Chapter II (5)

Will Mather was about two years older than Nancy—a fine youth, attending the same school, and evidently an admirer of Nancy. Mine was the love of comparative boyhood; but his was a passion gradually ripening (as the charms of Nancy budded into womanhood) into a manly and matrimonial feeling. I loved the girl merely as such—his eye, his heart, his whole soul were in his future bride. Marriage in no shape ever entered into my computations; but his eager look and heaving bosom bespoke the definite purpose—the anticipated felicity. I don’t know exactly why, but I was never jealous of Will Mather. We were companions; and he was high-souled and generous, and stood my friend in many perilous quarrels. I knew that _my_ pathway in life was to be afar from that in which Nancy and Will were likely to walk; and I felt in my heart that, dear as this beautiful rosebud was to me, I was not _man_ enough—I was not _peasant_ enough to wear it in my bosom. Had Nancy on any occasion turned round to be kissed by me, I would have fled over muir and dale to avoid her presence; and yet I had often a great desire to obtain that favour. Once, indeed, and only once, did I obtain, or rather steal it. She was sitting beside a bird’s nest, the young ones of which she was feeding and cherishing—for the parent birds, by the rapacity of a cat, had recently perished. As the little bills were expanding to receive their food, her countenance beamed with pity and benevolence. I never saw even _her_ so lovely; so, in a moment, I had her round the neck, and clung to her lips with the tenacity of a creature drowning. But, feeling at once the awkwardness of my position, I took to my heels, becoming immediately invisible amidst the surrounding brushwood.

Such was Will Mather, and such was Nancy Morrison, at the period of which I am speaking. We must now advance about two or three years in our chronology, and find Will possessed of a piece of information which bore materially on his future fortunes. Will was an illegitimate child. His mother had kept the secret so well that he did not know his father, though he had frequently urged her to reveal to him privately all that she knew of his parentage. In conversing, too, with Nancy, his now affianced bride, he had expressed similar wishes; whilst she, with a becoming and feminine modesty, had urged him not to press an aged parent on so delicate a point. At last the old woman was taken seriously ill, and, on her death-bed and at midnight, revealed to her son the secret of his birth. He was the son of a proprietor in the parish, and a much-respected man. The youth, so soon as he had closed his mother’s eyes, hurried off, amidst the darkness, to the abode of his father, and, entering by a window, was in his father’s bed-chamber and over his body ere he was fully awake.

“John Scott!” said the son, in a firm and terrible tone, grasping his parent meantime convulsively round the neck, “John Scott of Auchincleuch, _I am thy son_!”

The conscience-stricken culprit, being taken by surprise, and almost imagining this a supernatural intimation from Heaven, exclaimed, in trembling accents:

“But who are you that makes this averment?”

“I am thy son, father—oh, I am thy son!”

Will could say no more; for his heart was full, and his tears dropped hot and heavy on a father’s face.

“Yes,” replied the parent, after a convulsive solemn sob—(O Heaven! thou art just!)—“yes, thou _art_ indeed my son—my long-denied and ill-used boy—whom the fear of the world’s scorn has tempted me, against all the yearnings of my better nature, to use so unjustly. But come to my bosom—to a father’s bosom _now_, for I know that voice too well to distrust thee.”

In a few months after this interesting disclosure, John Scott was numbered with his fathers, and Will Scott (no longer Mather) became Laird of Auchincleuch.

Poor Nancy was at first somewhat distressed at this discovery, which put her betrothed in a position to expect a higher or genteeler match. But there was no cause of alarm. Will was true to the backbone, and would as soon have burned his Bible as have sacrificed his future bride. After much pressing for an early day on the part of the lover, it was agreed, at last, that the marriage should take place at “Peatcasting Time,” and that Nancy should, for the last time, assist at the casting of her mother’s peats.

I wish I could stop here, or at least proceed to give you an account of the happy nuptials of Will Scott and Nancy Morrison, the handsomest couple in the parish of Closeburn. But it may not be! These eyes, which are still filled (though it is forty-eight years since) with tears, and this pen, which trembles as I proceed, must attest and record the catastrophe.

Nancy, the beautiful bride, and I (for I was now on the point of leaving school for college) agreed to have a jump for the last time (often had we jumped before) from a suitable moss-brow.

“My frolicsome days will sune be ower,” she cried, laughing; “the Gudewife of Auchincleuch will hae something else to do than jump frae the moss-brow; and, while my name is Nancy Morrison, I’ll hail the dules, or jump wi’ the best o’ my auld playmates.”

“Weel dune, Nancy!” cried I; “you are now to be the wife o’ the Laird o’ Auchincleuch, when your jumping days will be at an end; and I am soon to be sent to college, where the only jump I may get may be from the top of a pile of old black-letter folios—no half sae gude a point of advantage as the moss-brow.”

“There’s the Laird o’ Auchincleuch coming,” cried Peggy Chalmers, one of the peat-casters, who was standing aside, along with several others. “He’s nae langer the daft Will Mather, wha liked a jump as weel as the blithest swankie o’ the barnyard. Siller maks sair changes; and yet, wha wad exchange the Will Scott of Auchincleuch, your rich bridegroom, Nancy, for the Will Mather, your auld lover? Dinna tempt Providence, my hinny! The laird winna like to see his bride jumpin frae knowe to knowe like a daft giglet, within a week o’ her marriage.”

“Tout!” cried Nancy, bursting out into a loud laugh; “see, he’s awa round by the Craw Plantin, and winna see us—and whar’s the harm if he did? Come now, Tammie, just ae spring and the last, and I’ll wad ye my kame against your cravat, that I beat ye by the length o’ my marriage slipper.”

“Weel dune, Nancy!” cried several of the peat-casters, who, leaning on their spades, stood and looked at us with pleasure and approbation.

The Laird had, as Nancy said, crossed over by what was called the Craw Plantin, and was now out of sight. To make the affair more ludicrous (for we were all bent on fun), Nancy took out, from among her high-built locks of auburn hair, her comb—a present from her lover—and impledged it in the hands of Billy Watson, along with my cravat, which I had taken off, and handed to the umpire.

“Here is a better moss-brow,” cried one, at a distance.

And so to be sure it was, for it was much higher than the one we had fixed upon, and the landing-place was soft and elastic. Our practice was, always to jump together, so that the points of the toes could be measured when both the competitors’ feet were still fixed in the moss. We mounted the mossbrow. I was in high spirits, and Nancy could scarcely contain herself for pure, boisterous, laughing glee. I went off, but the mad girl could not follow, for she was still holding her sides, and laughing immoderately. I asked her what she laughed at. She could not tell. She was under the influence of one of those extraordinary cachinations that sometimes convulse our diaphragms, without our being able to tell why, and certainly without our being able to put a stop to them. Her face was flushed, and the fire of her glee shone bright in her eye. I took my position again.

“Now!” cried I; and away we flew, and stuck deeply in the soft and spongy moss.

I stood with my feet in the ground, that the umpire might come and mark the distance. A loud scream broke on my ear. I looked round, and, dreadful sight! I saw Nancy lying extended on the ground, with the blood pouring out at her mouth in a large stream! She had burst a blood-vessel. The fit of laughing which preceded her effort to leap had, in all likelihood, distended her delicate veins, and predisposed her to the unhappy result.

The loud scream had attracted the notice of the bridegroom, who came running from the back of the Craw Plantin. The sight appalled and stupefied him. He cried for explanation, and ran forward to his dead or dying bride, in wild confusion. Several voices essayed an explanation, but none were intelligible. I was as unable as the rest to satisfy the unhappy man; but, though we could not speak intelligibly, we could act, and several of us lifted her up. This step sealed her fate. The change in her position produced another stream of blood. She opened her eyes once, and fixed them for a moment on Will Scott. She then closed them, and for ever.

I saw poor Nancy carried home. Will Scott, who upheld her head, fainted before he proceeded twenty yards, and I was obliged to take his place. I was almost as unfit for the task as himself; for I reproached myself as the cause of her death. I have lived long. Will the image of that procession ever pass from my mind? The blood-stained moss-ground, the bleeding body, the trailing clothes, the unbound locks, are all before me. I can proceed no further. Would that I could stop the current of my thoughts as easily as that of this feathered chronicler of sorrow! But—

There is a silent sorrow here,
A grief I’ll ne’er impart;
It breathes no sigh, it sheds no tear,
But it consumes my heart.

I have taken up my pen to add, that Will Mather still remains a bachelor, and that on every visit I make to Dumfriesshire, I take my dinner, _solus cum solo_, at Auchincleuch, and that many tears are annually shed, over a snug bottle, for poor Nancy.

AN ADVENTURE WITH THE PRESS-GANG.

How goes the press? was, as usual, our first and most anxious inquiry when the pilot boat came alongside to the westward of Lundy Island. The brief but emphatic reply was, “As hot as blazes.” Knowing therefore what we had to expect, the second mate and I, and one or two others, applied to the captain to set us ashore at Ilfracomb, but he would not listen to us. A double-reefed topsail breeze was blowing from the westward, and a vigorous flood-tide was setting up channel, enabling us to pass over the ground about fifteen knots. Such advantages the captain was no way disposed to forego, so that there was nothing for us but to trust to Providence and our stow holes. The breeze flagged towards sunset, and it was not until an hour after dusk that we dropped anchor in Kingroad.

As soon as the ship was brought up, I stepped in the main rigging to lend a hand to furl the topsail, but had not reached the top, when I heard the cabin boy calling out in an Irish whisper, “Bobstay, down, down, the press-boat is alongside.” I was on deck in a twinkling, and was springing to the after scuttle, when I found myself seized violently by the arm. I trembled. It was the same boy that had called me down. “They are already in the mizen chains,” said he; “to the fore scuttle, or you are a gone man.”

Down the fore peak I went with the rapidity of lightning, and down jumped three of the gang after me with little less velocity.

“Oho, my tight little fellow,” said one of them, thrusting his cutlass down a crevice over my head; “I see you; out you must come, or here goes an inch or two of cold steel into your bread-bag.”

I knew well that I was beyond his reach, and took care to let him have all the talk to himself. They rummaged about all over the hold, thrusting their cutlasses down every chink they could perceive, but no one could they find give a single squeak. In about half an hour I heard the well-known voice of the cabin boy calling me on deck. On reaching the deck, I found that the gang had carried off three of our hands, and had expressed their determination to renew their search next day. Of course my grand object was to get ashore without delay. The moment we anchored, the captain had gone off to Bristol to announce his arrival to his owners; and as the mate and I were not on good terms, he refused to allow me the use of the ship’s boat. None of the watermen whose boats we hailed would come alongside, because if they had been found assisting the crew of merchant vessels to escape the press, they themselves would have been subjected to its grasp. About midnight, however, one waterman came alongside, with whom the love of money overcame the fear of danger, and he agreed to pull the second mate, boatswain, and myself ashore, for half a guinea each. I had brought from the West Indies a small venture in sugar, a cask of which, about a hundredweight, I took into the boat with me, to clear present expenses.

Shortly after we had shoved off, we found ourselves chased by a long boat, which the waterman knew, by the sound of the oars, to be the guard-boat. How we did pull! But it seemed in vain; we found it would be impossible to reach the landing-place, so we pulled for the nearest point of land. The moment the boat touched the ground, I took the cask of sugar on my shoulder, and expecting solid ground under the boat’s bows, jumped ashore. Instead of solid ground, I found myself above the knees in mud. The guard-boat was within a hundred yards of the shore, and what was to be done! All that a man has will he give for his liberty, so away went the cask of sugar. Thus lightened, I soon scrambled out, when the three of us scampered off as fast as it was possible for feet to carry us. What became of the waterman, or his boat, or my cask of sugar, we never knew; nor did we think of stopping to breathe or look round us, till we reached the town of Peel, where by a blazing fire and over a dish of beef-steaks, and a few tankards of brown stout, we soon forgot our dangers and our fears.

Our residence here, as far as liberty was concerned, was pretty nearly on a par with prison residence. The second mate and I lodged together, and during daylight we never durst show our faces, except, perhaps, between four and six in the morning, when we sometimes took a ramble in a neighbouring burying-ground, to read epitaphs; and this, from the love of the English to poetical ones, was equivalent to the loan of a volume of poetry. But Time’s pinions seemed in our eyes loaded with lead, and we were often inclined to sing with the plaintive swain,

Ah! no, soft and slow
The time it winna pass,
The shadow of the trysting thorn,
Is tether’d on the grass.

And had it not been for the kindly attentions of our landlord’s two handsome daughters, to whose eyebrows we indited stanzas, I know not how we would have got the time killed.

Snug as we thought ourselves, the press-gang had by some means or other been put on the scent, and one day very nearly pounced on us. So cautious had they been in their visit, that their approach was not perceived until they were actually in the kitchen. Fortunately we were at this time in an upper room, and one of the daughters rightly judging of the purpose of their visit, flew upstairs to warn us of our danger, and point out a place of safety. This place was above the ceiling, and the only access to it was through a hole in the wall a little way up the vent. It was constructed as a secure place to lodge a little brandy or geneva, that sometimes found its way to the house, without having been polluted with the exciseman’s rod. It was excellently adapted to our purpose, and the entrance to it was speedily pointed out by our pretty little guardian angel. Up the vent we sprung like a brace of chimney sweeps, and had scarcely reached our place of concealment, when the gang rushed upstairs, burst open the door, and began to rummage every corner of the room. The bed was turned out, the presses all minutely examined, and even the vent itself underwent a scrutiny, but no seamen could be found.

“Tell us, my young lady, whereabout you have stowed away them there fellows, for we knows they are in the house?”

“What fellows?” said the dear little girl, with a composure which we thought it impossible for her to assume so soon after her violent trepidation.

“Why, them there fellows as came ashore from one of the West Indiamen t’other day; we knows they are here, and are determined to have ’em.”

“You have certainly been misinformed,” said she; “you are welcome to search the house, but be assured you will find no such men here.”

“Come, come, my little fair un, that is all in my eye and Betty Martin. Here they are, this is certain, and we are determined to make our quarters good till we find them out;” and away they went to search the other apartments of the house.

Meanwhile our charming little protectress, alarmed at the threatened siege, and fearing that we would be starved into a surrender, took the opportunity, while the gang were rummaging the parlour and some other bedrooms, to supply our garrison with provisions. A basket with boiled ham, a couple of capons, a household loaf of ample dimensions, half-a-dozen of brown stout, the family bottle of excellent stingo, and a can of water, were expeditiously handed up the vent. This supply set our minds quite at ease, as we knew it would enable us to stand a week’s close siege. Our patience, however, was not put to this trial, for the gang, after a two hours’ vigilant search, abandoned their pursuit in despair, and departed.

We could not, of course, think of venturing up to Bristol to look after our wages, so we employed our landlord to perform this duty. After a good many vexatious delays, we succeeded in getting our money, paid off all scores, and began to think how we were to dispose of ourselves. My companion Lindsay was so deeply smitten with the charms of one of the youthful sirens, that he found it impossible to depart; and I had to concert all my future projects alone, and leave him bound in Cupid’s silken chain.

My blue jacket and fringed dimity trousers, my check shirt and scarlet vest, were at once discarded, and their places supplied by articles of a more landward appearance. I knew that it would be impossible to travel the country safely in seaman’s dress, so I determined to try my fortune as a beau. The body of Bill Bobstay incased in a ruffled shirt, silk vest, white stockings, breeches buttoned at the knees, and a swallow-tailed coat, presented such a curious spectacle, that he himself could scarcely help laughing at it, and it seemed to produce the same effects on the landlord’s daughter, as she with a witching smile chucked up my chin, until she arranged the bights and ends of my white neckcloth, according to the most approved form. She took as long to perform this little office as I could have rigged _in toto_, and seamen are never backward in acts of courtesy, when the ladies are concerned. Her ruby lips were all the while within marlingspike’s length of my own, and how could I avoid saluting them?

Thus equipped, I set out on foot for Bath, but as I had no business to perform in that city of invalided nabobs, I immediately took coach for London, and after travelling all night, I, on awaking from a short nap, found myself rattling over the stones at Hyde Park corner.

My object was to procure a passage to the northward, in one of the Leith or Berwick smacks, and I expected in eight or ten days, after an absence of as many years, to set foot once more on my native soil. As soon therefore as the coach stopped in Piccadilly, I alighted, and knowing the bearing by compass of London Bridge, I, without waiting to breakfast, winded my way through the Haymarket, past Charing Cross, along the Strand, Fleet Street, and Ludgate Hill, till I arrived at St Paul’s. From this point I took a fresh departure, and holding as nearly as cross streets would admit, a south-easterly course, gained Thames Street, and soon found myself in the vicinity of the Tower.

Smartly as I had moved my body along, my imagination, as is usual with me, had got a long way a-head. It had obtained a passage, secured a fair wind, landed me on the pier of Leith, and was arranging my introductory visit to my friends, so as to produce the greatest sum of agreeable surprise. But there is much, says the old proverb, between the cup and the lip. In the midst of this agreeable reverie, as I was crossing Tower Hill, I found myself tapped on the shoulder, and on looking round, was accosted by a man in seaman’s dress in the words, “What ship?” I assumed an air of gravity and surprise, and told him I apprehended he was under some mistake, as my business did not lie among shipping. But the fellow was too well acquainted with his business to be thus easily put off. He gave a whistle, the sound of which still vibrates in my ear, and in a moment I was surrounded by half-a-dozen ruffians, whom I immediately suspected, and soon found out to be the press-gang. They dragged me hurriedly through several lanes and alleys, amid the mingled sympathy and execrations of a numerous crowd, which had collected to witness my fate, and soon landed me in the rendezvous. I was immediately ushered into the presence of the lieutenant of the gang, who questioned me as to my name, country, profession, and what business had led me to Tower Hill. Totally unexpecting any such interruption, I had not thought of concocting any plausible story, and my answers were evasive and contradictory. I did not acknowledge having been at sea; but my hands were examined, found hard with work, and discoloured with tar. This circumstance condemned me, and I was remanded for further examination.

Some of the gang then offered me spirits, affected to pity me, and pretended to comfort me under my misfortune, but like the comforters of Job, miserable comforters were they all. The very scoundrel who first seized me put on a sympathising look, and observed what a pity it was to be disappointed when so near the object of my wishes. Such sympathy from such a source was truly provoking; but having no way of showing my resentment, I was constrained to smother it.

In a short time I was reconducted into the presence of the lieutenant, who told me, as I was already in his hands, and would assuredly be kept, I might as well make a frank confession of my circumstances. It would save time, and insure me better treatment. What could I do? I might indeed have continued silent and sullen, but of what service could this prove? It might, or might not, have procured me worse treatment, but one thing I knew well, it would not restore me to liberty. I therefore acknowledged that I had been a voyage to the West Indies, and had come home carpenter of a ship. His eye brightened at this intelligence.

“I am glad of this, my lad. We are very much in want of carpenters. Step along with these lads, and they will give you a passage aboard.”

The same fellows who had first seized me led me along the way we came, handed me into a pinnace lying at Tower Wharf, and before mid-day I was safely handed on board the Enterprize.

What crosses and vexations, and reverses and disappointments, are we mortals destined to meet with in life’s tempestuous voyage! At eight in the morning I entered London a free agent, elated with joy, and buoyed up with hope. At noon I entered a prison ship, a miserable slave, oppressed with sorrow, and ready to despair.

Despair, did I say? No. I will have nothing to do with that disturber of human peace. When misfortune befalls us, we are not to sit down in despondency and sigh. Up and be doing, is the wise man’s maxim, and it was the maxim I was resolved to observe. What befell me on my arrival on board the Enterprize, what reception I met with, and what mirth I excited as I was lowered into the press-room, with my short breeches and swallow-tailed coat—what measures I exerted to regain my liberty, and what success attended these measures—the space at my disposal prevents me setting forth.—_Paisley Magazine._

THE LAIRD OF COOL’S GHOST.

Upon the 3d day of February 1722 at seven o’clock in the evening, after I had parted with Thurston, and coming up the burial road, one came up riding after me. Upon hearing the noise of the horse’s feet, I took it to be Thurston; but looking back, and seeing the horse of a gray colour, I called, “Who’s there?” The answer was, “The Laird of Cool; be not afraid.” Looking to him with the little light the moon afforded, I took him to be Collector Castlelaw, who had a mind to put a trick upon me, and immediately I struck with all my force with my cane, thinking I would leave a mark upon him that would make him remember his presumption; but although sensible I aimed as well as ever I did in my life, yet my cane finding no resistance, but flying out of my hand to the distance of sixty feet, and observing it by its white head, I dismounted and took it up, but had some difficulty in mounting again, partly by reason of a certain sort of trembling throughout my whole joints, something also of anger had its share in my confusion; for though he laughed when my staff flew out of my hand, coming up with him again (who halted all the time I was seeking my staff), I asked him once more who he was? He answered, “The Laird of Cool.” I inquired, first, if he was the Laird of Cool; secondly, what brought him thither? and thirdly, what was his business with me? He answered, “The reason that I want you is, that I know you are disposed to do for me what none of your brethren in Nithsdale will so much as attempt, though it serve never so good a purpose.” I told him I would never refuse to do anything to serve a good purpose, if I thought I was obliged to do it as my duty. He answered, that I had undertaken what few in Nithsdale would, for he had tried several persons on that subject, who were more obliged to him than I was to any person living. Upon this I drew my bridle reins, and asked in surprise, what I had undertaken? He answered, “That on Sabbath last, I heard you condemned Mr Paton, and the other ministers of Dumfries, for dissuading Mr Menzies from keeping his appointment with me; and if you had been in their place, would have persuaded the lad to do as I desired, and that you would have gone with him yourself, if he had been afraid; and if you had been in Mr Paton’s place, you would have delivered my commissions yourself, as they tended to do several persons justice.” I asked him, “Pray, Cool, who informed you that I talked at that rate?” to which he answered, “You must know that we are acquainted with many things that the living know nothing about; these things you did say, and much more to that purpose, and deliver my commissions to my loving wife.” Upon this I said, “’Tis a pity, Cool, that you who know so many things should not know the difference between an absolute and conditional promise; I did, indeed, at the time you mention, blame Mr Paton, for I thought him justly blamable, in hindering the lad to meet with you, and if I had been in his place, I would have acted quite the reverse; but I did never say, that if you would come to Innerwick and employ me, that I would go all the way to Dumfries on such an errand; that is what never so much as entered into my thoughts.” He answered, “What were your thoughts I don’t pretend to know, but I can depend on my information these were your words. But I see you are in some disorder; I will wait upon you when you have more presence of mind.”

By this time we were at James Dickson’s enclosure, below the churchyard; and when I was recollecting in my mind, if ever I had spoken these words he alleged, he broke off from me through the churchyard, with greater violence than any man on horseback is capable of, with such a singing and buzzing noise, as put me in greater disorder than I was in all the time I was with him. I came to my house, and my wife observed more than ordinary paleness in my countenance, and alleged that something ailed me. I called for a dram, and told her I was a little uneasy. After I found myself a little refreshed, I went to my closet to meditate on this most astonishing adventure.

Upon the 5th of March 1722, being at Harehead, baptizing the shepherd’s child, I came off about sunsetting, and near William White’s march, the Laird of Cool came up with me as formerly; and after his first salutation bade me not be afraid. I told him I was not in the least afraid, in the name of God and Christ my Saviour, that he would do me the least harm; for I knew that He in whom I trusted was stronger than all they put together; and if any of them should attempt to do, even to the horse that I ride upon, as you have done to Doctor Menzies’ man, I have free access to complain to my Lord and Master, to the lash to whose resentment you are as liable now as before.

_Cool._ You need not multiply words on that head, for you are safe with me; and safer, if safer can be, than when I was alive.

_Ogil._ Well then, Cool, let me have a peaceable and easy conversation with you for the time we ride together, and give me some information concerning the affairs of the other world, for no man inclines to lose his time in conversing with the dead, without hearing or learning something useful.

_Cool._ Well, sir, I will satisfy you as far as I think proper and convenient. Let me know what information you want.

_Ogil._ May I then ask you, if you be in a state of happiness or not?

_Cool._ There are a great many things I can answer that the living are ignorant of; there are a great many things that, notwithstanding the additional knowledge I have acquired since my death, I cannot answer; and there are a great many questions you may start, of which the last is one that I will not answer.

_Ogil._ Then I know how to manage our conversation; whatever I inquire of you, I see you can easily shift me; to that I might profit more by conversing with myself.

_Cool._ You may try.

_Ogil._ Well, then, what sort of a body is that you appear in; and what sort of a horse is that you ride upon, which appears to be so full of mettle?

_Cool._ You may depend upon it, it is not the same body that I was witness to your marriage in, nor in which I died, for that is in the grave rotting; but it is such a body as serves me in a moment, for I can fly as fleet with it as my soul can do without it; so that I can go to Dumfries, and return again, before you can ride twice the length of your horse; nay, if I have a mind to go to London, or Jerusalem, or to the moon, if you please, I can perform all these journeys equally soon, for it costs me nothing but a thought or wish: for this body is as fleet as your thought, for in the moment of time you can turn your thoughts on Rome, I can go there in person; and as for my horse, he is much like myself, for he is Andrew Johnston, my tenant, who died forty-eight hours before me.

_Ogil._ So it seems when Andrew Johnston inclines to ride, you must serve him in the quality of a horse, as he does you now.

_Cool._ You are mistaken.

_Ogil._ I thought that all distinctions between mistresses and maids, lairds and tenants, had been done away at death.

_Cool._ True it is, but you do not take up the matter.

_Ogil._ This is one of the questions you won’t answer.

_Cool._ You are mistaken, for the question I can answer, and after you may understand it.

_Ogil._ Well then, Cool, have you never yet appeared before God, nor received any sentence from Him as a Judge?

_Cool._ Never yet.

_Ogil._ I know you was a scholar, Cool, and ’tis generally believed there is a private judgment, besides the general at the great day, the former immediately after death. Upon this he interrupted me, arguing.

_Cool._ No such thing, no such thing! No trial; no trial till the great day! The heaven which good men enjoy after death consists only in the serenity of their minds, and the satisfaction of a good conscience; and the certain hopes they have of eternal joy, when that day shall come. The punishment or hell of the wicked, immediately after death, consists in the stings of an awakened conscience, and the terrors of facing the great Judge, and the sensible apprehensions of eternal torments ensuing! And this bears still a due proportion to the evils they did when living. So indeed the state of some good folks differ but little in happiness from what they enjoyed in the world, save only that they are free from the body, and the sins and sorrows that attended it. On the other hand, there are some who may be said rather not to have been good, than that they are wicked; while living, their state is not easily distinguished from that of the former; and under that class comes a great herd of souls—a vast number of ignorant people, who have not much minded the affairs of eternity, but at the same time have lived in much indolence, ignorance, and innocence.

_Ogil._ I thought that their rejecting the terms of salvation offered was sufficient ground for God to punish them with eternal displeasure; and as to their ignorance, that could never excuse them, since they live in a place of the world where the true knowledge of these things might have been easily attained.

_Cool._ They never properly rejected the terms of salvation; they never, strictly speaking, rejected Christ; poor souls, they had as great a liking both to Him and heaven, as their gross imaginations were capable of. Impartial reason must make many allowances, as the stupidity of their parents, want of education, distance from people of good sense and knowledge, and the uninterrupted applications they were obliged to give to their secular affairs for their daily bread, the impious treachery of their pastors, who persuaded them, that if they were of such a party all was well; and many other considerations which God, who is pure and perfect reason itself, will not overlook. These are not so much under the load of Divine displeasure, as they are out of His grace and favour; and you know it is one thing to be discouraged, and quite another thing to be persecuted with all the power and rage of an incensed earthly king. I assure you, men’s faces are not more various and different in the world, than their circumstances are after death.

_Ogil._ I am loath to believe all that you have said at this time, Cool (but I will not dispute those matters with you), because some things you have advanced seem to contradict the Scriptures, which I shall always look upon as the infallible truth of God. For I find, in the parable of Dives and Lazarus, that the one was immediately after death carried up by the angels into Abraham’s bosom, and the other immediately thrust down to hell.

_Cool._ Excuse me, sir, that does not contradict one word that I have said; but you seem not to understand the parable, whose only end is to illustrate the truth, that a man may be very happy and flourishing in this world, and wretched and miserable in the next; and that a man maybe miserable in this world, and happy and glorious in the next.

_Ogil._ Be it so, Cool, I shall yield that point to you, and pass to another, which has afforded me much speculation since our last encounter; and that is, How you came to know that I talked after the manner that I did concerning Mr Paton, on the first Sabbath of February last? Was you present with me, but invisible? He answered very haughtily, No, sir, I was not present myself. I answered, I would not have you angry, Cool. I proposed this question for my own satisfaction; but if you don’t think proper to answer, let it pass. After he had paused, with his eyes on the ground, for three or four minutes of time at most, with some haste and seeming cheerfulness, he says—

_Cool._ Well, sir, I will satisfy you in that point. You must know that there are sent from heaven angels to guard and comfort, and to do other good services to good people, and even the spirits of good men departed are employed in that errand.

_Ogil._ And do you not think that every man has a good angel?

_Cool._ No, but a great many particular men have: there are but few houses of distinction especially, but what have at least one attending them; and from what you have already heard of spirits, it is no difficult matter to understand how they may be serviceable to each particular member, though at different places at a great distance. Many are the good offices which the good angels do to them that fear God, though many times they are not sensible of it: and I know assuredly, that one powerful angel, or even an active clever soul departed, may be sufficient for some villages; but for your great cities, such as London, Edinburgh, or the like, there is one great angel that has the superintendence of the whole; and there are inferior angels, or souls departed, to whose particular care such a man, of such a particular weight or business, is committed. Now, sir, the kingdom of Satan does ape the kingdom of Christ as much in matters of politics as can be, well knowing that the court of wisdom is from above; so that from thence are sent out missionaries in the same order. But because the kingdom of Satan is much better replenished than the other, instead of one devil there are in many instances two or three commissioned to attend a particular family of influence and distinction.

_Ogil._ I read that there are ten thousand times ten thousand of angels that wait upon God, and sing His praise and do His will; and I cannot understand how the good angels can be inferior in number to the evil.

_Cool._ Did not I say, that whatever the number be, the spirits departed are employed in the same business; so that as to the number of original deities, whereof Satan is chief, I cannot determine, but you need not doubt but there are more souls departed in that place, which in a loose sense you call hell, by almost an infinity, than what are gone to that place, which, in a like sense, you call heaven, which likewise are employed in the same purpose; and I can assure you that there is as great a difference between angels, both good and bad, as there is among men, with respect to their sense, knowledge, cunning, cleverness, and action; nay, which is more, the departed souls on both sides outdo severals, from their very first departure, of the original angels. This you will perhaps think a paradox, but is true.

_Ogil._ I do not doubt it; but what is that to my question, about which I am solicitous?

_Cool._ Take a little patience, sir; from what I have said you might have understood me, if you had your thoughts about you; but I shall explain myself to you. Both the good and the bad angels have stated times of rendezvous, and the principal angels, who have the charge either of towns, cities, or kingdoms, not to mention particular persons, villages, and families, and all that is transacted in these several parts of the country, are there made open; and at their re-encounter on each side, every thing is told, as in your parish, in milns, kilns, and smithies, with this difference, that many things false are talked at the living re-encounters, but nothing but what is exact truth is said or told among the dead; only I must observe to you, that, as I am credibly informed, several of the inferior bad angels, and souls of wicked men departed, have told many things that they have done, and then when a more intelligent spirit is sent out upon inquiry, and the report of the former seeming doubtful, he brings in a contrary report, and makes it appear truth, the former fares very ill: nevertheless their regard to truth prevents it; for while they observe the truth, they do their business and keep their station, for God is truth.

_Ogil._ So much truth being among the good angels, I am apt to think that lies and falsehood will be as much in vogue among the bad.

_Cool._ A gross mistake, and it is not alone the mistake which the living folks fall under with respect to the other world; for the case plainly is this: an ill man will not stick at a falsehood to promote his design; as little will an evil soul departed stop at anything that can make himself successful; but in admitting report he must tell the truth, or woe be to him. But besides their monthly, quarterly, or yearly meetings, or whatever they be, departed souls acquainted may take a trip to see one another yearly, weekly, daily, or oftener, if they please. Thus, then, I answer your question that you was so much concerned about; for my information was from no less than three persons, viz., Aikman, who attends Thurston’s family; James Corbet, who waits upon Mr Paton; for at that time he was then looking after Mrs Sarah Paton, who was at your house, and an original emissary appointed to wait upon yours.

At this I was much surprised, and after a little thinking, I asked him, And is their really, Cool, an emissary from hell, in whatever sense you take it, that attends my family?

_Cool._ You may depend upon it.

_Ogil._ And what do you think is his business?

_Cool._ To divert you from your duty, and cause you to do as many ill things as he can; for much depends on having the minister on their side.

Upon this I was struck with a sort of terror, which I cannot account for. In the meantime he said several things I did not understand. But after coming to my former presence of mind, said—

_Ogil._ But, Cool, tell me, in earnest, if there be a devil that attends my family, though invisible.

_Cool._ Just as sure as you are breathing; but be not so much dejected upon this information, for I tell you likewise that there is a good angel who attends you, who is stronger than the other.

_Ogil._ Are you sure of that, Cool?

_Cool._ Yes; there is one riding on your right hand, who might as well have been elsewhere, for I meant you no harm.

_Ogil._ And how long has he been with me?

_Cool._ Only since we passed Brand’s Lee, but now he is gone.

_Ogil._ We are just upon Elenscleugh, and I desire to part with you, though perhaps I have gained more by conversation than I could have otherwise done in a twelvemonth. I choose rather to see you another time, when you’re at leisure, and I wish it were at as great a distance from Innerwick as you can.

_Cool._ Be it so, sir; but I hope you will be as obliging to me next re-encounter, as I have been to you this.

_Ogil._ I promise you I will, as far as is consistent with my duty to my Lord and Master Christ Jesus; and since you have obliged me so much by information, I will answer all the questions you propose, as far as consists with my knowledge; but I believe you want no information from me.

_Cool._ I came not here to be instructed by you, but I want your help of another kind.

Upon the 5th of April 1722, as I was returning from Old Hamstocks, Cool came up with me on horseback at the foot of the ruinous enclosure, before we came to Dod. I told him his last conversation had proved so acceptable to me, that I was well pleased to see him again; that there was a number of things that I wanted to inform myself further of, if he would be so good as satisfy me.

_Cool._ Last time we met, I refused you nothing you asked; and now I expect that you shall refuse me nothing that I shall ask.

_Ogil._ Nothing, sir, that is in my power, or that I can do with safety to my reputation and character. What, then, are your demands?

_Cool._ All that I desire of you is, that as you promised that on a Sabbath-day you would go to my wife, who now possesses all my effects, and tell her the following particulars—tell her in my name to rectify these matters:—First, That I was owing justly to Provost Crosby £50 Scots, and three years’ interest, but on hearing of his death, my good-brother the Laird of C—l and I forged a discharge, narrated the bond, the sum, and other particulars, with this honourable clause, “And at the time it had fallen by, and could not be found;” with an obligation on the provost’s part to deliver up this bond as soon as he could hit upon it. And this discharge was dated three months before the provost’s death. And when his son and successor, Andrew Crosby, wrote to me concerning this bond, I came to him and showed him the forged discharge, which silenced him; so that I got up my bond without more ado. And when I heard of Robert Kennedy’s death, with the same help of C—l, I got a bill upon him for £190, of which I got full and complete payment. C—l got the half. When I was at Dumfries, the same day that Robert Grier died, to whom I was owing an account of £36, C—l, my good-brother, was then at London; and not being able of myself, being but a bad writer, to make out a discharge of the account, which I wanted, I met accidently with one Robert Boyd, a poor writer lad in Dumfries; I took him to Mrs Carnock’s, and gave him a bottle of wine, and told him I had paid Thomas Grier’s account, but had neglected to get a discharge, and if he would help me to one I would reward him. He flew away from me in a great passion, saying, he would rather be hanged; but if I had a mind for these things, I had better wait till C—l came home. This gave me great trouble, fearing what C—l and I had done formerly was no secret. I followed Boyd to the street, and made an apology, saying, I was jesting, commending him for his honesty, and got his promise never to repeat what had passed. I sent for my Cousin B—m H—rie, your good-brother, who, with no difficulty, for a guinea and a half, undertook and performed all that I wanted; and for a guinea more made me up a discharge for £200 Scots that I was owing to your father-in-law and his friend Mr Muirhead, which discharge I gave to John Ewart, when he desired the money; and he, at my desire, produced it to you, which you sustained.

A great many of the like instances were told, of which I cannot remember the persons, names, and things; but, says he, what vexes me more than all these, is the injustice I did Homer Maxwell, tenant to my Lord Nithsdale, for whom I was factor. I borrowed £2000 from him, £500 of which he borrowed from another hand: I gave him my bond, and, for reasons I contrived, I obliged him to secrecy. He died within the year, and left nine children, his wife being dead before himself. I came to seal up his papers for my lord’s security; his eldest daughter entreated me to look through them all, and to give her an account of what was their stock and what was their debt. I very willingly undertook it; and in going through the papers, I put my own bond in my pocket. His circumstances proving bad, his nine children are now starving. These things I desire you to represent to my wife, and take her brother with you, and let them be immediately rectified, for she has a sufficient fund to do it upon; and if it were done, I think I would be easy, and therefore I hope you will make no delay.

After a short pause, I answered, ’Tis a good errand, Cool, you are sending me to do justice to the oppressed and injured; but notwithstanding I see myself come in for £200 Scots, yet I beg a little time to consider the matter. And since I find you are as much master of reason now as ever, and more than ever, I will reason upon the matter in its general view, and then with respect to the expediency of my being the messenger; and this I will do with all manner of frankness. From what you have said, I see clearly what your present condition is, so that I need not ask any more questions on that head; and you need not bid me take courage, for at this moment I am no more afraid of you than a new-born child.

_Cool._ Well, say on.

_Ogil._ Tell me, then, since such is your ability that you can fly a thousand miles in the twinkling of an eye, if your desire to do the oppressed justice be as great as you pretend, what’s the reason you don’t fly to the coffers of some rich Jew or banker, where are thousands of gold and silver, invisibly lift, and invisibly return it to the coffers of the injured? And since your wife has sufficient funds, and more, why cannot you empty her purse invisibly, to make these people amends?

_Cool._ Because I cannot.

_Ogil._ You have satisfied me entirely upon that head. But pray, Cool, what is the reason that you cannot go to your wife yourself, and tell her what you have a mind? I should think this a more sure way to gain your point.

_Cool._ Because I will not.

_Ogil._ That is not an answer to me, Cool.

_Cool._ That is one of the questions that I told you long ago I would not answer: but if you go as I desire, I promise to give you full satisfaction after you have done your business. Trust me for once, and believe me I will not disappoint you.