Chapter I: Canna Be Fashed! (2)

[Footnote 11: The Castle of Crail was an important station in early times. The fortress was entered by a massive gate in the Shoregate, the site of which is now occupied by a house some time belonging to the late Mr William Cowan. Within the rampart which defended the entrance were placed the guard-house and apartments for officers. For centuries the castle consisted of little more than these houses and a single tower, surrounded by a barbican, and other defences; but after the end of the eleventh century it became of more importance as a royal residence for King David. In his reign the fortifications were considerably extended; a governor's house was erected, with two circular towers, from which a grand view was obtained to seaward, and of the surrounding country. Within a second gate were two courts, containing the king's palace, the parliament hall, the chapel, and other buildings. The roof of the king's room in the palace was completely covered with rich carving in oak, long regarded by the town's-people with veneration. There was also a house for storing grain, and a well of excellent water within its walls. This fortress was considered the key of the East of Fife, and, before the invention of gunpowder, was deemed impregnable.]

In a fine summer afternoon David and his beloved Matilda were seated alone in a room of the governor's house.

Now, as interviews between lovers are usually very delightful to our fair young friends in general, we might for their benefit narrate at great length all that was said and done by the parties above mentioned; but, without disappointing them altogether, we shall be very brief on the subject, and rather hasten to unfold more important parts of their adventures.

"Sweet Matilda," began David, "my heart, that never knew another love, is all your own. Since we first met on Kingsmuir, your image has not quitted my mind for a second. Not for a moment have I ceased to think you the best, the most beautiful, the most enchanting, the most endearing creature that ever graced our country."

She turned; her eye glistened; her arm fell over his shoulder; she buried her head in his breast. At this very moment the door opened, and the earl her father entered; and David exclaimed, "Oh, my dear earl, I am the happiest man that ever breathed."

"What is all this?" inquired the earl.

"Is it possible," said the king, "that you have not long before detected the feelings I ventured to entertain for your daughter? In a word, she requires only your sanction to my being the most fortunate of men."

"My gracious sovereign," cried the earl, "it is out of the power of man to impart to me any event which could afford to me such exquisite pleasure."

The earl then approached his daughter, and, bending down, pressed the lips of his child. It was the seal to their plighted faith, and told without speech that the blessing of a father mingled with the vows of a lover. At this moment Matilda thought only of her father--that friend of her life in prosperity and adversity, whose love had never been wanting--was she now about to leave him? She rose; she threw her arms about her father's neck, and wept.

The earl at this time considerately remembered that he wanted to see his servant, and they were left alone. Their eyes meet; their soft looks tell that they are thinking of each other. His arm steals round the back of her chair, and with the other hand he gently lays hold on hers. But why more? First love--first love, how many a glowing bard has sung thy charms! Nature herself seemed to those loving hearts more beautiful than ever. Their own thoughts reflected themselves in every object that met their view, as they wandered amidst the shady woods or along the sunny braes near the royal residence.

But although the young king was in love, duty was not to be neglected; and the old earl entreated that the youthful pair should cease to wander on the West Braes, and Roome Links, and woods, and muirs which at that time surrounded the burgh. He urged the king to examine and make good the walls of the town, and the gates at the East and West Ports, and Jockey's Port, as well as those of the Nethergate and Shoregate; also the castle walls, gates, and defences, and whole fortifications. The armoury came likewise under observation, and an inspection took place of the bowmen, while practising archery in the Bow Butts. These precautions became necessary, as rumours began to be circulated that a war might speedily be expected with the English.

The affairs of state having also received due attention, the court resolved to visit the Isle of May.

The morning was remarkably fine, when the king, with the Earl of Northumberland, Matilda, and a number of his court, embarked at Crail in a pleasure-yacht for the May. The air was pure, the sea slightly ruffled with a favouring breeze, and the sky almost cloudless; all nature looked bright and beautiful, and the morning sun cast the shadows of the vessel's masts across the water in the harbour.

The harbour of Crail presented a very animated scene. Everything was in unison with the sunny day and the illustrious occasion. The piers were lined with soldiers, and behind them were dense crowds of spectators. The royal Scottish standard was flying from the castle, and from the south pier-head. The harbour was crowded with boats and small craft, to witness the departure. On the yacht leaving the harbour, the cheer was taken up by the soldiers and the populace, while the band struck up the national air.

The Island of May was reached in less than an hour. In sailing round the western side, the most discordant sounds saluted the ear from kittiewakes, seagulls, scouts, and other wild sea-fowl, which inhabit the rock in myriads, and nestle in the bare crevices; and some of the party, wishful to display their skill in archery, brought down a few of the birds with their arrows, both sitting and on the wing. A landing was safely made on the southern side, and the company separated into small parties, to stroll over the island, and view its natural curiosities and various remains of antiquity, particularly its priory and gifted holy well.

After spending a delightful day, the court embarked with the afternoon's tide for Crail, and, when at a distance from the island, they viewed with interest the romantic Castle of Dreel, the stronghold of the Anstruthers of Anstruther, to whom the king had lately granted a charter, wherein the heir is designed "Filius Willielmi de Candela, domini de Anstruther:" "son of William de Candela, Lord of Anstruther," a name obviously of Norman origin. This castle lies at the bottom of the bay, between the Billowness and Craignoon Rock, with its rough, grey, antique houses clustering round the mouth of the Dreel burn. Brightly on sea and on shore shone the unclouded afternoon's sun on the white cliffs of the isle, and the rugged shore of the East of Fife, with all its caverns, rocks, and towers, its ancient burghs, with their pointed spires, and long and straggling fishing villages, that dot the rocky beach. The scene was lovely and beautiful. The Forth shone like a stream of lucid gold; West Anstruther, with its old church of Norman architecture; Royal Crail, with its lofty castle, its chapel, and turreted battlements; Castle Cunningham, at the West Braes, and its gloomy caverns not far distant--all these were visible at once, and bathed in ruddy light.

King David having now declared his intention of espousing Matilda, the marriage was soon after solemnised within the chapel of the castle, with much splendour and dignity. The guests of the bridal were the nobility and dignified clergy, and in their suite a numerous assembly of vassals. A thousand knights, in their robes of silk, attended the bride on the morn of her nuptials, and several days were spent in hunting, feasting, dancing, and other circumstances of pomp and revelry.

A tournament, the frequent amusement of this warlike age, also took place. This was a martial sport or exercise which the ancient cavaliers used to perform to show their address and bravery. On this occasion, Walter Bisset, a powerful baron, who piqued himself on his skill in his weapons, was foiled by Patrick, Earl of Athole. An old feud which existed between these families embittered the defeat, and Athole was found murdered in his house, which, probably for the purpose of concealment, was set on fire by the assassins. The suspicion of this slaughter--which, even in an age familiar with ferocity, seems to have excited unwonted horror--immediately fell upon the Bissets; and although _Walter_ was the person concerned in the tournament, the popular clamour pointed to _William_, the elder brother, and chief of the family. He was pursued by the nobility, who were incited to vengeance by the Earl of March and David de Hastings, and would have been torn to pieces, had not the interference of the king protected him from the fury of the friends of Athole. Ultimately the Bissets were condemned, their estates forfeited to the crown, and they were ordered to repair to Palestine, and there, for the remaining days of their lives, to pray for the soul of the murdered earl.

When we muse on the chivalric and martial sports which distinguished our ancient burgh in former days, and witness the silence and gloomy depopulation which now reign in our streets; when we compare its lofty and formidable castle with its present bare and defenceless walls; when we think of the great maritime and commercial interest carried on, before the Union, between its harbour and Holland, and other foreign countries, and see its present limited coasting trade, we can scarcely help regretting the loss of its ancient grandeur. One cannot help _feeling_ that of this royal residence, where princes feasted and heroes fought--now in the bloody earnest of storm and siege, and now in the games of chivalry, where beauty dealt the prize which valour had won--all is now desolate, all its glory is departed. The mossy ruins of its castle walls only serve to show what their extent and splendour once was, and to impress on the mind of the musing visiter the transitory nature and value of all human possessions, and the true happiness of _those_ who enjoy a humble lot in virtuous contentment.

Some of our readers may deem the marriage of David and Matilda a singular and improbable circumstance; but we can tell of a far more romantic bridal, and one well attested by historical evidence, which happened little more than a hundred years afterwards--viz., in 1272--with which important consequences were connected:--A Scottish knight of high birth, Robert de Bruce, younger of Annandale and Cleveland, was passing on horseback through the domains of Turnberry, which belonged to Marjory, Countess of Carrick. The lady happened at the moment to be pursuing the diversion of the chase, surrounded by her squires and damsels. They encountered the Bruce. The young countess was struck by his noble figure, and courteously entreated him to remain and take the recreation of hunting. Bruce, who, in those feudal days, knew the danger of paying too much attention to a ward of the king, declined the invitation, when he found himself suddenly surrounded by the attendants; and the lady, riding up, seized his bridle, and led off the knight with gentle violence to her Castle of Turnberry. Here, after fifteen days' residence, the adventure concluded as might have been anticipated: Bruce married the countess, without the knowledge of her relations, or obtaining the king's consent; upon which King Alexander seized her Castle of Turnberry. The intercession of friends, however, and a heavy fine, conciliated the mind of the monarch. Bruce became, in right of his wife, Lord of Carrick, and the son of this marriage of romantic love was the great Robert Bruce, the restorer of Scottish liberty.

Soon after the royal marriage, preparations were made for the queen's coronation (King David having been crowned when he ascended the throne), and the royal pair, with the court, proceeded to Scone Palace for that purpose.

It was a fine morning in the month of July when the party set out, and the dawn was beautiful. Before them lay the great Frith of Forth, rolling down in the bright sunshine from the mountains of the west, its shores teeming with fertility and natural loveliness. Along the banks the mists were rising from the verdant cones and waving woods of Innergellie, Lochton, and Balcomie. It was a spacious prospect of flowering meadow and ripening corn-field--of foliaged coppice and flowing ocean--of rising eminence and busy burgh town--of ships and fishing-boats at anchor or under sail, with the glorious sunshine beaming over all, and everything was full of life, of light, and of happiness around them. The road from Crail passed through Airdrie Woods, by the back of Kellie-law, and thence through the muirs to Falkland.[12] Here the royal party stopped and partook of refreshments, and thereafter proceeded on their journey to the Palace of Scone.

[Footnote 12: It is still open, and of great breadth in various parts of the line, and retains the name of the King's Cadgers' Road, because the fish carriers from Crail travelled along it with fish from that royal burgh to supply the king's table when resident at Falkland Palace].

The mode in which the ceremony of Queen Matilda's coronation was performed is strikingly illustrative of the manners of the age. The Bishops of St Andrews and Dunkeld, with the Abbot of Scone, attended to officiate. The Bishop of St Andrews explained to her majesty the respective oaths, which were to be taken first in Latin, and afterwards in Norman French. They then conducted her to the regal chair or sacred stone of Scone, which stood before the cross in the eastern division of the chapel. Upon this she sat; the crown was placed on her head; she was invested with the royal mantle, and the nobility kneeling in homage threw their robes beneath her feet. A Highland bard or sennachy, clothed in a scarlet mantle, with hair venerably white, then advanced from the crowd, and bending before the throne, repeated in his native tongue the genealogy of the youthful queen.

Many years pass. Maude is dead; and our fancy, under a spell, leads us to Crail Church. The usual service has not yet commenced, and consequently neither the king, his family, nor attendants, have entered the church; but it is whispered that they may be looked for every moment, as his majesty was scrupulously punctual at prayers.

There was soon a large congregation assembled, certainly not less than a thousand persons, drawn hither by loyalty and curiosity, and in compliment to the royal birth-day. A soft and solemn strain of music now rose from the organ, and time is given, during the voluntary, to collect the distracted thoughts, and to compose them into calmness and order suitable to the occasion. There now ran a muffled whisper of "The King! the King!" and a vista being opened in front, his majesty is seen quite distinctly. He is a venerable old man, hoary and furrowed--no grandeur, no majesty, no assumption of princely dignity. Shading his dim eyes with one hand, he reverently knelt down, and inwardly breathed his composing aspiration to the Throne of Grace. The other hand rested on the shoulder of the fair-haired child who stood by his side, his little grand-daughter, whom he had led in his hand to the place of worship.

All this had passed in a few seconds: and there was now a deep hush, for the priests were in their places. The staring and whispering were suspended; the service commenced, and the aged monarch, bareheaded, his thin, trembling hands fervently clasped, his eyes uplifted as it were to the place to which all his earnest thoughts were now directed, in the attitude of intense, absorbing devotion--presented a picture of devotion of a character so solemn and impressive, that anything more striking could rarely be witnessed or imagined.

Here, then, is an end to all our previous dreams of royal splendour, for there stands the pious monarch, David, King of Scotland,

"His staff his sceptre, his grey hairs his crown,"

trembling in presence of his God, breathing the general confession of his sins with the beings of the same kindred and frail nature as himself that stood around him.

THE LEGEND OF THE CHURCH OF ABERCROMBIE.

From authentic documents referred to by Sir John Connel in his "History of Tithes," Abercrombie, or Abercromlin, appears to have been a parish as far back as 1174. How long that character pertained to this portion of Fife we cannot say, but the church is obviously of very great antiquity. Having become so ruinous as to be unfit for a place of worship, it was abandoned in 1646, and since that time the parishes of Abercrombie and St Monans have been united, and the old church of St Monans, situated on the sea-shore, has served for the use of both.

In a romantic and beautiful situation within the grounds now forming part of the domain of Sir Ralph Abercrombie Anstruther of Balcaskie, Baronet, and in the old burying-place, still used as a cemetery by the Balcaskie family, stands the remains of the old grey parish church of Abercrombie, with its encircling lime-trees and its green ivy garment duskily investing its aged walls.

Dedicated to St Mary and St Margaret, tradition has deduced the origin of Abercrombie Church from the piety and wealth of two sisters similarly named.

About the middle of the twelfth century, the broad lands and swelling coffers of Sir Humphrey Abercrombie (failing male issue) devolved upon two maiden sisters, Mary and Margaret, only children of the baronet; and as both were young, and of unimpeachable descent--the true Norman blood mantling in every vein--the heiresses early became objects of absorbing interest in the eyes of such of the surrounding knights and thanes as could advance pretensions to as clear a shield and pure a lineage as their own.

Educated within the walls of the convent at Haddington, the sisters' limited experience and unripe notions of the world would have inadequately fitted them for the duties entailed upon them by their new position, were it not that nature had beneficently gifted the elder with a certain strength and self-reliance of character, imperfectly developed in the cloister, but daily expanding and maturing in a broader sphere, in proportion as circumstances seemed to call it into action, and demand its vigorous exercise.

The younger was a graceful, gentle girl, gifted with rare beauty, and with a disposition as femininely soft and placid as the mild and dove-like eyes through which her soul looked out upon a world but newly revealed to her enfranchised gaze.

How was it, then, that thus differing--thus unlike in mind and feature--the high-souled Mary and the shrinking, soft-eyed Margaret should, almost simultaneously, have set their hearts on one object? Was it that, under the handsome exterior of her soldier-cousin, Philip de Candela, the elder sister recognised a spirit similar to her own? And was it that the pliant mind of Margaret, putting forth a host of tendrils--impulses, affections, sympathies--craved some object for support, something to cling to and weave themselves around, encircling what they garlanded? Was it in the harder nature of the soldier these budding tendrils found, as it were, a massive trunk wooing their embrace and strengthening their growth? Was it that the elder loved him for the perils he had undergone in Palestine and in France, the exciting scenes in which he had conspicuously borne a brave man's part, and for the spirit of daring and adventure by which he had been influenced in his busy brief career? We may know that it was so; that continued intercourse confirmed and ripened love; that Mary's ears were seldom regaled with tales of war and chivalry, while the songs of Provence were carolled with a frequency and fervour most gratifying, it would seem, to the happy, hopeful Margaret; and that, in short, the soldier and his soft-eyed cousin plighted their troth, and then irrevocably sealed it with a sacred union. The ceremonial was performed by St Monan, a hermit or religious recluse belonging to the Monastery of Pittenweem, which was sheltered in a recess amongst the banks, walls, and crevices at the west end of the village of the same name, with a dusky-coloured mass of hard whinstone overhanging it behind, and a stair or gully winding past it in front. Haste and secresy could be purchased then as now, and Philip and his bride were ferried across the frith, and landed at North Berwick, hours ere their lengthened absence had been noted by the elder sister as an unusual circumstance.

How fierce and violent a storm of passion then swelled within the disappointed sister's breast--how from her heart she cursed them bitterly, bridegroom and bride--how vowed an unmitigable hatred to them both--how every soft and womanly feeling seemed utterly extinct--how in their stead arose an intense, consuming thirst to be avenged--how, in fact, her whole nature seemed changed, and how she moodily immured herself within her Castle of Abercrombie, day after day, week after week, brooding upon the scornful slight which had been put upon her love, and upon the cunning, as she deemed it, of the sister who had supplanted her--it were a charity to the infirmities of our common nature to touch upon but lightly, and so pass on to after incidents.

Six months had scarcely run their course after the marriage, when the war broke out between Stephen, the unpopular usurper of the English throne, and his fair relative and competitor, Maude. Margaret's husband was among the first to join the standard of King David, and to fling himself within the ranks of those who opposed Stephen. Alas! he was among the first also to fall a victim to that sanguinary strife, being slain in a mere chance skirmish, into which his zeal and well-known bravery had unhappily led him.

Poor Margaret might well be overwhelmed by such a fearful and unlooked-for bereavement. Reason almost gave way; and during the time that partial delirium deprived her of consciousness, her husband's kinsmen mercifully consigned the gashed and ghastly corpse to its last home, that the widow's eye might never look with agony upon the loved and distorted features of her slaughtered soldier.

When the elder sister heard of this sudden sharp calamity, her heart melted within her. In the presence of death, anger and hate, and jealousy, and wounded love, and baffled hope, stood solemnly rebuked. The cause of their disunion no longer found a place within their memory; but a more unclouded past, childhood and girlhood, the recollections of an era teeming with thoughts and images of love and tenderness--of a time when they two nestled their soft cheeks upon the same pillow, wove the same woof, shared the same rambles to Kellie-law and Kilconquhar Loch, to Macduff's Cave and Balcarras Craig--cherished the same dear rose-tree, wept and laughed, grew pale or crimson, sad or merry, as the same feelings swayed the hearts of both--came thronging to her mind; and as the past brought with it such gentle harmonising influences, why should they not renew it in the future? They had been too long widely and unwisely severed. Henceforth they would have, as they had had of yore, but one home and one heart.

Borne down, indeed, still almost distraught with grief, the younger yet could find a solace and a mitigation of her sorrow in her reunion with her elder sister; and when the latter fell upon the widow's bosom, and brokenly sobbed out her sorrow for the past, her grief for this last heavy stroke, and spoke of hope for better days, when suffering should be softened down by time, and submission soothe regret, her dark eyes kindled through her tears, and a faint smile, like a ray of fleeting sunshine gilding the blackness of the storm, played momentarily upon her compressed and pallid lips.

So the old Castle of Abercrombie received them once again, linked together by a closer tie--wiser and sadder both--the joyousness of youth displaced by thoughts of a graver, if not gloomier, texture, as though a few short months had done the work of years, and prematurely stamped the feelings of a later epoch upon their youthful minds. Perhaps the solitude in which they lived, disposing them to ponder on the after destination of the soul, or perhaps the converse of a priestly adviser, anxious to aggrandise the church (for there was only _one_ church then, and for three hundred years after there was no other, namely, the Church of Rome) of which he was a member; or perhaps that natural revulsion of the mind from matters of momentary to matters of imperishable importance, which results from worldly disappointment and domestic calamities, influenced them in coming to the determination to which they came; but whatever may have been the influences which operated on them, this alone is certain--that the sisters mutually resolved to _found a church_, and dedicate it to the service of the Almighty, in token of their reconciliation; purposing likewise to endow it at their decease with the personal wealth of which they were possessed.

At that time the whole surrounding country, or at least the muirland portion of it, was little better than a leafy wilderness, intersected by numerous bridle-ways, with here and there a broader track, offering a passage for the slow and cumbrous carts and sledges of those rude days. At scattered intervals large clearances had been made; and out of the old primeval trees, and with the aid of turf taken from the soil, and rushes gathered from the margin of the burns, rivulets, and lochs, groups of cottages were framed, windowless and chimneyless--a miserable shelter for the hardy cottars who tenanted them. A frank tenementer's more commodious abode, a smithy, or perhaps a huckster's store, were the only tenements that varied that otherwise uniform aspect of these primitive clachans. Wherever the ground swelled into anything like a reasonable eminence, the stronghold of a baron might be observed perched on the summit, while the circumjacent hollow would exhibit its irregularly-clustered hovels, overlooked by the more massive and enduring residence of the rural magnate. Such churches, too, as then existed, were mostly built upon a rising ground, and seemed to serve as landmarks in that wild untravelled breadth of muir-moss and forest-land. It may be readily conceived, therefore, that at such a time, and in such a district, the rumour of the meditated erection in the first instance, and afterwards the commencement, continued progress, and completion of the sacred structure, were regarded as the gradual evolution of an event peculiarly important.

It was an event, moreover, that was regarded with the utmost satisfaction by the Romish Church, upon whose dignitaries, in due time, devolved the task of formally consecrating the edifice to the sacred object for which it was intended, and who purposed to lavish in the ceremonial all those adventitious aids by which the Church of Rome imparted a character of such imposing grandeur to every rite and ceremonial to which she lent her countenance, or in which she bore a part: and hence the consecration of this edifice, followed, or rather accompanied, by a solemn presentation of the sisters at the altar, in token of compunction for dissensions past, and thankfulness for love restored, was marked by features of such rare magnificence, by such impressive pomp, and such professional display, and witnessed by such a multitude of wondering spectators, gathered from far and near, that both the solemnity itself, and its strange issue, lived in the memories of succeeding generations for centuries afterwards.

On that solemnity we need not tarry to comment; our legend has reference to _its issue_ only. As the sisters knelt before the altar, thus by a formal act to ratify their reconciliation in the sight of God and man, and the venerable diocesan, Bishop Arnold of St Andrews, bent down to give his benediction on them both, a flash of vivid lightning on a sudden filled the sacred edifice with a ruddy light, and a rattling peal of thunder rolled, as it were, along the very roof of the building.

There was a hush--a silence that was almost audible--a deep, dead calm reigning for a space in every portion of the holy pile. Most of the congregation lay prostrate on the pavement; the sisters knelt upon the altar steps, with buried heads and clasped hands; the old prelate stood alone erect, and folding his hands upon his breast, with eyes uplifted and serene, at length emphatically said, "Thy will be done!" A thousand voices as by one impulse, blending into chaos, made response, "Amen, amen!"

And then the good old bishop, gently touching the kneeling sisters, bade them rise; but neither speech nor motion answered him, for still they knelt, with heads bowed low and fingers intertwined--with mute lips and eyelids drooping heavily. Again and yet again he would have them raised from their kneeling posture; but there was neither word nor sign; and then awe fell upon the hearts of all present, for they knew that _death_ was there! The spirits of the sisters, forgiving and forgiven, had passed away, and doubtless angels and redeemed spirits had heralded them to the mansions of the blessed.

THE ROMANCE OF THE MAY.

The Isle of May, which lies at the mouth of the Forth, is about six miles from Crail, and is about a mile in length, and three-quarters in breadth. It has a well of excellent water, a small loch, and affords the finest pasturage for sheep.[13] The island contained a religious house and chapel dedicated to St Adrian, who was murdered by the Danes in 872, and buried at Anstruther-Wester, where his stone coffin is yet to be seen. The island belonged to the crown; King David afterwards presented it to the abbot and convent of Reading in Berkshire; and from this and many other valuable benefactions to the church, King James I., when he visited his tomb, three hundred years after, called him "a sair saint to the crown." From Prynne's records it appears that the abbot afterwards unwarrantably sold the island to William Lamberton, Bishop of St Andrews. It afterwards came into the possession of General Scott of Balcombie, whose daughter, the Duchess of Portland, sold it to the Commissioners of Northern Lights.

[Footnote 13: Two-year-old May wether mutton is said to be a feast worthy of the gods, if they would admit anything more substantial than ambrosia.]

Some remarkable events are connected with this island. The first we shall advert to is the "Battle of the May."

Our readers have all doubtless heard or read of Sir Andrew Wood of Largo, a famous Scottish admiral in the reign of James III. In the year 1490, King Henry, the English monarch, mortified at the defeat of some of his ships by Admiral Wood the previous year, assembled his officers, and offered rewards to any of them who should take the sea against Sir Andrew, and bring him to him dead or alive. One Stephen Bull, a London merchantman, who, like Sir Andrew Wood, combined the pursuits of warfare and commerce, accepted the offer, and with three large ships set sail for the Frith of Forth, in order to get between Admiral Wood and the land on his return from Flanders, to which he had escorted a fleet of merchantmen.

The English ships anchored under shelter of the Isle of May; and Bull, having captured some sailors, compelled them to give him intelligence about Sir Andrew's movements.

Early by daybreak, on a fine summer morning, the 10th of August, Sir Andrew's two vessels, the one named "The Flower," and the other "The Yellow Carvel," were observed to come in sight, on which the English commander made preparations for engaging them, and distributed wine amongst his men to raise their courage. With regard to the Scottish admiral, Pitscottie the historian says, "On the other hand, Sir Andrew Wood came pertly forward, knowing no impediment of enemies to be in his gate, till at last he perceived their three ships under sail, and coming fast to them in fier of war. Then Sir Andrew Wood, seeing this, exhorted his men to battle, beseeching them to take courage against their enemies of England, who had sworn and made their vows that they should make us prisoners to the King of England, but, God willing, they shall fail of their purpose. Therefore set yourselves in order, every man in his own place. Let the gunners charge their artillery and the cors-bows make them ready; with the lyme-pots and fire-balls in our tops, and twe-handed swords in your fore-arms; and let every man be stout and diligent for his own part and for the honour of Scotland, and thereto he caused fill the wine, and every man drank to other."

The engagement that took place is described as being of the most desperate character. The Scottish admiral contrived to get to windward of the enemy. The fight lasted from sunrise to sunset, and was beheld by an immense crowd of men, women, and children on the coast of Fife. At last the two fleets were parted by the darkness, and drew off from each other, till the daylight next morning again enabled them to see what they were about.

The signal for a renewal of the engagement was then given by blowing of trumpets on both sides, when the two hosts encountered each other again, "and fought so cruely," says our historian, "that neither the skippers or mariners took heed of their ships," but allowed them to drift away with wind and tide till they reached as far as opposite the mouth of the Tay, the crews all the while contending hand to hand. At last the English admiral was compelled to yield, and to give up his sword to Sir Andrew Wood; and his three ships were then towed up to Dundee, where the wounded were landed, and placed under medical care. A few days after, Sir Andrew, our brave countryman, presented the English admiral and his officers to his majesty, James, King of Scotland, who, so far from returning evil for evil, released and sent back Admiral Bull, his officers and men, with their vessels, and with rich gifts as a present to the English king. King Henry of England had thus, in addition to his vexation at this signal defeat, the humiliation of being obliged to acknowledge the generosity and princely bearing of the Scottish king, whom he had insulted and injured without the slightest provocation.

The next occurrence which we shall record is the melancholy accident which took place on the Island of May in January, 1791.

For two evenings no light was exhibited from the lighthouse, and the weather was such as no boat could put off to ascertain the cause. On the third day the storm abated, and a boat was manned from Crail. No sooner had the crew of the boat landed, than they were assailed by a strong sulphurous smell, and proceeding directly to the lighthouse, they found the door shut, and no one answered their call. Forcing an entrance, they saw the keeper, his wife, and five children, all lying suffocated, and a sixth infant sucking its dead mother. In another room were found two men almost expiring, but who, by the timely assistance rendered, providentially recovered. It was supposed that this sad accident was occasioned by some burning coals being blown among some cinders and refuse lying at the bottom of the lighthouse.

The last incident to which we shall refer is the boat disaster at the island in 1837.

On the 1st of July, 1837, a skipper and boat-owner belonging to Cellardyke set sail from that harbour, with a large party, on a pleasure excursion to the Isle of May. The day was fine and wind favourable, and the party, chiefly young men and women, consisting of sixty-five persons, including the crew, were all in high spirits, having music on board, indulging freely in mirth and gaiety, and little thinking of the sad event impending over their heads, by which, in a little half-hour, so many of them were to perish.

Having approached close to the island, on the western side, it was not deemed fitting to land at the place called "the Stand," or "Atterstones," but to proceed round the southern end of the island to the eastern side thereof, with intention to disembark at a creek on the eastern side, called "Kirken Haven." In the attempt to enter this haven, there being a swell of the sea, or surge, setting in from the eastward at the time, the boat became unmanageable, and was violently driven against the shore; the _stem_, in consequence, having stuck fast on the rocks, while the _stern_ floated in deep water, the swell or eddies, and broken water, upset or caused the boat to sink, and a great number of persons belonging to Anstruther, Cellardyke, and the neighbouring towns, were drowned. Of those, ten were young unmarried women, two married women, and one infant--in all, thirteen persons. One individual lost his wife, his mother, and his child; another, a young man, observing his sister and a young woman to whom he was warmly attached both struggling in the water, and sinking in the midst of furious breakers, boldly plunged into the boiling sea, and made his way to the perishing girls. And oh what a sight for those on shore, to see the noble-minded youth risking his life for those he loved! He supports both for some time; he comforts them with hopes of succour; but his strength begins to fail. What shall he do? Shall he part with one? and if so, which of the two? No; the idea is torment to him--he cannot for a moment entertain it. He will save both, or perish in the attempt. He sinks, and rises, and sinks again, with his precious burden. The waters close over their heads--they are given up for lost. The two young women perish, but a huge wave casts the young man nearer the shore; his comrades on the beach make the most extraordinary efforts to save him, and he is at last rescued from the very jaws of death.

CALEB CRABBIN.

As a good theorising spirit in philosophy is the very soul of all progress in science, and the creatures that dabble in experiments with crucibles and retorts are no better than pioneers to the great geniuses that combine and generalise, so some think it an undoubted truth that speculation is the great spirit of commerce (including, of course, in the articles of that commerce, _wives_), and that those who do not make a bold stroke seldom make an effectual one. In no department of commerce is speculation held of greater importance than in that of marriage; and how rare is it to find a man who thoroughly understands it--if, indeed, it may not be said that ninety-nine out of a hundred do not know even the difference between buying and selling. The women marriage-traders, indeed, form a very creditable exception, because every one of them--knowing very well, for a surety, that they have on hand a stock that does not improve by keeping--are sellers, out and out; while the males again are almost all buyers, though, if they had the sense of a tortoise, they might know that they have just as good a stock to dispose of as their fair customers. There are, doubtless, some exceptions in our sex that go far to retrieve our characters; but, alas! they are very few; and it is just on that very account that we think it proper to give some account of Mr Caleb Crabbin, hosier in the Lawn-market in Edinburgh--so great a genius in the department to which we have alluded, that he discovered that all mongering in blankets and stockings was a perfect bagatelle in comparison of the profitable disposal of his own person; and no sooner did he make the discovery than he acted upon it, with all the boldness that belongs to original thinkers.

The worthy we have thus mentioned favourably--because we admire a supporter of the rights of free trade--had laboured for a period of six or eight years in disposing of articles of hosiery, for every one of which he paid a high price; and, whether it was that he could not buy to advantage--his genius, probably, not lying in that way--or that he could not sell with a profit, wherein he displayed the same want of natural tact--it is certain that he became a bankrupt about as soon as other people merely begin to see they might make "a good thing" of a stop. So he wound up cleverly, and made just as little of his bankruptcy--a matter of profit often to those who are mere bunglers in the department of solvency--and took it into his head to sell himself. So, accordingly, as chance would have it, he threw his eyes on Miss Belinda Yellowlees, who combined the two comely properties of wealth and weakness--in other words, she possessed a thousand pounds, and a very bad constitution; and here it was that Caleb's properties began to be manifested; for the man who thought himself not worth one farthing--and was, in fact, not worth more, in the estimation of any of his own sex--was proved to be worth no less than a thousand pounds, at which price Miss Yellowlees bought him, and thought, too, that she had got a very good bargain. Seldom, indeed, it happens that both buyer and seller, in a transaction of pure business concerns, think that they have made a hit; yet, of a surety, it was the case in this marriage; for Mr Caleb Crabbin actually conceived that he had made as good a bargain as did Miss Belinda Yellowlees; and so, to be sure, it was soon proved, by an exceeding good probatory test; for Miss Belinda, within six months, went the way of the dead, and her thousand pounds went the way of the living--that is, into the possession of her surviving husband.

No one will deny that this was undoubtedly a good beginning in this new commercial enterprise of Mr Caleb; and the best feature of the whole transaction was, that, along with the thousand pounds, he had actually got back again the commodity which he gave for it, and was thereby in a capacity to dispose of it again, on far better terms than ever. Many a good article of hosiery he had disposed of over the counter, and never seen a single glimpse again either of the price or the article; whereas here there was all the difference in the world; for he held the possession of both--the thing sold, and the price got for it; and, stimulated by his success, he, as soon as decency would permit, set about again endeavouring to make a bargain, upon the same, or better, terms than before. Nor was he long about encompassing his object; for the money he had got by the first transaction yielded a facility to the progress of the second; and, within a year of the death of the first unfortunate, Mrs Belinda Crabbin, he, after a hunt comprehending nearly all that period, found out an individual not only in every way worthy of his attention, but exhibiting all the features of being as good a market-woman as he was an out-and-out trader. The lady, whose name was Miss Amelia Reddie--clearly an orthographic phase of the cognomen Ready--was eager, or "yape," as the Scotch call it, for a transaction; and, having nothing to boast of but her patrimony of twelve hundred and fifty, she made the most of what she had; and the never a man of all she had ever spoken to but knew, as well as he did the number of his own fingers, the exact sum, to the odd fifty, which she was willing to give as the consideration. Many a dozen of suitors had heard her set forth her mercantile recommendation; but, then, she was the last of five, who had all died of consumption, leaving her the heir of the small sums that belonged to them; and this fact, which she tried assiduously to conceal, had, in a great measure, destroyed her saleable capability, till the time when there appeared in the mart Mr Caleb, who, instead of deeming it an objection, thought it the consideration next best to the amount of her funds. Well, without exhausting a lexicon upon the affair, we come to the point, as cleverly as did the hero himself, who was, in the thirteenth month after the death of his first wife, duly and lawfully put in possession of Miss Amelia Reddie and her twelve hundred and fifty.

"A deuced deal better than hosiery this!" said Caleb to himself, on his marriage night; "for here have I not made two thousand two hundred and fifty pounds in one year and a month, without ever a shop, or signboard, or risk or trouble at all!"

If we were to say that there was an atom of affection in a concern of this kind, we would assuredly be doing not only Mr Caleb a great injustice, but be committing a libel on the taste of our sex; and, to be sure, save for the money, there was none at all. But we have more to say; and that is, that, where a man does not love the woman (as why should he?) whom he has married for money, it follows, as a natural corollary, that he wishes her dead. With "a trembling hand," like that of the poet Tibullus, he would hold the fair one, when dying; but then the hand would tremble lest she should recover, not lest she should go the way of all flesh. But, alas for the plans of mortals! the greatest geniuses sometimes fail in noble undertakings; and, not long after Mr Crabbin had begun to discover ailing symptoms on the part of his helpmate, the truth broke upon him that he was about to become a father; and a father, too, in good time, he became, of as healthy a child as ever blessed a living husband who liked his wife.

"If I am to have half-a-dozen, or mayhap a dozen, of these," said he, "the devil a merchant that ever sold cheaper than he bought, ever made so bad a bargain. Every one of those creatures will cost, at least, three hundred pounds; so that, if I shall have six of them, I will be a loser to the extent of five hundred and fifty."

The speech was prophetic; for every year, for a period of six, the consumptive Mrs Amelia Crabbin presented her husband with a healthy pledge; and on every birth-day Mr Caleb made a speech almost the same, but with increased lugubrity. But for this he might have found very good authority among the ancients; and if he had known of that strange man who wept at the birth of a child, or of Xenophon, who continued the job of a sacrifice he was at, though a messenger told him of the death of his boy, he would have thought them very sensible men, of a very different kidney from the fool, John Zopilah, who died of joy, when he heard that his wife had brought him an heir male. But it availed Mr Caleb nothing.

"Better," said he, "I had stuck by the counter; for I might have become bankrupt as often as I chose; and, if I had made the never a penny by it, I might at least have got quit of my creditors; but children are a sort of creditors that a man cannot sweep off by any means, not even the famous cessio."

And what made the matter more intolerable was, that all this time, when Mrs Crabbin was thriving so excellently well, in the way of adding to the number of the human species, she was gradually declining in health, having, by the time she had the third child, become so lean and shrivelled, that neither the Atlas nor the Hercules would have insured her life at a premium of fifty per cent. Yet, as we have said, three more followed in good time, and healthier creatures never opened their eyes on an evil world. Mrs Amelia Crabbin had now, however, done her worst; and, having been wasted away to a mere sigh, she one night took Mr Caleb round the neck, and, weeping bitterly, told him she was going, in the midst of her prosperity, to where she once thought she would have gone six years before--even where her five sisters were--the grave; recommending to him to take care of the twelve hundred and fifty, for the sake of the six children she had left, as every penny of it, and more, would be needed by the dear orphans. Mr Caleb wept too; but it was at the touching allusion she had made to the danger she had escaped, of dying before the first of the children was born; and Mrs Amelia, seeing what she conceived to be undoubted evidence of his affection, hung awhile upon his neck, and then bid him bring in every one of the six. They were accordingly ranged by the side of her bed.

"Now, my little ones," she said to them, tenderly, "Caleb, Andrew, Maria, George, Amelia, and Augustus, your mother is going to die, and you may never see her again after this hour. Mr Crabbin," she continued, looking to her husband, "you must know that these children are the last of the blood of our Reddies, and proud am I to think that it has pleased Heaven that I should be the means of thus leaving so many scions of our ancient race, that there is no chance of the name being forgotten, seeing that they have all three names, the middle one being Reddie in every instance. I hope they will multiply as I have done. Bless you, my dear children! Your father will protect you; and thankful am I that the twelve hundred and fifty is yet all left, so that you will get your shares when you come to be of age."

In an hour afterwards Mrs Amelia Crabbin was no more, and in three days afterwards she was buried.

"It is finished," said the husband; "and a fair speculation never turned up an uglier balance, since the days of the bubble of the South Sea."

So he took to real weeping; and there was not a friend that came to give him consolation, but went away with the impression that he had been one of the most loving of husbands, and was one of the tenderest of men. Among those visiters, were two or three acquaintances of his deceased wife, and one or two of them possessed even more than twelve hundred and fifty. So, Mr Caleb, seeing through his wet eyes that his grief took with them very well, continued the indications--a very easy process, seeing he had only to look to the debit and credit of his speculation to make the tears drop as fast as hailstones.

"It's a heavy loss you have sustained, Mr Crabbin," said Miss Jean Gibbs.

"Very heavy loss," rejoined he, with emphasis on the principal word.

"But the children are a consolation."

"To be sure they are," answered Caleb; "and I have six of them, and now, you see, all without a female to take charge of them."

The hint did not take, as the saying goes; and Miss Jean having departed, and Miss Isabella Gentle, who had also a competency, having arrived, he tried the same plan with her; for his spirit for speculation was still strong; and he expected, yet, to make a far more successful hit than he had even done in the case of Miss Belinda Yellowlees. Now, Miss Isabella was just as sincere in her admiration of his sorrow as was Miss Jean Gibbs; and all that was gone over about the loss he had sustained, and the consolation of the children, and the feeling he exhibited, as became a good husband and a loving father. But the moment he made a hint about the poor creatures having no female to look after them, the same effect was as evident as in the case of Miss Jean--for Miss Isabella, for a certainty, did not seem to relish it.

"All this may come of my being too eager and too soon," said he. "But I fear these six children will be stumbling-blocks in the way of my farther enterprise; for a woman will not give so much for a man with six children, as she would do for himself. Had my second transaction come up to the first, I might to-day have been an independent man. But a third may do better; and, if it don't, it shall not, by Hymen, be Mr Caleb Crabbin that will be to blame."