Chapter VII: Part 7

Next day the exhibition opened, and Peter and Paul visited it together. The _Bridal Party_ was a small picture with a modest frame, and they anxiously sought round the room in which it was said to be placed; but they saw it not. At length, "Here it is," said Paul--and there indeed it was, thrust into a dark corner of the room, the frame touching the floor, literally crushed and overshadowed beneath a glaring battle piece, six feet in length, and with a frame seven inches in depth. It was impossible to examine it without going upon your knees. Peter's indignation knew no bounds. He would have torn the picture from its hiding-place, but Paul prevented him. They next looked for No. 230: and, to increase the indignation of the artist, it, with twenty others, was huddled into the passage, where, as Milton saith, there

"No light, but rather darkness visible;"

or, as Spenser hath it--

"A little gloomy light, much like a shade."

For fourteen days did Peter visit the exhibition, and return to the lodgings of his brother, sorrowful and disappointed. The magical word SOLD was not yet attached to the painting which was to redeem his father's property.

One evening, Paul being engaged with his pupils, the artist had gone into a tavern, to drown the bitterness of his disappointment for a few moments with a bottle of ale. The keenness of his feelings had rendered him oblivious; and in his abstraction and misery he had spoken aloud of his favourite painting, the _Bridal Party_. Two young _gentlemen_ sat in the next box; they either were not in the room when he entered, or he did not observe them. They overheard the monologue to which the artist had unconsciously given utterance, and it struck them as a prime jest to lark with his misery. The words "Splendid piece, yon _Bridal Party_!"--"Beautiful!"--"Production of a master!"--"Wonderful that it _sold_ in such a bad light and shameful situation!" fell upon Peter's ears. He started up--he hurried round the box where they sat--

"Gentlemen," he exclaimed, eagerly, "do you speak of the painting No. 210 in the exhibition?"

"Of the same, sir," was the reply.

"I am the artist--I painted it," cried Peter.

"You, sir--you!" cried both the gentlemen at once. "Give us your hand, sir, we are proud of having the honour of seeing you."

"Yes, sir," returned one of them; "we left the exhibition to-day just before it closed, and had the pleasure of seeing the porter attach the ticket to it."

"Glorious!--joy! joy!" cried Peter, running in ecstasy to the bell, and ringing it violently; and, as the waiter entered, he added, "A bottle of claret! claret, boy!--claret!" And he sat down to treat the gentlemen who had announced to him the glad tidings. They drank long and deep, till Peter's head came in contact with the table, and sleep sealed up his eyelids. When aroused by the landlord, who presented his bill, his companions were gone; and, stupid as Peter was, he recollected for the first time that his pocket did not contain funds to discharge the reckoning; and he left his watch with the tavern-keeper, promising to redeem it the next day, when he received the price of his picture. I need not tell you what a miserable day that next day was to him, when, with his head aching with the fumes of the wine, he found that he had been duped--that his picture was not sold. The exhibition closed for the season; he had spent his last shilling--and Paul was as poor as Peter: but the former borrowed a guinea, to pay his brother's fare on the outside of the coach to----.

Andrew Donaldson continued to struggle hard; but, struggle as he would, he could not pay the interest of the mortgage. Disappointment, sorrow, humbled vanity, and the laugh of the world, were too much for him; and, shortly after Peter's visit to Edinburgh, he died, repenting that he had ever pursued the phantom Fashion, or sought after the rottenness of wealth.

"And what," inquired I, "became of Mrs Donaldson, and her sons Paul and Peter?"

"Peter, sir," continued the narrator, "rose to eminence in his profession; and, redeeming the mortgage on Lottery Hall, he gave it as a present to his brother Paul, who opened it as an establishment for young gentlemen. His mother resides with him; and, sir, Paul hath spoken unto you--he hath given you the history of Lottery Hall."

THE DOMINIE AND THE SOUTER.

THE DOMINIE'S COURTSHIP.

"Weel, I dinna ken how it is, Richard," said a Selkirk dominie to his friend Richard Blackwell, a souter of the same royal borough--"I dinna ken how it is, but there's naething pleases me mair than some o' them Border Tales--they're so uncommonly natural. I've often thought, indeed, in my ain mind, that the writers must get silly, stupid folk to sit doun and repeat their little histories to them in their ain language; for I can hardly believe that such true delineations o' character, and such remarkable instances o' the ups and downs o' human affairs, are mere inventions. Frequently, when I finish a tale, I exclaim, 'I ken the man that's meant for;' and for a that, though the picture may be as like him as your ain face to its reflection in a looking-glass, it's ten to ane if the author is aware o' such a character being in existence. This is what puzzles me, Richard. The 'Henpecked Man,' for instance, was a _dead hit_; but unfortunately every village on the Borders claimed the bickermaker as well as Birgham; while ilk guidwife might hae been heard bawling to her next-door neighbour, as she shook the tale in her clenched hand, 'Filthy fallow! that's our John or your Ned he's been taking aff.'"

"It wadna be worth their while putting ony o' us twa into prent," rejoined the souter.

"I differ with you there, neighbour," replied the dominie; "for there is no calculating the value that clever and skilly hands can give to rude materials. Would ye believe, now, to use a funny illustration, that a farthing's worth o' pig-iron, made into steel chains, rises to mair than twa hundred times its value? Ye stare incredulously, Richard; but it's the truth I'm telling you;--so it follows that out o' the raw material o' our lives, value o' anither kind may be gotten by a proper adaptation o' incidents and the like: and it often occurs to me, there is that about my courtship that would make no that ill a story, were it a wee thocht embellished. Ye shall hear it, however, as it is, and judge for yoursel:"--

Love, ye must be informed, Richard, did not communicate itself to my heart till I was well up in years--probably when I was seven-and-twenty, or thereabouts--nor did it blaze up a' at once, like a sudden flame--for it seemed at first but a sma' sma' spark, which often threatened to go out o' its ain accord, like coals kindled with green sticks--till Margery Johnson--that's my wife's maiden name--would have come across my path again like a bonny blink o' sunshine, and presently the dying embers would grow het once more at the heart, and burn away for a' the world like a blown-up fire. Now, though Margery, when I went a-courting her, didna possess ony great personal attractions to make a sang about--like the feck o' your grand romance leddies--yet she had that life and buoyancy about her, and blowsy healthiness o' countenance, which can make a deeper impression on the heart, at least, according to my liking, than a' the fine complexions, blue een, and artificial forms in the world. Margery was a little above the middle height--a plump, robust, guid-looking lass--the apple o' her faither's eye, and the pride o' her mother--whom everybody spoke well o'. And it was not without either choice or reflection that my passion for Margery Johnson was imbibed. Her faither, who is as guid a man as ever broke the world's bread, attended the Rev. Mr Heslop as weel as mysel; and as the seat which I occupied gave me a full command o' him and his family--for they only sat about an arm's-length from me--I had the pleasure o' seeing Margery, with the lave, every returning Sabbath. I dinna ken rightly how it was, but when she slipped along the aisle, I felt like a shortness o' breath, and a queer tingling sensation steal owre my whole body. In the time o' the singing, too, I could not help from keeking off the psalm-book, had it been to save me, to see if she were looking at me; and when our glances happened to encounter, I would have instantly reddened to the bottom o' the haffets, and impudently pretended, by casting my eyes carelessly up to the big front window, that it was merely a casual contact. I cannot take upon me to say how far this was sinful; but I ken that at such times I sat in a sort o' religious fervour, on terms o' kindness with my bitterest enemy--for weel can love teach a moral to the mind--while my heart seemed rinning owre with gratitude to the Deity for this new proof o' his benevolence and goodness, in the provision made for puir erring mankind.

I'm no sure whether I have mentioned that Margery was in the service o' the minister--if no, ye must understand that she was his housemaid; and the manse, ye may weel conceive, Richard, was not the best place in the world for carrying on a courtship. I happened to be muckle thought on, however, by the minister and his wife--for my learning, ye see, brought me within a very little o' the minister himsel--indeed, we were nearly a buckle; and I, accordingly, had frequent invitations from him on a week-day night, to drink tea and spend the evening. On those occasions, unfortunately, I only saw Margery when she brought in and carried out the tea things; but one night, when the minister and I were indulging ourselves after the four-hours was owre (I may mention, for your edification, Richard, that _four-hours_ signifies the time o' drinking tea,--_four_, according to Watson, being the ancient _hour_ for the afternoon beverage)--it was after our tea was done, as I was saying, that the minister and I sat down to a glass o' whisky-toddy; and, as we both got very cracky, the minister says to me, jocularly, for he was a pleasant, agreeable man, Mr Heslop--

"I wonder, James, ye never think o' changing your life!"

Now, it did not just strike me, at first, what he meant; so I bluntly replied, "Yes, sir; I am weel aware, as the heathen philosopher has beautifully observed, _Proba vita est via in coelum_--which signifies, A good life is the way to heaven."

With that the minister and his wife kinked and laughed a guid ane; and the latter at last cried out to me--

"Mr Heslop means, James, that you should get married."

"Oh, is that what he's driving at?" says I, colouring at my ain want o' gumption--"truly it's no a slight matter to get married, though I'll no be after denying that, could I fall in with a likely, serious young woman, I should have no great objections to make her my wife."

"What think you o' Margery, my housemaid?" says Mrs Heslop, archly--"I think she would make you a guid wife."

Had I been convicted o' the theft o' a silver spoon, I could not have felt more confused than I did at this moment--I found the very perspiration, Richard, oozing out in large drops from every pore o' my frame; while Mr Heslop, in the midst o' my embarrassment, chimed in--

"You forget, dear, that James must have a learned lady--one who has attained the _tongues_.--What say you, Mr Brown, to a _bluestocking_?"

"White lamb's-wool, sir, or blue jacey, are both alike to me," says I, laughing at his drollery. "I'm no particular to a shade."

Another loud laugh from the minister and his wife followed up this sally, and, at the same minute, the parlour-door opened, and in capered Margery, with an ash-bucketful o' coals, to mend the fire. Mrs Heslop, at the same time, went out, and left the minister and me owre our second tumbler. I thought I never saw Margery look half so interesting as she did that night; and I was so passionately struck with her appearance, that, without minding the presence o' the minister, I leaned back on my chair, and, taking the glass o' spirits into my hand, and looking owre my left shouther--

"My service to you, Margery," says I, and drank it off.

"I daresay the man's gyte!" says Margery, staring me in the face like an idiot, as she gaed tittering out o' the room.

I was not to be beaten in any such way, however; and on the afternoon o' the following Sabbath, I contrived, when the kirk scaled, to get into the loaning before Margery, and sauntering till her and her neighbour overtook me, I turned round just as they were passing my side, and, says I, keeping up with them at the same time--

"Here's a braw afternoon, lassies."

"It's a' that," says her neighbour.

Now, had it been to crown me King o' England, I did not ken what next to say, for I felt as if I had been suddenly tongue-tacked; and, without the word o' a lee, Richard, I'm certain we walked as guid as two hundred yards without uttering another syllable.

"How terrible warm it is!" says I, at last, removing my hat, and wiping the perspiration from my brow with my India silk napkin.

"So I think," says Margery, jeeringly. And the next minute she and her neighbour doubled the corner o' the loaning, and struck into the path which led down to the minister's, without so muckle as saying, "Guid e'en to ye, sir!"

I made the best o' my way back through droves o' the kirk folk, who kept speering at one another as I passed, quite loud enough for me to hear them--

"There now, what a world this is!--isna that the light-headed dominie? Whar can he hae been stravagin on the Lord's-day afternoon? He can hae been after nae guid."

This, as ye may weel suppose, was but a puir beginning, Richard; but still I was determined to hold out and persevere. My next step was to mool in with Margery's faither; and, as I knew him to be a great snuffer, I bought a box and got it filled, though I did not care a button-tap for the snuff mysel, which I used to rax owre to him during the sermon. Nor did I forget her mother--for it's an important thing in courting, Richard, to gain owre the auld folk--but day after day I used to strip my coat-breast o' the bit "mint" and "southernwood" that I was in the habit o' sticking in my button-hole on a Sabbath-day, and present them to her, to keep her up in the afternoon service, when the heat was like to overcome her. I invited Margery's brother, too, twice or thrice, on a Sunday afternoon, to his tea; and contrived, in seeing him home, to walk aye within a stone's-cast o' his faither's house, when he could not for mense's sake but ask me in. On such occasions, the auld man and I used to yoke about religion, and my clever knack in conversation and argument did not fail to impress him with a high sense o' my abilities. Margery's mother was equally taken with my particular mode o' expression--for schule-maisters, Richard, have to watch owre the smallest _particle_; and frequently when I have delivered mysel o' a few long-nebbed words, she would have slapped me on the shoulder, and cried out--

"It's worth a body's while listening to the likes o' you, Maister Brown; for to hear ye speak is like hearing a Latin scholar reading aloud frae a prented book--such braw words, truly, are no found in every head; and the mair's the pity that your ain is no waggin in a pulpit. Now, what would I no gie, could ony o' mine acquit themselves in such a manner."

This pleasant intercourse went on for some time, till, one everyday night, being down at tea with Margery's brother, her mother says--meaning, no doubt, for me to take the hint--

"Ye mustna sit there, Robert"--that was to her son--"for ye ken your sister is down at Greystone Mill, and has to come hame hersel the night, which is far frae being chancy, seeing that there are sae mony o' thae Irish fallows upon the road."

"I will take a step doun," says I; "it will be a pleasant walk."

"That wad be such a thing!" says the auld woman, "and _him_ sitting there! Now, I'm vexed at mysel for having mooted it before ye."

"I feel a pleasure," says I, "in going; and it's o' no use Robert tiring himsel, as he was thrashing aneugh through the day."

"But ye're sae kind and considerate, Maister Brown," says she--"it's just imposing on your guid nature athegither. Hurry her hame, sir, if ye please, afore the darkening; but, to be sure, we needna fret, kenning she's in such excellent company."

I accordingly set off for the Greystone Mill; and when I came in front o' the premises, I began to see that it was rather an awkward business I was out on; for I didna ken but Margery might hae somebody o' her ain to see her hame; and to go straight up to an unco house, and speer for a female that I had only spoken twice till, and that in a dry "how-do-ye-do" kind o' manner, was rather a trying affair, Richard, for one that was naturally bashful, as ye may weel conceive. Into the house I went, however, and meeting auld _mooter-the-melder_ in the entry--

"How's a' wi' ye, freend?" says I, in guid braid Scotch, shooting out my hand, at the same time, to give him a hearty shake.

"Ye hae the advantage o' me," says he, drawing back and puckering up his mealy mouth. "I dinna ken ye."

"I'm the schulemaister o' Selkirk," says I.

"And what may the schulemaister o' Selkirk be wanting wi' me?" says he, gruffly, still keeping me standing like a borrowed body in the passage.

"I'm seeking a young woman," says I.

"Oh," says he, "ye'll be Margery Johnson's sweetheart, Ise warrant--come awa ben."

"He's no my sweetheart," says Margery, as I was stalking into the bit parlour. "I wonder what's brought the randering _fool_ here."

This, I confess, was rather a damper; and had I not been weel versed in a woman's pawky ways, and kent that she was aye readiest to misca' them for whom she had the greatest regard, before folk, I'm not so sure, Richard, what might have been the upshot. I sat doun, however, as if I had not overheard her, and chatted awa to the miller's twa gaucy daughters, keeping a watchful eye on Margery a' the time, who did not seem to relish owre weel the attention I was bestowing on them. I saw plainly, indeed, that she was a little mortified, for she gaunted twice or thrice in the midst o' our pleasantry--no forgetting to put her hand before her mouth, and cast her eyes up to the watch that stood on the mantelpiece, as muckle as to say--"It's time we were stepping, lad." I kept teasing her, nevertheless, for a guid bit; and when at last we left the mill, and got on to the road that leads down to the Linthaughs, I says to her, "Will ye tak my arm, Margery dear?"

"Keep your arms," says she, "for them ye mak love till."

"That's to you, then," says I.

"Ye never made love to me in your life," says she.

"Then I must not ken how to mak it," says I; "but aiblins ye'll teach me."

"Schulemaisters dinna need to be taught," says she; "ye ken nicelies how to mak love to Betty Aitchison--at least to her siller."

This was the miller's youngest daughter.--"What feck o' siller has Betty?" says I.

"Ye can gang and ask her," says she.

"Hoot, what serves a' this cangling?" says I, taking hold o' her arm, and slipping it into mine--"you are as het in the temper as a jenny-nettle, woman."

"Ye're the first that said it," says she.

"And I hope I'll be the last," says I. And on we joggit, as loving-like as if we had been returning from the kirk on our bridal.

It might be four weeks after this meeting, that Margery and I were out, on an autumn evening, in the lang green loaning that leads down to the Linthaughs. It was as bonny a night as man could be abroad in: the moon, nearly full, was just rising owre the Black Cairn, and the deep stillness that prevailed was only broken by the low monotonous murmur o' the trees, or interrupted by our own footsteps. I dinna ken how long we might have sauntered in the loaning--aiblins, two hours--and though inclined a' the time to confess to Margery that I loved her, I could not bring mysel to out with it, for aye as I was about to attempt it, I felt as if something were threatening to choke me. At last I thought on an expedient. And what was it, think ye? No--you'll not guess, Richard; but you'll laugh when you hear. I had recently got by heart the affecting ballad that had been written by a freend o' my ain, on Willie Grahame and Jeanie Sanderson o' Cavers, a little before Jeanie's death; and, thinks I--as I was a capital hand at the Scotch--Ise try what effect the reciting o' it will have upon Margery; for wha kens but it may move her heart to love and pity? This scheme being formed, I says to her--

"Margery, did you ever hear the waesome ballad about Jeanie Sanderson and her sweetheart?"

"Where was I to hear it?" says she.

"Would ye like to hear it?" says I.

"I'm no caring," says she.

And wi' that I began the ditty; but, as it has never been in prent, I had better rin owre it, that you may be able to judge o' its fitness for accomplishing my _end_. It begins as if Jeanie--who was dying o' consumption--were addressing hersel to Willie Grahame, and he to her--_vice versa_.

SCOTTISH BALLAD.

"Six years have come and gane, Willie,
Since first I met with you;
And through each chequer'd scene I've been
Affectionate and true.
But now my yearning heart must a'
Its cherish'd hopes resign;
For never on this side the grave
Can my true love be mine."

"Oh, do not speak o' death, Jeanie,
Unless that ye would break
The heart that cheerfully would shed
Its life's-blood for your sake;--
For what a dreary blank this world
Would prove to me, I trow,
If ye were sleeping your long sleep
Upon yon cauld green knowe!"

"When I have pass'd from earth, Willie,
E'en sorrow as you will,
Your stricken heart will pleasure seek
In other objects still.
For though, when my worn frame is cauld,
Your grief may be profound.
My very name will soon become
Like a forgotten sound!"

"I'm wae to see the cheek, Jeanie,
That shamed the elder wine,
Now stripp'd o' a' the bloom that told
Your heart's fond love langsyne.
But do not, Jeanie Sanderson,
Come owre your death to me:
It's pain enow to see you look
So sad on a' you see."

"I'm dying on my feet, Willie,
Whate'er you'd have me say;
And my last hour on earth, I feel,
Draws nearer every day.
Nor can ye with false hopes deceive;
For ne'er can summer's heat
Restore the early blighted flower
That's crush'd aneath your feet."

"Oh, bring once more to mind, Jeanie,
The happiness we've seen,
When at the gloaming's tranquil fa'
We sought the loaning green.
Ye ken how oft I came when ye
Sat eerie, love, at hame,
And tapp'd at that bit lattice, whiles--
Your ain true Willie Grahame!"

"It's like a vanish'd dream, Willie,
The memory o' the past,
And oft I've thought our happiness
Owre great at times to last.
Alas! your coming now I watch
In sickness and in pain;
But will ye seek my mother's door
When once that I am gane?"

"You're harbouring thoughts o' me, Jeanie.
It's wrong for you to breathe;
For oh, is wretchedness the gift
To _me_ ye would bequeath?
I've ne'er through life loved ane but you;
And must the hopes o' years
Be rooted from my heart at once,
And quench'd in bitter tears?"

"Ye stand 'tween me and heaven, Willie,
Yet, oh, I do not blame,
Nor seek to wound the feeling heart,
Whose love was aye the same.
But love is selfish to the last,
And I should like to wear
The locket round my neck, when gane,
That holds my Willie's hair!"

"It cuts me to the heart, Jeanie,
To see you thus give way
To trouble ye are forcing on,
For a' your freends can say.
And do ye think that I could e'er
To others passion vow,
Were death to break the link that binds
Our hearts so closely now?"

"It may be that long time, Willie,
Will teach you to forget,
Nor leave within your breast--for me--
One feeling o' regret.
But, should you fold another's heart
To yours with fond regard,
Oh, think on her who then shall lie
Happ'd up in yon kirkyard!"

Weel, a' the time I was repeating the ballad, I saw, in the changing expression o' Margery's countenance, that there was a tender struggle going on in her heart; but when I came to the last verse, she could restrain her feelings no longer, but grat outright, as if Jeanie had been her ain sister. I was rather on, Richard, for the greeting mysel; but, affecting an indifference I did not feel, I says to her, as she was in the act o' wiping her eyes wi' her pocket-napkin--

"Would ye greet for me, Margery, were I dying?"

"You're very like a dying person, or you're naething," says she.

"There are few lovers to be met wi'," says I, "like Willie Grahame and Jeanie Sanderson--their devotedness is rare."

"Ye'll be judging frae yersel, Ise warrant," says Margery.

"Oh," says I, "I do not doubt but I could mak as guid a sweetheart as Willie Grahame, would onybody try me. But I've a secret to tell ye, woman," continued I, summoning up courage to mak a confession.

"Women canna keep secrets," says she; "so ye had better no trust me wi' it."

A long silence was the upshot o' this, and we sauntered on, as if we had been two walking statues, till we came within sight o' the manse. Margery could not but notice my perplexity; for I looked round and round about me a thousand times, for fear o' listeners, and hemmed again and again, as the words mounted to my lips, and swooned away in a burning blush on my face.

"What was it ye were gaun to tell me?" at last says she. "It maun be some great secret, surely, that ye're in such terror to disclose it."

"Weel, Margery," says I, in the greatest fervour, locking her hand passionately in baith o' mine--"if ye will have it--I LOVE YOU!"

"Is that a'?" says she, coolly slipping awa her hand. "I really thought, from seeing sae muckle dumb-show, that ye had something o' importance to tell me."

"Might I ask, if ye like _me_?" says I to her, earnestly.

"Were it even possible that I did," says she, "do ye think that I wad be sic a born fool as to tell ye?--_Atweel do I no!_"

I had often heard, Richard, o' folk being dumbfoundered; but, till that moment, I never knew what it was to be so mysel; and such was the keen sense o' my silliness, that I even wished I might sink down through the earth, clean out o' sight and hearing. As matters stood, however, I saw there was naething for it but urging Margery to discretion; so I says till her, seriously--

"I hope in heaven, Margery, that neither your partner nor anybody else will be the better o' what has passed between you and me this night!"

"What do you mean?" says she.

"Why," says I, "I mean, that ye'll no acquaint them wi' my liking for you."

"Guid truly," says she, wi' a toss o' her head, "I wad hae muckle to speak aboot! To tell ye the truth, lad, I never was thinking ony mair aboot it, nor wad it hae entered into my head again, had ye no mentioned it."

"I do not care," says I, rather wittily, "how seldom it enter your _head_, Margery, so long as it engage your _heart_."

"Ye're a queer man," says she, "to be a schulemaister;" and skipped aff to the manse, without expressing the least desire to see me again.

When I went home and lay down in bed that night, I could do nothing but toss and tumble; and aye as my silliness recurred to me, I would have uttered a loud _hem_, as a person will do when he is clearing his throat, to keep the racking thought down; but, in spite o' a' I could do, it continued uppermost, and kept torturing me till better than half-past four in the morning. Weel, thinks I, this is really a fine pass I've brought mysel to! I'll not only become the laughingstock o' the minister and his wife, but the whole town will join in with ready chorus. Time slipped on, however, and things remained much the same, save that Margery took upon hersel a great many airs, and behaved on a' occasions as if I were her humble servant. At last, Richard, I took heart o' grace, plucked up a spirit, and seemed careless about _her_. That Margery was secretly piqued at this, I had ample proof; for, meeting William Aitchison one night at her father's--for she had then left the minister's service--to mortify me, the puir creature paid the most marked attention to the young man, scarcely goaming me; but, for a' that, I could see plainly aneugh that she preferred me in her heart, though her pride would not let her show it. Nor did she stop here; for, when Aitchison rose to go away, she hurried to the press, and taking out a bottle o' spirits, she poured him out a dram, which he no sooner had swallowed, than she put away the bottle and the glass, without so muckle as saying, "Colly, will ye taste?" But I saw through a' this, Richard; and, though she went to the door and laughed and chatted with him, I knew brawlies, from her very manner, that she was acting, and would have gien the best thing in a' the house, to have been freends with me again. At last, into the room she comes, and sets hersel doun by the fire, with her hands owre ilk other. Now, thinks I, I'll pay ye back in your ain coin, lass; so I rattled away with her brother, for as guid as half-an-hour, about the qualities o' bone-dust and marl, never letting on that I saw her a' the time, until happening to pat the auld colly that lay sound asleep on the hearthstane, the puir creature, vexed at the thought o' the dumb beast getting that attention paid him which was denied to hersel, kicked him ill-naturedly with her foot, and ordered him out o' the room.

"I thought lassies were aye best-natured when they had seen their jo and dearie," says I, giving her brother a sly dunch with my arm, and looking slily up in Margery's face.

"She's in the sulks, the jade," says her mother; "and if she doesna keep a better temper, the worst will be her ain--that's a' that I'll say."

Margery made no reply to this; but taking the candlestick into her hand that stood on the table, left the parlour without uttering a word.

"What's the matter wi' ye and her now, James?" says the auld wife--for she did not mind styling me _Maister_, as we were so very familiar, though I must say that Margery's faither continued to the last to _Maister_ me--he had such a regard for mysel, and veneration for the profession.

"There is naething the matter with us," says I--"that I ken o', at least."

"Come, come, lad; ye maunna tell me that," says she; "it's no little that will ding my lass; and if ye hae slighted her for ony o' the Aitchisons, it says unco little for you, wi' a' your learning. Oh, shame fa' that weary, weary siller!" added she, shaking her head, and leaving the room; "it's been the bane o' true love sin the world had a beginning, and will, I think, till it have an end."

On my road home that night I resolved in my mind to trifle no longer with Margery; for I became convinced it was but heartless conduct, to say the very least o't. To get her to confess, however, that she loved me, I was resolutely determined on; and, after devising a thousand schemes, I at last thought o' trying what effect my way-going would have upon her. Accordingly, as ye may weel remember, Richard, I got a report circulated that I had an intention o' going out to America, to try my luck in the other world; so, meeting with Margery one night between the Rankleburn and her ain house, I asked her if she had any objections to take a walk with me as far as the Linthaughs.

"What are ye gaun to do at the Linthaughs?"

"Do ye not know," says I, "that I'm about to leave this quarter, for guid and a', for America?" Her heart lap into her mouth at hearing this, and she quickly cast her eyes round on me, which were brimful o' tears, as if to see whether or no I spoke in earnest, and hurriedly withdrew them the same moment without uttering a word. "It's a trying thing," says I, "to leave the place o' ane's nativity. It may appear childish, but there is a charm attaches even to the schulehouse, with its clay floor, and dirty hacked tables, that my heart cannot resist; and, as sure as death, Margery, the very wooden chair, whose hind legs I rock backwards and forwards on when the class is ranged before me, dimmed my eyes with tears this morning, when I reflected that, in a few weeks, some stranger lad should sit upon it. It was but the other night, too, that I chanced to light upon a few simple verses in Mrs Heslop's album that quite unmanned me."

"What were they about?" says Margery.

"Just about a person's way-going and fareweel-taking," says I; "and the writer, in speaking o' the sorrow it occasioned him, to take a last look o' ony familiar object, says, truly and feelingly--

'I never look'd a last adieu
To things familiar, but my heart
Shrank with a feeling, almost pain,
Even from their lifelessness to part.

I never spoke the word Farewell!
But with an utterance faint and broken;
A heart-sick yearning for the time
When it should never more be spoken.'

"God only knows," continued I, in the same deep earnestness, "whether the time will ever come round to _me_ when the bitter word shall never be spoken again. Our evening walks, Margery, will soon be at an end; but go where I will, never can I forget the green banks o' the Yarrow, and the beetling brow o' those hills, with their red heather and bleached bent, where I used to rin when a callant; and no scene, however grand or lovely, can ever have nearer and warmer claims upon my affection, than this loaning, Margery, where you and I have watched the lang streaks o' the yellow sunlight fading in the grey clouds o' evening, as the twilight thickened round us, rendering us as happy as if we were under the delusion o' glamoury. In the sad clearness o' regret, the whole o' the simple images o' the past are crowding owre my fancy; and now that I am thinking o' leaving Selkirk, I cannot describe to you the melancholy sensation o' loneliness that possesses me. I depart from it a green bough, and can only return--if ever I be permitted to come back--a withered, sapless stem; and, though the sun may shine, the birds sing, and that bonny green haugh present the same garniture o' sweets and beauties as ever, what will it a' avail, Margery, if _you_, and a' them that I care for, have gone down into the grave, and left me without a tie to bind me to the world!"

Here the tears actually trickled down my cheeks, Richard, having wrought my feelings into such a fermentation; and Margery, the same moment, threw her arms around me, and breathed on my neck, in a tremulous and broken voice, the love o' her warm and feeling heart.

"Will ye cross the Atlantic with me, Margery?" says I, while the dear creature still trembled palpably by my side.

"Yes, yes," says she, tenderly; "but ye're no gaun to leave Selkirk, James; and ye ken ye're only saying sae to try me."

"You and my happiness are so utterly entwined, Margery," says I, "that I could not for a moment harbour the thought, were it to make you uneasy. _I'll no stir a foot._"

About two months after this took place, Margery and I were married by Mr Heslop, our ain minister; and a braw wedding we had, there being no less than eight couple, besides my guidfather, at it. And, certies, she could not complain o' her down-sitting; for, though I say it who should not, I do not believe there's a brawer house than ours--among those o' our ain graith, I mean--in a' Selkirk, or one where you'll find half o' the comfort; for Margery and I are as happy as the day is long, and our twa bonny bairns, John and Mary--the laddie's christened after my faither, and the lassie after the wife's mother--mingle with us nightly around our cheerful fireside in the snug little parlour, delighting us with their endearing prattle, and beguiling our cares with the innocent joyousness o' their happy hearts. You may think me a weak man, Richard; but I doubt not the most feck o' parents are like mysel--fond o' speaking about their offspring--no minding that it may be tiresome aneugh to those that never had ony themselves; yet could we but feel how the sunshine o' their young and glad hearts reflects itself back upon a doting faither's, I am certain ye would think that I was more to be envied in my domestic happiness than the monarch o' England; and weel can I exclaim, in the words o' the Scottish sang--

"I view, with mair than kingly pride,
My hearth--a heaven o' rapture;
While Mary's hand in mine will slide,
As Jockie reads his chapter."

THE SOUTER'S WEDDING.

"Not to flatter you, Maister Brown," said the souter, when the dominie had finished the account of his courtship, "your wooing is a capital tale in itself; and could it only be put into prent, in the simple and honest manner--for ye hide nothing--that you've gone owre it, I'll venture to say that a more laughable story is no in the book. Deil o' the like o' it I ever heard; so muckle duplicity on the one hand, and sheepishness on the other; and, after a', to think that ye should have won your wife's heart by such a wily stratagem. Ye talked, if I remember rightly, o' being weel up in years ere ye fell in love; but atweel I cannot say the same, for I was owre head and ears in it before I was rightly into my teens. Having my faither's business in Selkirk to fall back upon, and being rather handsome, and no that ill-farand, and naturally gifted, like the rest o' our family--for our cleverness a' came by the Maxwells--that's our mother's side o' the house--it is not to be wondered at that the young lassies o' the place should have held a great racket about me. I was even styled the leddies' man; and, night after night, I might have been seen strolling away down by the Pleasance, in company with the Jacksons--high as they hold their heads above you and me now, Maister Brown; and, at other times, with the braw niece o' the dean o' guild. At our annual fairs, too, I have seen the genteeler lasses--farmers' daughters and the like--flocking about me for their _fairing_ in perfect droves; and I'm certain there was not one o' them, either from Selkirkshire or Roxburghshire, but who would have waded the Tweed for me, had I but held up my thumb. I was very ill to please, however; for, unless I could get one possessed o' youth, beauty, and siller, I had resolved never to marry. These three requisites I considered indispensable in a wife; and though, at times, I felt my prudent resolution nearly sapped by the winning gentleness o' Susan Baillie, I still prevented the sacred citadel o' my heart from being openly taken, and kept cautiously speculating upon the untoward consequences o' a rash and imprudent marriage. My faither dropping off just as I was entering upon my three-and-twentieth year, his business was consigned owre to me, with the whole o' his effects; and, although the heavy bereavement did not fail to make a suitable impression upon my heart, I felt my personal consequence greatly increased, from the circumstance o' standing in his _shoon_. The Johnsons went actually mad about me, besides scores o' others, as weel to do in the world as any Johnson among them; and many a trap was set for me, by auld crones who had daughters at a marriageable age hanging on their hands. I continued, however, to gallant away among them, as a kind o' general lover; and at a' their select parties, there was I to be found figuring.

Thus weeks, and months, and years passed on, and I still remained in single blessedness, while the young leddies o' my acquaintance kept stepping off one by one--some marrying tradesmen's sons, and others the young gentlemen belonging to the neighbouring counties, till not one o' a' the number that I used to caper about with was left for my taking. The very bairns o' some o' them, breeched and unbreeched, were big aneugh to come to my shop and get the measure o' their shoon; and on one occasion, when Susan Baillie's auld Irish nurse--Susan was then Mrs Captain Fraser--brought down the auldest lassie in her hand, to get a pair o' red boots fitted on, I declare the very tears came into my eyes when I saw the little creature--she looked so like her mother!

"Losh, me!" says I to Peggy Byrne, "that lassie makes me an auld man."

"Och, and it's your own fault, Master Blackwell," says the nurse, "that your ould at all at all; for you, who are a gintleman born, should be glad to have the mistress and purty childer at home, even to spake to."

"A wife is an expensive piece o' furniture to keep about a house," says I.

"I'm sorry to the heart for you, sir," says she; "and if you care for yoursilf, you'll not let a thrifle of money prevint you from trating yoursilf to some genteel cratur of a wife. Will you just give a look to this swate girleen, God bless it!" added she, kissing the wee lassie, "and say if ye could grudge her bit of brade, poor sowl, or the brade of the moder that bore her?"

"But I cannot get anybody to please me, woman," says I, jocularly.

"Take my word and honour, as an Irishwoman," says Peggy, in Hibernian warmth, "you'll bring the shame of the world on yoursilf, and ye will, ye will. I thought once you could not live after my mistress Susan; but she's lost to you, anyhow, the jewel, and I only know you will never have it in your power to get a glance of love from such two swate eyes again."

"There are better fish in the sea," says I, "than ever came out o' it."

"Don't attimpt to say so," says she; "for, though many a nate, dacent girl is to the fore, 'tis a silfish cratur they wish bad luck to; and maybe your honour will let me tell you the iligant ould story of the 'Crooked Stick' for your idification. Well, then," she went on, "you must know there was a whimsical young woman sent into a green lane, having on either side tall and beautiful trees; and she was tould to pick out and bring away the straightest and purtiest branch she could find. She was left at liberty to go to the end, if she plased; but she was not, by any means, to be allowed to retrace her steps, to make choice of a stick she had already slighted. Beautiful and tall were the boughs of the trees, and swate to look upon; and each in its turn was decaived in not being preferred; for the silly maiden went on and on, without any rason, vainly expecting to get a more perfect stick than those that courted her two eyes. At long and last, the trees became smaller, while blurs and warts disfigured their crooked boughs. She could not, she thought within hersilf, choose such rubbitch. But what was she to do?--for lo! she had arrived at the ind of her journey, and, instead of a nate young branch from a stately tree, an ould deformed bough was all that remained within her reach. So the silly maiden had to take the _crooked stick_ at last, and return with it in her hand, amidst the jeering of the beautiful trees which she had formerly despised. And now," said Peggy Byrne, in conclusion, "remember the _crooked stick_, your honour, and give over your dilly-dallying, or sure enough you'll get it--you will."

I laughed heartily at the Irish nurse's foolery; and that very night, I mind, I had as queer a dream as mortal ever dreamed. I thought I was out on a fine summer's day in the month o' June, fishing in the stream a little below Selkirk, where the Tweed is augmented by the Ettrick. I was angling, I thought, with the artificial fly in the manner o' worm; and, though the water was very turbid, trouts, like silly women, are so apt to be taken with _appearances_, that that day multitudes o' them eagerly seized the deadly barb, and only found out the deceit at the precious cost o' their lives! I imagined I was particularly nice, however, in choosing the fish I raised; for, as I drew them ashore upon the nearest channel, instead o' rinning forward with alacrity and seizing them, I thought I stood like an innocent, turning owre in my mind whether the trouts were o' such a quality as to repay me for the trouble o' stooping to take them up. Presently the fish, not being properly banked, would have broken the gut and torn themselves from the hook, leaving me in bewilderment and shame, to execrate my ain stupid indecision. But this was not the worst o' it; for in some cases I actually fancied I saw the same bonny detached trouts taken further down the stream by other anglers, while a number, after a fierce struggle to get free, would have been seen pining, with wounded hearts, at the bottom o' the water, unable apparently either to feed or spawn. To add to my vexation, Maister Brown, the stream began suddenly to clear, while the fish, from the quantity o' food that covered the water, grew lazy, and would not so muckle as move. At last I thought I threw in, for the last time, in a fit o' desperation, and what should I do but hook a huge salmon by the side fin! He immediately started in beautiful style for his far hame, the sea; and as a fish so fastened was no better secured than a young bluid-horse bridled by the middle instead o' the mouth, I saw there was nothing for it but following him, and using my legs as weel as my line. Away we accordingly went, at a dead heat, down the Tweed--starting from about Ettrick foot, while the fish every now and then would have sprung furiously out o' the water in his attempts to shiver the line with his tail. It would not a' do, however; and, after a great many hours' play, I thought we landed at "Coldstream Brig-end," where, finding him greatly exhausted, I drew him closer and closer to the edge, whiles giving him a brattle out into the deep water, till seeing him unable to give any further resistance, I gaffed and secured him. But, judge o' my mortification, when, instead o' a bonny plump salmon, a lean, deformed skate lay in the dead-thraws upon the white gravel, to mock me for my pains! The bairns, at this moment, whom I thought I saw distinctly on the bridge, setting up a wicked shout o' derision, I awoke with the noise. Nor will I ever forget the agony that I was in--the sweat ran from my body like a planet shower; and do what I liked, I could not get the disagreeable image o' the ill-coloured toom skate from my mind; for aye, as I dovered owre again, I was as suddenly started by the presence o' the hateful fish laying itsel cheek by jowl alongside o' me.

You may laugh as ye like, Maister Brown, at this strange dream; but, when you hear how significantly the crowning event in the after-history o' my life was prefigured by it, you'll see less cause for laughter, I'm thinking. It might be half-a-year subsequent to the dream, or thereabouts, that I happened to be in Wooler on a jaunt; and as the place and the folk about it were muckle to my mind, I was induced to protract my stay for several weeks. I soon made the acquaintance o' several o' the young leddies o' the same _caste_ as mysel; and, among others, I got uncommonly intimate with a Miss Cochrane, and her sister Arabella. The former, I was told, had a hantle o' siller, besides rich expectations from some auld aunt in Newcastle; while stories were whispered o' the prodigious number o' offers she had refused, and that he would be considered a lucky man who should make off with such a capital prize! Here, thinks I, I've fallen on my feet at last; and, if I do not impove the golden opportunity to my advantage, blame me. Miss Cochrane continued shy, however; and I was beginning to despair o' making any impression, when, one night, being at a party with her and her sister, at the house o' a Mrs Cavendish, we a' three grew so delighted with each other, that it was agreed, before parting, that, as neither Arabella nor hersel had ever seen Coldstream, and as they had a genteel cousin there, we should take a trip to it the next day in a post-chaise. Off we accordingly went on the ensuing morning; and, as soon as we reached the town, a messenger was despatched for the genteel cousin, when presently a little dissipated-looking creature made his appearance, who, at the sight o' his dear Sophia and Arabella, was like to go into ecstatics. He did not need to be asked twice to join us at dinner; for he moved about as if the inn had been his ain, and he fell to the dainties we had ordered as greedily as a half-famished cur. The wine and brandy, too, were sent down his throat as if his stomach had been a sand-bed, and he kept drinking glasses with us every whip-touch, first asking me to join him, and then his "dear cousins," till, long before the dinner was owre, I had got so completely _rosined_, that I could not weel make out where I was, or satisfactorily account for the appearance o' the two strange women that sat on each side o' me. The haze, however, that hung owre me began to go off in the course o' the evening; and, when I cleared up sufficiently, the Coldstream birkie proposed that we should sally out and get a sight o' the famed "Brig-end," where the well-known Peter Moodie celebrated clandestine marriages.

"I'm yer man for a spree," says I--for the brandy, by this time, had flown to my head. And, starting to my feet, and seizing Miss Cochrane by the arm--"Come, my dawty," cries I, "let us away down to the brig and see Hymen's Altar!"

"Oh, Master Blackwell!" says madam, in girlish bashfulness, allowing hersel at the same time to be led off "only think what our friends will say, should they hear of _us_ being there! I would not for ten thousand worlds they should know."