“Speak ye to the purpose then, Rob. Ye think naebody can speak but yoursel, hummin an’ hawin. Let us hear how weel ye’ll speak to the purpose.—Whisht, sirs! haud a’ your tongues; my billy Rob’s gaun to mak a speech.”
“Humph!” quoth Robin, and gave his head a cast round.
“Humph!” returned Meg, “what kind of a speech is that? Is that to the purpose? If that be to the purpose, a sow could hae made that speech as weel as you, and better. The truth is, mem, that our Rob’s aye wantin to be on his hich horse afore grit folk; now I says till him, Rob, says I, for you to fa’ to afore your betters, and be tryin to speak that vile nicky-nacky language they ca’ English, instead o’ being on your hich horse then, ye are just like a heron walkin on stilts, an’ that’s but a daft-like beast. Ye sude mind, says I,—Rob,man, says I, that her ladyship’s ane o’ our ain kind o’ fock, an’ was bred at the same heck an’ manger wi’ oursels; an’ although she has lightit on a good tethering, ye’re no to think that she’s to gi’e hersel airs, an’ forget the good auld haemilt blude that rins in her veins.”
The lady’s cheek was burning with indignation, for, of all topics, Meg was fallen on the most unlucky; nothing hurt her feelings half so much as hints of her low extraction. Lindsey, though vexed, could not repress a laugh at the proud offence on the one side, and the untameable vulgarity on the other. Meg discerned nothing wrong, and, if she had, would not have regarded it. She went on. “Ah, Meg, woman! quo’ he, ye ken little thing about it, quo’ he; when the sole of a shoe’s turned uppermost, it maks aye but an unbowsome overleather; if ye corn an auld glide-aver weel, she’ll soon turn about her heels, and fling i’ your face.”
Robin’s whole visage changed; his eyes were set on Meg, but his brows were screwed down, and his cheeks pursed up in such a manner, that those were scarcely discernible; his mouth had meanwhile assumed the form and likeness of one of the long S’s on the belly of a fiddle. Meg still went on. “Dear Rob, says I, man, says I, that disna apply to her ladyship ava, for every thing that she does, an’ every thing that she says, shows her to be a douse hamely body; the very way that she rins bizzin through the house, an’ fliting on the servants, proves that she maks nae pretensions to high gentility.”
Lindsey, who now dreaded some explosion of rage subversive of all decorum, began and rallied Meg, commended her flow of spirits and fresh looks, and said she was very much of a lady herself.
“I wat, laird,” said she, “I think aye if a body behaves wi’ ease, an’ without ony stiffness an’ precision, that body never behaves ill; but, to be sure, you grand fockcan say an’ do a hantle o’ things that winna be ta’en aff our hands. For my part, when the great fike rase about you an’ Jeany there, I says—says I”——
This was a threatening preface. Lindsey durst not stand the sequel. “I beg your pardon for the present, Miss Peggy,” said he; “we shall attend to your observations on this topic after we have prepared the way for it somewhat. I was, and still am convinced, that this young woman received very harsh and unmerited treatment from our two families. I am desirous of making her some reparation, and to patronize her, as well as this boy, if I find her in any degree deserving of it. This protection shall, moreover, be extended to her in a manner that neither suspicion nor blame shall attach to it; and, as we are all implicated in the wrong, I have selected you as judges in this matter.—It is impossible,” continued he, addressing himself to Jane, “to be in your company half an hour, and not discern that your education has been much abovethe sphere of life which you now occupy; but I trust you will find us all disposed to regard you with the eye of friendship, if you will be so good as relate to us the incidents of your life which have contributed to your coming among us.”
“The events of my life, sir,” said she, “have been, like the patriarch’s days, few and evil, and my intention was, never to have divulged them in this district—not on my own account, but for the sake of their names that are connected with my history, and are now no more. Nevertheless, since you have taken such an interest in my fortunes, it would both be ungrateful and imprudent to decline giving you that satisfaction. Excuse me for the present in withholding my family name, and I will relate to you the incidents of my short life in a very few words.
“My father was an eminent merchant. Whether ever he was a rich one or not I cannot tell, but he certainly was looked upon as such, for his credit and dealingswere very extensive. My mother died twelve years ago, leaving my father with no more children than another daughter and myself. I received my education in Edinburgh along with my sister, who was two years older than I. She began to manage my father’s household affairs at thirteen years of age, and I went to reside with an aunt in East-Lothian, who had been married to a farmer, but was now a widow, and occupied a farm herself.
“Whether it originated in his not finding any amusement at home, or in consciousness of his affairs getting into confusion, I know not, but our father about this time fell by degrees from attending to his business in a great measure, and sunk into despondency. My sister’s letters to me were full of regret; my aunt being in a declining state of health I could not leave her for some months. At last she died, leaving me a legacy of five hundred pounds, when I hastened home, and did all in my power to assist my sister in comforting our father,but he did not long survive, and dying insolvent, we not only lost our protector, but had nothing to depend on save my little legacy and our own industry and exertions. We retired to a small lodging; none of our friends thought proper to follow us to our retreat; and now, bereaved as we were of our natural protector, we could not help perceiving that we were a friendless and helpless pair. My sister never recovered her spirits; a certain dejection and absence of mind from this time forth began to prey upon her, and it was with real sorrow and concern that I perceived it daily gaining ground, and becoming more and more strongly marked. I tried always to console her as much as I could for our loss, and often, to cheer her, assumed a gaiety that was foreign to my heart; but we being quite solitary, her melancholy always returned upon her with double weight. About this time I first saw a young officer with my sister, who introduced him carelessly to me asthe Captain.She went out with him, and when she returned I asked who he was. “Bless me, Jane,” said she, “do you not know the Captain?” I was angry at the flippancy of her manner, but she gave me no further satisfaction.”
At the mention of this officer Lindsey grew restless and impatient, changing his position on the seat every moment.
“Things went on in this manner,” continued Jane, “for some time longer, and still my sister grew more heartless and dejected. Her colour grew pale, and her eye heavy, and I could not help feeling seriously alarmed on her account.
“For nine or ten days she went out by herself for an hour or so every day, without informing me where she had been. But one morning, when I arose my sister was gone. I waited until noon before I took any breakfast; but nothing of my sister appearing, I became distracted with dreadful apprehensions. I went about to every place where I thought there was the least chance of hearing any news of her, yetdurst I not ask for her openly at any one for fear of the answer I might receive; for, on considering the late dejected state of her mind, I expected nothing else than to hear that she had put an end to her existence. My search was fruitless; night came, and still no word of my sister; I passed it without sleep; but, alas! the next night, and many others, came and past over without bringing a trace of her steps, or throwing a gleam of light on her fate. I was now obliged to set on foot a strict and extensive search, and even to have her advertised; yet still all my exertions proved of no avail.
“During this long and dreadful pause of uncertainty I thought there could not be conceived a human being more thoroughly wretched than I was. Only seventeen years of age; the last of all my father’s house; left in a lodging by myself; all my neighbours utter strangers to me, and not a friend on earth to whom I could unbosom my griefs; wretched I was, and deemed it impossibleto be more so; but I had over-rated my griefs, and was punished for my despondency.
“When some months had passed away, one spring morning, I remember it well! after a gentle rap at the door, the maid entered, and said,a manwanted to see me. ‘A man!’ said I; ‘What man wishes to speak with me?’
“‘I don’t know, mem, he is like a countryman.’
“He was shown in; a pale man, of a dark complexion, and diminutive size. I was certain I had never seen him before, for his features were singularly marked. He asked my name, and seemed at a loss to deliver his message, and there was something in his air and manner that greatly alarmed me. ‘So you said your name is so so?’ said he again.
“‘I did; pray, tell me what is your business with me?’
“‘There is a lady at our house, who I suppose wishes to speak with you.’
“‘What lady wishes to see me? Where is your house?’
“He named some place on the London road towards Berwick.
“‘What lady can possibly be there,’ said I, ‘that knows any thing of me?’
“He looked at me again.—‘Pray, mem, have you a sister? Or had you ever any that you know of?’
“This query paralyzed me. I sunk down on the sofa; but as soon as I could speak, I asked how long the lady had been with him?
“‘Only since Friday evening last,’ said he. ‘She was taken ill at the inn on her way to Edinburgh, from whence she was conveyed to my house, for the sake of better and more quiet accommodation; but she has been very ill,—veryill, indeed. There is now hope that she will recover, but she is stillveryill. I hope you are the lady she named when all was given over; at all events, you must go and see.’
“Scarcely knowing what I did, I desired the man to call a post-chaise. We reached the place before even. I entered her apartment, breathless and impatient; but how shall I relate to you the state in which I found her! My heart bleeds to this day, when remembrance presents me with the woeful spectacle! She was lying speechless, unable to move a hand or lift an eye, and posting on, with rapid advances, to eternity, having some days before been delivered of this dear child on my knee.”
At this moment the eyes of all the circle were fixed on Jane, expressing strongly a mixture of love, pity, and admiration. Lindsey could contain himself no longer. He started to his feet—stretched his arms toward her, and, after gasping a little for breath,—“Wh—wh—what!” said he, sighing, “are you not then themotherof little George?”
“A poor substitute only for a better, sir; but the only parent he has ever known, or is likely to know.”
“And you have voluntarily suffered all these privations, trouble, and shame, for the sake of a poor little orphan, who, it seems, is no nearer a kin to you than a nephew? If ever the virtuous principles and qualities of a female mind deserved admiration—But proceed. I am much to blame for interrupting you.”
“I never for another moment departed from my sister’s bed-side until she breathed her last, which she did in about thirty hours after my arrival. During that time, there was only once that she seemed to recollect or take the slightest notice of me, which was a little before her final exit; but then she gave me such a look!—So full of kindness and sorrow, that language could not have expressed her feelings half so forcibly. It was a farewell look, which is engraven on the tablets of my mind, never to be obliterated while that holds intercourse with humanity.
“The shock which my feelings received by the death of the only friend of my heart,with the mysterious circumstances which accompanied it, deprived me for some time of the powers of recollection. My dreams by night, and my reflections during the day, were all so much blent and inter-mingled, and so wholly of the same tendency, that they became all as a dream together; so that I could not, on a retrospect, discover in the least, nor ever can to this day, what part of my impressions were real, or what were mere phantasy, so strongly were the etchings of fancy impressed on my distempered mind. If the man I mentioned before, who owned the house, had not looked after the necessary preparations for the funeral, I know not how or when it would have been set about by any orders of mine. They soon enticed me away from the body, which they suffered me to visit but seldom, and, it seems, I was perfectly passive. That such a thing as my sister’s funeral was approaching, occurred but rarely to my mind, and then, it in a manner surprised me as a piece of unexpected intelligence was wont to do, and it as suddenly slipped away, leaving my imagination again to wander in a maze of inextricable confusion.
“The first thing that brought me to myself was a long fit of incessant weeping, in which I shed abundance of tears. I then manifested an ardent desire to see the child, which I recollect perfectly well. I considered him as the only remembrance left to me of a respectable and well-descended family, and of the dearest friend ever I remembered upon earth. When I first saw him, he was lying on an old woman’s knee; and when I stooped to look at him, he, with a start of his whole frame, fixed his young unstable eyes on me, and stretched out his little spread hands toward me, in which position he remained steadily for a considerable time. This was so marked and uncommon, that all the standers-by took notice of it; and the woman who held him said, ‘See! saw ye ever the like o’ that? I never saw the like o’ that a’ my life! It is surely impossible he can ken ye?’
“It was, without doubt, an involuntary motion of the babe, but I could not help viewing it as a movement effected by the Great Spirit of universal nature. I thought I saw the child beseeching me to protect his helpless innocence, and not to abandon him to an injurious world, in which he had not another friend remaining, until he could think and act for himself. I adopted him that moment in my heart as my son—I took him into my arms as a part of myself!—That simple motion of my dear child fixed my resolution with respect to him at once, and that resolution never has been altered nor injured in the smallest part.
“I hired a nurse for him; and, it being term time, gave up my house, and sold all my furniture, save the little that I have still, and retired to a cottage at Slateford, not far from Edinburgh. Here I lived frugally with the nurse and child; and became sofond of him, that no previous period of my life, from the days of childhood, was ever so happy; indeed, my happiness was centered solely in him, and if he was well, all other earthly concerns vanished. I found, however, that after paying the rent of the house, the expences of the two funerals, and the nurse’s wages, that my little stock was reduced nearly one-third; and fearing that it would in a little while be wholly exhausted, I thought the sooner I reconciled myself to hardships the better; so leaving the remainder of my money in the bank as a fund in case of sickness or great necessity, I came and took this small cottage and garden from your farmer. I had no ambition but that of bringing up the child, and educating him, independent of charitable assistance; and I cannot describe to you how happy I felt at the prospect, that the interest of my remaining property, with the small earnings of my own industry, was likely to prove more than an equivalent tomy yearly expences. I have from the very first acknowledged little George as my own son. I longed for a retirement, where I should never be recognised by any former acquaintance. In such a place I thought my story might gain credit; nor could I think in any degree to stain the name of my dear departed sister by any surmises or reflections that might in future attach to it by telling the story as it was. How I should have felt had he really been my son, I cannot judge; but instead of feeling any degradation at being supposed his mother, so wholly is my existence bound up in him, that I could not bear the contrary to be supposed.
“Who his father is, remains a profound, and, to me, unaccountable mystery. I never had the slightest suspicion of the rectitude of her behaviour, and cannot understand to this day how she could possibly carry on an amour without suffering me to perceive any signs of it. She had spoke but little to the people with whom I foundher; but their impressions were, that she was not married, and I durst not enquire farther; for, rather than have discovered his father to be unworthy, I chose to remain in utter ignorance concerning it, and I could not think favourably of one who had deserted her in such circumstances. There was no man whom I had ever seen that I could in the least suspect, if it was not the young officer that I formerly mentioned, and he was the least likely to be guilty of such an act of any man I ever saw.”
Here Lindsey again sprung to his feet. “Good God!” said he, “there is something occurs to my mind—the most extraordinary circumstance—if it be really so. You wished to be excused from giving your surname, but there is a strange coincidence in your concerns with my own, which renders it absolutely necessary that I should be informed of this.”
Jane hesitated, and said she could not think of divulging that so as to make itpublic, but that she would trust his honour, and tell it him in his ear. She then whispered the name M’‑‑‑‑y.
“What!” said he aloud, forgetting the injunction of secrecy, “of the late firm M’‑‑‑‑, Reynolds and Co.?”
“The same, sir.”
The positions into which he now threw himself, and the extravagant exclamations that he uttered, cannot here be all described. The other three personages in the room all supposed that he was gone out of his reason. After repeating, till quite out of breath, “It is she! it is she! it is the same! it is the same!” and, pressing both her hands in his, he exclaimed, “Eternal Providence! how wonderful are thy ways, and how visible is thy superintendance of human affairs, even in the common vicissitudes of life! but never was it so visible as in this! My dear child,” continued he, taking little George in his arms, who looked at him with suspicion and wonder, “by how many fatal and untoward events, all seemingly casual, art thou at last, without the aid of human interference, thrown into the arms of thy natural guardian! and how firmly was my heart knit to thee from the very first moment I saw thee! But thou art my own son, and shalt no more leave me; nor shall your beautiful guardian either, if she will accept of a heart that her virtues have captivated. This house shall henceforth be a home to you both, and all my friends shall be friends to you, for you are my own.”
Here the old lady sprung forward, and, laying hold of her son by the shoulder, endeavoured to pull him away. “Consider what you are saying, Lindsey, and what you are bringing on yourself, and your name, and your family. You are raving mad—that child can no more be yours than it is mine. Will you explain yourself, or are we to believe that you have indeed lost your reason? I say, where is the consistency in supposing that child can be yours?”
“It is impossible,” said Robin.
“I say it’s nae sic a thing as unpossible, Rob,” quoth Meg. “Hand your tongue, ye ken naething about it—it’s just as possible that it may be his as another’s—I sal warrant whaever be aught it, it’s no comed there by sympathy! Od, if they war to come by sympathy”——
Here Meg was interrupted by Lindsey, who waved his hand for silence,—a circumstance that has sorely grieved the relater of this tale,—for of all things he would have liked to have had Meg’s ideas, at full length, of children being produced by sympathy.
“I beg your pardon,” said Lindsey. “I must have appeared extravagant in my rapturous enthusiasm, having forgot but that you knew all the circumstances as well as myself. The whole matter is, however, very soon, and very easily explained.”
He then left the room, and all the company gazing upon one another. Jane scarcely blushed on receiving the vehement proffer from Lindsey, for his rhapsody had thrown her into a pleasing and tender delirium ofamazement, which kept every other feeling in suspense.
In a few seconds he returned, bringing an open letter in his hand.—“Here is the last letter,” said he, “ever I received from my brave and only brother; a short extract from which will serve fully to clear up the whole of this very curious business.”
He then read as follows:—“Thus, you see, that for the last fortnight the hardships and perils we have encountered have been many and grievous; butTO-MORROWwill be decisive one way or another. I have a strong prepossession that I will not survive the battle; yea, so deeply is the idea impressed on my mind, that with me it amounts to an absolute certainty; therefore, I must confide a secret with you which none in the world know, or in the least think of, save another and myself. I was privately married before I left Scotland, to a young lady, lovely in her person, and amiable in her manners, but without any fortune. We resolved, for reasons that must be obvious toyou, to keep our marriage a secret, until I entered to the full possession of my estate, and if possible till my return; but now, (don’t laugh at me, my dear brother,) being convinced that I shall never return, I entreat you, as a last request, to find her out and afford her protection. It is probable, that by this time she may stand in need of it. Her name is Amelia M’‑‑‑‑y, daughter to the late merchant of that name of the firm M’‑‑‑‑y and Reynolds. She left her home with me in private, at my earnest request, though weeping with anguish at leaving a younger sister, a little angel of mercy, whom, like the other, you will find every way worthy of your friendship and protection. The last letter that I had from her was dated from London, the 7th of April, on which day she embarked in the packet for Leith, on her way to join her sister, in whose house, near Bristo-Port, you will probably find her. Farewell, dear brother. Comfort our mother; and O, for my sake, cherish and support my dear wife! We havean awful prospect before us, but we are a handful of brave determined friends, resolved to conquer or die together.”
The old lady now snatched little George up in her arms, pressed him to her bosom, and shed abundance of tears over him.—“He is indeed my grandson! he is! he is!” cried she. “My own dear George’s son, and he shall henceforth be cherished as my own.”
“And he shall be mine too, mother,” added Lindsey; “and heir of all the land which so rightly belongs to him. And she, who has so disinterestedly adopted and brought up the heir of Earlhall, shall still be his mother, if she will accept of a heart that renders her virtues every homage, and beats in unison with her own to every tone of pity and benevolence.”
Jane now blushed deeply, for the generous proposal was just made while the tears of joy were yet trickling over her cheeks on account of the pleasing intelligence she hadreceived of the honour of her regretted sister, and the rank of her child.—She could not answer a word—she looked stedfastly at the carpet, through tears, as if examining how it was wrought—then at a little pearl ring she wore on her finger, and finally fell to adjusting some of little George’s clothes. They were all silent—It was a quaker meeting, and might have continued so much longer, had not the spirit fortunately moved Meg.
“By my certy, laird! but ye hae made her a good offer! an’ yet she’ll pretend to tarrow at takin’t! But ye’re sure o’ her, tak my word for it.—Ye dinna ken women. Bless ye! the young hizzies mak aye the greatest fike about the things that they wish maist to hae. I ken by mysel;—when Andrew Pistolfoot used to come stamplin in to court me i’ the dark, I wad hae cried whispering, ‘Get away wi’ ye! ye bowled-like shurf!—whar are ye comin pechin an’ fuffin to me?’ Bless your heart! gin Andrew hadrun away when I bade him, I wad hae run after him, an’ grippit him by the coat-tails, an’ brought him back. Little wist I this morning, an’ little wist mae than I, that things war to turn out this way, an’ that Jeany was to be our young lady! She was little like it that night she gaed away greetin wi’ the callant on her back! Dear Rob, man, quo’ I to my billy, what had you and my lady to do wi’ them? Because her day an’ yours are ower, do ye think they’ll no be courting as lang as the warld stands; an’ the less that’s said about it the better—I said sae!”
“And you said truly, Meg,” rejoined Lindsey. “Now, pray, Miss Jane, tell me what you think of my proposal?”
“Indeed, sir,” answered she, “you overpower me. I am every way unworthy of the honour you propose for my acceptance; but as I cannot part with my dear little George, with your leave I will stay with my lady and take care of him.”
“Well, I consent that you shall stay withmy mother as her companion. A longer acquaintance will confirm that affection, which a concurrence of events has tended so strongly to excite.”
It was not many months until this amiable pair were united in the bonds of matrimony, and they are still living, esteemed of all their acquaintances. Barnaby is the laird’s own shepherd, and overseer of all his rural affairs, and he does not fail at times to remind his gentle mistress of his dream about theeagleand thecorbie.
END OF THE WOOL-GATHERER.
ANCIENT.
“I hope the king will not hunt to-day,” said Gale, as he sat down on the top of the South Eildon, and stretched out his lazy limbs in the sun. “If he keep within doors to-day with his yelping beagles, I shall have one day’s peace and ease; and my lambs shall have one day’s peace and ease; and poor Trimmy shall have one day’s peace and ease too. Come hither to me, Trimmy, and tell me what is the reason that you will not hunt with the king’s two beagles?”
Trimmy came near, laid her paw on her master’s knee, and looked him in the face, but she could not tell him what was the reason that she would not hunt with the king’s two beagles, Mooly and Scratch.
“I say, tell me my good Trimmy, what you ail at these beautiful hounds? You wont to be the best follower of a track in all the Merse and Leader; but now, whenever you hear the sound of the horn, and the opening swell of the harriers, you take your tail between your legs and set off for home, as there were something on the hill that were neither good nor cannie. You are a very sensible beast, Trimmy, but you have some strange fancies and prejudices that I cannot comprehend.”
Trimming cocked her ears, and looked towards the Abbey, then at her master, and then at the Abbey again.
“Ah! I fear you hear them coming that you are cocking your ears at that rate. Then if that be the case, good morning to you, Trimmy.”
It was neither the king nor his snow-white beagles that Trimmy winded, but poor Croudy, Gale’s neighbour shepherd, who was coming sauntering up the brae, with his black lumpish dog at his foot, that was fully as stupid as himself, and withal as good-natured. Croudy was never lifting his eyes from the ground, but moving on as if he had been enumerating all the little yellow flowers that grew on the hill. Yet it was not for want of thought that Croudy was walking in that singular position, with his body bent forward, and the one ear turned down towards the ground, and the other up. No, no! for Croudy was trying to think all that he could; and all that he could do he could make nothing of it. Croudy had seen and heard wonderful things! “Bless me and my horn!” said he, as he sat down on a stone to rest himself, and try if he could bring his thoughts to any rallying point. It was impossible—they were like a hive of bees when the queen is taken from their head.
He took out the little crooked ewe-horn that he kept as a charm; he had got it from his mother, and it had descended to him from many generations; he turned it round in the one hand, and then round in the other hand—he put it upon his finger and twirled it. “Bless me an’ my horn!” said he again. Then leaning forward upon his staff, he looked aslant at the ground, and began to moralize. “It is a growing world—ay—the gerse grows; the lambs eat it—they grow—ay—we eat them—we grow—there it goes!—men, women, dogs, bairns, a’ eat—a’ grow; the yird eats up a’—it grows—men eat women—they grow—what comes o’ them?—Hoh! I’m fixed now!—I’m at the end o’ my tether.—I might gang up the hill to Gale, an’ tell him what I hae seen an’ what I hae heard; but I hae four great fauts to that chiel. In the first place, he’s a fool—good that! In the second place, he’s a scholar, an’ speaks English—bad! In the third place, he likes the women—warst ava!—and, fourthly and lastly, hemisca’s a’ the words, and ca’s the streamers the Roara Boriawlis—ha! ha! ha!—Wha wad converse wi’ a man, or whacanconverse wi’ a man, that ca’s the streamers the Roara Boriawlis? Fools hae aye something about them no like ither fock! Now, gin I war to gang to sic a man as that, an’ tell him that I heard a dog speakin’, and another dog answering it, what wad he say? He wad speak English; sae ane wad get nae sense out o’ him. If I war to gang to the Master o’ Seaton an’ tak my aith, what wad he say? Clap me up i’ the prison for a daft man an’ a fool. I couldna bide that. Then again, if we lose our king—an’ him the last o’ the race—Let me see if I can calculate what wad be the consequence? The English—Tut! the English! wha cares for them? But let me see now—should the truth be tauld or no tauld?—That’s the question. What’s truth? Ay, there comes the crank! Nae man can tell that—for what’s truth to ane is a lee to another—Mumps, ye’re very hard on thae fleas theday—Truth?—For instance; gin my master war to come up the brae to me an’ say, ‘Croudy, that dog’s useless,’ that wadna be truth to me—But gin I war to say to him, ‘Master, I heard a dog speak, an’ it said sae an’ sae; an’ there was another dog answered it, an’ it said sae an’ sae,’ that wad be truth to me; but then it wadna be truth to him—Truth’s just as it is ta’en—Now, if a thing may be outher truth or no truth, then a’ things are just the same—No—that disna haud neither—Mumps, ye’re no gaun to leave a sample o’ thae fleas the day, man—Look up, like a farrant beast—have ye nae pity on your master, nor nae thought about him ava, an’ him in sic a plisky?—I wadna be just sae like a stump an’ I war you, man——Bless me an’ my horn! here’s the Boreawlis comin’ on me—here’s the northern light.”
“Good-morrow to you, Croudy.”
“Humph!”
“You seem to be very thoughtful and heavy-hearted to-day, honest Croudy. Ifear pretty Pery has given you a bad reception last night.”
“Humph!—women!—women!”
“I hope she did not mention the kiln-logie, Croudy? That was a sad business! Croudy; some men are ill to know!”
“See, whaten white scares are yon, Gale, aboon the Cowdyknowes an’ Gladswood linn? Look ye, they spread an’ tail away a’ the gate to the Lammer-Law—What ca’ ye yon, Gale?”
“Some exhalation of the morning.”
“What?—Bless me an’ my horn! that’s warst ava!—I thought it wad be some Boriawlis, Gale—some day Boriawlis; but I didna think o’ aught sae high as this—ha! ha! ha! ha!”
Croudy went his way laughing along the side of the hill, speaking to Mumps one while, moralizing about truth and the language of dogs and fairies another, and always between taking a hearty laugh at Gale. “Come away, Mumps,” said he; “I can crack some wi’ you, though ye’rerather slow i’ the uptake; but I can crack nane wi’ a man that ca’s the streamers a Roara Boriawlis, an’ a white clud, an’ Exaltation—Na, na, that will never do.”
Croudy sauntered away down into the Bourgeon to be out of sight, and Gale went lightsomely away to the top of the North-east Eildon; and there, on one of the angles of the old Roman Camp, laid him down to enjoy the glorious prospect; and, sure, of all the lovely prospects in our isle, this is the most lovely. What must it have been in those days when all the ruins of monastery, tower, and citadel, which still make the traveller to stand in wonder and admiration, were then in their full splendour. Traveller! would you see Scotland in all its wild and majestic grandeur? sail along its western firths from south to north—Would you see that grandeur mellowed by degrees into softness? look from the top of Ben-Lomond—But would you see an amphitheatre ofperfect beauty, where nothing is wanting to enrich the scene? seatyourself on the spot where Gale now lay, at the angle of the Roman Camp, on the top of the North-east Eildon.
Short time did he enjoy the prospect and the quiet in which he delighted. First the heads of two noblemen appeared on the hill beneath him, then came a roe by him at full speed. Trimmy would fain have hunted her, but as the shepherd deemed that the business was some way connected with the royal sport, he restrained her. The two noblemen some time thereafter sounded a bugle, and then in a moment the king and his attendants left the Abbey at full speed; and how beautiful was their winding ascent up the hill! The king had betted with the Earl of Hume and Lord Belhaven, seven steers, seven palfreys, seven deer-greyhounds, and seven gold rings, that his two snow-white hounds, Mooly and Scratch, would kill a roe-deer started on any part of the Eildon hills, and leave the Abbey walk with him after she was started. After the bet was fairly taken, the kingsaid to the two noblemen, “You are welcome to your loss, my lords. Do you know that I could bet the half of my realm on the heads of these two hounds?”
The two lords held their peace, but they were determined to win if they could, and they did not blow the horn, as agreed on, immediately when the roe started, but sauntered about, to put off time, and suffer the trail to cool. The two hounds were brought up, and loosed at the spot; they scarcely shewed any symptoms of having discovered the scent. The king shook his head; and Hume, who loved the joke dearly, jeered the king about his wager, which his majesty only answered by speaking to one of the hounds that stood next to him. “Ah! Mooly, Mooly, if you deceive me, it is the first time; but I have another matter to think on than you this morning, Mooly.” Mooly fawned on her royal master; jumped up at the stirrup, and took his foot playfully in her mouth, while Keryl, the king’s steed, laid back his ears, andsnapped at her, in a half-angry, half-playful mood. This done, Mooly turned her long nose to the wind; scented this way and that way, and then scampering carelessly over the brow of the hill, she opened in a tone so loud and so sprightly that it made all the Eildons sound in chorus to the music. Scratch joined with her elegant treble, and away they went like two wild swans, sounding over the hill.
“Trimmy! Trimmy! my poor Trimmy!” cried Gale, vexed and astonished; “Trimmy, halloo! hie, hunt the deer, Trimmy! Here, here, here!”
No; Trimmy would never look over her shoulder, but away she ran with all her might home to Eildon-Hall. “The plague be in the beast,” said Gale to himself, “if ever I saw any thing like that! There is surely something about these two hounds that is scarcely right.”
Round and round the hills they went side by side, and still the riders kept closeup with them. The trail seemed to be warm, and the hounds keen, but yet no deer was to be discovered. They stretched their course to the westward, round Cauldshields Hill, back over Bothendean Moor, and again betook them to the Eildons; still no deer was to be seen! The two hounds made a rapid stretch down towards Melrose; the riders spurred in the same direction. The dogs in a moment turning short, went out between the two eastern hills, distancing all the riders, whom they left straggling up the steep after them as they could, and when these came over the height there was a fine roe-deer lying newly slain, and the two snow-white hounds panting and rolling themselves on the grass beside her. The king claimed his wager, but Hume objected, unless his majesty could prove that it was the same deer that they had started at the same place in the morning. The king had the greatest number of voices in his favour, but the earlstood to his point. “Is it true, my liege lord,” said an ancient knight to the king, “that these two beautiful hounds have never yet been unlieshed without killing their prey?”
“Never,” returned the king.
“And is it equally true,” continued the old knight, “that to this day they have never been seen kill either roe, deer, or any other creature?”
“That is a most extraordinary circumstance,” said the king; “pause until I recollect—No; I do not know that any eye hath ever yet seen them take their prey.”
“I heard it averred last night,” said the old man, “that if they are kept sight of for a whole day the deer is never seen, nor do they ever catch any thing; and that the moment they get out of sight, there the deer is found slain, nobody knows how. I took note of it, and I have seen it this day verified. Pray, is this a fact, my liege?”
“I never before thought of it, or notedit,” said the king; “but as far as my memory serves me, I confess that it has uniformly been as you say.”
“Will your majesty suffer me to examine these two hounds?” said the old man. “Methinks there is something very odd about them—Sure there was never any animal on earth had eyes or feet such as they have.”
The two beagles kept aloof, and pretended to be winding some game round the top of the hill.
“They will not come now,” said the king; “you shall see them by and by.”
“If consistent with your majesty’s pleasure,” continued the aged knight, “where—how—or when did you get these two hounds?”
“I got them in a most extraordinary way, to be sure!” replied the king, in a thoughtful and hesitating mood.
“Your majesty does not then chuse to say how, or where, or from whom it was that you had them?” said the old knight.
The king shook his head.
“I will only simply ask this,” continued he; “and I hope there is no offence.—Is it true that you got these hounds at the very same time that the beautiful Elen, and Clara of Rosline, were carried off by the fairies?”
The king started—fixed his eyes upon the ground—raised his hands, and seemed gasping for breath. All the lords were momentarily in the same posture; the query acted on them all like an electrical shock. The old man seemed to enjoy mightily the effect produced by his insinuations—He drew still nearer to the king.
“What is it that troubles your majesty?” said he. “What reflections have my simple questions raised in your mind?—Your majesty, I am sure, can have no unpleasant reflections on that score?”
“Would to the Virgin Mary that it were even so!” said the king.
“How is it possible,” continued the officious old man, “that any thing relating to two dogs can give your majesty trouble? Pray tell us all about them—Who was it you got them from?”
“I do not know, and if I did——”
“Would you know him again if you saw him?”
The king looked at the old man, and held his peace.
“Did you buy them, or borrow them?” continued he.
“Neither!” was the answer.
“What then did you give in exchange for them?”
“Only a small token.”
“And pray, if your majesty pleases, what might that token be?”
“Who dares to ask that?” said the king, with apparent trouble of mind.
“Would you know your pledge again if you saw it?” said the old man, sarcastically.
“Who are you, sir?” said the king, proudly, “that dares to question your sovereign in such a manner?”
“Who am I!” said the old man. “That is a good jest! That is such a question to ask at one who has scarcely ever been from your side, since you were first laid in your cradle!”
“I know the face,” said the king, “but all this time I cannot remember who you are.—My Lord of Hume, do you know who the reverend old gentleman is?” And in saying this his majesty turned a little aside with the earl.
“Do I know who he is?” said Hume. “Yes, by Saint Lawrence I do—I know him as well as I do your majesty. Let me see—It is very singular that I cannot recollect his name—I have seen the face a thousand times—Is he not some abbot, or confessor, or——No—Curse me, but I believe he is the devil!”
The earl said this in perfect jocularity, because he could not remember the old man’s name; but when he looked at the king, he perceived that his eyes were fixed on him in astonishment. The earl’s, as bysympathy, likewise settled by degrees into as much seriousness as they were masters of, and there the two stood for a considerable time, gazing at one another, like two statues.
“I was only saying so in jest, my liege,” said Hume; “I did not once think that the old gentleman was the devil. Why are you thoughtful?”
“Because, now when I think of it, he hinted at some things which I am certain no being on earth knew of, save myself, and another, who cannot possibly divulge them.”
They both turned slowly about at the same instant, curious to take another look of this mysterious old man; but when fairly turned round they did not see him.
“What has become of the old man,” said the king, “that spoke to me just now?”
“Here, sire!” said one.
“Here!” said another.
“Here!” said a third; all turning at thesame time to the spot where the old man and his horse stood, but neither of them were there.
“How is this?” said the king, “that you have let him go from among you without noting it?”
“He must have melted into air, he and his horse both,” said they; “else he could not otherwise have left us without being observed.”
The king blessed himself in the name of the Holy Virgin, and all the chief saints in the calendar. The Earl of Hume swore by the greater part of them, and cursed himself that he had not taken a better look at the devil when he was so near him, as no one could tell if ever he would have such a chance again. Douglas said he hoped there was little doubt of that.
The hunt was now over, and Gale’s lambs were all scattered abroad; he threw off his coat and tried to gather them, but he soon found that, without the assistance of Trimmy, it was impossible; so he was obliged to go home and endeavour to persuade her again out to the hill, by telling her that Mooly and Scratch had both left it. Trimmy then came joyfully, and performed in half an hour what her master could not have effected before night.
When he had gotten them all collected, and settled at their food, he went away in the evening to seek for his friend Croudy, to have some amusement with him. He found him lying in a little hollow, conversing with himself, and occasionally with Mumps, who paid very little attention to what he said. He now and then testified his sense of the honour intended to him, by giving two or three soft indolent strokes with his tail upon the ground, but withall neither lifted his head nor opened his eyes. Gale addressed his friend Croudy in a jocund and rallying manner, who took no notice of it, but continued to converse with Mumps.
“Ye’re nae great gallaunt, after a’ now, Mumps. Gin I had been you, man, an’ had seen sic twa fine beasts as Mooly an’ Scratch come to our hills, I wad hae run away to them, an’ fiddled about them, an’ smelt their noses, an’ kissed them, an’ cockit up my tail on my rigging wi’ the best o’ them; but instead o’ that, to tak the pet an’ rin away far outbye, an’ there sit turnin up your nose an’ bow-wowing as ye war a burial-boding!—hoo, man, it is very bairnly like o’ ye! Humph! fools do ay as theyare bidden! Ye’re nae fool, Mumps, for ye seldom do as ye’re bidden.”
“Tell me, Croudy,” said Gale, “does Mumps really run away in a panic when he perceives the king’s hounds?”
“Panic when he perceives the king’s hounds!Are ye gaun to keep on at bletherin’ English? Tell me, ye see—for if ye be, I’m gaun to clatter nane to ye.”
“Dear Croudy, I have often told you that there is not such a thing as English and Scotch languages; the one is merely a modification of the other, a refinement as it were”——
“Ay, anexaltationlike—ation! ation! I’m sure nae Scot that isna a fool wad ever let that sound,ation, come out o’ his mouth. Mumps, what say ye tilt?”
“But, Croudy, I have news to tell you that will delight you very much; only, ere I begin, tell me seriously, Does your dog really run off when he sees or hears the king’s two white hounds?”
“Really he does—Is that ony wonder?D’ye think Mumps sic a fool as no to ken a witch by a brute beast?”
“What do you mean to insinuate, Croudy?”
“Sinuate—What’s that?”
“I mean, What would you infer when you talk of witches? I have some strange doubts about these dogs myself.”
“Can you keep a secret?”
“Yes, if it is worth keeping.”
“At ony rate, swear that if ever you do tell it, it is not to be in English. Nane o’ yourawlis’san’ationsin it. Gale, I hae the maist wonderfu’ story to tell ye that ever happened sin’ Nimrod first gaed out to the hunting wi’ a bull-dog an’ a pouch-fu’ stanes. Ye see, yesterday at morn, when the hunt began, I clamb up into the Eildon tree, an’ haid mysel’ amang the very thickest o’ its leaves, where I could see every thing, but naething could see me. I saw the twa white hounds a’ the gate, but nae appearance of a deer; an’ aye they came nearer an’ nearer to me, till at last I saw abonny, braw, young lady, a’ clad i’ white, about a hunder paces frae me, an’ she was aye looking back an’ rinning as gin she wantit to be at the Eildon tree. When she saw the hounds comin on hard behind her, she cried out; but they soon o’ertook her, threw her down, an’ tore her, an’ worried her; an’ I heard her makin’ a noise as gin she had been laughin’ ae while an’ singin’ another, an’ O I thought her sang was sweet; it was something about the fairies. Weel, this scene, sae contrair to a’ nature, didna end here, for I heard the tae dog sayin’ to the tither, in plain language,—‘Wha’s this has been the deer to-day?’ An it answered again an’ said, ‘Lady Marrion of Coomsley, ye may see by her goud rings; she is the twenty-third, and our task will soon be dune.’
‘Sister, read me my riddle,’ said the first.