and to introduce those of his comrade, whom the English drover now began to consider as a rival.

  The  feelings  which   arose   in   Wakefield's   mind
would have induced him to resist  Mr  Ireby's   decision;
but every Englishman has  a  tolerably   accurate
sense of law and justice, and John Fleecebumpkin,

the bailiff, having acknowledged that
he had exceeded his commission, Wakefield saw
nothing else for it than to collect his hungry and disappointed charge, and drive them on to seek
quarters elsewhere. Robin Oig saw what had
happened with regret, and hastened to offer to his English friend to share with him the disputed possession. But Wakefield's pride was severely hurt,

and he answered disdainfully, ``Take it all, man
---take it all---never make two bites of a cherry---
thou canst talk over the gentry, and blear a plain
man's eye---Out upon you, man---I would not kiss
any man's dirty latchets for leave to bake in his
oven.''

Robin Oig, sorry but not surprised at his comrade's displeasure, hastened to entreat his friend to
wait but an hour till he had gone to the Squire's house to receive payment for the cattle he had sold, and he would come back and help him to drive the cattle into some convenient place of rest, and explain to him the whole mistake they had both of
them fallen into. But the Englishman continued
indignant: ``Thou hast been selling, hast thou?
Ay, ay---thou is a cunning lad for kenning the
hours of bargaining. Go to the devil with thyself, for I will neer see thy fause loon's visage again--- thou should be ashamed to look me in the face.''

``I am ashamed to look no man in the face,'' said Robin Oig, something moved; ``and, moreover, I will look you in the face this blessed day,
if you will bide at the Clachan down yonder.''

``Mayhap you had as well keep away,'' said his comrade; and turning his back on his former
friend, he collected his unwilling associates, assisted by the bailiff, who took some real and some
affected interest in seeing Wakefield accommodated.

After spending some time in negotiating with more than one of the neighbouring farmers, who
could not, or would not, afford the accommodation desired, Henry Wakefield at last, and in his necessity, accomplished his point by means of the
landlord of the alehouse at which Robin Oig and
he had agreed to pass the night, when they first separated from each other. Mine host was content to let him turn his cattle on a piece of barren
moor, at a price little less than the bailiff had asked for the disputed enclosure; and the wretchedness of the pasture, as well as the price paid for it, were set down as exaggerations of the breach of
faith and friendship of his Scottish crony. This turn of Wakefield's passions was encouraged by the bailiff, (who had his own reasons for being offended against poor Robin, as having been the unwitting cause of his falling into disgrace with his master,) as well as by the innkeeper, and two or three
chance guests, who stimulated the drover in his
resentment against his quondam associate,---some from the ancient grudge against the Scots, which, when it exists anywhere, is to be found lurking in the Border counties, and some from the general
love of mischief, which characterises mankind in all ranks of life, to the honour of Adam's children be it spoken. Good John Barleycorn also, who
always heightens and exaggerates the prevailing
passions, be they angry or kindly, was not wanting in his offices on this occasion; and confusion to false friends and hard masters, was pledged in more than one tankard.

In the meanwhile Mr Ireby found some amusement in detaining the northern drover at his ancient
hall. He caused a cold round of beef to be placed before the Scot in the butler's pantry, together with a foaming tankard of home-brewed, and took
pleasure in seeing the hearty appetite with which these unwonted edibles were discussed by Robin
Oig M`Combich. The Squire himself lighting his
pipe, compounded between his patrician dignity
and his love of agricultural gossip, by walking up and down while he conversed with his guest.

``I passed another drove,'' said the Squire, with one of your countrymen behind them---they

were something less beasts than your drove, doddies
most of them---a big man was with them---
none of your kilts though, but a decent pair of
breeches---D'ye know who he may be?''

``Hout aye---that might, could, and would be Hughie Morrison---I didna think he could hae
peen sae weel up. He has made a day on us; but
his Argyleshires will have wearied shanks. How
far was he pehind?''

``I think about six or seven miles,'' answered the Squire, ``for I passed them at the Christenbury Crag, and I overtook you at the Hollan Bush.
If his beasts be leg-weary, he will be maybe selling bargains.''

``Na, na, Hughie Morrison is no the man for pargains---ye maun come to some Highland body
like Robin Oig hersell for the like of these---put I maun pe wishing you goot night, and twenty of
them let alane ane, and I maun down to the Clachan to see if the lad Harry Waakfelt is out of his
humdudgeons yet.''

The party at the alehouse were still in full talk, and the treachery of Robin Oig still the theme of conversation, when the supposed culprit entered
the apartment. His arrival, as usually happens in such a case, put an instant stop to the discussion of which he had furnished the subject, and he was received by the company assembled with that
chilling silence, which, more than a thousand exclamations, tells an intruder that he is unwelcome.
Surprised and offended, but not appalled by the
reception which he experienced, Robin entered
with an undaunted and even a haughty air, attempted no greeting, as he saw he was received
with none, and placed himself by the side of the fire, a little apart from a table, at which Harry Wakefield, the bailiff, and two or three other persons, were seated. The ample Cumbrian kitchen
would have afforded plenty of room, even for a
larger separation.

Robin thus seated, proceeded to light his pipe, and call for a pint of twopenny.

  ``We  have   no   twopence   ale,''   answered   Ralph
Heskett the landlord; ``but as thou find'st thy own
tobacco, it's like thou mayst find thy own liquor
too---it's the wont of thy country, I wot.''

``Shame, goodman,'' said the landlady, a blithe bustling housewife, hastening herself to supply the guest with liquor---``Thou knowest well enow
what the strange man wants, and it's thy trade to be civil, man. Thou shouldst know, that if the
Scot likes a small pot, he pays a sure penny.''

Without taking any notice of this nuptial dialogue, the Highlander took the flagon in his hand,
and addressing the company generally, drank the
interesting toast of ``Good markets,'' to the party assembled.

``The better that the wind blew fewer dealers from the north,'' said one of the farmers, ``and fewer Highland runts to cat up the English meadows.''

``Saul of my pody, put you are wrang there, my friend,'' answered Robin, with composure; ``it is your fat Englishmen that eat up our Scots cattle, puir things.''

``I wish there was a summat to eat up their drovers,'' said another; ``a plain Englishman canna
make bread within a kenning of them.''

``Or an honest servant keep his master's favour but they will come sliding in between him and the sunshine,'' said the bailiff.

``If these pe jokes,'' said Robin Oig, with the same composure, ``there is ower mony jokes upon
one man.''

``It is no joke, but downright earnest,'' said the bailiff. ``Harkye, Mr Robin Ogg, or whatever is your name, it's right we should tell you that we are all of one opinion, and that is, that you, Mr Robin Ogg, have behaved to our friend Mr Harry
Wakefield here, like a raff and a blackguard.''

``Nae doubt, nae doubt,'' answered Robin, with great composure; ``and you are a set of very pretty judges, for whose prains or pehaviour I wad
not gie a pinch of sneeshing. If Mr Harry Waakfelt kens where he is wronged, he kens where he
may be righted.''

``He speaks truth,'' said Wakefield, who had listened to what passed, divided between the offence which he had taken at Robin's late behaviour,
and the revival of his habitual feelings of
regard.

He now rose, and went towards Robin, who got up from his seat as he approached, and held out
his hand.

  ``That's right, Harry---go it---serve him out,''
resounded on all sides---``tip him the nailer---show
him the mill.''

  ``Hold your peace all of you, and be ------,'' said
Wakefield; and then addressing his comrade, he
took him by the extended band, with something
alike of respect and defiance.  ``Robin,'' he said,

``thou hast used me ill enough this day; but if
you mean, like a frank fellow, to shake hands, and take a tussle for love on the sod, why I'll forgie thee, man, and we shall be better friends than
ever.''

  ``And would it not pe petter  to  pe  cood  friends
without more of the matter?'' said Robin; ``we

will be much petter friendships with our panes hale than proken.''

Harry Wakefield dropped the band of his friend, or rather threw it from him.

``I did not think I had been keeping company for three years with a coward.''

``Coward pelongs to none of my name,'' said Robin, whose eyes began to kindle, but keeping
the command of his temper. ``It was no coward's legs or hands, Harry Waakfelt, that drew you out of the fords of Frew, when you was drifting ower the plack rock, and every eel in the river expected his share of you.''

``And that is true enough, too,'' said the Englishman, struck by the appeal.

``Adzooks!'' exclaimed the bailiff---``sure Harry Wakefield, the nattiest lad at Whitson Tryste,
Wooler Fair, Carlisle Sands, or Stagshaw Bank, is not going to show white feather? Ah, this comes
of living so long with kilts and bonnets---men forget the use of their daddies.''

``I may teach you, Master Fleecebumpkin, that I have not lost the use of mine,'' said Wakefield and then went on. ``This will never do, Robin.

We must have a turn-up, or we shall be the talk
of the country-side.  I'll be d------d if I hurt thee
---I'll put on the gloves gin thou like.  Come, stand
forward like a man.''

``To be peaten like a dog,'' said Robin; ``is there any reason in that? If you think I have done you wrong, I'll go before your shudge, though I
neither know his law nor his language.''

A general cry of ``No, no---no law, no lawyer! a bellyful and be friends,'' was echoed by the bystanders.

``But,'' continued Robin, ``if I am to fight, I have no skill to fight like a jackanapes, with hands and nails.''

``How would you fight then?'' said his antagonist; ``though I am thinking it would be hard to
bring you to the scratch anyhow.''

``I would fight with proadswords, and sink point on the first plood drawn---like a gentlemans.''

A loud shout of laughter followed the proposal, which indeed had rather escaped from poor Robin's swelling heart, than been the dictate of his sober judgment.

``Gentleman, quotha!'' was echoed on all sides, with a shout of unextinguishable laughter; ``a
very pretty gentleman, God wot---Canst get two
swords for the gentleman to fight with, Ralph
Heskett?''

``No, but I can send to the armoury at Carlisle, and lend them two forks, to be making shift with in the meantime.''

``Tush, man,'' said another, ``the bonny Scots come into the world with the blue bonnet on their heads, and dirk and pistol at their belt.''

``Best send post,'' said Mr Fleecebumpkin, ``to the Squire of Corby Castle, to come and stand
second to the gentleman.''

In the midst of this torrent of general ridicule, the Highlander instinctively griped beneath the
folds of his plaid,

``But it's better not,'' he said in his own language. ``A hundred curses on the swilie-eaters,
who know neither decency nor civility!''

``Make room, the pack of you,'' he said advancing to the door.

But his former friend interposed his sturdy bulk, and opposed his leaving the house; and when Robin Oig attempted to make his way by force, he
hit him down on the floor, with as much ease as a boy bowls down a nine-pin.

``A ring, a ring!'' was now shouted, until the dark rafters, and the hams that hung on them,
trembled again, and the very platters on the _bink_

clattered against each other.  ``Well done, Harry''
---``Give it him home Harry''---``Take care of
him now-he sees his own blood!''

Such were the exclamations, while the Highlander, starting from the ground, all his coldness and
caution lost in frantic rage, sprung at his antagonist with the fury, the activity, and the vindictive
purpose of an incensed tiger-cat. But when could rage encounter science and temper? Robin Oig
again went down in the unequal contest; and as
the blow was necessarily a severe one, he lay motionless on the floor of the kitchen. The landlady
ran to ofter some aid, but Mr Fleecebumpkin would not permit her to approach.

``Let him alone,'' he said, ``he will come to within time, and come up to the scratch again. He has not got half his broth vet.''

``He has got all I mean to give him, though,'' said his antagonist, whose heart began to relent towards his old associate; ``and I would rather by half give the rest to yourself, Mr Fleecebumpkin, for you pretend to know a thing or two, and Robin had not art enough even to peel before setting to, but fought with his plaid dangling about him.--- Stand up, Robin, my man! all friends now; and
let me hear the man that will speak a word against you, or your country, for your sake.''

Robin Oig was still under the dominion of his passion, and eager to renew the onset; but being withheld on the one side by the peace-making
Dame Heskett, and on the other, aware that Wakefield no loner meant to renew the combat, his fury
sunk into gloomy sullenness.

``Come, come, never grudge so much at it, man,'' said the brave-spirited Englishman, with the placability of his country, ``shake hands, and we will
be better friends than ever.''

  ``Friends!'' exclaimed Robin Oig with strong
emphasis---``friends!---Never.  Look to yourself,
Harry Waakfelt.''

``Then the curse of Cromwell on your proud Scots stomach, as the man says in the play, and you may do your worst, and be d---; for one man
can say nothing more to another after a tussle, than that he is sorry for it.''

On these terms the friends parted; Robin Oig drew out, in silence, a piece of money, threw it on the table, and then left the alehouse. But turning at the door, he shook his hand at Wakefield, pointing with his forefinger upwards, in a manner which
might imply either a threat or a caution. He then disappeared in the moonlight.

Some words passed after his departure, between the bailiff, who piqued himself on being a little of a bully, and Harry Wakefield, who, with generous inconsistency, was now not indisposed to begin a new combat in defence of Robin Oig's reputation, ``although he could not use his daddles like an
Englishman, as it did not come natural to him.'' But Dame Heskett prevented this second quarrel
from coming to a head by her peremptory interference. ``There should be no more fighting in her
house,'' she said; ``there had been too much already. ---And you, Mr Wakefield, may live to learn,''
she added, ``what it is to make a deadly enemy out of a good friend.''

``Pshaw, dame! Robin Oig is an honest fellow, and will never keep malice.''

``Do not trust to that---you do not know the dour temper of the Scots, though you have dealt
with them so often. I have a right to know them, my mother being a Scot.''

``And so is well seen on her daughter,'' said Ralph Heskett.

This nuptial sarcasm gave the discourse another turn; fresh customers entered the tap-room or
kitchen, and others left it. The conversation turned on the expected markets, and the report of
prices from different parts both of Scotland and England---treaties were commenced, and Harry
Wakefield was lucky enough to find a chap for a
part of his drove, and at a very considerable profit; an event of consequence more than sufficient
to blot out all remembrances of the unpleasant
scuffle in the earlier part of the day. But there remained one party from whose mind that recollection could not have been wiped away by the
possession of every head of cattle betwixt Esk and Eden.

This was Robin Oig M`Combich.---``That I should have had no weapon,'' he said, ``and for the first time in my life!---Blighted be the tongue that

bids the Highlander part with the dirk---the dirk
---ha! the English blood!---My Muhme's word---
when did her word fall to the ground?''

The recollection of the fatal prophecy confirmed the deadly intention which instantly sprang up in his mind.

``Ha! Morrison cannot be many miles behind; and if it were an hundred, what then!''

His impetuous spirit had now a fixed purpose and motive of action, and he turned the light foot of his country towards the wilds, through which be knew, by Mr Ireby's report, that Morrison was
advancing. His mind was wholly engrossed by
the sense of injury---injury sustained from a friend; and by the desire of vengeance on one whom be
now accounted his most bitter enemy. The treasured ideas of self-importance and self-opinion---of
ideal birth and quality, had become more precious to him, (like the hoard to the miser,) because he could only enjoy them in secret. But that hoard was pillaged, the idols which he had secretly worshipped had been desecrated and profaned. Insulted,
abused, and beaten, he was no longer worthy,
in his own opinion, of the name he bore, or
the lineage which he belonged to---nothing was
left to him---nothing but revenge; and as the reflection added a galling spur to every step, he determined it should be as sudden and signal as the
offence.

When Robin Oig left the door of the alehouse, seven or eight English miles at least lay betwixt Morrison and him. The advance of the former
was slow, limited by the sluggish pace of his
cattle; the last left behind him stubble-field and hedge-row, crag and dark heath, all glittering with frost-rime in the broad November moonlight, at
the rate of six miles an hour. And now the distant lowing of Morrison's cattle is heard; and now
they are seen creeping like moles in size and slowness of motion on the broad face of the moor; and
now he meets them---passes them, and stops their conductor.

``May good betide us,'' said the Southlander--- ``Is this you, Robin M`Combich, or your wraith?''

``It is Robin Oig M`Combich,'' answered the Highlander, ``and it is not.---But never mind that, put pe giving me the skene-dhu.''

``What! you are for back to the Highlands--- The devil!---Have you selt all off before the fair? This beats all for quick markets!''

  ``I have not sold---I am not going north---May
pe I will never go north again.---Give me pack my
dirk, Hugh Morrison, or there will pe words petween
us.''

``Indeed, Robin, I'll be better advised before I gie it back to you---it is a wanchancy weapon in a Highlandman's hand, and I am thinking you will
be about some barns-breaking.''

``Prutt, trutt! let me have my weapon,'' said Robin Oig impatiently.

  ``Hooly  and  fairly,''  said   his   well-meaning
friend.  ``I'll tell you  what  will  do  better  than
these   dirking   doings---Ye   ken   Highlander,    and
Lowlander, and Border-men, are a' ae man's bairns
when you are over the Scots dyke.  See, the Eskdale
callants, and fighting Charlie of Liddesdale,

and the Lockerby lads, and the four Dandies of
Lustruther, and a wheen mair grey plaids, are
coming up behind; and if you are wronged, there
is the hand of a Manly Morrison, we'll see you
righted, if Carlisle and Stanwix baith took up the feud. ''

``To tell you the truth,'' said Robin Oig, desirous of eluding the suspicions of his friend, ``I
have enlisted with a party of the Black Watch, and must march off to-morrow morning.''

``Enlisted! Were you mad or drunk?---You must buy yourself off---I can lend you twenty notes, and twenty to that, if the drove sell.''

  ``I thank you---thank ye, Hughie; but I go with
good will the gate that I am going,---so the dirk---
the dirk!''

``There it is for you then, since less wunna serve. But think on what I was saying.---Waes
me, it will be sair news in the braes of Balquidder, that Robin Oig M`Combich should have run an ill
gate, and ta'en on.''

``Ill news in Balquidder, indeed!'' echoed poor Robin: ``but Cot speed you, Hughie, and send you good marcats. Ye winna meet with Robin Oig
again, either at tryste or fair.''

So saying, he shook hastily the hand of his acquaintance, and set out in the direction from which
he had advanced, with the spirit of his former
pace.

``There is something wrang with the lad,'' muttered the Morrison to himself; ``but we will maybe
see better into it the morn's morning.''

But long ere the morning dawned, the catastrophe of our tale had taken place. It was two
hours after the affray had happened, and it was
totally forgotten by almost every one, when Robin Oig returned to Heskett's inn. The place was
filled at once by various sorts of men, and with noises corresponding to their character. There
were the grave low sounds of men engaged in
busy traffic, with the laugh, the song, and the
riotous jest of those who had nothing to do but to enjoy themselves. Among the last was Harry
Wakefield, who, amidst a grinning group of smock-frocks, hobnailed shoes, and jolly English physiognomies, was trolling forth the old ditty,

``What though my name be Roger,
Who drives the slough and cart---''

when he was  interrupted  by  a  well-known  voice
saying in a high and stern voice, marked by the
sharp Highland accent, ``Harry Waakfelt---if you
be a man stand up!''

``What is the matter?---what is it?'' the guests demanded of each other.

``It is only a d---d Scotsman,'' said Fleecebumpkin, who was by this time very drunk, ``whom
Harry Wakefield helped to his broth to-day, who
is now come to have his cauld kail het again.''

``Harry Waakfelt,'' repeated the same ominous summons, ``stand up, if you be a man!''

There is something in the tone of deep and concentrated passion, which attracts attention and imposes
awe, even by the very sound. The guests
shrunk back on every side, and gazed at the Highlander as he stood in the middle of them, his brows
bent, and his features rigid with resolution.

``I will stand up with all my heart, Robin, my boy, but it shall be to shake hands with you, and drink down all unkindness. It is not the fault of your heart, man, that you don't know how to clench your hands.''

By this time he stood opposite to his antagonist; his open and unsuspecting look strangely contrasted with the stern purpose, which gleamed
wild, dark, and vindictive in the eyes of the Highlander.

``'Tis not thy fault, man, that, not having the luck to be an Englishman, thou canst not fight
more than a school-girl.''

``I can fight,'' answered Robin Oig sternly, but calmly, ``and you shall know it. You, Harry Waakfelt, showed me to-day how the Saxon churls fight
---I show you now how the Highland Dunni<e`>-wassel fights.''

He seconded the word with the action, and plunged the dagger, which he suddenly displayed, into the broad breast of the English yeoman, with such fatal certainty and force, that the hilt made a hollow sound against the breast-bone, and the
double-edged point split the very heart of his victim. Harry Wakefield fell and expired with a
single groan. His assassin next seized the bailiff by the collar, and offered the bloody poniard to his throat, whilst dread and surprise rendered the man incapable of defence.

``It were very just to lay you beside him,'' he said, ``but the blood of a base pick-thank shall never mix on my father's dirk, with that of a brave man.''

As he spoke, he cast the man from him with so much force that he fell on the floor, while Robin, with his other hand, threw the fatal weapon into the blazing turf-fire.

``There,'' he said, ``take me who likes---and let fire cleanse blood if it can.''

The pause of astonishment still continuing, Robin Oig asked for a peace-officer, and a constable
having stepped out, he surrendered himself to his custody.

``A bloody night's work you have made of it,'' said the constable.

``Your own fault,'' said the Highlander. ``Had you kept his hands off me twa hours since, he would have been now as well and merry as he was twa minutes since.''

``It must be sorely answered,'' said the peace-officer.

``Never you mind that---death pays all debts; it will pay that too.''

The horror of the bystanders began now to give way to indignation; and the sight of a favourite companion murdered in the midst of them, the
provocation being, in their opinion, so utterly inadequate to the excess of vengeance, might have
induced them to kill the perpetrator of the deed even upon the very spot. The constable, however, did his duty on this occasion, and with the assistance of some of the more reasonable persons present,
procured horses to guard the prisoner to Carlisle, to abide his doom at the next assizes. While the escort was preparing, the prisoner neither expressed the least interest, nor attempted the slightest reply. Only, before he was carried from the fatal apartment, he desired to look at the dead body, which,
raised from the floor, had been deposited upon the large table, (at the head of which Harry Wakefield had presided but a few minutes before, full of
life, vigour, and animation,) until the surgeons should examine the mortal wound. The face of
the corpse was decently covered with a napkin.
To the surprise and horror of the bystanders,
which displayed itself in a general _Ah!_ drawn
through clenched teeth and half-shut lips, Robin Oig removed the cloth, and gazed with a mournful but steady eye on the lifeless visage, which had been so lately animated, that the smile of good-humoured confidence in his own strength, of conciliation
at once, and contempt towards his enemy,
still curled his lip. While those present expected that the wound, which had so lately flooded
the apartment with gore, would send forth fresh
streams at the touch of the homicide, Robin Oig
replaced the covering with the brief exclamation ---``He was a pretty man!''

My story is nearly ended. The unfortunate Highlander stood his trial at Carlisle. I was myself present, and as a young Scottish lawyer, or
barrister at least, and reputed a man of some quality, the politeness of the Sheriff of Cumberland
offered me a place on the bench. The facts of the case were proved in the manner I have related
them; and whatever might be at first the prejudice of the audience against a crime so un-English
as that of assassination from revenge, yet when the rooted national prejudices of the prisoner had been explained, which made him consider himself as
stained with indelible dishonour, when subjected to personal violence; when his previous patience, moderation, and endurance, were considered, the
generosity of the English audience was inclined
to regard his crime as the wayward aberration of a false idea of honour rather than as flowing from a heart naturally savage, or perverted by habitual vice. I shall never forget the charge of the venerable Judge to the jury, although not at that time
liable to be much affected either by that which was eloquent or pathetic.

``We have had,'' he said, ``in the previous part of our duty,'' (alluding to some former trials,) ``to discuss crimes which infer disgust and abhorrence, while they call down the well-merited vengeance
of the law. It is now our still more melancholy task to apply its salutary though severe enactments to a case of a very singular character, in
which the crime (for a crime it is, and a deep one) arose less out of the malevolence of the heart, than the error of the understanding---less from any idea of committing wrong, than from an unhappily perverted notion of that which is right. Here we
have two men, highly esteemed, it has been stated, in their rank of life, and attached, it seems, to each other as friends, one of whose lives has been already sacrificed to a punctilio, and the other is
about to prove the vengeance of the offended laws; and yet both may claim our commiseration at least, as men acting in ignorance of each other's national prejudices, and unhappily misguided rather than
voluntarily erring from the path of right conduct.

``In the original cause of the misunderstanding, we must in justice give the right to the prisoner at the bar. He had acquired possession of the
enclosure, which was the object of competition, by a legal contract with the proprietor Mr Ireby; and yet, when accosted with reproaches undeserved in themselves, and galling doubtless to a temper at least sufficiently susceptible of passion, he offered notwithstanding to yield up half his acquisition, for the sake of peace and good neighbourhood, and his amicable proposal was rejected with scorn. Then follows the scene at Mr Heskett the publican's,
and you will observe how the stranger was treated by the deceased, and, I am sorry to observe, by
those around, who seem to have urged him in a
manner which was aggravating in the highest degree. While he asked for peace and for composition,
and offered submission to a magistrate, or to
a mutual arbiter, the prisoner was insulted by a whole company, who seem on this occasion to have forg