Chapter V: Part 5

Now the Isle of Sky, and its high mountains, are entire strangers to me; but I am well acquainted with two pretty decent hills, not above twenty miles from Dumfries, called Queensberry, _little_ and _big_; and, amidst their elevated and retired glens, the following incident took place. I have from my boyhood been distractedly fond of fishing; and, up to this hour, whenever I visit my native glen, the mania returns; and, though things are sadly changed, and trouts are diminished both in number and size, yet still, in spite of all disadvantages, I fish. It was on an excursion on my way (whilst a young man of twenty) from college, that I found myself, one dark and misty day, amidst the deep and mazy windings of the _Brawn_. I was quickly and successively basketing trout after trout, humming all the while some old Scottish sonnet, and calling in my little dog, _Don_, from the sheep who were pasturing on the adjoining hill, named the Dod, when a voice from the depths of the mist and the solitude reached my ear. It was a voice of wo and deep lamentation. Having chid Don's impertinence in giving tongue somewhat too freely, I found, seated upon a grey stone, and weeping aloud, a young woman, about my own age, with dark blue eyes, and a countenance of the most prepossessing expression. She sat beside an infant, which she had deposited on a bed of collected fern or braken, and who was fast asleep. When she saw me, she started, and seemed disposed to fly; but when I used my means to reassure her, she ventured to accost me, by informing me that she had lost her way--that she was nurserymaid at Mitchelslacks, and had wandered that morning with her charge beyond her accustomed range, and, the mist coming suddenly on, she found it impossible to retrace her steps. I thought myself quite in possession of the information which she wanted, and told her that I would see her and her little charge safely and immediately home. So, giving up my sport for the time, I took up the sleeping infant, and immediately addressed myself, accompanied by the fair wanderer, to the journey. We were several miles distant from Mitchelslacks; but, as I considered myself quite familiar with the ground, I struck immediately over the pathless hill, by what I termed a _near cut_, instead of retracing the stream for a couple of miles, and then crossing the Dod by a cart track. The child awoke, and finding itself in strange hands, screamed violently; so I was soon compelled to place the infant in the loveliest bosom I had ever seen. I felt my frame tremble all over, as I came into contact with pretty Peggy's person; and yet, for all the wealth of old Q----, I would not have even conceived anything which might occasion alarm to so beautiful and manifestly so innocent a creature. Yet I could not keep my eyes off her, and found out, in spite of a dark and crawling mist, that her frame was perfect symmetry, and rounded into that ripened plumpness which bespeaks the fully-matured woman. We conversed freely as we travelled; and my romantic feelings became so excited with my position, that I thought but occasionally, and then indistinctly, of the direction, right or wrong, in which we were advancing. Peggy from time to time admonished me, that she trusted to me alone, as she was totally unacquainted with the hill. Having attained at last the summit of the steep, I expected to have found a cairn of stones, and, alongside of it a shepherd's shieling or turf hut, where he reposed at noonday, and shared his bread and milk with his faithful curs; but no such shieling or cairn was to be seen. It then became manifest to me, all at once, that I as well as my fair companion of the mist had lost my way, and that, unless the day, which was still becoming darker and darker, should clear up, we should be in danger of increasing instead of lessening the distance betwixt us and Mitchelslacks. To increase our embarrassment, the child cried continually, evidently from hunger, and great drops of rain came down like hail-stones amidst the close and crawling mist. It was evident that a thunderstorm was brooding--nor were we long kept in suspense; for, all at once, the mist was kindled into flame around us, and a sharp, smart crack, followed by the roar of a thousand hills, told us that we were in the very centre of the electric cloud. Poor Peggy sank down at once, overcome with terror; whilst I, immediately and intuitively, squatted down beside her, clasping her to my bosom, child and all. I may truly say with Patie, in regard to another lovely Peggy--

"Whilst hard and fast I held her in my grips,
My very soul cam loupin to my lips."

But the awful flash and peal were repeated, and then, in very truth, and not metaphorically,

"Down rush'd a deluge of sonorous hail."

Peggy fainted outright, and the child screamed itself into hysterics, when all at once a couple of shaggy shepherd's dogs gave tongue in the neighbourhood. A young, yellow haired shepherd lad stood over us in an instant; and, guessing at once how matters really stood, had us all removed, as soon as Peggy had recovered her senses, into the small shieling, in the immediate neighbourhood of which we were unconsciously wandering. We had to stoop, and enter upon our hands and knees; and, when we were all stowed away, there was not an inch of house room which was not occupied either by human beings or dogs. But, though sitting, or rather lying, on rushes, these rushes were dry, and our humble shelter warded off the merciless pelting, whilst the thunder-cloud gradually took to the top of the higher Queensberry, and left us with a clear sunny day, and two miles to walk to the child's home. The truth was, that the family at Mitchelslacks had become alarmed by the absence of maid and child, and had sent nearly half-a-score of shepherds, and a full score of dogs, to the hills and glens, on a voyage of discovery; whilst Mr and Mrs Harkness, the parents, were in a state which may more easily be imagined than described. All were now well; and I accompanied the young shepherd, with his sweetheart--for such I soon discovered they were--home, and had the happiness, by running on before, to be the first to announce the safety of their child to the worthy and distracted parents. They had, indeed, given up both the nurse and child for lost, and their despair had been at least equal to their joy, when I ran forward and threw the child in the mother's lap. Now, who could doubt that enthusiasm was abounding in the breast, and shining in the tear-wet eye of the mother, as she pressed the little lost one to her bosom? It was, verily. But, after all I have said of the nature of this extraordinary feeling, I know not if it is ever experienced in a stronger and purer form than in that of _joy_. I care nothing for the cause--it may be any one you please. All I insist for is, that it shall be capable of stimulating, or rather exciting--for the former is a phrenological word--the mind of the individual, however stupid, obese, or phlegmatic, to the boiling-point of that most intense species of human happiness. All the many forms of the feeling seem to tend to this as the point of their realisation. Pythagoras and his proposition, Argand and his lamp, Mungo Park and the waters of the Joliba, Mrs Harkness and her child, and the child, probably, next day with a butterfly, are all instances of the feeling in the point of gratification. But I have been again wandering from my story--all enthusiasm together; for there was love in the affair, which many insist upon being the strongest, if not the purest, example that can be presented of this mysterious and pervading essence. Those who think so can take their own view; I retain mine; and it is very probable that we are both wrong; and you, ma'am, to whom I formerly addressed myself, will put us right, by telling us that poetry is the only genuine and pure form in which this moral electricity can exhibit itself. Let it be as you say, though I would advise you to be on your guard against your friend Miss ----, who lost her lover last week, and will insist that _hope_ is the soul of the feeling; and that, when that is gone, enthusiasm has no more chance of getting into the mind or heart than I have of getting into your favour by this digression from a story of love, originating in, or perfected by, _mist_, one of the most romantic mediums of the tender passion. So, to make a speedy conclusion, about a fortnight after this incident, I was again at my old sport, when I was accosted by my young friend, the shepherd, who now figured in holiday-attire, and informed me that, as this was his wedding-day, my company would be acceptable _owre by yonder_ at two o'clock. I pursued my sport till then, and, in the old chamber of Mitchelslacks, saw Joseph Robson and Margaret Gibson made man and wife. There was neither dancing nor revelment of any kind, but there was a plentiful meal, many songs, and as much punch, prepared in a large bowl, as the company chose to make use of. All went merry as a marriage-bell. And now I find I am checked by want of space, at the moment when the _jar_ is fully charged, and the subtle spirit might have exploded in many more pretty coruscations.

TREES AND BURNS.

Woods, natural woods, are most beautiful. To wander all day long amongst bushes, hazels, oaks, thorns, of every hue and fruit--the haw, crab, and sloe--is most delightful. To lose one's-self, as it were, at every turn, and to be arrested by some new feature, ever and anon, as you thread your mazy course through the pathless wood, is a pleasure, the recollection of which still haunts and sweetens my dreams of early being--

"In life's morning march,
When my bosom was young."

I don't like forests--they are too stiff and stately--they are like a tea-and-turn-out party--sombre, silent, and affected. They have not the easy negligence, the elegant simplicity, the "_simplex munditiis_," of woods. They are always on their high horses, and darken whilst they look down upon and despise the underwood. I had as rather associate with a conclave of high churchmen or consulting doctors, as with a regular, well-planted, and well-fenced plantation. Here man has played the tailor with nature; and, in cutting down her skirts, has deprived her of all that is graceful in drapery and folding. He has made a Bond Street exquisite of the subject. But, far and beyond all other inanimate objects, I have always been in love with single, individual, separate trees. You cannot be truly--as the song has it--in love with many _fair dames_ at one and the same time; I can never, on that account, bear to hear the song sung, which begins thus--

"I'm in love with twenty,
I'm in love with twenty,
And I adore as many more--
There's nothing like a plenty."

I absolutely quarrelled with an old friend for his frequent singing of this abominable and heretical song, and am scarcely reconciled to him to this hour, though he has long ago limited his love to one object--he has been married these thirty years. In the same spirit, and on the same principle, I affirm, that no child, boy, girl, man, or woman, can be truly in love with _two trees_ at one and the same time. Oh! I remember well the old ash-tree that occupied the corner of our kail-yard. There the same pyet built yearly her nest, and brought _out_ and _up_ her young. To be sure I _tithed_ them occasionally, and taught her offspring to imitate speaking most abominably; but still the old lady and gentleman returned to their tree and their branch, and even to the same cleft of the branch, annually; and my spirit rejoiced within me, as I lifted up mine eyes and beheld the black-and-white tail of the dam, as she sat, from morn to night, upon her beautifully-spotted, black-and-white eggs. There, underneath that very tree, I did sit and construct my first paper kite; there did I play from morn to night with the cat and her kitten; there did I shelter myself from the shower, and from the meridian heat; there did I repeat my morning and evening prayer (short, it is true, but pithy--it was the Lord's Prayer, with an additional petition in behalf of my only surviving parent, my mother); there did I count my slain on returning from fishing expeditions; and there, my dear departed friend and cousin, did you and I associate, eve after eve, in true and holy affection. Alas! the cold earth has closed over one of the kindest hearts and clearest heads I ever had occasion to know anything about; but God's will be done. We all hasten to the same place, however different our courses. Peace, my dear companion, to thy manes! We shall meet, I hope, anon. In the meantime, I was speaking of the old ash-tree at Auldwa's, which I have taken the liberty to transplant to Dunsyett. But our common friend, and the friend of many past generations, is now laid prostrate (as I am informed) with the earth. How is the mighty fallen, and the lofty laid low, and the strong one broken and smashed in his strength! The storm, the dreadful, unexampled storm, which lately swept over our island with a whirlwind's impetuosity and a hurricane's strength, has bent the gallant mast, and sunk the noble ship, and buried its thousands and thousands of fathers, and brothers, and husbands, and wives, and daughters in the deep sea. It has uptorn forests, scattered woods to the heavens, and (_inter alia_) has stooped from its altitude to lay my old and dear companion prostrate. How many tempests, my poor uprooted friend, hast thou not braved!--nay, when the fire of heaven split and splintered the adjoining oak and ash, thou didst escape unhurt. The awful tempest of winter 1794-5, deprived thee, indeed, of a branch or two; but thou wert still in the manhood of thy being, when the west wind blew as "'twad blaw its last"--and M'Diarmid's newspaper is enriched with thy remains.

My next associate of the tree species was the "_Castle Beech_." Oh, what a tree it was, and still (I humbly hope) is!--for the hand of man is not yet formed in the womb which will dare to cut it down; and it stands mighty in its individual girth, awful in its spread, and sheltered in its position. This tree is the chronicler of my school days at Wallacehall: on the smooth and ample bark of that tree are imprinted or obliterated recollections of a fearful nature. Oh! who dares to take a peep into the charnel-house of fifty years? There they are, playing it hard and happy, at dools toosty, or England and Scotland.

"Alas! regardless of their doom,
The little victims play:
No sense have they of ills to come--
No cares beyond to-day!"

But let forty years, with Juggernaut wheels, crash and creak over us, and where are the happy hearts and merry voices? The sea will answer; for she has had her full share. The river, the bloody river _Nith_, will and must answer; for in its deceitful waters was lost my old and kind class-fellow and companion, Richard Reid. The west must give up its dead, and the east answer to my call. Where am I? My dear schoolfellows, where are you? Why don't you answer? Alas! _at sixty_, I can scarcely count six contemporaries who still breathe with me the breath of heaven, and rejoice in a protracted though misimproved existence. But the old beech, my kind friend Mr Watt of the castle informs me, is still standing, though almost by a miracle, for his branches are so large and numerous that he groaned, and creaked, and swung most dreadfully under the tempest's shock. But it would not do; even the prince of the aerial powers was foiled at last, and was compelled to desist from his unhallowed attempt. The Castle Beech has weathered the storm; and there are hearts in every land which will rejoice in the information which I now convey.

But the "Three Brethren," the friends and companions of my more mature years, are now no more. They have fallen with those cedars of Lebanon, the mighty monarchs of Arbigland--_they_ have perished, and in their fate have nearly involved that of their intelligent and benevolent proprietor. But my heart reverts to Collestoun, and to the banks of the blue and silver Nith, and to the Three Brethren. The pages of the intelligent "Times" (county newspaper) are wet with the tears of lamentation. But the "Times" knows not--it could not, and it cannot know--the one-half that honest Allan Cunningham and I know about these remarkable trees. Their traditional history is this:--

Prior to the discovery of Virginia, and of the consequent tobacco trade, by means of which Glasgow, from being a comparatively insignificant town, became a large and a prosperous mercantile city, and whilst Manchester, in England, was almost equally obscure and unimportant, there was no properly-constructed highway through Dumfries-shire betwixt these two mercantile depots. There was, indeed, along the banks of the Nith, the trace of the old Roman road; but this was obscure, in many places obliterated, and in all narrow and unaccommodating to wheel-carriages. Indeed, the road in many cases was impracticable, unless on horses; and these, too, in some places, were in danger of disappearing in mosses and quagmires. In this state of things, to talk of or think of inns, or public-houses of accommodation, was out of the question. _Where there is no demand, there can be no supply_--that is a clear case; yet still a certain overland intercourse was carried on betwixt these two great national marts, Glasgow and Manchester; and a merchant from the one city was in the habit of mounting a strong nag, and meeting with a merchant from the other city at what was deemed the _half-way point_--at the place, namely, where a large tree, with three outspread and sheltering branches, not only marked the spot of tryst, but afforded partial shade and shelter. (The reason why these branches were afterwards denominated the Three Brethren has already formed the subject of a tale.) Well, by previous arrangement and appointment, the Glasgow and the Manchester merchants met and transacted business under this tree, and then retraced their steps homewards; and this continued for many years to be the nearest and the most commonly-frequented line of communication betwixt Glasgow and Manchester. It was in this way, originally, that the benevolent founder of the free school of Closeburn, Mr Wallace, a native of that parish, and a Glasgow merchant, carried on this extensive business with Manchester. Many a time has the worthy founder of the most celebrated institution in the south of Scotland (with which the name of Mundell will be associated till latest ages) been seen sitting upon a stone rolled to the foot of this immense tree, and transacting business with a Manchester merchant, similarly placed with himself. In process of time, the international intercourse increased--post-chaises succeeded to strong saddle horses, the roads were improved, and an inn, or house of accommodation, became absolutely necessary. It was on this occasion that the once famous, though now comparatively obscure inn, called of late years Brownhill, arose--an inn resorted to by travellers of all ranks, in preference to any which even Dumfries in former times could afford--an inn celebrated as the frequent resort of Robert Burns, who used to hold high carousal here with its former convivial landlord, Mr Bacon; in whose house, and on one of the panes of glass in the window, were originally written those well-known lines of Burns, beginning--

"Cursed be the man, the veriest wretch in life,
The crouching vassal to the tyrant wife,
Who has no will but by her high permission--
Who has not sixpence but in her possession....
I'd charm her with the magic of a switch," &c.

As I happen to know the particular circumstances which accompanied the writing of these lines, I shall conclude this chapter on trees, by relating them.

Burns lived at this time at Ellisland, about two miles lower down the vale than the Three Brethren, and about three miles from Brownhill. Much of his duty as a gauger lay about the village of Brownhill. Now, Brownhill was a very convenient half-way house betwixt Thornhill and his home at Ellisland; and, accordingly, Burns' little stout pony (which I remember well, though I forget the name) would seldom pass Brownhill. One day, whilst a boy at the free school of Wallacehall, I chanced to be lingering about the stable-door at Brownhill, when Burns alighted from his pony, _wet and weary_, and, giving the beast a slap on the hinder extremity, exclaimed, "There! make you comfortable for the night, in the best way you can--and so will the poor gauger!" Burns looked at me very closely; but I was unknown to him at that time (though I knew him personally afterwards); and muttering, "One of Mundell's," passed on. What follows is from undoubted authority; namely, one of the party of three, who enjoyed this very merry evening. Bacon and Burns were their bowl of punch a-piece, as well as my friend, and were in high talk and song; but Mrs Bacon, who did not partake of the festivity, and who, in fact, was the support of the house, refused to produce the materials for the fourth bowl. High words arose betwixt her and her husband; who, as well as Burns and my friend, had by this time given indications of their having

"A wee drap in their ee;"

and Mrs Bacon hid the keys and went to bed. Ere Burns went to repose (or next morning), he inscribed, with his ready wit, and equally ready diamond, the lines mentioned on the window-pane.

KIRKYARDS.

Kirkyards are to me exceedingly interesting. Alas! those nearest and dearest to me are now the tenants of these silent retirements. They contain subjects of intense and protracted recollection. Whenever I have an hour to spare after dinner in my pedestrian wanderings, I am sure to deviate into a churchyard, and there to spell and stumble my way through and over a multiplicity of graves and monuments. But, instead of dealing in generalities, I shall speak of two particular cases, known to myself, in the churchyard of the parish of Closeburn. One is on your right hand as you enter and pass Elder Boe, on Sunday, at the church stile. The stone is merely an erect headstone, and of considerable dimensions. The inscription is--"Here lies Richard Reid, aged 16, who perished in crossing the water of Nith in 1794." Richard, as well as his brother Stephen, now Colonel Reid, were my particular companions at Wallacehall School. We were class-fellows. Oh! what fun and frolic we have had together! The Castle Wood, Barmuir Wood, Gilchrist Land Wood, the Pothouse Wood, the Whitston Cleughs, and the Gravel Walk, could tell, if they were permitted, many tales of us three. What nests did we not find! what nuts did we not gather! what sloes did we not pocket! what brambles did we not eat! and what _hind_ or raspberries did we not bruise and convert into _red wine_. And, then, what tree so tall as not to admit our ascent! what thicket so dense as not to be penetrated! what eel so lively as not to be decapitated and skinned! and what trout so cunning as to escape the temptation of our nicely-prepared baits! At England and Scotland, too--that most expressive game of former Border feuds--we were most expert; and have seen many suns descend on our protracted contests at shinty. But, alas! harvest arrived, and with it the vacation; the oats ripened, and so did the hazel-nuts. The report was, that the Barjarg Woods were most splendidly supplied with ripe and brown _leamers_. We could not--we never tried to resist the temptation. But the rapid river Nith lay betwixt us and the object of our travel. It had rained, but was now fair; and the water, when we arrived at its banks, did not seem even moved or swollen. Stephen and I hesitated; Richard was a bold, manly lad, somewhat older. He plunged at once into the stream, and bade us follow; so, indeed, we did. Ere we had gained one-third of the way, upon the stream we observed bits of wood and various floating substances in it. We became alarmed, and called aloud on Richard; but he turned round, and laughed us to scorn. We would not stand this, but pushed on, he still keeping in advance. The powerful current had now reached his waist, and, even though he had wished to turn, he could not. The stones were beginning to creep from beneath our feet. All at once, a large piece of floating timber came down upon poor Richard's position, and he was borne away by the united force of the obstructed wood and the stream. He fell; the timber floated over him, and he again rose; but he was in much deeper water, and manifestly apprehended danger. He screamed aloud, and we rushed forward--his brother Stephen and I--to the rescue; but we were all instantly hurled along into a deep and whirling pool. Over the banks of this eddy there grew and hung a broom bush; more by accident than management, I got a hold of it. Stephen was struggling near me, and I caught him with the other hand. I struggled desperately, and got myself and my companion into the face of a soft and clay brow. I held like grim death, and at last surmounted the steep. Though stupified, I saw that one was awanting, and I rushed--for Stephen was insensible--along the brink of the pool. At the foot of it, and where the water began to shallow, I saw poor Richard tumbling over without any signs of life. In an instant I had a hold of his garment, and had actually pulled him considerably to one side, when, my feet coming in contact with a large stone, I fell backwards, lost my hold, and the body of poor Richard was found, next day, a mile and a-half below, at the bottom of Porter's Hole.

On the opposite side of this churchyard there is a flat flagstone, with the following inscription--"Here lie the mortal remains of William Herdman, weaver in Auldwa's of Gilchristland."

Poor Willie Herdman! What associations do not these two magic words awaken! When Gibraltar stood nobly out, under the command of an Elliot, against the combined strength of France and Spain, thou wast there to send the hissing-hot cannon-balls into the hulls of the enemy's floating-batteries. But, on returning to thy native Nottingham, to taste of its pure and salubrious ales, thy house was desolate--father, mother, and sister, all dead--and the place which knew them owned another tenant. Thy heart sank within thee; and having been bred a weaver in thy youth, thou didst take the road for Glasgow; but, at Brownhill, chance brought thee acquainted with Archy Tait of Auldwa's, and with him didst thou ply thy trade till the mournful end of thy days. But it was neither as a soldier, nor as a weaver, that I remember thee with so much interest. It was as the best bait-fisher in the south of Scotland--it was as my first preceptor in that most delightful art. I see thee still, before sunrise, ten miles amidst the mountains, and I hear the plash of the large new-run sea-trout, as it "turns up its silver scaling to the light" amidst the dark-brown flood. At all times, and almost in all states of the weather and the water, thy skill was triumphant, and from thee I derived that art which no man knows, unless instructed by me, to this hour--the art of fishing _up_, and not _down_, a mountain stream, with prepared bait. But the hour of thy destiny at last arrived, and it was a mournful one. It was one of thy triumphs to kill a dish of trouts, even in the midst of frost, and at New-year's Day. A wager was laid, and a considerable sum of money was risked, on thy killing a dozen for a New-year's-day feast. On the last day of the old year, as the time approached, the weather had become boisterous, and snow-blasts, mixed with hail, were coursing along the skirts of Queensberry. I was a stout lad in the high class then, and, being in the constant habit of accompanying thee on thy fishing expeditions, I made a point of not being absent on this critical trial of thy skill. Accordingly, when the last day of December, 179-, dawned, I was by thee aroused from my slumbers, and, in spite of all maternal remonstrances, I agreed to accompany thee to Caple. The day was dark and somewhat cloudy; but there was only a sprinkling of snow on the lower grounds, though the higher seemed to be much whiter. To fortify himself against the inclemency of the weather, poor Willie had provided himself with a supply of what he used to term "his comforter"--namely, some whisky in a bottle. We fished for about two hours in the deeper and unfrozen pools of Caple, and with amazing success. Willie had just killed his eleventh trout, when he turned up the bottom of a pint bottle, quite empty. He was not intoxicated, but confused. I had not enjoyed the advantage of "the comforter," and was consequently much more collected, and aware of our danger. It was betwixt twelve and one when the day suddenly darkened down, and a terrible snow-drift came up the glen. Mitchelslacks was at about a mile and a-half's distance. I strongly urged our retreat to that hospitable mansion in the wilderness; but Willie wanted one trout of his tale, and he persevered for about half-an-hour longer, when he was so fortunate as to complete his number. But by this time the snow-drift and wind were absolutely choking, and I could see that his eyes were half-shut. He was manifestly in a state of approaching stupor or sleep. I became exceedingly alarmed, when he sat, or rather fell, down suddenly beneath a projecting rock, saying that he would rest and sleep for a little, and then he would accompany me to Mitchelslacks, as I proposed. I tried to pull him along; but he was incapable of motion. What was to be done? Poor Willie, who had taught me to fish, and told me so many stories about the wars, and about Nottingham, and England, and who was really a kind-hearted, good-natured creature--poor Willie to perish thus helpless in the drift! I sprang on with renewed strength; but when I reached Mitchelslacks I fainted, and it was not till I recovered that Willie's dangerous state was learned. Three shepherds, with Mr. Harkness at their head, and a suitable accompaniment of dogs, sallied forth, and in a short time reached the spot; but it was too late. There was still heat in the interior, but no motion; the pulse had stopped, and the body was sitting in a reclining posture, leaning against the stone. There were no marks of previous suffering--all was calm and placid in the marble countenance--the eyes shut, and the hands reposing on the fish-basket, as if the last thing he had done was to count his fish! He was dead!

POLWARTH ON THE GREEN.

Peradventure there are few of our readers who have not heard of "Polwarth on the Green," and the "Polwarth Thorn." The song bearing the former title is certainly founded upon one of the most popular traditions on the Borders. Since the commencement of this publication, we have been many times requested to write a tale upon the subject, and not less than thrice, from different quarters, within the last seven days; and as we are at all times anxious to meet the wishes of our readers, we shall now endeavour to fulfil the request which has been made to us.

There are none to whom the traditions of other days are not interesting. They save from oblivion the memory, the deeds, and the manners, of our fathers. No nation is so sunk in barbarity as to disregard them: the civilised European and the Indian savage alike cherish them; and the poets of every land have wed them with song. Yet, nowhere are traditions more general or more interesting than upon the Borders. Every grey ruin has its tale of wonder and of war. The solitary cairn on the hillside speaks of one who died for religion, or for liberty, or belike for both. The very schoolboy passes it with reverence, and can tell the history of him whose memory it perpetuates. The hill on which it stands is a monument of daring deeds, where the sword was raised against oppression, and where heroes sleep. Every castle hath its legends, its tales of terror and of blood, "of goblin, ghost, or fairy." The mountain glen, too, hath its records of love and war. There history has let fall its romantic fragments, and the hills enclose them. The forest trees whisper of the past; and, beneath the shadow of their branches, the silent spirit of other years seems to sleep. The ancient cottage, also, hath its traditions, and recounts

"The short and simple annals of the poor."

Every family hath its legends, which record to posterity the actions of their ancestors, when the sword was law, and even the payment of rent upon the Borders was a thing which no man understood; but, as Sir Walter Scott saith, "all that the landlord could gain from those residing upon his estate was their personal service in battle, their assistance in labouring the land retained in his natural possession, some petty quit-rents of a nature resembling the feudal casualties, and perhaps a share in the spoil which they acquired by rapine." Many of those traditions are calculated to melt the maiden's heart, to fill age with enthusiasm, and youth with love of country. But to our story.

In the year 1470, John Sinclair of Herdmanstone, in East Lothian, who was also Lord of Kimmerghame and Polwarth, dying without male issue, the estate of Kimmerghame descended to his daughter Marion, and that of Polwarth to her sister Margaret. His heir-male was his brother, Sir William Sinclair, to whom the estate of Herdmanstone fell. Sir William, as the uncle of the co-heiresses, though not appointed as their guardian by their father, for they were both well-nigh of woman's estate when he died, craftily took upon himself that duty. He whispered to them that their estates were not managed as they ought to be--that their bondmen did not perform the duty required of them--that those they had set over their grounds as stewards did not render them a faithful account of their stewardship. He insinuated a thousand suspicions into their young minds, until their affairs gradually fell into his hands, and he at length succeeded in gaining the entire management of their estates; and he now required only to have the disposal of their personal freedom. Men of power in those days were not very scrupulous as to the means which they employed to obtain their object; he who had a score of retainers weighed the scales of life and death in his hands. Nevertheless, aware of the rank which his nieces held in the estimation of his country, Sir William knew that it would not be safe to venture upon making them prisoners by open violence. He therefore courteously invited them to his house at Herdmanstone, where he stated that the gayest and the proudest company in broad Scotland would be present to delight them. Marion, who was fond of amusements, was overjoyed at the invitation; but her sister Margaret, who was of a graver disposition, said--

"Well, sister, I like not our uncle's kindness--something sinful seems to laugh in his looks; the very movement of his lips bespeaks more than it reveals; confide in _me_, dear sister, and distrust _him_. When I was but a child, playing around our mother's knee, I have heard her say unto my father, 'Ah, John! I like not your brother; there is a cunning in his looks, in his very words; he cannot meet you with the straightforward gaze of an honest man; and methinks he looks upon me as though he distrusted and hated me; yea, I have often thought, as though he were plotting evil against me.' So our mother was wont to say; and my father would reply, 'Dear Elizabeth, think not so cruelly of one who is so near and dear to me; trust me, that he loves you and yours.'--'It may be so,' she would reply, 'but there is that in his manner which I cannot overcome.' Then our father would remain silent for a time, and add, 'Well, there is a want of frankness in Sir William which becomes not a brother.'"

"Lull your suspicions, my demure sister," the light-hearted Marion replied; "a thousand times have I heard him say that no one but the boldest baron in Scotland should wed his niece, Marion."

"And he said truly," replied Margaret; "for, if he have us once within his power, not even the boldest knight in Scotland will be able to receive our hands, unless he sue for it with gallant bowmen at his back, and the unsheathed sword to enforce his suit."

"Oh, then, sister," subjoined Marion, "I suppose you have a knight at hand who would delight in such handiwork; for is not Sir Patrick Hume of Wedderburn reputed to be the most valorous knight upon the Borders, and withal the humble worshipper of fair Margaret Sinclair of Polwarth?"

And as the maiden spoke, she laughed, and tapped her sister good-naturedly upon the cheek. Margaret blushed, and playfully replied, "Well, sister, is there no valorous knight at Wedderburn but Sir Patrick? What think ye of George Hume?"

"No more of this," cried Marion; "let us accept our uncle's invitation, and mingle with the gay company he has invited to meet us."

"If you will have it so, let it be so," replied Margaret; "but, trust me, I fear that good will not come of it."

On the following day they set out upon their journey towards Herdmanstone, accompanied by only two men-servants. The uncle received them with a show of cordial friendship; but the guests whom they expected to meet they saw not; and they had been but a few minutes beneath his roof, when they found themselves prisoners, secured by gratings, bolts, and bars. On discovering the situation into which they had been entrapped, Marion wept aloud, and accused herself of being the unwitting author of her sister's captivity.

"Fear not," said Margaret. "Our uncle is a stern man, he is a man of blood; but there are as strong hands as his, that will be raised to deliver the sisters of Kimmerghame and Polwarth, when their captivity becomes known."

"But how will it be known?" asked Marion; "for who knows that we are here?"

"Let us trust in him who is the orphan's father," replied her sister, "and leave all to his good providence."

"Amen!" said the other; but she sobbed bitterly as she spoke.

On the second day of their imprisonment, their uncle entered the apartment where they were confined.

"Weel, maidens," said he, sternly, "how like ye your abode at Herdmanstone? I have observed the slightfu een with which baith o' you have looked upon your uncle; and now that ye are in my power, ye shall repent the airs o' disdain that ye hae taken upon ye. It becomes nae the blood o' Polwarths to assume a superiority over the house o' Sinclair. So choose ye--there are twa cousins, who are not very auld, but they're growing; ye shall hae your choice to marry them, or the deepest dungeon in Herdmanstone shall be your doom. Your destiny is placed in your own hands--decide it as ye will; but remember that it is a Sinclair that never broke his word that wags the finger o' fate over your heads. Eight days--eight days, remember!" he repeated, and left them.

"Now you will despise me, Margaret," said Marion; "for my maiden ambition has led us into this trouble. Yet will I rather be an inmate in our uncle's dungeon than be the wife of the boy-husband he would assign me. Sister, will you not upbraid me?"

"Upbraid you!" said the calm and gentle Margaret; "stern as is our uncle, deadly as is his wrath, I fear him not. The other day you spoke to me jeeringly of Sir Patrick Hume--in the same strain I answered you respecting his brother George. Eight days will not pass until Sir Patrick misses me from Polwarth; and, powerful as my uncle may be, bold and desperate as he is, I know that one stone of Herdmanstone Castle will not be left standing upon another till we are freed."

"You have a brave heart, sister," said Marion; "but it is small comfort to me, who must look upon myself as the author of this disaster. And how think ye that Sir Patrick or his brother George (if ye will speak of him) are to hear of our confinement? Wot ye not that they know not where we are; or, if they should know, they will not apprehend that evil could befall us in the house of our relative?"

"I believe, Marion," answered Margaret, "that within the eight days which our uncle has named, we shall either be at liberty, or have ceased to live. It is our lives that he seeks, not that we should be the wives of his sons. Rather than be so wed, I will die--so will you. But, if we should die, our deaths would not be unavenged. He would neither enjoy our estates, nor the triumph of his guilt. Ye have heard the names of Patrick and George Hume of Wedderburn spoken of as sounds of terror upon the Borders--their swords have avenged the injured, and released the captive. Marion, they will avenge our wrongs! Dear sister, be not afraid."

It was about daybreak on the fourth day after their imprisonment, that a musician, who played upon the union or Northumbrian pipe of those days, approached beneath the window of their apartment, and softly playing an air, accompanied it with his voice, as follows:--

"My heart is divided between them,
I dinna ken which I wad hae;
Right willing my heart I wad gie them--
But how can I gie it to twae?
There's Meggy, a fairer or better
I'm certain there couldna weel be;
Dumfounder'd the first time I met her,
What was sweet Marion to me!

"Yet Marion is gentle and bonny,
I liked her ere Meggy I saw,
And they say it is sinfu for on
Man upon earth to like twa.
My heart it is rugg'd and tormented,
I'd live wi' or die for them baith;
I've done what I've often repented,
To baith I have plighted my aith.

"And oft when I'm walkin wi' Meggy
I'll say, 'Dear Marion,' and start;
While fearfu she'll say, 'Weel, I ken ye
Hae ithers mair dear to your heart.'
Was ever a man sae confounded?
I dinna ken what will be dune;
Baith sides o' my bosom are wounded,
And they'll be the death o' me sune."

"Hark!" said Marion, as she listened to the strain of the minstrel; "it is the song of the Egyptian thief, Johnny Faa. Mind ye since he sang it beneath our window at Kimmerghame?"

"I remember it weel," replied Margaret; "but dinna call him thief, sister; for, be Johnny a king or no a king, he is one that King James is glad to lift his bonnet to; and I am sure that he means weel to us at present. Wheesht ye, Marion, and I will whisper to him a low chant over the window." And, in a low voice, she sung--

"O, saw ye my laddie comin, Johnny?
O, saw ye my laddie comin?
If ye've no seen him, tell him frae me,
That I'm a waefu woman.
We here are sisters twa, Johnny,
Confined within this tower;
And ilka time the sun gaes down
It points to our death-hour."

"I heard it rumoured, gentle maiden," said the gypsy, gazing eagerly towards the window from whence they looked, "that no good was intended ye in this place; and though it be not in the power o' Johnny Faa to bring to ye the assistance o' his own men, yet it strikes me there is _ane_, if no _twa_, maidens, that I could bring to your rescue, and that wad make a clap o' thunder ring through the deepest cell in Herdmanstone."

"Thank ye, Johnny," replied Margaret; "ye're kind--ye're very kind; and if ye wad carry a bit scrap o' paper to Wedderburn Castle, greatly would ye aid a distressed damsel."

"I thank ye, my doo, for relying on the word and promise o' John, king and lord o' Little Egypt. Little do they ken me, and less is their knowledge o' our race, who think that we would look upon those who are wronged without seeing them righted. How I heard o' your imprisonment or the wrong intended ye, never fash your thumb; though a bird waffed it in my lugs wi' its wings, though it chirped it in them as it chirmed past me, it is aneugh that I ken o' your wrongs, and that I will assist ye.

Trust me, maidens."

"I will trust ye," answered Margaret.

"Dinna trust him, sister," said Marion; "he may be some spy of our uncle's."

"Of being a spy," cried the other, "I dinna believe him capable. Stop, Johnny, or king, or whatever ye be," she added, "and I will throw ye a word or two, to carry to Sir Patrick Hume of Wedderburn."

She addressed to him a few words, and threw the paper which contained them into the hands of the gipsy.

"Bless ye for your confidence, my bonny lassie!" said Johnny Faa; "and before the sun gae down, Sir Patrick Hume shall ken that there is ane that likes him pining in a captive's prison, wi' nane but ane that his brother likes to bear her company."

The gipsy king was mounted on an active pony, and although it was without a saddle, and reined only by a hempen bridle, he dashed off with it, at the pace of a fleet racer, and directed his course toward the Lammermuirs.

It was not noon when he arrived at the Castle Wedderburn. The porter at the gate retreated in terror, as he beheld him, for the name of the Faa king had become terrible on the Borders, and even the king had been glad to grant him terms on his own choosing. On being admitted to the presence of the knight--"What is it, ye vagrant loon," asked Sir Patrick, "that brings ye to venture within the roof o' honest men?"

"Honest!" said the gipsy--"ha! ha! ha! I daresay your honesty and mine are muckle about a par. Between us twa it is, tak who can. Ye hae the bit land, Sir Patrick, but ye havena a stronger or a more cunning hand, nor yet a sharper sword, than the lord o' Little Egypt. Therefore, speak at evens wi' me, lest ye rue it."

"And wherefore should I speak at evens," answered Hume, "with the like o' you, who are at best but the king o' gaberlunzie men?"

"The mischief light on ye!" said the gipsy; "ye have provoked me sair, and I have tholed wi' your slights and taunting; but try me not wi' another word, lest ye rue it, Sir Patrick Hume, and your brother rue it, and every Hume o' the house o' Wedderburn shall be brought to cry dool, for refusing to listen to the words o' Johnny Faa."

"And what wad ye say if ye had your will, ye braggart knave?" cried the knight.

"Merely," retorted the gipsy, "that there is a bonny lassie, ane wha is owre guid to be the bride o' sae uncivil an individual as yoursel, now lying in durance, wi' death or perpetual imprisonment before her, while ye havena the courage to lift your hand to her rescue."

"Of whom speak ye?" vociferated the Laird of Wedderburn.

"Who," rejoined the gipsy, slyly, "is nearest to your heart?--who nearest to your door? Have you seen her within these four days?"

"What!" exclaimed Sir Patrick, "speak ye of my Margaret?"

"Of whom does your heart tell you that I speak?" said Faa.

"It is then to her that ye allude?" cried Sir Patrick.

"Ay, it is to her," was the reply; "and what knight are ye that would remain here idly within your castle, while death threatens the maiden o' your love?"

"Pardon me, stranger," said Sir Patrick; "tell me where she is."

"Ye ask me to pardon ye now," answered the gipsy, proudly; "ye knew me before, when the insult was offered, ye know me still. It is not because ye bear a name powerful in arms, nor yet that I have heard of your deeds of war, that I come to you; but it is because of the maiden who loves you as the Mayfly does the summer sun. Margaret Sinclair and her sister are the prisoners of their uncle, Sir William Sinclair of Herdmanstone. He has looked with an eye of covetousness upon their estates--he longs to possess them; and, if they be not yielded to him, the life of the fair owners now in his power must pay the forfeit."

The knight clasped the hand of the gipsy. "Thank ye, thank ye," he cried; "I will reward ye for this act of kindness."

"You reward me!" shouted the gipsy king, disdainfully. "Think ye that, when the King of Little Egypt does an act of humanity or generosity, he is to be rewarded for it by a Scottish knight! Away with ye, man! I spurn your thanks! I am as far above them as the moon is above the glow-worm that glimmers on the ground--ay, as the sun above the fetid matter from which it draws life. Know, then, that Margaret Sinclair and her sister will die unless ye have courage to release them, and that before another Sabbath shine a holiday to you."

Wedderburn held his hand in thankfulness. "Forgive me, forgive me," he cried; "I have spoken unjustly to one that has a soul within him and who has sympathised for those in whom my happiness is bound up. Again, I say, forgive me."

"Ye are forgiven," said the Faa; "and, if assistance be needed in the hour of peril, ye shall find willing hands ready to help ye, though ye deserve it not."

So saying, the Faa beckoned his hand, and withdrew from the presence of Hume. Sir Patrick bore the tidings instantly to his brother; and, within two hours, a hundred of their retainers stood armed around Wedderburn Castle. "To Herdmanstone!" was the cry; "and the rescue of the lady-love of the Lord of Wedderburn!"

"Ay, and for Marion, the maid of Kimmerghame!" cried George, the brother of Sir Patrick; "and the Sinclairs shall wear stout bucklers and belts to boot, that this sword pierce not."

The party being marshalled, they took their way across the Lammermuirs with the brothers Sir Patrick and George Hume at their head. It was shortly after daybreak when they appeared before Herdmanstone Castle; and the Lady Margaret was the first to perceive their approach.

"Sister!" she cried; "see! see! aid is at hand--the banner of the Humes is waving over the fields of Herdmanstone."

"Ye dream, sister!" said Marion, starting from her couch.

"Nay, I dream not," retorted Margaret. "Arise; through the grey light I perceive the plume of Sir Patrick Hume, and the gay jacket which my sister wrought for his brother."

Marion sprang forward to the place where her sister stood; they thrust their hands from the window, to encourage their deliverers to the rescue, while Sir Patrick and his brother answered them back, crying, "We come! we come! The haughty and cruel Sinclair shall repent in blood."