Chapter III

The old burial-ground, the spirit’s trysting-place, was a fair but a lonely spot. All around lay scenes renowned in tradition for blood, and broil, and secret violence. The parish was formerly a land of warrior’s towers, and of houses for penance, and vigil, and mortification. But the Reformation came, and sacked and crushed down the houses of devotion; while the peace between the two kingdoms curbed the courage, and extinguished for ever the military and predatory glory of those old Galwegian chieftains. It was in a burial-ground pertaining to one of those ancient churches, and where the peasants still loved to have their dust laid, that Ezra trusted to meet again the shadowy representative of the fierce old Laird of Bonshaw.

The moon, he computed, had a full hour to travel before her beams would be shed on the place of conference, and to that eerie and deserted spot Ezra was observed to walk like one consecrating an evening hour to solitary musing on the rivulet side. No house stood within half a mile; and when he reached the little knoll on which the chapel formerly stood, he sat down on the summit to ponder over the way to manage this singular conference. A firm spirit, and a pure heart, he hoped, would confound and keep at bay the enemy of man’s salvation; and he summed up, in a short historical way, the names of those who had met and triumphed over the machinations of fiends. Thus strengthened and reassured, he rose and looked around, but he saw no approaching shape. The road along which he expected the steed and rider to come was empty; and he walked towards the broken gate, to cast himself in the way, and show with what confidence he abode his coming.

Over the wall of the churchyard, repaired with broken and carved stones from the tombs and altar of the chapel, he now looked, and it was with surprise that he saw a new made widow kneeling over her husband’s grave, and about to pour out her spirit in lamentation and sorrow. He knew her form and face, and the deepest sorrow came upon him. She was the daughter of an old and a faithful elder: she had married a seafaring youth, and borne him one fair child. Her husband was returning from a distant voyage; had entered the sea of Solway; his native hills—his own home—rose to his view, and he saw the light streaming from the little chamber window, where his wife and his sweet child sat awaiting his return. But it was not written that they were to meet again in life. She heard the sweep of a whirlwind, and she heard a shriek, and going to her chamber-door, she saw the ship sinking, and her husband struggling in the agitated water. It is needless to lengthen a sorrowful story: she now threw herself weeping over his grave, and poured out the following wail:—

“He was the fairest among men, yet the sea swept him away: he was the kindest hearted, yet he was not to remain. What were all other men compared to him,—his long curling hair, and his sweet hazel eyes, and his kind and gladsome tongue? He loved me long, and he won me from many rivals; for who could see his face, and not love him? who could listen to his speech, and refuse him aught? When he danced, maids stood round, and thought his feet made richer music than the instruments. When he sang, the maids and matrons blessed him; and high-born dames loved the song of my frank and gentle sailor. But there is no mercy in the ocean for the sons of men; and there is nought but sorrow for their daughters. Men go gray-headed to the grave, who, had they trusted the unstable deeps, would have perished in their prime, and left fatherless babes, and sorrowing widows. Alas, alas! in lonely night, on this eerie spot, on thy low and early grave, I pour forth my heart! Who now shall speak peace to my mind, and open the latch of my little lonely home with thy kind and anxious hand? Who now shall dandle my sweet babe on his knee, or love to go with me to kirk and to preaching,—to talk over our old tales of love and courtship,—of the secret tryst and the bridal joy!”

And, concluding her melancholy chant, she looked sorrowfully and steadfastly at the grave, and recommenced anew her wailing and her tears.

The widow’s grief endured so long that the moon began to make her approach manifest by shooting up a long and a broad stream of thin, lucid, and trembling light over the eastern ridge of the Cumberland hills. She rose from her knees, shed back her moist and disordered locks, showing a face pale but lovely, while the watery light of two large dark eyes, of liquid and roving blue, was cast mournfully on the way homewards, down which she now turned her steps to be gone. Of what passed in the pastor’s mind at this moment, tradition, which sometimes mocks, and at other times deifies, the feelings of men, gives a very unsatisfactory account. He saw the hour of appointment with his shadowy messenger from the other world arrive and pass without his appearance; and he was perhaps persuaded that the pure, and pious, and overflowing grief of the fair young widow had prevented the intrusion of a form so ungracious and unholy. As she advanced from the burial-ground, the pastor of her parish stood mute and sorrowful before her. She passed him as one not wishing to be noticed, and glided along the path with a slow step and a downcast eye.

She had reached the side of a little lonely stream, which glided half seen, half hid, underneath its banks of broom and honeysuckle, sprinkled at that hour with wild daisies, and spotted with primroses—when the voice of Ezra reached her ears. She made a full stop, like one who hears something astounding, and turned round on the servant of the altar a face radiant with tears, to which her tale of woe, and the wild and lonely place, added an interest and a beauty.

“Young woman,” he began, “it is unseemly in thee to bewail thy loss at this lonely hour, and in this dreary spot: the youth was given to thee, and ye became vain. I remarked the pride of thy looks, and the gaudiness of thine apparel, even in the house of holiness; he is taken from thee, perhaps, to punish thy pride. There is less meekness in thy sorrow than there was reason in thy joy; but be ye not discomforted.”

Here the weeping lady turned the sidelong glance of her swimming eyes on Ezra, shed back the locks which usurped a white brow and snowy temples, and folding her hands over a bosom, the throbbings of which made the cambric that concealed it undulate like water, stood still, and drank in his words of comfort and condolence.

Tradition always conducts Ezra and the mariner’s widow to this seldom frequented place. A hundred and a hundred times have I mused over the scene in sunlight and moonlight; a hundred and a hundred times have I hearkened to the wild and variable accounts of the peasantry, and sought to make bank, and bush, and stream, and tree assist in unravelling the mystery which must still hang over the singular and tragic catastrophe. Standing in this romantic place, a pious man, not over-stricken in years, conversing with a rosy young widow, a vain and a fair creature, a bank of blossomed flowers beside them, and the new risen moon scattering her slant and ineffectual beams on the thick budded branches above them,—such is the picture which tradition invariably draws, while imagination endeavours to take up the tender thread of the story, and imagination must have this licence still. Truth contents herself with the summary of a few and unsatisfactory particulars. The dawn of morning came, says Truth, and Ezra had not returned to his manse. Something evil hath happened, said Imagination, scattering as she spoke a thousand tales of a thousand hues, many of which still find credence among the pious people of Galloway.

Josiah, the old and faithful servant of Ezra, arrived in search of his master at the lonely burial-ground, about the dawn of the morning. He had become alarmed at his long absence, and his alarm was not abated by the unholy voices which at midnight sailed round the manse and kirk, singing, as he imagined, a wild and infernal hymn of joy and thanksgiving. He traced his steps down the footpath by the rivulet side till he came to the little primrose bank, and found it trodden upon and pressed as if two persons had been seated among the flowers. Here all further traces ceased, and Josiah stood pondering on the power of evil spirits, and the danger of holding tryst with Beelzebub or any of the lesser spirits of darkness.

He was soon joined by an old shepherd, who told a tale which pious men refuse to believe, though they always listen to it. The bright moonlight had made him imagine it was morning, and he arose and walked forth to look at his lambs on the distant hill—the moon had been up for nearly an hour. His way lay near the little lonely primrose bank, and as he walked along he heard the whispering of tongues: he deemed it some idle piece of lovemaking, and he approached to see who they might be. He saw what ought not to be seen, even the reverend Ezra seated on the bank, and conversing with a buxom young dame and a strange one. They were talking wondrous kindly. He observed them for a little space; the young dame was in widow’s weeds; the mariner’s widow wore the only weeds, praise be blest, in the parish, but she was a raven to a swan compared to the quean who conversed with the minister. She was indeed passing fair, and the longer he looked on her she became the lovelier—ower lovely for mere flesh and blood. His dog shrunk back and whimpered, and an owl that chased a bird in the grove uttered a scream of terror as it beheld her, and forsook its prey. At length she turned the light of her eyes on himself; Will-o’-the-wisp was but a proverb to them; they had a glance he should never get the better of, and he hardly thought his legs carried him home, he flew with such supernatural speed.

“But, indeed,” added the cautious peasant, “I have some doubts that the whole was a fiction of the auld enemy, to make me think ill of the douce man and the godly; and if he be spared to come home, so I shall tell him. But if Ezra, pious man, is heard of nae mair, I shall be free to believe that what I heard I heard, and what I saw I saw. And Josiah, man, I may as weel give you the benefit of my own opinion. I’ll amaist aver on my Bible, that the minister, a daring man and a courageous,—ower courageous, I doubt,—has been dared out to the lonely place by some he, or, maybe, she-fiend—the latter maist likely; and there he has been overcome by might or temptation, and now Satan may come atween the stilts of the gospel plough, for the right hand of Ezra will hold it no longer; or I shouldna wonder,” added the shepherd, “but that the old dour persecutor Bonshaw has carried him away on his fiend-steed Geordie Johnstone; conscience! nought mair likely; and I’ll warrant even now they are ducking him in the dub of perdition, or picking his banes ahint the hallan o’ hell.”

The whole of this rustic prediction was not fulfilled. In a little deep wild dell, at the distance of a gunshot, they found Ezra Peden lying on the ground, uttering words which will be pardoned, since they were the words of a delirious tongue. He was carried home amid the sympathy and sorrow of his parishioners; he answered no question, nor seemed to observe a single face, though the face of many a friend stood round him. He only raved out words of tenderness and affection, addressed to some imaginary person at his side; and concluded by starting up, and raising such an outcry of horror and amazement, as if the object of his regard had become a demon: seven strong men could hardly hold him. He died on the third day, after making a brief disclosure, which may be readily divined from this hasty and imperfect narrative.

YOUNG RONALD OF MORAR:
_A TRADITIONARY TALE OF THE WESTERN HIGHLANDS_.

Angus Macdonald, a son of Clanranald, having quarrelled with his neighbour and namesake, the Laird of Morar, he made an irruption into that district, at the head of a select portion of his followers. One of his men was celebrated for his dexterity as a marksman; and on their march he gave a proof of this, by striking the head off the _canna_, or moss cotton, with an arrow. This plant is common on mossy ground in the Highlands; it is as white as the driven snow, and not half the size of the lily.

Having got possession of the cattle, Angus was driving away the _spreith_ to his own country; but Dugald of Morar pursued him with a few servants who happened to be at hand; and, being esteemed a man of great bravery, Angus had no wish to encounter him. He ordered the marksman to shoot him with an arrow; but the poor fellow, being unwilling to injure Dugald, aimed high, and overshot him. Angus observed this, and expressed his surprise that a man who could hit the _canna_ yesterday, could not hit Dugald’s broad forehead that day; and drawing his sword, swore that he would cleave the marksman’s head should he miss him again. John then reluctantly drew his bow, and Dugald fell to rise no more.

Angus got into his hands the only son of the dreaded Morar, then very young; and the treatment which the unfortunate boy received was calculated to injure his health and shorten his life. A poor girl, who attended the calves, had pity on him, and at last contrived to carry him away, wrapped up in a large fleece of wool. Having escaped from her pursuers, she made her way to the house of Cameron of Lochiel. Here she and the boy were most hospitably received; and, according to the custom of the country in those days, they passed a year and a day without being asked any question. At the end of that period, Lochiel made inquiry regarding the boy, and the girl candidly told him her story. He thus discovered that the boy was the son of his own wife’s sister; but he concealed the whole from his lady, of whose secrecy he was not very confident. But he treated young Ronald with great kindness. Lochiel had a son much of the same age; the two boys frequently quarrelled, and the lady was angry to see her own son worsted. She at last swore that “the girl and her vagabond must quit the house next morning.” The generous Lochiel set out with the boy to Inverness, where he boarded him under a false name, and placed the woman in the service of a friend in the neighbourhood, that she might have an eye to his condition.

Ronald received such education as befitted his birth; and when he grew up to manhood, he paid a visit to Lochiel, his kind benefactor, in Lochaber, who was so much satisfied with him, that he determined on giving him his powerful assistance in recovering his paternal estate, which was then in the possession of Angus.

Lochiel ordered a hundred men to attend himself and Ronald on this occasion; and they arrived in Morar on a Sunday, when the usurper and all his people were in church at mass. He congratulated the young man on the opportunity he now had of avenging his father’s blood, and destroying all his enemies at once, by burning them in the church. Ronald humanely objected, that though many of those persons then in the church were guilty of his father’s death, yet there were others innocent of that crime; and he declared that if his estate could not be recovered otherwise, he would rather want it, and trust to Providence and his own valour. Lochiel did not at all relish such sentiments, and left Ronald to his fate.

Ronald took refuge in a cavern, and the daughter of Angus, his only child, frequently passed that way, in looking after her father’s fold. He sometimes got into conversation with her; and, though but a child, she became attached to him. He prevailed upon her to get his shirts washed for him. Her father having accidentally discovered the linen bleaching, observed the initial letters of Ronald’s name; and making inquiry into the circumstances, soon suspected that he was at hand. He attempted to persuade his daughter to decoy Ronald into his power; but she told the young man all that her father proposed to her; and he, finding that Angus was still thirsting for his blood, immediately left the country, and took the girl along with him. With much difficulty he conveyed her in safety to Inverness, from whence he procured a passage to France, where he placed her in a convent. He entered the French army, and was much distinguished for his bravery; he was thus enabled to support himself, and to defray the expense of her education. When the young woman was of age, they were married, and returned to Scotland. Ronald having obtained strong recommendations to the king, he found means of being reconciled to Angus, who was then old, and had become very penitent. He made great professions of friendship and attachment to Ronald; but his daughter was always doubtful of his sincerity, and it would appear that she had justly appreciated his disposition. One night, Ronald having feigned intoxication and retired to rest, the old barbarian calculated that he would sleep very soundly, and slunk into his apartment, armed with a dirk, to stab his son-in-law; but the young man watched the treacherous hypocrite, and put him to death. Ronald obtained possession of his paternal estate, and, after a long and prosperous life, became the founder of a very respectable family.—_Lit. Gazette._

THE BROKEN RING.

BY ONE OF THE AUTHORS OF THE “ODD VOLUME.”

“Hout, lassie,” said the wily Dame Seton to her daughter, “dinna blear your een wi’ greeting. What would honest Maister Binks say, if he were to come in the now, and see you looking baith dull and dour? Dight your een, my bairn, and snood back your hair—I’se warrant you’ll mak a bonnier bride than ony o’ your sisters.”

“I carena whether I look bonny or no, since Willie winna see me,” said Mary, while her eyes filled with tears. “Oh, mother, ye have been ower hasty in this matter; I canna help thinking he will come hame yet, and make me his wife. It’s borne in on my mind that Willie is no dead.”

“Put awa such thoughts out o’ your head, lassie,” answered her mother; “naebody doubts but yoursel that the ship that he sailed in was whumelled ower in the saut sea—what gars you threep he’s leeving that gate?”

“Ye ken, mother,” answered Mary, “that when Willie gaed awa on that wearifu’ voyage, ‘to mak the crown a pound,’ as the auld sang says, he left a kist o’ his best claes for me to tak care o’; for he said he would keep a’ his braws for a day that’s no like to come, and that’s our bridal. Now, ye ken it’s said, that as lang as the moths keep aff folk’s claes, the owner o’ them is no dead,—so I e’en took a look o’ his bit things the day, and there’s no a broken thread among them.”

“Ye had little to do to be howking among a dead man’s claes,” said her mother; “it was a bonny like job for a bride.”

“But I’m no a bride,” answered Mary, sobbing. “How can ye hae the heart to speak o’t, mother, and the year no out since I broke a ring wi’ my ain Willie!—Weel hae I keepit my half o’t; and if Willie is in this world, he’ll hae the other as surely.”

“I trust poor Willie is in a better place,” said the mother, trying to sigh; “and since it has been ordered sae, ye maun just settle your mind to take honest Maister Binks; he’s rich, Mary, my dear bairn, and he’ll let ye want for naething.”

“Riches canna buy true love,” said Mary.

“But they can buy things that will last a hantle longer,” responded the wily mother; “so, Mary, ye maun tak him, if you would hae me die in peace. Ye ken I can leave ye but little. The house and bit garden maun gang to your brother, and his wife will mak him keep a close hand;—she’ll soon let you see the cauld shouther. Poor relations are unco little thought o’; so, lassie, as ye would deserve my benison, dinna keep simmering it and wintering it any longer, but take a gude offer when it’s made ye.”

“I’ll no hae him till the year is out,” cried Mary. “Wha kens but the ship may cast up yet?”

“I fancy we’ll hae to gie you your ain gate in this matter,” replied the dame, “mair especially as it wants but three weeks to the year, and we’ll need that to hae ye cried in the kirk, and to get a’ your braws ready.”

“Oh, mother, mother, I wish ye would let me die!” was Mary’s answer, as she flung herself down on her little bed.

Delighted at having extorted Mary’s consent to the marriage, Dame Seton quickly conveyed the happy intelligence to her son-in-law elect, a wealthy burgess of Dunbar; and having invited Annot Cameron, Mary’s cousin, to visit them, and assist her in cheering the sorrowful bride, the preparations for the marriage proceeded in due form.

On the day before that appointed for the wedding, as the cousins sat together, arranging the simple ornaments of the bridal dress, poor Mary’s feelings could no longer be restrained, and her tears fell fast.

“Dear sake, Mary, gie ower greeting,” said Annot; “the bonny white satin ribbon is wringing wet.”

“Sing her a canty sang to keep up her heart,” said Dame Seton.

“I canna bide a canty sang the day, for there’s ane rinnin’ in my head that my poor Willie made ae night as we sat beneath the rowan-tree outby there, and when we thought we were to gang hand in hand through this wearifu’ world,” and Mary began to sing in a low voice.

At this moment the door of the dwelling opened, and a tall, dark-complexioned woman entered, and saying, “My benison on a’ here,” she seated herself close to the fire, and lighting her pipe, began to smoke, to the great annoyance of Dame Seton.

“Gudewife,” said she gruffly, “ye’re spoiling the lassie’s gown, and raising such a reek, so here’s an awmous to ye, and you’ll just gang your ways, we’re unco thrang the day.”

“Nae doubt,” rejoined the spaewife, “a bridal time is a thrang time, but it should be a heartsome ane too.”

“And hae ye the ill-manners to say it’s otherwise?” retorted Dame Seton. “Gang awa wi’ ye, without anither bidding; ye’re making the lassie’s braws as black as coom.”

“Will ye hae yer fortune spaed, my bonny May?” said the woman, as she seized Mary’s hand.

“Na, na,” answered Mary, “I ken it but ower weel already.”

“You’ll be married soon, my bonny lassie,” said the sibyl.

“Hech, sirs, that’s piper’s news, I trow,” retorted the dame, with great contempt; “can ye no tell us something better worth the hearing?”

“Maybe I can,” answered the spaewife. “What would you think if I were to tell you that your daughter keeps the half o’ the gold ring she broke wi’ the winsome sailor lad near her heart by night and by day?”

“Get out o’ my house, ye tinkler!” cried Dame Seton, in wrath; “we want to hear nae such clavers.”

“Ye wanted news,” retorted the fortune-teller; “and I trow I’ll gie ye mair than you’ll like to hear. Hark ye, my bonnie lassie, ye’ll be married soon, but no to Jamie Binks,—here’s an anchor in the palm of your hand, as plain as a pikestaff.”

“Awa wi’ ye, ye leein’ Egyptian that ye are,” cried Dame Seton, “or I’ll set the dog on you, and I’ll promise ye he’ll no leave ae dud on your back to mend another.”

“I wadna rede ye to middle wi’ me, Dame Seton,” said the fortune-teller. “And now, having said my say, and wishing ye a blithe bridal, I’ll just be stepping awa;” and ere another word was spoken, the gipsy had crossed the threshold.

“I’ll no marry Jamie Binks,” cried Mary, wringing her hands; “send to him, mother, and tell him sae.”

“The sorrow take the lassie,” said Dame Seton; “would you make yoursel and your friends a warld wonder, and a’ for the clavers o’ a leein’ Egyptian,—black be her fa’, that I should ban.”

“Oh, mother, mother!” cried Mary, “how can I gie ae man my hand, when another has my heart?”

“Troth, lassie,” replied her mother, “a living joe is better than a dead ane ony day. But whether Willie be dead or living, ye shall be Jamie Binks’ wife the morn. Sae tak nae thought o’ that ill-deedy body’s words, but gang ben the house and dry your een, and Annot will put the last steek in your bonny white gown.”

With a heavy heart Mary saw the day arrive which was to seal her fate; and while Dame Seton is bustling about, getting everything in order for the ceremony, which was to be performed in the house, we shall take the liberty of directing the attention of our readers to the outside passengers of a stagecoach, advancing from the south, and rapidly approaching Dunbar. Close behind the coachman was seated a middle-aged, substantial-looking farmer, with a round, fat, good-humoured face, and at his side was placed a handsome young sailor, whose frank and jovial manner, and stirring tale of shipwreck and captivity, had pleasantly beguiled the way.

“And what’s taking you to Dunbar the day, Mr Johnstone?” asked the coachman.

“Just a wedding, John,” answered the farmer. “My cousin, Jamie Binks, is to be married the night.”

“He has been a wee ower lang about it,” said the coachman.

“I’m thinking,” replied the farmer, “it’s no the puir lassie’s fault that the wedding hasna been put off langer; they say that bonny Mary has little gude will to her new joe.”

“What Mary is that you are speaking about?” asked the sailor.

“Oh, just bonny Mary Seton that’s to be married the night,” answered the farmer.

“Whew!” cried the sailor, giving a long whistle.

“I doubt,” said the farmer, “she’ll be but a waefu’ bride, for the sough gangs that she hasna forgotten an auld joe; but ye see he was away, and no likely to come back, and Jamie Binks is weel to pass in the world, and the mother, they say, just made her life bitter till the puir lassie was driven to say she would take him. It is no right in the mother, but folks say she is a dour wife, and had aye an ee to the siller.”

“Right!” exclaimed the young sailor, “she deserves the cat-o’-nine tails!”

“Whisht, whisht, laddie,” said the farmer. “Preserve us! where is he gaun?” he continued, as the youth sprung from the coach and struck across the fields.

“He’ll be taking the short cut to the town,” answered the coachman, giving his horses the whip.

The coach whirled rapidly on, and the farmer was soon set down at Dame Seton’s dwelling, where the whole of the bridal party was assembled, waiting the arrival of the minister.

“I wish the minister would come,” said Dame Seton.

“We must open the window,” answered Annot, “for Mary is like to swarf awa.”

This was accordingly done, and as Mary sat close by the window, and gasping for breath, an unseen hand threw a small package into her lap.

“Dear sirs, Mary,” said Dame Seton, “open up the bit parcel, bairn; it will be a present frae your Uncle Sandie; it’s a queer way o’ gieing it, but he ne’er does things like ony ither body.” The bridal guests gathered round Mary as she slowly undid fold after fold. “Hech!” observed Dame Seton, “it maun be something very precious to be in such sma’ bouk.” The words were scarcely uttered when the half of a gold ring lay in Mary’s hand.

“Where has this come frae?” exclaimed Mary, wringing her hands. “Has the dead risen to upbraid me?”

“No, Mary, but the living has come to claim you,” cried the young sailor, as he vaulted through the open window, and caught her in his arms.

“Oh, Willie, Willie, where hae ye been a’ this weary time?” exclaimed Mary, while the tears fell on her pale cheek.

“That’s a tale for another day,” answered the sailor; “I can think of nothing but joy while I haud you to my breast, which you will never leave mair.”

“There will be twa words to that bargain, my joe,” retorted Dame Seton. “Let go my bairn, and gang awa wi’ ye; she’s trysted to be this honest man’s wife, and his wife she shall be.”

“Na, na, mistress,” said the bridegroom, “I hae nae broo o’ wedding another man’s joe: since Willie Fleming has her heart, he may e’en tak her hand for me.”

“Gude save us,” cried the farmer, shaking the young sailor by the hand, “little did I ken wha I was speaking to on the top of the coach. I say, guidwife,” he continued, “ye maun just let Willie tak her; nae gude e’er yet come o’ crossing true love.”

“’Deed, that’s a truth,” was answered by several bonny bridesmaids. Dame Seton, being deserted by her allies, and finding the stream running so strongly against her, at length gave an unwilling consent to the marriage of the lovers, which was celebrated amidst general rejoicings; and at the request of his bride, Willie, on his wedding-day, attired himself in the clothes which the moths had so considerately spared for the happy occasion.

A PASSAGE OF MY LIFE.

Maiden aunts are very tough. Their very infirmities seem to bring about a new term of life. They are like old square towers—nobody knows when they were built, and nobody knows when they will tumble down. You may unroof them, unfloor them, knock in their casements, and break down their doors, till the four old black walls stand, and stand through storm and sunshine year after year, till the eye, accustomed to contemplate the gradual decay of everything else, sickens to look at this anomaly in nature. My aunt, dear good soul, seemed resolved never to die,—at least to outlive her hopeful nephew. I thought she was to prove as perdurable as a dried mummy,—she was by this time equally yellow and exsiccated as any of the daughters of Pharaoh.

I had run myself quite aground. But my extravagances, as well as my distresses, I had the policy to conceal from my aged relative. She, honest lady, occasionally had pressed me to accept of some slight pittances of two or three £50’s at different times, which, after much difficulty and entreaty, I made a merit of accepting, stoutly asserting that I only received them to avoid hurting her feelings—that my own income was amply sufficient for the limited wants of a scholar, or to any one who could put in practice the rules of wholesome economy; but this trifle certainly would enable me to purchase a few rather expensive publications which I could not otherwise have hoped to do, and which would prove of essential use in furthering the progress of the two great works I had commenced while at college, and had been busy with ever since, viz.: “A History of Antediluvian Literature, Arts, and Sciences,” and, “A Dissertation on the Military Tactics of the Assyrians,” which I intended should appear along with the last volume of Valpy’s Greek Dictionary, or the first of Sir James Mackintosh’s History of Great Britain.

Fortune at last grew tired of persecuting me; she fairly turned her wheel, and put me on the brightest spoke. My aunt’s factor called one day, and let me know that he thought I should make my visits at Broadcroft more frequent—take a little interest in looking over the ditching and draining of the estate (short-sighted man, he little knew how much I had ditched and drained it by anticipation!)—walk through the woods and plantations, and bestow my opinion as to thinning them (they were long ago, in my own mind, transferred to the timber-yard)—apply myself a little to master the details of business connected with agricultural affairs, such as markets, green and white crops, manure, &c. &c.; and concluded by telling me that his son was a remarkably clever lad, knew country matters exceedingly well, and would be a most valuable acquisition as factor or land grieve to any gentleman of extensive landed property. The drift of this communication I perfectly understood. I listened with the most profound attention, lamented my own ignorance of the subjects wherein his clever son was so much at home, and wished only that I had an estate, that I might entrust it to the care of so intelligent a steward. After dispatching a bottle or two of claret, we parted mutually pleased.

He had seen my aunt’s will, and, in the fulness of his heart, ran over the legal jargon which constituted me the owner of Broadcroft, Lilliesacre, Kittleford, Westerha’, Cozieholm, Harperston, and Oxgang, with hale parts and pendicles, woods and fishings, mills and mill-lands, muirs and mosses, rights of pasturage and commonty. I never heard more delightful music all my days than the hour I spent hearkening to this old rook cawing over the excellent lands that were mine in prospective. My aunt’s letters, after this, I found assumed a querulous tone, and became strongly impregnated with religious commonplaces—a sure sign to me that she herself was now winding up her earthly affairs—and generally concluded with some such sentence as this: “I am in a comfortable frame of spirit, but my fleshly tabernacle is sorely decayed—great need hath it of a sure prop in the evening of its days.” These epistles I regularly answered, seasoning them with scriptural texts as well as I could. Some, to be sure, had no manner of connection or application whatsoever; but I did not care for that if they were there. I stuck them thick and threefold, for I knew my aunt was an indulgent critic, provided she got plenty of matter. I took the precaution also of paying the postage, for I learned, with something like satisfaction, that of late she had become rather parsimonious in her habits. I also heard that she daily took much comfort in the soul-searching and faith-fortifying discourses of Mr Samuel Salmasius Sickerscreed, a migratory preacher of some denomination or other, who had found it convenient for some months to pitch his tent in the Broadcroft. Several of my aunt’s letters told me, in no measured terms, her high opinion of his edifying gifts. With these opinions, as a matter of course, I warmly coincided. Sheet after sheet now poured in from Broadcroft. I verily thought all the worthy divines, from the Reformation downwards, had been put in requisition to batter me to pieces with choice and ghostly counsel.

This infliction I bore up against with wonderful fortitude, and repaid with my weightiest metal. To supply the extraordinary drafts thus made on my stores of devout phraseology, I had to call in my worthy friend Tom ——. He had been a regularly-bred theologian, but finding the casque more fitting for his hot head than the presbyter’s cowl, he now lived in elegant starvation as a dashing cornet in the —— Dragoons, and a better fellow never breathed. His assistance was of eminent service: when we exhausted our own invention, we immediately transcribed the sermon of some forgotten divine of last century, and sent it thundering off. These we denominated _shells_. At this time Tom’s fortune and mine were hanging on the same pin; we were both up to the chin in debt; we had stretched our respective personal credits, as far as they would go, for each other. We were involved in such a beautiful multitude and labyrinth of mutual obligations, that we could neither count them nor see our way out of them. In the holy siege of Broadcroft citadel we therefore joined heart and hand.

In this manner things went on smoothly. My aunt was becoming daily weaker, seldom left her own bedroom, and permitted no person to see her save the Rev. S. S. Sickerscreed. Indeed, every letter I received from my aunt intimated more plainly than its predecessor that I might make up my mind for a great and sudden change, and prepare myself for afflictions. As in duty bound, my answers breathed of sorrow and resignation—lamented the mutability of this world—its nothingness—the utter vanity of all earthly joys. I really loved the good old lady; but I was hampered most villanously. I knew not a spot where I could put the sole of my foot, without some legal mine blowing me up a shivered rag into the azure firmament,—a fate a thousand times more picturesque than pleasant. I may therefore be excused for confessing that I looked upon my aunt’s release from this world as the dawn of my own deliverance. Yet, even then, I felt shame when I looked into the chambers of my heart, and found that every feeling of grief I had there for my aunt’s illness was beautifully edged with a gleam of satisfaction. The cypresses and yews, and other mournful trees that threw their pensive shadows around me, were positively resting above a burning volcano of joy. No; it was not in human nature for a desperate man like me to exclude from his contemplation the bills, bonds, moneys, and manors that had accumulated for years under her thrifty and prudent management.

One morning, while musing in this indescribable state of feeling, a little ragged boy, besmeared with dust and sweat, whom I recognised as turnspit and running footman of the establishment at Broadcroft, thrust a crumpled greasy-like billet in my hand.

“Come awa, laird, come awa, gin ye would like to see your auld auntie afore she gangs aff a’thegither.”

I started up, threw down the “Sporting Magazine,” and instinctively snatched up my hat.

“When did it happen, wee Jamie?”

“This morning, nae far’er gane—but come awa; everything’s gaun tap-salteerie at Braidcraft—sae unexpected by us a’! Has your horse been fed yet? Dinna put aff, but come awa. We’re a’ dementit ower the way, and ye’re muckle wanted, and sair missed.”

With this wee Jamie darted away; I roared after him to obtain further particulars, but wee Jamie shot off like an arrow, only twisting his head over his shoulder, notwithstanding his trot, he screamed—

“Gerss maunna grow under my heels, if I care for my lugs. But it’s a’ by noo, and there’s nae gude in granin’.”

With which sapient remark the kitchen boy got out of hearing, and soon out of sight.

I now hastily broke the black wax of the billet. The note was subscribed by Mr S. S. Sickerscreed, and was written in his most formal small-text hand. He had been a schoolmaster in his youth, and could write legibly, which no gentleman who regards his _caste_ should do. The three big S S S were dearer to me than a collar of knighthood. It required my immediate presence at Broadcroft to talk over certain serious and impressive matters. So had Mr Samuel Salmasius Sickerscreed penned his billet, and in the fulness of my heart I gave the poor man credit for an excess of delicacy more than I ever noticed had belonged to him before. Poor dear man, he, too, has lost a valuable friend. Judging of the exquisiteness of my feelings by the agony of his own, he has kindly delayed the fatal announcement of my aunt’s demise, till my heart has been prepared to meet the shock with becoming fortitude. How considerate—how very compassionate he has been! Worthy man—would I could repay his kindness with a benifice! Thus did I soliloquise over the dispatch from Broadcroft; but notwithstanding the tumult which it and its bearer raised in my bosom, I did not omit communicating to Tom the unexpected change which a few hours had produced in our destinies, and charging him at the same time to moderate his transports till I returned with a confirmation of our hopes.

Then backing my stoutest hunter, and taking a crow’s flight across the country, I spared not her heaving flanks, nor drew bridle, till I reached the long, straight, dusky avenue that led to the tall, narrow slip of a house yclept Broadcroft Place. Here I slackened my pace, and left my wearied and panting brute to crawl as lazily as she liked along the avenue. I, too, lengthened my visage to the requisite degree necessary for the melancholy purpose on which I came. The very trees had a lugubrious and sepulchral aspect. I took them in fancy to be so many _Sawlies_ waiting the time for heading the funeral procession of my lamented aunt. They seemed to mourn for her in sincere sorrow, and, in fact, walking under their shadows disposed my mind very much to melancholy. Now a green leaf, now a withered one, dropped on my beaver as I passed, and in the deep silence that reigned around me, I could not, despite my constitutional recklessness, be wholly insensible to the appeals these mute emblems of man’s mortality made to reflection.

But a pleasanter train of feelings arose when I looked at the stately trunks of the venerable oaks, their immense girth, and (with a glow of patriotic virtue, quite common now-a-days) pictured forth to myself how admirably they were suited to bear Britannia’s thunders triumphantly across the wave. Yes, every tree of them shall be devoted to the service of my country. Perish the narrow thought, that for its own gratification would allow them to vegetate in unprofitable uselessness, when they can be so beneficially employed for the state. Every old, druidical-looking oak which my eye scanned was, of course, devoted to the axe. I already saw the timber yards piled with Broadcroft oak, and the distant sea my imagination soon whitened with a fleet of noble barks wholly built of them. Thus did I speculate till I reached the end of the avenue, where, to my surprise, I found a travelling post-chaise and four drawn up before the door of the mansion. This vehicle, an apparition of rare occurrence in so secluded a part of the country, and at the residence of so retired a lady as my departed aunt, was literally crushed with trunks, and boxes, and bags, and packages of one kind or another, strapped above, behind, and before it.

Being never unfertile in surmises, I immediately guessed that the equipage I saw must, of necessity, belong to the clerk to the signet, my aunt’s city lawyer, who had trundled himself into the country with the whole muniments of my estate, for the mere purpose of welcoming me, and regulating my deceased relative’s affairs. His prompt appearance, I attributed, with my usual goodness of heart, to the kindly foresight of Mr Samuel. I really did not know how I could sufficiently recompense him for the warm, disinterested, and valuable services he had rendered in this season of affliction. But my aunt must have remembered him in her testament. She was ever grateful. She cannot possibly have overlooked him. As the d—l would have it, I then asked myself, now, if your aunt has forgotten Mr Samuel Salmasius Sickerscreed altogether, how will you act? At first, I said he must have £100 at least; then as I looked on my own necessities, the uncertainty of rents, the exorbitance of taxes, this sum speedily subsided into half the amount. And by the time I fairly reached my aunt’s door, I found my mind reconciling itself to the handsome duty of presenting Mr Sickerscreed with a snuff-box, value £2, 10s., a mourning ring worth 30s., a new coat, and ten guineas; in all, some twenty pieces of gold or thereby.

On alighting, I gave my horse to the servant to walk and cool. John was old as his late mistress—a very good, foolish, gray-headed domestic, marvellously fond of the family he served with, and marvellously fond of conversation. He looked profoundly melancholy when he took my reins.

“It’ll be a sair dispensation to you, Maister William,” quoth John, “this morning’s news. Ye wud be wonderfully struck and put about when ye heard it.”

“It is, indeed,” said I, throwing as much of mournfulness as possible into the tones of my voice. “Heavy news indeed, and most unexpected. Great cause have I to grieve. My poor dear aunt to be thus lost to me for ever!”

“Nae doubt, nae doubt, Maister William, ye maun hae a heavy heartfu’. We were a’ jalousing as muckle,—that’s me, Souple Rab, and wee Jamie; however, it’ll no do to be coosten down a’thegither,—a rainy night may bring a blithe morrow. Every thing is uncertain in this world but death! But come on, Kate;” and John and my reeking jade disappeared in the direction towards the stable; John, no doubt, bursting with impatience till he could communicate to his select cabinet, Souple Rab and wee Jamie, the awsome and doncie looks of the young laird.

I was yet lingering on the threshold in a most comfortable frame of mind, when the door was thrown open. Imagine my horror when the first figure I saw was my aunt herself, not in the drapery of the grave, but bedizzened with ribbons from head to heel, and leaning her withered hand on the arm of the Reverend Mr Sickerscreed. I gasped for breath—my tongue swelled and clung to the roof of my mouth—my eyes literally started from their sockets as if they would leave their bony casements altogether. Had I not caught hold of the porch, down I should have dropped.

“Am I in my senses, aunt? Do I see you really alive? Is this no unreal mockery—no cruel hallucination? Resolve me, for Heaven’s sake, else I go mad.”

“Dear me, nephew,” said the old lady, “what agitates you so? I feel so glad that you have paid me this visit ere I set off on my marriage jaunt with the elect of my heart, your worthy connection, Mr Sickerscreed.”

“Marriage!” thundered I, “marriage!—I came to mourn over your bier, not to laugh at your bridal. O, the infernal cruelty, Mr What’s-your-name, to despatch your pharisaical letter sealed with black wax.”

“Young wrathful,” meekly rejoined Mr Samuel, “it was dark green wax, most emblematic, as I said to your aunt, my dear spouse, of the unfading verdure of our harmonious affections.”

“Black and green fiends dog you to Satan,” roared I. “What an ass you have made of me! Farewell, a long farewell, to all my greatness. Oh! Broadcroft, Lilliesacre, Kittleford, Cozieholm, and Oxgang, perished in the clap of a hand, and for ever! The churchman’s paw is upon you, and a poor fellow has no chance now of a single rood!”

With some more stuff of this kind, I parted with my venerable aunt and her smooth-tongued spouse. These petrifactions of humanity had the charity, I suppose, to consider me moon-struck. I heard Mr Samuel sweetly observe, that verily the young lad’s scholarship had driven him mad. I wished the rogue at the bottom of the Red Sea, or in the farthest bog of Connaught, paring turf and cultivating potatoes—anywhere but where I now saw him. I could have eaten him up raw and unsodden, without salt or pepper, where he stood—ground his bones to dust, or spit upon him till he was drowned in the flood of my spite. I did neither; but throwing myself again on the back of Kate, off I scampered home, more like a fury than a man.

In my way there was not a rascal I met but seemed to my heated imagination to know my misfortunes, and enjoy, with sly satisfaction, their fearful consummation. Two fellows I cut smartly across the cheek; they were standing coolly by the wayside, with their hands in their pockets, interchanging winks, and thrusting their tongues provokingly out like hounds on a hot day. They did not relish the taste of my thong, and one of them made an awkward squelsh into a ditch on receipt, head over heels, immensely to my heart’s content.

It was evening when I reached the little village where my head-quarters for some weeks had been established. To add to my miseries, I found that Tom had, in my absence, with his usual volatility of temperament, been entertaining a numerous party in the Cross Keys, on the faith of my accession of property. When I rode past the tavern, my ears were assailed with most extraordinary sounds of festivity, and my head endangered by a shower of bottles and glasses that his reckless boon companions were discharging from the windows. Some of these windows, too, were illuminated with multitudes of _dips_—the extravagant dog!—three to the pound. And some coarse transparencies were flaunting in my face pithy sentences, such as—“A Glorious Revolution,” “Splendid Victory,” “Jubilee to Hopeless Creditors,” “Intelligence Extraordinary!!” &c. Then, at every pause of the maddening din, the explosion of another bottle of champagne smote my ear like a death-knell. Cork after cork popped against the ceiling—crack, crack, they went like a running fire along a line of infantry, while loud above the storm rose the vociferations of my jolly friend, as he cheered them on to another bumper, with all the honours, or volunteered his own song. Poor Tom, he had only one song, which he wrote himself, and never failed to sing to the deafening of every one when he was drunk. It was never printed, and here you have as much of it as I remember, to vary the melancholy texture of my story:—

SONG.

Fill a can, let us drink,
For ’tis nonsense to think
Of the cares that may come with to-morrow;
And ’tis folly as big
As the Chancellor’s wig,
To dash present joy with dull sorrow.
Hip! hip! hip! fill away;
Our life’s but a day,
And ’twere pity that it proved a sad one;
’Twas in a merry pin
Our life did begin,
And we’ll close it, brave boys, in a mad one!
Hip! hip! hip! &c.

Never shrink, boys, but stand,
With a can in each hand,
Like a king with his globe and his sceptre;
And though slack in your joints,
Yet thus armed at all points,
The devil himself can’t you capture.
Hip! hip! hip! fill aright,
Should he seek us to-night,
We’ll toss off the old rogue as a whetter;
When the hot cinder’s down,
Take my oath on’t, you’ll own,
That good luck could not furnish a better.
Hip! hip! hip! &c.

Dull sophists may say,
Who have ne’er wet their clay,
That merry old wine gives no bliss,
But the flask’s sparkling high,
Gives the dotards the lie,
Crying, kiss me, my roaring lads, kiss!
Hip! hip! hip! jolly boys!
He who quarrels with those joys,
Which the longer they’re sipped of grow sweeter,
May he live to be wise,
And then when he sighs
For a smack, let him choke with this metre.
Hip! hip! hip! &c.

This was followed with what Tom emphatically styled a grand crash of melody; that is, overturning the table, and burying in one indiscriminate ruin, bowls, bottles, glasses, and all things brittle.

My heart sickened at the riot, and, broken in spirit and penniless, I retreated to my lodgings.

Here I had at least peace to ruminate over my prostrate fortunes; but as meditation would not mend them, and next morning would assuredly bring the dire intelligence of my aunt’s marriage, I, that same night, made a forced march, anxious to secure a convenient spot for rustication and retirement, till fortune should again smile, or the ferocity of my creditors be somewhat tamed. Poor Tom! I had the savage satisfaction of breaking up his carousal by a few cabalistic words written in a strong half-text hand: “Stole away! Done up.—Fooled and finished.—Run, if you love freedom, and hate stone walls. You will find me earthed in the old hole.”

Next evening I was joined by my luckless shadow. He had a hard run for it; the scent lay strong, and the pack were sure-nosed and keen as razors. But he threw them out from his superior knowledge of localities. After this we both became exceedingly recluse and philosophical in our habits. We had the world to begin anew, and we had each our own very particular reasons for not making a noise about it.—_Paisley Magazine._

THE COURT CAVE:
_A LEGENDARY TALE OF FIFESHIRE_.

BY DRUMMOND BRUCE.