Chapter X: Part 10

"That is one of the sturdy beggars," said Betsy; "he refuses nothing that is given him, carries all upon his person, and often, before he reaches the proper place to dispose of his gatherings, they amount to the weight of many stones. He always tells the charitable, when asked what is his complaint that prevents him from working--I can't speak the Welsh word, but it means 'sheer laziness.' The people are confounded at the, to them, unintelligible and strange name of the disease, and are ready to relieve the afflicted man. Once or twice, they say, he has been detected by countrymen of his own, who laughed at his impudence, and gave the true meaning of the words. The sturdies are a numerous class. The randies are nearly, if not, of the same class; they abuse and threaten until they are supplied, when they dare with impunity. The humble, poor creatures are old or real cripples--take what they get, and are thankful; there is not one of them here this night that I see."

We had now sat in the pandemonium for nearly three hours. The potency of the liquor had for some time began to preponderate--angry words were exchanging, and some were sleeping, with their heads leaning upon the table. Bill himself was more than half-seas over, and began to bawl out a sea-song. Betsy and I endeavoured to keep him in order, and wished him to retire. We had succeeded, and were rising to leave the company--Bill only half-inclined--when a stranger entered the hall of confusion and drunkenness. We were on our feet. I saw Betsy turn pale as death, and turn her head aside. A number of voices called out, "Hurrah! hurrah! here is Long Ned." A young female, whose eye I had noticed was seldom turned from where we sat, cried out--

"Betsy, you are not going away because your old sweetheart, Long Ned, has come in?"

"Shiver my timbers if we are!" cried Bill; and in a moment sat down and called for more liquor. I, as well as Betsy, saw that the envious female was bent on mischief; but how to prevent it I knew not. Long Ned had seated himself at the other side of the table, gloomy as Satan. I felt her tremble, as she sat by my side, I believe more through rage at the female than fear. Long Ned was evidently bent on some mischief or other, and he was quite sober. Bill and he eyed each other for some time. Betsy was coaxing him, to get him away, as well as myself.

"No, I will not leave the room," he said, "while that scoundrel is in it; I will face him, or fight him out, if he says an uncivil word to you or myself."

The same female sat only one seat from him; I saw them whispering together. Betsy's dark eyes glanced fire. She unbuckled his timber leg, and took it off. Scarce was this done, when Ned said aloud--

"Tell me, Kay, how much you have sold the jilt Bessy for. I see she is very gracious with your ac----" He had only got thus far, when the wooden leg was launched across the table, and felled him to the ground.

A scene of uproar and confusion no words can express ensued; the lights were extinguished; blows were dealt furiously around; and the sleepers awoke and joined in the strife. Bitterly did I regret my curiosity, as well as the bondage my arm was in from its long confinement; it was benumbed and painful. As I had no immediate interest in the strife, I retired to one corner of the room, where I found several as anxious as myself to escape. Shouts of murder and groans were mixed with vengeful cries. At length the door was burst open, and a body of constables entered. The moment I saw this I slipped along the side of the room and darted past them, receiving in my flight several severe blows, and leaving the skirts and breasts of my jacket in the hands of those in the way who attempted to stop my career. I turned down the first opening I came to, and ceased to run, as no one appeared to follow me. Fortunately, I had the old canvass trousers and vest above my own, in which was secured my guineas and silver. With some difficulty I freed myself from the jacket, then I with ease got off the others, and had the mortification to find myself, pretty late in the evening, without a lodging, jacket, or hat.

As I began to cool, and find myself secure from pursuit, the contusions I had received from the staves of the constables pained me very much, particularly one I had received upon the head; I put up my hand, and found it bleeding pretty fresh. Thus was I in a fine mess to seek for a decent lodging, or account for my present plight. As I turned over in my mind for a plausible story, I perceived a respectable-looking inn still open, and made straight for it. There were several seafaring men, like captains of coasters, sitting in the tap. When I entered, all eyes were turned upon me. The landlord insisted upon turning me out, without allowing me to speak. The company took my part, and insisted that I should be heard. I had now my story ready as near the truth as I dared--I told them I was a stranger from Scotland, on my way to London, in quest of a vessel, and had only arrived in the town that evening, when I had had a quarrel and fight, having been insulted, and some one had carried off my hat, jacket, and bundle; but that I had plenty of money to pay my way. As soon as I had finished, the landlord became all civility; I got my head bound up, and a good lodging, and got intimate with one or two of the captains before I retired to bed.

Next morning my head ached, but nothing to speak of. I arose, sent for a dealer in clothes, and purchased a jacket and hat, had breakfast, and took a walk through the town. As I did not intend to leave it until I had heard the issue of the brawl, nothing else was talked of. The fight between them and the constables had been long and severe, for they made a desperate resistance; and it was not until several of the inhabitants had reinforced the civil power, that the beggars were secured, and lodged in jail, male and female. I wished only to know the fate of Bill and Betsy, and then started upon my journey--I wished to have no further intercourse with them. My bundle, and necessaries in it, I had given up for lost, unless they were liberated, at least Betsy, through the course of the day. I could not have found my way to their room without inquiry; and this it was neither prudent nor of any use to make, until they were liberated. Well, the magistrates were busy examining them, I was told, the whole forenoon, and the issue was, that all the able-bodied rascals--Bill amongst the rest--were sent to man His Majesty's navy, and the females were to be confined, and then banished the town for ever.

I returned to my inn, and, by appointment, met my new acquaintances, the captains;--one of them, the captain of a brig, was loading grain for London. I was weary of walking on foot, and agreed with him for a passage, leaving my conductors to the beggars' ball in durance; the males expecting to be sent off in a day or two, and the females making out their solitary confinement, preparatory to their banishment.

LEEIN JAMIE MURDIESTON.

With the exception of one unhappy failing, delicately hinted at in the title of this sketch, there was nothing really bad in the character of Mr. James Murdieston. He was an honest, civil, inoffensive, and obliging man; but--we neither can nor will conceal the fact--a most determined inventor. Yet his lies had no malevolence in them. They were all of the vainglorious kind, and never bore reference to any man or woman's character or affairs. On the whole, as defensible as lies can be, they were also as harmless. To profession, an enlightener of the world, not as a philosopher or teacher of science, but simply as a candle-maker, he was so far a benefactor of mankind, but on a very humble scale--having only the wants of a very small village to supply with the produce of his manufacture.

With this preamble, we proceed to say, that it happened once upon a time that Jamie Murdieston had to go to Glasgow, on some particular business--we believe it was to make a purchase of tallow. On this occasion, as on all others when his presence was necessary in the western metropolis, Jamie took the coach--an opportunity which he always prized highly, as affording him admirable scope for the exercise of his talent for romancing. At home, where his propensity was well known, he could get few listeners and still fewer believers; but, on the top of a coach, where he was not known, he was always sure of finding both; and he never failed to make an excellent use of his advantage. It was a great comfort and satisfaction to Jamie, when he stumbled on an unwincing believer. It was a perfect treat to him, since it was one which he rarely enjoyed. On the occasion of which we are speaking--namely, Jamie's visit to Glasgow--he found himself, on ascending the coach, seated beside a very engaging young lady, who had preferred the outside to the inside, on account of the extreme warmth of the weather, and also for the purpose, as she herself informed Jamie, of more fully enjoying the scenery through which they might pass.

"Quite richt, mem," replied Jamie, on his fair and frank fellow-traveller informing him of this last particular, as they rolled along. "Quite right, mem; for the kintra hereawa is just uncommon beautifu--just uncommon. Do ye see, mem, that bit glisk o' the Clyde, there?--that's a spot I should mind weel, and I will mind it till the day o' my death."

"Indeed, sir!" said the young lady to whom these remarks were addressed. "Pray, what circumstance is it, may I ask, which so solemnly binds your recollections to that particular locality?"

"A melancholy aneugh are, I assure ye mem; that's to say, it micht hae been melancholy, an it warna that Providence had sent me just in time to save the life o' a fellow-cratur."

On this communication being made to her, the young lady for whose edification it was intended discovered a degree of agitation and surprise, for which the circumstance itself would hardly account. As it escaped Jamie's notice, however, and she was aware that it did so, she merely said--"Dear me, sir, what was the occurrence you allude to, and when did it happen?" But there was an eagerness and an anxiety in her manner, when putting these queries, which she could not altogether conceal. Jamie observed it with inward satisfaction, hailing it as an assurance that whatever he might communicate would be at once taken for gospel. Feeling thus encouraged, Jamie replied--

"I'll tell ye a' aboot it, mem. Ye see it was just aboot this time twelmonth, I think--yes, just exactly aboot this time--that, as I was ae day fishin in the Clyde, at the spot I pointed oot to ye, I was suddenly startled by hearin an awful scream, and, immediately after, a tremendous splash in the water. 'Somebody fa'en in!' says I; and I instantly flang doon my rod, on which I had, at the moment, a saumont fifty pun wecht, if he was an unce--and ran roun the bit projectin bank that had keepit me frae actually seein what had happened. A weel, on doin this, doesna I see a woman's bonnet floatin on the water--it was a' I could see--and gann fast doun wi' the stream, which was geyley swelled at the time. Soon becomin aware that the bonnet was on the head o' some unfortunate person, and that she maun perish in a few seconds, if no attempt was made to rescue her, I, without a moment's thocht, threw aff my coat and shoon, and jumped in after her; and, as gude luck wad hae't, was the means o' savin her life; but it was a teuch job, for, by the time I reached her, she had sunk, and it wasna till I had dived three times that I got haud o' her. But I _did_ get a grup o' her; and I assure ye I held it, and never let it go till I had her safely on the bank, puir thing, and a bit bonny cratur she was."

Thus far had Jamie got in his interesting story, and much further he would have gone, had he not been suddenly interrupted by his fair auditor, who, seizing him by the hand, in a transport of joy and surprise, exclaimed--

"O my deliverer, my deliverer!--_I_ was the person whom you saved; and delighted will my father, who's inside the coach, be, when he learns we have found you at last. But why, why," continued the grateful girl, looking all the gratitude she felt in Jamie's face--"why did you so abruptly and suddenly withdraw yourself, after having done such a generous and noble deed? We could never find you out, nor obtain the smallest trace of you, although hardly a day has passed since then that we have not made some attempt to accomplish either the one or the other. It was cruel of you not to afford us an opportunity of evincing the deep and everlasting gratitude we felt towards you."

We leave the reader to conjecture what was Jamie's amazement on finding himself thus addressed by his fair companion; for we suppose we need hardly say that every word of his story about rescuing a young lady from drowning was a lie--an unmitigated, and, so far as he knew certainly, an utterly foundationless lie. Well may we then, we think, call on the reader to conceive, if he can, Jamie's surprise, when he found his narrative thus strangely converted into truth. He by no means liked it, for it threatened to lead to some awkward discoveries; and, under this impression, he endeavoured to back out, and to separate the two cases by some additional remarks.

"That's odd," he said, on the young lady's imposing on him the character of her deliverer--"verra odd," he repeated, but with considerable embarrassment in his manner; "but I dinna think ye're the young leddy I saved that day; she was a hantle stouter than you, and a guid deal aulder."

"The very same, the very same, I assure you, sir," rejoined his fair companion, laughingly. "There was no accident of the kind you mentioned, at the place you pointed out, during all last summer, but my own. This I know, from our having lived there from the month of March to October. So you must not attempt to balk me of the happiness of believing I have found my deliverer."

Here, then, was a poser for Jamie. The young lady, it seems, was familiar with the place, and knew that no accident, except the one which, by so odd and unhappy a coincidence for Jamie's veracity, had befallen herself, had occurred there at the period he stated. He must, therefore, either confess to a lie, or quietly pocket the compliments that were thrust on him. On the latter he naturally enough determined; but he wanted no more acknowledgments, as he found them sit on him rather awkwardly. In truth, he now began to show as great a reluctance to advert to the subject as he had before shown forwardness, and was most evidently desirous of waiving it altogether; but this his fair companion would by no means allow. She was by far too full of the extraordinary chance, and extraordinary good fortune, as she reckoned it, of having thus so strangely met with her deliverer, to allow the matter to drop.

Before going further, we may as well advert to a circumstance which may have a little startled the reader. This is, how it should have happened that Jamie's story of a rescue should have had a counterpart in fact. As to this matter, we can only vouch for its being perfectly true. It was a coincidence--certainly an odd one, but not more odd than many that have happened, and are daily occurring. The facts of the case, as we may say, were these:--The young lady's father, who was a wealthy Glasgow merchant, possessed a very pretty little cottage, which he and his family occasionally occupied during the summer months, at a short distance from the banks of the Clyde, and near to the very spot which Jamie had so unfortunately chosen as the scene of his exploit; and, still more unluckly for Jamie, it happened that the young lady in question had actually met with such an accident as that which formed the groundwork of his romance. Moreover, she had, in the case alluded to, been rescued from a watery grave by a person who chanced to be angling near the spot at the time; but this person had no sooner brought her on shore, being assured that her recovery was certain, although she appeared at the time insensible, and seen her safely in the charge of some people who had hurried to the scene of the accident, than he had suddenly and abruptly withdrawn, and was no more seen or heard of. These, then, were the facts of that case which so strangely tallied with Jamie's fiction. It is true that, had the fact and the fiction been carefully collated, a good many small discrepancies would have appeared, that would have at once stripped Jamie of his self-assumed honours; but this not having been done, and the leading incident being the same in both, no such result took place.

To resume our story. On the arrival of the coach at Glasgow--an event to which Jamie had been looking forward with great impatience, as the only occurrence that could relieve him from his present awkward predicament--he bade his fair companion a hurried good-by, and, heedless of her remonstrances and entreaties, was hastening down the side of the coach, to make his escape, when the father of the young lady, to whom the latter had hastily communicated the discovery of her deliverer, by leaning over the top of the coach, and speaking through the upper part of the doorway, suddenly intercepted him.

"Too bad, sir, too bad," said the old gentleman, smilingly, "to try and escape us again. But we have you this time, and will take care that you do not." Saying this, Mr. Alston held out his hand to Jamie, and, on grasping the latter's, shook it with the most cordial warmth, expressing, at the same time, the deepest sense of the mighty obligation under which he lay to him, for having so nobly saved his daughter from an untimely death--"An obligation," said the good old gentleman, "which I can never repay."

"Dinna speak o't, sir, dinna speak o't," said Jamie, in the greatest embarrassment, and wishing, the while, that his tongue had been blistered when he first opened his mouth on the ill-starred subject of the rescuing. "Dinna speak o't," he said, "it't just what ae fellow-cratur should do for anither." And, having said this, Jamie was about to make a sudden bolt, when the old gentleman, perceiving his intention, dexterously hooked his arm within Jamie's right; while his daughter, who had by this time joined them, did the same by his left, and thus secured him.

"Away from us you shall not get," said Mr. Alston.

"Indeed you shall not," interposed his daughter.

"You must go home with us," resumed the former, "and receive the thanks of my dear wife, who will be delighted to see you, and those of Ellen's brothers and sisters. They are all, I assure you, as grateful to you as either I or Ellen herself can possibly be."

"Much obleeged, sir, much obleeged," stammered out Jamie, in great distress of mind; "but, ye see, it's impossible--althegither oot o' the question; for I have some important business to do, that maun be dune before I go onywhaur."

And he struggled to free himself from his captors; but in vain. They held on with a determined gripe.

"No, no, you must not leave us," exclaimed Mr Alston, "we must not lose sight of you, now that we have you. I should be sorry to be the cause of any interruption to your business; but we will not detain you an instant. I merely wish, in the meantime, to show you the way to my house, that you may find it readily when you want it, which I expect will be the moment you get your business finished."

"Really, sir, really," exclaimed Jamie, despairingly, and holding back to repress the forward movements of Mr. Alston and his daughter--"really, sir, really I canna gang. I canna on no account. The business I hae on haun maun be instantly attended to, and winna admit o' the sma'est delay."

"Well, in that case," said the pertinacious Mr. Alston, "I'll accompany you, and wait your conveniency; and Ellen here will, in the meantime, go home and apprise her mother of her having met with you, and tell her that we shall be there in--in--in what time shall I say?"

"An hour--an hour--an hour," exclaimed the perplexed romancer, in great tribulation--"say an hour."

"Well, an hour, Ellen. Tell your mother we'll be home in an hour," said Mr. Alston; "and let her have a little supper prepared for us by that time, and let a bed be got in readiness for our dear friend here. You'll take up your quarters with us, of course," turning to Jamie.

"Oh, surely, surely--wi' great pleasure," exclaimed Jamie, hurriedly, and scarcely knowing what he said--"wi' great pleasure, but far owre meikle trouble."

"Trouble!" said Mr. Alston, contemptuously; "you, the preserver of my dear daughter's life, talk of trouble! No--no; we shall be but too happy to have you, to show you, as far as we can, the deep sense we all entertain of the unrequitable obligation we lie under to you."

"Don't lose sight of him, papa!" here exclaimed Miss Alston, in clear soft tones, as she tripped away.

"No fear, my dear--I'll hold him fast," replied her father; and, while he did so, he clutched Jamie with a still surer gripe.

Jamie now saw that the old boy was determined not to part with him until he should have run the gauntlet of the whole family's gratitude; and once more did he devoutly wish that his tongue had been anywhere but in his mouth when he first broached the unhappy story of the drowning adventure. He had never got into such a scrape before with any of his small _nouvelettes_, and he almost determined that he would never publish another--that he would henceforth deal in nothing but well-authenticated facts. The question, in the meantime, however, was, how to escape the threatened consequences of the one with which he was now entangled, and this question was a poser. There was but one way, and on this Jamie finally determined. This way was, to bolt for it--to show the old boy a pair of clean heels; and thus at once cut the connection. There was no other way of dealing with the dilemma. Having made up his mind to this proceeding, Jamie suddenly stopped at a certain close-mouth in the Trongate, and, intimating to his escort that he had a call to make there, requested him to wait an instant till he returned.

"I'll no keep ye a minnit," said Jamie, "no ae minnit."

And, leaving the old boy to mount guard till his return, he proceeded up the close, at first leisurely; but, on gaining a turn, which concealed him from his Cerberus, he fairly took to his heels, and emerged in a distant street, to which the close led. Here Jamie drew bridle and breath together, and thanked goodness for his escape; expressing, at the same time, a fervent hope that he would never again meet with Mr. Alston or any of his family. Having thus got his head out of the noose, Jamie adjourned to the quarters which he usually occupied when he went to Glasgow; and, on the following day, sallied out to transact the business which had brought him to the city. It was not, however, with a mind perfectly at ease that Jamie went about this business; for he dreaded every moment encountering Mr. Alston or his daughter; and, under this terror, he kept a sharp look-out as he went along, always cutting suddenly across the street, when he got his eyes on any person or persons of suspicious appearance--that is, on any old gentleman or young lady who bore a real or fancied resemblance to Mr. Alston or his fair daughter; and the sequel will show that his precaution was not an unnecessary, although, alas! a vain one.

Just as he turned the corner of a street, who should Jamie see coming towards him, and at the distance of about fifty or eighty yards, but the much-dreaded Mr. Alston, his daughter, and a brother, a young man of about four-and-twenty! On recognising them, Jamie instantly stopped short, and, after a moment's reflection, determined on having again recourse to his heels--no other way of escape, as in the former instance, appearing practicable. To this proceeding Jamie was further induced by an impression that he had not been seen, or at least recognised; but in this, as will appear, he was mistaken. However, not aware of the fact, Jamie turned quickly round, and fairly ran for it. But, as we have already hinted, he had been both seen and known by the Alstons, and they, believing his anxiety to avoid them proceeded from excessive modesty, and a timid nature that shrank from the noise of its own good deeds, resolved on compelling Jamie to submit to their acknowledgments; and, acting on this resolution, the young man (who, by the way, was provided with an admirable pair of legs for such purposes) was despatched by his father and sister in pursuit. The effect of this proceeding on Jamie, who had become aware of it, by happening to turn round for an instant during his flight, was to accelerate his speed. He flew like the wind, knocking about and overturning several people in his rapid and furious career. Thus the run continued for several minutes, when Jamie, feeling his wind failing him, and becoming thereby sensible that he could not hold out much longer, made a sudden dive up a close--one of those convenient retreats for "gentlemen in difficulties;" and, by this cleverly-executed movement, succeeded in fairly throwing out his pursuer, who, from the crowded state of the street, did not perceive the ruse, but held on his way vigorously, and afforded Jamie the inexpressible satisfaction of seeing him rush past the mouth of the entrance in which he was concealed. Feeling now in comparative safety, which, however, he further insured by going half-way up a stair, Jamie, who was a good deal blown by his exertion, took off his hat, and began wiping the perspiration from his face and forehead with his pocket-handkerchief, and doing all he could to recover his nearly exhausted breath.

"Hech," said Jamie, on beginning to respire more freely, and still wiping his face assiduously, "this has been athegither a deevil o' a job. Such a rumpus to be kicked up a' out o' nothing! Chased as if I was a mad dog! It was the maist unlucky _ane_ ever I tell't but catch me again savin onybody frae beein drooned! I'll no touch that style again in a hurry, I warrant." And with such disjointed remarks as these on his unhappy essay in his peculiar art, Jamie beguiled the short time which he thought it necessary to remain in his concealment. This expired--or, in other words, thinking the coast now clear--Jamie stole cautiously down the stair, and, on arriving at the bottom, peeped into the close before venturing out. The survey being satisfactory, Jamie emerged, and stealing down the close like a cat, repeated at the foot of it the operation of peeping round him, before taking the bold measure of stepping into the street. No enemy was in sight, Jamie drew his breath for a desperate adventure. It was a rush he meditated, which should at once carry him clear of the dangerous locality; and he accomplished it. From that hour, Jamie saw no more of the Alstons, and thus got out of the entangled web which he had woven for himself; but it was not long before he manufactured another, and a much more troublesome one.

The day on which the event in Jamie's life which we have just recorded took place, was one of great stir and excitation in Glasgow. It was the day of the execution of the Radical, Swan; whose death, on account of his crime having been a political one, was to be attended with some of the appalling ceremonies and peculiar proceedings that usually mark the execution of traitors.

Following the general current of the population which, as the hour appointed for the horrid exhibition was at hand, was drawing towards the jail, Jamie soon found himself at the place of execution. Here the general, and in some things the particular, appearance of the preparations for the approaching tragedy, showed that it was to be one of a very unusual kind. A strong party of foot-soldiers surrounded the gibbet, while the approaches at either end of the jail were occupied by dragoons, who, from the peremptory manner in which they performed their duty, in repelling all attempts at affecting a passage by the way which they guarded, sufficiently showed that their orders had been unusually strict. The crowd and general excitement was immense.

Amongst the other objects that attracted Jamie's notice in this imposing scene, was a man holding a white horse, and standing a little way aloof from the crowd. The animal was an ordinary cart-horse, and the person who held it seemed to be a carter by profession. The situation of both seemed an odd and unsuitable one, considering attendant circumstances; and they, of course, attracted some notice, and excited some curiosity; the more so that the man looked as if he and his horse had some business there, and waiting for something or other. Jamie, among the rest, was struck with these indications, and, making up to the man, bluntly but civilly said--

"What are ye gaun to be aboot wi' the horse here, frien?"

"A job I dinna like verra weel," replied the man, whose face was pale, and lips white, with some strong internal feeling.

"What sort o' a job may that be?" inquired Jamie, his curiosity still further excited by this answer.

"If ye wait a while, ye'll see," replied the person addressed, in a manner that intimated a desire to hold no further communication on the subject. Jamie took the hint, and walked off. In less than quarter-of-an-hour after, the dense mass of human beings that surrounded the gibbet seemed all at once struck with some new and strong feeling of excitement. A suppressed cry or exclamation rolled over that immense sea of heads; and the apathy which prevailed before was exchanged for a feeling of intense eagerness and restless curiosity. The first act of the tragedy had commenced; and it was the intelligence of this that was now working its way through the crowd, and producing the excitement alluded to. Conscious, with others, that the appalling proceedings of the occasion had opened, Jamie rushed towards the iron railings which enclosed a narrow paved way that ran round three sides of the jail, and there saw a scene more horrible than anything that even his own fertile imagination could have conceived. This was a hurdle, a machine somewhat resembling a Kamtschatkan sledge, raised slightly at either end, and to which was yoked the identical white horse, held by the head by the identical person, who had attracted Jamie's notice a short while before. Within this hurdle was seated, at one end, the executioner, with a broad, bright, short-handled axe resting on his shoulder; and opposite to him, in the other end, sat a quiet, composed-looking old man, of about sixty or sixty-five years of age. This was Swan, the unhappy man who was to suffer. In a second or two, the sledge moved on towards the scaffold; and in a second or two more Swan appeared upon the fatal platform. He was perfectly calm and collected throughout the whole of this trying scene, as was made sufficiently evident by his turning round to the executioner, and saying, with perfect composure, and an air of unconcerted simplicity, "Tammas, did ye ever see sic a crowd?" In a short time after, the miserable man was thrown off; and when he had hung about a quarter-of-an-hour or twenty minutes, three town-officers were seen to mount the scaffold and approach the body, which they immediately proceeded to lower--a ghastly spectacle, as they had to shoulder, handle, and support the corpse in the hideous operation. That operation performed, the body was placed in a position for decapitation, when suddenly another personage appeared on the scaffold. His step was quick and hurried. He wore a mask on his face, and was wrapped up in a loose black gown, which entirely concealed his person. On ascending the platform, this appalling personage, without looking to the right or left, quickly passed his hand round or over the neck of the dead man, as if to ascertain the proper place to strike. This done, he, with the same expedition, raised the axe, and at one blow severed the head from the body, and instantly thereafter glided from the scaffold, as mysteriously and rapidly as he had ascended it; the whole being the work of not more, perhaps, than a minute.

All this, then, Jamie Murdieston saw, and it struck him with horror. But will the reader believe that it should have been the means of getting him into another of his lying predicaments? All will think, we daresay, that it should have had a very opposite effect, and have rather laid than aroused the fibbing spirit that was within him. But, verily, such was not the case.

On the evening of the same day, Jamie betook himself to a coffee-room, to spend an hour, which he found hanging heavy on his hands, in taking a peep of the papers, and listening to the varied and desultory conversations which are usually to be heard in such places of resort. Being of a social and communicative disposition, Jamie soon began to take a share in the general talk. This talk, for the most part, as might be expected, bore reference to the recent execution, and to the popular movements out of which it had arisen.

"I'll tell you what it is," said Jamie, who was at this particular moment pretty considerably muzzed--"I'll tell ye what it is," he said, addressing two men who sat opposite him, and with whom he had got into familiar conversation--"the government had better no try ony mair o' thae tricks" (meaning executions for political offences), "or they'll maybe get their kail through the reek. There's mair mischief brewin in the country than they're aware o'."

"Faith, it's just as ye say, frien," said one of the persons spoken to. "There _is_ some wark gaun on that'll bother the big-wigs at Lunnun, when the proper time comes. But _we're_ no just ripe yet. Onything doin amang the _Friends_ in your pairt o' the country?"

"We're gettin on cannily, but surely," replied Jamie, with a significant look to the querist. Then, with a wink, pregnant with mysterious intelligence--"I ken twa or three things aboot thae matters that haena been cried at the cross."

On this, one of the men opposite Jamie stretched himself across the table, and whispered in his ear--

"Are ye headin ony movement in your quarter, noo?"

Jamie replied with an expressive nod, and a look of great importance; but did not think it necessary, or perhaps safe, to speak.

"Gie's yer haun, my frien," said the man who had whispered in Jamie's ear, with an air of high-wrought enthusiasm. "I honour you for your principles," he added, shaking, with great cordiality, the hand that was extended to him, and at the same time turning off the contents of his glass to Jamie's success.

"Thank ye, frien--thank ye," said Jamie, who, the reader will see, had all at once set up for a Radical leader. "I'll tell ye what," he continued, now leaning over the table towards his cronies, and speaking in a cautiously low tone--"as I see ye're friens o' the guid cause, I'll gie ye some intelligence that ye'll be glad aneugh to hear, I daresay. We're, ye see, a hunner strong in oor quarter, and as fine a set o' stout, resolute fallows as ye wad wish to see, and a' ready to turn oot at a moment's notice. I'm their captain, ye see. They hae done me the honour o' makin me their captain--a very unworthy, but a very willin ane. But, ah! sirs, we had a sad fecht to get arms; and they wad never hae been gotten an I hadna advanced a hunner poun oot o' my ain pouch; takin bills frae the committee for the amount, payable oot o' the first and readiest whan a's settled."

"I'm sure _the_ cause is much indebted to ye," here interrupted one of Jamie's new friends. "And hoo are ye armed noo, then?"

"Ou, pretty weel--pretty weel," replied Jamie--"maistly pikes; for, ye see, wi' oor sma' funds, we couldna touch fire-arms, although there's a few o' thae among us too. But oor pikes'll be found troublesome things, I'm thinkin. They're made after a fashion o' my ain invention. This is the shape, ye see." And here Jamie dipped his forefinger into his tumbler, and therewith proceeded to draw the figure of a very formidable-looking weapon on the table. "That, ye see, is for stabbin, and that's for cuttin, and that's for hookin, and that's for knockin doon," continued Jamie, pointing out the various properties of the complex instrument. "Winna that be a botherer?"

"My feth, in guid hauns it'll be that," responded one of Jamie's friends; and added, "Are ye drillin hard?"

"Every nicht that we hae the least glint o' moonshine," replied Jamie, without a moment's hesitation. "I gie them twa hours o't every nicht, and am teachin them a new sort o' pike exercise, that'll be fand, if I'm no mistaen, particularly effectual in keepin off horse."

"Where learned ye the use o' that weapon, sir, if I may take the liberty of asking?" inquired the former querist.

Few questions found Jamie unprepared with an answer.

"I'll tell ye that, frien," he replied. "It was in the Lancers. I was nine years a serjeant in that corps, which I left after the battle of Waterloo, in consequence o' a severe wound I got in that engagement. But what's come o' yer frien?" here said Jamie, suddenly interrupting himself, and now adverting, for the first time, to the absence of the companion of the person whom he addressed, and who had slipped out, without saying anything, about a quarter-of-an-hour before.

"He'll be here in a minute," was the reply; and the calculation was perfectly correct. In about a minute, the man appeared, but not alone. He was now accompanied by three most equivocal-looking persons.

"That's your man," he said, with an inclination of his head towards Jamie Murdieston.

"Friend," said one of the strangers, laying his hand on Jamie's shoulder, "you'll come along with us, if you please."

"Alang wi' you!" exclaimed Jamie, in the utmost amazement. "I wad like to ken whar and what for, first."

"We'll let you know all that by and by, friend," replied the spokesman of the party; "but, in the meantime, you _must_ go with us; so there's no use in palavering about it."

"I'll be hanged if I do, then," said Jamie, resolutely, "till I ken what for. 'Od, this is a pretty business! Do you tak me to be a robber or a murderer?"

"No, but we take you to be a traitor, a conspirer against the government, and a leaguer with its enemies; and as such I apprehend you," said the spokesman, at the same time collaring Jamie, and calling on his assistants to aid him in making a forcible capture of his person. The call was instantly obeyed. Jamie was seized on all sides, at one and the same instant of time, and, despite of a loud and most earnest denial of all hostility to the government, or of ever having in any way or manner whatever aided in disturbing the peace of the realm, was dragged out of the apartment, and finally snugly deposited in an airy cell in the city jail.

On being left to himself, Jamie, in no very happy mood, seated himself on a bench that ran along the wall, threw one leg over the other, planted his elbow on his knee, and, supporting his head with his hand, began to entertain himself with some reflections on the very extraordinary predicament into which he had been thus so suddenly and unexpectedly thrown.

"Preserve us, this is awfu!" said Jamie. "Waur a great deal than the droonin business. What the deevil tempted me to speak such nonsense? But wha could hae thocht this wad hae come o't? A bit harmless piece o' falderal. Yon twa maun hae been a pair o' infernal scoundrels--that's clear; and as clear is it that I'm in a most wickedly-awkward situation. I maun, I suppose, either submit to be hanged peaceably, or confess that I hae been tellin a most unconscionable lee--no a very pleasant alternative; but the last's better than the first, I reckon."

Jamie's communings were at this time interrupted by the entrance of the jailer, who came to see that all was right for the night.

"Man," said Jamie, addressing him, and trying to smile graciously, in order to propitiate his good-will, "this is a queer business."

"I rather think you'll find it so," replied the jailer, coolly, and unaffected by Jamie's soothing advances. "Both a queer business, and a serious one."

"It was a' a joke, man," said Jamie.

"Perhaps so," said the jailer; "but, like many other jokes, you may chance to find it attended with rather awkward consequences." And, without saying more, the man banged to the door with a violence that made the long passage on which it opened ring with an iron sound, and left Jamie to find what repose he might.

"The fallow'll no believe me," he said, on being again left to himself, "nae mair than if he kent me."

On the following morning, Jamie was conducted in procession, by three or four criminal officers, into the presence of the Procurator-Fiscal, when a precognition on his case immediately ensued.

"Well, sir," said the latter, at the same time referring to a paper which lay on his desk before him, "so you have taken up arms against the government."

"Naething o' the kind, my lord, I assure you," said Jamie.

"What, sir! do you mean to deny your spontaneous acknowledgment of the fact, made last night in the presence of two credible witnesses?"

"Indeed do I, my lord."

"Why, you _may_," replied the fiscal, emphatically; "but, I fear, it will do no good. Have you not mustered a body of armed men, or at least taken the command of such a body, with the intention of overthrowing the government of the country?--and have you not furnished them with funds to procure arms?--and are you not in the habit of training them nightly, as their captain, or leader, in military exercises?--and----"

"It's a' a lee, my lord--a lee frae beginnin to end," here interposed Jamie, earnestly. "I just spoke a' that nonsense for a bit o' diversion. It's just a way I hae, you see" (thus delicately did Jamie allude to his failing), "o' amusin mysel and my friens."

"Oh, then, you mean to deny _in toto_," said the fiscal. "In that case, we must adopt other proceedings; and, in the meantime, you return to jail."

To his old quarters, accordingly, Jamie was forthwith carried, and there lay for three entire days, until the result of the inquiries which were set on foot established that he was indeed no traitor, but a most inveterate and incorrigible liar. It is said, however, that Jamie, after this, was a great deal more cautious as to the nature and character of his romances, and as to the when, where, and to whom they were promulgated.

DUNCAN M'ARTHUR.

In the year 1778, Mr M'Donald, an extensive West India planter, from the island of Jamaica, came to Scotland, on a visit to his friends and relations in the West Highlands; amongst whom he spent several months, going from place to place, living a week or two here, and a week or two there, as chance or other circumstances directed.

During one of these migrations, this gentleman came one day, accidentally, in a solitary place on the banks of Loch Awe, on a little kilted, barelegged, and bareheaded Highland boy, busily employed in launching a little fleet of paper-sailed boats on the lake. The situation in which Mr M'Donald was at the moment placed, was one of those which strongly predispose one to enter into conversation with whomsoever chance may throw in the way, without much regard to age, sex, or appearance. The day was delightful--it was in the middle of June; the place lonely, and the scenery around of the most sublime and beautiful kind--the most beautiful, perhaps, in the Highlands of Scotland; and this, as our readers know, is no mean character of its perfections. These were the circumstances, then, in which Mr M'Donald was placed on the occasion to which we have alluded, and on him they had the effect which they would have had on anybody else--namely, that of opening up the sympathies of his nature, of extinguishing the littleness of pride, and of inducing one general feeling of benevolence; and it was in this happy frame of mind that he now reined in his horse, and accosted the young stranger.

"Well, my little fellow," he said, "what's this you're about?"

The boy looked up in his face, and blushed and smiled at the same time, but made no reply, conceiving one unnecessary, as his employment was sufficiently evident. There was in that single look of the boy's, however, an expression of openness and intelligence that at once caught Mr M'Donald's fancy; and he immediately added, good-naturedly, "Where are all these ships going to?"

The boy again looked up in his face and laughed, but now vouchsafed a reply:--

"To the West Indies, sir, for cargoes of rum and sugar."

This was spoken in pretty fair English, though strongly tinctured with the Celtic accent.

"Indeed!" rejoined Mr M'Donald; "my word, but you are an extensive trader, if it be the case, as I have no doubt it is, that all these fine ships are your own. What's your name, my little fellow?"

"Duncan M'Arthur, sir."

"Are you at school?"

"Yes, sir; I'm just now on my way home from it."

"What are you learning there?"

"English, writing, and arithmetic."

"Can you write pretty well?"

"Ou ay, sir--middlin."

"Count?"

"Ay--middlin, too, sir."

"That's a clever fellow. How should you like, now, to go abroad, and see the world? How should you like to go where you have just now sent these ships?"

"It's mysel, sir, wad like it weel," said the boy, his sharp, intelligent little eye brightening with the idea; "but my faither couldna want me for herdin the cows, and helpin him wi' his peats."

"Where does your father live, my boy?" inquired Mr M'Donald.

"At the Ferry o' Bunaw, sir."

It was within half-a-mile of the house to which the latter was just going, and where he intended stopping for a few days, previous to his leaving the country for good and all.

"Well, my little fellow," he said, "I am going to Blackhouse. You know it, I fancy?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well, call upon me there to-morrow forenoon. Ask for Mr M'Donald. I wish to speak further with you."

The boy promised, and Mr M'Donald rode off.

Now, it would not be easy for us to say what were the latter's intentions regarding the little barelegged boy; and for this simple reason--that he did not well know himself. He had, however, taken a fancy to the boy--that is certain--and felt a disposition to do him a service, although he had not yet thought of what nature this should be, or how it was to be done. He had, in truth, no definite views on the subject; but he had not ridden far, when these began to assume something of a tangible shape, and this was, to take the boy into his service as a personal attendant, provided his parents should agree to it.

True to his appointment, little Duncan waited next day on Mr M'Donald, his face well washed, and his hair carefully combed over his forehead.

"Ah, Duncan, are you there?" said the latter, on his entering the apartment where he was. "I'm glad to see you. You said yesterday, Duncan, that you would like to go abroad."

"Weel wad I like that, sir," replied the little bare-breeched Highlander, "if my faither could spare me."

"Did you speak to your father on the subject, Duncan?"

"I tell't him that I met you, sir, and what you said."

"Ay; and what did he say, my little fellow?"

"He said, sir, 'The shentleman's been shoking you, Duncan; but ye may go down to Blackhouse, as he pade you, and see what he has to say.'"

And Duncan looked at Mr M'Donald as if he would be glad himself to know whether there was anything of a joke in the matter. Indeed, it was for this purpose that he repeated his father's words, cunningly availing himself of them to elicit the information he wanted.

"Joking you, Duncan!" repeated Mr M'Donald, smiling. "By no means; and of this I'll soon convince both you and your father."

Having said this, he took up his hat and stick, and desired the boy to conduct him to his father's.

The house was one of the poorest class; and it was evident, from everything within and around it, that it was a hard struggle with its occupants to make, as the saying has it, "the two ends to meet."

Having found Duncan's father, Mr M'Donald explained to him his views regarding his son. These were readily acceded to by both the boy's parents, who, though they sorely grudged to part with their little Duncan, yet saw that it might be for his advantage, and therefore felt themselves called on to sacrifice their own feelings in a case which seemed to involve his future welfare. At this interview it was settled, in short, that he should enter the service of Mr M'Donald, and of course leave the country with him when he went.

Three days after this, Duncan bade farewell to his parents and the home of his childhood. His patron was about to set out for Greenock, and there to embark for Jamaica. The parting was a bitter one. His father clasped him in his arms; and, while those tears, which no danger to himself, and no sufferings merely his own, could ever have drawn from him, streamed down his rugged cheeks, he fervently and solemnly prayed, in Gaelic--in his own impressive language--for a blessing on his child.

"When I have had such a parting as this, Duncan," he said, afterwards--"and many of them I've had with my brethren, and with more remote but still dear friends--it was the honour of our country and our name that caused the separation. They had girded on the sword, and went to seek distinction in the ranks of war, and on the field of battle. They went to be soldiers, Duncan; and I could wish that you had been now following their footsteps. But it may be better as it is. Your days may be more, though your reputation should be less. A different destiny seems meted out for you."

But it was in the case of his mother that the parting of little Duncan was most affecting. She held the boy to her bosom, as if she meant that he should never again leave it, and loaded him with all the tender epithets which her memory could supply, and with which the Gaelic language so much abounds. On exhausting these, she proceeded to deplore the approaching separation from her child, in that affecting strain, at once metaphorical and poetical, peculiar to her country on such and similar occasions.