

                                Sir Walter Scott

                            The Heart of Midlothian

     (Tales of My Landlord collected and arranged by Jedediah Cleishbotham,
                 schoolmaster and parish-clerk of Gandercleugh

                                 Second Series)

 Hear, Land o' Cakes and brither Scots,
 Frae Maidenkirk to Johnny Groat's,
 If there's a hole in a' your coats,
 I rede ye tent it;
 A chiel's amang you taken' notes,
 An' faith he'll prent it! -
                                                                          Burns.
 
            Ahora bien, dijo el Cura: traedme, senor huésped, aquesos libros,
            que los quiero ver. Que me place, respondió el; y entrando en su
            aposento, saco dél una maletilla vieja cerrada con una cadenilla, y
            abriéndola, halló en ella tres libros grandes y unos papeles de muy
            buena letra escritos de mano. -
                                              Don Quixote. Parte I. Capitulo 32.

                            To the Best of Patrons,

                         A Pleased and Indulgent Reader

                             Jedediah Cleishbotham

                  Wishes Health, and Increase, and Contentment

 
Courteous Reader,
    If ingratitude comprehendeth every vice, surely so foul a stain worst of all
beseemeth him whose life has been devoted to instructing youth in virtue and in
humane letters. Therefore have I chosen, in this prolegomenon, to unload my
burden of thanks at thy feet, for the favour with which thou hast kindly
entertained the Tales of my Landlord. Certes, if thou hast chuckled over their
facetious and festivous descriptions, or hadst thy mind filled with pleasure at
the strange and pleasant turns of fortune which they record, verily, I have also
simpered when I beheld a second storey with attics, that has arisen on the basis
of my small domicile at Gandercleugh, the walls having been aforehand pronounced
by Deacon Barrow to be capable of enduring such an elevation. Nor has it been
without delectation that I have endued a new coat (snuff-brown, and with metal
buttons), having all nether garments corresponding thereto. We do therefore lie,
in respect of each other, under a reciprocation of benefits, whereof those
received by me being the most solid (in respect that a new house and a new coat
are better than a new tale and an old song), it is meet that my gratitude should
be expressed with the louder voice and more preponderating vehemence. And how
should it be so expressed? - Certainly not in words only, but in act and deed.
It is with this sole purpose, and disclaiming all intention of purchasing that
pendicle or poffle of land called the Carlinescroft, lying adjacent to my
garden, and measuring seven acres, three roods, and four perches, that I have
committed to the eyes of those who thought well of the former tomes, these four
additional volumes of the Tales of my Landlord. Not the less, if Peter Prayfort
be minded to sell the said poffle, it is at his own choice to say so; and,
peradventure, he may meet with a purchaser: unless (gentle reader) the pleasing
pourtraictures of Peter Pattieson, now given unto thee in particular, and unto
the public in general, shall have lost their favour in thine eyes, whereof I am
no way distrustful. And so much confidence do I repose in thy continued favour,
that, should thy lawful occasions call thee to the town of Gandercleugh, a place
frequented by most at one time or other in their lives, I will enrich thine eyes
with a sight of those precious manuscripts whence thou hast derived so much
delectation, thy nose with a snuff from my mull, and thy palate with a dram from
my bottle of strong waters, called by the learned of Gandercleugh, the Dominie's
Dribble o' Drink.
    It is there, O highly esteemed and beloved reader, thou wilt be able to bear
testimony, through the medium of thine own senses, against the children of
vanity, who have sought to identify thy friend and servant with I know not what
inditer of vain fables; who hath cumbered the world with his devices, but
shrunken from the responsibility thereof. Truly, this hath been well termed a
generation hard of faith; since what can a man do to assert his property in a
printed tome, saving to put his name in the title-page thereof, with his
description, or designation, as the lawyers term it, and place of abode? Of a
surety I would have such sceptics consider how they themselves would brook to
have their works ascribed to others, their names and professions imputed as
forgeries, and their very existence brought into question; even although,
peradventure, it may be it is of little consequence to any but themselves, not
only whether they are living or dead, but even whether they ever lived or no.
Yet have my maligners carried their uncharitable censures still farther.
    These cavillers have not only doubted mine identity, although thus plainly
proved, but they have impeached my veracity and the authenticity of my
historical narratives! Verily, I can only say in answer, that I have been
cautelous in quoting mine authorities. It is true, indeed, that if I had
hearkened with only one ear, I might have rehearsed my tale with more
acceptation from those who love to hear but half the truth. It is, it may hap,
not altogether to the discredit of our kindly nation of Scotland, that we are
apt to take an interest, warm, yea partial, in the deeds and sentiments of our
forefathers. He whom his adversaries describe as a perjured Prelatist, is
desirous that his predecessors should be held moderate in their power, and just
in their execution of its privileges, when truly, the unimpassioned peruser of
the annals of those times shall deem them sanguinary, violent, and tyrannical.
Again, the representatives of the suffering Nonconformists desire that their
ancestors, the Cameronians, shall be represented not simply as honest
enthusiasts, oppressed for conscience' sake, but persons of fine breeding, and
valiant heroes. Truly, the historian cannot gratify these predilections. He must
needs describe the cavaliers as proud and high-spirited, cruel, remorseless, and
vindictive; the suffering party as honourably tenacious of their opinions under
persecution; their own tempers being, however, sullen, fierce, and rude; their
opinions absurd and extravagant; and their whole course of conduct that of
persons whom hellebore would better have suited than prosecutions unto death for
high- Natheless, while such and so preposterous were the opinions on either
side, there were, it cannot be doubted, men of virtue and worth on both, to
entitle either party to claim merit from its martyrs. It has been demanded of
me, Jedediah Cleishbotham, by what right I am entitled to constitute myself an
impartial judge of their discrepancies of opinions, seeing (as it is stated)
that I must necessarily have descended from one or other of the contending
parties, and be, of course, wedded for better or for worse, according to the
reasonable practice of Scotland, to its dogmata, or opinions, and bound, as it
were, by the tie matrimonial, or, to speak without metaphor, ex jure sanguinis,
to maintain them in preference to all others.
    But, nothing denying the rationality of the rule, which calls on all now
living to rule their political and religious opinions by those of their
great-grandfathers, and inevitable as seems the one or the other horn of the
dilemma betwixt which my adversaries conceive they have pinned me to the wall, I
yet spy some means of refuge, and claim a privilege to write and speak of both
parties with impartiality. For, O ye powers of logic! when the Prelatists and
Presbyterians of old times went together by the ears in this unlucky country, my
ancestor (venerated be his memory!) was one of the people called Quakers, and
suffered severe handling from either side, even to the extenuation of his purse
and the incarceration of his person.
    Craving thy pardon, gentle Reader, for these few words concerning me and
mine, I rest, as above expressed, thy sure and obligated friend,1
                                                                            J.C.
GANDERCLEUGH, this 1st of April, 1818.
 

                                  Introduction

                     To the Heart of Mid-Lothian - (1830).

The author has stated, in the preface to the Chronicles of the Canongate, 1827,
that he received from an anonymous correspondent an account of the incident upon
which the following story is founded. He is now at liberty to say, that the
information was conveyed to him by a late amiable and ingenious lady, whose wit
and power of remarking and judging of character still survive in the memory of
her friends. Her maiden name was Miss Helen Lawson, of Girth-head, and she was
wife of Thomas Goldie, Esq. of Craigmuie, Commissary of Dumfries.
    Her communication was in these words: -
    »I had taken for summer lodgings a cottage near the old Abbey of Lincluden.
It had formerly been inhabited by a lady who had pleasure in embellishing
cottages, which she found perhaps homely and even poor enough; mine, therefore,
possessed many marks of taste and elegance unusual in this species of habitation
in Scotland, where a cottage is literally what its name declares.
    From my cottage door I had a partial view of the old Abbey before mentioned;
some of the highest arches were seen over, and some through, the trees scattered
along a lane which led down to the ruin, and the strange fantastic shapes of
almost all those old ashes accorded wonderfully well with the building they at
once shaded and ornamented.
    The Abbey itself from my door was almost on a level with the cottage; but on
coming to the end of the lane, it was discovered to be situated on a high
perpendicular bank, at the foot of which run the clear waters of the Cluden,
where they hasten to join the sweeping Nith,
 
                     Whose distant roaring swells and fa's.
 
As my kitchen and parlour were not very far distant, I one day went in to
purchase some chickens from a person I heard offering them for sale. It was a
little, rather stout-looking woman, who seemed to be between seventy and eighty
years of age; she was almost covered with a tartan plaid, and her cap had over
it a black silk hood, tied under the chin, a piece of dress still much in use
among elderly women of that rank of life in Scotland; her eyes were dark, and
remarkably lively and intelligent; I entered into conversation with her, and
began by asking how she maintained herself, etc.
    She said that in winter she footed stockings, that is, knit feet to
country-people's stockings, which bears about the same relation to
stocking-knitting that cobbling does to shoe-making, and is of course both less
profitable and less dignified; she likewise taught a few children to read, and
in summer she whiles reared a few chickens.
    I said I could venture to guess from her face she had never been married.
She laughed heartily at this, and said, I maun hae the queerest face that ever
was seen, that ye could guess that. Now, do tell me, madam, how ye cam to think
sae? I told her it was from her cheerful disengaged countenance. She said, Mem,
have ye na far mair reason to be happy than me, wi' a good husband and a fine
family o' bairns, and plenty o' everything? for me, I'm the puirest o' a' puir
bodies, and can hardly contrive to keep mysell alive in a' the wee bits o' ways
I hae tell't ye. After some more conversation, during which I was more and more
pleased with the old woman's sensible conversation, and the naivetéof her
remarks, she rose to go away, when I asked her name. Her countenance suddenly
clouded, and she said gravely, rather colouring, My name is Helen Walker; but
your husband kens well about me.
    In the evening I related how much I had been pleased, and inquired what was
extraordinary in the history of the poor woman. Mr. -- said, there were perhaps
few more remarkable people than Helen Walker. She had been left an orphan, with
the charge of a sister considerably younger than herself, and who was educated
and maintained by her exertions. Attached to her by so many ties, therefore, it
will not be easy to conceive her feelings, when she found that this only sister
must be tried by the laws of her country for child-murder, and upon being called
as principal witness against her. The counsel for the prisoner told Helen, that
if she could declare that her sister had made any preparations, however slight,
or had given her any intimation on the subject, that such a statement would save
her sister's life, as she was the principal witness against her. Helen said, It
is impossible for me to swear to a falsehood; and, whatever may be the
consequence, I will give my oath according to my conscience.
    The trial came on, and the sister was found guilty and condemned; but in
Scotland six weeks must elapse between the sentence and the execution, and Helen
Walker availed herself of it. The very day of her sister's condemnation she got
a petition drawn, stating the peculiar circumstances of the case, and that very
night set out on foot to London.
    Without introduction or recommendation, with her simple (perhaps
ill-expressed) petition, drawn up by some inferior clerk of the court, she
presented herself, in her tartan plaid and country attire, to the late Duke of
Argyle, who immediately procured the pardon she petitioned for, and Helen
returned with it on foot just in time to save her sister.
    I was so strongly interested by this narrative, that I determined
immediately to prosecute my acquaintance with Helen Walker; but as I was to
leave the country next day, I was obliged to defer it till my return in spring,
when the first walk I took was to Helen Walker's cottage.
    She had died a short time before. My regret was extreme, and I endeavoured
to obtain some account of Helen from an old woman who inhabited the other end of
her cottage. I inquired if Helen ever spoke of her past history - her journey to
London, etc., Na, the old woman said, Helen was a wily body, and whene'er ony o'
the neebors asked anything about it, she aye turned the conversation.
    In short, every answer I received only tended to increase my regret, and
raise my opinion of Helen Walker, who could unite so much prudence with so much
heroic virtue.«
    This narrative was enclosed in the following letter to the author, without
date or signature: -
    »Sir, - The occurrence just related happened to me twenty-six years ago.
Helen Walker lies buried in the churchyard of Irongray, about six miles from
Dumfries. I once proposed that a small monument should have been erected to
commemorate so remarkable a character, but I now prefer leaving it to you to
perpetuate her memory in a more durable manner.«
 
The reader is now able to judge how far the author has improved upon, or fallen
short of, the pleasing and interesting sketch of high principle and steady
affection displayed by Helen Walker, the prototype of the fictitious Jeanie
Deans. Mrs. Goldie was unfortunately dead before the author had given his name
to these volumes, so he lost all opportunity of thanking that lady for her
highly valuable communication. But her daughter, Miss Goldie, obliged him with
the following additional information: -
    »Mrs. Goldie endeavoured to collect further particulars of Helen Walker,
particularly concerning her journey to London, but found this nearly impossible;
as the natural dignity of her character, and a high sense of family
respectability, made her so indissolubly connect her sister's disgrace with her
own exertions, that none of her neighbours durst ever question her upon the
subject. One old woman, a distant relation of Helen's, and who is still living,
says she worked an harvest with her, but that she never ventured to ask her
about her sister's trial, or her journey to London; Helen, she added, was a
lofty body, and used a high style o' language. The same old woman says, that
every year Helen received a cheese from her sister, who lived at Whitehaven, and
that she always sent a liberal portion of it to herself, or to her father's
family. This fact, though trivial in itself, strongly marks the affection
subsisting between the two sisters, and the complete conviction on the mind of
the criminal that her sister had acted solely from high principle, not from any
want of feeling, which another small but characteristic trait will further
illustrate. A gentleman, a relation of Mrs. Goldie's, who happened to be
travelling in the North of England, on coming to a small inn, was shown into the
parlour by a female servant, who, after cautiously shutting the door, said, Sir,
I'm Nelly Walker's sister. Thus practically showing that she considered her
sister as better known by her high conduct than even herself by a different kind
of celebrity.
    Mrs. Goldie was extremely anxious to have a tombstone and an inscription
upon it erected in Irongray Churchyard; and if Sir Walter Scott will condescend
to write the last, a little subscription could be easily raised in the immediate
neighbourhood, and Mrs. Goldie's wish be thus fulfilled.«
    It is scarcely necessary to add that the request of Miss Goldie will be most
willingly complied with, and without the necessity of any tax on the public. Nor
is there much occasion to repeat how much the author conceives himself obliged
to his unknown correspondent, who thus supplied him with a theme affording such
a pleasing view of the moral dignity of virtue, though unaided by birth, beauty,
or talent. If the picture has suffered in the execution, it is from the failure
of the author's powers to present in detail the same simple and striking
portrait exhibited in Mrs. Goldie's letter.
    ABBOTSFORD, April 1, 1830.
 

                                  Postscript.

Although it would be impossible to add much to Mrs. Goldie's picturesque and
most interesting account of Helen Walker, the prototype of the imaginary Jeanie
Deans, the Editor may be pardoned for introducing two or three anecdotes
respecting that excellent person, which he has collected from a volume entitled,
Sketches from Nature, by John M'Diarmid, a gentleman who conducts an able
provincial paper in the town of Dumfries.
    Helen was the daughter of a small farmer in a place called Dalwhairn, in the
parish of Irongray; where, after the death of her father, she continued, with
the unassuming piety of a Scottish peasant, to support her mother by her own
unremitted labour and privations; a case so common, that even yet, I am proud to
say, few of my countrywomen would shrink from the duty.
    Helen Walker was held among her equals pensy, that is, proud or conceited;
but the facts brought to prove this accusation seem only to evince a strength of
character superior to those around her. Thus it was remarked, that when it
thundered, she went with her work and her Bible to the front of the cottage,
alleging that the Almighty could smite in the city as well as in the field.
    Mr. M'Diarmid mentions more particularly the misfortune of her sister, which
he supposes to have taken place previous to 1736. Helen Walker, declining every
proposal of saving her relation's life at the expense of truth, borrowed a sum
of money sufficient for her journey, walked the whole distance to London
barefoot, and made her way to John Duke of Argyle. She was heard to say, that,
by the Almighty strength, she had been enabled to meet the Duke at the most
critical moment, which, if lost, would have caused the inevitable forfeiture of
her sister's life.
    Isabella, or Tibby Walker, saved from the fate which impended over her, was
married by the person who had wronged her (named Waugh), and lived happily for
great part of a century, uniformly acknowledging the extraordinary affection to
which she owed her preservation.
    Helen Walker died about the end of the year 1791, and her remains are
interred in the churchyard of her native parish of Iron-gray, in a romantic
cemetery on the banks of the Cairn. That a character so distinguished for her
undaunted love of virtue, lived and died in poverty, if not want, serves only to
show us how insignificant, in the sight of Heaven, are our principal objects of
ambition upon earth.
 

                              Preliminary Chapter

 So down thy hill, romantic Ashbourn, glides
 The Derby dilly, carrying six insides.
                                                                          Frere.
 
The times have changed in nothing more (we follow as we were wont the manuscript
of Peter Pattieson) than in the rapid conveyance of intelligence and
communication betwixt one part of Scotland and another. It is not above twenty
or thirty years, according to the evidence of many credible witnesses now alive,
since a little miserable horse-cart, performing with difficulty a journey of
thirty miles per diem, carried our mails from the capital of Scotland to its
extremity. Nor was Scotland much more deficient in these accommodations than our
rich sister had been about eighty years before. Fielding, in his Tom Jones, and
Farquhar, in a little farce called the Stage-Coach, have ridiculed the slowness
of these vehicles of public accommodation. According to the latter authority,
the highest bribe could only induce the coachman to promise to anticipate by
half-an-hour the usual time of his arrival at the Bull and Mouth.
    But in both countries these ancient, slow, and sure modes of conveyance are
now alike unknown; mail-coach races against mail-coach, and high-flyer against
high-flyer, through the most remote districts of Britain. And in our village
alone, three post-coaches, and four coaches with men armed, and in scarlet
cassocks, thunder through the streets each day, and rival in brilliancy and
noise the invention of the celebrated tyrant: -
 
Demens, qui nimbos et non imitabile fulmen,
Ære et cornipedum pulsu, simularat, equorum.
 
Now and then, to complete the resemblance, and to correct the presumption of the
venturous charioteers, it does happen that the career of these dashing rivals of
Salmoneus meets with as undesirable and violent a termination as that of their
prototype. It is on such occasions that the Insides and Outsides, to use the
appropriate vehicular phrases, have reason to rue the exchange of the slow and
safe motion of the ancient Fly-coaches, which, compared with the chariots of Mr.
Palmer, so ill deserve the name. The ancient vehicle used to settle quietly
down, like a ship scuttled and left to sink by the gradual influx of the waters,
while the modern is smashed to pieces with the velocity of the same vessel
hurled against breakers, or rather with the fury of a bomb bursting at the
conclusion of its career through the air. The late ingenious Mr. Pennant, whose
humour it was to set his face in stern opposition to these speedy conveyances,
had collected, I have heard, a formidable list of such casualties, which, joined
to the imposition of innkeepers, whose charges the passengers had no time to
dispute, the sauciness of the coachman, and the uncontrolled and despotic
authority of the tyrant called the guard, held forth a picture of horror, to
which murder, theft, fraud, and peculation, lent all their dark colouring. But
that which gratifies the impatience of the human disposition will be practised
in the teeth of danger, and in defiance of admonition; and, in despite of the
Cambrian antiquary, mail-coaches not only roll their thunders round the base of
Penman-Maur and Cader-Idris, but
 
Frighted Skiddaw hears afar
The rattling of the unscythed car.
 
And perhaps the echoes of Ben Nevis may soon be awakened by the bugle, not of a
warlike chieftain, but of the guard of a mail-coach.
    It was a fine summer day, and our little school had obtained a half-holiday,
by the intercession of a good-humoured visitor.2 I expected by the coach a new
number of an interesting periodical publication, and walked forward on the
highway to meet it, with the impatience which Cowper has described as actuating
the resident in the country when longing for intelligence from the mart of news:
-
 
- The grand debate,
The popular harangue, - the tart reply, -
The logic, and the wisdom, and the wit,
And the loud laugh, - I long to know them all; -
I burn to set the imprisoned wranglers free,
And give them voice and utterance again.
 
It was with such feelings that I eyed the approach of the new coach, lately
established on our road, and known by the name of the Somerset, which, to say
truth, possesses some interest for me, even when it conveys no such important
information. The distant tremulous sound of its wheels was heard just as I
gained the summit of the gentle ascent, called the Goslin-brae, from which you
command an extensive view down the valley of the river Gander. The public road,
which comes up the side of that stream, and crosses it at a bridge about a
quarter of a mile from the place where I was standing, runs partly through
enclosures and plantations, and partly through open pasture land. It is a
childish amusement perhaps, - but my life has been spent with children, and why
should not my pleasures be like theirs? - childish as it is then, I must own I
have had great pleasure in watching the approach of the carriage, where the
openings of the road permit it to be seen. The gay glancing of the equipage, its
diminished and toy-like appearance at a distance, contrasted with the rapidity
of its motion, its appearance and disappearance at intervals, and the
progressively increasing sounds that announce its nearer approach, have all to
the idle and listless spectator, who has nothing more important to attend to,
something of awakening interest. The ridicule may attach to me, which is flung
upon many an honest citizen, who watches from the window of his villa the
passage of the stage-coach; but it is a very natural source of amusement
notwithstanding, and many of those who join in the laugh are perhaps not unused
to resort to it in secret.
    On the present occasion, however, fate had decreed that I should not enjoy
the consummation of the amusement by seeing the coach rattle past me as I sat on
the turf, and hearing the hoarse grating voice of the guard as he skimmed forth
for my grasp the expected packet, without the carriage checking its course for
an instant. I had seen the vehicle thunder down the hill that leads to the
bridge with more than its usual impetuosity, glittering all the while by flashes
from a cloudy tabernacle of the dust which it had raised, and leaving a train
behind it on the road resembling a wreath of summer mist. But it did not appear
on the top of the nearer bank within the usual space of three minutes, which
frequent observation had enabled me to ascertain was the medium time for
crossing the bridge and mounting the ascent. When double that space had elapsed,
I became alarmed, and walked hastily forward. As I came in sight of the bridge,
the cause of delay was too manifest, for the Somerset had made a summerset in
good earnest, and overturned so completely, that it was literally resting upon
the ground, with the roof under-most, and the four wheels in the air. The
»exertions of the guard and coachman,« both of whom were gratefully commemorated
in the newspapers, having succeeded in disentangling the horses by cutting the
harness, were now proceeding to extricate the insides by a sort of summary and
Cæsarean process of delivery, forcing the hinges from one of the doors which
they could not open otherwise. In this manner were two disconsolate damsels set
at liberty from the womb of the leathern conveniency. As they immediately began
to settle their clothes, which were a little deranged, as may be presumed, I
concluded they had received no injury, and did not venture to obtrude my
services at their toilette, for which, I understand, I have since been reflected
upon by the fair sufferers. The outsides, who must have been discharged from
their elevated situation by a shock resembling the springing of a mine, escaped,
nevertheless, with the usual allowance of scratches and bruises, excepting
three, who, having been pitched into the river Gander, were dimly seen
contending with the tide like the relics of Æneas's shipwreck, -
 
Rari apparent nantes in gurgite vasto.
 
I applied my poor exertions where they seemed to be most needed, and with the
assistance of one or two of the company who had escaped unhurt, easily succeeded
in fishing out two of the unfortunate passengers, who were stout active young
fellows; and, but for the preposterous length of their greatcoats, and the
equally fashionable latitude and longitude of their Wellington trousers, would
have required little assistance from any one. The third was sickly and elderly,
and might have perished but for the efforts used to preserve him.
    When the two greatcoated gentlemen had extricated themselves from the river,
and shaken their ears like huge water-dogs, a violent altercation ensued betwixt
them and the coachman and guard, concerning the cause of their overthrow. In the
course of the squabble, I observed that both my new acquaintances belonged to
the law, and that their professional sharpness was likely to prove an overmatch
for the surly and official tone of the guardians of the vehicle. The dispute
ended in the guard assuring the passengers that they should have seats in a
heavy coach which would pass that spot in less than half-an-hour, provided it
were not full. Chance seemed to favour this arrangement, for when the expected
vehicle arrived, there were only two places occupied in a carriage which
professed to carry six. The two ladies who had been disinterred out of the
fallen vehicle were readily admitted, but positive objections were stated by
those previously in possession to the admittance of the two lawyers, whose
wetted garments being much of the nature of well-soaked sponges, there was every
reason to believe they would refund a considerable part of the water they had
collected, to the inconvenience of their fellow-passengers. On the other hand,
the lawyers rejected a seat on the roof, alleging that they had only taken that
station for pleasure for one stage, but were entitled in all respects to free
egress and regress from the interior, to which their contract positively
referred. After some altercation, in which something was said upon the edict
Nautæ caupones stabularii, the coach went off, leaving the learned gentlemen to
abide by their action of damages.
    They immediately applied to me to guide them to the next village and the
best inn; and from the account I gave them of the Wallace Head, declared they
were much better pleased to stop there than to go forward upon the terms of that
impudent scoundrel the guard of the Somerset. All that they now wanted was a lad
to carry their travelling bags, who was easily procured from an adjoining
cottage; and they prepared to walk forward, when they found there was another
passenger in the same deserted situation with themselves. This was the elderly
and sickly-looking person, who had been precipitated into the river along with
the two young lawyers. He, it seems, had been too modest to push his own plea
against the coachman when he saw that of his betters rejected, and now remained
behind with a look of timid anxiety, plainly intimating that he was deficient in
those means of recommendation which are necessary passports to the hospitality
of an inn.
    I ventured to call the attention of the two dashing young blades, for such
they seemed, to the desolate condition of their fellow-traveller. They took the
hint with ready good-nature.
    »O, true, Mr. Dunover,« said one of the youngsters, »you must not remain on
the pavé here; you must go and have some dinner with us - Halkit and I must have
a post-chaise to go on, at all events, and we will set you down wherever suits
you best.«
    The poor man, for such his dress, as well as his diffidence, bespoke him,
made the sort of acknowledging bow by which says a Scotsman, »It's too much
honour for the like of me;« and followed humbly behind his gay patrons, all
three besprinkling the dusty road as they walked along with the moisture of
their drenched garments, and exhibiting the singular and somewhat ridiculous
appearance of three persons suffering from the opposite extreme of humidity,
while the summer sun was at its height, and everything else around them had the
expression of heat and drought. The ridicule did not escape the young gentlemen
themselves, and they had made what might be received as one or two tolerable
jests on the subject before they had advanced far on their peregrination.
    »We cannot complain, like Cowley,« said one of them, »that Gideon's fleece
remains dry, while all around is moist; this is the reverse of the miracle.«
    »We ought to be received with gratitude in this good town; we bring a supply
of what they seem to need most,« said Halkit.
    »And distribute it with unparalleled generosity,« replied his companion;
»performing the part of three water-carts for the benefit of their dusty roads.«
    »We come before them, too,« said Halkit, »in full professional force -
counsel and agent« -
    »And client,« said the young advocate, looking behind him; and then added,
lowering his voice, »that looks as if he had kept such dangerous company too
long.«
    It was, indeed, too true, that the humble follower of the gay young men had
the threadbare appearance of a worn-out litigant, and I could not but smile at
the conceit, though anxious to conceal my mirth from the object of it.
    When we arrived at the Wallace Inn, the elder of the Edinburgh gentlemen,
and whom I understood to be a barrister, insisted that I should remain and take
part of their dinner; and their inquiries and demands speedily put my landlord
and his whole family in motion to produce the best cheer which the larder and
cellar afforded, and proceed to cook it to the best advantage, a science in
which our entertainers seemed to be admirably skilled. In other respects they
were lively young men, in the hey-day of youth and good spirits, playing the
part which is common to the higher classes of the law at Edinburgh, and which
nearly resembles that of the young Templars in the days of Steele and Addison.
An air of giddy gaiety mingled with the good sense, taste, and information which
their conversation exhibited; and it seemed to be their object to unite the
character of men of fashion and lovers of the polite arts. A fine gentleman,
bred up in the thorough idleness and inanity of pursuit, which I understand is
absolutely necessary to the character in perfection, might in all probability
have traced a tinge of professional pedantry which marked the barrister in spite
of his efforts, and something of active bustle in his companion, and would
certainly have detected more than a fashionable mixture of information and
animated interest in the language of both. But to me, who had no pretensions to
be so critical, my companions seemed to form a very happy mixture of
good-breeding and liberal information, with a disposition to lively rattle, pun,
and jest, amusing to a grave man, because it is what he himself can least easily
command.
    The thin pale-faced man, whom their good-nature had brought into their
society, looked out of place as well as out of spirits; sate on the edge of his
seat, and kept the chair at two feet distance from the table; thus incommoding
himself considerably in conveying the victuals to his mouth, as if by way of
penance for partaking of them in the company of his superiors. A short time
after dinner, declining all entreaty to partake of the wine, which circulated
freely round, he informed himself of the hour when the chaise had been ordered
to attend; and saying he would be in readiness, modestly withdrew from the
apartment.
    »Jack,« said the barrister to his companion, »I remember that poor fellow's
face; you spoke more truly than you were aware of; he really is one of my
clients, poor man.«
    »Poor man!« echoed Halkit - »I suppose you mean he is your one and only
client?«
    »That's not my fault, Jack,« replied the other, whose name I discovered was
Hardie. »You are to give me all your business, you know; and if you have none,
the learned gentleman here knows nothing can come of nothing.«
    »You seem to have brought something to nothing though, in the case of that
honest man. He looks as if he were just about to honour with his residence the
HEART OF MID-LOTHIAN.«
    »You are mistaken - he is just delivered from it. - Our friend here looks
for an explanation. Pray, Mr. Pattieson, have you been in Edinburgh?«
    I answered in the affirmative.
    »Then you must have passed, occasionally at least, though probably not so
faithfully as I am doomed to do, through a narrow intricate passage, leading out
of the north-west corner of the Parliament Square, and passing by a high and
antique building with turrets and iron grates,
 
Making good the saying odd,
Near the church and far from God« -
 
Mr. Halkit broke in upon his learned counsel, to contribute his moiety to the
riddle - »Having at the door the sign of the Red Man« -
    »And being on the whole,« resumed the counsellor, interrupting his friend in
his turn, »a sort of place where misfortune is happily confounded with guilt,
where all who are in wish to get out« -
    »And where none who have the good luck to be out, wish to get in,« added his
companion.
    »I conceive you, gentlemen,« replied I; »you mean the prison.«
    »The prison,« added the young lawyer - »You have hit it - the very reverend
Tolbooth itself; and let me tell you, you are obliged to us for describing it
with so much modesty and brevity; for with whatever amplifications we might have
chosen to decorate the subject, you lay entirely at our mercy, since the Fathers
Conscript of our city have decreed that the venerable edifice itself shall not
remain in existence to confirm or to confute us.«
    »Then the Tolbooth of Edinburgh is called the Heart of Mid-Lothian?« said I.
    »So termed and reputed, I assure you.«
    »I think,« said I, with the bashful diffidence with which a man lets slip a
pun in presence of his superiors, »the metropolitan county may, in that case, be
said to have a sad heart.«
    »Right as my glove, Mr. Pattieson,« added Mr. Hardie; »and a close heart,
and a hard heart - Keep it up, Jack.«
    »And a wicked heart, and a poor heart,« answered Halkit, doing his best.
    »And yet it may be called in some sort a strong heart, and a high heart,«
rejoined the advocate. »You see I can put you both out of heart.«
    »I have played all my hearts,« said the younger gentleman.
    »Then we'll have another lead,« answered his companion. - »And as to the old
and condemned Tolbooth, what pity the same honour cannot be done to it as has
been done to many of its inmates. Why should not the Tolbooth have its Last
Speech, Confession, and Dying Words? The old stones would be just as conscious
of the honour as many a poor devil who has dangled like a tassel at the west end
of it, while the hawkers were shouting a confession the culprit had never heard
of.«
    »I am afraid,« said I, »if I might presume to give my opinion, it would be a
tale of unvaried sorrow and guilt.«
    »Not entirely, my friend,« said Hardie; »a prison is a world within itself,
and has its own business, griefs, and joys, peculiar to its circle. Its inmates
are sometimes short-lived, but so are soldiers on service; they are poor
relatively to the world without, but there are degrees of wealth and poverty
among them, and so some are relatively rich also. They cannot stir abroad, but
neither can the garrison of a besieged fort, or the crew of a ship at sea; and
they are not under a dispensation quite so desperate as either, for they may
have as much food as they have money to buy, and are not obliged to work,
whether they have food or not.«
    »But what variety of incident,« said I (not without a secret view to my
present task), »could possibly be derived from such a work as you are pleased to
talk of?«
    »Infinite,« replied the young advocate. »Whatever of guilt, crime,
imposture, folly, unheard-of misfortunes, and unlooked-for change of fortune,
can be found to chequer life, my Last Speech of the Tolbooth should illustrate
with examples sufficient to gorge even the public's all-devouring appetite for
the wonderful and horrible. The inventor of fictitious narratives has to rack
his brains for means to diversify his tale, and after all can hardly hit upon
characters or incidents which have not been used again and again, until they are
familiar to the eye of the reader, so that the development, enlèvement, the
desperate wound of which the hero never dies, the burning fever from which the
heroine is sure to recover, become a mere matter of course. I join with my
honest friend Crabbe, and have an unlucky propensity to hope, when hope is lost,
and to rely upon the cork-jacket, which carries the heroes of romance safe
through all the billows of affliction.« He then declaimed the following passage,
rather with too much than too little emphasis: -
 
Much have I feared, but am no more afraid,
When some chaste beauty by some wretch betrayed,
Is drawn away with such distracted speed,
That she anticipates a dreadful deed.
Not so do I - Let solid walls impound
The captive fair, and dig a moat around;
Let there be brazen locks and bars of steel,
And keepers cruel, such as never feel;
With not a single note the purse supply,
And when she begs, let men and maids deny;
Be windows there from which she dare not fall,
And help so distant, 'tis in vain to call;
Still means of freedom will some Power devise,
And from the baffled ruffian snatch his prize.
 
»The end of uncertainty,« he concluded, »is the death of interest; and hence it
happens that no one now reads novels.«
    »Hear him, ye gods!« returned his companion. »I assure you, Mr. Pattieson,
you will hardly visit this learned gentleman, but you are likely to find the new
novel most in repute lying on his table, - snugly intrenched, however, beneath
Stair's Institutes, or an open volume of Morrison's Decisions.«
    »Do I deny it?« said the hopeful jurisconsult, »or wherefore should I, since
it is well known these Delilahs seduce my wisers and my betters? May they not be
found lurking amidst the multiplied memorials of our most distinguished counsel,
and even peeping from under the cushion of a judge's arm-chair? Our seniors at
the bar, within the bar, and even on the bench, read novels; and, if not belied,
some of them have written novels into the bargain. I only say, that I read from
habit and from indolence, not from real interest; that, like ancient Pistol
devouring his leek, I read and swear till I get to the end of the narrative. But
not so in the real records of human vagaries - not so in the State Trials, or in
the Books of Adjournal, where every now and then you read new pages of the human
heart, and turns of fortune far beyond what the boldest novelist ever attempted
to produce from the coinage of his brain.«
    »And for such narratives,« I asked, »you suppose the History of the Prison
of Edinburgh might afford appropriate materials?«
    »In a degree unusually ample, my dear sir,« said Hardie - »Fill your glass,
however, in the meanwhile. Was it not for many years the place in which the
Scottish parliament met? Was it not James's place of refuge, when the mob,
inflamed by a seditious preacher, broke forth on him with the cries of The sword
of the Lord and of Gideon - bring forth the wicked Haman? Since that time how
many hearts have throbbed within these walls, as the tolling of the neighbouring
bell announced to them how fast the sands of their life were ebbing; how many
must have sunk at the sound - how many were supported by stubborn pride and
dogged resolution - how many by the consolations of religion? Have there not
been some, who, looking back on the motives of their crimes, were scarce able to
understand how they should have had such temptation as to seduce them from
virtue; and have there not, perhaps, been others, who, sensible of their
innocence, were divided between indignation at the undeserved doom which they
were to undergo, consciousness that they had not deserved it, and racking
anxiety to discover some way in which they might yet vindicate themselves? Do
you suppose any of these deep, powerful, and agitating feelings, can be recorded
and perused without exciting a corresponding depth of deep, powerful, and
agitating interest? - Oh! do but wait till I publish the Causes Célèbres of
Caledonia, and you will find no want of a novel or a tragedy for some time to
come. The true thing will triumph over the brightest inventions of the most
ardent imagination. Magna est veritas, et prævalebit.«
    »I have understood,« said I, encouraged by the affability of my rattling
entertainer, »that less of this interest must attach to Scottish jurisprudence
than to that of any other country. The general morality of our people, their
sober and prudent habits« -
    »Secure them,« said the barrister, »against any great increase of
professional thieves and depredators, but not against wild and wayward starts of
fancy and passion, producing crimes of an extraordinary description, which are
precisely those to the detail of which we listen with thrilling interest.
England has been much longer a highly civilised country; her subjects have been
very strictly amenable to laws administered without fear or favour, a complete
division of labour has taken place among her subjects, and the very thieves and
robbers form a distinct class in society, subdivided among themselves according
to the subject of the depredations, and the mode in which they carry them on,
acting upon regular habits and principles, which can be calculated and
anticipated at Bow Street, Hatton Garden, or the Old Bailey. Our sister kingdom
is like a cultivated field, - the farmer expects that, in spite of all his care,
a certain number of weeds will rise with the corn, and can tell you beforehand
their names and appearance. But Scotland is like one of her own Highland glens,
and the moralist who reads the records of her criminal jurisprudence, will find
as many curious anomalous facts in the history of mind, as the botanist will
detect rare specimens among her dingles and cliffs.«
    »And that's all the good you have obtained from three perusals of the
Commentaries on Scottish Criminal Jurisprudence?« said his companion. »I suppose
the learned author very little thinks that the facts which his erudition and
acuteness have accumulated for the illustration of legal doctrines, might be so
arranged as to form a sort of appendix to the half-bound and slip-shod volumes
of the circulating library.«
    »I'll bet you a pint of claret,« said the elder lawyer, »that he will not
feel sore at the comparison. But as we say at the bar, I beg I may not be
interrupted; I have much more to say, upon my Scottish collection of Causes
Célèbres. You will please recollect the scope and motive given for the
contrivance and execution of many extraordinary and daring crimes, by the long
civil dissensions of Scotland - by the hereditary jurisdictions, which, until
1748, rested the investigation of crimes in judges, ignorant, partial, or
interested - by the habits of the gentry, shut up in their distant and solitary
mansion-houses, nursing their revengeful passions just to keep their blood from
stagnating - not to mention that amiable national qualification, called the
perfervidum ingenium Scotorum, which our lawyers join in alleging as a reason
for the severity of some of our enactments. When I come to treat of matters so
mysterious, deep, and dangerous, as these circumstances have given rise to, the
blood of each reader shall be curdled, and his epidermis crisped into goose
skin. - But, hist! - here comes the landlord, with tidings, I suppose, that the
chaise is ready.«
    It was no such thing - the tidings bore, that no chaise could be had that
evening, for Sir Peter Plyem had carried forward my land-lord's two pairs of
horses that morning to the ancient royal borough of Bubbleburgh, to look after
his interest there. But as Bubbleburgh is only one of a set of five boroughs
which club their shares for a member of parliament, Sir Peter's adversary had
judiciously watched his departure, in order to commence a canvass in the no less
royal borough of Bitem, which, as all the world knows, lies at the very
termination of Sir Peter's avenue, and has been held in leading-strings by him
and his ancestors for time immemorial. Now Sir Peter was thus placed in the
situation of an ambitious monarch, who, after having commenced a daring inroad
into his enemy's territories, is suddenly recalled by an invasion of his own
hereditary dominions. He was obliged in consequence to return from the half-won
borough of Bubbleburgh, to look after the half-lost borough of Bitem, and the
two pairs of horses which had carried him that morning to Bubbleburgh were now
forcibly detained to transport him, his agent, his valet, his jester, and his
hard-drinker, across the country to Bitem. The cause of this detention, which to
me was of as little consequence as it may be to the reader, was important enough
to my companions to reconcile them to the delay. Like eagles, they smelled the
battle afar off, ordered a magnum of claret and beds at the Wallace, and entered
at full career into the Bubbleburgh and Bitem politics, with all the probable
»petitions and complaints« to which they were likely to give rise.
    In the midst of an anxious, animated, and, to me, most unintelligible
discussion, concerning provosts, bailies, deacons, sets of boroughs, leets,
town-clerks, burgesses resident and non-resident, all of a sudden the lawyer
recollected himself. »Poor Dunover, we must not forget him;« and the landlord
was despatched in quest of the pauvre honteux, with an earnestly civil
invitation to him for the rest of the evening. I could not help asking the young
gentlemen if they knew the history of this poor man; and the counsellor applied
himself to his pocket to recover the memorial or brief from which he had stated
his cause.
    »He has been a candidate for our remedium miserabile,« said Mr. Hardie,
»commonly called a cessio bonorum. As there are divines who have doubted the
eternity of future punishments, so the Scotch lawyers seem to have thought that
the crime of poverty might be atoned for by something short of perpetual
imprisonment. After a month's confinement, you must know, a prisoner for debt is
entitled, on a sufficient statement to our Supreme Court, setting forth the
amount of his funds, and the nature of his misfortunes, and surrendering all his
effects to his creditors, to claim to be discharged from prison.«
    »I had heard,« I replied, »of such a humane regulation.«
    »Yes,« said Halkit, »and the beauty of it is, as the foreign fellow said,
you may get the cessio, when the bonorums are all spent - But what, are you
puzzling in your pockets to seek your only memorial among old play-bills,
letters requesting a meeting of the Faculty, rules of the Speculative Society,
syllabus' of lectures - all the miscellaneous contents of a young advocate's
pocket, which contains everything but briefs and bank-notes? Can you not state a
case of cessio without your memorial? Why, it is done every Saturday. The events
follow each other as regularly as clock-work, and one form of condescendence
might suit every one of them.«
    »This is very unlike the variety of distress which this gentleman stated to
fall under the consideration of your judges,« said I.
    »True,« replied Halkit; »but Hardie spoke of criminal jurisprudence, and
this business is purely civil. I could plead a cessio myself without the
inspiring honours of a gown and three-tailed periwig - Listen. - My client was
bred a journeyman weaver - made some little money - took a farm - (for
conducting a farm, like driving a gig, comes by nature) - late severe times -
induced to sign bills with a friend, for which he received no value - landlord
sequestrates - creditors accept a composition - pursuer sets up a public-house -
fails a second time - is incarcerated for a debt of ten pounds seven shillings
and sixpence - his debts amount to blank - his losses to blank - his funds to
blank - leaving a balance of blank in his favour. There is no opposition; your
lordships will please grant commission to take his oath.«
    Hardie now renounced this ineffectual search, in which there was perhaps a
little affectation, and told us the tale of poor Dunover's distresses, with a
tone in which a degree of feeling, which he seemed ashamed of as unprofessional,
mingled with his attempts at wit, and did him more honour. It was one of those
tales which seem to argue a sort of ill-luck or fatality attached to the hero. A
well-informed, industrious, and blameless, but poor and bashful man, had in vain
essayed all the usual means by which others acquire independence, yet had never
succeeded beyond the attainment of bare subsistence. During a brief gleam of
hope, rather than of actual prosperity, he had added a wife and family to his
cares, but the dawn was speedily overcast. Everything retrograded with him
towards the verge of the miry Slough of Despond, which yawns for insolvent
debtors; and after catching at each twig, and experiencing the protracted agony
of feeling them one by one elude his grasp, he actually sunk into the miry pit
whence he had been extricated by the professional exertions of Hardie.
    »And, I suppose, now you have dragged this poor devil ashore, you will leave
him half naked on the beach to provide for himself?« said Halkit. »Hark ye,« -
and he whispered something in his ear, of which the penetrating and insinuating
words, »Interest with my Lord,« alone reached mine.
    »It is pessimi exempli,« said Hardie, laughing, »to provide for a ruined
client; but I was thinking of what you mention, provided it can be managed - But
hush! here he comes.«
    The recent relation of the poor man's misfortunes had given him, I was
pleased to observe, a claim to the attention and respect of the young men, who
treated him with great civility, and gradually engaged him in a conversation,
which, much to my satisfaction, again turned upon the Causes Célèbres of
Scotland. Imboldened by the kindness with which he was treated, Mr. Dunover
began to contribute his share to the amusement of the evening. Jails, like other
places, have their ancient traditions, known only to the inhabitants, and handed
down from one set of the melancholy lodgers to the next who occupy their cells.
Some of these, which Dunover mentioned, were interesting, and served to
illustrate the narratives of remarkable trials, which Hardie had at his
finger-ends, and which his companion was also well skilled in. This sort of
conversation passed away the evening till the early hour when Mr. Dunover chose
to retire to rest, and I also retreated to take down memorandums of what I had
learned, in order to add another narrative to those which it had been my chief
amusement to collect, and to write out in detail. The two young men ordered a
broiled bone, Madeira negus, and a pack of cards, and commenced a game at
picquet.
    Next morning the travellers left Gandercleugh. I afterwards learned from the
papers that both have been since engaged in the great political cause of
Bubbleburgh and Bitem, a summary case, and entitled to particular despatch; but
which, it is thought, nevertheless, may outlast the duration of the parliament
to which the contest refers. Mr. Halkit, as the newspapers informed me, acts as
agent or solicitor; and Mr. Hardie opened for Sir Peter Plyem with singular
ability, and to such good purpose, that I understand he has since had fewer
play-bills and more briefs in his pocket. And both the young gentlemen deserve
their good fortune; for I learned from Dunover, who called on me some weeks
afterwards, and communicated the intelligence with tears in his eyes, that their
interest had availed to obtain him a small office for the decent maintenance of
his family; and that, after a train of constant and uninterrupted misfortune, he
could trace a dawn of prosperity to his having the good fortune to be flung from
the top of a mail-coach into the river Gander, in company with an advocate and a
writer to the Signet. The reader will not perhaps deem himself equally obliged
to the accident, since it brings upon him the following narrative, founded upon
the conversation of the evening.
 

                            The Heart of Mid-Lothian

Whoe'er's been at Paris must needs know the Grève,
The fatal retreat of the unfortunate brave,
Where honour and justice most oddly contribute,
To ease heroes' pains by an halter and gibbet.

There death breaks the shackles which force had put on,
And the hangman completes what the judge but began;
There the squire of the pad, and the knight of the post,
Find their pains no more baulked, and their hopes no more crossed.
                                                                          Prior.
 
In former times, England had her Tyburn, to which the devoted victims of justice
were conducted in solemn procession up what is now called Oxford Street. In
Edinburgh, a large open street, or rather oblong square, surrounded by high
houses, called the Grassmarket, was used for the same melancholy purpose. It was
not ill chosen for such a scene, being of considerable extent, and therefore fit
to accommodate a great number of spectators, such as are usually assembled by
this melancholy spectacle. On the other hand, few of the houses which surround
it were, even in early times, inhabited by persons of fashion; so that those
likely to be offended or over deeply affected by such unpleasant exhibitions
were not in the way of having their quiet disturbed by them. The houses in the
Grassmarket are, generally speaking, of a mean description; yet the place is not
without some features of grandeur, being overhung by the southern side of the
huge rock on which the Castle stands, and by the moss-grown battlements and
turreted walls of that ancient fortress.
    It was the custom, until within these thirty years or thereabouts, to use
this esplanade for the scene of public executions. The fatal day was announced
to the public by the appearance of a huge black gallows-tree towards the eastern
end of the Grassmarket. This ill-omened apparition was of great height, with a
scaffold surrounding it, and a double ladder placed against it, for the ascent
of the unhappy criminal and executioner. As this apparatus was always arranged
before dawn, it seemed as if the gallows had grown out of the earth in the
course of one night, like the production of some foul demon; and I well remember
the fright with which the schoolboys, when I was one of their number, used to
regard these ominous signs of deadly preparation. On the night after the
execution the gallows again disappeared, and was conveyed in silence and
darkness to the place where it was usually deposited, which was one of the
vaults under the Parliament House, or courts of justice. This mode of execution
is now exchanged for one similar to that in front of Newgate, - with what
beneficial effect is uncertain. The mental sufferings of the convict are indeed
shortened. He no longer stalks between the attendant clergymen, dressed in his
grave-clothes, through a considerable part of the city, looking like a moving
and walking corpse, while yet an inhabitant of this world; but, as the ultimate
purpose of punishment has in view the prevention of crimes, it may at least be
doubted, whether, in abridging the melancholy ceremony, we have not in part
diminished that appalling effect upon the spectators which is the useful end of
all such inflictions, and in consideration of which alone, unless in very
particular cases, capital sentences can be altogether justified.
    On the 7th day of September 1736, these ominous preparations for execution
were descried in the place we have described, and at an early hour the space
around began to be occupied by several groups, who gazed on the scaffold and
gibbet with a stern and vindictive show of satisfaction very seldom testified by
the populace, whose good nature, in most cases, forgets the crime of the
condemned person, and dwells only on his misery. But the act of which the
expected culprit had been convicted was of a description calculated nearly and
closely to awaken and irritate the resentful feelings of the multitude. The tale
is well known; yet it is necessary to recapitulate its leading circumstances,
for the better understanding what is to follow; and the narrative may prove
long, but I trust not uninteresting even to those who have heard its general
issue. At any rate, some detail is necessary, in order to render intelligible
the subsequent events of our narrative.
    Contraband trade, though it strikes at the root of legitimate government, by
encroaching on its revenues, - though it injures the fair trader, and debauches
the mind of those engaged in it, - is not usually looked upon, either by the
vulgar or by their betters, in a very heinous point of view. On the contrary, in
those countries where it prevails, the cleverest, boldest, and most intelligent
of the peasantry, are uniformly engaged in illicit transactions, and very often
with the sanction of the farmers and inferior gentry. Smuggling was almost
universal in Scotland in the reigns of George I. and II.; for the people,
unaccustomed to imposts, and regarding them as an unjust aggression upon their
ancient liberties, made no scruple to elude them whenever it was possible to do
so.
    The county of Fife, bounded by two firths on the south and north, and by the
sea on the east, and having a number of small seaports, was long famed for
maintaining successfully a contraband trade; and, as there were many seafaring
men residing there, who had been pirates and buccaneers in their youth, there
were not wanting a sufficient number of daring men to carry it on. Among these,
a fellow called Andrew Wilson, originally a baker in the village of Pathhead,
was particularly obnoxious to the revenue officers. He was possessed of great
personal strength, courage, and cunning, - was perfectly acquainted with the
coast, and capable of conducting the most desperate enterprises. On several
occasions he succeeded in baffling the pursuit and researches of the king's
officers; but he became so much the object of their suspicions and watchful
attention, that at length he was totally ruined by repeated seizures. The man
became desperate. He considered himself as robbed and plundered; and took it
into his head that he had a right to make reprisals, as he could find
opportunity. Where the heart is prepared for evil, opportunity is seldom long
wanting. This Wilson learned that the Collector of the Customs at Kirkcaldy had
come to Pittenweem, in the course of his official round of duty, with a
considerable sum of public money in his custody. As the amount was greatly
within the value of the goods which had been seized from him, Wilson felt no
scruple of conscience in resolving to reimburse himself for his losses, at the
expense of the Collector and the revenue. He associated with himself one
Robertson, and two other idle young men, whom, having been concerned in the same
illicit trade, he persuaded to view the transaction in the same justifiable
light in which he himself considered it. They watched the motions of the
Collector; they broke forcibly into the house where he lodged, - Wilson, with
two of his associates, entering the Collector's apartment, while Robertson, the
fourth, kept watch at the door with a drawn cutlass in his hand. The officer of
the customs, conceiving his life in danger, escaped out of his bedroom window,
and fled in his shirt, so that the plunderers, with much ease, possessed
themselves of about two hundred pounds of public money. The robbery was
committed in a very audacious manner, for several persons were passing in the
street at the time. But Robertson, representing the noise they heard as a
dispute or fray betwixt the Collector and the people of the house, the worthy
citizens of Pittenweem felt themselves no way called on to interfere in behalf
of the obnoxious revenue officer; so, satisfying themselves with this very
superficial account of the matter, like the Levite in the parable, they passed
on the opposite side of the way. An alarm was at length given, military were
called in, the depredators were pursued, the booty recovered, and Wilson and
Robertson tried and condemned to death, chiefly on the evidence of an
accomplice.
    Many thought that, in consideration of the men's erroneous opinion of the
nature of the action they had committed, justice might have been satisfied with
a less forfeiture than that of two lives. On the other hand, from the audacity
of the fact, a severe example was judged necessary; and such was the opinion of
the Government. When it became apparent that the sentence of death was to be
executed, files, and other implements necessary for their escape, were
transmitted secretly to the culprits by a friend from without. By these means
they sawed a bar out of one of the prison-windows, and might have made their
escape, but for the obstinacy of Wilson, who, as he was daringly resolute, was
doggedly pertinacious of his opinion. His comrade, Robertson, a young and
slender man, proposed to make the experiment of passing the foremost through the
gap they had made, and enlarging it from the outside, if necessary, to allow
Wilson free passage. Wilson, however, insisted on making the first experiment,
and being a robust and lusty man, he not only found it impossible to get through
betwixt the bars, but, by his struggles, he jammed himself so fast, that he was
unable to draw his body back again. In these circumstances discovery became
unavoidable, and sufficient precautions were taken by the jailer to prevent any
repetition of the same attempt. Robertson uttered not a word of reflection on
his companion for the consequences of his obstinacy; but it appeared from the
sequel, that Wilson's mind was deeply impressed with the recollection, that, but
for him, his comrade, over whose mind he exercised considerable influence, would
not have engaged in the criminal enterprise which had terminated thus fatally;
and that now he had become his destroyer a second time, since, but for his
obstinacy, Robertson might have effected his escape. Minds like Wilson's, even
when exercised in evil practices, sometimes retain the power of thinking and
resolving with enthusiastic generosity. His whole thoughts were now bent on the
possibility of saving Robertson's life, without the least respect to his own.
The resolution which he adopted, and the manner in which he carried it into
effect, were striking and unusual.
    Adjacent to the tolbooth or city jail of Edinburgh, is one of three churches
into which the cathedral of St. Giles is now divided, called, from its vicinity,
the Tolbooth Church. It was the custom that criminals under sentence of death
were brought to this church, with a sufficient guard, to hear and join in public
worship on the Sabbath before execution. It was supposed that the hearts of
these unfortunate persons, however hardened before against feelings of devotion,
could not but be accessible to them upon uniting their thoughts and voices, for
the last time, along with their fellow-mortals, in addressing their Creator. And
to the rest of the congregation, it was thought it could not but be impressive
and affecting, to find their devotions mingling with those, who, sent by the
doom of an earthly tribunal to appear where the whole earth is judged, might be
considered as beings trembling on the verge of eternity. The practice, however
edifying, has been discontinued, in consequence of the incident we are about to
detail.
    The clergyman, whose duty it was to officiate in the Tolbooth Church, had
concluded an affecting discourse, part of which was particularly directed to the
unfortunate men, Wilson and Robertson, who were in the pew set apart for the
persons in their unhappy situation, each secured betwixt two soldiers of the
city guard. The clergyman had reminded them, that the next congregation they
must join would be that of the just, or of the unjust; that the psalms they now
heard must be exchanged, in the space of two brief days, for eternal
hallelujahs, or eternal lamentations; and that this fearful alternative must
depend upon the state to which they might be able to bring their minds before
the moment of awful preparation: that they should not despair on account of the
suddenness of the summons, but rather to feel this comfort in their misery,
that, though all who now lifted the voice, or bent the knee in conjunction with
them, lay under the same sentence of certain death, they only had the advantage
of knowing the precise moment at which it should be executed upon them.
»Therefore,« urged the good man, his voice trembling with emotion, »redeem the
time, my unhappy brethren, which is yet left; and remember, that, with the grace
of Him to whom space and time are but as nothing, salvation may yet be assured,
even in the pittance of delay which the laws of your country afford you.«
    Robertson was observed to weep at these words; but Wilson seemed as one
whose brain had not entirely received their meaning, or whose thoughts were
deeply impressed with some different subject; - an expression so natural to a
person in his situation, that it excited neither suspicion nor surprise.
    The benediction was pronounced as usual, and the congregation was dismissed,
many lingering to indulge their curiosity with a more fixed look at the two
criminals, who now, as well as their guards, rose up, as if to depart when the
crowd should permit them. A murmur of compassion was heard to pervade the
spectators, the more general, perhaps, on account of the alleviating
circumstances of the case; when all at once, Wilson, who, as we have already
noticed, was a very strong man, seized two of the soldiers, one with each hand,
and calling at the same time to his companion, »Run, Geordie, run!« threw
himself on a third, and fastened his teeth on the collar of his coat. Robertson
stood for a second as if thunderstruck, and unable to avail himself of the
opportunity of escape; but the cry of »Run, run!« being echoed from many around,
whose feelings surprised them into a very natural interest in his behalf, he
shook off the grasp of the remaining soldier, threw himself over the pew, mixed
with the dispersing congregation, none of whom felt inclined to stop a poor
wretch taking his last chance for his life, gained the door of the church, and
was lost to all pursuit.
    The generous intrepidity which Wilson had displayed on this occasion
augmented the feeling of compassion which attended his fate. The public, where
their own prejudices are not concerned, are easily engaged on the side of
disinterestedness and humanity, admired Wilson's behaviour, and rejoiced in
Robertson's escape. This general feeling was so great, that it excited a vague
report that Wilson would be rescued at the place of execution, either by the mob
or by some of his old associates, or by some second extraordinary and unexpected
exertion of strength and courage on his own part. The magistrates thought it
their duty to provide against the possibility of disturbance. They ordered out,
for protection of the execution of the sentence, the greater part of their own
City Guard, under the command of Captain Porteous, a man whose name became too
memorable from the melancholy circumstances of the day, and subsequent events.
It may be necessary to say a word about this person, and the corps which he
commanded. But the subject is of importance sufficient to deserve another
chapter.
 

                                 Chapter Second

 And thou, great god of aqua-vitæ!
 Wha sways the empire of this city
 (When fou we're sometimes capernoity),
 Be thou prepared,
 To save us frae that black banditti,
 The City Guard!
                                                          Fergusson's Daft Days.
 
Captain John Porteous, a name memorable in the traditions of Edinburgh, as well
as in the records of criminal jurisprudence, was the son of a citizen of
Edinburgh, who endeavoured to breed him up to his own mechanical trade of a
tailor. The youth, however, had a wild and irreclaimable propensity to
dissipation, which finally sent him to serve in the corps long maintained in the
service of the States of Holland, and called the Scotch Dutch. Here he learned
military discipline; and, returning afterwards, in the course of an idle and
wandering life, to his native city, his services were required by the
magistrates of Edinburgh in the disturbed year 1715, for disciplining their City
Guard, in which he shortly afterwards received a captain's commission. It was
only by his military skill and an alert and resolute character as an officer of
police, that he merited this promotion, for he is said to have been a man of
profligate habits, an unnatural son, and a brutal husband. He was, however,
useful in his station, and his harsh and fierce habits rendered him formidable
to rioters or disturbers of the public peace.
    The corps in which he held his command is, or perhaps we should rather say
was, a body of about one hundred and twenty soldiers, divided into three
companies, and regularly armed, clothed, and embodied. They were chiefly
veterans who enlisted in this corps, having the benefit of working at their
trades when they were off duty. These men had the charge of preserving public
order, repressing riots and street robberies, acting, in short, as an armed
police, and attending on all public occasions where confusion or popular
disturbance might be expected.3 Poor Fergusson, whose irregularities sometimes
led him into unpleasant rencontres with these military conservators of public
order, and who mentions them so often that he may be termed their poet laureate,
thus admonishes his readers, warned doubtless by his own experience: -
 
»Gude folk, as ye come frae the fair,
Bide yont frae this black squad:
There's nae sic savages elsewhere
Allowed to wear cockad.«
 
In fact, the soldiers of the City Guard, being, as we have said, in general
discharged veterans, who had strength enough remaining for this municipal duty,
and being, moreover, for the greater part, Highlanders, were neither by birth,
education, nor former habits, trained to endure with much patience the insults
of the rabble, or the provoking petulance of truant schoolboys, and idle
debauchees of all descriptions, with whom their occupation brought them into
contact. On the contrary, the tempers of the poor old fellows were soured by the
indignities with which the mob distinguished them on many occasions, and
frequently might have required the soothing strains of the poet we have just
quoted -
 
»O soldiers! for your ain dear sakes,
For Scotland's love, the Land o' Cakes,
Gie not her bairns sic deadly paiks,
Nor be sae rude,
Wi' firelock or Lochaber-axe,
As spill their bluid!«
 
On all occasions when a holiday licensed some riot and irregularity, a skirmish
with these veterans was a favourite recreation with the rabble of Edinburgh.
These pages may perhaps see the light when many have in fresh recollection such
onsets as we allude to. But the venerable corps, with whom the contention was
held, may now be considered as totally extinct. Of late the gradual diminution
of these civic soldiers reminds one of the abatement of King Lear's hundred
knights. The edicts of each succeeding set of magistrates have, like those of
Goneril and Regan, diminished this venerable band with the similar question,
»What need we five-and-twenty? - ten? - or five?« And it is now nearly come to,
»What need one?« A spectre may indeed here and there still be seen, of an old
grey-headed and grey-bearded Highlander, with war-worn features, but bent double
by age; dressed in an old fashioned cocked-hat, bound with white tape instead of
silver lace; and in coat, waistcoat, and breeches, of a muddy-coloured red,
bearing in his withered hand an ancient weapon, called a Lochaber-axe; a long
pole, namely, with an axe at the extremity, and a hook at the back of the
hatchet.4 Such a phantom of former days still creeps, I have been informed,
round the statue of Charles the Second, in the Parliament Square, as if the
image of a Stuart were the last refuge for any memorial of our ancient manners,
and one or two others are supposed to glide around the door of the guard-house
assigned to them in the Luckenbooths, when their ancient refuge in the High
Street was laid low.5But the fate of manuscripts bequeathed to friends and
executors is so uncertain, that the narrative containing these frail memorials
of the old Town Guard of Edinburgh, who, with their grim and valiant corporal,
John Dhu (the fiercest-looking fellow I ever saw), were, in my boyhood, the
alternate terror and derision of the petulant brood of the High School, may,
perhaps, only come to light when all memory of the institution has faded away,
and then serve as an illustration of Kay's caricatures, who has preserved the
features of some of their heroes. In the preceding generation, when there was a
perpetual alarm for the plots and activity of the Jacobites, some pains were
taken by the magistrates of Edinburgh to keep this corps, though composed always
of such materials as we have noticed, in a more effective state than was
afterwards judged necessary, when their most dangerous service was to skirmish
with the rabble on the king's birthday. They were, therefore, more the objects
of hatred, and less that of scorn, than they were afterwards accounted.
    To Captain John Porteous, the honour of his command and of his corps seems
to have been a matter of high interest and importance. He was exceedingly
incensed against Wilson for the affront which he construed him to have put upon
his soldiers, in the effort he made for the liberation of his companion, and
expressed himself most ardently on the subject. He was no less indignant at the
report, that there was an intention to rescue Wilson himself from the gallows,
and uttered many threats and imprecations upon that subject, which were
afterwards remembered to his disadvantage. In fact, if a good deal of
determination and promptitude rendered Porteous, in one respect, fit to command
guards designed to suppress popular commotion, he seems, on the other, to have
been disqualified for a charge so delicate, by a hot and surly temper, always
too ready to come to blows and violence; a character void of principle; and a
disposition to regard the rabble, who seldom failed to regale him and his
soldiers with some marks of their displeasure, as declared enemies, upon whom it
was natural and justifiable that he should seek opportunities of vengeance.
Being, however, the most active and trustworthy among the captains of the City
Guard, he was the person to whom the magistrates confided the command of the
soldiers appointed to keep the peace at the time of Wilson's execution. He was
ordered to guard the gallows and scaffold, with about eighty men, all the
disposable force that could be spared for that duty.
    But the magistrates took farther precautions, which affected Porteous's
pride very deeply. They requested the assistance of part of a regular infantry
regiment, not to attend upon the execution, but to remain drawn up on the
principal street of the city, during the time that it went forward, in order to
intimidate the multitude, in case they should be disposed to be unruly, with a
display of force which could not be resisted without desperation. It may sound
ridiculous in our ears, considering the fallen state of this ancient civic
corps, that its officer should have felt punctiliously jealous of its honour.
Yet so it was. Captain Porteous resented, as an indignity, the introducing the
Welsh Fusileers within the city, and drawing them up in the street where no
drums but his own were allowed to be sounded without the special command or
permission of the magistrates. As he could not show his ill-humour to his
patrons the magistrates, it increased his indignation and his desire to be
revenged on the unfortunate criminal Wilson, and all who favoured him. These
internal emotions of jealousy and rage wrought a change on the man's mien and
bearing, visible to all who saw him on the fatal morning when Wilson was
appointed to suffer. Porteous's ordinary appearance was rather favourable. He
was about the middle size, stout, and well made, having a military air, and yet
rather a gentle and mild countenance. His complexion was brown, his face
somewhat fretted with the scars of the smallpox, his eyes rather languid than
keen or fierce. On the present occasion, however, it seemed to those who saw him
as if he were agitated by some evil demon. His step was irregular, his voice
hollow and broken, his countenance pale, his eyes staring and wild, his speech
imperfect and confused, and his whole appearance so disordered, that many
remarked he seemed to be fey, a Scottish expression, meaning the state of those
who are driven on to their impending fate by the strong impulse of some
irresistible necessity.
    One part of his conduct was truly diabolical, if indeed it has not been
exaggerated by the general prejudice entertained against his memory. When
Wilson, the unhappy criminal, was delivered to him by the keeper of the prison,
in order that he might be conducted to the place of execution, Porteous, not
satisfied with the usual precautions to prevent escape, ordered him to be
manacled. This might be justifiable from the character and bodily strength of
the malefactor, as well as from the apprehensions so generally entertained of an
expected rescue. But the handcuffs which were produced being found too small for
the wrists of a man so big-boned as Wilson, Porteous proceeded with his own
hands, and by great exertion of strength, to force them till they clasped
together, to the exquisite torture of the unhappy criminal. Wilson remonstrated
against such barbarous usage, declaring that the pain distracted his thoughts
from the subjects of meditation proper to his unhappy condition.
    »It signifies little,« replied Captain Porteous; »your pain will soon be at
an end.«
    »Your cruelty is great,« answered the sufferer. »You know not how soon you
yourself may have occasion to ask the mercy which you are now refusing to a
fellow-creature. May God forgive you!«
    These words, long afterwards quoted and remembered, were all that passed
between Porteous and his prisoner; but as they took air, and became known to the
people, they greatly increased the popular compassion for Wilson, and excited a
proportionate degree of indignation against Porteous; against whom, as strict,
and even violent in the discharge of his unpopular office, the common people had
some real, and many imaginary causes of complaint.
    When the painful procession was completed, and Wilson, with the escort, had
arrived at the scaffold in the Grassmarket, there appeared no signs of that
attempt to rescue him which had occasioned such precautions. The multitude, in
general, looked on with deeper interest than at ordinary executions; and there
might be seen, on the countenances of many, a stern and indignant expression,
like that with which the ancient Cameronians might be supposed to witness the
execution of their brethren, who glorified the Covenant on the same occasion,
and at the same spot. But there was no attempt at violence. Wilson himself
seemed disposed to hasten over the space that divided time from eternity. The
devotions proper and usual on such occasions were no sooner finished than he
submitted to his fate, and the sentence of the law was fulfilled.
    He had been suspended on the gibbet so long as to be totally deprived of
life, when at once, as if occasioned by some newly received impulse, there arose
a tumult among the multitude. Many stones were thrown at Porteous and his
guards; some mischief was done; and the moo continued to press forward with
whoops, shrieks, howls, and exclamations. A young fellow, with a sailor's cap
slouched over his face, sprung on the scaffold, and cut the rope by which the
criminal was suspended. Others approached to carry off the body, either to
secure for it a decent grave, or to try, perhaps, some means of resuscitation.
Captain Porteous was wrought, by this appearance of insurrection against his
authority, into a rage so headlong as made him forget, that, the sentence having
been fully executed, it was his duty not to engage in hostilities with the
misguided multitude, but to draw off his men as fast as possible. He sprung from
the scaffold, snatched a musket from one of his soldiers, commanded the party to
give fire, and, as several eye-witnesses concurred in swearing, set them the
example, by discharging his piece, and shooting a man dead on the spot. Several
soldiers obeyed his command or followed his example; six or seven persons were
slain, and a great many were hurt and wounded.
    After this act of violence, the Captain proceeded to withdraw his men
towards their guard-house in the High Street. The mob were not so much
intimidated as incensed by what had been done. They pursued the soldiers with
execrations, accompanied by volleys of stones. As they pressed on them, the
rearmost soldiers turned, and again fired with fatal aim and execution. It is
not accurately known whether Porteous commanded this second act of violence; but
of course the odium of the whole transactions of the fatal day attached to him,
and to him alone. He arrived at the guard-house, dismissed his soldiers, and
went to make his report to the magistrates concerning the unfortunate events of
the day.
    Apparently by this time Captain Porteous had begun to doubt the propriety of
his own conduct, and the reception he met with from the magistrates was such as
to make him still more anxious to gloss it over. He denied that he had given
orders to fire; he denied he had fired with his own hand; he even produced the
fusee which he carried as an officer for examination; it was found still loaded.
Of three cartridges which he was seen to put in his pouch that morning, two were
still there; a white handkerchief was thrust into the muzzle of the piece, and
returned unsoiled or blackened. To the defence founded on these circumstances it
was answered, that Porteous had not used his own piece, but had been seen to
take one from a soldier. Among the many who had been killed and wounded by the
unhappy fire, there were several of better rank; for even the humanity of such
soldiers as fired over the heads of the mere rabble around the scaffold, proved
in some instances fatal to persons who were stationed in windows, or observed
the melancholy scene from a distance. The voice of public indignation was loud
and general; and, ere men's tempers had time to cool, the trial of Captain
Porteous took place before the High Court of Justiciary. After a long and
patient hearing, the jury had the difficult duty of balancing the positive
evidence of many persons, and those of respectability, who deposed positively to
the prisoner's commanding his soldiers to fire, and himself firing his piece, of
which some swore that they saw the smoke and flash, and beheld a man drop at
whom it was pointed, with the negative testimony of others, who, though well
stationed for seeing what had passed, neither heard Porteous give orders to
fire, nor saw him fire himself; but, on the contrary, averred that the first
shot was fired by a soldier who stood close by him. A great part of his defence
was also founded on the turbulence of the mob, which witnesses, according to
their feelings, their predilections, and their opportunities of observation,
represented differently; some describing as a formidable riot, what others
represented as a trifling disturbance such as always used to take place on the
like occasions, when the executioner of the law, and the men commissioned to
protect him in his task, were generally exposed to some indignities. The verdict
of the jury sufficiently shows how the evidence preponderated in their minds. It
declared that John Porteous fired a gun among the people assembled at the
execution; that he gave orders to his soldiers to fire, by which many persons
were killed and wounded; but, at the same time, that the prisoner and his guard
had been wounded and beaten, by stones thrown at them by the multitude. Upon
this verdict, the Lords of Justiciary passed sentence of death against Captain
John Porteous, adjudging him, in the common form, to be hanged on a gibbet at
the common place of execution, on Wednesday, 8th September 1736, and all his
movable property to be forfeited to the king's use, according to the Scottish
law in cases of wilful murder.6
 

                                 Chapter Third

 »The hour's come, but not the man.«7
                                                                         Kelpie.
 
On the day when the unhappy Porteous was expected to suffer the sentence of the
law, the place of execution, extensive as it is, was crowded almost to
suffocation. There was not a window in all the lofty tenements around it, or in
the steep and crooked street called the Bow, by which the fatal procession was
to descend from the High Street, that was not absolutely filled with spectators.
The uncommon height and antique appearance of these houses, some of which were
formerly the property of the Knights Templars, and the Knights of St. John, and
still exhibit on their fronts and gables the iron cross of these orders, gave
additional effect to a scene in itself so striking. The area of the Grassmarket
resembled a huge dark lake or sea of human heads, in the centre of which arose
the fatal tree, tall, black, and ominous, from which dangled the deadly halter.
Every object takes interest from its uses and associations, and the erect beam
and empty noose, things so simple in themselves, became, on such an occasion,
objects of terror and of solemn interest.
    Amid so numerous an assembly there was scarcely a word spoken, save in
whispers. The thirst of vengeance was in some degree allayed by its supposed
certainty; and even the populace, with deeper feeling than they are wont to
entertain, suppressed all clamorous exultation, and prepared to enjoy the scene
of retaliation in triumph, silent and decent, though stern and relentless. It
seemed as if the depth of their hatred to the unfortunate criminal scorned to
display itself in anything resembling the more noisy current of their ordinary
feelings. Had a stranger consulted only the evidence of his ears, he might have
supposed that so vast a multitude were assembled for some purpose which affected
them with the deepest sorrow, and stilled those noises which, on all ordinary
occasions, arise from such a concourse; but if he had gazed upon their faces, he
would have been instantly undeceived. The compressed lip, the bent brow, the
stern and flashing eye of almost everyone on whom he looked, conveyed the
expression of men come to glut their sight with triumphant revenge. It is
probable that the appearance of the criminal might have somewhat changed the
temper of the populace in his favour, and that they might in the moment of death
have forgiven the man against whom their resentment had been so fiercely heated.
It had, however, been destined, that the mutability of their sentiments was not
to be exposed to this trial.
    The usual hour for producing the criminal had been past for many minutes,
yet the spectators observed no symptom of his appearance. »Would they venture to
defraud public justice?« was the question which men began anxiously to ask at
each other. The first answer in every case was bold and positive, - »They dare
not.« But when the point was further canvassed, other opinions were entertained,
and various causes of doubt were suggested. Porteous had been a favourite
officer of the magistracy of the city, which, being a numerous and fluctuating
body, requires for its support a degree of energy in its functionaries, which
the individuals who compose it cannot at all times alike be supposed to possess
in their own persons. It was remembered, that in the Information for Porteous
(the paper, namely, in which his case was stated to the Judges of the criminal
court), he had been described by his counsel as the person on whom the
magistrates chiefly relied in all emergencies of uncommon difficulty. It was
argued, too, that his conduct, on the unhappy occasion of Wilson's execution,
was capable of being attributed to an imprudent excess of zeal in the execution
of his duty, a motive for which those under whose authority he acted might be
supposed to have great sympathy. And as these considerations might move the
magistrates to make a favourable representation of Porteous's case, there were
not wanting others in the higher departments of Government, which would make
such suggestions favourably listened to.
    The mob of Edinburgh, when thoroughly excited, had been at all times one of
the fiercest which could be found in Europe; and of late years they had risen
repeatedly against the Government, and sometimes not without temporary success.
They were conscious, therefore, that they were no favourites with the rulers of
the period, and that, if Captain Porteous's violence was not altogether regarded
as good service, it might certainly be thought, that to visit it with a capital
punishment would render it both delicate and dangerous for future officers, in
the same circumstances, to act with effect in repressing tumults. There is also
a natural feeling, on the part of all members of Government, for the general
maintenance of authority; and it seemed not unlikely, that what to the relatives
of the sufferers appeared a wanton and unprovoked massacre, should be otherwise
viewed in the cabinet of St. James's. It might be there supposed, that upon the
whole matter, Captain Porteous was in the exercise of a trust delegated to him
by the lawful civil authority; that he had been assaulted by the populace, and
several of his men hurt; and that, in finally repelling force by force, his
conduct could be fairly imputed to no other motive than self-defence in the
discharge of his duty.
    These considerations, of themselves very powerful, induced the spectators to
apprehend the possibility of a reprieve; and to the various causes which might
interest the rulers in his favour, the lower part of the rabble added one which
was peculiarly well adapted to their comprehension. It was averred, in order to
increase the odium against Porteous, that while he repressed with the utmost
severity the slightest excesses of the poor, he not only overlooked the license
of the young nobles and gentry, but was very willing to lend them the
countenance of his official authority, in execution of such loose pranks as it
was chiefly his duty to have restrained. This suspicion, which was perhaps much
exaggerated, made a deep impression on the minds of the populace; and when
several of the higher rank joined in a petition, recommending Porteous to the
mercy of the Crown, it was generally supposed he owed their favour not to any
conviction of the hardship of his case, but to the fear of losing a convenient
accomplice in their debaucheries. It is scarcely necessary to say how much this
suspicion augmented the people's detestation of this obnoxious criminal, as well
as their fear of his escaping the sentence pronounced against him.
    While these arguments were stated and replied to, and canvassed and
supported, the hitherto silent expectation of the people became changed into
that deep and agitating murmur, which is sent forth by the ocean before the
tempest begins to howl. The crowded populace, as if their motions had
corresponded with the unsettled state of their minds, fluctuated to and fro
without any visible cause of impulse, like the agitation of the waters, called
by sailors the ground-swell. The news, which the magistrates had almost
hesitated to communicate to them, were at length announced, and spread among the
spectators with a rapidity like lightning. A reprieve from the Secretary of
State's office, under the hand of his Grace the Duke of Newcastle, had arrived,
intimating the pleasure of Queen Caroline (regent of the kingdom during the
absence of George II. on the Continent), that the execution of the sentence of
death pronounced against John Porteous, late Captain-Lieutenant of the City
Guard of Edinburgh, present prisoner in the Tolbooth of that city, be respited
for six weeks from the time appointed for his execution.
    The assembled spectators of almost all degrees, whose minds had been wound
up to the pitch which we have described, uttered a groan, or rather a roar of
indignation and disappointed revenge, similar to that of a tiger from whom his
meal has been rent by his keeper when he was just about to devour it. This
fierce exclamation seemed to forbode some immediate explosion of popular
resentment, and, in fact, such had been expected by the magistrates, and the
necessary measures had been taken to repress it. But the shout was not repeated,
nor did any sudden tumult ensue, such as it appeared to announce. The populace
seemed to be ashamed of having expressed their disappointment in a vain clamour,
and the sound changed, not into the silence which had preceded the arrival of
these stunning news, but into stifled mutterings, which each group maintained
among themselves, and which were blended into one deep and hoarse murmur which
floated above the assembly.
    Yet still, though all expectation of the execution was over, the mob
remained assembled, stationary, as it were, through very resentment, gazing on
the preparations for death, which had now been made in vain, and stimulating
their feelings, by recalling the various claims which Wilson might have had on
royal mercy, from the mistaken motives on which he acted, as well as from the
generosity he had displayed towards his accomplice. »This man,« they said, -
»the brave, the resolute, the generous, was executed to death without mercy for
stealing a purse of gold, which in some sense he might consider as a fair
reprisal; while the profligate satellite, who took advantage of a trifling
tumult, inseparable from such occasions, to shed the blood of twenty of his
fellow-citizens, is deemed a fitting object for the exercise of the royal
prerogative of mercy. Is this to be borne? - would our fathers have borne it?
Are not we, like them, Scotsmen and burghers of Edinburgh?«
    The officers of justice began now to remove the scaffold, and other
preparations which had been made for the execution, in hopes, by doing so, to
accelerate the dispersion of the multitude. The measure had the desired effect;
for no sooner had the fatal tree been unfixed from the large stone pedestal or
socket in which it was secured, and sunk slowly down upon the wain intended to
remove it to the place where it was usually deposited, than the populace, after
giving vent to their feelings in a second shout of rage and mortification, began
slowly to disperse to their usual abodes and occupations.
    The windows were in like manner gradually deserted, and groups of the more
decent class of citizens formed themselves, as if waiting to return homewards
when the streets should be cleared of the rabble. Contrary to what is frequently
the case, this description of persons agreed in general with the sentiments of
their inferiors, and considered the cause as common to all ranks. Indeed, as we
have already noticed, it was by no means amongst the lowest class of the
spectators, or those most likely to be engaged in the riot at Wilson's
execution, that the fatal fire of Porteous's soldiers had taken effect. Several
persons were killed who were looking out at windows at the scene, who could not
of course belong to the rioters, and were persons of decent rank and condition.
The burghers, therefore, resenting the loss which had fallen on their own body,
and proud and tenacious of their rights, as the citizens of Edinburgh have at
all times been, were greatly exasperated at the unexpected respite of Captain
Porteous.
    It was noticed at the time, and afterwards more particularly remembered,
that, while the mob were in the act of dispersing, several individuals were seen
busily passing from one place and one group of people to another, remaining long
with none, but whispering for a little time with those who appeared to be
declaiming most violently against the conduct of Government. These active agents
had the appearance of men from the country, and were generally supposed to be
old friends and confederates of Wilson, whose minds were of course highly
excited against Porteous.
    If, however, it was the intention of these men to stir the multitude to any
sudden act of mutiny, it seemed for the time to be fruitless. The rabble, as
well as the more decent part of the assembly, dispersed, and went home
peaceably; and it was only by observing the moody discontent on their brows, or
catching the tenor of the conversation they held with each other, that a
stranger could estimate the state of their minds. We will give the reader this
advantage, by associating ourselves with one of the numerous groups who were
painfully ascending the steep declivity of the West Bow, to return to their
dwellings in the Lawnmarket.
    »An unco thing this, Mrs. Howden,« said old Peter Plumdamas to his neighbour
the rouping-wife, or saleswoman, as he offered her his arm to assist her in the
toilsome ascent, »to see the grit folk at Lunnon set their face against law and
gospel, and let loose sic a reprobate as Porteous upon a peaceable town!«
    »And to think o' the weary walk they hae gien us,« answered Mrs. Howden,
with a groan; »and sic a comfortable window as I had gotten, too, just within a
penny-stane-cast of the scaffold - I could hae heard every word the minister
said - and to pay twalpennies for my stand, and a' for nothing!«
    »I am judging,« said Mr. Plumdamas, »that this reprieve wadna stand good in
the auld Scots law, when the kingdom was a kingdom.«
    »I dinna ken muckle about the law,« answered Mrs. Howden; »but I ken, when
we had a king, and a chancellor, and parliament men o' our ain, we could aye
peeble them wi' stanes when they werena good bairns - But nobody's nails can
reach the length o' Lunnon.«
    »Weary on Lunnon, and a' that e'er came out o't!« said Miss Grizel Damahoy,
an ancient seamstress; »they hae taken away our parliament, and they hae
oppressed our trade. Our gentles will hardly allow that a Scots needle can sew
ruffles on a sark, or lace on an owerlay.«
    »Ye may say that - Miss Damahoy, and I ken o' them that hae gotten raisins
frae Lunnon by forpits at ance,« responded Plumdamas; »and then sic an host of
idle English gaugers and excisemen as hae come down to vex and torment us, that
an honest man canna fetch sae muckle as a bit anker o' brandy frae Leith to the
Lawnmarket, but he's like to be rubbit o' the very gudes he's bought and paid
for. - Weel, I winna justify Andrew Wilson for pitting hands on what wasna his;
but if he took nae mair than his ain, there's an awful' difference between that
and the fact this man stands for.«
    »If ye speak about the law,« said Mrs. Howden, »here comes Mr. Saddletree,
that can settle it as well as ony on the bench.«
    The party she mentioned, a grave elderly person, with a superb periwig,
dressed in a decent suit of sad-coloured clothes, came up as she spoke, and
courteously gave his arm to Miss Grizel Damahoy.
    It may be necessary to mention, that Mr. Bartoline Saddletree kept an
excellent and highly-esteemed shop for harness, saddles, etc. etc., at the sign
of the Golden Nag, at the head of Bess Wynd. His genius, however (as he himself
and most of his neighbours conceived), lay towards the weightier matters of the
law, and he failed not to give frequent attendance upon the pleadings and
arguments of the lawyers and judges in the neighbouring square, where, to say
the truth, he was oftener to be found than would have consisted with his own
emolument; but that his wife, an active painstaking person, could, in his
absence, make an admirable shift to please the customers and scold the
journeymen. This good lady was in the habit of letting her husband take his way,
and go on improving his stock of legal knowledge without interruption; but, as
if in requital, she insisted upon having her own will in the domestic and
commercial departments which he abandoned to her. Now, as Bartoline Saddletree
had a considerable gift of words, which he mistook for eloquence, and conferred
more liberally upon the society in which he lived than was at all times gracious
and acceptable, there went forth a saying, with which wags used sometimes to
interrupt his rhetoric, that, as he had a golden nag at his door, so he had a
grey mare in his shop. This reproach induced Mr. Saddletree, on all occasions,
to assume rather a haughty and stately tone towards his good woman, a
circumstance by which she seemed very little affected, unless he attempted to
exercise any real authority, when she never failed to fly into open rebellion.
But such extremes Bartoline seldom provoked; for, like the gentle King Jamie, he
was fonder of talking of authority than really exercising it. This turn of mind
was, on the whole, lucky for him; since his substance was increased without any
trouble on his part, or any interruption of his favourite studies.
    This word in explanation has been thrown in to the reader, while Saddletree
was laying down, with great precision, the law upon Porteous's case, by which he
arrived at this conclusion, that, if Porteous had fired five minutes sooner,
before Wilson was cut down, he would have been versans in licito; engaged, that
is, in a lawful act, and only liable to be punished propter excessum, or for
lack of discretion, which might have mitigated the punishment to poena
ordinaria.
    »Discretion!« echoed Mrs. Howden, on whom, it may well be supposed, the
fineness of this distinction was entirely thrown away, - »whan had Jock Porteous
either grace, discretion, or good manners? - I mind when his father« -
    »But, Mrs. Howden,« said Saddletree -
    »And I,« said Miss Damahoy, »mind when his mother« -
    »Miss Damahoy,« entreated the interrupted orator -
    »And I,« said Plumdamas, »mind when his wife« -
    »Mr. Plumdamas - Mrs. Howden - Miss Damahoy,« again implored the orator, -
»Mind the distinction, as Counsellor Crossmyloof says - I, says he, take a
distinction. Now, the body of the criminal being cut down, and the execution
ended, Porteous was no longer official; the act which he came to protect and
guard, being done and ended, he was no better than cuivis ex populo.«
    »Quivis - quivis, Mr. Saddletree, craving your pardon,« said (with a
prolonged emphasis on the first syllable) Mr. Butler, the deputy-schoolmaster of
a parish near Edinburgh, who at that moment came up behind them as the false
Latin was uttered.
    »What signifies interrupting me, Mr. Butler? - but I am glad to see ye
notwithstanding - I speak after Counsellor Crossmyloof, and he said cuivis.«
    »If Counsellor Crossmyloof used the dative for the nominative, I would have
crossed his loof with a tight leathern strap, Mr. Saddletree; there is not a boy
on the booby form but should have been scourged for such a solecism in grammar.«
    »I speak Latin like a lawyer, Mr. Butler, and not like a schoolmaster,«
retorted Saddletree.
    »Scarce like a schoolboy, I think,« rejoined Butler.
    »It matters little,« said Bartoline, »all I mean to say is, that Porteous
has become liable to the poena extra ordinem, or capital punishment - which is
to say, in plain Scotch, the gallows - simply because he did not fire when he
was in office, but waited till the body was cut down, the execution whilk he had
in charge to guard implemented, and he himself exonered of the public trust
imposed on him.«
    »But, Mr. Saddletree,« said Plumdamas, »do ye really think John Porteous's
case wad hae been better if he had begun firing before ony stanes were flung at
a'?«
    »Indeed do I, neighbour Plumdamas,« replied Bartoline, confidently, »he
being then in point of trust and in point of power, the execution being but
inchoat, or, at least, not implemented, or finally ended; but after Wilson was
cut down it was a' ower - he was clean exauctorate, and had nae mair ado but to
get away wi' his guard up this West Bow as fast as if there had been a caption
after him - And this is law, for I heard it laid down by Lord Vincovincentem.«
    »Vincovincentem? - Is he a lord of state, or a lord of seat?« inquired Mrs.
Howden.8
    »A lord of seat - a lord of session. - I fash mysell little wi' lords o'
state; they vex me wi' a wheen idle questions about their saddles, and curpels,
and holsters, and horse-furniture, and what they'll cost, and whan they'll be
ready - a wheen golloping geese - my wife may serve the like o' them.«
    »And so might she, in her day, hae served the best lord in the land, for as
little as ye think o' her, Mr. Saddletree,« said Mrs. Howden, somewhat indignant
at the contemptuous way in which her gossip was mentioned; »when she and I were
twa gilpies, we little thought to hae sitten doun wi' the like o' my auld Davie
Howden, or you either, Mr. Saddletree.«
    While Saddletree, who was not bright at a reply, was cudgelling his brains
for an answer to this homethrust, Miss Damahoy broke in on him.
    »And as for the lords of state,« said Miss Damahoy, »ye should mind the riding
o' the parliament, Mr. Saddletree, in the good auld time before the Union, - a
year's rent o' mony a good estate gaed for horse-graith and harnessing, forby
broidered robes and foot-mantles, that wad hae stude by their lane wi' gold
brocade, and that were muckle in my ain line.«
    »Ay, and then the lusty banqueting, with sweetmeats and comfits wet and dry,
and dried fruits of divers sorts,« said Plumdamas. »But Scotland was Scotland in
these days.«
    »I'll tell ye what it is, neighbours,« said Mrs. Howden, »I'll ne'er believe
Scotland is Scotland ony mair, if our kindly Scots sit doun with the affront
they hae gien us this day. It's not only the blude that is shed, but the blude
that might hae been shed, that's required at our hands; there was my daughter's
wean, little Eppie Daidle - my oe, ye ken, Miss Grizel - had played the truant
frae the school, as bairns will do, ye ken, Mr. Butler« -
    »And for which,« interjected Mr. Butler, »they should be soundly scourged by
their well-wishers.«
    »And had just cruppen to the gallows' foot to see the hanging, as was
natural for a wean; and what for mightna she hae been shot as well as the rest
o' them, and where wad we a' hae been then? I wonder how Queen Carline (if her
name be Carline) wad hae liked to hae had ane o' her ain bairns in sic a
venture?«
    »Report says,« answered Butler, »that such a circumstance would not have
distressed her majesty beyond endurance.«
    »Aweel,« said Mrs. Howden, »the sum o' the matter is, that, were I a man, I
wad hae amends o' Jock Porteous, be the upshot what like o't, if a' the carles
and carlines in England had sworn to the nay-say.«
    »I would claw down the Tolbooth door wi' my nails,« said Miss Grizel, »but I
wad be at him.«
    »Ye may be very right, ladies,« said Butler, »but I would not advise you to
speak so loud.«
    »Speak!« exclaimed both the ladies together, »there will be nothing else
spoken about frae the Weigh- to the Water-gate, till this is either ended or
mended.«
    The females now departed to their respective places of abode. Plumdamas
joined the other two gentlemen in drinking their meridian (a bumper-dram of
brandy), as they passed the well-known low-browed shop in the Lawnmarket, where
they were wont to take that refreshment. Mr. Plumdamas then departed towards his
shop, and Mr. Butler, who happened to have some particular occasion for the rein
of an old bridle (the truants of that busy day could have anticipated its
application), walked down the Lawnmarket with Mr. Saddletree, each talking as he
could get a word thrust in, the one on the laws of Scotland, the other on those
of syntax, and neither listening to a word which his companion uttered.
 

                                 Chapter Fourth

 Elswhair he colde right well lay down the law,
 But in his house was meek as is a daw.
                                                                  Davie Lindsay.
 
»There has been Jock Driver the carrier here, speering about his new graith,«
said Mrs. Saddletree to her husband, as he crossed his threshold, not with the
purpose, by any means, of consulting him upon his own affairs, but merely to
intimate, by a gentle recapitulation, how much duty she had gone through in his
absence.
    »Weel,« replied Bartoline, and deigned not a word more.
    »And the laird of Girdingburst has had his running footman here, and ca'd
himself (he's a civil pleasant young gentleman), to see when the broidered
saddle-cloth for his sorrel horse will be ready, for he wants it agane the Kelso
races.«
    »Weel, aweel,« replied Bartoline, as laconically as before.
    »And his lordship, the Earl of Blazonbury, Lord Flash and Flame, is like to
be clean daft, that the harness for the six Flanders mears, wi' the crests,
coronets, housings, and mountings conform, are no sent hame according to promise
gien.«
    »Weel, well, well - well, well, gudewife,« said Saddletree, »if he gangs
daft, we'll hae him cognosced - it's a' very well.«
    »It's well that ye think sae, Mr. Saddletree,« answered his helpmate, rather
nettled at the indifference with which her report was received; »there's mony
ane wad hae thought themselves affronted, if sae mony customers had ca'd and
nobody to answer them but women-folk; for a' the lads were aff, as soon as your
back was turned, to see Porteous hanged, that might be counted upon; and sae,
you no being at hame« -
    »Houts, Mrs. Saddletree,« said Bartoline, with an air of consequence, »dinna
deave me wi' your nonsense; I was under the necessity of being elsewhere - non
omnia - as Mr. Crossmyloof said, when he was called by two macers at once - non
omnia possumus - pessimus - possimis - I ken our law-latin offends Mr. Butler's
ears, but it means, Naebody, an it were the Lord President himself, can do twa
turns at ance.«
    »Very right, Mr. Saddletree,« answered his careful helpmate, with a
sarcastic smile; »and nae doubt it's a decent thing to leave your wife to look
after young gentlemen's saddles and bridles, when ye gang to see a man, that
never did ye nae ill, raxing a halter.«
    »Woman,« said Saddletree, assuming an elevated tone, to which the meridian
had somewhat contributed, »desist, - I say forbear, from intromitting with
affairs thou canst not understand. D'ye think I was born to sit here brogging an
elshin through bend-leather, when sic men as Duncan Forbes, and that other
Arniston chield there, without muckle greater parts, if the close-head speak
true, than mysell maun be presidents and king's advocates, nae doubt, and what
but they? Whereas, were favour equally distribute, as in the days of the wight
Wallace« -
    »I ken nothing we wad hae gotten by the wight Wallace,« said Mrs.
Saddletree, »unless, as I hae heard the auld folk tell, they fought in thae days
wi' bend-leather guns, and then it's a chance but what, if he had bought them,
he might have forgot to pay for them. And as for the greatness of your parts,
Bartley, the folk in the close-head maun ken mair about them than I do, if they
make sic a report of them.«
    »I tell ye, woman,« said Saddletree, in high dudgeon, »that ye ken nothing
about these matters. In Sir William Wallace's days there was nae man pinned down
to sic a slavish wark as a saddler's, for they got ony leather graith that they
had use for ready-made out of Holland.«
    »Well,« said Butler, who was, like many of his profession, something of a
humorist and dry joker, »if that be the case, Mr. Saddletree, I think we have
changed for the better; since we make our own harness, and only import our
lawyers from Holland.«
    »It's ower true, Mr. Butler,« answered Bartoline, with a sigh; »if I had had
the luck - or rather, if my father had had the sense to send me to Leyden and
Utrecht to learn the Substitutes and Pandex« -
    »You mean the Institutes - Justinian's Institutes, Mr. Saddletree?« said
Butler.
    »Institutes and substitutes are synonymous words, Mr. Butler, and used
indifferently as such in deeds of tailzie, as you may see in Balfour's
Practiques, or Dallas of St. Martin's Styles. I understand these things pretty
well, I thank God; but I own I should have studied in Holland.«
    »To comfort you, you might not have been farther forward than you are now,
Mr. Saddletree,« replied Mr. Butler; »for our Scottish advocates are an
aristocratic race. Their brass is of the right Corinthian quality, and Non
cuivis contigit adire Corinthum - Aha, Mr. Saddletree?«
    »And aha, Mr. Butler,« rejoined Bartoline, upon whom, as may be well
supposed, the jest was lost, and all but the sound of the words, »ye said a
gliff syne it was quivis, and now I heard ye say cuivis with my ain ears, as
plain as ever I heard a word at the fore-bar.«
    »Give me your patience, Mr. Saddletree, and I'll explain the discrepancy in
three words,« said Butler, as pedantic in his own department, though with
infinitely more judgment and learning, as Bartoline was in his self-assumed
profession of the law - »Give me your patience for a moment - You'll grant that
the nominative case is that by which a person or thing is nominated or designed,
and which may be called the primary case, all others being formed from it by
alterations of the termination in the learned languages, and by prepositions in
our modern Babylonian jargons - You'll grant me that, I suppose, Mr.
Saddletree?«
    »I dinna ken whether I will or no - ad avisandum, ye ken - nobody should be
in a hurry to make admissions, either in point of law, or in point of fact,«
said Saddletree, looking, or endeavouring to look, as if he understood what was
said.
    »And the dative case,« continued Butler -
    »I ken what a tutor dative is,« said Saddletree, »readily enough.«
    »The dative case,« resumed the grammarian, »is that in which anything is
given or assigned as properly belonging to a person or thing - You cannot deny
that, I am sure.«
    »I am sure I'll no grant it, though,« said Saddletree.
    »Then, what the devil d'ye take the nominative and the dative cases to be?«
said Butler, hastily, and surprised at once out of his decency of expression and
accuracy of pronunciation.
    »I'll tell you that at leisure, Mr. Butler,« said Saddletree, with a very
knowing look; »I'll take a day to see and answer every article of your
condescendence, and then I'll hold you to confess or deny as accords.«
    »Come, come, Mr. Saddletree,« said his wife, »we'll hae nae confessions and
condescendences here; let them deal in thae sort o' wares that are paid for them
- they suit the like o' us as ill as a demipique saddle would suit a draught
ox.«
    »Aha!« said Mr. Butler, »Optat ephippia bos piger, nothing new under the sun
- But it was a fair hit of Mrs. Saddletree, however.«
    »And it wad far better become ye, Mr. Saddletree,« continued his helpmate,
»since ye say ye hae skeel o' the law, to try if ye can do anything for Effie
Deans, puir thing, that's lying up in the tolbooth yonder, cauld, and hungry,
and comfortless - A servant lass of ours, Mr. Butler, and as innocent a lass, to
my thinking, and as usefu' in the shop - When Mr. Saddletree gangs out, - and
ye're aware he's seldom at hame when there's ony o' the plea-houses open, - poor
Effie used to help me to tumble the bundles o' barkened leather up and down, and
range out the gudes, and suit a' body's humours - And troth, she could aye
please the customers wi' her answers, for she was aye civil, and a bonnier lass
wasna in Auld Reekie. And when folk were hasty and unreasonable, she could serve
them better than me, that am no sae young as I hae been, Mr. Butler, and a wee
bit short in the temper into the bargain. For when there's ower mony folks
crying on me at anes, and nane but ae tongue to answer them, folk maun speak
hastily, or they'll ne'er get through their wark - Sae I miss Effie daily.«
    »De die in diem,« added Saddletree.
    »I think,« said Butler, after a good deal of hesitation, »I have seen the
girl in the shop - a modest-looking, fair-haired girl?«
    »Ay, ay, that's just puir Effie,« said her mistress. »How she was abandoned
to hersell, or whether she was sackless o' the sinful deed, God in Heaven knows;
but if she's been guilty, she's been sair tempted, and I wad amaist take my
Bible-aith she hasna been hersell at the time.«
    Butler had by this time become much agitated; he fidgeted up and down the
shop, and showed the greatest agitation that a person of such strict decorum
could be supposed to give way to. »Was not this girl,« he said, »the daughter of
David Deans, that had the parks at St. Leonard's taken? and has she not a
sister?«
    »In troth has she - puir Jeanie Deans, ten years aulder than hersell; she
was here greeting a wee while syne about her tittie. And what could I say to
her, but that she behoved to come and speak to Mr. Saddletree when he was at
hame? It wasna that I thought Mr. Saddletree could do her or ony ither body
muckle good or ill, but it wad aye serve to keep the puir thing's heart up for a
wee while; and let sorrow come when sorrow maun.«
    »Ye're mistaen though, gudewife,« said Saddletree scornfully, »for I could
hae gien her great satisfaction; I could hae proved to her that her sister was
indicted upon the statute saxteen hundred and ninety, chapter one - For the mair
ready prevention of child-murder - for concealing her pregnancy, and giving no
account of the child which she had borne.«
    »I hope,« said Butler, - »I trust in a gracious God, that she can clear
herself.«
    »And sae do I, Mr. Butler,« replied Mrs. Saddletree. »I am sure I wad hae
answered for her as my ain daughter; but wae's my heart, I had been tender a'
the simmer, and scarce ower the door o' my room for twal weeks. And as for Mr.
Saddletree, he might be in a lying-in hospital, and ne'er find out what the
women cam there for. Sae I could see little or nothing o' her, or I wad hae had
the truth o' her situation out o' her, I'se warrant ye - But we a' think her
sister maun be able to speak something to clear her.«
    »The haill Parliament House,« said Saddletree, »was speaking o' nothing
else, till this job o' Porteous's put it out o' head - It's a beautiful point of
presumptive murder, and there's been nane like it in the Justiciar Court since
the case of Luckie Smith the howdie, that suffered in the year saxteen hundred
and seventy-nine.«
    »But what's the matter wi' you, Mr. Butler?« said the good woman; »ye are
looking as white as a sheet; will ye take a dram?«
    »By no means,« said Butler, compelling himself to speak. »I walked in from
Dumfries yesterday, and this is a warm day.«
    »Sit down,« said Mrs. Saddletree, laying hands on him kindly, »and rest ye -
ye'll kill yoursell, man, at that rate. - And are we to wish you joy o' getting
the scule, Mr. Butler?«
    »Yes - no - I do not know,« answered the young man vaguely. But Mrs.
Saddletree kept him to point, partly out of real interest, partly from
curiosity.
    »Ye dinna ken whether ye are to get the free scule o' Dumfries or no, after
hinging on and teaching it a' the simmer?«
    »No, Mrs. Saddletree - I am not to have it,« replied Butler, more
collectedly. »The Laird of Black- had a natural son bred to the kirk, that the
Presbytery could not be prevailed upon to license; and so« -
    »Ay, ye need say nae mair about it; if there was a laird that had a puir
kinsman or a bastard that it wad suit, there's enough said. - And ye're e'en
come back to Liberton to wait for dead men's shoon? - and for as frail as Mr.
Whackbairn is, he may live as lang as you, that are his assistant and
successor.«
    »Very like,« replied Butler, with a sigh; »I do not know if I should wish it
otherwise.«
    »Nae doubt, it's a very vexing thing,« continued the good lady, »to be in
that dependent station; and you that hae right and title to sae muckle better, I
wonder how ye bear these crosses.«
    »Quos diligit castigat,« answered Butler; »even the pagan Seneca could see
an advantage in affliction. The Heathens had their philosophy, and the Jews
their revelation, Mrs. Saddletree, and they endured their distresses in their
day. Christians have a better dispensation than either - but doubtless« -
    He stopped and sighed.
    »I ken what ye mean,« said Mrs. Saddletree, looking toward her husband;
»there's whiles we lose patience in spite of baith book and Bible - But ye are
no gaun away, and looking sae poorly - ye'll stay and take some kale wi' us?«
    Mr. Saddletree laid aside Balfour's Practiques (his favourite study, and
much good may it do him), to join in his wife's hospitable importunity. But the
teacher declined all entreaty, and took his leave upon the spot.
    »There's something in a' this,« said Mrs. Saddletree, looking after him as
he walked up the street; »I wonder what makes Mr. Butler sae distressed about
Effie's misfortune - there was nae acquaintance atween them that ever I saw or
heard of; but they were neighbours when David Deans was on the Laird o'
Dumbiedikes' land. Mr. Butler wad ken her father, or some o' her folk. - Get up,
Mr. Saddletree - ye have set yoursell down on the very brecham that wants
stitching - and here's little Willie, the prentice. - Ye little rin-there-out
deil that ye are, what takes you raking through the gutters to see folk hangit?
- how wad ye like when it comes to be your ain chance, as I winna ensure ye, if
ye dinna mend your manners? - And what are ye maundering and greeting for, as if
a word were breaking your banes? - Gang in by, and be a better bairn another
time, and tell Peggy to give ye a bicker o' broth, for ye'll be as gleg as a
gled, I'se warrant ye. - It's a fatherless bairn, Mr. Saddletree, and
motherless, whilk in some cases may be waur, and ane would take care o' him if
they could - it's a Christian duty.«
    »Very true, gudewife,« said Saddletree in reply, »we are in loco parentis to
him during his years of pupillarity, and I hae had thoughts of applying to the
Court for a commission as factor loco tutoris, seeing there is nae tutor
nominate, and the tutor-at-law declines to act; but only I fear the expense of
the procedure wad not be in rem versam, for I am not aware if Willie has ony
effects whereof to assume the administration.«
    He concluded this sentence with a self-important cough, as one who has laid
down the law in an indisputable manner.
    »Effects!« said Mrs. Saddletree, »what effects has the puir wean? - he was
in rags when his mother died; and the blue polonie that Effie made for him out
of an auld mantle of my ain, was the first decent dress the bairn ever had on.
Poor Effie! can ye tell me now really, wi' a' your law, will her life be in
danger, Mr. Saddletree, when they arena able to prove that ever there was a
bairn ava?«
    »Whoy,« said Mr. Saddletree, delighted at having for once in his life seen
his wife's attention arrested by a topic of legal discussion - »Whoy, there are
two sorts of murdrum or murdragium, or what you populariter et vulgariter call
murder. I mean there are many sorts; for there's your murthrum per vigilias et
insidias, and your murthrum under trust.«
    »I am sure,« replied his moiety, »that murder by trust is the way that the
gentry murder us merchants, and whiles make us shut the booth up - but that has
nothing to do wi' Effie's misfortune.«
    »The case of Effie (or Euphemia) Deans,« resumed Saddletree, »is one of
those cases of murder presumptive, that is, a murder of the law's inferring or
construction, being derived from certain indicia or grounds of suspicion.«
    »So that,« said the good woman, »unless poor Effie has communicated her
situation, she'll be hanged by the neck, if the bairn was still-born, or if it
be alive at this moment?«
    »Assuredly,« said Saddletree, »it being a statute made by our Sovereign Lord
and Lady, to prevent the horrid delict of bringing forth children in secret -
The crime is rather a favourite of the law, this species of murder being one of
its ain creation.«
    »Then, if the law makes murders,« said Mrs. Saddletree, »the law should be
hanged for them; or if they wad hang a lawyer instead, the country wad find nae
faut.«
    A summons to their frugal dinner interrupted the farther progress of the
conversation, which was otherwise like to take a turn much less favourable to
the science of jurisprudence and its professors, than Mr. Bartoline Saddletree,
the fond admirer of both, had at its opening anticipated.
 

                                 Chapter Fifth

 But up then raise all Edinburgh.
 They all rose up by thousands three.
                                                  Johnnie Armstrang's Goodnight.
 
Butler, on his departure from the sign of the Golden Nag, went in quest of a
friend of his connected with the law, of whom he wished to make particular
inquiries concerning the circumstances in which the unfortunate young woman
mentioned in the last chapter was placed, having, as the reader has probably
already conjectured, reasons much deeper than those dictated by mere humanity
for interesting himself in her fate. He found the person he sought absent from
home, and was equally unfortunate in one or two other calls which he made upon
acquaintances whom he hoped to interest in her story. But everybody was, for the
moment, stark-mad on the subject of Porteous, and engaged busily in attacking or
defending the measures of Government in reprieving him; and the ardour of
dispute had excited such universal thirst, that half the young lawyers and
writers, together with their very clerks, the class whom Butler was looking
after, had adjourned the debate to some favourite tavern. It was computed by an
experienced arithmetician, that there was as much twopenny ale consumed on the
discussion as would have floated a first-rate man-of-war.
    Butler wandered about until it was dusk, resolving to take that opportunity
of visiting the unfortunate young woman, when his doing so might be least
observed; for he had his own reasons for avoiding the remarks of Mrs.
Saddletree, whose shop-door opened at no great distance from that of the jail,
though on the opposite or south side of the street, and a little higher up. He
passed, therefore, through the narrow and partly covered passage leading from
the north-west end of the Parliament Square.
    He stood now before the Gothic entrance of the ancient prison, which, as is
well known to all men, rears its ancient front in the very middle of the High
Street, forming, as it were, the termination to a huge pile of buildings called
the Luckenbooths, which, for some inconceivable reason, our ancestors had jammed
into the midst of the principal street of the town, leaving for passage a narrow
street on the north; and on the south, into which the prison opens, a narrow
crooked lane, winding betwixt the high and sombre walls of the Tolbooth and the
adjacent houses on the one side, and the butresses and projections of the old
Cathedral upon the other. To give some gaiety to this sombre passage (well known
by the name of the Krames), a number of little booths, or shops, after the
fashion of cobblers' stalls, are plastered, as it were, against the Gothic
projections and abutments, so that it seemed as if the traders had occupied with
nests, bearing the same proportion to the building, every buttress and coign of
vantage, as the martlett did in Macbeth's Castle. Of later years these booths
have degenerated into mere toy-shops, where the little loiterers chiefly
interested in such wares are tempted to linger, enchanted by the rich display of
hobby-horses, babies, and Dutch toys, arranged in artful and gay confusion; yet
half-scared by the cross looks of the withered pantaloon, or spectacled old
lady, by whom these tempting stores are watched and superintended. But, in the
times we write of, the hosiers, the glovers, the hatters, the mercers, the
milliners, and all who dealt in the miscellaneous wares now termed haberdasher's
goods, were to be found in this narrow alley.
    To return from our digression. Butler found the outer turnkey, a tall thin
old man, with long silver hair, in the act of locking the outward door of the
jail. He addressed himself to this person, and asked admittance to Effie Deans,
confined upon accusation of child-murder. The turnkey looked at him earnestly,
and, civilly touching his hat out of respect to Butler's black coat and clerical
appearance, replied, »It was impossible any one could be admitted at present.«
    »You shut up earlier than usual, probably on account of Captain Porteous's
affair?« said Butler.
    The turnkey, with the true mystery of a person in office, gave two grave
nods, and withdrawing from the wards a ponderous key of about two feet in
length, he proceeded to shut a strong plate of steel, which folded down above
the keyhole, and was secured by a steel spring and catch. Butler stood still
instinctively while the door was made fast, and then looking at his watch,
walked briskly up the street, muttering to himself, almost unconsciously -
 
Porta adversa, ingens, solidoque adamante columnæ;
Vis ut nulla virûm, non ipsi exscindere ferro
Coelicolæ valeant - Stat ferrea turris ad auras - etc.9
 
Having wasted half-an-hour more in a second fruitless attempt to find his legal
friend and adviser, he thought it time to leave the city and return to his place
of residence, in a small village about two miles and a half to the southward of
Edinburgh. The metropolis was at this time surrounded by a high wall, with
battlements and flanking projections at some intervals, and the access was
through gates, called in the Scottish language ports, which were regularly shut
at night. A small fee to the keepers would indeed procure egress and ingress at
any time, through a wicket left for that purpose in the large gate; but it was
of some importance, to a man so poor as Butler, to avoid even this slight
pecuniary mulct; and fearing the hour of shutting the gates might be near, he
made for that to which he found himself nearest, although, by doing so, he
somewhat lengthened his walk homewards. Bristo Port was that by which his direct
road lay, but the West Port, which leads out of the Grassmarket, was the nearest
of the city gates to the place where he found himself, and to that, therefore,
he directed his course. He reached the port in ample time to pass the circuit of
the walls, and entered a suburb called Portsburgh, chiefly inhabited by the
lower order of citizens and mechanics. Here he was unexpectedly interrupted.
    He had not gone far from the gate before he heard the sound of a drum, and,
to his great surprise, met a number of persons, sufficient to occupy the whole
front of the street, and form a considerable mass behind, moving with great
speed towards the gate he had just come from, and having in front of them a drum
beating to arms. While he considered how he should escape a party, assembled, as
it might be presumed, for no lawful purpose, they came full on him and stopped
him.
    »Are you a clergyman?« one questioned him.
    Butler replied that »he was in orders, but was not a placed minister.«
    »It's Mr. Butler from Liberton,« said a voice from behind; »he'll discharge
the duty as well as ony man.«
    »You must turn back with us, sir,« said the first speaker, in a tone civil
but peremptory.
    »For what purpose, gentlemen?« said Mr. Butler. »I live at some distance
from town - the roads are unsafe by night - you will do me a serious injury by
stopping me.«
    »You shall be sent safely home - no man shall touch a hair of your head -
but you must and shall come along with us.«
    »But to what purpose or end, gentlemen?« said Butler. »I hope you will be so
civil as to explain that to me.«
    »You shall know that in good time. Come along - for come you must, by force
or fair means; and I warn you to look neither to the right hand nor the left,
and to take no notice of any man's face, but consider all that is passing before
you as a dream.«
    »I would it were a dream I could awaken from,« said Butler to himself; but
having no means to oppose the violence with which he was threatened, he was
compelled to turn round and march in front of the rioters, two men partly
supporting and partly holding him. During this parley the insurgents had made
themselves masters of the West Port, rushing upon the Waiters (so the people
were called who had the charge of the gates), and possessing themselves of the
keys. They bolted and barred the folding doors, and commanded the person, whose
duty it usually was, to secure the wicket, of which they did not understand the
fastenings. The man, terrified at an incident so totally unexpected, was unable
to perform his usual office, and gave the matter up, after several attempts. The
rioters, who seemed to have come prepared for every emergency, called for
torches, by the light of which they nailed up the wicket with long nails, which,
it seemed probable, they had provided on purpose.
    While this was going on, Butler could not, even if he had been willing,
avoid making remarks on the individuals who seemed to lead this singular mob.
The torch-light, while it fell on their forms and left him in the shade, gave
him an opportunity to do so without their observing him. Several of those who
seemed most active were dressed in sailors' jackets, trousers, and sea-caps;
others in large loose-bodied greatcoats, and slouched hats; and there were
several who, judging from their dress, should have been called women, whose
rough deep voices, uncommon size, and masculine deportment and mode of walking,
forbade them being so interpreted. They moved as if by some well-concerted plan
of arrangement. They had signals by which they knew, and nicknames by which they
distinguished each other. Butler remarked, that the name of Wildfire was used
among them, to which one stout Amazon seemed to reply.
    The rioters left a small party to observe the West Port, and directed the
Waiters, as they valued their lives, to remain within their lodge, and make no
attempt for that night to repossess themselves of the gate. They then moved with
rapidity along the low street called the Cowgate, the mob of the city everywhere
rising at the sound of their drum, and joining them. When the multitude arrived
at the Cowgate Port, they secured it with as little opposition as the former,
made it fast, and left a small party to observe it. It was afterwards remarked,
as a striking instance of prudence and precaution, singularly combined with
audacity, that the parties left to guard those gates did not remain stationary
on their posts, but flitted to and fro, keeping so near the gates as to see that
no efforts were made to open them, yet not remaining so long as to have their
persons closely observed. The mob, at first only about one hundred strong, now
amounted to thousands, and were increasing every moment. They divided themselves
so as to ascend with more speed the various narrow lanes which lead up from the
Cowgate to the High Street; and still beating to arms as they went, and calling
on all true Scotsmen to join them, they now filled the principal street of the
city.
    The Netherbow Port might be called the Temple Bar of Edinburgh, as,
intersecting the High Street at its termination, it divided Edinburgh, properly
so called, from the suburb named the Canongate, as Temple Bar separates London
from Westminster. It was of the utmost importance to the rioters to possess
themselves of this pass, because there was quartered in the Canongate at that
time a regiment of infantry, commanded by Colonel Moyle, which might have
occupied the city by advancing through this gate, and would possess the power of
totally defeating their purpose. The leaders therefore hastened to the Netherbow
Port, which they secured in the same manner, and with as little trouble, as the
other gates, leaving a party to watch it, strong in proportion to the importance
of the post.
    The next object of these hardy insurgents was at once to disarm the City
Guard, and to procure arms for themselves; for scarce any weapons but staves and
bludgeons had been yet seen among them. The Guard-house was a long, low, ugly
building (removed in 1787), which to a fanciful imagination might have suggested
the idea of a long black snail crawling up the middle of the High Street, and
deforming its beautiful esplanade. This formidable insurrection had been so
unexpected, that there were no more than the ordinary sergeant's guard of the
city-corps upon duty; even these were without any supply of powder and ball; and
sensible enough what had raised the storm, and which way it was rolling, could
hardly be supposed very desirous to expose themselves by a valiant defence to
the animosity of so numerous and desperate a mob, to whom they were on the
present occasion much more than usually obnoxious.
    There was a sentinel upon guard, who (that one town-guard soldier might do
his duty on that eventful evening) presented his piece, and desired the foremost
of the rioters to stand off. The young Amazon, whom Butler had observed
particularly active, sprung upon the soldier, seized his musket, and after a
struggle succeeded in wrenching it from him, and throwing him down on the
causeway. One or two soldiers, who endeavoured to turn out to the support of
their sentinel, were in the same manner seized and disarmed, and the mob without
difficulty possessed themselves of the Guard-house, disarming and turning out of
doors the rest of the men on duty. It was remarked, that, notwithstanding the
city soldiers had been the instruments of the slaughter which this riot was
designed to revenge, no ill usage or even insult was offered to them. It seemed
as if the vengeance of the people disdained to stoop at any head meaner than
that which they considered as the source and origin of their injuries.
    On possessing themselves of the guard, the first act of the multitude was to
destroy the drums, by which they supposed an alarm might be conveyed to the
garrison in the castle; for the same reason they now silenced their own, which
was beaten by a young fellow, son to the drummer of Portsburgh, whom they had
forced upon that service. Their next business was to distribute among the
boldest of the rioters the guns, bayonets, partisans, halberts, and battle or
Lochaber axes. Until this period the principal rioters had preserved silence on
the ultimate object of their rising, as being that which all knew, but none
expressed. Now, however, having accomplished all the preliminary parts of their
design, they raised a tremendous shout of »Porteous! Porteous! To the Tolbooth!
To the Tolbooth!«
    They proceeded with the same prudence when the object seemed to be nearly in
their grasp, as they had done hitherto when success was more dubious. A strong
party of the rioters, drawn up in front of the Luckenbooths, and facing down the
street, prevented all access from the eastward, and the west end of the defile
formed by the Luckenbooths was secured in the same manner; so that the Tolbooth
was completely surrounded, and those who undertook the task of breaking it open
effectually secured against the risk of interruption.
    The magistrates, in the meanwhile, had taken the alarm, and assembled in a
tavern, with the purpose of raising some strength to subdue the rioters. The
deacons, or presidents of the trades, were applied to, but declared there was
little chance of their authority being respected by the craftsmen, where it was
the object to save a man so obnoxious. Mr. Lindsay, member of parliament for the
city, volunteered the perilous task of carrying a verbal message from the Lord
Provost to Colonel Moyle, the commander of the regiment lying in the Canongate,
requesting him to force the Netherbow Port, and enter the city to put down the
tumult. But Mr. Lindsay declined to charge himself with any written order,
which, if found on his person by an enraged mob, might have cost him his life;
and the issue of the application was, that Colonel Moyle having no written
requisition from the civil authorities, and having the fate of Porteous before
his eyes as an example of the severe construction put by a jury on the
proceedings of military men acting on their own responsibility, declined to
encounter the risk to which the Provost's verbal communication invited him.
    More than one messenger was despatched by different ways to the Castle, to
require the commanding officer to march down his troops, to fire a few
cannon-shot, or even to throw a shell among the mob, for the purpose of clearing
the streets. But so strict and watchful were the various patrols whom the
rioters had established in different parts of the streets, that none of the
emissaries of the magistrates could reach the gate of the Castle. They were,
however, turned back without either injury or insult, and with nothing more of
menace than was necessary to deter them from again attempting to accomplish
their errand.
    The same vigilance was used to prevent everybody of the higher, and those
which, in this case, might be deemed the more suspicious orders of society, from
appearing in the street, and observing the movements, or distinguishing the
persons, of the rioters. Every person in the garb of a gentleman was stopped by
small parties of two or three of the mob, who partly exhorted, partly required
of them, that they should return to the place from whence they came. Many a
quadrille table was spoilt that memorable evening; for the sedan chairs of
ladies, even of the highest rank, were interrupted in their passage from one
point to another, in spite of the laced footmen and blazing flambeaux. This was
uniformly done with a deference and attention to the feelings of the terrified
females, which could hardly have been expected from the videttes of a mob so
desperate. Those who stopped the chair usually made the excuse, that there was
much disturbance on the streets, and that it was absolutely necessary for the
lady's safety that the chair should turn back. They offered themselves to escort
the vehicles which they had thus interrupted in their progress, from the
apprehension, probably, that some of those who had casually united themselves to
the riot might disgrace their systematic and determined plan of vengeance, by
those acts of general insult and license which are common on similar occasions.
    Persons are yet living who remember to have heard from the mouths of ladies
thus interrupted on their journey in the manner we have described, that they
were escorted to their lodgings by the young men who stopped them, and even
handed out of their chairs with a polite attention far beyond what was
consistent with their dress, which was apparently that of journeymen mechanics.
10 It seemed as if the conspirators, like those who assassinated Cardinal
Beatoun in former days, had entertained the opinion, that the work about which
they went was a judgment of Heaven, which, though unsanctioned by the usual
authorities, ought to be proceeded in with order and gravity.
    While their outposts continued thus vigilant, and suffered themselves
neither from fear nor curiosity to neglect that part of the duty assigned to
them, and while the main guards to the east and west secured them against
interruption, a select body of the rioters thundered at the door of the jail,
and demanded instant admission. No one answered, for the outer keeper had
prudently made his escape with the keys at the commencement of the riot, and was
nowhere to be found. The door was instantly assailed with sledge-hammers, iron
crows, and the coulters of ploughs, ready provided for the purpose, with which
they prized, heaved, and battered for some time with little effect; for the
door, besides being of double oak planks, clenched, both endlong and athwart,
with broad-headed nails, was so hung and secured as to yield to no means of
forcing, without the expenditure of much time. The rioters, however, appeared
determined to gain admittance. Gang after gang relieved each other at the
exercise, for, of course, only a few could work at once; but gang after gang
retired, exhausted with their violent exertions, without making much progress in
forcing the prison door. Butler had been led up near to this the principal scene
of action; so near, indeed, that he was almost deafened by the unceasing clang
of the heavy fore-hammers against the iron-bound portal of the prison. He began
to entertain hopes, as the task seemed protracted, that the populace might give
it over in despair, or that some rescue might arrive to disperse them. There was
a moment at which the latter seemed probable.
    The magistrates, having assembled their officers, and some of the citizens
who were willing to hazard themselves for the public tranquillity, now sallied
forth from the tavern where they held their sitting, and approached the point of
danger. Their officers went before them with links and torches, with a herald to
read the riot-act, if necessary. They easily drove before them the outposts and
videttes of the rioters; but when they approached the line of guard which the
mob, or rather, we should say, the conspirators, had drawn across the street in
the front of the Luckenbooths, they were received with an unintermitted volley
of stones, and, on their nearer approach, the pikes, bayonets, and
Lochaber-axes, of which the populace had possessed themselves, were presented
against them. One of their ordinary officers, a strong resolute fellow, went
forward, seized a rioter, and took from him a musket; but, being unsupported, he
was instantly thrown on his back in the street, and disarmed in his turn. The
officer was too happy to be permitted to rise and run away without receiving any
farther injury; which afforded another remarkable instance of the mode in which
these men had united a sort of moderation towards all others, with the most
inflexible inveteracy against the object of their resentment. The magistrates,
after vain attempts to make themselves heard and obeyed, possessing no means of
enforcing their authority, were constrained to abandon the field to the rioters,
and retreat in all speed from the showers of missiles that whistled around their
ears.
    The passive resistance of the Tolbooth gate promised to do more to baffle
the purpose of the mob than the active interference of the magistrates. The
heavy sledge-hammers continued to din against it without intermission, and with
a noise which, echoed from the lofty buildings around the spot, seemed enough to
have alarmed the garrison in the Castle. It was circulated among the rioters,
that the troops would march down to disperse them, unless they could execute
their purpose without loss of time; or that, even without quitting the fortress,
the garrison might obtain the same end by throwing a bomb or two upon the
street.
    Urged by such motives for apprehension, they eagerly relieved each other at
the labour of assailing the Tolbooth door: yet such was its strength, that it
still defied their efforts. At length, a voice was heard to pronounce the words,
»Try it with fire.« The rioters, with an unanimous shout, called for
combustibles, and as all their wishes seemed to be instantly supplied, they were
soon in possession of two or three empty tar-barrels. A huge red glaring bonfire
speedily arose close to the door of the prison, sending up a tall column of
smoke and flame against its antique turrets and strongly-grated windows, and
illuminating the ferocious and wild gestures of the rioters, who surrounded the
place, as well as the pale and anxious groups of those, who, from windows in the
vicinage, watched the progress of this alarming scene. The mob fed the fire with
whatever they could find fit for the purpose. The flames roared and crackled
among the heaps of nourishment piled on the fire, and a terrible shout soon
announced that the door had kindled, and was in the act of being destroyed. The
fire was suffered to decay, but, long ere it was quite extinguished, the most
forward of the rioters rushed, in their impatience, one after another, over its
yet smouldering remains. Thick showers of sparkles rose high in the air, as man
after man bounded over the glowing embers, and disturbed them in their passage.
It was now obvious to Butler, and all others who were present, that the rioters
would be instantly in possession of their victim, and have it in their power to
work their pleasure upon him, whatever that might be.11
 

                                 Chapter Sixth

            The evil you teach us, we will execute; and it shall go hard, but we
            will better the instruction.
                                                             Merchant of Venice.
 
The unhappy object of this remarkable disturbance had been that day delivered
from the apprehension of public execution, and his joy was the greater, as he
had some reason to question whether Government would have run the risk of
unpopularity by interfering in his favour, after he had been legally convicted
by the verdict of a jury, of a crime so very obnoxious. Relieved from this
doubtful state of mind, his heart was merry within him, and he thought, in the
emphatic words of Scripture on a similar occasion, that surely the bitterness of
death was past. Some of his friends, however, who had watched the manner and
behaviour of the crowd when they were made acquainted with the reprieve, were of
a different opinion. They augured, from the unusual sternness and silence with
which they bore their disappointment, that the populace nourished some scheme of
sudden and desperate vengeance; and they advised Porteous to lose no time in
petitioning the proper authorities, that he might be conveyed to the Castle
under a sufficient guard, to remain there in security until his ultimate fate
should be determined. Habituated, however, by his office, to overawe the rabble
of the city, Porteous could not suspect them of an attempt so audacious as to
storm a strong and defensible prison; and, despising the advice by which he
might have been saved, he spent the afternoon of the eventful day in giving an
entertainment to some friends who visited him in jail, several of whom, by the
indulgence of the Captain of the Tolbooth, with whom he had an old intimacy,
arising from their official connection, were even permitted to remain to supper
with him, though contrary to the rules of the jail.
    It was, therefore, in the hour of unalloyed mirth, when this unfortunate
wretch was »full of bread,« hot with wine, and high in mistimed and ill-grounded
confidence, and alas! with all his sins full blown, when the first distant
shouts of the rioters mingled with the song of merriment and intemperance. The
hurried call of the jailer to the guests, requiring them instantly to depart,
and his yet more hasty intimation that a dreadful and determined mob had
possessed themselves of the city gates and guard-house, were the first
explanation of these fearful clamours.
    Porteous might, however, have eluded the fury from which the force of
authority could not protect him, had he thought of slipping on some disguise,
and leaving the prison along with his guests. It is probable that the jailer
might have connived at his escape, or even that in the hurry of this alarming
contingency, he might not have observed it. But Porteous and his friends alike
wanted presence of mind to suggest or execute such a plan of escape. The former
hastily fled from a place where their own safety seemed compromised, and the
latter, in a state resembling stupefaction, awaited in his apartment the
termination of the enterprise of the rioters. The cessation of the clang of the
instruments with which they had at first attempted to force the door, gave him
momentary relief. The flattering hopes, that the military had marched into the
city, either from the Castle or from the suburbs, and that the rioters were
intimidated and dispersing, were soon destroyed by the broad and glaring light
of the flames, which, illuminating through the grated window every corner of his
apartment, plainly showed that the mob, determined on their fatal purpose, had
adopted a means of forcing entrance equally desperate and certain.
    The sudden glare of light suggested to the stupefied and astonished object
of popular hatred the possibility of concealment or escape. To rush to the
chimney, to ascend it at the risk of suffocation, were the only means which
seemed to have occurred to him; but his progress was speedily stopped by one of
those iron gratings, which are, for the sake of security, usually placed across
the vents of buildings designed for imprisonment. The bars, however, which
impeded his farther progress, served to support him in the situation which he
had gained, and he seized them with the tenacious grasp of one who esteemed
himself clinging to his last hope of existence. The lurid light which had filled
the apartment, lowered and died away; the sound of shouts was heard within the
walls, and on the narrow and winding stair, which, cased within one of the
turrets, gave access to the upper apartments of the prison. The huzza of the
rioters was answered by a shout wild and desperate as their own, the cry,
namely, of the imprisoned felons, who, expecting to be liberated in the general
confusion, welcomed the mob as their deliverers. By some of these the apartment
of Porteous was pointed out to his enemies. The obstacle of the lock and bolts
was soon overcome, and from his hiding place the unfortunate man heard his
enemies search every corner of the apartment, with oaths and maledictions, which
would but shock the reader if we recorded them, but which served to prove, could
it have admitted of doubt, the settled purpose of soul with which they sought
his destruction.
    A place of concealment so obvious to suspicion and scrutiny as that which
Porteous had chosen, could not long screen him from detection. He was dragged
from his lurking-place, with a violence which seemed to argue an intention to
put him to death on the spot. More than one weapon was directed towards him,
when one of the rioters, the same whose female disguise had been particularly
noticed by Butler, interfered in an authoritative tone. »Are ye mad?« he said,
»or would ye execute an act of justice as if it were a crime and a cruelty? This
sacrifice will lose half its savour if we do not offer it at the very horns of
the altar. We will have him die where a murderer should die, on the common
gibbet - We will have him die where he spilled the blood of so many innocents!«
    A loud shout of applause followed the proposal, and the cry, »To the gallows
with the murderer! - to the Grassmarket with him!« echoed on all hands.
    »Let no man hurt him,« continued the speaker; »let him make his peace with
God, if he can; we will not kill both his soul and body.«
    »What time did he give better folk for preparing their account?« answered
several voices. »Let us mete to him with the same measure he measured to them.«
    But the opinion of the spokesman better suited the temper of those he
addressed, a temper rather stubborn than impetuous, sedate though ferocious, and
desirous of colouring their cruel and revengeful action with a show of justice
and moderation.
    For an instant this man quitted the prisoner, whom he consigned to a
selected guard, with instructions to permit him to give his money and property
to whomsoever he pleased. A person confined in the jail for debt received this
last deposit from the trembling hand of the victim, who was at the same time
permitted to make some other brief arrangements to meet his approaching fate.
The felons, and all others who wished to leave the jail, were now at full
liberty to do so; not that their liberation made any part of the settled purpose
of the rioters, but it followed as almost a necessary consequence of forcing the
jail doors. With wild cries of jubilee they joined the mob, or disappeared among
the narrow lanes to seek out the hidden receptacles of vice and infamy, where
they were accustomed to lurk and conceal themselves from justice.
    Two persons, a man about fifty years old and a girl about eighteen, were all
who continued within the fatal walls, excepting two or three debtors, who
probably saw no advantage in attempting their escape. The persons we have
mentioned remained in the strong room of the prison, now deserted by all others.
One of their late companions in misfortune called out to the man to make his
escape, in the tone of an acquaintance. »Rin for it, Ratcliffe - the road's
clear.«
    »It may be sae, Willie,« answered Ratcliffe, composedly, »but I have taken a
fancy to leave aff trade, and set up for an honest man.«
    »Stay there, and be hanged, then, for a donnard auld devil!« said the
other, and ran down the prison stair.
    The person in female attire whom we have distinguished as one of the most
active rioters, was about the same time at the ear of the young woman. »Flee,
Effie, flee!« was all he had time to whisper. She turned towards him an eye of
mingled fear, affection, and upbraiding, all contending with a sort of stupefied
surprise. He again repeated, »Flee, Effie, flee! for the sake of all that's good
and dear to you!« Again she gazed on him, but was unable to answer. A loud noise
was now heard, and the name of Madge Wildfire was repeatedly called from the
bottom of the staircase.
    »I am coming, - I am coming,« said the person who answered to that
appellative; and then reiterating hastily, »For God's sake - for your own sake -
for my sake, flee, or they'll take your life!« he left the strong room.
    The girl gazed after him for a moment, and then, faintly muttering, »Better
tyne life, since tint is good fame,« she sunk her head upon her hand, and
remained, seemingly, unconscious as a statue of the noise and tumult which
passed around her.
    That tumult was now transferred from the inside to the outside of the
Tolbooth. The mob had brought their destined victim forth, and were about to
conduct him to the common place of execution, which they had fixed as the scene
of his death. The leader, whom they distinguished by the name of Madge Wildfire,
had been summoned to assist at the procession by the impatient shouts of his
confederates.
    »I will insure you five hundred pounds,« said the unhappy man, grasping
Wildfire's hand, - »five hundred pounds for to save my life.«
    The other answered in the same undertone, and returning his grasp with one
equally convulsive, »Five hundredweight of coined gold should not save you. -
Remember Wilson!«
    A deep pause of a minute ensued, when Wildfire added, in a more composed
tone, »Make your peace with Heaven. - Where is the clergyman?«
    Butler, who in great terror and anxiety, had been detained within a few
yards of the Tolbooth door, to wait the event of the search after Porteous, was
now brought forward, and commanded to walk by the prisoner's side, and to
prepare him for immediate death. His answer was a supplication that the rioters
would consider what they did. »You are neither judges nor jury,« said he. »You
cannot have, by the laws of God or man, power to take away the life of a human
creature, however deserving he may be of death. If it is murder even in a lawful
magistrate to execute an offender otherwise than in the place, time, and manner
which the judges' sentence prescribes, what must it be in you, who have no
warrant for interference but your own wills? In the name of Him who is all
mercy, show mercy to this unhappy man, and do not dip your hands in his blood,
nor rush into the very crime which you are desirous of avenging!«
    »Cut your sermon short - you are not in your pulpit,« answered one of the
rioters.
    »If we hear more of your clavers,« said another, »we are like to hang you up
beside him.«
    »Peace - hush!« said Wildfire. »Do the good man no harm - he discharges his
conscience, and I like him the better.«
    He then addressed Butler. »Now, sir, we have patiently heard you, and we
just wish you to understand, in the way of answer, that you may as well argue to
the ashlar-work and iron stanchels of the Tolbooth as think to change our
purpose - Blood must have blood. We have sworn to each other by the deepest
oaths ever were pledged, that Porteous shall die the death he deserves so
richly; therefore, speak no more to us, but prepare him for death as well as the
briefness of his change will permit.«
    They had suffered the unfortunate Porteous to put on his night-gown and
slippers, as he had thrown off his coat and shoes, in order to facilitate his
attempted escape up the chimney. In this garb he was now mounted on the hands of
two of the rioters, clasped together, so as to form what is called in Scotland,
»The King's Cushion.« Butler was placed close to his side, and repeatedly urged
to perform a duty always the most painful which can be imposed on a clergyman
deserving of the name, and now rendered more so by the peculiar and horrid
circumstances of the criminal's case. Porteous at first uttered some
supplications for mercy, but when he found that there was no chance that these
would be attended to, his military education, and the natural stubbornness of
his disposition, combined to support his spirits.
    »Are you prepared for this dreadful end?« said Butler, in a faltering voice.
»O turn to Him, in whose eyes time and space have no existence, and to whom a
few minutes are as a lifetime, and a lifetime as a minute.«
    »I believe I know what you would say,« answered Porteous sullenly. »I was
bred a soldier; if they will murder me without time, let my sins as well as my
blood lie at their door.«
    »Who was it,« said the stern voice of Wildfire, »that said to Wilson at this
very spot, when he could not pray, owing to the galling agony of his fetters,
that his pains would soon be over? - I say to you to take your own tale home;
and if you cannot profit by the good man's lessons, blame not them that are
still more merciful to you than you were to others.«
    The procession now moved forward with a slow and determined pace. It was
enlightened by many blazing links and torches; for the actors of this work were
so far from affecting any secrecy on the occasion, that they seemed even to
court observation. Their principal leaders kept close to the person of the
prisoner, whose pallid yet stubborn features were seen distinctly by the
torch-light, as his person was raised considerably above the concourse which
thronged around him. Those who bore swords, muskets, and battle-axes, marched on
each side, as if forming a regular guard to the procession. The windows, as they
went along, were filled with the inhabitants, whose slumbers had been broken by
this unusual disturbance. Some of the spectators muttered accents of
encouragement; but in general they were so much appalled by a sight so strange
and audacious, that they looked on with a sort of stupefied astonishment. No one
offered, by act or word, the slightest interruption.
    The rioters, on their part, continued to act with the same air of deliberate
confidence and security which had marked all their proceedings. When the object
of their resentment dropped one of his slippers, they stopped, sought for it,
and replaced it upon his foot with great deliberation.12 As they descended the
Bow towards the fatal spot where they designed to complete their purpose, it was
suggested that there should be a rope kept in readiness. For this purpose the
booth of a man who dealt in cordage was forced open, a coil of rope fit for
their purpose was selected to serve as a halter, and the dealer next morning
found that a guinea had been left on his counter in exchange; so anxious were
the perpetrators of this daring action to show that they meditated not the
slightest wrong or infraction of law, excepting so far as Porteous was himself
concerned.
    Leading, or carrying along with them, in this determined and regular manner,
the object of their vengeance, they at length reached the place of common
execution, the scene of his crime, and destined spot of his sufferings. Several
of the rioters (if they should not rather be described as conspirators)
endeavoured to remove the stone which filled up the socket in which the end of
the fatal tree was sunk when it was erected for its fatal purpose; others sought
for the means of constructing a temporary gibbet, the place in which the gallows
itself was deposited being reported too secure to be forced, without much loss
of time. Butler endeavoured to avail himself of the delay afforded by these
circumstances, to turn the people from their desperate design. »For God's sake,«
he exclaimed, »remember it is the image of your Creator which you are about to
deface in the person of this unfortunate man! Wretched as he is, and wicked as
he may be, he has a share in every promise of Scripture, and you cannot destroy
him in impenitence without blotting his name from the Book of Life - Do not
destroy soul and body; give time for preparation.«
    »What time had they,« returned a stern voice, »whom he murdered on this very
spot? - The laws both of God and man call for his death.«
    »But what, my friends,« insisted Butler, with a generous disregard to his
own safety - »what hath constituted you his judges?«
    »We are not his judges,« replied the same person; »he has been already
judged and condemned by lawful authority. We are those whom Heaven, and our
righteous anger, have stirred up to execute judgment, when a corrupt Government
would have protected a murderer.«
    »I am none,« said the unfortunate Porteous; »that which you charge upon me
fell out in self-defence, in the lawful exercise of my duty.«
    »Away with him - away with him!« was the general cry. »Why do you trifle
away time in making a gallows? - that dyester's pole is good enough for the
homicide.«
    The unhappy man was forced to his fate with remorseless rapidity. Butler,
separated from him by the press, escaped the last horrors of his struggles.
Unnoticed by those who had hitherto detained him as a prisoner, he fled from the
fatal spot, without much caring in what direction his course lay. A loud shout
proclaimed the stern delight with which the agents of this deed regarded its
completion. Butler, then, at the opening into the low street called the Cowgate,
cast back a terrified glance, and, by the red and dusky light of the torches, he
could discern a figure wavering and struggling as it hung suspended above the
heads of the multitude, and could even observe men striking at it with their
Lochaber-axes and partisans. The sight was of a nature to double his horror, and
to add wings to his flight.
    The street down which the fugitive ran opens to one of the eastern ports or
gates of the city. Butler did not stop till he reached it, but found it still
shut. He waited nearly an hour, walking up and down in inexpressible
perturbation of mind. At length he ventured to call out, and rouse the attention
of the terrified keepers of the gate, who now found themselves at liberty to
resume their office without interruption. Butler requested them to open the
gate. They hesitated. He told them his name and occupation.
    »He is a preacher,« said one; »I have heard him preach in Haddo's-hole.«
    »A fine preaching has he been at the night,« said another; »but maybe least
said is sunest mended.«
    Opening then the wicket of the main gate, the keepers suffered Butler to
depart, who hastened to carry his horror and fear beyond the walls of Edinburgh.
His first purpose was instantly to take the road homeward; but other fears and
cares, connected with the news he had learned in that remarkable day, induced
him to linger in the neighbourhood of Edinburgh until daybreak. More than one
group of persons passed him as he was whiling away the hours of darkness that
yet remained, whom, from the stifled tones of their discourse, the unwonted hour
when they travelled, and the hasty pace at which they walked, he conjectured to
have been engaged in the late fatal transaction.
    Certain it was, that the sudden and total dispersion of the rioters, when
their vindictive purpose was accomplished, seemed not the least remarkable
feature of this singular affair. In general, whatever may be the impelling
motive by which a mob is at first raised, the attainment of their object has
usually been only found to lead the way to farther excesses. But not so in the
present case. They seemed completely satiated with the vengeance they had
prosecuted with such stanch and sagacious activity. When they were fully
satisfied that life had abandoned their victim, they dispersed in every
direction, throwing down the weapons which they had only assumed to enable them
to carry through their purpose. At daybreak there remained not the least token
of the events of the night, excepting the corpse of Porteous, which still hung
suspended in the place where he had suffered, and the arms of various kinds
which the rioters had taken from the city guard-house, which were found
scattered about the streets as they had thrown them from their hands when the
purpose for which they had seized them was accomplished.
    The ordinary magistrates of the city resumed their power, not without
trembling at the late experience of the fragility of its tenure. To march troops
into the city, and commence a severe inquiry into the transactions of the
preceding night, were the first marks of returning energy which they displayed.
But these events had been conducted on so secure and well-calculated a plan of
safety and secrecy, that there was little or nothing learned to throw light upon
the authors or principal actors in a scheme so audacious. An express was
despatched to London with the tidings, where they excited great indignation and
surprise in the council of regency, and particularly in the bosom of Queen
Caroline, who considered her own authority as exposed to contempt by the success
of this singular conspiracy. Nothing was spoke of for some time save the measure
of vengeance which should be taken, not only on the actors of this tragedy, so
soon as they should be discovered, but upon the magistrates who had suffered it
to take place, and upon the city which had been the scene where it was
exhibited. On this occasion, it is still recorded in popular tradition, that her
Majesty, in the height of her displeasure, told the celebrated John Duke of
Argyle, that, sooner than submit to such an insult, she would make Scotland a
hunting-field. »In that case, Madam,« answered that high-spirited nobleman, with
a profound bow, »I will take leave of your Majesty, and go down to my own
country to get my hounds ready.«
    The import of the reply had more than met the ear; and as most of the
Scottish nobility and gentry seemed actuated by the same national spirit, the
royal displeasure was necessarily checked in mid-volley, and milder courses were
recommended and adopted, to some of which we may hereafter have occasion to
advert.13
 

                                Chapter Seventh

 Arthur's Seat shall be my bed,
 The sheets shall ne'er be pressed by me,
 St. Anton's well shall be my drink,
 Sin' my true-love's forsaken me.
                                                                       Old Song.
 
If I were to choose a spot from which the rising or setting sun could be seen to
the greatest possible advantage, it would be that wild path winding around the
foot of the high belt of semicircular rocks, called Salisbury Crags, and marking
the verge of the steep descent which slopes down into the glen on the
south-eastern side of the city of Edinburgh. The prospect, in its general
outline, commands a close-built, high-piled city, stretching itself out beneath
in a form, which, to a romantic imagination, may be supposed to represent that
of a dragon; now, a noble arm of the sea, with its rocks, isles, distant shores,
and boundary of mountains; and now, a fair and fertile champaign country, varied
with hill, dale, and rock, and skirted by the picturesque ridge of the Pentland
mountains. But as the path gently circles around the base of the cliffs, the
prospect, composed as it is of these enchanting and sublime objects, changes at
every step, and presents them blended with, or divided from, each other, in
every possible variety which can gratify the eye and the imagination. When a
piece of scenery so beautiful, yet so varied, - so exciting by its intricacy,
and yet so sublime, - is lighted up by the tints of morning or of evening, and
displays all that variety of shadowy depth, exchanged with partial brilliancy,
which gives character even to the tamest of landscapes, the effect approaches
near to enchantment. This path used to be my favourite evening and morning
resort, when engaged with a favourite author, or new subject of study. It is, I
am informed, now become totally impassable; a circumstance which, if true,
reflects little credit on the taste of the Good Town or its leaders.14
    It was from this fascinating path - the scene to me of so much delicious
musing, when life was young and promised to be happy, that I have been unable to
pass it over without an episodical description - it was, I say, from this
romantic path that Butler saw the morning arise the day after the murder of
Porteous. It was possible for him with ease to have found a much shorter road to
the house to which he was directing his course, and, in fact, that which he
chose was extremely circuitous. But to compose his own spirits, as well as to
while away the time, until a proper hour for visiting the family without
surprise or disturbance, he was induced to extend his circuit by the foot of the
rocks, and to linger upon his way until the morning should be considerably
advanced. While, now standing with his arms across, and waiting the slow
progress of the sun above the horizon, now sitting upon one of the numerous
fragments which storms had detached from the rocks above him, he is meditating,
alternately upon the horrible catastrophe which he had witnessed, and upon the
melancholy, and to him most interesting, news which he had learned at
Saddletree's, we will give the reader to understand who Butler was, and how his
fate was connected with that of Effie Deans, the unfortunate handmaiden of the
careful Mrs. Saddletree.
    Reuben Butler was of English extraction, though born in Scotland. His
grandfather was a trooper in Monk's army, and one of the party of dismounted
dragoons which formed the forlorn hope at the storming of Dundee in 1651.
Stephen Butler (called from his talents in reading and expounding, Scripture
Stephen, and Bible Butler) was a stanch Independent, and received in its fullest
comprehension the promise that the saints should inherit the earth. As hard
knocks were what had chiefly fallen to his share hitherto in the division of
this common property, he lost not the opportunity which the storm and plunder of
a commercial place afforded him, to appropriate as large a share of the better
things of this world as he could possibly compass. It would seem that he had
succeeded indifferently well, for his exterior circumstances appeared, in
consequence of this event, to have been much mended.
    The troop to which he belonged was quartered at the village of Dalkeith, as
forming the body-guard of Monk, who, in the capacity of general for the
Commonwealth, resided in the neighbouring castle. When, on the eve of the
Restoration, the general commenced his march from Scotland, a measure pregnant
with such important consequences, he new-modelled his troops, and more
especially those immediately about his person, in order that they might consist
entirely of individuals devoted to himself. On this occasion Scripture Stephen
was weighed in the balance, and found wanting. It was supposed he felt no call
to any expedition which might endanger the reign of the military sainthood, and
that he did not consider himself as free in conscience to join with any party
which might be likely ultimately to acknowledge the interest of Charles Stuart,
the son of »the last man,« as Charles I. was familiarly and irreverently termed
by them in their common discourse, as well as in their more elaborate
predications and harangues. As the time did not admit of cashiering such
dissidents, Stephen Butler was only advised in a friendly way to give up his
horse and accoutrements to one of Middleton's old troopers who possessed an
accommodating conscience of a military stamp, and which squared itself chiefly
upon those of the colonel and paymaster. As this hint came recommended by a
certain sum of arrears presently payable, Stephen had carnal wisdom enough to
embrace the proposal, and with great indifference saw his old corps depart for
Coldstream, on their route for the south, to establish the tottering Government
of England on a new basis.
    The zone of the ex-trooper, to use Horace's phrase, was weighty enough to
purchase a cottage and two or three fields (still known by the name of
Beersheba), within about a Scottish mile of Dalkeith; and there did Stephen
establish himself with a youthful helpmate, chosen out of the said village,
whose disposition to a comfortable settlement on this side of the grave
reconciled her to the gruff manners, serious temper, and weather-beaten features
of the martial enthusiast. Stephen did not long survive the falling on »evil
days and evil tongues,« of which Milton, in the same predicament, so mournfully
complains. At his death his consort remained an early widow, with a male child
of three years old, which, in the sobriety wherewith it demeaned itself, in the
old-fashioned and even grim cast of its features, and in its sententious mode of
expressing itself, would sufficiently have vindicated the honour of the widow of
Beersheba, had any one thought proper to challenge the babe's descent from Bible
Butler.
    Butler's principles had not descended to his family, or extended themselves
among his neighbours. The air of Scotland was alien to the growth of
independency, however favourable to fanaticism under other colours. But,
nevertheless, they were not forgotten; and a certain neighbouring Laird, who
piqued himself upon the loyalty of his principles »in the worst of times«
(though I never heard they exposed him to more peril than that of a broken head,
or a night's lodging in the main guard, when wine and cavalierism predominated
in his upper storey), had found it a convenient thing to rake up all matter of
accusation against the deceased Stephen. In this enumeration his religious
principles made no small figure, as, indeed, they must have seemed of the most
exaggerated enormity to one whose own were so small and so faintly traced, as to
be well nigh imperceptible. In these circumstances, poor widow Butler was
supplied with her full proportion of fines for nonconformity, and all the other
oppressions of the time, until Beersheba was fairly wrenched out of her hands,
and became the property of the Laird who had so wantonly, as it had hitherto
appeared, persecuted this poor forlorn woman. When his purpose was fairly
achieved, he showed some remorse or moderation, of whatever the reader may
please to term it, in permitting her to occupy her husband's cottage, and
cultivate, on no very heavy terms, a croft of land adjacent. Her son, Benjamin,
in the meanwhile, grew up to man's estate, and, moved by that impulse which
makes men seek marriage, even when its end can only be the perpetuation of
misery, he wedded and brought a wife, and, eventually, a son, Reuben, to share
the poverty of Beersheba.
    The Laird of Dumbiedikes15 had hitherto been moderate in his exactions,
perhaps because he was ashamed to tax too highly the miserable means of support
which remained to the widow Butler. But when a stout active young fellow
appeared as the labourer of the croft in question, Dumbiedikes began to think so
broad a pair of shoulders might bear an additional burden. He regulated, indeed,
his management of his dependants (who fortunately were but few in number) much
upon the principle of the carters whom he observed loading their carts at a
neighbouring coal-hill, and who never failed to clap an additional brace of
hundredweights on their burden, so soon as by any means they had compassed a new
horse of somewhat superior strength to that which had broken down the day
before. However reasonable this practice appeared to the Laird of Dumbiedikes,
he ought to have observed, that it may be overdone, and that it infers, as a
matter of course, the destruction and loss of both horse, and cart, and loading.
Even so it befell when the additional »prestations« came to be demanded of
Benjamin Butler. A man of few words, and few ideas, but attached to Beersheba
with a feeling like that which a vegetable entertains to the spot in which it
chances to be planted, he neither remonstrated with the Laird, nor endeavoured
to escape from him, but, toiling night and day to accomplish the terms of his
task-master, fell into a burning fever and died. His wife did not long survive
him; and, as if it had been the fate of this family to be left orphans, our
Reuben Butler was, about the year 1704-5, left in the same circumstances in
which his father had been placed, and under the same guardianship, being that of
his grandmother, the widow of Monk's old trooper.
    The same prospect of misery hung over the head of another tenant of this
hard-hearted lord of the soil. This was a tough true-blue Presbyterian, called
Deans, who, though most obnoxious to the Laird on account of principles in
church and state, contrived to maintain his ground upon the estate by regular
payment of mail-duties, kain, arriage, carriage, dry multure, lock, gowpen, and
knaveship, and all the various exactions now commuted for money, and summed up
in the emphatic word RENT. But the years 1700 and 1701, long remembered in
Scotland for dearth and general distress, subdued the stout heart of the
agricultural whig. Citations by the ground-officer, decreets of the Baron Court,
sequestrations, poindings of outside and inside plenishing, flew about his ears
as fast as the tory bullets whistled around those of the Covenanters at
Pentland, Bothwell Brigg, or Airsmoss. Struggle as he might, and he struggled
gallantly, »Douce David Deans« was routed horse and foot, and lay at the mercy
of his grasping landlord just at the time that Benjamin Butler died. The fate of
each family was anticipated; but they who prophesied their expulsion to beggary
and ruin were disappointed by an accidental circumstance.
    On the very term-day when their ejection should have taken place, when all
their neighbours were prepared to pity, and not one to assist them, the minister
of the parish, as well as a doctor from Edinburgh, received a hasty summons to
attend the Laird of Dumbiedikes. Both were surprised, for his contempt for both
faculties had been pretty commonly his theme over an extra bottle, that is to
say, at least once every day. The leech for the soul, and he for the body,
alighted in the court of the little old manor-house at almost the same time; and
when they had gazed a moment at each other with some surprise, they in the same
breath expressed their conviction that Dumbiedikes must needs be very ill
indeed, since he summoned them both to his presence at once. Ere the servant
could usher them to his apartment, the party was augmented by a man of law,
Nichil Novit, writing himself procurator before the sheriff-court, for in those
days there were no solicitors. This latter personage was first summoned to the
apartment of the Laird, where, after some short space, the soul-curer and the
body-curer were invited to join him.
    Dumbiedikes had been by this time transported into the best bedroom, used
only upon occasions of death and marriage, and called, from the former of these
occupations, the Dead-Room. There were in this apartment, besides the sick
person himself and Mr. Novit, the son and heir of the patient, a tall gawky
silly-looking boy of fourteen or fifteen, and a housekeeper, a good buxom figure
of a woman, betwixt forty and fifty, who had kept the keys and managed matters
at Dumbiedikes since the lady's death. It was to these attendants that
Dumbiedikes addressed himself pretty nearly in the following words; temporal and
spiritual matters, the care of his health and his affairs, being strangely
jumbled in a head which was never one of the clearest.
    »These are sair times wi' me, gentlemen and neighbours! amaist as ill as at
the aughty-nine, when I was rabbled by the collegeaners.16 - They mistook me
muckle - they ca'd me a papist, but there was never a papist bit about me,
minister. - Jock, ye'll take warning - it's a debt we maun a' pay, and there
stands Nichil Novit that will tell ye I was never good at paying debts in my
life. - Mr. Novit, ye'll no forget to draw the annual rent that's due on the
yerl's band - if I pay debt to other folk, I think they should pay it to me - that
equals aquals. - Jock, when ye hae nothing else to do, ye may be aye sticking
in a tree; it will be growing, Jock, when ye're sleeping.17 My father told me
sae forty years sin', but I ne'er fand time to mind him - Jock, ne'er drink
brandy in the morning, it files the stamach sair; gin ye take a morning's
draught, let it be aqua mirabilis; Jenny there makes it well. - Doctor, my
breath is growing as scant as a broken-winded piper's, when he has played for
four-and-twenty hours at a penny wedding - Jenny, pit the cod aneath my head -
but it's a' needless! - Mass John, could ye think o' rattling ower some bit
short prayer, it wad do me good maybe, and keep some queer thoughts out o' my
head. Say something, man.«
    »I cannot use a prayer like a rat-rhyme,« answered the honest clergyman,
»and if you would have your soul redeemed like a prey from the fowler, Laird,
you must needs show me your state of mind.«
    »And shouldna ye ken that without my telling you?« answered the patient.
»What have I been paying stipend and teind, parsonage and vicarage, for, ever
sin' the aughty-nine, and I canna get a spell of a prayer for't, the only time I
ever asked for ane in my life? - Gang away wi' your whiggery, if that's a' ye can
do; auld Curate Kilstoup wad hae read half the prayer-book to me by this time -
Awa wi' ye! - Doctor, let's see if ye can do anything better for me.«
    The doctor, who had obtained some information in the meanwhile from the
housekeeper on the state of his complaints, assured him the medical art could
not prolong his life many hours.
    »Then damn Mass John and you baith!« cried the furious and intractable
patient. »Did ye come here for nothing but to tell me that ye canna help me at
the pinch? Out wi' them, Jenny - out o' the house! and, Jock, my curse, and the
curse of Cromwell, go wi' ye, if ye give them either fee or bountith, or sae
muckle as a black pair o' cheverons!«18
    The clergyman and doctor made a speedy retreat out of the apartment, while
Dumbiedikes fell into one of those transports of violent and profane language,
which had procured him the surname of Damn-me-dikes. »Bring me the brandy
bottle, Jenny, ye b --,« he cried, with a voice in which passion contended with
pain. »I can die as I have lived, without fashing ony o' them. But there's ae
thing,« he said, sinking his voice - »there's ae fearful thing hings about my
heart, and an anker of brandy winna wash it away. - The Deanses at Woodend! - I
sequestrated them in the dear years, and now they are to flit, they'll starve -
and that Beersheba, and that auld trooper's wife and her oe, they'll starve -
they'll starve! - Look out, Jock; what kind o' night is't?«
    »On-ding o' snaw, father,« answered Jock, after having opened the window,
and looked out with great composure.
    »They'll perish in the drifts!« said the expiring sinner - »they'll perish
wi' cauld! - but I'll be het enough, gin a' tales be true.«
    This last observation was made under breath, and in a tone which made the
very attorney shudder. He tried his hand at ghostly advice, probably for the
first time in his life, and recommended, as an opiate for the agonised
conscience of the Laird, reparation of the injuries he had done to these
distressed families, which, he observed by the way, the civil law called
restitutio in integrum. But Mammon was struggling with Remorse for retaining his
place in a bosom he had so long possessed; and he partly succeeded, as an old
tyrant proves often too strong for his insurgent rebels.
    »I canna do't,« he answered, with a voice of despair. »It would kill me to
do't - how can ye bid me pay back siller, when ye ken how I want it? or dispone
Beersheba, when it lies sae well into my ain plaid-nuik? Nature made Dumbiedikes
and Beersheba to be ae man's land - She did, by -. Nichil, it wad kill me to
part them.«
    »But ye maun die whether or no, Laird,« said Mr. Novit; »and maybe ye wad
die easier - it's but trying. I'll scroll the disposition in nae time.«
    »Dinna speak o't, sir,« replied Dumbiedikes, »or I'll fling the stoup at
your head. - But, Jock, lad, ye see how the warld warstles wi' me on my deathbed
- be kind to the puir creatures, the Deanses and the Butlers - be kind to them,
Jock. Dinna let the warld get a grip o' ye, Jock - but keep the gear thegither!
and whate'er ye do, dispone Beersheba at no rate. Let the creatures stay at a
moderate mailing, and hae bite and soup; it will maybe be the better wi' your
father whare he's gaun, lad.«
    After these contradictory instructions, the Laird felt his mind so much at
ease, that he drank three bumpers of brandy continuously, and »soughed away,« as
Jenny expressed it, in an attempt to sing »Deil stick the Minister.«
    His death made a revolution in favour of the distressed families. John
Dumbie, now of Dumbiedikes, in his own right, seemed to be close and selfish
enough, but wanted the grasping spirit and active mind of his father; and his
guardian happened to agree with him in opinion, that his father's dying
recommendation should be attended to. The tenants, therefore, were not actually
turned out of doors among the snow-wreaths, and were allowed wherewith to
procure butter-milk and peas-bannocks, which they ate under the full force of
the original malediction. The cottage of Deans, called Woodend, was not very
distant from that at Beersheba. Formerly there had been but little intercourse
between the families. Deans was a sturdy Scotsman, with all sort of prejudices
against the southern, and the spawn of the southern. Moreover, Deans was, as we
have said, a stanch Presbyterian, of the most rigid and unbending adherence to
what he conceived to be the only possible straight line, as he was wont to
express himself, between right-hand heats and extremes and left-hand defections;
and, therefore, he held in high dread and horror all Independents, and
whomsoever he supposed allied to them.
    But, notwithstanding these national prejudices and religious professions,
Deans and the widow Butler were placed in such a situation, as naturally and at
length created some intimacy between the families. They had shared a common
danger and a mutual deliverance. They needed each other's assistance, like a
company, who, crossing a mountain stream, are compelled to cling close together,
lest the current should be too powerful for any who are not thus supported.
    On nearer acquaintance, too. Deans abated some of his prejudices. He found
old Mrs. Butler, though not thoroughly grounded in the extent and bearing of the
real testimony against the defections of the times, had no opinions in favour of
the Independent party; neither was she an Englishwoman. Therefore, it was to be
hoped, that, though she was the widow of an enthusiastic corporal of Cromwell's
dragoons, her grandson might be neither schismatic nor anti-national, two
qualities concerning which Goodman Deans had as wholesome a terror as against
papists and malignants. Above all (for Douce Davie Deans had his weak side), he
perceived that widow Butler looked up to him with reverence, listened to his
advice, and compounded for an occasional fling at the doctrines of her deceased
husband, to which, as we have seen, she was by no means warmly attached, in
consideration of the valuable counsels which the Presbyterian afforded her for
the management of her little farm. These usually concluded with »they may do
otherwise in England, neighbour Butler, for aught I ken;« or, »it may be
different in foreign parts;« or, »they what think differently on the great
foundation of our covenanted reformation, overturning and mishguggling the
government and discipline of the kirk, and breaking down the carved work of our
Zion, might be for sawing the craft wi' aits; but I say peace, peace.« And as
his advice was shrewd and sensible, though conceitedly given, it was received
with gratitude, and followed with respect.
    The intercourse which took place betwixt the families at Beersheba and
Woodend became strict and intimate, at a very early period, betwixt Reuben
Butler, with whom the reader is already in some degree acquainted, and Jeanie
Deans, the only child of Douce Davie Deans by his first wife, »that singular
Christian woman,« as he was wont to express himself, »whose name was savoury to
all that knew her for a desirable professor, Christian Menzies in Hochmagirdle.«
The manner of which intimacy, and the consequences thereof, we now proceed to
relate.
 

                                 Chapter Eighth

 Reuben and Rachel, though as fond as doves,
 Were yet discreet and cautious in their loves,
 Nor would attend to Cupid's wild commands,
 Till cool reflection bade them join their hands;
 When both were poor, they thought it argued ill
 Of hasty love to make them poorer still.
                                                       Crabbe's Parish Register.
 
While widow Butler and widower Deans struggled with poverty, and the hard and
sterile soil of »those parts and portions« of the lands of Dumbiedikes which it
was their lot to occupy, it became gradually apparent that Deans was to gain the
strife, and his ally in the conflict was to lose it. The former was a man, and
not much past the prime of life - Mrs. Butler a woman, and declined into the
vale of years. This, indeed, ought in time to have been balanced by the
circumstance, that Reuben was growing up to assist his grandmother's labours,
and that Jeanie Deans, as a girl, could be only supposed to add to her father's
burdens. But Douce Davie Deans knew better things, and so schooled and trained
the young minion, as he called her, that from the time she could walk, upwards,
she was daily employed in some task or other, suitable to her age and capacity;
a circumstance which, added to her father's daily instructions and lectures,
tended to give her mind, even when a child, a grave, serious, firm, and
reflecting cast. An uncommonly strong and healthy temperament, free from all
nervous affection and every other irregularity, which, attacking the body in its
more noble functions, so often influences the mind, tended greatly to establish
this fortitude, simplicity, and decision of character.
    On the other hand, Reuben was weak in constitution, and, though not timid in
temper might be safely pronounced anxious, doubtful, and apprehensive. He
partook of the temperament of his mother, who had died of a consumption in early
age. He was a pale, thin, feeble, sickly boy, and somewhat lame, from an
accident in early youth. He was, besides, the child of a doting grandmother,
whose too solicitous attention to him soon taught him a sort of diffidence in
himself, with a disposition to overrate his own importance, which is one of the
very worst consequences that children deduce from over-indulgence.
    Still, however, the two children clung to each other's society, not more
from habit than from taste. They herded together the handful of sheep, with the
two or three cows, which their parents turned out rather to seek food than
actually to feed upon the unenclosed common of Dumbiedikes. It was there that
the two urchins might be seen seated beneath a blooming bush of whin, their
little faces laid close together under the shadow of the same plaid drawn over
both their heads, while the landscape around was embrowned by an overshadowing
cloud, big with the shower which had driven the children to shelter. On other
occasions they went together to school, the boy receiving that encouragement and
example from his companion, in crossing the little brooks which intersected
their path, and encountering cattle, dogs, and other perils, upon their journey,
which the male sex in such cases usually consider it as their prerogative to
extend to the weaker. But when, seated on the benches of the school-house, they
began to con their lessons together, Reuben, who was as much superior to Jeanie
Deans in acuteness of intellect, as inferior to her in firmness of constitution,
and in that insensibility to fatigue and danger which depends on the
conformation of the nerves, was able fully to requite the kindness and
countenance with which, in other circumstances, she used to regard him. He was
decidedly the best scholar at the little parish school; and so gentle was his
temper and disposition, that he was rather admired than envied by the little mob
who occupied the noisy mansion, although he was the declared favourite of the
master. Several girls, in particular (for in Scotland they are taught with the
boys), longed to be kind to and comfort the sickly lad, who was so much cleverer
than his companions. The character of Reuben Butler was so calculated as to
offer scope both for their sympathy and their admiration, the feelings, perhaps,
through which the female sex (the more deserving part of them at least) is more
easily attached.
    But Reuben, naturally reserved and distant, improved none of these
advantages; and only became more attached to Jeanie Deans, as the enthusiastic
approbation of his master assured him of fair prospects in future life, and
awakened his ambition. In the meantime, every advance that Reuben made in
learning (and, considering his opportunities, they were uncommonly great)
rendered him less capable of attending to the domestic duties of his
grandmother's farm. While studying the pons asinorum in Euclid, he suffered
every cuddie upon the common to trespass upon a large field of peas belonging to
the Laird, and nothing but the active exertions of Jeanie Deans, with her little
dog Dustiefoot, could have saved great loss and consequent punishment. Similar
miscarriages marked his progress in his classical studies. He read Virgil's
Georgics till he did not know bere from barley; and had nearly destroyed the
crofts of Beersheba while attempting to cultivate them according to the practice
of Columella and Cato the Censor.
    These blunders occasioned grief to his grand-dame, and disconcerted the good
opinion which her neighbour, Davie Deans, had for some time entertained of
Reuben.
    »I see nothing ye can make of that silly callant, neighbour Butler,« said
he to the old lady, »unless ye train him to the wark o' the ministry. And ne'er
was there mair need of poorfu' preachers than e'en now in these cauld Gallio
days, when men's hearts are hardened like the nether mill-stone, till they come
to regard none of these things. It's evident this puir callant of yours will
never be able to do an usefu' day's wark, unless it be as an ambassador from our
Master; and I will make it my business to procure a license when he is fit for
the same, trusting he will be a shaft cleanly polished, and meet to be used in
the body of the kirk; and that he shall not turn again, like the sow, to wallow
in the mire of heretical extremes and defections, but shall have the wings of a
dove, though he hath lain among the pots.«
    The poor widow gulped down the affront to her husband's principles, implied
in this caution, and hastened to take Butler from the High School, and encourage
him in the pursuit of mathematics and divinity, the only physics and ethics that
chanced to be in fashion at the time.
    Jeanie Deans was now compelled to part from the companion of her labour, her
study, and her pastime, and it was with more than childish feeling that both
children regarded the separation. But they were young, and hope was high, and
they separated like those who hope to meet again at a more auspicious hour.
    While Reuben Butler was acquiring at the University of St. Andrews the
knowledge necessary for a clergyman, and macerating his body with the privations
which were necessary in seeking food for his mind, his grand-dame became daily
less able to struggle with her little farm, and was at length obliged to throw
it up to the new Laird of Dumbiedikes. That great personage was no absolute Jew,
and did not cheat her in making the bargain more than was tolerable. He even
gave her permission to tenant the house in which she had lived with her husband,
as long as it should be »tenantable;« only he protested against paying for a
farthing of repairs, any benevolence which he possessed being of the passive,
but by no means of the active mood.
    In the meanwhile, from superior shrewdness, skill, and other circumstances,
some of them purely accidental, Davie Deans gained a footing in the world, the
possession of some wealth, the reputation of more, and a growing disposition to
preserve and increase his store; for which, when he thought upon it seriously,
he was inclined to blame himself. From his knowledge in agriculture, as it was
then practised, he became a sort of favourite with the Laird, who had no great
pleasure either in active sports or in society, and was wont to end his daily
saunter by calling at the cottage of Woodend.
    Being himself a man of slow ideas and confused utterance, Dumbiedikes used
to sit or stand for half-an-hour with an old laced hat of his father's upon his
head, and an empty tobacco-pipe in his mouth, with his eyes following Jeanie
Deans, or »the lassie,« as he called her, through the course of her daily
domestic labour; while her father, after exhausting the subject of bestial, of
ploughs, and of harrows, often took an opportunity of going full-sail into
controversial subjects, to which discussions the dignitary listened with much
seeming patience, but without making any reply, or, indeed, as most people
thought, without understanding a single word of what the orator was saying.
Deans, indeed, denied this stoutly, as an insult at once to his own talents for
expounding hidden truths, of which he was a little vain, and to the Laird's
capacity of understanding them. He said, »Dumbiedikes was nane of these flashy
gentles, wi' lace on their skirts and swords at their tails, that were rather
for riding on horseback to hell than ganging barefooted to heaven. He wasna like
his father - nae profane company-keeper - nae swearer - nae drinker - nae
frequenter of play-house, or music-house, or dancing-house - nae Sabbath-breaker
- nae imposer of aiths, or bonds, or denier of liberty to the flock. - He clave
to the warld, and the warld's gear, a wee ower muckle, but then there was some
breathing of a gale upon his spirit,« etc. etc. All this honest Davie said and
believed.
    It is not to be supposed, that, by a father and a man of sense and
observation, the constant direction of the Laird's eyes towards Jeanie was
altogether unnoticed. This circumstance, however, made a much greater impression
upon another member of his family, a second helpmate, to wit, whom he had chosen
to take to his bosom ten years after the death of his first. Some people were of
opinion, that Douce Davie had been rather surprised into this step, for, in
general, he was no friend to marriages or giving in marriage, and seemed rather
to regard that state of society as a necessary evil, - a thing lawful, and to be
tolerated in the imperfect state of our nature, but which clipped the wings with
which we ought to soar upwards, and tethered the soul to its mansion of clay,
and the creature-comforts of wife and bairns. His own practice, however, had in
this material point varied from his principles, since, as we have seen, he twice
knitted for himself this dangerous and ensnaring entanglement.
    Rebecca, his spouse, had by no means the same horror of matrimony, and as
she made marriages in imagination for every neighbour round, she failed not to
indicate a match betwixt Dumbiedikes and her step-daughter Jeanie. The goodman
used regularly to frown and pshaw whenever this topic was touched upon, but
usually ended by taking his bonnet and walking out of the house, to conceal a
certain gleam of satisfaction, which, at such a suggestion, involuntarily
diffused itself over his austere features.
    The more youthful part of my readers may naturally ask, whether Jeanie Deans
was deserving of this mute attention of the Laird of Dumbiedikes; and the
historian, with due regard to veracity, is compelled to answer, that her
personal attractions were of no uncommon description. She was short, and rather
too stoutly made for her size, had grey eyes, light coloured hair, a round
good-humoured face, much tanned with the sun, and her only peculiar charm was an
air of inexpressible serenity, which a good conscience, kind feelings, contented
temper, and the regular discharge of all her duties, spread over her features.
There was nothing, it may be supposed, very appalling in the form or manners of
this rustic heroine; yet, whether from sheepish bashfulness, or from want of
decision and imperfect knowledge of his own mind on the subject, the Laird of
Dumbiedikes, with his old laced hat and empty tobacco-pipe, came and enjoyed the
beatific vision of Jeanie Deans day after day, week after week, year after year,
without proposing to accomplish any of the prophecies of the step-mother.
    This good lady began to grow doubly impatient on the subject, when after
having been some years married, she herself presented Douce Davie with another
daughter, who was named Euphemia, by corruption, Effie. It was then that Rebecca
began to turn impatient with the slow pace at which the Laird's wooing
proceeded, judiciously arguing, that, as Lady Dumbiedikes would have but little
occasion for tocher, the principal part of her gudeman's substance would
naturally descend to the child by the second marriage. Other step-dames have
tried less laudable means for clearing the way to the succession of their own
children; but Rebecca, to do her justice, only sought little Effie's advantage
through the promotion, or which must have generally been accounted such, of her
elder sister. She therefore tried every female art within the compass of her
simple skill, to bring the Laird to a point; but had the mortification to
perceive that her efforts, like those of an unskillful angler, only scared the
trout she meant to catch. Upon one occasion, in particular, when she joked with
the Laird on the propriety of giving a mistress to the house of Dumbiedikes, he
was so effectually startled, that neither laced hat, tobacco-pipe, nor the
intelligent proprietor of these movables, visited Woodend for a fortnight.
Rebecca was therefore compelled to leave the Laird to proceed at his own snail's
pace, convinced, by experience, of the grave-digger's aphorism, that your dull
ass will not mend his pace for beating.
    Reuben, in the meantime, pursued his studies at the university, supplying
his wants by teaching the younger lads the knowledge he himself acquired, and
thus at once gaining the means of maintaining himself at the seat of learning,
and fixing in his mind the elements of what he had already obtained. In this
manner, as is usual among the poorer students of divinity at Scottish
universities, he contrived not only to maintain himself according to his simple
wants, but even to send considerable assistance to his sole remaining parent, a
sacred duty, of which the Scotch are seldom negligent. His progress in knowledge
of a general kind, as well as in the studies proper to his profession, was very
considerable, but was little remarked, owing to the retired modesty of his
disposition, which in no respect qualified him to set off his learning to the
best advantage. And thus, had Butler been a man given to make complaints, he had
his tale to tell, like others, of unjust preferences, bad luck, and hard usage.
On these subjects, however, he was habitually silent, perhaps from modesty,
perhaps from a touch of pride, or perhaps from a conjunction of both.
    He obtained his license as a preacher of the gospel, with some compliments
from the Presbytery by whom it was bestowed; but this did not lead to any
preferment, and he found it necessary to make the cottage at Beersheba his
residence for some months, with no other income than was afforded by the
precarious occupation of teaching in one or other of the neighbouring families.
After having greeted his aged grandmother, his first visit was to Woodend, where
he was received by Jeanie with warm cordiality, arising from recollections which
had never been dismissed from her mind, by Rebecca with good-humoured
hospitality, and by old Deans in a mode peculiar to himself.
    Highly as Douce Davie honoured the clergy, it was not upon each individual
of the cloth that he bestowed his approbation; and, a little jealous, perhaps,
at seeing his youthful acquaintance erected into the dignity of a teacher and
preacher, he instantly attacked him upon various points of controversy, in order
to discover whether he might not have fallen into some of the snares,
defections, and desertions of the time. Butler was not only a man of stanch
Presbyterian principles, but was also willing to avoid giving pain to his old
friend by disputing upon points of little importance; and therefore he might
have hoped to have come like fine gold out of the furnace of Davie's
interrogatories. But the result on the mind of that strict investigator was not
altogether so favourable as might have been hoped and anticipated. Old Judith
Butler, who had hobbled that evening as far as Woodend, in order to enjoy the
congratulations of her neighbours upon Reuben's return, and upon his high
attainments, of which she was herself not a little proud, was somewhat mortified
to find that her old friend Deans did not enter into the subject with the warmth
she expected. At first, indeed, he seemed rather silent than dissatisfied; and
it was not till Judith had essayed the subject more than once that it led to the
following dialogue.
    »Aweel, neibor Deans, I thought ye wad hae been glad to see Reuben amang us
again, poor fellow.«
    »I am glad, Mrs. Butler,« was the neighbour's concise answer.
    »Since he has lost his grandfather and his father (praised be Him that
giveth and taketh!), I ken nae friend he his in the world that's been sae like a
father to him as the sell o' ye, neibor Deans.«
    »God is the only father of the fatherless,« said Deans, touching his bonnet
and looking upwards. »Give honour where it is due, gudewife, and not to an
unworthy instrument.«
    »Aweel, that's your way o' turning it, and nae doubt ye ken best; but I hae
ken'd ye, Davie, send a forpit o' meal to Beersheba when there wasna a bow left
in the meal-ark at Woodend; ay, and I hae ken'd ye« -
    »Gudewife,« said Davie, interrupting her, »these are but idle tales to tell
me; fit for nothing but to puff up our inward man wi' our ain vain acts. I
stude beside blessed Alexander Peden, when I heard him call the death and
testimony of our happy martyrs but draps of blude and scarts of ink in respect
of fitting discharge of our duty; and what should I think of ony thing the like of
me can do?«
    »Weel, neibor Deans, ye ken best; but I maun say that, I am sure you are
glad to see my bairn again - the halt's gone now, unless he has to walk ower
mony miles at a stretch; and he has a wee bit colour in his cheek, that glads my
auld een to see it; and he has as decent a black coat as the minister; and« -
    »I am very heartily glad he is well and thriving,« said Mr. Deans, with a
gravity that seemed intended to cut short the subject; but a woman who is bent
upon a point is not easily pushed aside from it.
    »And,« continued Mrs. Butler, »he can wag his head in a pulpit now, neibor
Deans, think but of that - my ain oe - and a'body maun sit still and listen to
him, as if he were the Paip of Rome.«
    »The what? - the who? - woman!« said Deans, with a sternness far beyond his
usual gravity, as soon as these offensive words had struck upon the tympanum of
his ear.
    »Eh, guide us!« said the poor woman; »I had forgot what an ill will ye had
aye at the Paip, and sae had my puir gudeman, Stephen Butler. Mony an afternoon
he wad sit and take up his testimony again the Paip, and again baptizing of
bairns, and the like.«
    »Woman!« reiterated Deans, »either speak about what ye ken something o', or
be silent; I say that independency is a foul heresy, and anabaptism a damnable
and deceiving error, whilk should be rooted out of the land wi' the fire o' the
spiritual, and the sword o' the civil magistrate.«
    »Weel, well, neibor, I'll no say that ye mayna be right,« answered the
submissive Judith. »I am sure ye are right about the sawing and the mawing, the
shearing and the leading, and what for should ye no be right about kirkwark, too?
- But concerning my oe, Reuben Butler« -
    »Reuben Butler, gudewife,« said David, with solemnity, »is a lad I wish
heartily well to, even as if he were mine ain son - but I doubt there will be
outs and ins in the track of his walk. I muckle fear his gifts will get the
heels of his grace. He has ower muckle human wit and learning, and thinks as
muckle about the form of the bicker as he does about the heal-someness of the
food - he maun broider the marriage-garment with lace and passments, or it's no
good enough for him. And it's like he's something proud o' his human gifts and
learning, whilk enables him to dress up his doctrine in that fine airy dress.
But,« added he, at seeing the old woman's uneasiness at his discourse,
»affliction may give him a jagg, and let the wind out o' him, as out o' a cow
that's eaten wet clover, and the lad may do well, and be a burning and a shining
light; and I trust it will be yours to see, and his to feel it, and that soon.«
    Widow Butler was obliged to retire, unable to make anything more of her
neighbour, whose discourse, though she did not comprehend it, filled her with
undefined apprehensions on her grandson's account, and greatly depressed the joy
with which she had welcomed him on his return. And it must not be concealed, in
justice to Mr. Deans's discernment, that Butler, in their conference, had made a
greater display of his learning than the occasion called for, or than was likely
to be acceptable to the old man, who, accustomed to consider himself as a person
preeminently entitled to dictate upon theological subjects of controversy, felt
rather humbled and mortified when learned authorities were placed in array
against him. In fact, Butler had not escaped the tinge of pedantry which
naturally flowed from his education, and was apt, on many occasions, to make
parade of his knowledge, when there was no need of such vanity.
    Jeanie Deans, however, found no fault with this display of learning, but, on
the contrary, admired it; perhaps on the same score that her sex are said to
admire men of courage, on account of their own deficiency in that qualification.
The circumstances of their families threw the young people constantly together;
their old intimacy was renewed, though upon a footing better adapted to their
age; and it became at length understood betwixt them, that their union should be
deferred no longer than until Butler should obtain some steady means of support,
however humble. This, however, was not a matter speedily to be accomplished.
Plan after plan was formed, and plan after plan failed. The good-humoured cheek
of Jeanie lost the first flush of juvenile freshness; Reuben's brow assumed the
gravity of manhood, yet the means of obtaining a settlement seemed remote as
ever. Fortunately for the lovers, their passion was of no ardent or enthusiastic
cast; and a sense of duty on both sides induced them to bear, with patient
fortitude, the protracted interval which divided them from each other.
    In the meanwhile, time did not roll on without effecting his usual changes.
The widow of Stephen Butler, so long the prop of the family of Beersheba, was
gathered to her fathers; and Rebecca, the careful spouse of our friend Davie
Deans, was also summoned from her plans of matrimonial and domestic economy. The
morning after her death, Reuben Butler went to offer his mite of consolation to
his old friend and benefactor. He witnessed, on this occasion, a remarkable
struggle betwixt the force of natural affection and the religious stoicism which
the sufferer thought it was incumbent upon him to maintain under each earthly
dispensation, whether of weal or woe.
    On his arrival at the cottage, Jeanie, with her eyes overflowing with tears,
pointed to the little orchard, »in which,« she whispered with broken accents,
»my poor father has been since his misfortune.« Somewhat alarmed at this
account, Butler entered the orchard, and advanced slowly towards his old friend,
who, seated in a small rude arbour, appeared to be sunk in the extremity of his
affliction. He lifted his eyes somewhat sternly as Butler approached, as if
offended at the interruption; but as the young man hesitated whether he ought to
retreat or advance, he arose, and came forward to meet him with a
self-possessed, and even dignified air.
    »Young man,« said the sufferer, »lay it not to heart, though the righteous
perish, and the merciful are removed, seeing, it may well be said, that they are
taken away from the evils to come. Woe to me were I to shed a tear for the wife
of my bosom, when I might weep rivers of water for this afflicted Church, cursed
as it is with carnal seekers, and with the dead of heart.«
    »I am happy,« said Butler, »that you can forget your private affliction in
your regard for public duty.«
    »Forget, Reuben?« said poor Deans, putting his handkerchief to his eyes -
»She's not to be forgotten on this side of time; but He that gives the wound can
send the ointment. I declare there have been times during this night when my
meditation has been so rapt, that I knew not of my heavy loss. It has been with
me as with the worthy John Semple, called Carspharn John,19 upon a like trial -
I have been this night on the banks of Ulai, plucking an apple here and there.«
    Notwithstanding the assumed fortitude of Deans, which he conceived to be the
discharge of a great Christian duty, he had too good a heart not to suffer
deeply under this heavy loss. Woodend became altogether distasteful to him; and
as he had obtained both substance and experience by his management of that
little farm, he resolved to employ them as a dairy-farmer, or cowfeeder, as they
are called in Scotland. The situation he chose for his new settlement was at a
place called Saint Leonard's Crags, lying betwixt Edinburgh and the mountain
called Arthur's Seat, and adjoining to the extensive sheep pasture still named
the King's Park, from its having been formerly dedicated to the preservation of
the royal game. Here he rented a small lonely house, about half-a-mile distant
from the nearest point of the city, but the site of which, with all the adjacent
ground, is now occupied by the buildings which form the south-eastern suburb. An
extensive pasture-ground adjoining, which Deans rented from the keeper of the
Royal Park, enabled him to feed his milk-cows; and the unceasing industry and
activity of Jeanie, his eldest daughter, were exerted in making the most of
their produce.
    She had now less frequent opportunities of seeing Reuben, who had been
obliged, after various disappointments, to accept the subordinate situation of
assistant in a parochial school of some eminence, at three or four miles'
distance from the city. Here he distinguished himself, and became acquainted
with several respectable burgesses, who, on account of health, or other reasons,
chose that their children should commence their education in this little
village. His prospects were thus gradually brightening, and upon each visit
which he paid at Saint Leonard's he had an opportunity of gliding a hint to this
purpose into Jeanie's ear. These visits were necessarily very rare, on account
of the demands which the duties of the school made upon Butler's time. Nor did
he dare to make them even altogether so frequent as these avocations would
permit. Deans received him with civility indeed, and even with kindness; but
Reuben, as is usual in such cases, imagined that he read his purpose in his
eyes, and was afraid too premature an explanation on the subject would draw down
his positive disapproval. Upon the whole, therefore, he judged it prudent to
call at Saint Leonard's just so frequently as old acquaintance and neighbourhood
seemed to authorise, and no oftener. There was another person who was more
regular in his visits.
    When Davie Deans intimated to the Laird of Dumbiedikes his purpose of
»quitting wi' the land and house at Woodend,« the Laird stared and said nothing.
He made his usual visits at the usual hour without remark, until the day before
the term, when, observing the bustle of moving furniture already commenced, the
great east-country awmrie dragged out of its nook, and standing with its
shoulder to the company, like an awkward booby about to leave the room, the
Laird again stared mightily, and was heard to ejaculate, »Hegh, sirs!« Even
after the day of departure was past and gone, the Laird of Dumbiedikes, at his
usual hour, which was that at which David Deans was wont to »loose the pleugh,«
presented himself before the closed door of the cottage at Woodend, and seemed
as much astonished at finding it shut against his approach as if it was not
exactly what he had to expect. On this occasion he was heard to ejaculate, »Gude
guide us!« which, by those who knew him, was considered as a very unusual mark
of emotion. From that moment forward Dumbiedikes became an altered man, and the
regularity of his movements, hitherto so exemplary, was as totally disconcerted
as those of a boy's watch when he has broken the main-spring. Like the index of
the said watch did Dumbiedikes spin round the whole bounds of his little
property, which may be likened unto the dial of the timepiece, with unwonted
velocity. There was not a cottage into which he did not enter, nor scarce a
maiden on whom he did not stare. But so it was, that although there were better
farm-houses on the land than Woodend, and certainly much prettier girls than
Jeanie Deans, yet it did somehow befall that the blank in the Laird's time was
not so pleasantly filled up as it had been. There was no seat accommodated him
so well as the »bunker« at Woodend and no face he loved so much to gaze on as
Jeanie Deans's. So, after spinning round and round his little orbit, and then
remaining stationary for a week, it seems to have occurred to him that he was
not pinned down to circulate on a pivot, like the hands of the watch, but
possessed the power of shifting his central point, and extending his circle if
he thought proper. To realise which privilege of change of place, he bought a
pony from a Highland drover, and with its assistance and company stepped, or
rather stumbled, as far as Saint Leonard's Crags.
    Jeanie Deans, though so much accustomed to the Laird's staring that she was
sometimes scarce conscious of his presence, had nevertheless some occasional
fears lest he should call in the organ of speech to back those expressions of
admiration which he bestowed on her through his eyes. Should this happen,
farewell, she thought, to all chance of a union with Butler. For her father,
however stout-hearted and independent in civil and religious principles, was not
without that respect for the laird of the land, so deeply imprinted on the
Scottish tenantry of the period. Moreover, if he did not positively dislike
Butler, yet his fund of carnal learning was often the object of sarcasms on
David's part, which were perhaps founded in jealousy, and which certainly
indicated no partiality for the party against whom they were launched. And
lastly, the match with Dumbiedikes would have presented irresistible charms to
one who used to complain that he felt himself apt to take »ower grit an armfu'
o' the warld.« So that, upon the whole, the Laird's diurnal visits were
disagreeable to Jeanie from apprehension of future consequences, and it served
much to console her, upon removing from the spot where she was bred and born,
that she had seen the last of Dumbiedikes, his laced hat, and tobacco-pipe. The
poor girl no more expected he could muster courage to follow her to Saint
Leonard's Crags than that any of her apple-trees or cabbages which she had left
rooted in the »yard« at Woodend, would spontaneously, and unaided, have
undertaken the same journey. It was therefore with much more surprise than
pleasure that, on the sixth day after their removal to Saint Leonard's, she
beheld Dumbiedikes arrive, laced hat, tobacco-pipe, and all, and, with the
self-same greeting of »How's a' wi' ye, Jeanie? - Whare's the gudeman?« assume
as nearly as he could the same position in the cottage at Saint Leonard's which
he had so long and so regularly occupied at Woodend. He was no sooner, however,
seated, than with an unusual exertion of his power of conversation, he added,
»Jeanie - I say, Jeanie, woman« - here he extended his hand towards her shoulder
with all the fingers spread out as if to clutch it, but in so bashful and
awkward a manner, that when she whisked herself beyond its reach, the paw
remained suspended in the air with the palm open, like the claw of a heraldic
griffin - »Jeanie,« continued the swain in this moment of inspiration - »I say,
Jeanie, it's a braw day out-by, and the roads are no that ill for boot-hose.«
    »The deil's in the daidling body,« muttered Jeanie between her teeth; »what
wad hae thought o' his daikering out this length?« And she afterwards confessed
that she threw a little of this ungracious sentiment into her accent and manner;
for her father being abroad, and the »body,« as she irreverently termed the
landed proprietor, »looking unco gleg and canty, she didna ken what he might be
coming out wi' next.«
    Her frowns, however, acted as a complete sedative, and the Laird relapsed
from that day into his former taciturn habits, visiting the cowfeeder's cottage
three or four times every week, when the weather permitted, with apparently no
other purpose than to stare at Jeanie Deans, while Douce Davie poured forth his
eloquence upon the controversies and testimonies of the day.
 

                                 Chapter Ninth

 Her air, her manners, all who saw admired,
 Courteous, though coy, and gentle, though retired;
 The joy of youth and health her eyes displayed;
 And ease of heart her every look conveyed.
                                                                         Crabbe.
 
The visits of the Laird thus again sunk into matters of ordinary course, from
which nothing was to be expected or apprehended. If a lover could have gained a
fair one as a snake is said to fascinate a bird, by pertinaciously gazing on her
with great stupid greenish eyes, which began now to be occasionally aided by
spectacles, unquestionably Dumbiedikes would have been the person to perform the
feat. But the art of fascination seems among the artes perditæ, and I cannot
learn that this most pertinacious of starers produced any effect by his
attentions beyond an occasional yawn.
    In the meanwhile, the object of his gaze was gradually attaining the verge
of youth, and approaching to what is called in females the middle age, which is
impolitely held to begin a few years earlier with their more fragile sex than
with men. Many people would have been of opinion, that the Laird would have done
better to have transferred his glances to an object possessed of far superior
charms to Jeanie's, even when Jeanie's were in their bloom, who began now to be
distinguished by all who visited the cottage at St. Leonard's Crags.
    Effie Deans, under the tender and affectionate care of her sister, had now
shot up into a beautiful and blooming girl. Her Grecian shaped head was
profusely rich in waving ringlets of brown hair, which, confined by a blue snood
of silk, and shading a laughing Hebe countenance, seemed the picture of health,
pleasure, and contentment. Her brown russet short-gown set off a shape, which
time, perhaps, might be expected to render too robust, the frequent objection to
Scottish beauty, but which, in her present early age, was slender and taper,
with that graceful and easy sweep of outline which at once indicates health and
beautiful proportion of parts.
    These growing charms, in all their juvenile profusion, had no power to shake
the steadfast mind, or divert the fixed gaze of the constant Laird of
Dumbiedikes. But there was scarce another eye that could behold this living
picture of health and beauty, without pausing on it with pleasure. The traveller
stopped his weary horse on the eve of entering the city which was the end of his
journey, to gaze at the sylph-like form that tripped by him, with her milk-pail
poised on her head, bearing herself so erect, and stepping so light and free
under her burden, that it seemed rather an ornament than an encumbrance. The
lads of the neighbouring suburb, who held their evening rendezvous for putting
the stone, casting the hammer, playing at long bowls, and other athletic
exercises, watched the motions of Effie Deans, and contended with each other
which should have the good fortune to attract her attention. Even the rigid
Presbyterians of her father's persuasion, who held each indulgence of the eye
and sense to be a snare at least if not a crime, were surprised into a moment's
delight while gazing on a creature so exquisite, - instantly checked by a sigh,
reproaching at once their own weakness, and mourning that a creature so fair
should share in the common and hereditary guilt and imperfection of our nature.
She was currently entitled the Lily of St. Leonard's, a name which she deserved
as much by her guileless purity of thought, speech, and action, as by her
uncommon loveliness of face and person.
    Yet there were points in Effie's character which gave rise not only to
strange doubt and anxiety on the part of Douce David Deans, whose ideas were
rigid, as may easily be supposed, upon the subject of youthful amusements, but
even of serious apprehension to her more indulgent sister. The children of the
Scotch of the inferior classes are usually spoiled by the early indulgence of
their parents; how, wherefore, and to what degree, the lively and instructive
narrative of the amiable and accomplished authoress of »Glenburnie« has saved me
and all future scribblers the trouble of recording. Effie had had a double share
of this inconsiderate and misjudged kindness. Even the strictness of her
father's principles could not condemn the sports of infancy and childhood; and
to the good old man, his younger daughter, the child of his old age, seemed a
child for some years after she attained the years of womanhood, was still called
the »bit lassie,« and »little Effie,« and was permitted to run up and down
uncontrolled, unless upon the Sabbath, or at the times of family worship. Her
sister, with all the love and care of a mother, could not be supposed to possess
the same authoritative influence; and that which she had hitherto exercised
became gradually limited and diminished as Effie's advancing years entitled her,
in her own conceit at least, to the right of independence and free agency. With
all the innocence and goodness of disposition, therefore, which we have
described, the Lily of St. Leonard's possessed a little fund of self-conceit and
obstinacy, and some warmth and irritability of temper, partly natural perhaps,
but certainly much increased by the unrestrained freedom of her childhood. Her
character will be best illustrated by a cottage evening scene.
    The careful father was absent in his well-stocked byre, foddering those
useful and patient animals on whose produce his living depended, and the summer
evening was beginning to close in, when Jeanie Deans began to be very anxious
for the appearance of her sister, and to fear that she would not reach home
before her father returned from the labour of the evening, when it was his
custom to have »family exercise,« and when she knew that Effie's absence would
give him the most serious displeasure. These apprehensions hung heavier upon her
mind, because, for several preceding evenings, Effie had disappeared about the
same time, and her stay, at first so brief as scarce to be noticed, had been
gradually protracted to half-an-hour, and an hour, and on the present occasion
had considerably exceeded even this last limit. And now, Jeanie stood at the
door, with her hand before her eyes to avoid the rays of the level sun, and
looked alternately along the various tracks which led towards their dwelling, to
see if she could descry the nymph-like form of her sister. There was a wall and
a stile which separated the royal domain, or King's Park, as it is called, from
the public road; to this pass she frequently directed her attention, when she
saw two persons appear there somewhat suddenly, as if they had walked close by
the side of the wall to screen themselves from observation. One of them, a man,
drew back hastily; the other, a female, crossed the stile, and advanced towards
her - It was Effie. She met her sister with that affected liveliness of manner,
which, in her rank, and sometimes in those above it, females occasionally assume
to hide surprise or confusion; and she carolled as she came -
 
»The elfin knight sate on the brae,
The broom grows bonny, the broom grows fair;
And by there came lilting a lady so gay,
And we daurna gang down to the broom nae mair.«
 
»Whisht, Effie,« said her sister; »our father's coming out o' the byre.« - The
damsel stinted in her song. - »Whare hae ye been sae late at e'en?«
    »It's no late, lass,« answered Effie.
    »It's chappit eight on every clock o' the town, and the sun's gaun down
ahint the Corstorphine hills - Whare can ye hae been sae late?«
    »Nae gate,« answered Effie.
    »And what was that parted wi' you at the stile?«
    »Naebody,« replied Effie once more.
    »Nae gate? - Naebody? - I wish it may be a right gate, and a right body,
that keeps folk out sae late at e'en, Effie.«
    »What needs ye be aye speering then at folk?« retorted Effie. »I'm sure, if
ye'll ask nae questions, I'll tell ye nae lees. I never ask what brings the
Laird of Dumbiedikes glowering here like a wull-cat (only his een's greener, and
no sae gleg), day after day till we are a' like to gaunt our chafts aff.«
    »Because ye ken very well he comes to see our father,« said Jeanie, in
answer to this pert remark.
    »And Dominie Butler - Does he come to see our father, that's sae taken wi'
his Latin words?« said Effie, delighted to find that by carrying the war into
the enemy's country, she could divert the threatened attack upon herself, and
with the petulance of youth she pursued her triumph over her prudent elder
sister. She looked at her with a sly air, in which there was something like
irony, as she chanted, in a low but marked tone, a scrap of an old Scotch song -
 
»Through the kirkyard
I met wi' the Laird,
The silly puir body he said me nae harm;
But just ere 'twas dark,
I met wi' the clerk« -
 
Here the songstress stopped, looked full at her sister, and, observing the tears
gather in her eyes, she suddenly flung her arms round her neck, and kissed them
away. Jeanie, though hurt and displeased, was unable to resist the caresses of
this untaught child of nature, whose good and evil seemed to flow rather from
impulse than from reflection. But as she returned the sisterly kiss, in token of
perfect reconciliation, she could not suppress the gentle reproof - »Effie, if
ye will learn fule sangs, ye might make a kinder use of them.«
    »And so I might, Jeanie,« continued the girl, clinging to her sister's neck;
»and I wish I had never learned ane o' them - and I wish we had never come here
- and I wish my tongue had been blistered or I had vexed ye.«
    »Never mind that, Effie,« replied the affectionate sister; »I canna be
muckle vexed wi' ony thing ye say to me - but O, dinna vex our father!«
    »I will not - I will not,« replied Effie; »and if there were as mony dances
the morn's night as there are merry dancers in the north firmament on a frosty
e'en, I winna budge an inch to gang near ane o' them.«
    »Dance!« echoed Jeanie Deans in astonishment. »O Effie, what could take ye
to a dance?«
    It is very possible, that, in the communicative mood into which the Lily of
St. Leonard's was now surprised, she might have given her sister her unreserved
confidence, and saved me the pain of telling a melancholy tale; but at the
moment the word dance was uttered, it reached the ear of old David Deans, who
had turned the corner of the house, and came upon his daughters ere they were
aware of his presence. The word prelate, or even the word pope, could hardly
have produced so appalling an effect upon David's ear; for, of all exercises,
that of dancing, which he termed a voluntary and regular fit of distraction, he
deemed most destructive of serious thoughts, and the readiest inlet to all sorts
of licentiousness; and he accounted the encouraging, and even permitting,
assemblies or meetings, whether among those of high or low degree, for this
fantastic and absurd purpose, or for that of dramatic representations, as one of
the most flagrant proofs of defection and causes of wrath. The pronouncing of
the word dance by his own daughters, and at his own door, now drove him beyond
the verge of patience. »Dance!« he exclaimed. »Dance! - dance, said ye? I daur
ye, limmers that ye are, to name sic a word at my door-cheek! It's a dissolute
profane pastime, practised by the Israelites only at their base and brutal
worship of the Golden Calf at Bethel, and by the unhappy lass what danced aff the
head of John the Baptist, upon whilk chapter I will exercise this night for your
farther instruction, since ye need it sae muckle, nothing doubting that she has
cause to rue the day, lang or this time, that e'er she should hae shook a limb on
sic an errand. Better for her to hae been born a cripple, and carried frae door
to door, like auld Bessie Bowie, begging bawbees, than to be a king's daughter,
fiddling and flinging the gate she did. I hae often wondered that ony ane that
ever bent a knee for the right purpose, should ever daur to crook a hough to
fyke and fling at piper's wind and fiddler's squealing. And I bless God (with
that singular worthy, Peter Walker the packman at Bristo-Port),20 that ordered
my lot in my dancing days, so that fear of my head and throat, dread of bloody
rope and swift bullet, and trenchant swords and pain of boots and thumkins,
cauld and hunger, wetness and weariness, stopped the lightness of my head, and
the wantonness of my feet. And now, if I hear ye, queen lassies, sae muckle as
name dancing, or think there's sic a thing in this warld as flinging to
fiddler's sounds, and piper's springs, as sure as my father's spirit is with the
just, ye shall be no more either charge or concern of mine! Gang in, then - gang
in, then, hinnies,« he added, in a softer tone, for the tears of both daughters,
but especially those of Effie, began to flow very fast, - »Gang in, dears, and
we'll seek grace to preserve us frae all manner of profane folly, whilk causeth
to sin, and promoteth the kingdom of darkness, warring with the kingdom of
light.«
    The objurgation of David Deans, however well meant, was unhappily timed. It
created a division of feelings in Effie's bosom, and deterred her from her
intended confidence in her sister. »She wad haud me nae better than the dirt
below her feet,« said Effie to herself, »were I to confess I hae danced wi' him
four times on the green down by, and ance at Maggie Macqueens's; and she'll
maybe hing it ower my head that she'll tell my father, and then she wad be
mistress and mair. But I'll no gang back there again. I'm resolved I'll no gang
back. I'll lay in a leaf of my Bible,21 and that's very near as if I had made an
aith, that I winna gang back.« And she kept her vow for a week, during which she
was unusually cross and fretful, blemishes which had never before been observed
in her temper, except during a moment of contradiction.
    There was something in all this so mysterious as considerably to alarm the
prudent and affectionate Jeanie, the more so as she judged it unkind to her
sister to mention to their father grounds of anxiety which might arise from her
own imagination. Besides, her respect for the good old man did not prevent her
from being aware that he was both hot-tempered and positive, and she sometimes
suspected that he carried his dislike to youthful amusements beyond the verge
that religion and reason demanded. Jeanie had sense enough to see that a sudden
and severe curb upon her sister's hitherto unrestrained freedom might be rather
productive of harm than good, and that Effie, in the headstrong wilfulness of
youth, was likely to make what might be overstrained in her father's precepts an
excuse to herself for neglecting them altogether. In the higher classes, a
damsel, however giddy, is still under the dominion of etiquette, and subject to
the surveillance of mammas and chaperons; but the country girl, who snatches her
moment of gaiety during the intervals of labour, is under no such guardianship
or restraint, and her amusement becomes so much the more hazardous. Jeanie saw
all this with much distress of mind, when a circumstance occurred which appeared
calculated to relieve her anxiety.
    Mrs. Saddletree, with whom our readers have already been made acquainted,
chanced to be a distant relation of Douce David Deans, and as she was a woman
orderly in her life and conversation, and, moreover, of good substance, a sort
of acquaintance was formally kept up between the families. Now, this careful
dame, about a year and a half before our story commences, chanced to need, in
the line of her profession, a better sort of servant, or rather shop-woman. »Mr.
Saddletree,« she said, »was never in the shop when he could get his nose within
the Parliament House, and it was an awkward thing for a woman-body to be
standing among bundles o' barkened leather her lane, selling saddles and
bridles; and she had cast her eyes upon her far-away cousin Effie Deans, as just
the very sort of lassie she would want to keep her in countenance on such
occasions.«
    In this proposal there was much that pleased old David, - there was bed,
board, and bountith - it was a decent situation - the lassie would be under Mrs.
Saddletree's eye, who had an upright walk, and lived close by the Tolbooth Kirk,
in which might still be heard the comforting doctrines of one of those few
ministers of the Kirk of Scotland who had not bent the knee unto Baal, according
to David's expression, or become accessory to the course of national defections,
- union, toleration, patronages, and a bundle of prelatical Erastian oaths which
had been imposed on the church since the Revolution, and particularly in the
reign of »the late woman« (as he called Queen Anne), the last of that unhappy
race of Stuarts. In the good man's security concerning the soundness of the
theological doctrine which his daughter was to hear, he was nothing disturbed on
account of the snares of a different kind, to which a creature so beautiful,
young, and wilful, might be exposed in the centre of a populous and corrupted
city. The fact is, that he thought with so much horror on all approaches to
irregularities of the nature most to be dreaded in such cases, that he would as
soon have suspected and guarded against Effie's being induced to become guilty
of the crime of murder. He only regretted that she should live under the same
roof with such a worldly-wise man as Bartoline Saddletree, whom David never
suspected of being an ass as he was, but considered as one really endowed with
all the legal knowledge to which he made pretension, and only liked him the
worse for possessing it. The lawyers, especially those amongst them who sate as
ruling elders in the General Assembly of the Kirk, had been forward in promoting
the measures of patronage, of the abjuration oath, and others, which, in the
opinion of David Deans, were a breaking down of the carved work of the
sanctuary, and an intrusion upon the liberties of the kirk. Upon the dangers of
listening to the doctrines of a legalised formalist, such as Saddletree, David
gave his daughter many lectures; so much so, that he had time to touch but
slightly on the dangers of chambering, company-keeping, and promiscuous dancing,
to which, at her time of life, most people would have thought Effie more
exposed, than to the risk of theoretical error in her religious faith.
    Jeanie parted from her sister with a mixed feeling of regret, and
apprehension, and hope. She could not be so confident concerning Effie's
prudence as her father, for she had observed her more narrowly, had more
sympathy with her feelings, and could better estimate the temptations to which
she was exposed. On the other hand, Mrs. Saddletree was an observing, shrewd,
notable woman, entitled to exercise over Effie the full authority of a mistress,
and likely to do so strictly, yet with kindness. Her removal to Saddletree's, it
was most probable, would also serve to break off some idle acquaintances, which
Jeanie suspected her sister to have formed in the neighbouring suburb. Upon the
whole, then, she viewed her departure from Saint Leonard's with pleasure, and it
was not until the very moment of their parting for the first time in their
lives, that she felt the full force of sisterly sorrow. While they repeatedly
kissed each other's cheeks, and wrung each other's hands, Jeanie took that
moment of affectionate sympathy, to press upon her sister the necessity of the
utmost caution in her conduct while residing in Edinburgh. Effie listened,
without once raising her large dark eyelashes, from which the drops fell so fast
as almost to resemble a fountain. At the conclusion she sobbed again, kissed her
sister, promised to recollect all the good counsel she had given her, and they
parted.
    During the first weeks, Effie was all that her kinswoman expected, and even
more. But with time there came a relaxation of that early zeal which she
manifested in Mrs. Saddletree's service. To borrow once again from the poet, who
so correctly and beautifully describes living manners: -
 
Something there was, - what, none presumed to say, -
Clouds lightly passing on a summer's day;
Whispers and hints, which went from ear to ear,
And mixed reports no judge on earth could clear.
 
During this interval, Mrs. Saddletree was sometimes displeased by Effie's
lingering when she was sent upon errands about the shop business, and sometimes
by a little degree of impatience which she manifested at being rebuked on such
occasions. But she good-naturedly allowed, that the first was very natural to a
girl to whom everything in Edinburgh was new, and the other was only the
petulance of a spoiled child, when subjected to the yoke of domestic discipline
for the first time. Attention and submission could not be learned at once -
Holyrood was not built in a day - use would make perfect.
    It seemed as if the considerate old lady had presaged truly. Ere many months
had passed, Effie became almost wedded to her duties, though she no longer
discharged them with the laughing cheek and light step, which had at first
attracted every customer. Her mistress sometimes observed her in tears, but they
were signs of secret sorrow, which she concealed as often as she saw them
attract notice. Time wore on, her cheek grew pale, and her step heavy. The cause
of these changes could not have escaped the matronly eye of Mrs. Saddletree, but
she was chiefly confined by indisposition to her bedroom for a considerable time
during the latter part of Effie's service. This interval was marked by symptoms
of anguish almost amounting to despair. The utmost efforts of the poor girl to
command her fits of hysterical agony were often totally unavailing, and the
mistakes which she made in the shop the while, were so numerous and so
provoking, that Bartoline Saddletree, who, during his wife's illness, was
obliged to take closer charge of the business than consisted with his study of
the weightier matters of the law, lost all patience with the girl, who, in his
law Latin, and without much respect to gender, he declared ought to be cognosced
by inquest of a jury, as fatuus, furiosus, and naturaliter idiota. Neighbours,
also, and fellow-servants, remarked with malicious curiosity or degrading pity,
the disfigured shape, loose dress, and pale cheeks, of the once beautiful and
still interesting girl. But to no one would she grant her confidence, answering
all taunts with bitter sarcasm, and all serious expostulation with sullen
denial, or with floods of tears.
    At length, when Mrs. Saddletree's recovery was likely to permit her wonted
attention to the regulation of her household, Effie Deans, as if unwilling to
face an investigation made by the authority of her mistress, asked permission of
Bartoline to go home for a week or two, assigning indisposition, and the wish of
trying the benefit of repose and the change of air, as the motives of her
request. Sharp-eyed as a lynx (or conceiving himself to be so) in the nice sharp
quillits of legal discussion, Bartoline was as dull at drawing inferences from
the occurrences of common life as any Dutch professor of mathematics. He
suffered Effie to depart without much suspicion, and without any inquiry.
    It was afterwards found that a period of a week intervened betwixt her
leaving her master's house and arriving at St. Leonard's. She made her
appearance before her sister in a state rather resembling the spectre than the
living substance of the gay and beautiful girl, who had left her father's
cottage for the first time scarce seventeen months before. The lingering illness
of her mistress had, for the last few months, given her a plea for confining
herself entirely to the dusky precincts of the shop in the Lawnmarket, and
Jeanie was so much occupied, during the same period, with the concerns of her
father's household, that she had rarely found leisure for a walk in the city,
and a brief and hurried visit to her sister. The young women, therefore, had
scarcely seen each other for several months, nor had a single scandalous surmise
reached the ears of the secluded inhabitants of the cottage at St. Leonard's.
Jeanie, therefore, terrified to death at her sister's appearance, at first
overwhelmed her with inquiries, to which the unfortunate young woman returned
for a time incoherent and rambling answers, and finally fell into a hysterical
fit. Rendered too certain of her sister's misfortune, Jeanie had now the
dreadful alternative of communicating her ruin to her father, or of endeavouring
to conceal it from him. To all questions concerning the name or rank of her
seducer, and the fate of the being to whom her fall had given birth, Effie
remained as mute as the grave, to which she seemed hastening; and indeed the
least allusion to either seemed to drive her to distraction. Her sister, in
distress and in despair, was about to repair to Mrs. Saddletree to consult her
experience, and at the same time to obtain what lights she could upon this most
unhappy affair, when she was saved that trouble by a new stroke of fate, which
seemed to carry misfortune to the uttermost.
    David Deans had been alarmed at the state of health in which his daughter
had returned to her paternal residence; but Jeanie had contrived to divert him
from particular and specific inquiry. It was therefore like a clap of thunder to
the poor old man, when, just as the hour of noon had brought the visit of the
Laird of Dumbiedikes as usual, other and sterner, as well as most unexpected
guests, arrived at the cottage of St. Leonard's. These were the officers of
justice, with a warrant of justiciary to search for and apprehend Euphemia, or
Effie Deans, accused of the crime of child-murder. The stunning weight of a blow
so totally unexpected bore down the old man, who had in his early youth resisted
the brow of military and civil tyranny, though backed with swords and guns,
tortures and gibbets. He fell extended and senseless upon his own hearth; and
the men, happy to escape from the scene of his awakening, raised, with rude
humanity, the object of their warrant from her bed, and placed her in a coach,
which they had brought with them. The hasty remedies which Jeanie had applied to
bring back her father's senses were scarce begun to operate, when the noise of
the wheels in motion recalled her attention to her miserable sister. To run
shrieking after the carriage was the first vain effort of her distraction, but
she was stopped by one or two female neighbours, assembled by the extraordinary
appearance of a coach in that sequestered place, who almost forced her back to
her father's house. The deep and sympathetic affliction of these poor people, by
whom the little family at St. Leonard's were held in high regard, filled the
house with lamentation. Even Dumbiedikes was moved from his wonted apathy, and,
groping for his purse as he spoke, ejaculated, »Jeanie, woman! - Jeanie, woman!
dinna greet - it's sad wark, but siller will help it;« and he drew out his purse
as he spoke.
    The old man had now raised himself from the ground, and, looking about him
as if he missed something, seemed gradually to recover the sense of his
wretchedness. »Where,« he said, with a voice that made the roof ring, »where is
the vile harlot, that has disgraced the blood of an honest man? - Where is she,
that has no place among us, but has come foul with her sins, like the Evil One,
among the children of God? - Where is she, Jeanie? - Bring her before me, that I
may kill her with a word and a look!«
    All hastened around him with their appropriate sources of consolation - the
Laird with his purse, Jeanie with burnt feathers and strong waters, and the
women with their exhortations. »O neighbour - O Mr. Deans, it's a sair trial,
doubtless - but think of the Rock of Ages, neighbour - think of the promise!«
    »And I do think of it, neighbours - and I bless God that I can think of it,
even in the wrack and ruin of a' that's nearest and dearest to me - But to be
the father of a castaway - a profligate - a bloody Zipporah - a mere murderess!
- O, how will the wicked exult in the high places of their wickedness! - the
prelatists, and the latitudinarians, and the hand-waled murderers, whose hands
are hard as horn wi' hauding the slaughter-weapons - they will push out the lip,
and say that we are even such as themselves. Sair, sair I am grieved,
neighbours, for the poor castaway - for the child of mine old age - but sairer
for the stumbling-block and scandal it will be to all tender and honest souls!«
    »Davie - winna siller do't?« insinuated the laird, still proffering his
green purse, which was full of guineas.
    »I tell ye, Dumbiedikes,« said Deans, »that if telling down my haill
substance could hae saved her frae this black snare, I wad hae walked out wi'
nothing but my bonnet and my staff to beg an awmous for God's sake, and ca'd
mysell an happy man - But if a dollar, or a plack, or the nineteenth part of a
boddle, wad save her open guilt and open shame frae open punishment, that
purchase wad David Deans never make! - Na, na; an eye for an eye, a tooth for a
tooth, life for life, blood for blood - it's the law of man, and it's the law of
God. - Leave me, sirs - leave me - I maun warstle wi' this trial in privacy and
on my knees.«
    Jeanie, now in some degree restored to the power of thought, joined in the
same request. The next day found the father and daughter still in the depth of
affliction, but the father sternly supporting his load of ill through a proud
sense of religious duty, and the daughter anxiously suppressing her own feelings
to avoid again awakening his. Thus was it with the afflicted family until the
morning after Porteous's death, a period at which we are now arrived.
 

                                 Chapter Tenth

 Is all the counsel that we two have shared,
 The sisters' vows, the hours that we have spent
 When we have chide the hasty-footed time
 For parting us - Oh! - and is all forgot?
                                                        Midsummer Night's Dream.
 
We have been a long while in conducting Butler to the door of the cottage at St.
Leonard's; yet the space which we have occupied in the preceding narrative does
not exceed in length that which he actually spent on Salisbury Crags on the
morning which succeeded the execution done upon Porteous by the rioters. For
this delay he had his own motives. He wished to collect his thoughts, strangely
agitated as they were, first by the melancholy news of Effie Deans's situation,
and afterwards by the frightful scene which he had witnessed. In the situation
also in which he stood with respect to Jeanie and her father, some ceremony, at
least some choice of fitting time and season, was necessary to wait upon them.
Eight in the morning was then the ordinary hour for breakfast, and he resolved
that it should arrive before he made his appearance in their cottage.
    Never did hours pass so heavily. Butler shifted his place and enlarged his
circle to while away the time, and heard the huge bell of St. Giles's toll each
successive hour in swelling tones, which were instantly attested by those of the
other steeples in succession. He had heard seven struck in this manner, when he
began to think he might venture to approach nearer to St. Leonard's, from which
he was still a mile distant. Accordingly he descended from his lofty station as
low as the bottom of the valley, which divides Salisbury Crags from those small
rocks which take their name from Saint Leonard. It is, as many of my readers may
know, a deep, wild, grassy valley, scattered with huge rocks and fragments which
have descended from the cliffs and steep ascent to the east.
    This sequestered dell, as well as other places of the open pasturage of the
King's Park, was, about this time, often the resort of the gallants of the time
who had affairs of honour to discuss with the sword. Duels were then very common
in Scotland, for the gentry were at once idle, haughty, fierce, divided by
faction, and addicted to intemperance, so that there lacked neither provocation,
nor inclination to resent it when given; and the sword, which was part of every
gentleman's dress, was the only weapon used for the decision of such
differences. When, therefore, Butler observed a young man, skulking, apparently
to avoid observation, among the scattered rocks at some distance from the
footpath, he was naturally led to suppose that he had sought this lonely spot
upon that evil errand. He was so strongly impressed with this, that,
notwithstanding his own distress of mind, he could not, according to his sense
of duty as a clergyman, pass this person without speaking to him. There are
times, thought he to himself, when the slightest interference may avert a great
calamity - when a word spoken in season may do more for prevention than the
eloquence of Tully could do for remedying evil - And for my own griefs, be they
as they may, I shall feel them the lighter, if they divert me not from the
prosecution of my duty.
    Thus thinking and feeling, he quitted the ordinary path, and advanced nearer
the object he had noticed. The man at first directed his course towards the
hill, in order, as it appeared, to avoid him; but when he saw that Butler seemed
disposed to follow him, he adjusted his hat fiercely, turned round, and came
forward, as if to meet and defy scrutiny.
    Butler had an opportunity of accurately studying his features as they
advanced slowly to meet each other. The stranger seemed about twenty-five years
old. His dress was of a kind which could hardly be said to indicate his rank
with certainty, for it was such as young gentlemen sometimes wore while on
active exercise in the morning, and which, therefore, was imitated by those of
the inferior ranks, as young clerks and tradesmen, because its cheapness
rendered it attainable, while it approached more nearly to the apparel of youths
of fashion than any other which the manners of the times permitted them to wear.
If his air and manner could be trusted, however, this person seemed rather to be
dressed under than above his rank; for his carriage was bold and somewhat
supercilious, his step easy and free, his manner daring and unconstrained. His
stature was of the middle size, or rather above it, his limbs well-proportioned,
yet not so strong as to infer the reproach of clumsiness. His features were
uncommonly handsome, and all about him would have been interesting and
prepossessing, but for that indescribable expression which habitual dissipation
gives to the countenance, joined with a certain audacity in look and manner, of
that kind which is often assumed as a mask for confusion and apprehension.
    Butler and the stranger met - surveyed each other - when, as the latter,
slightly touching his hat, was about to pass by him, Butler, while he returned
the salutation, observed, »A fine morning, sir - You are on the hill early.«
    »I have business here,« said the young man, in a tone meant to repress
farther inquiry.
    »I do not doubt it, sir,« said Butler. »I trust you will forgive my hoping
that it is of a lawful kind?«
    »Sir,« said the other, with marked surprise, »I never forgive impertinence,
nor can I conceive what title you have to hope anything about what no way
concerns you.«
    »I am a soldier, sir,« said Butler, »and have a charge to arrest evil-doers
in the name of my Master.«
    »A soldier!« said the young man, stepping back, and fiercely laying his hand
on his sword - »A soldier, and arrest me! Did you reckon what your life was
worth, before you took the commission upon you?«
    »You mistake me, sir,« said Butler, gravely; »neither my warfare nor my
warrant are of this world. I am a preacher of the gospel, and have power, in my
Master's name, to command the peace upon earth and good-will towards men, which
was proclaimed with the gospel.«
    »A minister!« said the stranger, carelessly, and with an expression
approaching to scorn. »I know the gentlemen of your cloth in Scotland claim a
strange right of intermeddling with men's private affairs. But I have been
abroad, and know better than to be priest-ridden.«
    »Sir, if it be true that any of my cloth, or, it might be more decently
said, of my calling, interfere with men's private affairs, for the gratification
either of idle curiosity, or for worse motives, you cannot have learned a better
lesson abroad than to contemn such practices. But, in my Master's work, I am
called to be busy in season and out of season; and, conscious as I am of a pure
motive, it were better for me to incur your contempt for speaking, than the
correction of my own conscience for being silent.«
    »In the name of the devil!« said the young man impatiently, »say what you
have to say, then; though whom you take me for, or what earthly concern you have
with me, a stranger to you, or with my actions and motives, of which you can
know nothing, I cannot conjecture for an instant.«
    »You are about,« said Butler, »to violate one of your country's wisest laws
- you are about, which is much more dreadful, to violate a law, which God
himself has implanted within our nature, and written as it were, in the table of
our hearts, to which every thrill of our nerves is responsive.«
    »And what is the law you speak of?« said the stranger, in a hollow and
somewhat disturbed accent.
    »Thou shalt do no MURDER,« said Butler, with a deep and solemn voice.
    The young man visibly started, and looked considerably appalled. Butler
perceived he had made a favourable impression, and resolved to follow it up.
»Think,« he said, »young man,« laying his hand kindly upon the stranger's
shoulder, »what an awful alternative you voluntarily choose for yourself, to
kill or be killed. Think what it is to rush uncalled into the presence of an
offended Deity, your heart fermenting with evil passions, your hand hot from the
steel you had been urging, with your best skill and malice, against the breast
of a fellow-creature. Or, suppose yourself the scarce less wretched survivor,
with the guilt of Cain, the first murderer, in your heart, with the stamp upon
your brow - that stamp which struck all who gazed on him with unutterable
horror, and by which the murderer is made manifest to all who look upon him.
Think« -
    The stranger gradually withdrew himself from under the hand of his monitor;
and, pulling his hat over his brows, thus interrupted him. »Your meaning, sir, I
dare say, is excellent, but you are throwing your advice away. I am not in this
place with violent intentions against any one. I may be bad enough - you priests
say all men are so - but I am here for the purpose of saving life, not of taking
it away. If you wish to spend your time rather in doing a good action than in
talking about you know not what, I will give you an opportunity. Do you see
yonder crag to the right, over which appears the chimney of a lone house? Go
thither, inquire for one Jeanie Deans, the daughter of the goodman; let her know
that he she wots of remained here from daybreak till this hour, expecting to see
her, and that he can abide no longer. Tell her, she must meet me at the Hunter's
Bog to-night, as the moon rises behind St. Anthony's Hill, or that she will make
a desperate man of me.«
    »Who or what are you,« replied Butler, exceedingly and most unpleasantly
surprised, »who charge me with such an errand?«
    »I am the devil!« - answered the young man hastily.
    Butler stepped instinctively back, and commended himself internally to
Heaven; for, though a wise and strong-minded man, he was neither wiser nor more
strong-minded than those of his age and education, with whom, to disbelieve
witchcraft or spectres, was held an undeniable proof of atheism.
    The stranger went on without observing his emotion. »Yes! call me Apollyon,
Abaddon, whatever name you shall choose, as a clergyman acquainted with the
upper and lower circles of spiritual denomination, to call me by, you shall not
find an appellation more odious to him that bears it, than is mine own.«
    This sentence was spoken with the bitterness of self-upbraiding, and a
contortion of visage absolutely demoniacal. Butler, though a man brave by
principle, if not by constitution, was overawed; for intensity of mental
distress has in it a sort of sublimity which repels and overawes all men, but
especially those of kind and sympathetic dispositions. The stranger turned
abruptly from Butler as he spoke, but instantly returned, and, coming up to him
closely and boldly, said, in a fierce, determined tone, »I have told you who and
what I am - who and what are you? What is your name?«
    »Butler,« answered the person to whom this abrupt question was addressed,
surprised into answering it by the sudden and fierce manner of the querist -
»Reuben Butler, a preacher of the gospel.«
    At this answer, the stranger again plucked more deep over his brows the hat
which he had thrown back in his former agitation. »Butler!« he repeated - »the
assistant of the schoolmaster at Liberton?«
    »The same,« answered Butler composedly.
    The stranger covered his face with his hand, as if on sudden reflection, and
then turned away, but stopped when he had walked a few paces; and seeing Butler
follow him with his eyes, called out in a stern yet suppressed tone, just as if
he had exactly calculated that his accents should not be heard a yard beyond the
spot on which Butler stood. »Go your way, and do mine errand. Do not look after
me. I will neither descend through the bowels of these rocks, nor vanish in a
flash of fire; and yet the eye that seeks to trace my motions shall have reason
to curse it was ever shrouded by eyelid or eyelash. Begone, and look not behind
you. Tell Jeanie Deans, that when the moon rises I shall expect to meet her at
Nicol Muschat's Cairn, beneath Saint Anthony's Chapel.«
    As he uttered these words, he turned and took the road against the hill,
with a haste that seemed as peremptory as his tone of authority.
    Dreading he knew not what of additional misery to a lot which seemed little
capable of receiving augmentation, and desperate at the idea that any living man
should dare to send so extraordinary a request, couched in terms so imperious,
to the half-betrothed object of his early and only affection, Butler strode
hastily towards the cottage, in order to ascertain how far this daring and rude
gallant was actually entitled to press on Jeanie Deans a request, which no
prudent, and scarce any modest young woman, was likely to comply with.
    Butler was by nature neither jealous nor superstitious; yet the feelings
which lead to those moods of the mind were rooted in his heart, as a portion
derived from the common stock of humanity. It was mad lening to think that a
profligate gallant, such as the manner and tone of the stranger evinced him to
be, should have it in his power to command forth his future bride and plighted
true love, at a place so improper, and an hour so unseasonable. Yet the tone in
which the stranger spoke had nothing of the soft half-breathed voice proper to
the seducer who solicits an assignation; it was bold, fierce, and imperative,
and had less of love in it than of menace and intimidation.
    The suggestions of superstition seemed more plausible, had Butler's mind
been very accessible to them. Was this indeed the Roaring Lion, who goeth about
seeking whom he may devour? This was a question which pressed itself on Butler's
mind with an earnestness that cannot be conceived by those who live in the
present day. The fiery eye, the abrupt demeanour, the occasionally harsh, yet
studiously subdued tone of voice, - the features, handsome, but now clouded with
pride, now disturbed by suspicion, now inflamed with passion - those dark hazel
eyes which he sometimes shaded with his cap, as if he were averse to have them
seen while they were occupied with keenly observing the motions and bearing of
others - those eyes that were now turbid with melancholy, now gleaming with
scorn, and now sparkling with fury - was it the passions of a mere mortal they
expressed, or the emotions of a fiend, who seeks, and seeks in vain, to conceal
his fiendish designs under the borrowed mask of manly beauty? The whole partook
of the mien, language, and port of the ruined archangel; and, imperfectly as we
have been able to describe it, the effect of the interview upon Butler's nerves,
shaken as they were at the time by the horrors of the preceding night, were
greater than his understanding warranted, or his pride cared to submit to. The
very place where he had met this singular person was desecrated, as it were, and
unhallowed, owing to many violent deaths, both in duels and by suicide, which
had in former times taken place there; and the place which he had named as a
rendezvous at so late an hour, was held in general to be accursed, from a
frightful and cruel murder which had been there committed by the wretch from
whom the place took its name, upon the person of his own wife.22 It was in such
places, according to the belief of that period (when the laws against witchcraft
were still in fresh observance, and had even lately been acted upon), that evil
spirits had power to make themselves visible to human eyes, and to practise upon
the feelings and senses of mankind. Suspicions, founded on such circumstances,
rushed on Butler's mind, unprepared as it was by any previous course of
reasoning, to deny that which all of his time, country, and profession believed;
but common sense rejected these vain ideas as inconsistent, if not with
possibility, at least with the general rules by which the universe is governed,
- a deviation from which, as Butler well argued with himself, ought not to be
admitted as probable, upon any but the plainest and most incontrovertible
evidence. An earthly lover, however, or a young man, who, from whatever cause,
had the right of exercising such summary and unceremonious authority over the
object of his long-settled, and apparently sincerely returned affection, was an
object scarce less appalling to his mind, than those which superstition
suggested.
    His limbs exhausted with fatigue, his mind harassed with anxiety, and with
painful doubts and recollections, Butler dragged himself up the ascent from the
valley to St. Leonard's Crags, and presented himself at the door of Deans's
habitation, with feelings much akin to the miserable reflections and fears of
its inhabitants.
 

                                Chapter Eleventh

 Then she stretched out her lily hand,
 And for to do her best;
 »Hae back thy faith and troth, Willie,
 God give thy soul good rest!«
                                                                     Old Ballad.
 
»Come in,« answered the low and sweet-toned voice he loved best to hear, as
Butler tapped at the door of the cottage. He lifted the latch, and found himself
under the roof of affliction. Jeanie was unable to trust herself with more than
one glance towards her lover, whom she now met under circumstances so agonising
to her feelings, and at the same time so humbling to her honest pride. It is
well known, that much, both of what is good and bad in the Scottish national
character, arises out of the intimacy of their family connections. »To be come
of honest folk,« that is, of people who have borne a fair and unstained
reputation, is an advantage as highly prized among the lower Scotch, as the
emphatic counterpart, »to be of a good family,« is valued among their gentry.
The worth and respectability of one member of a peasant's family is always
accounted by themselves and others, not only a matter of honest pride, but a
guarantee for the good conduct of the whole. On the contrary, such a melancholy
stain as was now flung on one of the children of Deans, extended its disgrace to
all connected with him, and Jeanie felt herself lowered at once, in her own
eyes, and in those of her lover. It was in vain that she repressed this feeling,
as far subordinate and too selfish to be mingled with her sorrow for her
sister's calamity. Nature prevailed; and while she shed tears for her sister's
distress and danger, there mingled with them bitter drops of grief for her own
degradation.
    As Butler entered, the old man was seated by the fire with his well-worn
pocket Bible in his hands, the companion of the wanderings and dangers of his
youth, and bequeathed to him on the scaffold by one of those, who, in the year
1686, sealed their enthusiastic principles with their blood. The sun sent its
rays through a small window at the old man's back, and, »shining motty through
the reek,« to use the expression of a bard of that time and country, illumined
the grey hairs of the old man, and the sacred page which he studied. His
features, far from handsome, and rather harsh and severe, had yet from their
expression of habitual gravity, and contempt for earthly things, an expression
of stoical dignity amidst their sternness. He boasted, in no small degree, the
attributes which Southey ascribes to the ancient Scandinavians, whom he terms
»firm to inflict, and stubborn to endure.« The whole formed a picture, of which
the lights might have been given by Rembrandt, but the outline would have
required the force and vigour of Michael Angelo.
    Deans lifted his eye as Butler entered, and instantly withdrew it, as from
an object which gave him at once surprise and sudden pain. He had assumed such
high ground with this carnal-witted scholar, as he had in his pride termed
Butler, that to meet him, of all men, under feelings of humiliation, aggravated
his misfortune, and was a consummation like that of the dying chief in the old
ballad -»Earl Percy sees my fall!«
    Deans raised the Bible with his left hand, so as partly to screen his face,
and putting back his right as far as he could, held it towards Butler in that
position, at the same time turning his body from him, as if to prevent his
seeing the working of his countenance. Butler clasped the extended hand which
had supported his orphan infancy, wept over it, and in vain endeavoured to say
more than the words - »God comfort you - God comfort you!«
    »He will - he doth, my friend,« said Deans, assuming firmness as he
discovered the agitation of his guest; »he doth now, and he will yet more in his
own good time. I have been ower proud of my sufferings in a good cause, Reuben,
and now I am to be tried with those whilk will turn my pride and glory into a
reproach and a hissing. How muckle better I hae thought mysell than them that
lay saft, fed sweet, and drank deep, when I was in the moss-haggs and moors, wi'
precious Donald Cameron, and worthy Mr. Blackadder, called Guess-again; and how
proud I was o' being made a spectacle to men and angels, having stood on their
pillory at the Canongate afore I was fifteen years old, for the cause of a
National Covenant! To think, Reuben, that I, what hae been sae honoured and
exalted in my youth, nay, when I was but a hafflins callant, and that hae borne
testimony again the defections o' the times yearly, monthly, daily, hourly,
minutely, striving and testifying with uplifted hand and voice, crying aloud,
and sparing not, against all great national snares, as the nation-wasting and
church-sinking abomination of union, toleration, and patronage, imposed by the
last woman of that unhappy race of Stuarts; also against the infringements and
invasions of the just powers of eldership, whereanent, I uttered my paper,
called a Cry of an Howl in the Desert, printed at the Bow-head, and sold by all
flying stationers in town and country - and now« -
    Here he paused. It may well be supposed that Butler, though not absolutely
coinciding in all the good old man's ideas about church government, had too much
consideration and humanity to interrupt him, while he reckoned up with conscious
pride his sufferings, and the constancy of his testimony. On the contrary, when
he paused under the influence of the bitter recollections of the moment, Butler
instantly threw in his mite of encouragement.
    »You have been well known, my old and revered friend, a true and tried
follower of the Cross; one who, as Saint Jerome hath it, per infamiam et bonam
famam grassari ad immortalitatem, which may be freely rendered, who rusheth on
to immortal life, through bad report and good report. You have been on of those
to whom the tender and fearful souls cry during the midnight solitude -
Watchman, what of the night? - Watchman, what of the night? - And, assuredly,
this heavy dispensation, as it comes not without divine permission, so it comes
not without its special commission and use.«
    »I do receive it as such,« said poor Deans, returning the grasp of Butler's
hand; »and if I have not been taught to read the Scripture in any other tongue
but my native Scottish« (even in his distress Butler's Latin quotation had not
escaped his notice), »I have nevertheless so learned them, that I trust to bear
even this crook in my lot with submission. But, oh! Reuben Butler, the kirk, of
whilk, though unworthy, I have yet been thought a polished shaft, and meet to be
a pillar, holding, from my youth upward, the place of ruling elder - what will
the lightsome and profane think of the guide that cannot keep his own family
from stumbling? How will they take up their song and their reproach, when they
see that the children of professors are liable to as foul backsliding as the
offspring of Belial! But I will bear my cross with the comfort, that whatever
showed like goodness in me or mine, was but like the light that shines frae
creeping insects, on the brae-side, in a dark night - it kythes bright to the
ee, because all is dark around it; but when the morn comes on the mountains, it
is but a puir crawling kail-worm after a'. And sae it shows, wi' ony rag of
human righteousness, or formal law-work, that we may pit round us to cover our
shame.«
    As he pronounced these words, the door again opened, and Mr. Bartoline
Saddletree entered, his three-pointed hat set far back on his head, with a silk
handkerchief beneath it to keep it in that cool position, his gold-headed cane
in his hand, and his whole deportment that of a wealthy burgher, who might one
day look to have a share in the magistracy, if not actually to hold the curule
chair itself.
    Rochefoucault, who has torn the veil from so many foul gangrenes of the
human heart, says, we find something not altogether unpleasant to us in the
misfortunes of our best friends. Mr. Saddletree would have been very angry had
any one told him that he felt pleasure in the disaster of poor Effie Deans, and
the disgrace of her family; and yet there is great question whether the
gratification of playing the person of importance, inquiring, investigating, and
laying down the law on the whole affair, did not offer, to say the least, full
consolation for the pain which pure sympathy gave him on account of his wife's
kinswoman. He had now got a piece of real judicial business by the end, instead
of being obliged, as was his common case, to intrude his opinion where it was
neither wished nor wanted; and felt as happy in the exchange as a boy when he
gets his first new watch, which actually goes when wound up, and has real hands
and a true dial-plate. But besides this subject for legal disquisition,
Bartoline's brains were also overloaded with the affair of Porteous, his violent
death, and all its probable consequences to the city and community. It was what
the French call l'embarras des richesses, the confusion arising from too much
mental wealth. He walked in with a consciousness of double importance, full
fraught with the superiority of one who possesses more information than the
company into which he enters, and who feels a right to discharge his learning on
them without mercy. »Good morning, Mr. Deans, - good- to you, Mr. Butler, - I
was not aware that you were acquainted with Mr. Deans.«
    Butler made some slight answer; his reasons may be readily imagined for not
making his connection with the family, which, in his eyes, had something of
tender mystery, a frequent subject of conversation with indifferent persons,
such as Saddletree.
    The worthy burgher, in the plenitude of self-importance, now sate down upon
a chair, wiped his brow, collected his breath, and made the first experiment of
the resolved pith of his lungs, in a deep and dignified sigh, resembling a groan
in sound and intonation - »Awfu' times these, neighbour Deans, awful' times!«
    »Sinfu', shamefu', heaven-daring times!« answered Deans, in a lower and more
subdued tone.
    »For my part,« continued Saddletree, swelling with importance, »what between
the distress of my friends, and my poor auld country, ony wit that ever I had
may be said to have abandoned me, sae that I sometimes think myself as ignorant
as if I were inter rusticos. Here when I arise in the morning, wi' my mind just
arranged touching what's to be done in puir Effie's misfortune, and hae gotten
the haill statute at my finger ends, the mob maun get up and string Jock
Porteous to a dyester's beam, and ding a' thing out of my head again.«
    Deeply as he was distressed with his own domestic calamity, Deans could not
help expressing some interest in the news. Saddletree immediately entered on
details of the insurrection and its consequences, while Butler took the occasion
to seek some private conversation with Jeanie Deans. She gave him the
opportunity he sought, by leaving the room, as if in prosecution of some part of
her morning labour. Butler followed her in a few minutes, leaving Deans so
closely engaged by his busy visitor, that there was little chance of his
observing their absence.
    The scene of their interview was an outer apartment, where Jeanie was used
to busy herself in arranging the productions of her dairy. When Butler found an
opportunity of stealing after her into this place, he found her silent,
dejected, and ready to burst into tears. Instead of the active industry with
which she had been accustomed, even while in the act of speaking, to employ her
hands in some useful branch of household business, she was seated listless in a
corner, sinking apparently under the weight of her own thoughts. Yet the instant
he entered, she dried her eyes, and, with the simplicity and openness of her
character, immediately entered on conversation.
    »I am glad you have come in, Mr. Butler,« said she, »for - for - for I
wished to tell ye, that all maun be ended between you and me - it's best for
baith our sakes.«
    »Ended!« said Butler, in surprise; »and for what should it be ended? - I
grant this is a heavy dispensation, but it lies neither at your door nor mine -
it's an evil of God's sending, and it must be borne; but it cannot break
plighted troth, Jeanie, while they that plighted their word wish to keep it.«
    »But, Reuben,« said the young woman, looking at him affectionately, »I ken
well that ye think mair of me than yourself; and, Reuben, I can only in requital
think mair of your weal than of my ain. Ye are a man of spotless name, bred to
God's ministry, and a' men say that ye will some day rise high in the kirk,
though poverty keep ye doun e'en now. Poverty is a bad back-friend, Reuben, and
that ye ken ower well; but ill-fame is a waur ane, and that is a truth ye sall
never learn through my means.«
    »What do you mean?« said Butler, eagerly and impatiently; »or how do you
connect your sister's guilt, if guilt there be, which, I trust in God, may yet
be disproved, with our engagement? - how can that affect you or me?«
    »How can you ask me that, Mr. Butler? Will this stain, d'ye think, ever be
forgotten, as lang as our heads are abune the grund? Will it not stick to us,
and to our bairns, and to their very bairns' bairns? To hae been the child of an
honest man, might hae been saying something for me and mine; but to be the
sister of a -- O my God!« - With this exclamation her resolution failed, and she
burst into a passionate fit of tears.
    The lover used every effort to induce her to compose herself, and at length
succeeded; but she only resumed her composure to express herself with the same
positiveness as before. »No, Reuben, I'll bring disgrace hame to nae man's
hearth; my ain distresses I can bear, and I maun bear, but there is nae occasion
for buckling them on other folk's shouthers. I will bear my load alone - the
back is made for the burden.«
    A lover is by charter wayward and suspicious; and Jeanie's readiness to
renounce their engagement, under pretence of zeal for his peace of mind and
respectability of character, seemed to poor Butler to form a portentous
combination with the commission of the stranger he had met with that morning.
His voice faltered as he asked, »whether nothing but a sense of her sister's
present distress occasioned her to talk in that manner?«
    »And what else can do sae?« she replied with simplicity. »Is it not ten long
years since we spoke together in this way?«
    »Ten years!« said Butler. »It's a long time - sufficient perhaps for a woman
to weary« -
    »To weary of her auld gown,« said Jeanie, »and to wish for a new ane if she
likes to be brave, but not long enough to weary of a friend - The eye may wish
change, but the heart never.«
    »Never!« said Reuben, - »that's a bold promise.«
    »But not more bauld than true,« said Jeanie, with the same quiet simplicity
which attended her manner in joy and grief in ordinary affairs, and in those
which most interested her feelings.
    Butler paused, and looking at her fixedly - »I am charged,« he said, »with a
message to you, Jeanie.«
    »Indeed! From whom? Or what can ony ane have to say to me?«
    »It is from a stranger,« said Butler, affecting to speak with an
indifference which his voice belied - »A young man whom I met this morning in
the Park.«
    »Mercy!« said Jeanie, eagerly; »and what did he say?«
    »That he did not see you at the hour he expected, but required you should
meet him alone at Muschat's Cairn this night, so soon as the moon rises.«
    »Tell him,« said Jeanie, hastily, »I shall certainly come.«
    »May I ask,« said Butler, his suspicions increasing at the ready alacrity of
the answer, »who this man is to whom you are so willing to give the meeting at a
place and hour so uncommon?«
    »Folk maun do muckle they have little will to do, in this world,« replied
Jeanie.
    »Granted,« said her lover; »but what compels you to this? - who is this
person? What I saw of him was not very favourable - who, or what is he?«
    »I do not know,« replied Jeanie, composedly.
    »You do not know!« said Butler, stepping impatiently through the apartment -
»You purpose to meet a young man whom you do not know, at such a time, and in a
place so lonely - you say you are compelled to do this - and yet you say you do
not know the person who exercises such an influence over you! - Jeanie, what am
I to think of this?«
    »Think only, Reuben, that I speak truth, as if I were to answer at the last
day. - I do not ken this man - I do not even ken that I ever saw him; and yet I
must give him the meeting he asks - there's life and death upon it.«
    »Will you not tell your father, or take him with you?« said Butler.
    »I cannot,« said Jeanie; »I have no permission.«
    »Will you let me go with you? I will wait in the Park till nightfall, and
join you when you set out.«
    »It is impossible,« said Jeanie; »there maunna be mortal creature within
hearing of our conference.«
    »Have you considered well the nature of what you are going to do? - the time
- the place - an unknown and suspicious character? - Why, if he had asked to see
you in this house, your father sitting in the next room, and within call, at
such an hour, you should have refused to see him.«
    »My weird maun be fulfilled, Mr. Butler; my life and my safety are in God's
hands, but I'll not spare to risk either of them on the errand I am gaun to do.«
    »Then, Jeanie,« said Butler, much displeased, »we must indeed break short
off, and bid farewell. When there can be no confidence betwixt a man and his
plighted wife on such a momentous topic, it is a sign that she has no longer the
regard for him that makes their engagement safe and suitable.«
    Jeanie looked at him and sighed. »I thought,« she said, »that I had brought
myself to bear this parting - but - but - I did not ken that we were to part in
unkindness. But I am a woman and you are a man - it may be different wi' you -
if your mind is made easier by thinking sae hardly of me, I would not ask you to
think otherwise.«
    »You are,« said Butler, »what you have always been - wiser, better, and less
selfish in your native feelings, than I can be, with all the helps philosophy
can give to a Christian. - But why - why will you persevere in an undertaking so
desperate? Why will you not let me be your assistant - your protector, or at
least your adviser?«
    »Just because I cannot, and I dare not,« answered Jeanie. - »But hark,
what's that? Surely my father is no well?«
    In fact, the voices in the next room became obstreperously loud of a sudden,
the cause of which vociferation it is necessary to explain before we go farther.
    When Jeanie and Butler retired, Mr. Saddletree entered upon the business
which chiefly interested the family. In the commencement of their conversation
he found old Deans, who in his usual state of mind, was no granter of
propositions, so much subdued by a deep sense of his daughter's danger and
disgrace, that he heard without replying to, or perhaps without understanding,
one or two learned disquisitions on the nature of the crime imputed to her
charge, and on the steps which ought to be taken in consequence. His only answer
at each pause was, »I am no misdoubting that you wuss us well - your wife's our
far-away cousin.«
    Encouraged by these symptoms of acquiescence, Saddletree, who, as an amateur
of the law, had a supreme deference for all constituted authorities, again
recurred to his other topic of interest, the murder, namely, of Porteous, and
pronounced a severe censure on the parties concerned.
    »These are kittle times - kittle times, Mr. Deans, when the people take the
power of life and death out of the hands of the rightful magistrate into their
ain rough grip. I am of opinion, and so I believe will Mr. Crossmyloof and the
Privy Council, that this rising in effeir of war, to take away the life of a
reprieved man, will prove little better than perduellion.«
    »If I hadna that on my mind whilk is ill to bear, Mr. Saddletree,« said
Deans, »I wad make bold to dispute that point wi' you.«
    »How could you dispute what's plain law, man?« said Saddletree, somewhat
contemptuously; »there's no a callant that e'er carried a pock wi' a process
in't, but will tell you that perduellion is the warst and maist virulent kind of
treason, being an open convocating of the king's lieges against his authority
(mair especially in arms, and by touk of drum, to baith whilk accessories my een
and lugs bore witness), and muckle warse than lese-majesty, or the concealment
of a treasonable purpose - It winna bear a dispute, neighbour.«
    »But it will, though,« retorted Douce Davie Deans; »I tell ye it will bear a
dispute - I never like your cauld, legal, formal doctrines, neighbour
Saddletree. I haud unco little by the Parliament House, since the awful' downfall
of the hopes of honest folk that followed the Revolution.«
    »But what wad ye hae had, Mr. Deans?« said Saddletree, impatiently; »didna
ye get baith liberty and conscience made fast, and settled by tailzie on you and
your heirs for ever?«
    »Mr. Saddletree,« retorted Deans, »I ken ye are one of those that are wise
after the manner of this world, and that ye haud your part, and cast in your
portion, wi' the lang heads and lang gowns, and keep with the smart witty-pated
lawyers of this our land - Weary on the dark and dolefu' cast that they hae gien
this unhappy kingdom, when their black hands of defection were clasped in the
red hands of our sworn murtherers: when those who had numbered the towers of our
Zion, and marked the bulwarks of Reformation, saw their hope turn into a snare,
and their rejoicing into weeping.«
    »I canna understand this, neighbour,« answered Saddletree. »I am an honest
Presbyterian of the Kirk of Scotland, and stand by her and the General Assembly,
and the due administration of justice by the fifteen Lords o' Session and the
five Lords o' Justiciary.«
    »Out upon ye, Mr. Saddletree!« exclaimed David, who, in an opportunity of
giving his testimony on the offences and backslidings of the land, forgot for a
moment his own domestic calamity - »out upon your General Assembly, and the back
of my hand to your Court o' Session! - What is the tane but a waefu' bunch o'
cauldrife professors and ministers, that sate bien and warm when the persecuted
remnant were warstling wi' hunger, and cauld, and fear of death, and danger of
fire and sword, upon wet brae-sides, peat-haggs, and flow-mosses, and that now
creep out of their holes, like bluebottle flees in a blink of sunshine, to take
the pu'pits and places of better folk - of them that witnessed, and testified,
and fought, and endured pit, prison-house, and transportation beyond seas? - A
bonny bike there's o' them! - And for your Court o' Session« -
    »Ye may say what ye will o' the General Assembly,« said Saddletree,
interrupting him, »and let them clear them that kens them; but as for the Lords
o' Session, forby that they are my next-door neighbours, I would have ye ken,
for your ain regulation, that to raise scandal anent them, whilk is termed to
murmur again them, is a crime sui generis, - sui generis, Mr. Deans - ken ye
what that amounts to?«
    »I ken little o' the language of Antichrist,« said Deans; »and I care less
than little what carnal courts may call the speeches of honest men. And as to
murmur again them, it's what a' the folk that loses their pleas, and nine-tenths
o' them that win them, will be gey sure to be guilty in. Sae I wad hae ye ken
that I haud a' your gleg-tongued advocates, that sell their knowledge for pieces
of silver - and your worldly-wise judges, that will give three days of hearing in
presence to a debate about the peeling of an ingan, and no ae half-hour to the
gospel testimony - as legalists and formalists, countenancing by sentences, and
quirks, and cunning terms of law, the late begun courses of national defections
- union, toleration, patronages, and Yerastian prelatic oaths. As for the soul
and body-killing Court o' Justiciary« -
    The habit of considering his life as dedicated to bear testimony in behalf
of what he deemed the suffering and deserted cause of true religion, had swept
honest David along with it thus far; but with the mention of the criminal court,
the recollection of the disastrous condition of his daughter rushed at once on
his mind; he stopped short in the midst of his triumphant declamation, pressed
his hands against his forehead, and remained silent.
    Saddletree was somewhat moved, but apparently not so much so as to induce
him to relinquish the privilege of prosing in his turn afforded him by David's
sudden silence. »Nae doubt, neighbour,« he said, »it's a sair thing to hae to do
wi' courts of law, unless it be to improve ane's knowledge and practique, by
waiting on as a hearer; and touching this unhappy affair of Effie - ye'll hae
seen the dittay, doubtless?« He dragged out of his pocket a bundle of papers,
and began to turn them over. »This is no it - this is the information of Mungo
Marsport, of that ilk, against Captain Lackland, for coming on his lands of
Marsport with hawks, hounds, lying-dogs, nets, guns, cross-bows, hagbuts of
found, or other engines more or less for destruction of game, sic as red-deer,
fallow-deer, cappercailzies, grey-fowl, moor-fowl, paitricks, herons, and sic
like; he, the said defender not being ane qualified person, in terms of the
statute sixteen hundred and twenty-ane; that is, not having ane plough-gate of
land. Now, the defences proponed say, that non constat at this present what is a
plough-gate of land, whilk uncertainty is sufficient to elide the conclusions of
the libel. But then the answers to the defences (they are signed by Mr.
Crossmyloof, but Mr. Younglad drew them), they propone, that it signifies
nothing, in hoc statu, what or how muckle a plough-gate of land may be, in
respect the defender has nae lands whatsoe'er, less or mair. Sae grant a
plough-gate« (here Saddletree read from the paper in his hand) »to be less than
the nineteenth part of a guse's grass - (I trow Mr. Crossmyloof put in that - I
ken his style), - of a guse's grass, what the better will the defender be,
seeing he hasna a divot-cast of land in Scotland? - Advocatus for Lackland
duplies, that nihil interest de possessione, the pursuer must put his case under
the statute - (now, this is worth your notice, neighbour), - and must show,
formaliter et specialiter, as well as generaliter, what is the qualification
that defender Lackland does not possess - let him tell me what a plough-gate of
land is, and I'll tell him if I have one or no. Surely the pursuer is bound to
understand his own libel, and his own statute that he founds upon. Titius
pursues Mævius for recovery of ane black horse lent to Mævius - surely he shall
have judgment; but if Titius pursue Mævius for ane scarlet or crimson horse,
doubtless he shall be bound to show that there is sic ane animal in rerum
natura. No man can be bound to plead to nonsense - that is to say, to a charge
which cannot be explained or understood - (he's wrang there - the better the
pleadings the fewer understand them), - and so the reference unto this undefined
and unintelligible measure of land is, as if a penalty was inflicted by statute
for any man who should hunt or hawk, or use lying-dogs, and wearing a sky-blue
pair of breeches, without having - But I am wearying you, Mr. Deans, - we'll
pass to your ain business, - though this case of Marsport against Lackland has
made an unco din in the Outer House. Weel, here's the dittay against puir Effie:
Whereas is is humbly meant and shown to us, etc. (they are words of mere style),
that whereas, by the laws of this and every other well-regulated realm, the
murder of any one, more especially of an infant child, is a crime of ane high
nature, and severely punishable: And whereas, without prejudice to the foresaid
generality, it was, by ane act made in the second session of the First
Parliament of our most High and Dread Sovereigns William and Mary, especially
enacted, that ane woman who shall have concealed her condition, and shall not be
able to show that she hath called for help at the birth in case that the child
shall be found dead or amissing, shall be deemed and held guilty of the murder
thereof; and the said facts of concealment and pregnancy being found proven or
confessed, shall sustain the pains of law accordingly; yet, nevertheless, you,
Effie, or Euphemia Deans« -
    »Read no farther!« said Deans, raising his head up; »I would rather ye
thrust a sword into my heart than read a word farther!«
    »Weel, neighbour,« said Saddletree, »I thought it wad hae comforted ye to
ken the best and the warst o't. But the question is, what's to be dune?«
    »Nothing,« answered Deans firmly, »but to abide the dispensation that the
Lord sees meet to send us. Oh, if it had been His will to take the grey head to
rest before this awful visitation on my house and name! But His will be done. I
can say that yet, though I can say little mair.«
    »But, neighbour,« said Saddletree, »ye'll retain advocates for the puir
lassie? it's a thing maun needs be thought of.«
    »If there was ae man of them,« answered Deans, »that held fast his integrity
- but I ken them well, they are a' carnal, crafty, and warld-hunting
self-seekers, Yerastians, and Arminians, every ane o' them.«
    »Hout tout, neighbour, ye mauna take the warld at its word,« said
Saddletree; »the very deil is no sae ill as he's ca'd; and I ken mair than ae
advocate that may be said to hae some integrity as well as their neighbours;
that is, after a sort o' fashion o' their ain.«
    »It is indeed but a fashion of integrity that ye will find amang them,«
replied David Deans, »and a fashion of wisdom, and fashion of carnal learning -
gazing, glancing-glasses they are, fit only to fling the glaiks in folk's een,
wi' their pawky policy, and earthly ingine, their flights and refinements, and
periods of eloquence, frae heathen emperors and popish canons. They canna, in
that daft trash ye were reading to me, sae muckle as ca' men that are sae
ill-starred as to be amang their hands, by ony name o' the dispensation o'
grace, but maun new baptize them by the names of the accursed Titus, what was
made the instrument of burning the holy Temple, and other sic like heathens.«
    »It's Tishius,« interrupted Saddletree, »and no Titus. Mr. Crossmyloof cares
as little about Titus or the Latin as ye do. - But it's a case of necessity -
she maun hae counsel. Now, I could speak to Mr. Crossmyloof - he's well ken'd
for a round-spun Presbyterian, and a ruling elder to boot.«
    »He's a rank Yerastian,« replied Deans; »one of the public and polititious
warldly-wise men that stude up to prevent ane general owning of the cause in the
day of power.«
    »What say ye to the auld Laird of Cuffabout?« said Saddletree; »he whiles
thumps the dust out of a case gey and well.«
    »He? the fause loon!« answered Deans - »he was in his bandaliers to hae
joined the ungracious Highlanders in 1715, an they had ever had the luck to
cross the Firth.«
    »Weel, Arniston? there's a clever chield for ye!« said Bartoline,
triumphantly.
    »Ay, to bring popish medals in till their very library from that schismatic
woman in the north, the Duchess of Gordon.«
    »Weel, well, but somebody ye maun hae - What think ye o' Kittlepunt?«
    »He's an Arminian.«
    »Woodsetter?«
    »He's, I doubt, a Cocceian.«
    »Auld Whilliewhaw?«
    »He's ony thing ye like.«
    »Young Næmmo?«
    »He's nothing at a'.«
    »Ye're ill to please, neighbour,« said Saddletree: »I hae run ower the pick
o' them for you, ye maun e'en choose for yoursell; but bethink ye that in the
multitude of counsellors there's safety. - What say ye to try young Mackenyie?
he has a' his uncle's Practiques at the tongue's end.«
    »What, sir, wad ye speak to me,« exclaimed the sturdy Presbyterian in
excessive wrath, »about a man that has the blood of the saints at his fingers'
ends? Didna his eme die and gang to his place wi' the name of the Bluidy
Mackenyie? and winna he be kend by that name sae lang as there's a Scots tongue
to speak the word? If the life of the dear bairn that's under a suffering
dispensation, and Jeanie's, and my ain, and a' mankind's, depended on my asking
sic a slave o' Satan to speak a word for me or them, they should a' gave doun the
water thegither for Davie Deans!«
    It was the exalted tone in which he spoke this last sentence that broke up
the conversation between Butler and Jeanie, and brought them both »been the
house,« to use the language of the country. Here they found the poor old man
half frantic between grief and zealous ire against Saddletree's proposed
measures, his cheek inflamed, his hand clenched, and his voice raised, while the
tear in his eye, and the occasional quiver of his accents, showed that his
utmost efforts were inadequate to shaking off the consciousness of his misery.
Butler, apprehensive of the consequences of his agitation to an aged and feeble
frame, ventured to utter to him a recommendation to patience.
    »I am patient,« returned the old man sternly, - »more patient than any one
who is alive to the woeful backslidings of a miserable time can be patient; and
in so much, that I need neither sectarians, nor sons nor grandsons of
sectarians, to instruct my grey hairs how to bear my cross.«
    »But, sir,« continued Butler, taking no offence at the slur cast on his
grandfather's faith, »we must use human means. When you call in a physician, you
would not, I suppose, question him on the nature of his religious principles!«
    »Wad I no?« answered David - »but I wad, though; and if he didna satisfy me
that he had a right sense of the right hand and left hand defections of the day,
not a goutte of his physic should gang through my father's son.«
    It is a dangerous thing to trust to an illustration. Butler had done so and
miscarried; but, like a gallant soldier when his musket misses fire, he stood
his ground, and charged with the bayonet. - »This is too rigid an interpretation
of your duty, sir. The sun shines, and the rain descends, on the just and
unjust, and they are placed together in life in circumstances which frequently
render intercourse between them indispensable, perhaps that the evil may have an
opportunity of being converted by the good, and perhaps, also, that the
righteous might, among other trials, be subjected to that of occasional converse
with the profane.«
    »Ye're a silly callant, Reuben,« answered Deans, »with your bits of
argument. Can a man touch pitch and not be defiled? Or what think ye of the
brave and worthy champions of the Covenant, that wadna sae muckle as hear a
minister speak, be his gifts and graces as they would, that hadna witnessed
against the enormities of the day? Nae lawyer shall ever speak for me and mine
that hasna concurred in the testimony of the scattered, yet lovely remnant,
which abode in the clifts of the rocks.«
    So saying, and as if fatigued, both with the arguments and presence of his
guests, the old man arose, and seeming to bid them adieu with a motion of his
head and hand, went to shut himself up in his sleeping apartment.
    »It's thrawing his daughter's life away,« said Saddletree to Butler, »to hear
him speak in that daft gate. Where will he ever get a Cameronian advocate? Or
what ever heard of a lawyer's suffering either for ae religion or another? The
lassie's life is clean flung away.«
    During the latter part of this debate, Dumbiedikes had arrived at the door,
dismounted, hung the pony's bridle on the usual hook, and sunk down on his
ordinary settle. His eyes, with more than their usual animation, followed first
one speaker then another, till he caught the melancholy sense of the whole from
Saddletree's last words. He rose from his seat, stumped slowly across the room,
and, coming close up to Saddletree's ear, said in a tremulous anxious voice,
»Will - will siller do nothing for them, Mr. Saddletree?«
    »Umph!« said Saddletree, looking grave, - »siller will certainly do it in
the Parliament House, if ony thing can do it; but where's the siller to come
frae? Mr. Deans, ye see, will do nothing; and though Mrs. Saddletree's their
far-away friend, and right good well-wisher, and is well disposed to assist, yet
she wadna like to stand to be bound singuli in solidum to such an expensive
wark. An ilka friend wad bear a share o' the burden, something might be dune -
ilka ane to be liable for their ain input - I wadna like to see the case fa'
through without being pled - it wadna be creditable, for a' that daft whig body
says.«
    »I'll - I will - yes« (assuming fortitude), »I will be answerable,« said
Dumbiedikes, »for a score of punds sterling.« - And he was silent, staring in
astonishment at finding himself capable of such unwonted resolution and
excessive generosity.
    »God Almighty bless ye, Laird!« said Jeanie, in a transport of gratitude.
    »Ye may ca' the twenty punds thretty,« said Dumbiedikes, looking bashfully
away from her, and towards Saddletree.
    »That will do bravely,« said Saddletree, rubbing his hands; »and ye sall hae
a' my skill and knowledge to gar the siller gang far - I'll tape it out well - I
ken how to gar the birkies take short fees, and be glad o' them too - it's only
garring them trow ye hae twa or three cases of importance coming on, and they'll
work cheap to get custom. Let me alane for whilly-whaing an advocate; - it's nae
sin to get as muckle frae them for our siller as we can - after a', it's but the
wind o' their mouth - it costs them nothing; whereas, in my wretched occupation
of a saddler, horse milliner, and harness maker, we are out unconscionable sums
just for barkened hides and leather.«
    »Can I be of no use?« said Butler. »My means, alas! are only worth the black
coat I wear; but I am young - I owe much to the family - Can I do nothing?«
    »Ye can help to collect evidence, sir,« said Saddletree; »if we could but
find ony ane to say she had gien the least hint o' her condition, she wad be
brought aff wi' a wat finger - Mr. Crossmyloof tell'd me sae. The crown, says
he, canna be craved to prove a positive - was't a positive or a negative they
couldn't have be ca'd to prove? - it was the tane or the tither o' them, I am sure,
and it maksna muckle matter whilk. Wherefore, says he, the libel maun be
redargued by the panel proving her defences. And it canna be done otherwise.«
    »But the fact, sir,« argued Butler, »the fact that this poor girl has borne
a child; surely the crown lawyers must prove that?« said Butler.
    Saddletree paused a moment, while the visage of Dumbiedikes, which
traversed, as if it had been placed on a pivot, from the one spokesman to the
other, assumed a more blithe expression.
    »Ye-ye-ye-es,« said Saddletree, after some grave hesitation; »unquestionably
that is a thing to be proved, as the court will more fully declare by an
interlocutor of relevancy in common form; but I fancy that job's done already,
for she has confessed her guilt.«
    »Confessed the murder?« exclaimed Jeanie, with a scream that made them all
start.
    »No, I didna say that,« replied Bartoline. »But she confessed bearing the
babe.«
    »And what became of it, then?« said Jeanie, »for not a word could I get from
her but bitter sighs and tears.«
    »She says it was taken away from her by the woman in whose house it was
born, and who assisted her at the time.«
    »And who was that woman?« said Butler. »Surely by her means the truth might
be discovered. - Who was she? I will fly to her directly.«
    »I wish,« said Dumbiedikes, »I were as young and as supple as you, and had
the gift of the gab as well.«
    »Who is she?« again reiterated Butler impatiently. - »Who could that woman
be?«
    »Ay, what kens that but hersell?« said Saddletree; »she deponed farther, and
declined to answer that interrogatory.«
    »Then to herself will I instantly go,« said Butler; »farewell, Jeanie;« then
coming close up to her - »Take no rash steps till you hear from me. Farewell!«
and he immediately left the cottage.
    »I wad gang too,« said the landed proprietor, in an anxious, jealous, and
repining tone, »but my powny winna for the life o' me gang ony other road than
just frae Dumbiedikes to this house-end, and sae straight back again.«
    »Ye'll do better for them,« said Saddletree, as they left the house
together, »by sending me the thretty punds.«
    »Thretty punds!« hesitated Dumbiedikes, who was now out of the reach of
those eyes which had inflamed his generosity; »I only said twenty punds.«
    »Ay; but,« said Saddletree, »that was under protestation to add and eik; and
so ye craved leave to amend your libel, and made it thretty.«
    »Did I? I dinna mind that I did,« answered Dumbiedikes. »But whatever I said
I'll stand to.« Then bestriding his steed with some difficulty, he added, »Dinna
ye think poor Jeanie's een wi' the tears in them glanced like lamour beads, Mr.
Saddletree?«
    »I kenna muckle about women's een, Laird,« replied the insensible Bartoline;
»and I care just as little. I wuss I were as well free o' their tongues; though
few wives,« he added, recollecting the necessity of keeping up his character for
domestic rule, »are under better command than mine, Laird. I allow neither
perduellion nor lese-majesty against my sovereign authority.«
    The Laird saw nothing so important in this observation as to call for a
rejoinder, and when they had exchanged a mute salutation, they parted in peace
upon their different errands.
 

                                Chapter Twelfth

            I'll warrant that fellow from drowning, were the ship no stronger
            than a nut-shell.
                                                                    The Tempest.
 
Butler felt neither fatigue nor want of refreshment, although, from the mode in
which he had spent the night, he might well have been overcome with either. But
in the earnestness with which he hastened to the assistance of the sister of
Jeanie Deans, he forgot both.
    In his first progress he walked with so rapid a pace as almost approached to
running, when he was surprised to hear behind him a call upon his name,
contending with an asthmatic cough, and half-drowned amid the resounding trot of
a Highland pony. He looked behind, and saw the Laird of Dumbiedikes making after
him with what speed he might, for it happened, fortunately for the Laird's
purpose of conversing with Butler, that his own road homeward was for about two
hundred yards the same with that which led by the nearest way to the city.
Butler stopped when he heard himself thus summoned, internally wishing no good
to the panting equestrian who thus retarded his journey.
    »Uh! uh! uh!« ejaculated Dumbiedikes, as he checked the hobbling pace of the
pony by our friend Butler. »Uh! uh! it's a hard-set willyard beast this o'
mine.« He had in fact just overtaken the object of his chase at the very point
beyond which it would have been absolutely impossible for him to have continued
the pursuit, since there Butler's road parted from that leading to Dumbiedikes,
and no means of influence or compulsion which the rider could possibly have used
towards his Bucephalus could have induced the Celtic obstinacy of Rory Bean
(such was the pony's name) to have diverged a yard from the path that conducted
him to his own paddock.
    Even when he had recovered from the shortness of breath occasioned by a trot
much more rapid than Rory or he were accustomed to, the high purpose of
Dumbiedikes seemed to stick as it were in his throat, and impede his utterance,
so that Butler stood for nearly three minutes ere he could utter a syllable; and
when he did find voice, it was only to say, after one or two efforts, »Uh! uh!
uhm! I say, Mr. - Mr. Butler, it's a braw day for the har'st.«
    »Fine day, indeed,« said Butler. »I wish you good morning, sir.«
    »Stay - stay a bit,« rejoined Dumbiedikes; »that was no what I had gotten to
say.«
    »Then, pray be quick, and let me have your commands,« rejoined Butler; »I
crave your pardon, but I am in haste, and Tempus nemini - you know the proverb.«
    Dumbiedikes did not know the proverb, nor did he even take the trouble to
endeavour to look as if he did, as others in his place might have done. He was
concentrating all his intellects for one grand proposition, and could not afford
any detachment to defend outposts. »I say, Mr. Butler,« said he, »ken ye if Mr.
Saddletree's a great lawyer?«
    »I have no person's word for it but his own,« answered Butler, drily; »but
undoubtedly he best understands his own qualities.«
    »Umph!« replied the taciturn Dumbiedikes, in a tone which seemed to say,
»Mr. Butler, I take your meaning.« »In that case,« he pursued, »I'll employ my
ain man o' business, Nichil Novit (auld Nichil's son, and amaist as gleg as his
father), to agent Effie's plea.«
    And having thus displayed more sagacity than Butler expected from him, he
courteously touched his gold-laced cocked hat, and by a punch on the ribs,
conveyed to Rory Bean, it was his rider's pleasure that he should forthwith
proceed homewards; a hint which the quadruped obeyed with that degree of
alacrity with which men and animals interpret and obey suggestions that entirely
correspond with their own inclinations.
    Butler resumed his pace, not without a momentary revival of that jealousy
which the honest Laird's attention to the family of Deans had at different times
excited in his bosom. But he was too generous long to nurse any feeling which
was allied to selfishness. »He is,« said Butler to himself, »rich in what I
want; why should I feel vexed that he has the heart to dedicate some of his pelf
to render them services, which I can only form the empty wish of executing? In
God's name, let us each do what we can. May she be but happy! - saved from the
misery and disgrace that seems impending - Let me but find the means of
preventing the fearful experiment of this evening, and farewell to other
thoughts, though my heart-strings break in parting with them!«
    He redoubled his pace, and soon stood before the door of the Tolbooth, or
rather before the entrance where the door had formerly been placed. His
interview with the mysterious stranger, the message to Jeanie, his agitating
conversation with her on the subject of breaking off their mutual engagements,
and the interesting scene with old Deans, had so entirely occupied his mind as
to drown even recollection of the tragical event which he had witnessed the
preceding evening. His attention was not recalled to it by the groups who stood
scattered on the street in conversation, which they hushed when strangers
approached, or by the bustling search of the agents of the city police,
supported by small parties of the military, or by the appearance of the
Guard-House, before which were treble sentinels, or, finally, by the subdued and
intimidated looks of the lower orders of society, who, conscious that they were
liable to suspicion, if they were not guilty of accession to a riot likely to be
strictly inquired into, glided about with an humble and dismayed aspect, like
men whose spirits being exhausted in the revel and the dangers of a desperate
debauch over-night, are nerve-shaken, timorous, and unenterprising on the
succeeding day.
    None of these symptoms of alarm and trepidation struck Butler, whose mind
was occupied with a different, and to him still more interesting subject, until
he stood before the entrance to the prison, and saw it defended by a double file
of grenadiers, instead of bolts and bars. Their »Stand, stand!« the blackened
appearance of the doorless gateway, and the winding staircase and apartments of
the Tolbooth, now open to the public eye, recalled the whole proceedings of the
eventful night. Upon his requesting to speak with Effie Deans, the same tall,
thin, silver-haired turnkey, whom he had seen on the preceding evening, made his
appearance.
    »I think,« he replied to Butler's request of admission, with true Scottish
indirectness, »ye will be the same lad that was for in to see her yestreen?«
    Butler admitted he was the same person.
    »And I am thinking,« pursued the turnkey, »that ye speered at me when we
locked up, and if we locked up earlier on account of Porteous?«
    »Very likely I might make some such observation,« said Butler; »but the
question now is, can I see Effie Deans?«
    »I dinna ken - gang in by, and up the turnpike stair, and turn till the ward
on the left hand.«
    The old man followed close behind him, with his keys in his hand, not
forgetting even that huge one which had once opened and shut the outward gate of
his dominions, though at present it was but an idle and useless burden. No
sooner had Butler entered the room to which he was directed, than the
experienced hand of the warder selected the proper key, and locked it on the
outside. At first Butler conceived this manoeuvre was only an effect of the
man's habitual and official caution and jealousy. But when he heard the hoarse
command, »Turn out the guard!« and immediately afterwards heard the clash of a
sentinel's arms, as he was posted at the door of his apartment, he again called
out to the turnkey, »My good friend, I have business of some consequence with
Effie Deans, and I beg to see her as soon as possible.« No answer was returned.
»If it be against your rules to admit me,« repeated Butler, in a still louder
tone, »to see the prisoner, I beg you will tell me so, and let me go about my
business. - Fugit irrevocabile tempus!« muttered he to himself.
    »If ye had business to do, ye should hae dune it before ye cam here,« replied
the man of keys from the outside; »ye'll find it's easier wunnin in than wunnin
out here - there's sma' likelihood o' another Porteous mob coming to rabble us
again - the law will haud her ain now, neighbour, and that ye'll find to your
cost.«
    »What do you mean by that, sir?« retorted Butler. »You must mistake me for
some other person. My name is Reuben Butler, preacher of the gospel.«
    »I ken that well enough,« said the turnkey.
    »Well, then, if you know me, I have a right to know from you in return, what
warrant you have for detaining me; that, I know, is the right of every British
subject.«
    »Warrant!« said the jailer, - »the warrant's away to Libberton wi' twa
sheriff officers seeking ye. If ye had staid at hame, as honest men should do,
ye wad hae seen the warrant; but if ye come to be incarcerated of your ain
accord, what can help it, my jo?«
    »So I cannot see Effie Deans, then,« said Butler; »and you are determined
not to let me out?«
    »Troth will I no, neighbour,« answered the old man, doggedly; »as for Effie
Deans, ye'll hae eneuch ado to mind your ain business, and let her mind hers;
and for letting you out, that maun be as the magistrate will determine. And fare
ye well for a bit, for I maun see Deacon Sawyers put on ane or twa o' the doors
that your quiet folk broke down yesternight, Mr. Butler.«
    There was something in this exquisitely provoking, but there was also
something darkly alarming. To be imprisoned, even on a false accusation, has
something in it disagreeable and menacing even to men of more constitutional
courage than Butler had to boast; for although he had much of that resolution
which arises from a sense of duty and an honourable desire to discharge it, yet,
as his imagination was lively, and his frame of body delicate, he was far from
possessing that cool insensibility to danger which is the happy portion of men
of stronger health, more firm nerves, and less acute sensibility. An indistinct
idea of peril, which he could neither understand nor ward off, seemed to float
before his eyes. He tried to think over the events of the preceding night, in
hopes of discovering some means of explaining or vindicating his conduct for
appearing among the mob, since it immediately occurred to him that his detention
must be founded on that circumstance. And it was with anxiety that he found he
could not recollect to have been under the observation of any disinterested
witness in the attempts that he made from time to time to expostulate with the
rioters, and to prevail on them to release him. The distress of Deans's family,
the dangerous rendezvous which Jeanie had formed, and which he could not now
hope to interrupt, had also their share in his unpleasant reflections. Yet,
impatient as he was to receive an éclaircissement upon the cause of his
confinement, and if possible to obtain his liberty, he was affected with a
trepidation which seemed no good omen; when, after remaining an hour in this
solitary apartment, he received a summons to attend the sitting magistrate. He
was conducted from prison strongly guarded by a party of soldiers, with a parade
of precaution, that, however ill-timed and unnecessary, is generally displayed
after an event, which such precaution, if used in time, might have prevented.
    He was introduced into the Council Chamber, as the place is called where the
magistrates hold their sittings, and which was then at a little distance from
the prison. One or two of the senators of the city were present, and seemed
about to engage in the examination of an individual who was brought forward to
the foot of the long green-covered table round which the council usually
assembled. »Is that the preacher?« said one of the magistrates, as the city
officer in attendance introduced Butler. The man answered in the affirmative.
»Let him sit down there for an instant; we will finish this man's business very
briefly.«
    »Shall we remove Mr. Butler?« queried the assistant.
    »It is not necessary - Let him remain where he is.«
    Butler accordingly sate down on a bench at the bottom of the apartment,
attended by one of his keepers.
    It was a large room, partially and imperfectly lighted; but by chance, or
the skill of the architect, who might happen to remember the advantage which
might occasionally be derived from such an arrangement, one window was so placed
as to throw a strong light at the foot of the table at which prisoners were
usually posted for examination, while the upper end, where the examinants sate,
was thrown into shadow. Butler's eyes were instantly fixed on the person whose
examination was at present proceeding, in the idea that he might recognise some
one of the conspirators of the former night. But though the features of this man
were sufficiently marked and striking, he could not recollect that he had ever
seen them before.
    The complexion of this person was dark, and his age somewhat advanced. He
wore his own hair, combed smooth down, and cut very short. It was jet black,
slightly curled by nature, and already mottled with grey. The man's face
expressed rather knavery than vice, and a disposition to sharpness, cunning, and
roguery, more than the traces of stormy and indulged passions. His sharp quick
black eyes, acute features, ready sardonic smile, promptitude and effrontery,
gave him altogether what is called among the vulgar a knowing look, which
generally implies a tendency to knavery. At a fair or market, you could not for
a moment have doubted that he was a horse-jockey, intimate with all the tricks
of his trade; yet, had you met him on a moor, you would not have apprehended any
violence from him. His dress was also that of a horse-dealer - a close-buttoned
jockey-coat, or wrap-rascal, as it was then termed, with huge metal buttons,
coarse blue upper stockings, called boot-hose because supplying the place of
boots, and a slouched hat. He only wanted a loaded whip under his arm and a spur
upon one heel, to complete the dress of the character he seemed to represent.
    »Your name is James Ratcliffe?« said the magistrate.
    »Ay - always wi' your honour's leave.«
    »That is to say, you could find me another name if I did not like that one?«
    »Twenty to pick and choose upon, always with your honour's leave,« resumed
the respondent.
    »But James Ratcliffe is your present name? - what is your trade?«
    »I canna just say, distinctly, that I have what ye wad ca' preceesely a
trade.«
    »But,« repeated the magistrate, »what are your means of living - your
occupation?«
    »Hout tout - your honour, wi' your leave, kens that as well as I do,«
replied the examined.
    »No matter, I want to hear you describe it,« said the examinant.
    »Me describe! - and to your honour! - far be it from Jemmie Ratcliffe,«
responded the prisoner.
    »Come, sir, no trifling - I insist on an answer.«
    »Weel, sir,« replied the declarant, »I maun make a clean breast, for ye see,
wi' your leave, I am looking for favour - Describe my occupation, quo' ye? -
troth it will be ill to do that, in a feasible way, in a place like this - but
what is't again that the aught command says?«
    »Thou shalt not steal,« answered the magistrate.
    »Are you sure o' that!« replied the accused. - »Troth, then, my occupation,
and that command, are sair at odds, for I read it, thou shalt steal; and that
makes an unco difference, though there's but a wee bit word left out.«
    »To cut the matter short, Ratcliffe, you have been a most notorious thief,«
said the examinant.
    »I believe Highlands and Lowlands ken that, sir, forby England and Holland,«
replied Ratcliffe, with the greatest composure and effrontery.
    »And what d'ye think the end of your calling will be?« said the magistrate.
    »I could have gien a braw guess yesterday - but I dinna ken sae well the
day,« answered the prisoner.
    »And what would you have said would have been your end, had you been asked
the question yesterday?«
    »Just the gallows,« replied Ratcliffe, with the same composure.
    »You are a daring rascal, sir,« said the magistrate; »and how dare you hope
times are mended with you to-day?«
    »Dear, your honour,« answered Ratcliffe, »there's muckle difference between
lying in prison under sentence of death, and staying there of ane's ain proper
accord, when it would have cost a man nothing to get up and rin away - what was
to hinder me from stepping out quietly, when the rabble walked away wi' Jock
Porteous yestreen? - and does your honour really think I staid on purpose to be
hanged?«
    »I do not know what you may have proposed to yourself; but I know,« said the
magistrate, »what the law proposes for you, and that is, to hang you next
Wednesday eight days.«
    »Na, na, your honour,« said Ratcliffe firmly, »craving your honour's pardon,
I'll ne'er believe that till I see it. I have kend the law this mony a year, and
mony a thrawart job I hae had wi' her first and last; but the auld jaud is no
sae ill as that comes to - I aye fand her bark waur than her bite.«
    »And if you do not expect the gallows, to which you are condemned (for the
fourth time to my knowledge), may I beg the favour to know,« said the
magistrate, »what it is you do expect, in consideration of your not having taken
your flight with the rest of the jail-birds, which I will admit was a line of
conduct little to have been expected?«
    »I would never have thought for a moment of staying in that auld gousty toom
house,« answered Ratcliffe, »but that use and wont had just gien me a fancy to
the place, and I'm just expecting a bit post in't.«
    »A post!« exclaimed the magistrate; »a whipping-post, I suppose, you mean?«
    »Na, na, sir, I had nae thoughts o' a whuppin-post. After having been four
times doomed to hang by the neck till I was dead, I think I am far beyond being
whuppit.«
    »Then, in Heaven's name, what did you expect?«
    »Just the post of under-turnkey, for I understand there's a vacancy,« said
the prisoner; »I wadna think of asking the lockman's23 place ower his head; it
wadna suit me sae well as ither folk, for I never could put a beast out o' the
way, much less deal wi' a man.«
    »That's something in your favour,« said the magistrate, making exactly the
inference to which Ratcliffe was desirous to lead him, though he mantled his art
with an affectation of oddity. »But,« continued the magistrate, »how do you
think you can be trusted with a charge in the prison, when you have broken at
your own hand half the jails in Scotland?«
    »Wi' your honour's leave,« said Ratcliffe, »if I kend sae well how to wun
out mysell, it's like I wad be a' the better a hand to keep other folk in. I
think they wad ken their business well that held me in when I wanted to be out,
or wan out when I wanted to haud them in.«
    The remark seemed to strike the magistrate, but he made no further immediate
observation, only desired Ratcliffe to be removed.
    When this daring and yet sly freebooter was out of hearing, the magistrate
asked the city clerk, »what he thought of the fellow's assurance?«
    »It's no for me to say, sir,« replied the clerk: »but if James Ratcliffe be
inclined to turn to good, there is not a man e'er came within the ports of the
burgh could be of sae muckle use to the Good Town in the thief and lock-up line
of business. I'll speak to Mr. Sharpitlaw about him.«
    Upon Ratcliffe's retreat, Butler was placed at the table for examination.
The magistrate conducted his inquiry civilly, but yet in a manner which gave him
to understand that he laboured under strong suspicion. With a frankness which at
once became his calling and character, Butler avowed his involuntary presence at
the murder of Porteous, and, at the request of the magistrate, entered into a
minute detail of the circumstances which attended that unhappy affair. All the
particulars, such as we have narrated, were taken minutely down by the clerk
from Butler's dictation.
    When the narrative was concluded, the cross-examination commenced, which it
is a painful task even for the most candid witness to undergo, since a story,
especially if connected with agitating and alarming incidents, can scarce be so
clearly and distinctly told, but that some ambiguity and doubt may be thrown
upon it by a string of successive and minute interrogatories.
    The magistrate commenced by observing, that Butler had said his object was
to return to the village of Libberton, but that he was interrupted by the mob at
the West Port. »Is the West Port your usual way of leaving town when you go to
Libberton?« said the magistrate, with a sneer.
    »No, certainly,« answered Butler, with the haste of a man anxious to
vindicate the accuracy of his evidence; »but I chanced to be nearer that port
than any other, and the hour of shutting the gates was on the point of
striking.«
    »That was unlucky,« said the magistrate, drily. »Pray, being, as you say,
under coercion and fear of the lawless multitude, and compelled to accompany
them through scenes disagreeable to all men of humanity, and more especially
irreconcilable to the profession of a minister, did you not attempt to struggle,
resist, or escape from their violence?«
    Butler replied, »that their numbers prevented him from attempting
resistance, and their vigilance from effecting his escape.«
    »That was unlucky,« again repeated the magistrate, in the same dry
inacquiescent tone of voice and manner. He proceeded with decency and
politeness, but with a stiffness which argued his continued suspicion, to ask
many questions concerning the behaviour of the mob, the manners and dress of the
ringleaders; and when he conceived that the caution of Butler, if he was
deceiving him, must be lulled asleep, the magistrate suddenly and artfully
returned to former parts of his declaration, and required a new recapitulation
of the circumstances, to the minutest and most trivial point, which attended
each part of the melancholy scene. No confusion or contradiction, however,
occurred, that could countenance the suspicion which he seemed to have adopted
against Butler. At length the train of his interrogatories reached Madge
Wildfire, at whose name the magistrate and town-clerk exchanged significant
glances. If the fate of the Good Town had depended on her careful magistrate's
knowing the features and dress of this personage, his inquiries could not have
been more particular. But Butler could say almost nothing of this person's
features, which were disguised apparently with red paint and soot, like an
Indian going to battle, besides the projecting shade of a curch, or coif, which
muffled the hair of the supposed female. He declared that he thought he could
not know this Madge Wildfire, if placed before him in a different dress, but
that he believed he might recognise her voice.
    The magistrate requested him again to state by what gate he left the city.
    »By the Cowgate Port,« replied Butler.
    »Was that the nearest road to Libberton?«
    »No,« answered Butler, with embarrassment; »but it was the nearest way to
extricate myself from the mob.«
    The clerk and magistrate again exchanged glances.
    »Is the Cowgate Port a nearer way to Libberton from the Grassmarket than
Bristo Port?«
    »No,« replied Butler; »but I had to visit a friend.«
    »Indeed!« said the interrogator - »You were in a hurry to tell the sight you
had witnessed, I suppose?«
    »Indeed I was not,« replied Butler; »nor did I speak on the subject the
whole time I was at St. Leonard's Crags.«
    »Which road did you take to St. Leonard's Crags?«
    »By the foot of Salisbury Crags,« was the reply.
    »Indeed? you seem partial to circuitous routes,« again said the magistrate.
»Whom did you see after you left the city?«
    One by one he obtained a description of every one of the groups who had
passed Butler, as already noticed, their number, demeanour, and appearance; and
at length, came to the circumstance of the mysterious stranger in the King's
Park. On this subject Butler would fain have remained silent. But the magistrate
had no sooner got a slight hint concerning the incident, than he seemed bent to
possess himself of the most minute particulars.
    »Look ye, Mr. Butler,« said he, »you are a young man, and bear an excellent
character; so much I will myself testify in your favour. But we are aware there
has been, at times, a sort of bastard and fiery zeal in some of your order, and
those, men irreproachable in other points, which has led them into doing and
countenancing great irregularities, by which the peace of the country is liable
to be shaken. - I will deal plainly with you. I am not at all satisfied with
this story, of your setting out again and again to seek your dwelling by two
several roads, which were both circuitous. And, to be frank, no one whom we have
examined on this unhappy affair could trace in your appearance any thing like
your acting under compulsion. Moreover, the waiters at the Cowgate Port observed
something like the trepidation of guilt in your conduct, and declare that you
were the first to command them to open the gate, in a tone of authority, as if
still presiding over the guards and out-posts of the rabble, who had besieged
them the whole night.«
    »God forgive them!« said Butler; »I only asked free passage for myself; they
must have much misunderstood, if they did not wilfully misrepresent me.«
    »Well, Mr. Butler,« resumed the magistrate, »I am inclined to judge the best
and hope the best, as I am sure I wish the best; but you must be frank with me,
if you wish to secure my good opinion, and lessen the risk of inconvenience to
yourself. You have allowed you saw another individual in your passage through
the King's Park to Saint Leonard's Crags - I must know every word which passed
betwixt you.«
    Thus closely pressed, Butler, who had no reason for concealing what passed
at that meeting, unless because Jeanie Deans was concerned in it, thought it
best to tell the whole truth from beginning to end.
    »Do you suppose,« said the magistrate, pausing, »that the young woman will
accept an invitation so mysterious?«
    »I fear she will,« replied Butler.
    »Why do you use the word fear it?« said the magistrate.
    »Because I am apprehensive for her safety, in meeting at such a time and
place, one who had something of the manner of a desperado, and whose message was
of a character so inexplicable.«
    »Her safety shall be cared for,« said the magistrate. »Mr. Butler, I am
concerned I cannot immediately discharge you from confinement, but I hope you
will not be long detained. - Remove Mr. Butler, and let him be provided with
decent accommodation in all respects.«
    He was conducted back to the prison accordingly; but, in the food offered to
him, as well as in the apartment in which he was lodged, the recommendation of
the magistrate was strictly attended to.
 

                               Chapter Thirteenth

 Dark and eerie was the night,
 And lonely was the way,
 As Janet, wi' her green mantell,
 To Miles' Cross she did gave.
                                                                     Old Ballad.
 
Leaving Butler to all the uncomfortable thoughts attached to his new situation,
among which the most predominant was his feeling that he was, by his
confinement, deprived of all possibility of assisting the family at St.
Leonard's in their greatest need, we return to Jeanie Deans, who had seen him
depart, without an opportunity of farther explanation, in all that agony of mind
with which the female heart bids adieu to the complicated sensations so well
described by Coleridge, -
 
Hopes, and fears that kindle hope,
An undistinguishable throng;
And gentle wishes long subdued -
Subdued and cherished long.
 
It is not the firmest heart (and Jeanie, under her russet rokelay, had one that
would not have disgraced Cato's daughter) that can most easily bid adieu to
these soft and mingled emotions. She wept for a few minutes bitterly, and
without attempting to refrain from this indulgence of passion. But a moment's
recollection induced her to check herself for a grief selfish and proper to her
own affections, while her father and sister were plunged into such deep and
irretrievable affliction. She drew from her pocket the letter which had been
that morning flung into her apartment through an open window, and the contents
of which were as singular as the expression was violent and energetic. »If she
would save a human being from the most damning guilt, and all its desperate
consequences, - if she desired the life and honour of her sister to be saved
from the bloody fangs of an unjust law, - if she desired not to forfeit peace of
mind here, and happiness hereafter,« such was the frantic style of the
conjuration, »she was entreated to give a sure, secret, and solitary meeting to
the writer. She alone could rescue him,« so ran the letter, »and he only could
rescue her.« He was in such circumstances, the billet farther informed her, that
an attempt to bring any witness of their conference, or even to mention to her
father, or any other person whatsoever, the letter which requested it, would
inevitably prevent its taking place, and ensure the destruction of her sister.
The letter concluded with incoherent but violent protestations, that in obeying
this summons she had nothing to fear personally.
    The message delivered to her by Butler from the stranger in the Park tallied
exactly with the contents of the letter, but assigned a later hour and a
different place of meeting. Apparently the writer of the letter had been
compelled to let Butler so far into his confidence, for the sake of announcing
this change to Jeanie. She was more than once on the point of producing the
billet, in vindication of herself from her lover's half-hinted suspicions. But
there is something in stooping to justification which the pride of innocence
does not at all times willingly submit to; besides that the threats contained in
the letter, in case of her betraying the secret, hung heavy on her heart. It is
probable, however, that had they remained longer together, she might have taken
the resolution to submit the whole matter to Butler, and be guided by him as to
the line of conduct which she should adopt. And when, by the sudden interruption
of their conference, she lost the opportunity of doing so, she felt as if she
had been unjust to a friend, whose advice might have been highly useful, and
whose attachment deserved her full and unreserved confidence.
    To have recourse to her father upon this occasion, she considered as highly
imprudent. There was no possibility of conjecturing in what light the matter
might strike old David, whose manner of acting and thinking in extraordinary
circumstances depended upon feelings and principles peculiar to himself, the
operation of which could not be calculated upon even by those best acquainted
with him. To have requested some female friend to have accompanied her to the
place of rendezvous, would perhaps have been the most eligible expedient; but
the threats of the writer, that betraying his secret would prevent their meeting
(on which her sister's safety was said to depend) from taking place at all,
would have deterred her from making such a confidence, even had she known a
person in whom she thought it could with safety have been reposed. But she knew
none such. Their acquaintance with the cottagers in the vicinity had been very
slight, and limited to trifling acts of good neighbourhood. Jeanie knew little
of them, and what she knew did not greatly incline her to trust any of them.
They were of the order of loquacious good-humoured gossips usually found in
their situation of life; and their conversation had at all times few charms for
a young woman, to whom nature and the circumstance of a solitary life had given
a depth of thought and force of character superior to the frivolous part of her
sex, whether in high or low degree.
    Left alone and separated from all earthly counsel, she had recourse to a
friend and adviser, whose ear is open to the cry of the poorest and most
afflicted of his people. She knelt, and prayed with fervent sincerity, that God
would please to direct her what course to follow in her arduous and distressing
situation. It was the belief of the time and sect to which she belonged, that
special answers to prayer, differing little in their character from divine
inspiration, were, as they expressed it, »borne in upon their minds« in answer
to their earnest petitions in a crisis of difficulty. Without entering into an
abstruse point of divinity, one thing is plain; - namely, that the person who
lays open his doubts and distresses in prayer, with feeling and sincerity, must
necessarily, in the act of doing so, purify his mind from the dross of worldly
passions and interests, and bring it into that state, when the resolutions
adopted are likely to be selected rather from a sense of duty, than from any
inferior motive. Jeanie arose from her devotions, with her heart fortified to
endure affliction, and encouraged to face difficulties.
    »I will meet this unhappy man,« she said to herself - »unhappy he must be,
since I doubt he has been the cause of poor Effie's misfortune - but I will meet
him, be it for good or ill. My mind shall never cast up to me, that, for fear of
what might be said or done to myself, I left that undone that might even yet be
the rescue of her.«
    With a mind greatly composed since the adoption of this resolution, she went
to attend her father. The old man, firm in the principles of his youth, did not,
in outward appearance at least, permit a thought of his family distress to
interfere with the stoical reserve of his countenance and manners. He even chide
his daughter for having neglected, in the distress of the morning, some trifling
domestic duties which fell under her department.
    »Why, what meaneth this, Jeanie?« said the old man - »The brown
four-year-auld's milk is not seiled yet, nor the bowies put up on the bink. If
ye neglect your warldly duties in the day of affliction, what confidence have I
that ye mind the greater matters that concern salvation? God knows, our bowies,
and our pipkins, and our draps o' milk, and our bits o' bread, are nearer and
dearer to us than the bread of life!«
    Jeanie, not unpleased to hear her father's thoughts thus expand themselves
beyond the sphere of his immediate distress, obeyed him, and proceeded to put
her household matters in order; while old David moved from place to place about
his ordinary employments, scarce showing, unless by a nervous impatience at
remaining long stationary, an occasional convulsive sigh, or twinkle of the
eyelid, that he was labouring under the yoke of such bitter affliction.
    The hour of noon came on, and the father and child sat down to their homely
repast. In his petition for a blessing on the meal, the poor old man added to
his supplication, a prayer that the bread eaten in sadness of heart, and the
bitter waters of Marah, might be made as nourishing as those which had been
poured forth from a full cup and a plentiful basket and store; and having
concluded his benediction, and resumed the bonnet which he had laid »reverently
aside,« he proceeded to exhort his daughter to eat, not by example indeed, but
at least by precept.
    »The man after God's own heart,« he said, »washed and anointed himself, and
did eat bread, in order to express his submission under a dispensation of
suffering, and it did not become a Christian man or woman so to cling to
creature-comforts of wife or bairns« - (here the words became too great as it
were, for his utterance), - »as to forget the first duty, - submission to the
Divine will.«
    To add force to his precept, he took a morsel on his plate, but nature
proved too strong even for the powerful feelings with which he endeavoured to
bridle it. Ashamed of his weakness, he started up, and ran out of the house,
with haste very unlike the deliberation of his usual movements. In less than
five minutes he returned, having successfully struggled to recover his ordinary
composure of mind and countenance, and affected to colour over his late retreat,
by muttering that he thought he heard the »young staig loose in the byre.«
    He did not again trust himself with the subject of his former conversation,
and his daughter was glad to see that he seemed to avoid farther discourse on
that agitating topic. The hours glided on, as on they must and do pass, whether
winged with joy or laden with affliction. The sun set beyond the dusky eminence
of the Castle and the screen of western hills, and the close of evening summoned
David Deans and his daughter to the family duty of the night. It came bitterly
upon Jeanie's recollection, how often, when the hour of worship approached, she
used to watch the lengthening shadows, and look out from the door of the house,
to see if she could spy her sister's return homeward. Alas! this idle and
thoughtless waste of time, to what evils had it not finally led? and was she
altogether guiltless, who, noticing Effie's turn to idle and light society, had
not called in her father's authority to restrain her? - But I acted for the
best, she again reflected, and who could have expected such a growth of evil,
from one grain of human leaven, in a disposition so kind, and candid, and
generous?
    As they sate down to the »exercise,« as it is called, a chair happened
accidentally to stand in the place which Effie usually occupied. David Deans saw
his daughter's eyes swim in tears as they were directed towards this object, and
pushed it aside, with a gesture of some impatience, as if desirous to destroy
every memorial of earthly interest when about to address the Deity. The portion
of Scripture was read, the psalm was sung, the prayer was made; and it was
remarkable that, in discharging these duties, the old man avoided all passages
and expressions, of which Scripture affords so many, that might be considered as
applicable to his own domestic misfortune. In doing so it was perhaps his
intention to spare the feelings of his daughter, as well as to maintain, in
outward show at least, that stoical appearance of patient endurance of all the
evil which earth could bring, which was in his opinion essential to the
character of one who rated all earthly things at their just estimate of
nothingness. When he had finished the duty of the evening, he came up to his
daughter, wished her good-night, and, having done so, continued to hold her by
the hands for half-a-minute; then drawing her towards him, kissed her forehead,
and ejaculated, »The God of Israel bless you, even with the blessings of the
promise, my dear bairn!«
    It was not either in the nature or habits of David Deans to seem a fond
father; nor was he often observed to experience, or at least to evince, that
fullness of the heart which seeks to expand itself in tender expressions or
caresses even to those who were dearest to him. On the contrary, he used to
censure this as a degree of weakness in several of his neighbours, and
particularly in poor widow Butler. It followed, however, from the rarity of such
emotions in this self-denied and reserved man, that his children attached to
occasional marks of his affection and approbation a degree of high interest and
solemnity; well considering them as evidences of feelings which were only
expressed when they became too intense for suppression or concealment.
    With deep emotion, therefore, did he bestow, and his daughter receive, this
benediction and paternal caress. »And you, my dear father,« exclaimed Jeanie,
when the door had closed upon the venerable old man, »may you have purchased and
promised blessings multiplied upon you - upon you, who walk in this world as
though you were not of the world, and hold all that it can give or take away but
as the midges that the sun-blink brings out, and the evening wind sweeps away!«
    She now made preparation for her night-walk. Her father slept in another
part of the dwelling, and, regular in all his habits, seldom or never left his
apartment when he had betaken himself to it for the evening. It was therefore
easy for her to leave the house unobserved, so soon as the time approached at
which she was to keep her appointment. But the step she was about to take had
difficulties and terrors in her own eyes, though she had no reason to apprehend
her father's interference. Her life had been spent in the quiet, uniform, and
regular seclusion of their peaceful and monotonous household. The very hour
which some damsels of the present day, as well of her own as of higher degree,
would consider as the natural period of commencing an evening of pleasure,
brought, in her opinion, awe and solemnity in it; and the resolution she had
taken had a strange, daring, and adventurous character, to which she could
hardly reconcile herself when the moment approached for putting it into
execution. Her hands trembled as she snooded her fair hair beneath the riband,
then the only ornament or cover which young unmarried women wore on their head,
and as she adjusted the scarlet tartan screen or muffler made of plaid, which
the Scottish women wore, much in the fashion of the black silk veils still a
part of female dress in the Netherlands. A sense of impropriety as well as of
danger pressed upon her, as she lifted the latch of her paternal mansion to
leave it on so wild an expedition, and at so late an hour, unprotected, and
without the knowledge of her natural guardian.
    When she found herself abroad and in the open fields, additional subjects of
apprehension crowded upon her. The dim cliffs and scattered rocks, interspersed
with greensward, through which she had to pass to the place of appointment, as
they glimmered before her in a clear autumn night, recalled to her memory many a
deed of violence, which, according to tradition, had been done and suffered
among them. In earlier days they had been the haunt of robbers and assassins,
the memory of whose crimes is preserved in the various edicts which the council
of the city, and even the parliament of Scotland, had passed for dispersing
their bands, and ensuring safety to the lieges, so near the precincts of the
city. The names of these criminals, and of their atrocities, were still
remembered in traditions of the scattered cottages and the neighbouring suburb.
In latter times, as we have already noticed, the sequestered and broken
character of the ground rendered it a fit theatre for duels and rencontres among
the fiery youth of the period. Two or three of these incidents, all sanguinary,
and one of them fatal in its termination, had happened since Deans came to live
at St. Leonard's. His daughter's recollections, therefore, were of blood and
horror as she pursued the small scarce-tracked solitary path, every step of
which conveyed her to a greater distance from help, and deeper into the ominous
seclusion of these unhallowed precincts.
    As the moon began to peer forth on the scene with a doubtful, flitting, and
solemn light, Jeanie's apprehensions took another turn, too peculiar to her rank
and country to remain unnoticed. But to trace its origin will require another
chapter.
 

                               Chapter Fourteenth

 - The spirit I have seen
 May be the devil. And the devil has power
 To assume a pleasing shape.
                                                                         Hamlet.
 
Withcraft and demonology, as we have already had occasion to remark, were at
this period believed in by almost all ranks, but more especially among the
stricter classes of Presbyterians, whose government, when their party were at
the head of the state, had been much sullied by their eagerness to inquire into
and persecute these imaginary crimes. Now, in this point of view, also, Saint
Leonard's Crags and the adjacent Chase were a dreaded and ill-reputed district.
Not only had witches held their meetings there, but even of very late years the
enthusiast or impostor, mentioned in the Pandoemonium of Richard Bovet,
Gentleman,24 had, among the recesses of these romantic cliffs, found his way
into the hidden retreats where the fairies revel in the bowels of the earth.
    With all these legends Jeanie Deans was too well acquainted, to escape that
strong impression which they usually make on the imagination. Indeed, relations
of this ghostly kind had been familiar to her from her infancy, for they were
the only relief which her father's conversation afforded from controversial
argument, or the gloomy history of the strivings and testimonies, escapes,
captures, tortures, and executions of those martyrs of the Covenant, with whom
it was his chiefest boast to say he had been acquainted. In the recesses of
mountains, in caverns, and in morasses, to which these persecuted enthusiasts
were so ruthlessly pursued, they conceived they had often to contend with the
visible assaults of the Enemy of mankind, as in the cities, and in the
cultivated fields, they were exposed to those of the tyrannical government and
their soldiery. Such were the terrors which made one of their gifted seers
exclaim, when his companion returned to him, after having left him alone in a
haunted cavern in Sorn in Galloway, »It is hard living in this world - incarnate
devils above the earth, and devils under the earth! Satan has been here since ye
went away, but I have dismissed him by resistance; we will be no more troubled
with him this night.« David Deans believed this, and many other such ghostly
encounters and victories, on the faith of the Ansars, or auxiliaries of the
banished prophets. This event was beyond David's remembrance. But he used to
tell with great awe, yet not without a feeling of proud superiority to his
auditors, how he himself had been present at a field-meeting at Crochmade, when
the duty of the day was interrupted by the apparition of a tall black man, who,
in the act of crossing a ford to join the congregation, lost ground, and was
carried down apparently by the force of the stream. All were instantly at work
to assist him, but with so little success, that ten or twelve stout men, who had
hold of the rope which they had cast in to his aid, were rather in danger to be
dragged into the stream, and lose their own lives, than likely to save that of
the supposed perishing man. »But famous John Semple of Carspharn,« David Deans
used to say with exultation, »saw the whaup in the rape. - Quit the rope, he
cried to us (for I that was but a callant had a haud o' the rape mysell), it is
the Great Enemy! he will burn, but not drown; his design is to disturb the good
wark, by raising wonder and confusion in your minds; to put off from your
spirits all that ye hae heard and felt. - Sae we let go the rape,« said David,
»and he went adown the water screeching and bullering like a Bull of Bashan, as
he's ca'd in Scripture.«25
    Trained in these and similar legends, it was no wonder that Jeanie began to
feel an ill-defined apprehension, not merely of the phantoms which might beset
her way, but of the quality, nature, and purpose of the being who had thus
appointed her a meeting, at a place and hour of horror, and at a time when her
mind must be necessarily full of those tempting and ensnaring thoughts of grief
and despair, which were supposed to lay sufferers particularly open to the
temptations of the Evil One. If such an idea had crossed even Butler's
well-informed mind, it was calculated to make a much stronger impression upon
hers. Yet firmly believing the possibility of an encounter so terrible to flesh
and blood, Jeanie, with a degree of resolution of which we cannot sufficiently
estimate the merit, because the incredulity of the age has rendered us strangers
to the nature and extent of her feelings, persevered in her determination not to
omit an opportunity of doing something towards saving her sister, although, in
the attempt to avail herself of it, she might be exposed to dangers so dreadful
to her imagination. So, like Christiana in the Pilgrim's Progress, when
traversing with a timid yet resolved step the terrors of the Valley of the
Shadow of Death, she glided on by rock and stone, »now in glimmer and now in
gloom,« as her path lay through moonlight or shadow, and endeavoured to
overpower the suggestions of fear, sometimes by fixing her mind upon the
distressed condition of her sister, and the duty she lay under to afford her
aid, should that be in her power; and more frequently by recurring in mental
prayer to the protection of that Being to whom night is as noon-day.
    Thus drowning at one time her fears by fixing her mind on a subject of
overpowering interest, and arguing them down at others by referring herself to
the protection of the Deity, she at length approached the place assigned for
this mysterious conference.
    It was situated in the depth of the valley behind Salisbury Crags, which has
for a background the north-western shoulder of the mountain called Arthur's
Seat, on whose descent still remain the ruins of what was once a chapel, or
hermitage, dedicated to St. Anthony the Eremite. A better site for such a
building could hardly have been selected; for the chapel, situated among the
rude and pathless cliffs, lies in a desert, even in the immediate vicinity of a
rich, populous, and tumultuous capital: and the hum of the city might mingle
with the orisons of the recluses, conveying as little of worldly interest as if
it had been the roar of the distant ocean. Beneath the steep ascent on which
these ruins are still visible, was, and perhaps is still pointed out, the place
where the wretch Nichol Muschat, who has been already mentioned in these pages,
had closed a long scene of cruelty towards his unfortunate wife, by murdering
her, with circumstances of uncommon barbarity.26 The execration in which the
man's crime was held extended itself to the place where it was perpetrated,
which was marked by a small cairn, or heap of stones, composed of those which
each chance passenger had thrown there in testimony of abhorrence, and on the
principle, it would seem, of the ancient British malediction, »May you have a
cairn for your burial-place!«
    As our heroine approached this ominous and unhallowed spot, she paused and
looked to the moon, now rising broad in the north-west, and shedding a more
distinct light than it had afforded during her walk thither. Eyeing the planet
for a moment, she then slowly and fearfully turned her head towards the cairn,
from which it was at first averted. She was at first disappointed. Nothing was
visible beside the little pile of stones, which shone grey in the moonlight. A
multitude of confused suggestions rushed on her mind. Had her correspondent
deceived her, and broken his appointment? - was he too tardy at the appointment
he had made? - or had some strange turn of fate prevented him from appearing as
he proposed? - or, if he were an unearthly being, as her secret apprehensions
suggested, was it his object merely to delude her with false hopes, and put her
to unnecessary toil and terror, according to the nature, as she had heard, of
those wandering demons? - or did he purpose to blast her with the sudden horrors
of his presence when she had come close to the place of rendezvous? These
anxious reflections did not prevent her approaching to the cairn with a pace
that, though slow, was determined.
    When she was within two yards of the heap of stones, a figure rose suddenly
up from behind it, and Jeanie scarce forbore to scream aloud at what seemed the
realisation of the most frightful of her anticipations. She constrained herself
to silence, however, and, making a dead pause, suffered the figure to open the
conversation, which he did, by asking, in a voice which agitation rendered
tremulous and hollow, »Are you the sister of that ill-fated young woman?«
    »I am - I am the sister of Effie Deans!« exclaimed Jeanie. »And as ever you
hope God will hear you at your need, tell me, if you can tell, what can be done
to save her!«
    »I do not hope God will hear me at my need,« was the singular answer. »I do
not deserve - I do not expect he will.« This desperate language he uttered in a
tone calmer than that with which he had at first spoken, probably because the
shock of first addressing her was what he felt most difficult to overcome.
Jeanie remained mute with horror to hear language expressed so utterly foreign
to all which she had ever been acquainted with, that it sounded in her ears
rather like that of a fiend than of a human being. The stranger pursued his
address to her, without seeming to notice her surprise. »You see before you a
wretch, predestined to evil here and hereafter.«
    »For the sake of Heaven, that hears and sees us,« said Jeanie, »dinna speak
in this desperate fashion! The gospel is sent to the chief of sinners - to the
most miserable among the miserable.«
    »Then should I have my own share therein,« said the stranger, »if you call
it sinful to have been the destruction of the mother that bore me - of the
friend that loved me - of the woman that trusted me - of the innocent child that
was born to me. If to have done all this is to be a sinner, and survive it is to
be miserable, then am I most guilty and most miserable indeed.«
    »Then you are the wicked cause of my sister's ruin?« said Jeanie, with a
natural touch of indignation expressed in her tone of voice.
    »Curse me for it, if you will,« said the stranger; »I have well deserved it
at your hand.«
    »It is fitter for me,« said Jeanie, »to pray to God to forgive you.«
    »Do as you will, how you will, or what you will,« he replied, with
vehemence; »only promise to obey my directions, and save your sister's life.«
    »I must first know,« said Jeanie, »the means you would have me use in her
behalf.«
    »No! - you must first swear - solemnly swear, that you will employ them when
I make them known to you.«
    »Surely, it is needless to swear that I will do all that is lawful to a
Christian to save the life of my sister?«
    »I will have no reservation!« thundered the stranger; »lawful or unlawful,
Christian or heathen, you shall swear to do my hest, and act by my counsel, or -
you little know whose wrath you provoke!«
    »I will think on what you have said,« said Jeanie, who began to get much
alarmed at the frantic vehemence of his manner, and disputed in her own mind,
whether she spoke to a maniac, or an apostate spirit incarnate - »I will think
on what you say, and let you ken to-morrow.«
    »To-morrow!« exclaimed the man with a laugh of scorn - »And where will I be
to-morrow? - or, where will you be to-night, unless you swear to walk by my
counsel? - there was one accursed deed done at this spot before now; and there
shall be another to match it, unless you yield up to my guidance body and soul.«
    As he spoke, he offered a pistol at the unfortunate young woman. She neither
fled nor fainted, but sunk on her knees, and asked him to spare her life.
    »Is that all you have to say?« said the unmoved ruffian.
    »Do not dip your hands in the blood of a defenceless creature that has
trusted to you,« said Jeanie, still on her knees.
    »Is that all you can say for your life? - Have you no promise to give? -
Will you destroy your sister, and compel me to shed more blood?«
    »I can promise nothing,« said Jeanie, »which is unlawful for a Christian.«
    He cocked the weapon, and held it towards her.
    »May God forgive you!« she said, pressing her hands forcibly against her
eyes.
    »D--n!« muttered the man; and, turning aside from her, he uncocked the
pistol, and replaced it in his pocket - »I am a villain,« he said, »steeped in
guilt and wretchedness, but not wicked enough to do you any harm! I only wished
to terrify you into my measures - She hears me not - she is gone! - Great God!
what a wretch am I become!«
    As he spoke, she recovered herself from an agony which partook of the
bitterness of death; and, in a minute or two, through the strong exertion of her
natural sense and courage, collected herself sufficiently to understand he
intended her no personal injury.
    »No!« he repeated; »I would not add to the murder of your sister, and of her
child, that of any one belonging to her! - Mad, frantic, as I am, and
unrestrained by either fear or mercy, given up to the possession of an evil
being, and forsaken by all that is good, I would not hurt you, were the world
offered me for a bribe! But, for the sake of all that is dear to you, swear you
will follow my counsel. Take this weapon, shoot me through the head, and with
your own hand revenge your sister's wrong, only follow the course - the only
course, by which her life can be saved.«
    »Alas! is she innocent or guilty?«
    »She is guiltless - guiltless of every thing, but of having trusted a
villain! - Yet, had it not been for those that were worse than I am - yes, worse
than I am, though I am bad indeed - this misery had not befallen.«
    »And my sister's child - does it live?« said Jeanie.
    »No; it was murdered - the new-born infant was barbarously murdered,« he
uttered in a low, yet stern and sustained voice; - »but,« he added hastily, »not
by her knowledge or consent.«
    »Then, why cannot the guilty be brought to justice, and the innocent freed?«
    »Torment me not with questions which can serve no purpose,« he sternly
replied - »The deed was done by those who are far enough from pursuit, and safe
enough from discovery! - No one can save Effie but yourself.«
    »Woe's me! how is it in my power?« asked Jeanie, in despondency.
    »Hearken to me! - You have sense - you can apprehend my meaning - I will
trust you. Your sister is innocent of the crime charged against her« -
    »Thank God for that!« said Jeanie.
    »Be still and hearken! - The person who assisted her in her illness murdered
the child; but it was without the mother's knowledge or consent. - She is
therefore guiltless, as guiltless as the unhappy innocent, that but gasped a few
minutes in this unhappy world - the better was its hap to be so soon at rest.
She is innocent as that infant, and yet she must die - it is impossible to clear
her of the law!«
    »Cannot the wretches be discovered, and given up to punishment?« said
Jeanie.
    »Do you think you will persuade those who are hardened in guilt to die to
save another? - Is that the reed you would lean to?«
    »But you said there was a remedy,« again gasped out the terrified young
woman.
    »There is,« answered the stranger, »and it is in your own hands. The blow
which the law aims cannot be broken by directly encountering it, but it may be
turned aside. You saw your sister during the period preceding the birth of her
child - what is so natural as that she should have mentioned her condition to
you? The doing so would, as their cant goes, take the case from under the
statute, for it removes the quality of concealment. I know their jargon, and
have had sad cause to know it; and the quality of concealment is essential to
this statutory offence.27 Nothing is so natural as that Effie should have
mentioned her condition to you - think - reflect - I am positive that she did.«
    »Woe's me!« said Jeanie, »she never spoke to me on the subject, but grat
sorely when I spoke to her about her altered looks, and the change on her
spirits.« »You asked her questions on the subject?« he said eagerly. »You must
remember her answer was, a confession that she had been ruined by a villain -
yes, lay a strong emphasis on that - a cruel false villain call it - any other
name is unnecessary; and that she bore under her bosom the consequences of his
guilt and her folly; and that he had assured her he would provide safely for her
approaching illness. - Well he kept his word!« These last words he spoke as if
it were to himself, and with a violent gesture of self-accusation, and then
calmly proceeded, »You will remember all this? - That is all that is necessary
to be said.«
    »But I cannot remember,« answered Jeanie, with simplicity, »that which Effie
never told me.«
    »Are you so dull - so very dull of apprehension?« he exclaimed, suddenly
grasping her arm, and holding it firm in his hand. »I tell you« (speaking
between his teeth, and under his breath, but with great energy), »you must
remember that she told you all this, whether she ever said a syllable of it or
no. You must repeat this tale, in which there is no falsehood, except in so far
as it was not told to you, before these Justices - Justiciary - whatever they
call their bloodthirsty court, and save your sister from being murdered, and
them from becoming murderers. Do not hesitate - I pledge life and salvation,
that in saying what I have said you will only speak the simple truth.«
    »But,« replied Jeanie, whose judgment was too accurate not to see the
sophistry of this argument, »I shall be man-sworn in the very thing in which my
testimony is wanted, for it is the concealment for which poor Effie is blamed,
and you would make me tell a falsehood anent it.«
    »I see,« he said, »my first suspicions of you were right, and that you will
let your sister, innocent, fair, and guiltless, except in trusting a villain,
die the death of a murderess, rather than bestow the breath of your mouth and
the sound of your voice to save her.«
    »I wad ware the best blood in my body to keep her skaithless,« said Jeanie,
weeping in bitter agony, »but I canna change right into wrang, or make that true
which is false.«
    »Foolish, hard-hearted girl,« said the stranger, »are you afraid of what
they may do to you? I tell you, even the retainers of the law, who course life
as greyhounds do hares, will rejoice at the escape of a creature so young - so
beautiful; that they will not suspect your tale; that, if they did suspect it,
they would consider you as deserving, not only of forgiveness, but of praise for
your natural affection.«
    »It is not man I fear,« said Jeanie, looking upward; »the God, whose name I
must call on to witness the truth of what I say, he will know the falsehood.«
    »And he will know the motive,« said the stranger, eagerly; »he will know
that you are doing this - not for lucre of gain, but to save the life of the
innocent, and prevent the commission of a worse crime than that which the law
seeks to avenge.«
    »He has given us a law,« said Jeanie, »for the lamp of our path; if we stray
from it we err against knowledge - I may not do evil, even that good may come
out of it. But you - you that ken all this to be true, which I must take on your
word - you that, if I understood what you said e'en now, promised her shelter
and protection in her travail, why do not you step forward, and bear leal and
soothfast evidence in her behalf, as ye may with a clear conscience?«
    »To whom do you talk of a clear conscience, woman?« said he, with a sudden
fierceness which renewed her terrors, - »to me? - I have not known one for many
a year. Bear witness in her behalf? - a proper witness, that even to speak these
few words to a woman of so little consequence as yourself, must choose such an
hour and such a place as this. When you see owls and bats fly abroad, like
larks, in the sunshine, you may expect to see such as I am in the assemblies of
men. - Hush - listen to that.«
    A voice was heard to sing one of those wild and monotonous strains so common
in Scotland, and to which the natives of that country chant their old ballads.
The sound ceased - then came nearer, and was renewed; the stranger listened
attentively, still holding Jeanie by the arm (as she stood by him in motionless
terror), as if to prevent her interrupting the strain by speaking or stirring.
When the sounds were renewed, the words were distinctly audible:
 
»When the glede's in the blue cloud,
The lavrock lies still;
When the hound's in the green-wood,
The hind keeps the hill.«
 
The person who sung kept a strained and powerful voice at its highest pitch, so
that it could be heard at a very considerable distance. As the song ceased, they
might hear a stifled sound, as of steps and whispers of persons approaching
them. The song was again raised, but the tune was changed:
 
»O sleep ye sound, Sir James, she said,
When ye should rise and ride;
There's twenty men, wi' bow and blade,
Are seeking where ye hide.«
 
»I dare stay no longer,« said the stranger; »return home, or remain till they
come up - you have nothing to fear - but do not tell you saw me - your sister's
fate is in your hands.« So saying, he turned from her, and with a swift, yet
cautiously noiseless step, plunged into the darkness on the side most remote
from the sounds which they heard approaching, and was soon lost to her sight.
Jeanie remained by the cairn terrified beyond expression, and uncertain whether
she ought to fly homeward with all the speed she could exert, or wait the
approach of those who were advancing towards her. This uncertainty detained her
so long, that she now distinctly saw two or three figures already so near to
her, that a precipitate flight would have been equally fruitless and impolitic.
 

                               Chapter Fifteenth

 - She speaks things in doubt,
 That carry but half sense: her speech is nothing,
 Yet the unshaped use of it doth move
 The hearers to collection; they aim at it,
 And botch the words up to fit their own thoughts.
                                                                         Hamlet.
 
Like the digressive poet Ariosto, I find myself under the necessity of
connecting the branches of my story, by taking up the adventures of another of
the characters, and bringing them down to the point at which we have left those
of Jeanie Deans. It is not, perhaps, the most artificial way of telling a story,
but it has the advantage of sparing the necessity of resuming what a knitter (if
stocking-looms have left such a person in the land) might call our »dropped
stitches;« a labour in which the author generally toils much, without getting
credit for his pains.
    »I could risk a sma' wad,« said the clerk to the magistrate, »that this
rascal Ratcliffe, if he were insured of his neck's safety, could do more than
ony ten of our police-people and constables to help us to get out of this scrape
of Porteous's. He is well acquent wi' a' the smugglers, thieves, and banditti
about Edinburgh; and, indeed, he may be called the father of a' the misdoers in
Scotland, for he has passed amang them for these twenty years by the name of
Daddie Rat.«
    »A bonny sort of a scoundrel,« replied the magistrate, »to expect a place
under the city!«
    »Begging your honour's pardon,« said the city's procurator-fiscal, upon whom
the duties of superintendent of police devolved, »Mr. Fairscrieve is perfectly
in the right. It is just sic as Ratcliffe that the town needs in my department;
an' if sae be that he's disposed to turn his knowledge to the city service,
ye'll no find a better man. - Ye'll get nae saints to be searchers for
uncustomed goods, or for thieves and sic like; - and your decent sort of men,
religious professors, and broken tradesmen, that are put into the like o' sic
trust, can do nae good ava. They are feared for this, and they are scrupulous
about that, and they arena free to tell a lie, though it may be for the benefit
of the city; and they dinna like to be out at irregular hours, and in a dark
cauld night, and they like a clout ower the crown far waur; and sae between the
fear o' God, and the fear o' man, and the fear' o' getting a sair throat, or
sair banes, there's a dozen o' our city-folk, baith waiters, and officers, and
constables, that can find out nothing but a wee bit skulduddery for the benefit
of the Kirk treasurer. Jock Porteous, that's stiff and stark, puir fallow, was
worth a dozen o' them; for he never had ony fears, or scruples, or doubts, or
conscience, about anything your honours bade him.«
    »He was a good servant o' the town,« said the Bailie, »though he was an ower
free-living man. But if you really think this rascal Ratcliffe could do us ony
service in discovering these malefactors, I would insure him life, reward, and
promotion. It's an awsome thing this mischance for the city, Mr. Fairscrieve. It
will be very ill taken wi' abune stairs. Queen Caroline, God bless her! is a
woman - at least I judge sae, and it's nae treason to speak my mind sae far -and
ye maybe ken as well as I do, for ye hae a housekeeper, though ye arena a
married man, that women are wilfu', and downa bide a slight. And it will sound
ill in her ears, that sic a confused mistake should come to pass, and nobody sae
muckle as to be put into the Tolbooth about it.«
    »If ye thought that, sir,« said the procurator-fiscal, »we could easily clap
into the prison a few blackguards upon suspicion. It will have a good active
look, and I hae aye plenty on my list, that wadna be a hair the waur of a week
or twa's imprisonment; and if ye thought it no strictly just, ye could be just
the easier wi' them the neist time they did anything to deserve it; they arena
the sort to be lang o' gieing ye an opportunity to clear scores wi' them on that
account.«
    »I doubt that will hardly do in this case, Mr. Sharpitlaw,« returned the
town-clerk; »they'll run their letters,28 and be adrift again, before ye ken
where ye are.«
    »I will speak to the Lord Provost,« said the magistrate, »about Ratcliffe's
business. Mr. Sharpitlaw, you will go with me, and receive instructions -
something may be made too out of this story of Butler's and his unknown
gentleman - I know no business any man has to swagger about in the King's Park,
and call himself the devil, to the terror of honest folks, who dinna care to
hear mair about the devil than is said from the pulpit on the Sabbath. I cannot
think the preacher himself wad be heading the mob, though the time has been,
they hae been as forward in a bruilzie as their neighbours.«
    »But these times are lang by,« said Mr. Sharpitlaw. »In my father's time,
there was mair search for silenced ministers about the Bow-head and the Covenant
Close, and all the tents of Kedar, as they ca'd the dwellings o' the godly in
those days, than there's now for thieves and vagabonds in the Laigh Calton and
the back o' the Canongate. But that time's well by, an it bide. And if the
Bailie will get me directions and authority from the Provost, I'll speak wi'
Daddie Rat mysell; for I'm thinking I'll make mair out o' him than ye'll do.«
    Mr. Sharpitlaw, being necessarily a man of high trust, was accordingly
empowered, in the course of the day, to make such arrangements as might seem in
the emergency most advantageous for the Good Town. He went to the jail
accordingly, and saw Ratcliffe in private.
    The relative positions of a police-officer and a professed thief bear a
different complexion, according to circumstances. The most obvious simile of a
hawk pouncing upon his prey is often least applicable. Sometimes the guardian of
justice has the air of a cat watching a mouse, and, while he suspends his
purpose of springing upon the pilferer, takes care so to calculate his motions
that he shall not get beyond his power. Sometimes, more passive still, he uses
the art of fascination ascribed to the rattlesnake, and contents himself with
glaring on the victim, through all his devious flutterings; certain that his
terror, confusion, and disorder of ideas, will bring him into his jaws at last.
The interview between Ratcliffe and Sharpitlaw had an aspect different from all
these. They sat for five minutes silent, on opposite sides of a small table, and
looked fixedly at each other, with a sharp, knowing, and alert cast of
countenance, not unmingled with an inclination to laugh, and resembled more than
anything else, two dogs, who, preparing for a game at romps, are seen to couch
down, and remain in that posture for a little time, watching each other's
movements, and waiting which shall begin the game.
    »So, Mr. Ratcliffe,« said the officer, conceiving it suited his dignity to
speak first, »you give up business, I find?«
    »Yes, sir,« replied Ratcliffe; »I shall be on that lay nae mair - and I
think that will save your folk some trouble, Mr. Sharpitlaw?«
    »Which Jock Dalgleish« (then finisher of the law in the Scottish metropolis)
»wad save them as easily,« returned the procurator-fiscal.
    »Ay; if I waited in the Tolbooth here to have him fit my cravat - but that's
an idle way o' speaking, Mr. Sharpitlaw.«
    »Why, I suppose you know you are under sentence of death, Mr. Ratcliffe?«
replied Mr. Sharpitlaw.
    »Aye, so are a', as that worthy minister said in the Tolbooth Kirk the day
Robertson wan off; but nobody kens when it will be executed. Gude faith, he had
better reason to say sae than he dreamed off, before the play was played out
that morning!«
    »This Robertson,« said Sharpitlaw, in a lower and something like a
confidential tone, »d'ye ken, Rat - that is, can ye give us ony inkling where he
is to be heard tell o'?«
    »Troth, Mr. Sharpitlaw, I'll be frank wi' ye; Robertson is rather a cut
abune me - a wild devil he was, and mony a daft prank he played; but except the
Collector's job that Wilson led him into, and some tuilzies about run goods wi'
the gaugers and the waiters, he never did anything that came near our line o'
business.«
    »Umph! that's singular, considering the company he kept.«
    »Fact, upon my honour and credit,« said Ratcliffe, gravely. »He keep it out
o' our little bits of affairs, and that's mair than Wilson did; I hae dune
business wi' Wilson afore now. But the lad will come on in time; there's nae
fear o' him; nobody will live the life he has led, but what he'll come to
sooner or later.«
    »Who or what is he, Ratcliffe? you know, I suppose?« said Sharpitlaw.
    »He's better born, I judge, than he cares to let on; he's been a soldier,
and he has been a play-actor, and I watna what he has been or hasna been, for as
young as he is, sae that it had daffing and nonsense about it.«
    »Pretty pranks he has played in his time, I suppose?«
    »Ye may say that,« said Ratcliffe, with a sardonic smile, »and« (touching
his nose) »a devil amang the lasses.«
    »Like enough,« said Sharpitlaw. »Weel, Ratcliffe, I'll no stand niffering
wi' ye; ye ken the way that favour's gotten in my office; ye maun be usefu'.«
    »Certainly, sir, to the best of my power - nothing for nothing - I ken the
rule of the office,« said the ex-depredator.
    »Now the principal thing in hand e'en now,« said the official person, »is
the job of Porteous's; an ye can give us a lift - why, the inner turnkey's office
to begin wi', and the captainship in time - ye understand my meaning?«
    »Ay, troth do I, sir; a wink's as good as a nod to a blind horse; but Jock
Porteous's job - Lord help ye! - I was under sentence the haill time. God! but I
couldn't have help laughing when I heard Jock skirling for mercy in the lads' hands.
Mony a het skin ye hae gien me, neighbour, thought I, take ye what's gaun: time
about's fair play; ye'll ken now what hanging's good for.«
    »Come, come, this is all nonsense, Rat,« said the procurator. »Ye canna
creep out at that hole, lad; you must speak to the point - you understand me -
if you want favour; gif-gaf makes good friends, ye ken.«
    »But how can I speak to the point, as your honour ca's it,« said Ratcliffe,
demurely, and with an air of great simplicity, »when ye ken I was under
sentence, and in the strong room a' the while the job was going on?«
    »And how can we turn ye loose on the public again, Daddie Rat, unless ye do
or say something to deserve it?«
    »Well, then, d - n it!« answered the criminal, »since it maun be sae, I saw
Geordie Robertson among the boys that brake the jail; I suppose that will do me
some good?«
    »That's speaking to the purpose, indeed,« said the office-bearer; »and now,
Rat, where think ye we'll find him?«
    »Deil haet o' me kens,« said Ratcliffe; »he'll no likely gang back to ony o'
his auld howffs; he'll be off the country by this time. He has good friends some
gate or other, for a' the life he's led; he's been well educate.«
    »He'll grace the gallows the better,« said Mr. Sharpitlaw; »a desperate dog,
to murder an officer of the city for doing his duty! Wha kens what's turn it
might be next? - But you saw him plainly?«
    »As plainly as I see you.«
    »How was he dressed?« said Sharpitlaw.
    »I couldn't have well see; something of a woman's bit mutch on his head; but ye
never saw sic a ca'-throw. Ane couldn't have hae een to a' thing.«
    »But did he speak to no one?« said Sharpitlaw.
    »They were a' speaking and gabbling through other,« said Ratcliffe, who was
obviously unwilling to carry his evidence farther than he could possibly help.
    »This will not do, Ratcliffe,« said the procurator; »you must speak out -
out - out,« tapping the table emphatically, as he repeated that impressive
monosyllable.
    »It's very hard, sir,« said the prisoner; »and but for the under-turnkey's
place« -
    »And the reversion of the captaincy - the captaincy of the Tolbooth, man -
that is, in case of good behaviour.«
    »Ay, ay,« said Ratcliffe, »good behaviour! - there's the devil. And then
it's waiting for dead folk's shoon into the bargain.«
    »But Robertson's head will weigh something,« said Sharpitlaw, »something gey
and heavy, Rat; the town maun show cause -that's right and reason - and then
ye'll hae freedom to enjoy your gear honestly.«
    »I dinna ken,« said Ratcliffe; »it's a queer way of beginning the trade of
honesty - but deil ma care. Weel, then, I heard and saw him speak to the wench
Effie Deans, that's up there for child-murder.«
    »The deil ye did? Rat, this is finding a mare's nest wi' a witness. -And the
man that spoke to Butler in the Park, and that was to meet wi' Jeanie Deans at
Muschat's Cairn - whew! lay that and that together? As sure as I live he's been
the father of the lassie's wean.«
    »There hae been waur guesses than that, I'm thinking,« observed Ratcliffe,
turning his quid of tobacco in his cheek, and squirting out the juice. »I heard
something a while syne about his drawing up wi' a bonny queen about the
Pleasaunts, and that it was a' Wilson could do to keep him frae marrying her.«
    Here a city officer entered, and told Sharpitlaw that they had the woman in
custody whom he had directed them to bring before him.
    »It's little matter now,« said he, »the thing is taking another turn;
however, George, ye may bring her in.«
    The officer retired, and introduced, upon his return, a tall, strapping
wench of eighteen or twenty, dressed, fantastically, in a sort of blue
riding-jacket, with tarnished lace, her hair clubbed like that of a man, a
Highland bonnet, and a bunch of broken feathers, a riding-skirt (or petticoat)
of scarlet camlet, embroidered with tarnished flowers. Her features were coarse
and masculine, yet at a little distance, by dint of very bright wild-looking
black eyes, an aquiline nose, and a commanding profile, appeared rather
handsome. She flourished the switch she held in her hand, dropped a courtesy as
low as a lady at a birth-night introduction, recovered herself seemingly
according to Touchstone's directions to Audrey, and opened the conversation
without waiting till any questions were asked.
    »God give your honour good-e'en, and mony o' them, bonny Mr. Sharpitlaw! -
Gude-e'en to ye, Daddie Ratton - they told me ye were hanged, man; or did ye
get out o' John Dalgleish's hands like half-hangit Maggie Dickson?«
    »Whisht, ye daft jaud,« said Ratcliffe, »and hear what's said to ye.«
    »Wi' a' my heart, Ratton. Great preferment for poor Madge to be brought up
the street wi' a grand man, wi' a coat a' passemented wi' worset-lace, to speak
wi' provosts, and bailies, and town-clerks, and prokitors, at this time o' day -
and the haill town looking at me too - This is honour on earth for ance!«
    »Ay, Madge,« said Mr. Sharpitlaw, in a coaxing tone; »and ye're dressed out
in your braws, I see; these are not your every-days' claiths ye have on.«
    »Deil be in my fingers, then!« said Madge - »Eh, sirs!« (observing Butler
come into the apartment), »there's a minister in the Tolbooth - what will ca' it
a graceless place now? - I'se warrant he's in for the good auld cause - but it's
be nae cause o' mine,« and off she went into a song. -
 
»Hey for cavaliers, ho for cavaliers,
Dub a dub, dub a dub,
Have at old Beelzebub, -
Oliver's squeaking for fear.«
 
»Did you ever see that mad woman before?« said Sharpitlaw to Butler.
    »Not to my knowledge, sir,« replied Butler.
    »I thought as much,« said the procurator-fiscal, looking towards Ratcliffe,
who answered his glance with a nod of acquiescence and intelligence.
    »But that is Madge Wildfire, as she calls herself,« said the man of law to
Butler.
    »Ay, that I am,« said Madge, »and that I have been ever since I was
something better - Heigh ho« - (and something like melancholy dwelt on her
features for a minute) - »But I canna mind when that was - it was lang syne, at
ony rate, and I'll ne'er fash my thumb about it. -
 
I glance like the wildfire through country and town;
I'm seen on the causeway - I'm seen on the down;
The lightning that flashes so bright and so free,
Is scarcely so blithe or so bonny as me.«
 
»Haud your tongue, ye skirling limmer!« said the officer who had acted as master
of the ceremonies to this extraordinary performer, and who was rather
scandalised at the freedom of her demeanour before a person of Mr. Sharpitlaw's
importance - »haud your tongue, or I'se give ye something to skirl for!«
    »Let her alone, George,« said Sharpitlaw, »dinna put her out o' tune; I hae
some questions to ask her - But first, Mr. Butler, take another look of her.«
    »Do sae, minister - do sae,« cried Madge; »I am as well worth looking at as
ony book in your aught. - And I can say the single carritch, and the double
carritch, and justification, and effectual calling, and the assembly of divines
at Westminster, that is« (she added in a low tone), »I could say them ance - but
it's lang syne -and ane forgets, ye ken.« And poor Madge heaved another deep
sigh.
    »Weel, sir,« said Mr. Sharpitlaw to Butler, »what think ye now?«
    »As I did before,« said Butler; »that I never saw the poor demented creature
in my life before.«
    »Then she is not the person whom you said the rioters last night described
as Madge Wildfire?«
    »Certainly not,« said Butler. »They may be near the same height, for they
are both tall, but I see little other resemblance.«
    »Their dress, then, is not alike?« said Sharpitlaw.
    »Not in the least,« said Butler.
    »Madge, my bonny woman,« said Sharpitlaw, in the same coaxing manner, »what
did ye do wi' your ilka-day's claise yesterday?«
    »I dinna mind,« said Madge.
    »Where was ye yesterday at e'en, Madge?«
    »I dinna mind ony thing about yesterday,« answered Madge; »ae day is enough
for ony body to wun ower wi' at a time, and ower muckle sometimes.«
    »But maybe, Madge, ye wad mind something about it, if I was to give ye this
half-crown?« said Sharpitlaw, taking out the piece of money.
    »That might gar me laugh, but it couldn't have gar me mind.«
    »But, Madge,« continued Sharpitlaw, »were I to send you to the wark-house in
Leith Wynd, and gar Jock Dalgleish lay the tawse on your back« -
    »That wad gar me greet,« said Madge, sobbing, »but it couldn't have gar me mind,
ye ken.«
    »She is ower far past reasonable folks' motives, sir,« said Ratcliffe, »to
mind siller, or John Dalgleish, or the cat-and-nine-tails either; but I think I
could gar her tell us something.«
    »Try her, then, Ratcliffe,« said Sharpitlaw, »for I am tired of her crazy
pate, and be d - d to her.«
    »Madge,« said Ratcliffe, »hae ye ony joes now?«
    »An ony body ask ye, say ye dinna ken. - Set him to be speaking of my joes,
auld Daddie Ratton!«
    »I dare say, ye hae deil ane?«
    »See if I haena then,« said Madge, with the toss of the head of affronted
beauty - »there's Rob the Ranter, and Will Fleming, and then there's Geordie
Robertson, lad - that's Gentleman Geordie -what think ye o' that?«
    Ratcliffe laughed, and, winking to the procurator-fiscal, pursued the
inquiry in his own way. »But, Madge, the lads only like ye when ye hae on your
braws - they wadna touch you wi' a pair o' tangs when you are in your auld
ilka-day rags.«
    »Ye're a leeing auld sorrow then,« replied the fair one; »for Gentle Geordie
Robertson put my ilka-day's claise on his ain bonny sell yestreen, and gaed a'
through the town wi' them; and gawsie and grand he lookit, like ony queen in the
land.«
    »I dinna believe a word o't,« said Ratcliffe, with another wink to the
procurator. »Thae duds were a' o' the colour o' moonshine in the water, I'm
thinking, Madge - The gown wad be a sky-blue scarlet, I'se warrant ye?«
    »It was nae sic thing,« said Madge, whose unretentive memory let out, in the
eagerness of contradiction, all that she would have most wished to keep
concealed, had her judgment been equal to her inclination. »It was neither
scarlet nor sky-blue, but my ain auld brown threshie-coat of a short-gown, and
my mother's auld mutch, and my red rokelay - and he gied me a croun and a kiss
for the use o' them, blessing on his bonny face - though it's been a dear ane to
me.«
    »And where did he change his clothes again, hinnie?« said Sharpitlaw, in his
most conciliatory manner.
    »The procurator's spoiled a',« observed Ratcliffe, drily.
    And it was even so; for the question, put in so direct a shape, immediately
awakened Madge to the propriety of being reserved upon those very topics on
which Ratcliffe had indirectly seduced her to become communicative.
    »What was't ye were speering at us, sir?« she resumed, with an appearance of
stolidity so speedily assumed, as showed there was a good deal of knavery mixed
with her folly.
    »I asked you,« said the procurator, »at what hour, and to what place,
Robertson brought back your clothes.«
    »Robertson? - Lord haud a care o' us! what Robertson?«
    »Why, the fellow we were speaking of, Gentle Geordie, as you call him.«
    »Geordie Gentle!« answered Madge, with well-feigned amazement -»I dinna ken
nobody they ca' Geordie Gentle.«
    »Come, my jo,« said Sharpitlaw, »this will not do; you must tell us what you
did with these clothes of yours.«
    Madge Wildfire made no answer, unless the question may seem connected with
the snatch of a song with which she indulged the embarrassed investigator: -
 
»What did ye wi' the bridal ring - bridal ring - bridal ring?
What did ye wi' your wedding ring, ye little cutty queen, O?
I gied it till a sodger, a sodger, a sodger,
I gied it till a sodger, an auld true love o' mine, O.«
 
Of all the madwomen who have sung and said, since the days of Hamlet the Dane,
if Ophelia be the most affecting, Madge Wildfire was the most provoking.
The procurator-fiscal was in despair. »I'll take some measures with this d-d
Bess of Bedlam,« said he, »that shall make her find her tongue.«
    »Wi' your favour, sir,« said Ratcliffe, »better let her mind settle a little
- Ye have aye made out something.«
    »True,« said the official person; »a brown short-gown, mutch, red rokelay -
that agrees with your Madge Wildfire, Mr. Butler?« Butler agreed that it did so.
»Yes, there was a sufficient motive for taking this crazy creature's dress and
name, while he was about such a job.«
    »And I am free to say now,« said Ratcliffe -
    »When you see it has come out without you,« interrupted Sharpitlaw.
    »Just sae, sir,« reiterated Ratcliffe. »I am free to say now, since it's
come out otherwise, that these were the clothes I saw Robertson wearing last
night in the jail, when he was at the head of the rioters.«
    »That's direct evidence,« said Sharpitlaw; »stick to that, Rat - I will
report favourably of you to the provost, for I have business for you to-night.
It wears late; I must home and get a snack, and I'll be back in the evening.
Keep Madge with you, Ratcliffe, and try to get her into a good tune again.« So
saying he left the prison.
 

                               Chapter Sixteenth

 And some they whistled - and some they sang,
 And some did loudly say,
 Whenever Lord Barnard's horn it blew,
 »Away, Musgrave away!«
                                                      Ballad of Little Musgrave.
 
When the man of office returned to the Heart of Mid-Lothian, he resumed his
conference with Ratcliffe, of whose experience and assistance he now held
himself secure. »You must speak with this wench, Rat - this Effie Deans - you
must sift her a wee bit; for as sure as a tether she will ken Robertson's haunts
- till her, Rat - till her without delay.«
    »Craving your pardon, Mr. Sharpitlaw,« said the turnkey elect, »that's what
I am not free to do.«
    »Free to do, man? what the deil ails ye now? - I thought we had settled a'
that?«
    »I dinna ken, sir,« said Ratcliffe; »I hae spoken to this Effie - she's
strange to this place and to its ways, and to a' our ways, Mr. Sharpitlaw; and
she greets, the silly tawpie, and she's breaking her heart already about this
wild chield; and were she the mean's o' taking him, she wad break it outright.«
    »She wunna hae time, lad,« said Sharpitlaw; »the woodie will hae it's ain o'
her before that - a woman's heart takes a lang time o' breaking.«
    »That's according to the stuff they are made o' sir,« replied Ratcliffe -
»But to make a lang tale short, I canna undertake the job. It gangs against my
conscience.«
    »Your conscience, Rat?« said Sharpitlaw, with a sneer, which the reader will
probably think very natural upon the occasion.
    »Ou ay, sir,« answered Ratcliffe, calmly, »just my conscience; a'body has a
conscience, though it may be ill wunnin at it. I think mine's as well out o' the
gate as maist folk's are; and yet it's just like the noop of my elbow, it whiles
gets a bit dirl on a corner.«
    »Weel, Rat,« replied Sharpitlaw, »since ye are nice, I'll speak to the hussy
mysell.«
    Sharpitlaw, accordingly, caused himself to be introduced into the little
dark apartment tenanted by the unfortunate Effie Deans. The poor girl was seated
on her little flock-bed, plunged in a deep reverie. Some food stood on the
table, of a quality better than is usually supplied to prisoners, but it was
untouched. The person under whose care she was more particularly placed, said,
»that sometimes she tasted nothing from the tae end of the four-and-twenty
hours to the t'other, except a drink of water.«
    Sharpitlaw took a chair, and, commanding the turnkey to retire, he opened
the conversation, endeavouring to throw into his tone and countenance as much
commiseration as they were capable of expressing, for the one was sharp and
harsh, the other sly, acute, and selfish.
    »How's a' wi' ye, Effie? - How d'ye find yoursell, hinny?«
    A deep sigh was the only answer.
    »Are the folk civil to ye, Effie? - it's my duty to inquire.«
    »Very civil, sir,« said Effie, compelling herself to answer, yet hardly
knowing what she said.
    »And your victuals,« continued Sharpitlaw, in the same condoling tone - »do
you get what you like? - or is there ony thing you would particularly fancy, as
your health seems but silly?«
    »It's a' very well, sir, I thank ye,« said the poor prisoner, in a tone how
different from the sportive vivacity of those of the Lily of St. Leonard's! -
»it's a' very good - ower good for me.«
    »He must have been a great villain, Effie, who brought you to this pass,«
said Sharpitlaw.
    The remark was dictated partly by a natural feeling, of which even he could
not divest himself, though accustomed to practise on the passions of others, and
keep a most heedful guard over his own, and partly by his wish to introduce the
sort of conversation which might best serve his immediate purpose. Indeed, upon
the present occasion, these mixed motives of feeling and cunning harmonised
together wonderfully; for, said Sharpitlaw to himself, the greater rogue
Robertson is, the more will be the merit of bringing him to justice. »He must
have been a great villain, indeed,« he again reiterated; »and I wish I had the
skelping o' him.«
    »I may blame mysell mair than him,« said Effie; »I was bred up to ken
better; but he, poor fellow,« - (she stopped).
    »Was a thorough blackguard a' his life, I dare say,« said Sharpitlaw. »A
stranger he was in this country, and a companion of that lawless vagabond,
Wilson, I think, Effie?«
    »It wad hae been dearly telling him that he had ne'er seen Wilson's face.«
    »That's very true that you are saying, Effie,« said Sharpitlaw. »Where was't
that Robertson and you were used to howff thegither? Somegate about the Laigh
Calton, I am thinking.«
    The simple and dispirited girl had thus far followed Mr. Sharpitlaw's lead,
because he had artfully adjusted his observations to the thoughts he was pretty
certain must be passing through her own mind, so that her answers became a kind
of thinking aloud, a mood into which those who are either constitutionally
absent in mind, or are rendered so by the temporary pressure of misfortune, may
be easily led by a skilful train of suggestions. But the last observation of the
procurator-fiscal was too much of the nature of a direct interrogatory, and it
broke the charm accordingly.
    »What was it that I was saying?« said Effie, starting up from her reclining
posture, seating herself upright, and hastily shading her dishevelled hair back
from her wasted but still beautiful countenance. She fixed her eyes boldly and
keenly upon Sharpitlaw; - »You are too much of a gentleman, sir, - too much of
an honest man, to take any notice of what a poor creature like me says, that can
hardly ca' my senses my ain - God help me!«
    »Advantage! - I would be of some advantage to you if I could,« said
Sharpitlaw, in a soothing tone; »and I ken nothing sae likely to serve ye,
Effie, as gripping this rascal, Robertson.«
    »O dinna misca' him, sir, that never misca'd you! - Robertson? - I am sure I
had nothing to say against ony man o' the name, and nothing will I say.«
    »But if you do not heed your own misfortune, Effie, you should mind what
distress he has brought on your family,« said the man of law.
    »O, Heaven help me!« exclaimed poor Effie - »My poor father - my dear Jeanie
- O, that's sairest to bide of a'! O, sir, if you hae ony kindness - if ye hae
ony touch of compassion - for a' the folk I see here are as hard as the
wa'-stanes - If ye wad but bid them let my sister Jeanie in the next time she
ca's! for when I hear them put her away frae the door, and canna climb up to that
high window to see sae muckle as her gown-tail, it's like to pit me out o' my
judgment.« And she looked on him with a face of entreaty, so earnest, yet so
humble, that she fairly shook the steadfast purpose of his mind.
    »You shall see your sister,« he began, »if you'll tell me,« - then
interrupting himself, he added, in a more hurried tone, - »no, d - n it, you
shall see your sister whether you tell me anything or no.« So saying, he rose up
and left the apartment.
    When he had rejoined Ratcliffe, he observed, »You are right, Ratton; there's
no making much of that lassie. But ae thing I have cleared - that is, that
Robertson has been the father of the bairn, and so I will wager a boddle it will
be he that's to meet wi' Jeanie Deans this night at Muschat's Cairn, and there
we'll nail him, Rat, or my name is not Gideon Sharpitlaw.«
    »But,« said Ratcliffe, perhaps because he was in no hurry to see anything
which was like to be connected with the discovery and apprehension of Robertson,
»an that were the case, Mr. Butler wad hae kend the man in the King's Park to be
the same person wi' him in Madge Wildfire's claise, that headed the mob.«
    »That makes nae difference, man,« replied Sharpitlaw - »the dress, the
light, the confusion, and maybe a touch o' a blackit cork, or a slake o' paint -
hout, Ratton, I have seen ye dress your ainsell, that the devil ye belang to
durstna hae made oath t'ye.«
    »And that's true, too,« said Ratcliffe.
    »And besides, ye donnard carle,« continued Sharpitlaw, triumphantly, »the
minister did say that he thought he knew something of the features of the birkie
that spoke to him in the Park, though he could not charge his memory where or
when he had seen them.«
    »It's evident, then, your honour will be right,« said Ratcliffe.
    »Then, Rat, you and I will go with the party oursells this night, and see
him in grips or we are done wi' him.«
    »I seena muckle use I can be o' to your honour,« said Ratcliffe,
reluctantly.
    »Use?« answered Sharpitlaw - »You can guide the party - you ken the ground.
Besides, I do not intend to quit sight o' you, my good friend, till I have him
in hand.«
    »Weel, sir,« said Ratcliffe, but in no joyful tone of acquiescence; »Ye maun
hae it your ain way - but mind he's a desperate man.«
    »We shall have that with us,« answered Sharpitlaw, »that will settle him, if
it is necessary.«
    »But, sir,« answered Ratcliffe, »I am sure I couldn't have undertake to guide you
to Muschat's Cairn in the night-time; I ken the place as mony does, in fair
day-light, but how to find it by moonshine, amang sae mony crags and stanes, as
like to each other as the collier to the deil, is mair than I can tell. I might
as soon seek moonshine in water.«
    »What's the meaning o' this, Ratcliffe?« said Sharpitlaw, while he fixed his
eye on the recusant, with a fatal and ominous expression, - »Have you forgotten
that you are still under sentence of death?«
    »No, sir,« said Ratcliffe, »that's a thing no easily put out o' memory; and
if my presence be judged necessary, nae doubt I maun gang wi' your honour. But I
was gaun to tell your honour of ane that has mair skeel o' the gate than me, and
that's e'en Madge Wildfire.«
    »The devil she has! - Do you think me as mad as she is, to trust to her
guidance on such an occasion?«
    »Your honour is the best judge,« answered Ratcliffe; »but I ken I can keep
her in tune, and garr her haud the straight path - she often sleeps out, or
rambles about amang thae hills the haill simmer night, the daft limmer.«
    »Weel, Ratcliffe,« replied the procurator-fiscal, »if you think she can
guide us the right way - but take heed to what you are about -your life depends
on your behaviour.«
    »It's a sair judgment on a man,« said Ratcliffe, »when he has ance gone sae
far wrang as I hae done, that deil a bit he can be honest, try't whilk way he
will.«
    Such was the reflection of Ratcliffe, when he was left for a few minutes to
himself, while the retainer of justice went to procure a proper warrant, and
give the necessary directions.
    The rising moon saw the whole party free from the walls of the city, and
entering upon the open ground. Arthur's Seat, like a couchant lion of immense
size - Salisbury Crags, like a huge belt or girdle of granite, were dimly
visible. Holding their path along the southern side of the Canongate, they
gained the Abbey of Holyrood House, and from thence found their way by step and
stile into the King's Park. They were at first four in number - an officer of
justice and Sharpitlaw, who were well armed with pistols and cutlasses;
Ratcliffe, who was not trusted with weapons, lest, he might, peradventure, have
used them on the wrong side; and the female. But at the last stile, when they
entered the Chase, they were joined by other two officers, whom Sharpitlaw,
desirous to secure sufficient force for his purpose, and at the same time to
avoid observation, had directed to wait for him at this place. Ratcliffe saw
this accession of strength with some disquietude, for he had hitherto thought it
likely that Robertson, who was a bold, stout, and active young fellow, might
have made his escape from Sharpitlaw and the single officer, by force or
agility, without his being implicated in the matter. But the present strength of
the followers of justice was overpowering, and the only mode of saving Robertson
(which the old sinner was well disposed to do, providing always he could
accomplish his purpose without compromising his own safety), must be by
contriving that he should have some signal of their approach. It was probably
with this view that Ratcliffe had requested the addition of Madge to the party,
having considerable confidence in her propensity to exert her lungs. Indeed, she
had already given them so many specimens of her clamorous loquacity, that
Sharpitlaw half determined to send her back with one of the officers, rather
than carry forward in his company a person so extremely ill qualified to be a
guide in a secret expedition. It seemed, too, as if the open air, the approach
to the hills, and the ascent of the moon, supposed to be so portentous over
those whose brain is infirm, made her spirits rise in a degree tenfold more
loquacious than she had hitherto exhibited. To silence her by fair means seemed
impossible; authoritative commands and coaxing entreaties she set alike at
defiance, and threats only made her sulky and altogether intractable.
    »Is there no one of you,« said Sharpitlaw, impatiently, »that knows the way
to this accursed place - this Nichol Muschat's Cairn -excepting this mad
clavering idiot?«
    »Deil ane o' them kens it except mysell,« exclaimed Madge; »how should they,
the puir fule cowards! But I hae sat on the grave frae batfleeing time till
cock-crow, and had mony a fine crack wi' Muschat and Ailie Muschat, that are
lying sleeping below.«
    »The devil take your crazy brain,« said Sharpitlaw; »will you not allow the
men to answer a question?«
    The officers obtaining a moment's audience while Ratcliffe diverted Madge's
attention, declared that, though they had a general knowledge of the spot, they
could not undertake to guide the party to it by the uncertain light of the moon,
with such accuracy as to insure success to their expedition.
    »What shall we do, Ratcliffe?« said Sharpitlaw, »if he sees us before we see
him, - and that's what he is certain to do, if we go strolling about, without
keeping the straight road, - we may bid good day to the job, and I would rather
lose one hundred pounds, baith for the credit of the police, and because the
provost says somebody maun be hanged for this job o' Porteous, come o't what
likes.«
    »I think,« said Ratcliffe, »we maun just try Madge; and I'll see if I can
get her keep it in ony better order. And at ony rate, if he should hear her
skirling her auld ends o' sangs, he's no to ken for that that there's anybody
wi' her.«
    »That's true,« said Sharpitlaw; »and if he thinks her alone, he's as like to
come towards her as to rin frae her. So set forward - we hae lost ower muckle
time already - see to get her to keep the right road.«
    »And what sort o' house does Nichol Muschat and his wife keep now?« said
Ratcliffe to the mad woman, by way of humouring her vein of folly; »they were
but thrawn folk lang syne, an a' tales be true.«
    »Ou, ay, ay, ay - but a's forgotten now,« replied Madge, in the confidential
tone of a gossip giving the history of her next-door neighbour - »Ye see, I
spoke to them mysell, and told them byganes should be byganes - her throat's sair
misguggled and mashackered though; she wears her corpse-sheet drawn well up to
hide it, but that canna hinder the bluid seiping through, ye ken. I wussed her
to wash it in St. Anthony's Well, and that will cleanse if anything can - But
they say bluid never bleaches out o' linen claith - Deacon Sanders's new
cleansing draps winna do't - I tried them mysell on a bit rag we hae at hame
that was mailed wi' the bluid of a bit skirling wean that was hurt some gate,
but out it winna come - Weel, ye'll say that's queer; but I will bring it out to
St. Anthony's blessed Well some braw night just like this, and I'll cry up Ailie
Muschat, and she and I will hae a grand bouking-washing, and bleach our claes in
the beams of the bonny Lady Moon, that's far pleasanter to me than the sun - the
sun's ower het, and ken ye, cummers, my brains are het enough already. But the
moon, and the dew, and the night-wind, they are just like a caller kail-blade
laid on my brow; and whiles I think the moon just shines on purpose to pleasure
me, when nobody sees her but mysell.«
    This raving discourse she continued with prodigious volubility, walking on
at a great pace, and dragging Ratcliffe along with her, while he endeavoured, in
appearance at least, if not in reality, to induce her to moderate her voice.
    All at once she stopped short upon the top of a little hillock, gazed upward
fixedly, and said not one word for the space of five minutes. »What the devil is
the matter with her now?« said Sharpitlaw to Ratcliffe - »Can you not get her
forward?«
    »Ye maun just take a grain o' patience wi' her, sir,« said Ratcliffe.
»She'll no gave a foot faster than she likes hersell.«
    »D - n her,« said Sharpitlaw, »I'll take care she has her time in Bedlam or
Bridewell, or both, for she's both mad and mischievous.«
    In the meanwhile, Madge, who had looked very pensive when she first stopped,
suddenly burst into a vehement fit of laughter, then paused and sighed bitterly,
- then was seized with a second fit of laughter - then, fixing her eyes on the
moon, lifted up her voice and sung, -
 
»Good even, good fair moon, good even to thee;
I prithee, dear moon, now show to me
The form and the features, the speech and degree,
Of the man that true lover of mine shall be.
 
But I need not ask that of the bonny Lady Moon - I ken that well enough mysell -
true-love though he wasna - But nobody shall sae that I ever told a word about
the matter - But whiles I wish the bairn had lived - Weel, God guide us, there's
a heaven aboon us a',« - (here she sighed bitterly), »and a bonny moon, and
sterns in it forby« (and here she laughed once more).
    »Are we to stand here all night?« said Sharpitlaw, very impatiently. »Drag
her forward.«
    »Ay, sir,« said Ratcliffe, »if we kend whilk way to drag her, that would
settle it at ance. - Come, Madge, hinny,« addressing her, »we'll no be in time
to see Nichol and his wife, unless ye show us the road.«
    »In troth and that I will, Ratton,« said she, seizing him by the arm, and
resuming her route with huge strides, considering it was a female who took them.
»And I'll tell ye, Ratton, blithe will Nichol Muschat be to see ye, for he says
he kens well there isna sic a villain out o' hell as ye are, and he wad be
ravished to hae a crack wi' you - like to like ye ken - it's a proverb never
fails - and ye are baith a pair o' the devil's peats I trow - hard to ken whilk
deserves the hettest corner o' his ingle-side.«
    Ratcliffe was conscience-struck, and could not forbear making an involuntary
protest against this classification. »I never shed blood,« he replied.
    »But ye hae sauld it, Ratton - ye hae sauld blood mony a time. Folk kill wi'
the tongue as well as wi' the hand - wi' the word as well as wi' the gulley! -
 
It is the bonny butcher lad,
That wears the sleeves of blue,
He sells the flesh on Saturday,
On Friday that he slew.«
 
»And what is that I am doing now?« thought Ratcliffe. »But I'll hae nae wyte of
Robertson's young bluid, if I can help it;« then speaking apart to Madge, he
asked her, »Whether she did not remember ony o' her auld sangs?«
    »Mony a dainty ane,« said Madge; »and blithely can I sing them, for
lightsome sangs make merry gate.« And she sang, -
 
»When the glede's in the blue cloud,
The lavrock lies still;
When the hound's in the greenwood,
The hind keeps the hill.«
 
»Silence her cursed noise, if you should throttle her,« said Sharpitlaw; »I see
somebody yonder. - Keep close, my boys, and creep round the shoulder of the
height. George Poinder, stay you with Ratcliffe and that mad yelling bitch; and
you other two, come with me round under the shadow of the brae.«
    And he crept forward with the stealthy pace of an Indian savage, who leads
his band to surprise an unsuspecting party of some hostile tribe. Ratcliffe saw
them glide off, avoiding the moonlight, and keeping as much in the shade as
possible. »Robertson's done up,« said he to himself; »thae young lads are aye
sae thoughtless. What devil could he hae to say to Jeanie Deans, or to ony
woman on earth, that he should gang away and get his neck raxed for her? And this
mad queen, after cracking like a pen-gun, and skirling like a pea-hen for the
haill night, behoves just to hae hadden her tongue when her clavers might have
dune some good! But it's aye the way wi' women; if they ever haud their tongues
ava', ye may swear it's for mischief. I wish I could set her on again without
this blood-sucker kenning what I am doing. But he's as gleg as MacKeachan's
elshin, that ran through sax plies of bendleather and half-an-inch into the
king's heel.«
    He then began to hum, but in a very low and suppressed tone, the first
stanza of a favourite ballad of Wildfire's, the words of which bore some distant
analogy with the situation of Robertson, trusting that the power of association
would not fail to bring the rest to her mind: -
 
»There's a bloodhound ranging Tinwald wood,
There's harness glancing sheen:
There's a maiden sits on Tinwald brae,
And she sings loud between.«
 
Madge had no sooner received the catch-word, than she vindicated Ratcliffe's
sagacity by setting off at score with the song: -
 
»O sleep ye sound, Sir James, she said,
When ye should rise and ride?
There's twenty men, wi' bow and blade,
Are seeking where ye hide.«
 
Though Ratcliffe was at a considerable distance from the spot called Muschat's
Cairn, yet his eyes, practised like those of a cat to penetrate darkness, could
mark that Robertson had caught the alarm. George Poinder, less keen of sight, or
less attentive, was not aware of his flight any more than Sharpitlaw and his
assistants, whose view, though they were considerably nearer to the cairn, was
intercepted by the broken nature of the ground under which they were screening
themselves. At length, however, after the interval of five or six minutes, they
also perceived that Robertson had fled, and rushed hastily towards the place,
while Sharpitlaw called out aloud, in the harshest tones of a voice which
resembled a saw-mill at work, »Chase, lads - chase - haud the brae - I see him
on the edge of the hill!« Then hollowing back to the rear-guard of his
detachment, he issued his farther orders: »Ratcliffe, come here, and detain the
woman - George, run and kepp the stile at the Duke's Walk - Ratcliffe, come here
directly - but first knock out that mad bitch's brains!«
    »Ye had better rin for it, Madge,« said Ratcliffe, »for it's ill dealing wi'
an angry man.«
    Madge Wildfire was not so absolutely void of common sense as not to
understand this innuendo; and while Ratcliffe, in seemingly anxious haste of
obedience, hastened to the spot where Sharpitlaw waited to deliver up Jeanie
Deans to his custody, she fled with all the despatch she could exert in an
opposite direction. Thus the whole party were separated, and in rapid motion of
flight or pursuit, excepting Ratcliffe and Jeanie, whom, although making no
attempt to escape, he held fast by the cloak, and who remained standing by
Muschat's Cairn.
 

                              Chapter Seventeenth

            Yon have paid the heavens your function, and the prisoner the very
            debt of your calling.
                                                            Measure for Measure.
 
Jeanie Deans, - for here our story unites itself with that part of the narrative
which broke off at the end of the fourteenth chapter, -while she waited, in
terror and amazement, the hasty advance of three or four men towards her, was
yet more startled at their suddenly breaking asunder, and giving chase in
different directions to the late object of her terror, who became at that
moment, though she could not well assign a reasonable cause, rather the cause of
her interest. One of the party (it was Sharpitlaw) came straight up to her, and
saying, »Your name is Jeanie Deans, and you are my prisoner,« immediately added,
»But if you will tell me which way he ran I will let you go.«
    »I dinna ken, sir,« was all the poor girl could utter; and, indeed, it is
the phrase which rises most readily to the lips of any person in her rank, as
the readiest reply to any embarrassing question.
    »But,« said Sharpitlaw, »ye ken what it was ye were speaking wi', my leddy,
on the hill side, and midnight sae near; ye surely ken that, my bonny woman?«
    »I dinna ken, sir,« again iterated Jeanie, who really did not comprehend in
her terror the nature of the questions which were so hastily put to her in this
moment of surprise.
    »We will try to mend your memory by and by, hinny,« said Sharpitlaw, and
shouted, as we have already told the reader, to Ratcliffe, to come up and take
charge of her, while he himself directed the chase after Robertson, which he
still hoped might be successful. As Ratcliffe approached, Sharpitlaw pushed the
young woman towards him with some rudeness, and betaking himself to the more
important object of his quest, began to scale crags and scramble up steep banks,
with an agility of which his profession and his general gravity of demeanour
would previously have argued him incapable. In a few minutes there was no one
within sight, and only a distant halloo from one of the pursuers to the other,
faintly heard on the side of the hill, argued that there was any one within
hearing. Jeanie Deans was left in the clear moonlight, standing under the guard
of a person of whom she knew nothing, and, what was worse, concerning whom, as
the reader is well aware, she could have learned nothing that would not have
increased her terror.
    When all in the distance was silent, Ratcliffe for the first time addressed
her, and it was in that cold sarcastic indifferent tone familiar to habitual
depravity, whose crimes are instigated by custom rather than by passion. »This
is a braw night for ye, dearie,« he said, attempting to pass his arm across her
shoulder, »to be on the green hill wi' your jo.« Jeanie extricated herself from
his grasp, but did not make any reply. »I think lads and lasses,« continued the
ruffian, »dinna meet at Muschat's Cairn at midnight to crack nuts,« and he again
attempted to take hold of her.
    »If ye are an officer of justice, sir,« said Jeanie, again eluding his
attempt to seize her, »ye deserve to have your coat stripped from your back.«
    »Very true, hinny,« said he, succeeding forcibly in his attempt to get hold
of her, »but suppose I should strip your cloak off first?«
    »Ye are more a man, I am sure, than to hurt me, sir,« said Jeanie; »for
God's sake have pity on a half-distracted creature!«
    »Come, come,« said Ratcliffe, »you're a good-looking wench, and should not
be cross-grained. I was going to be an honest man - but the devil has this very
day flung first a lawyer, and then a woman, in my gate. I'll tell you what,
Jeanie, they are out on the hill-side - if you'll be guided by me, I'll carry
you to a wee bit corner in the Pleasance, that I ken o' in an auld wife's, that
a' the prokitors o' Scotland wot nothing o', and we'll send Robertson word to
meet us in Yorkshire, for there is a set o' braw lads about the midland
counties, that I hae dune business wi' before now, and sae we'll leave Mr.
Sharpitlaw to whistle on his thumb.«
    It was fortunate for Jeanie, in an emergency like the present, that she
possessed presence of mind and courage, so soon as the first hurry of surprise
had enabled her to rally her recollection. She saw the risk she was in from a
ruffian, who not only was such by profession, but had that evening been
stupifying, by means of strong liquors, the internal aversion which he felt at
the business on which Sharpitlaw had resolved to employ him.
    »Dinna speak sae loud,« said she, in a low voice; »he's up yonder.«
    »Who? - Robertson!« said Ratcliffe, eagerly.
    »Ay,« replied Jeanie; »up yonder;« and she pointed to the ruins of the
hermitage and chapel.
    »By G - d, then,« said Ratcliffe, »I'll make my ain of him, either one way
or other - wait for me here.«
    But no sooner had he set off as fast as he could run, towards the chapel,
than Jeanie started in an opposite direction, over high and low, on the nearest
path homeward. Her juvenile exercise as a herdswoman had put »life and mettle«
in her heels, and never had she followed Dustiefoot, when the cows were in the
corn, with half so much speed as she now cleared the distance betwixt Muschat's
Cairn and her father's cottage at St. Leonard's. To lift the latch - to enter -
to shut, bolt, and double bolt the door - to draw against it a heavy article of
furniture (which she could not have moved in a moment of less energy), so as to
make yet farther provision against violence, was almost the work of a moment,
yet done with such silence as equalled the celerity.
    Her next anxiety was upon her father's account, and she drew silently to the
door of his apartment, in order to satisfy herself whether he had been disturbed
by her return. He was awake, -probably had slept but little; but the constant
presence of his own sorrows, the distance of his apartment from the outer door
of the house, and the precautions which Jeanie had taken to conceal her
departure and return, had prevented him from being sensible of either. He was
engaged in his devotions, and Jeanie could distinctly hear him use these words:
- »And for the other child thou hast given me to be a comfort and stay to my old
age, may her days be long in the land, according to the promise thou hast given
to those who shall honour father and mother; may all her purchased and promised
blessings be multiplied upon her; keep her in the watches of the night, and in
the uprising of the morning, that all in this land may know that thou hast not
utterly hid thy face from those that seek thee in truth and in sincerity.« He
was silent, but probably continued his petition in the strong fervency of mental
devotion.
    His daughter retired to her apartment, comforted, that while she was exposed
to danger, her head had been covered by the prayers of the just as by an helmet,
and under the strong confidence, that while she walked worthy of the protection
of Heaven, she would experience its countenance. It was in that moment that a
vague idea first darted across her mind, that something might yet be achieved
for her sister's safety, conscious as she now was of her innocence of the
unnatural murder with which she stood charged. It came, as she described it, on
her mind, like a sun-blink on a stormy sea; and although it instantly vanished,
yet she felt a degree of composure which she had not experienced for many days,
and could not help being strongly persuaded that, by some means or other, she
would be called upon, and directed, to work out her sister's deliverance. She
went to bed, not forgetting her usual devotions, the more fervently made on
account of her late deliverance, and she slept soundly in spite of her
agitation.
    We must return to Ratcliffe, who had started, like a greyhound from the
slips when the sportsman cries halloo, as soon as Jeanie had pointed to the
ruins. Whether he meant to aid Robertson's escape, or to assist his pursuers,
may be very doubtful; perhaps he did not himself know, but had resolved to be
guided by circumstances. He had no opportunity, however, of doing either; for he
had no sooner surmounted the steep ascent, and entered under the broken arches
of the ruins, than a pistol was presented at his head, and a harsh voice
commanded him, in the king's name, to surrender himself prisoner. »Mr.
Sharpitlaw!« said Ratcliffe, surprised, »is this your honour?«
    »Is it only you, and be d - d to you?« answered the fiscal, still more
disappointed - »what made you leave the woman?«
    »She told me she saw Robertson go into the ruins, so I made what haste I
could to cleek the callant.«
    »It's all over now,« said Sharpitlaw; »we shall see no more of him to-night;
but he shall hide himself in a bean-hool, if he remains on Scottish ground
without my finding him. Call back the people, Ratcliffe.«
    Ratcliffe hollowed to the dispersed officers, who willingly obeyed the
signal; for probably there was no individual among them who would have been much
desirous of a reconnoitre, hand to hand, and at a distance from his comrades, with
such an active and desperate fellow as Robertson.
    »And where are the two women?« said Sharpitlaw.
    »Both made their heels serve them, I suspect,« replied Ratcliffe, and he
hummed the end of the old song -
 
»Then hey play up the rin-away bride,
For she has taken the gee.«
 
»One woman,« said Sharpitlaw, - for, like all rogues, he was a great calumniator
of the fair sex,29 - »one woman is enough to dark the fairest ploy that was ever
planned; and how could I be such an ass as to expect to carry through a job that
had two in it? But we know how to come by them both, if they are wanted, that's
one good thing.«
    Accordingly, like a defeated general, sad and sulky, he led back his
discomfited forces to the metropolis, and dismissed them for the night.
    The next morning early, he was under the necessity of making his report to
the sitting magistrate of the day. The gentleman who occupied the chair of
office on this occasion (for the bailies, Anglicè, aldermen, take it by
rotation) chanced to be the same by whom Butler was committed, a person very
generally respected among his fellow-citizens. Something he was of a humorist,
and rather deficient in general education; but acute, patient, and upright,
possessed of a fortune acquired by honest industry which made him perfectly
independent; and, in short, very happily qualified to support the respectability
of the office which he held.
    Mr. Middleburgh had just taken his seat, and was debating in an animated
manner, with one of his colleagues, the doubtful chances of a game at golf which
they had played the day before, when a letter was delivered to him, addressed
»For Bailie Middleburgh; These: to be forwarded with speed.« It contained these
words: -
 
        »Sir, - I know you to be a sensible and a considerate magistrate, and
        one who, as such, will be content to worship God, though the devil bid
        you. I therefore expect that, notwithstanding the signature of this
        letter acknowledges my share in an action, which, in a proper time and
        place, I would not fear either to avow or to justify, you will not on
        that account reject what evidence I place before you. The clergyman,
        Butler, is innocent of all but involuntary presence at an action which
        he wanted spirit to approve of, and from which he endeavoured, with his
        best set phrases, to dissuade us. But it was not for him that it is my
        hint to speak. There is a woman in your jail, fallen under the edge of a
        law so cruel, that it has hung by the wall like unscoured armour, for
        twenty years, and is now brought down and whetted to spill the blood of
        the most beautiful and most innocent creature whom the walls of a prison
        ever girdled in. Her sister knows of her innocence, as she communicated
        to her that she was betrayed by a villain. - O that high Heaven
 
Would put in every honest hand a whip,
To scourge me such a villain through the world!
 
        I write distractedly - But this girl - this Jeanie Deans, is a peevish
        puritan, superstitious and scrupulous after the manner of her sect; and
        I pray your honour, for so my phrase must go, to press upon her, that
        her sister's life depends upon her testimony. But though she should
        remain silent, do not dare to think that the young woman is guilty - far
        less to permit her execution. Remember the death of Wilson was fearfully
        avenged; and those yet live who can compel you to drink the dregs of
        your poisoned chalice. - I say, remember Porteous, - and say that you
        had good counsel from
                                                            ONE OF HIS SLAYERS.«
 
The magistrate read over this extraordinary letter twice or thrice. At first he
was tempted to throw it aside as the production of a madman, so little did »the
scraps from play-books,« as he termed the poetical quotation, resemble the
correspondence of a rational being. On a re-perusal, however, he thought that,
amid its incoherence, he could discover something like a tone of awakened
passion, though expressed in a manner quaint and unusual.
    »It is a cruelly severe statute,« said the magistrate to his assistant, »and
I wish the girl could be taken from under the letter of it. A child may have
been born, and it may have been conveyed away while the mother was insensible,
or it may have perished for want of that relief which the poor creature herself
- helpless, terrified, distracted, despairing, and exhausted -may have been
unable to afford to it. And yet it is certain, if the woman is found guilty
under the statute, execution will follow. The crime has been too common, and
examples are necessary.«
    »But if this other wench,« said the city-clerk, »can speak to her sister
communicating her situation, it will take the case from under the statute.«
    »Very true,« replied the Bailie; »and I will walk out one of these days to
St. Leonard's, and examine the girl myself. I know something of their father
Deans - an old true-blue Cameronian, who would see house and family go to wreck
ere he would disgrace his testimony by a sinful complying with the defections of
the times; and such he will probably uphold the taking an oath before a civil
magistrate. If they are to go on and flourish with their bull-headed obstinacy,
the legislature must pass an act to take their affirmations, as in the case of
Quakers. But surely neither a father nor a sister will scruple in a case of this
kind. As I said before, I will go speak with them myself, when the hurry of this
Porteous investigation is somewhat over; their pride and spirit of contradiction
will be far less alarmed, than if they were called into a court of justice at
once.«
    »And I suppose Butler is to remain incarcerated?« said the city-clerk.
    »For the present, certainly,« said the magistrate. »But I hope soon to set
him at liberty upon bail.«
    »Do you rest upon the testimony of that light-headed letter?« asked the
clerk.
    »Not very much,« answered the Bailie; »and yet there is something striking
about it too - it seems the letter of a man beside himself, either from great
agitation, or some great sense of guilt.«
    »Yes,« said the town-clerk, »it is very like the letter of a mad strolling
play-actor, who deserves to be hanged with all the rest of his gang, as your
honour justly observes.«
    »I was not quite so bloodthirsty,« continued the magistrate. »But to the
point, Butler's private character is excellent; and I am given to understand, by
some inquiries I have been making this morning, that he did actually arrive in
town only the day before yesterday, so that it was impossible he could have been
concerned in any previous machinations of these unhappy rioters, and it is not
likely that he should have joined them on a suddenty.«
    »There's no saying anent that - zeal catches fire at a slight spark as fast
as a brunstane match,« observed the secretary. »I hae kend a minister wad be
fair good-day and fair good-e'en wi' ilka man in the parochine, and hing just as
quiet as a rocket on a stick, till ye mentioned the word abjuration-oath, or
patronage, or siclike, and then, whiz, he was off, and up in the air an hundred
miles beyond common manners, common sense, and common comprehension.«
    »I do not understand,« answered the burgher-magistrate, »that the young man
Butler's zeal is of so inflammable a character. But I will make farther
investigation. What other business is there before us?«
    And they proceeded to minute investigations concerning the affair of
Porteous's death, and other affairs through which this history has no occasion
to trace them.
    In the course of their business they were interrupted by an old woman of the
lower rank, extremely haggard in look, and wretched in her appearance, who
thrust herself into the council room.
    »What do you want, gudewife? - Who are you?« said Bailie Middleburgh.
    »What do I want!« replied she, in a sulky tone - »I want my bairn, or I want
nothing frae nane o' ye, for as grand's ye are.« And she went on muttering to
herself with the wayward spitefulness of age - »They maun hae lordships and
honours, nae doubt - set them up, the gutter-bloods! and deil a gentleman amang
them.« - Then again addressing the sitting magistrate, »Will your honour give me
back my puir crazy bairn? - His honour! - I hae kend the day when less wad ser'd
him, the oe of a Campvere skipper.«
    »Good woman,« said the magistrate to this shrewish supplicant -»tell us what
it is you want, and do not interrupt the court.«
    »That's as muckle as till say, Bark, Bawtie, and be dune wi't! - I tell ye,«
raising her termagant voice, »I want my bairn! is na that braid Scots?«
    »Who are you? - who is your bairn?« demanded the magistrate.
    »Wha am I? - what should I be, but Meg Murdockson, and what should my bairn be but
Magdalen Murdockson? - Your guard soldiers, and your constables, and your
officers, ken us well enough when they rive the bits o' duds aff our backs, and
take what penny o' siller we hae, and harle us to the Correction-house in Leith
Wynd, and pettle us up wi' bread and water and siclike sunkets.«
    »Who is she?« said the magistrate, looking round to some of his people.
    »Other than a good ane, sir,« said one of the city officers, shrugging his
shoulders and smiling.
    »Will ye say sae?« said the termagant, her eye gleaming with impotent fury;
»an I had ye amang the Figgat-Whins, wadna I set my ten talents in your wuzzent
face for that very word?« and she suited the word to the action, by spreading
out a set of claws resembling those of St. George's dragon on a country
sign-post.
    »What does she want here?« said the impatient magistrate - »Can she not tell
her business, or go away?«
    »It's my bairn! - it's Magdalen Murdockson I'm wantin',« answered the
beldam, screaming at the highest pitch of her cracked and mistuned voice -
»havena I been telling ye sae this half-hour? And if ye are deaf, what needs ye
sit cockit up there, and keep folk scraughin' t'ye this gate?«
    »She wants her daughter, sir,« said the same officer whose interference had
given the hag such offence before - »her daughter, who was taken up last night -
Madge Wildfire, as they ca' her.«
    »Madge HELLFIRE, as they ca' her!« echoed the beldam; »and what business has
a blackguard like you to ca' an honest woman's bairn out o' her ain name?«
    »An honest woman's bairn, Maggie?« answered the peace-officer, smiling and
shaking his head with an ironical emphasis on the adjective, and a calmness
calculated to provoke to madness the furious old shrew.
    »If I am no honest now, I was honest ance,« she replied; »and that's mair
than ye can say, ye born and bred thief, that never kend ither folks' gear frae
your ain since the day ye was cleckit. Honest, say ye? - ye pykit your mother's
pouch o' twalpennies Scots when ye were five years auld, just as she was taking
leave o' your father at the fit o' the gallows.«
    »She has you there, George,« said the assistants, and there was a general
laugh; for the wit was fitted for the meridian of the place where it was
uttered. This general applause somewhat gratified the passions of the old hag;
the »grim feature« smiled and even laughed - but it was a laugh of bitter scorn.
She condescended, however, as if appeased by the success of her sally, to
explain her business more distinctly, when the magistrate, commanding silence,
again desired her either to speak out her errand, or to leave the place.
    »Her bairn,« she said, »was her bairn, and she came to fetch her out of ill
haft and waur guiding. If she wasna sae wise as ither folk, few ither folk had
suffered as muckle as she had done; forby that she could fend the waur for
hersell within the four wa's of a jail. She could prove by fifty witnesses, and
fifty to that, that her daughter had never seen Jock Porteous, alive or dead,
since he had gien her a loundering wi' his cane, the neger that he was! for
driving a dead cat at the provost's wig on the Elector of Hanover's birthday.«
    Notwithstanding the wretched appearance and violent demeanour of this woman,
the magistrate felt the justice of her argument, that her child might be as dear
to her as to a more fortunate and more amiable mother. He proceeded to
investigate the circumstances which had led to Madge Murdockson's (or
Wildfire's) arrest, and as it was clearly shown that she had not been engaged in
the riot, he contented himself with directing that an eye should be kept upon
her by the police, but that for the present she should be allowed to return home
with her mother. During the interval of fetching Madge from the jail, the
magistrate endeavoured to discover whether her mother had been privy to the
change of dress betwixt that young woman and Robertson. But on this point he
could obtain no light. She persisted in declaring, that she had never seen
Robertson since his remarkable escape during service-time; and that, if her
daughter had changed clothes with him, it must have been during her absence at a
hamlet about two miles out of town, called Duddingstone, where she could prove
that she passed that eventful night. And, in fact, one of the town-officers, who
had been searching for stolen linen at the cottage of a washerwoman in that
village, gave his evidence, that he had seen Maggie Murdockson there, whose
presence had considerably increased his suspicion of the house in which she was
a visitor, in respect that he considered her as a person of no good reputation.
    »I told ye sae,« said the hag; »see now what it is to hae a character, good
or bad! - Now, maybe, after a', I could tell ye something about Porteous that
you council-chamber bodies never could find out, for as muckle stir as ye make.«
    All eyes were turned towards her - all ears were alert. »Speak out!« said
the magistrate.
    »It will be for your ain good,« insinuated the town-clerk.
    »Dinna keep the Bailie waiting,« urged the assistants.
    She remained doggedly silent for two or three minutes, casting around a
malignant and sulky glance, that seemed to enjoy the anxious suspense with which
they waited her answer. And then she broke forth at once, - »A' that I ken about
him is, that he was neither soldier nor gentleman, but just a thief and a
blackguard, like maist o' yoursells, dears - What will ye give me for that news,
now? - He wad hae served the good town lang or provost or bailie wad hae fund
that out, my jo!«
    While these matters were in discussion, Madge Wildfire entered, and her
first exclamation was, »Eh! see if there isna our auld ne'er-do-well
devil's-buckie o' a mither - Hegh, sirs! but we are a hopeful family, to be twa
o' us in the Guard at ance - But there were better days wi' us ance - were there
na, mither?«
    Old Maggie's eyes had glistened with something like an expression of
pleasure when she saw her daughter set at liberty. But either her natural
affection, like that of the tigress, could not be displayed without a strain of
ferocity, or there was something in the ideas which Madge's speech awakened,
that again stirred her cross and savage temper. »What signifies what we were, ye
street-raking limmer!« she exclaimed, pushing her daughter before her to the
door, with no gentle degree of violence. »I'se tell thee what thou is now -
thou's a crazed hellicat Bess o' Bedlam, that sall taste nothing but bread and
water for a fortnight, to serve ye for the plague ye hae gien me - and ower good
for ye, ye idle taupie!«
    Madge, however, escaped from her mother at the door, ran back to the foot of
the table, dropped a very low and fantastic courtesy to the judge, and said,
with a giggling laugh, - »Our minnie's sair mis-set, after her ordinar, sir -
She'll hae had some quarrel wi' her auld gudeman - that's Satan, ye ken, sirs.«
This explanatory note she gave in a low confidential tone, and the spectators of
that credulous generation did not hear it without an involuntary shudder. »The
gudeman and her disna aye gree well, and then I maun pay the piper; but my
back's broad enough to bear't a' - an' if she hae nae havings, that's nae reason
why wiser folk shouldna hae some.« Here another deep courtesy, when the
ungracious voice of her mother was heard.
    »Madge, ye limmer! If I come to fetch ye!«
    »Hear till her,« said Madge. »But I'll wun out a gliff the night for a'
that, to dance in the moonlight, when her and the gudeman will be whirrying
through the blue lift on a broom-shank, to see Jean Jap, that they hae putten
intill the Kirkcaldy Tolbooth - ay, they will hae a merry sail ower Inchkeith,
and ower a' the bits o' bonny waves that are poppling and plashing against the
rocks in the gowden glimmer o' the moon, ye ken. - I'm coming, mother - I'm
coming,« she concluded, on hearing a scuffle at the door betwixt the beldam and
the officers, who were endeavouring to prevent her re-entrance. Madge then waved
her hand wildly towards the ceiling, and sung, at the topmost pitch of her
voice, -
 
»Up in the air,
On my bonny grey mare,
And I see, and I see, and I see her yet;«
 
and with a hop, skip, and jump, sprung out of the room, as the witches of
Macbeth used, in less refined days, to seem to fly upwards from the stage.
Some weeks intervened before Mr. Middleburgh, agreeably to his benevolent
resolution, found an opportunity of taking a walk towards St. Leonard's, in
order to discover whether it might be possible to obtain the evidence hinted at
in the anonymous letter respecting Effie Deans.
    In fact, the anxious perquisitions made to discover the murderers of
Porteous occupied the attention of all concerned with the administration of
justice.
    In the course of these inquiries, two circumstances happened material to our
story. Butler, after a close investigation of his conduct, was declared innocent
of accession to the death of Porteous; but, as having been present during the
whole transaction, was obliged to find bail not to quit his usual residence at
Liberton, that he might appear as a witness when called upon. The other incident
regarded the disappearance of Madge Wildfire and her mother from Edinburgh. When
they were sought, with the purpose of subjecting them to some farther
interrogatories, it was discovered by Mr. Sharpitlaw that they had eluded the
observation of the police, and left the city so soon as dismissed from the
council-chamber. No efforts could trace the place of their retreat.
    In the meanwhile the excessive indignation of the Council of Regency, at the
slight put upon their authority by the murder of Porteous, had dictated
measures, in which their own extreme desire of detecting the actors in that
conspiracy were consulted in preference to the temper of the people and the
character of their churchmen. An act of Parliament was hastily passed, offering
two hundred pounds reward to those who should inform against any person
concerned in the deed, and the penalty of death, by a very unusual and severe
enactment, was denounced against those who should harbour the guilty. But what
was chiefly accounted exceptionable, was a clause, appointing the act to be read
in churches by the officiating clergyman, on the first Sunday of every month,
for a certain period, immediately before the sermon. The ministers who should
refuse to comply with this injunction were declared, for the first offence,
incapable of sitting or voting in any church judicature, and for the second,
incapable of holding any ecclesiastical preferment in Scotland.
    This last order united in a common cause those who might privately rejoice
in Porteous's death, though they dared not vindicate the manner of it, with the
more scrupulous Presbyterians, who held that even the pronouncing the name of
the »Lords Spiritual« in a Scottish pulpit was, quodammodo, an acknowledgement of
prelacy, and that the injunction of the legislature was an interference of the
civil government with the jus divinum of Presbytery, since to the General
Assembly alone, as representing the invisible head of the kirk, belonged the
sole and exclusive right of regulating whatever pertained to public worship.
Very many also, of different political or religious sentiments, and therefore
not much moved by these considerations, thought they saw, in so violent an act
of parliament, a more vindictive spirit than became the legislature of a great
country, and something like an attempt to trample upon the rights and
independence of Scotland. The various steps adopted for punishing the city of
Edinburgh, by taking away her charter and liberties, for what a violent and
overmastering mob had done within her walls, were resented by many, who thought
a pretext was too hastily taken for degrading the ancient metropolis of
Scotland. In short, there was much heart-burning, discontent, and disaffection,
occasioned by these ill-considered measures.30
    Amidst these heats and dissensions, the trial of Effie Deans, after she had
been many weeks imprisoned, was at length about to be brought forward, and Mr.
Middleburgh found leisure to inquire into the evidence concerning her. For this
purpose, he chose a fine day for his walk towards her father's house.
    The excursion into the country was somewhat distant, in the opinion of a
burgess of those days, although many of the present inhabit suburban villas
considerably beyond the spot to which we allude. Three-quarters of an hour's
walk, however, even at a pace of magisterial gravity, conducted our benevolent
office-bearer to the Crags of St. Leonard's, and the humble mansion of David
Deans.
    The old man was seated on the deas, or turf-seat, at the end of his cottage,
busied in mending his cart-harness with his own hands; for in those days any
sort of labour which required a little more skill than usual fell to the share
of the goodman himself, and that even when he was well to pass in the world.
With stern and austere gravity he persevered in his task, after having just
raised his head to notice the advance of the stranger. It would have been
impossible to have discovered, from his countenance and manner, the internal
feelings of agony with which he contended. Mr. Middleburgh waited an instant,
expecting Deans would in some measure acknowledge his presence, and lead into
conversation; but, as he seemed determined to remain silent, he was himself
obliged to speak first.
    »My name is Middleburgh - Mr. James Middleburgh, one of the present
magistrates of the city of Edinburgh.«
    »It may be sae,« answered Deans laconically, and without interrupting his
labour.
    »You must understand,« he continued, »that the duty of a magistrate is
sometimes an unpleasant one.« »It may be sae,« replied David; »I hae nothing to
say in the contrair;« and he was again doggedly silent.
    »You must be aware,« pursued the magistrate, »that persons in my situation
are often obliged to make painful and disagreeable inquiries of individuals,
merely because it is their bounden duty.«
    »It may be sae,« again replied Deans; »I hae nothing to say anent it,
either the tae way or the t'other. But I do ken there was ance in a day a just
and God-fearing magistracy in yon town o' Edinburgh, that did not bear the sword
in vain, but were a terror to evil-doers, and a praise to such as kept the path.
In the glorious days of auld worthy faithfu' Provost Dick,31 when there was a
true and faithfu' General Assembly of the Kirk, walking hand in hand with the
real noble Scottish-hearted barons, and with the magistrates of this and other
towns, gentles, burgesses, and commons of all ranks, seeing with one eye,
hearing with one ear, and upholding the ark with their united strength - And
then folk might see men deliver up their silver to the state's use, as if it had
been as muckle sclate stanes. My father saw them toom the sacks of dollars out
o' Provost Dick's window intill the carts that carried them to the army at Dunse
Law; and if ye winna believe his testimony, there is the window itsell still
standing in the Luckenbooths - I think it's a claith-merchant's booth the day32
- at the airn stanchells, five doors abune Gossford's Close. - But now we haena
sic spirit amang us; we think mair about the warst wallydraigle in our ain byre,
than about the blessing which the angel of the covenant gave to the Patriarch
even at Peniel and Mahanaim, or the binding obligation of our national vows; and
we wad rather give a pund Scots to buy an unguent to clear out auld rannell-trees
and our beds o' the English bugs as they ca' them, than we wad give a plack to
rid the land of the swarm of Arminian caterpillars, Socinian pismires, and
deistical Miss Katies, that have ascended out of the bottomless pit, to plague
this perverse, insidious, and lukewarm generation.«
    It happened to Davie Deans on this occasion, as it has done to many other
habitual orators; when once he became embarked on his favourite subject, the
stream of his own enthusiasm carried him forward in spite of his mental
distress, while his well-exercised memory supplied him amply with all the types
and tropes of rhetoric peculiar to his sect and cause.
    Mr. Middleburgh contented himself with answering - »All this may be very
true, my friend; but, as you said just now, I have nothing to say to it at
present, either one way or other. - You have two daughters, I think, Mr. Deans?«
    The old man winced, as one whose smarting sore is suddenly galled; but
instantly composed himself, resumed the work which, in the heat of his
declamation, he had laid down, and answered with sullen resolution, »Ae
daughter, sir - only ane.«
    »I understand you,« said Mr. Middleburgh; »you have only one daughter here
at home with you - but this unfortunate girl who is a prisoner - she is, I
think, your youngest daughter?«
    The Presbyterian sternly raised his eyes. »After the world, and according to
the flesh, she is my daughter; but when she became a child of Belial, and a
company-keeper, and a trader in guilt and iniquity, she ceased to be a bairn of
mine.«
    »Alas, Mr. Deans,« said Middleburgh, sitting down by him, and endeavouring
to take his hand, which the old man proudly withdrew, »we are ourselves all
sinners; and the errors of our offspring, as they ought not to surprise us,
being the portion which they derive of a common portion of corruption inherited
through us, so they do not entitle us to cast them off because they have lost
themselves.«
    »Sir,« said Deans impatiently, »I ken a' that as well as - I mean to say,«
he resumed, checking the irritation he felt at being schooled - a discipline of
the mind which those most ready to bestow it on others do themselves most
reluctantly submit to receive - »I mean to say, that what ye observe may be just
and reasonable - But I hae nae freedom to enter into my ain private affairs wi'
strangers - And now, in this great national emergency, when there's the
Porteous' Act has come doun frae London, that is a deeper blow to this poor
sinfu' kingdom and suffering kirk than ony that has been heard of since the foul
and fatal Test - at a time like this« -
    »But, goodman,« interrupted Mr. Middleburgh, »you must think of your own
household first, or else you are worse even than the infidels.«
    »I tell ye, Bailie Middleburgh,« retorted David Deans, »if ye be a bailie,
as there is little honour in being ane in these evil days - I tell ye, I heard
the gracious Saunders Peden - I wotna whan it was; but it was in killing time,
when the plowers were drawing alang their furrows on the back of the Kirk of
Scotland - I heard him tell his hearers, good and waled Christians they were
too, that some o' them wad greet mair for a bit drowned calf or stirk than for
a' the defections and oppressions of the day; and that they were some o' them
thinking o' ae thing, some o' anither, and there was Lady Hundleslope thinking
o' greeting Jock at the fireside! And the lady confessed in my hearing that a
drow of anxiety had come ower her for her son that she had left at hame weak of
a decay33 - And what wad he hae said of me if I had ceased to think of the good
cause for a castaway - a - It kills me to think of what she is!« -
    »But the life of your child, goodman - think of that - if her life could be
saved,« said Middleburgh.
    »Her life!« exclaimed David - »I wadna give ane o' my grey hairs for her
life, if her good name be gone - And yet,« said he, relenting and retracting as
he spoke, »I wad make the niffer, Mr. Middleburgh - I wad give a' these grey
hairs that she has brought to shame and sorrow - I wad give the auld head they
grow on for her life, and that she might hae time to amend and return, for what
hae the wicked beyond the breath of their nosthrils? - but I'll never see her
mair. - No! - that - that I am determined in - I'll never see her mair!« His
lips continued to move for a minute after his voice ceased to be heard, as if he
were repeating the same vow internally.
    »Well, sir,« said Mr. Middleburgh, »I speak to you as a man of sense; if you
would save your daughter's life, you must use human means.«
    »I understand what you mean; but Mr. Novit, who is the procurator and doer
of an honourable person, the Laird of Dumbiedikes, is to do what carnal wisdom
can do for her in the circumstances. Mysell am not clear to trinquet and traffic
wi' courts o' justice as they are now constituted; I have a tenderness and
scruple in my mind anent them.«
    »That is to say,« said Middleburgh, »that you are a Cameronian, and do not
acknowledge the authority of our courts of judicature, or present government?«
    »Sir, under your favour,« replied David, who was too proud of his own
polemical knowledge to call himself the follower of any one, »ye take me up
before I fall down. I canna see why I should be termed a Cameronian, especially
now that ye hae given the name of that famous and savoury sufferer, not only
until a regimental band of souldiers, whereof I am told many can now curse,
swear, and use profane language, as fast as ever Richard Cameron could preach or
pray, but also because ye have, in as far as it is in your power, rendered that
martyr's name vain and contemptible, by pipes, drums, and fifes, playing the
vain carnal spring called the Cameronian Rant, which too many professors of
religion dance to - a practice maist unbecoming a professor to dance to any tune
whatsoever, more especially promiscuously, that is, with the female sex.34 A
brutish fashion it is, whilk is the beginning of defection with many, as I may
hae as muckle cause as maist folk to testify.«
    »Well, but, Mr. Deans,« replied Mr. Middleburgh, »I only meant to say that
you were a Cameronian, or MacMillanite, one of the society people, in short, who
think it inconsistent to take oaths under a government where the Covenant is not
ratified.«
    »Sir,« replied the controversialist, who forgot even his present distress in
such discussions as these, »you cannot fickle me sae easily as you do opine. I
am not a MacMillanite, or a Russelite, or a Hamiltonian, or a Harleyite, or a
Howdenite35 - I will be led by the nose by none - I take my name as a Christian
from no vessel of clay. I have my own principles and practice to answer for, and
am an humble pleader for the good auld cause in a legal way.«
    »That is to say, Mr. Deans,« said Middleburgh, »that you are a Deanite, and
have opinions peculiar to yourself.«
    »It may please you to say sae,« said David Deans; »but I have maintained my
testimony before as great folk, and in sharper times; and though I will neither
exalt myself nor pull down others, I wish every man and woman in this land had
kept the true testimony, and the middle and straight path, as it were, on the
ridge of a hill, where wind and water shears, avoiding right-hand snares and
extremes, and left-hand way-slidings, as well as Johnny Dodds of Farthing's
Acre, and ae man mair that shall be nameless.«
    »I suppose,« replied the magistrate, »that is as much as to say, that Johnny
Dodds of Farthing's Acre, and David Deans of St. Leonard's, constitute the only
members of the true, real, unsophisticated Kirk of Scotland?« »God forbid that I
should make sic a vain-glorious speech, when there are sae mony professing
Christians!« answered David; »but this I maun say, that all men act according to
their gifts and their grace, sae that it is nae marvel that« -
    »This is all very fine,« interrupted Mr. Middleburgh; »but I have no time to
spend in hearing it. The matter in hand is this - I have directed a citation to
be lodged in your daughter's hands - If she appears on the day of trial and
gives evidence, there is reason to hope she may save her sister's life - if,
from any constrained scruples about the legality of her performing the office of
an affectionate sister and a good subject, by appearing in a court held under
the authority of the law and government, you become the means of deterring her
from the discharge of this duty, I must say, though the truth may sound harsh in
your ears, that you, who gave life to this unhappy girl, will become the means
of her losing it by a premature and violent death.«
    So saying, Mr. Middleburgh turned to leave him.
    »Bide awee - bide awee, Mr. Middleburgh,« said Deans, in great perplexity
and distress of mind; but the Bailie, who was probably sensible that protracted
discussion might diminish the effect of his best and most forcible argument,
took a hasty leave, and declined entering farther into the controversy.
    Deans sunk down upon his seat, stunned with a variety of conflicting
emotions. It had been a great source of controversy among those holding his
opinions in religious matters how far the government which succeeded the
Revolution could be, without sin, acknowledged by true Presbyterians, seeing
that it did not recognise the great national testimony of the Solemn League and
Covenant? And latterly, those agreeing in this general doctrine, and assuming
the sounding title of »The anti-Popish, anti-Prelatic, anti-Erastian,
anti-Sectarian, true Presbyterian remnant,« were divided into many petty sects
among themselves, even as to the extent of submission to the existing laws and
rulers, which constituted such an acknowledgement as amounted to sin.
    At a very stormy and tumultuous meeting, held in 1682, to discuss these
important and delicate points, the testimonies of the faithful few were found
utterly incodsistent with each other.36 The place where this conference took
place was remarkably well adapted for such an assembly. It was a wild and very
sequestered dell in Tweeddale, surrounded by high hills, and far remote from
human habitation. A small river, or rather a mountain torrent, called the Talla,
breaks down the glen with great fury, dashing successively over a number of
small cascades, which has procured the spot the name of Talla Linns. Here the
leaders among the scattered adherents to the Covenant, men who, in their
banishment from human society, and in the recollection of the severities to
which they had been exposed, had become at once sullen in their tempers, and
fantastic in their religious opinions, met with arms in their hands, and by the
side of the torrent discussed, with a turbulence which the noise of the stream
could not drown, points of controversy as empty and unsubstantial as its foam.
    It was the fixed judgment of most of the meeting, that all payment of cess
or tribute to the existing government was utterly unlawful, and a sacrificing to
idols. About other impositions and degrees of submission there were various
opinions; and perhaps it is the best illustration of the spirit of those
military fathers of the church to say, that while all allowed it was impious to
pay the cess employed for maintaining the standing army and militia, there was a
fierce controversy on the lawfulness of paying the duties levied at ports and
bridges, for maintaining roads and other necessary purposes; that there were
some who, repugnant to these imposts for turnpikes and pontages, were
nevertheless free in conscience to make payment of the usual freight at public
ferries, and that a person of exceeding and punctilious zeal, James Russel, one
of the slayers of the Archbishop of St. Andrews, had given his testimony with
great warmth even against this last faint shade of subjection to constituted
authority. This ardent and enlightened person and his followers had also great
scruples about the lawfulness of bestowing the ordinary names upon the days of
the week and the months of the year, which savoured in their nostrils so
strongly of paganism, that at length they arrived at the conclusion that they
who owned such names as Monday, Tuesday, January, February, and so forth,
»served themselves heirs to the same, if not greater punishment, than had been
denounced against the idolaters of old.«
    David Deans had been present on this memorable occasion, although too young
to be a speaker among the polemical combatants. His brain, however, had been
thoroughly heated by the noise, clamour, and metaphysical ingenuity of the
discussion, and it was a controversy to which his mind had often returned; and
though he carefully disguised his vacillation from others, and perhaps from
himself, he had never been able to come to any precise line of decision on the
subject. In fact, his natural sense had acted as a counterpoise to his
controversial zeal. He was by no means pleased with the quiet and indifferent
manner in which King William's government slurred over the errors of the times,
when, far from restoring the Presbyterian kirk to its former supremacy, they
passed an act of oblivion even to those who had been its persecutors, and
bestowed on many of them titles, favours, and employments. When, in the first
General Assembly which succeeded the Revolution, an overture was made for the
revival of the League and Covenant, it was with horror that Douce David heard
the proposal eluded by the men of carnal wit and policy, as he called them, as
being inapplicable to the present times, and not falling under the modern model
of the church. The reign of Queen Anne had increased his conviction, that the
Revolution government was not one of the true Presbyterian complexion. But then,
more sensible than the bigots of his sect, he did not confound the moderation
and tolerance of these two reigns with the active tyranny and oppression
exercised in those of Charles II. and James II. The Presbyterian form of
religion, though deprived of the weight formerly attached to its sentences of
excommunication, and compelled to tolerate the co-existence of Episcopacy, and
of sects of various descriptions, was still the National Church; and though the
glory of the second temple was far inferior to that which had flourished from
1639 till the battle of Dunbar, still it was a structure that, wanting the
strength and the terrors, retained at least the form and symmetry, of the
original model. Then came the insurrection in 1715, and David Deans's horror for
the revival of the Popish and prelatical faction reconciled him greatly to the
government of King George, although he grieved that that monarch might be
suspected of a leaning unto Erastianism. In short, moved by so many different
considerations, he had shifted his ground at different times concerning the
degree of freedom which he felt in adopting any act of immediate acknowledgement
or submission to the present government, which, however mild and paternal, was
still uncovenanted, and now he felt himself called upon, by the most powerful
motive conceivable, to authorise his daughter's giving testimony in a court of
justice, which all who have been since called Cameronians accounted a step of
lamentable and direct defection. The voice of nature, however, exclaimed loud in
his bosom against the dictates of fanaticism; and his imagination, fertile in
the solution of polemical difficulties, devised an expedient for extricating
himself from the fearful dilemma, in which he saw, on the one side, a falling
off from principle, and, on the other, a scene from which a father's thoughts
could not but turn in shuddering horror.
    »I have been constant and unchanged in my testimony,« said David Deans; »but
then who has said it of me, that I have judged my neighbour over closely,
because he hath had more freedom in his walk than I have found in mine? I never
was a separatist, nor for quarrelling with tender souls about mint, cummin, or
other the lesser tithes. My daughter Jean may have a light in this subject that
is hid frae my auld een - it is laid on her conscience, and not on mine - If she
hath freedom to gang before this judicatory, and hold up her hand for this poor
castaway, surely I will not say she steppeth over her bounds; and if not« - He
paused in his mental argument, while a pang of unutterable anguish convulsed his
features, yet, shaking it off, he firmly resumed the strain of his reasoning -
»And IF NOT - God forbid that she should go into defection at bidding of mine! I
wunna fret the tender conscience of one bairn - no, not to save the life of the
other.«
    A Roman would have devoted his daughter to death from different feelings and
motives, but not upon a more heroic principle of duty.
 

                               Chapter Eighteenth

 To man, in this his trial state,
 The privilege is given,
 When tost by tides of human fate,
 To anchor fast on heaven.
                                                                  Watts's Hymns.
 
It was with a firm step that Deans sought his daughter's apartment, determined
to leave her to the light of her own conscience in the dubious point of
casuistry in which he supposed her to be placed.
    The little room had been the sleeping apartment of both sisters, and there
still stood there a small occasional bed which had been made for Effie's
accommodation, when, complaining of illness, she had declined to share, as in
happier times, her sister's pillow. The eyes of Deans rested involuntarily, on
entering the room, upon this little couch, with its dark-green coarse curtains,
and the ideas connected with it rose so thick upon his soul as almost to
incapacitate him from opening his errand to his daughter. Her occupation broke
the ice. He found her gazing on a slip of paper, which contained a citation to
her to appear as a witness upon her sister's trial in behalf of the accused. For
the worthy magistrate, determined to omit no chance of doing Effie justice, and
to leave her sister no apology for not giving the evidence which she was
supposed to possess, had caused the ordinary citation, or subpoena, of the
Scottish criminal court, to be served upon her by an officer during his
conference with David.
    This precaution was so far favourable to Deans, that it saved him the pain
of entering upon a formal explanation with his daughter; he only said, with a
hollow and tremulous voice, »I perceive ye are aware of the matter.«
    »O father, we are cruelly sted between God's laws and man's laws - What
shall we do? - What can we do?«
    Jeanie, it must be observed, had no hesitation whatever about the mere act
of appearing in a court of justice. She might have heard the point discussed by
her father more than once; but we have already noticed that she was accustomed
to listen with reverence to much which she was incapable of understanding, and
that subtle arguments of casuistry found her a patient, but unedified hearer.
Upon receiving the citation, therefore, her thoughts did not turn upon the
chimerical scruples which alarmed her father's mind, but to the language which
had been held to her by the stranger at Muschat's Cairn. In a word, she never
doubted but she was to be dragged forward into the court of justice, in order to
place her in the cruel position of either sacrificing her sister by telling the
truth, or committing perjury in order to save her life. And so strongly did her
thoughts run in this channel, that she applied her father's words, »Ye are aware
of the matter,« to his acquaintance with the advice that had been so fearfully
enforced upon her. She looked up with anxious surprise, not unmingled with a
cast of horror, which his next words, as she interpreted and applied them, were
not qualified to remove.
    »Daughter,« said David, »it has ever been my mind, that in things of ane
doubtful and controversial nature, ilk Christian's conscience should be his ain
guide - Wherefore descend into yourself, try your ain mind with sufficiency of
soul exercise, and as you sall finally find yourself clear to do in this matter
- even so be it.«
    »But, father,« said Jeanie, whose mind revolted at the construction which
she naturally put upon his language, »can this - THIS be a doubtful or
controversial matter? - Mind, father, the ninth command - Thou shalt not bear
false witness against thy neighbour.«
    David Deans paused; for, still applying her speech to his preconceived
difficulties, it seemed to him as if she, a woman, and a sister, was scarce
entitled to be scrupulous upon this occasion, where he, a man, exercised in the
testimonies of that testifying period, had given indirect countenance to her
following what must have been the natural dictates of her own feelings. But he
kept firm his purpose, until his eyes involuntarily rested upon the little
settle-bed, and recalled the form of the child of his old age, as she sate upon
it, pale, emaciated, and broken-hearted. His mind, as the picture arose before
him, involuntarily conceived, and his tongue involuntarily uttered - but in a
tone how different from his usual dogmatical precision! - arguments for the
course of conduct likely to ensure his child's safety.
    »Daughter,« he said, »I did not say that your path was free from stumbling -
and, questionless, this act may be in the opinion of some a transgression, since
he who beareth witness unlawfully, and against his conscience, doth in some sort
bear false witness against his neighbour. Yet in matters of compliance, the
guilt lieth not in the compliance sae muckle, as in the mind and conscience of
him that doth comply; and, therefore, although my testimony hath not been spared
upon public defections, I haena felt freedom to separate mysell from the
communion of many who have been clear to hear those ministers who have taken the
fatal indulgence because they might get good of them, though I could not.«
    When David had proceeded thus far, his conscience reproved him, that he
might be indirectly undermining the purity of his daughter's faith, and
smoothing the way for her falling off from strictness of principle. He,
therefore, suddenly stopped, and changed his tone: - »Jeanie, I perceive that
our vile affections, - so I call them in respect of doing the will of our
Father, - cling too heavily to me in this hour of trying sorrow, to permit me to
keep sight of my ain duty, or to airt you to yours. I will speak nae mair anent
this overtrying matter. - Jeanie, if ye can, wi' God and good conscience, speak
in favour of this puir unhappy« - (here his voice faltered) - »She is your
sister in the flesh - worthless and castaway as she is, she is the daughter of a
saint in heaven, that was a mother to you, Jeanie, in place of your ain - but if
ye arena free in conscience to speak for her in the court of judicature, follow
your conscience, Jeanie, and let God's will be done.« After this adjuration he
left the apartment, and his daughter remained in a state of great distress and
perplexity.
    It would have been no small addition to the sorrows of David Deans, even in
this extremity of suffering, had he known that his daughter was applying the
casuistical arguments which he had been using, not in the sense of a permission
to follow her own opinion on a dubious and disputed point of controversy, but
rather as an encouragement to transgress one of those divine commandments which
Christians of all sects and denominations unite in holding most sacred.
    »Can this be?« said Jeanie, as the door closed on her father - »Can these be
his words that I have heard, or has the Enemy taken his voice and features to
give weight unto the counsel which causeth to perish? - a sister's life, and a
father pointing out how to save it! - O God, deliver me! - this is a fearfu'
temptation.«
    Roaming from thought to thought, she at one time imagined her father
understood the ninth commandment literally, as prohibiting false witness against
our neighbour, without extending the denunciation against falsehood uttered in
favour of the criminal. But her clear and unsophisticated power of
discriminating between good and evil, instantly rejected an interpretation so
limited, and so unworthy of the Author of the law. She remained in a state of
the most agitating terror and uncertainty - afraid to communicate her thoughts
freely to her father, lest she should draw forth an opinion with which she could
not comply, - wrung with distress on her sister's account, rendered the more
acute by reflecting that the means of saving her were in her power, but were
such as her conscience prohibited her from using, - tossed, in short, like a
vessel in an open roadstead during a storm, and, like that vessel, resting on
one only sure cable and anchor, - faith in Providence, and a resolution to
discharge her duty.
    Butler's affection and strong sense of religion would have been her
principal support in these distressing circumstances, but he was still under
restraint, which did not permit him to come to St. Leonard's Crags; and her
distresses were of a nature, which, with her indifferent habits of scholarship,
she found it impossible to express in writing. She was therefore compelled to
trust for guidance to her own unassisted sense of what was right or wrong. It
was not the least of Jeanie's distresses, that, although she hoped and believed
her sister to be innocent, she had not the means of receiving that assurance
from her own mouth.
    The double-dealing of Ratcliffe in the matter of Robertson had not prevented
his being rewarded, as double-dealers frequently have been, with favour and
preferment. Sharpitlaw, who found in him something of a kindred genius, had been
intercessor in his behalf with the magistrates, and the circumstance of his
having voluntarily remained in the prison, when the doors were forced by the
mob, would have made it a hard measure to take the life which he had such easy
means of saving. He received a full pardon; and soon afterwards, James
Ratcliffe, the greatest thief and housebreaker in Scotland, was, upon the faith,
perhaps, of an ancient proverb, selected as a person to be entrusted with the
custody of other delinquents.
    When Ratcliffe was thus placed in a confidential situation, he was
repeatedly applied to by the sapient Saddletree and others, who took some
interest in the Deans family, to procure an interview between the sisters; but
the magistrates, who were extremely anxious for the apprehension of Robertson,
had given strict orders to the contrary, hoping that, by keeping them separate,
they might, from the one or the other, extract some information respecting that
fugitive. On this subject Jeanie had nothing to tell them. She informed Mr.
Middleburgh, that she knew nothing of Robertson, except having met him that
night by appointment to give her some advice respecting her sister's concern,
the purport of which, she said, was betwixt God and her conscience. Of his
motions, purposes, or plans, past, present, or future, she knew nothing, and so
had nothing to communicate.
    Effie was equally silent, though from a different cause. It was in vain that
they offered a commutation and alleviation of her punishment, and even a free
pardon, if she would confess what she knew of her lover. She answered only with
tears; unless, when at times driven into pettish sulkiness by the persecution of
the interrogators, she made them abrupt and disrespectful answers.
    At length, after her trial had been delayed for many weeks, in hopes she
might be induced to speak out on a subject infinitely more interesting to the
magistracy than her own guilt or innocence, their patience was worn out, and
even Mr. Middleburgh finding no ear lent to farther intercession in her behalf,
the day was fixed for the trial to proceed.
    It was now, and not sooner, that Sharpitlaw, recollecting his promise to
Effie Deans, or rather being dinned into compliance by the unceasing
remonstrances of Mrs. Saddletree, who was his next-door neighbour, and who
declared it was heathen cruelty to keep the twa broken-hearted creatures
separate, issued the important mandate, permitting them to see each other.
    On the evening which preceded the eventful day of trial, Jeanie was
permitted to see her sister - an awful interview, and occurring at a most
distressing crisis. This, however, formed a part of the bitter cup which she was
doomed to drink, to atone for crimes and follies to which she had no accession;
and at twelve o'clock noon, being the time appointed for admission to the jail,
she went to meet, for the first time for several months, her guilty, erring, and
most miserable sister, in that abode of guilt, error, and utter misery.
 

                               Chapter Nineteenth

 - Sweet sister, let me live!
 What sin you do to save a brother's life,
 Nature dispenses with the deed so far,
 That it becomes a virtue.
                                                            Measure for Measure.
 
Jeanie Deans was admitted into the jail by Ratcliffe. This fellow, as void of
shame as of honesty, as he opened the now trebly secured door, asked her, with a
leer which made her shudder, »whether she remembered him?«
    A half-pronounced and timid »No,« was her answer.
    »What! not remember moonlight, and Muschat's Cairn, and Rob and Rat?« said
he, with the same sneer; - »Your memory needs redding up, my jo.«
    If Jeanie's distresses had admitted of aggravation, it must have been to
find her sister under the charge of such a profligate as this man. He was not,
indeed, without something of good to balance so much that was evil in his
character and habits. In his misdemeanours he had never been bloodthirsty or
cruel; and in his present occupation, he had shown himself, in a certain degree,
accessible to touches of humanity. But these good qualities were unknown to
Jeanie, who, remembering the scene at Muschat's Cairn, could scarce find voice
to acquaint him, that she had an order from Bailie Middleburgh, permitting her
to see her sister.
    »I ken that fu' well, my bonny doo; mair by token, I have a special charge
to stay in the ward with you a' the time ye are thegither.«
    »Must that be sae?« asked Jeanie, with an imploring voice.
    »Hout, ay, hinny,« replied the turnkey; »and what the waur will you and your
tittie be of Jim Ratcliffe hearing what ye hae to say to ilk other? - Deil a
word ye'll say that will gar him ken your kittle sex better than he kens them
already; and another thing is, that if ye dinna speak o' breaking the Tolbooth,
deil a word will I tell ower, either to do ye good or ill.«
    Thus saying, Ratcliffe marshalled her the way to the apartment where Effie
was confined.
    Shame, fear, and grief, had contended for mastery in the poor prisoner's
bosom during the whole morning, while she had looked forward, to this meeting;
but when the door opened, all gave way to a confused and strange feeling that
had a tinge of joy in it, as, throwing herself on her sister's neck, she
ejaculated, »My dear Jeanie! - my dear Jeanie! it's lang since I hae seen ye.«
Jeanie returned the embrace with an earnestness that partook almost of rapture,
but it was only a flitting emotion, like a sunbeam unexpectedly penetrating
betwixt the clouds of a tempest, and obscured almost as soon as visible. The
sisters walked together to the side of the pallet bed, and sate down side by
side, took hold of each other's hands, and looked each other in the face, but
without speaking a word. In this posture they remained for a minute, while the
gleam of joy gradually faded from their features, and gave way to the most
intense expression, first of melancholy, and then of agony, till, throwing
themselves again into each other's arms, they, to use the language of Scripture,
lifted up their voices, and wept bitterly.
    Even the hard-hearted turnkey, who had spent his life in scenes calculated
to stifle both conscience and feeling, could not witness this scene without a
touch of human sympathy. It was shown in a trifling action, but which had more
delicacy in it than seemed to belong to Ratcliffe's character and station. The
unglazed window of the miserable chamber was open, and the beams of a bright sun
fell right upon the bed where the sufferers were seated. With a gentleness that
had something of reverence in it, Ratcliffe partly closed the shutter, and
seemed thus to throw a veil over a scene so sorrowful.
    »Ye are ill, Effie,« were the first words Jeanie could utter; »ye are very
ill.«
    »O, what wad I give to be ten times waur, Jeanie!« was the reply -»what wad I
give to be cauld dead afore the ten o'clock bell the morn! And our father - but I
am his bairn nae langer now - O, I hae nae friend left in the warld! - O, that I
were lying dead at my mother's side, in Newbattle kirk-yard!«
    »Hout, lassie,« said Ratcliffe, willing to show the interest which he
absolutely felt, »dinna be sae dooms doon-hearted as a' that; there's mony a tod
hunted that's no killed. Advocate Langtale has brought folk through waur
snappers than a' this, and there's no a cleverer agent than Nichil Novit e'er
drew a bill of suspension. Hanged or unhanged, they are well aff has sic an
agent and counsel; ane's sure o' fair play. Ye are a bonny lass, too, an ye wad
busk up your cockernony a bit; and a bonny lass will find favour wi' judge and
jury, when they would strap up a grewsome carle like me for the fifteenth part
of a flea's hide and tallow, d - n them.«
    To this homely strain of consolation the mourners returned no answer;
indeed, they were so much lost in their own sorrows as to have become insensible
of Ratcliffe's presence. »O Effie,« said her elder sister, »how could you
conceal your situation from me? O woman, had I deserved this at your hand? - had
ye spoke but ae word - sorry we might hae been, and shamed we might hae been,
but this awful' dispensation had never come ower us.«
    »And what good wad that hae dune?« answered the prisoner. »Na, na, Jeanie,
a' was ower when ance I forgot what I promised when I faulded down the leaf of
my Bible. See,« she said, producing the sacred volume, »the book opens aye at
the place o' itsell. O see, Jeanie, what a fearfu' Scripture!«
    Jeanie took her sister's Bible, and found that the fatal mark was made at
this impressive text in the book of Job: »He hath stripped me of my glory, and
taken the crown from my head. He hath destroyed me on every side, and I am gone.
And mine hope hath he removed like a tree.«
    »Isna that ower true a doctrine?« said the prisoner - »Isna my crown, my
honour, removed? And what am I but a poor, wasted, wan-thriven tree, dug up by
the roots, and flung out to waste in the highway, that man and beast may tread
it under foot? I thought o' the bonny bit thorn that our father rooted out o'
the yard last May, when it had a' the flush o' blossoms on it; and then it lay
in the court till the beasts had trod them a' to pieces wi' their feet. I tittle
thought, when I was wae for the bit silly green bush and its flowers, that I was
to gang the same gate mysell.«
    »O, if ye had spoken ae word,« again sobbed Jeanie, - »if I were free to
swear that ye had said but ae word of how it stude wi' ye, they couldn't have hae
touched your life this day.«
    »Could they na?« said Effie, with something like awakened interest - for
life is dear even to those who feel it is a burden - »Wha told ye that,
Jeanie?«
    »It was ane that kend what he was saying well enough,« replied Jeanie, who
had a natural reluctance at mentioning even the name of her sister's seducer.
    »Wha was it? - I conjure you to tell me,« said Effie, seating herself
upright. - »Wha could take interest in sic a cast-by as I am now? - Was it - was
it him?«
    »Hout,« said Ratcliffe, »what signifies keeping the poor lassie in a
swither? I'se uphaud it's been Robertson that learned ye that doctrine when ye
saw him at Muschat's Cairn.«
    »Was it him?« said Effie, catching eagerly at his words - »was it him,
Jeanie, indeed? - O, I see it was him - poor lad, and I was thinking his heart
was as hard as the nether mill-stane - and him in sic danger on his ain part -
poor George!«
    Somewhat indignant at this burst of tender feeling towards the author of her
misery, Jeanie could not help exclaiming - »O Effie, how can ye speak that gate
of sic a man as that?«
    »We maun forgie our enemies, ye ken,« said poor Effie, with a timid look and
a subdued voice; for her conscience told her what a different character the
feelings with which she regarded her seducer bore, compared with the Christian
charity under which she attempted to veil it.
    »And ye hae suffered a' this for him, and ye can think of loving him still?«
said her sister, in a voice betwixt pity and blame.
    »Love him!« answered Effie - »If I hadna loved as woman seldom loves, I
hadna been within these wa's this day; and trew ye, that love sic as mine is
lightly forgotten? - Na, na - ye may hew down the tree, but ye canna change its
bend - And, O Jeanie, if ye wad do good to me at this moment, tell me every word
that he said, and whether he was sorry for poor Effie or no!«
    »What needs I tell ye anything about it?« said Jeanie. »Ye may be sure he
had ower muckle to do to save himself, to speak lang or muckle about ony body
beside.«
    »That's no true, Jeanie, though a saunt had said it,« replied Effie, with a
sparkle of her former lively and irritable temper. »But ye dinna ken, though I
do, how far he pat his life in venture to save mine.« And looking at Ratcliffe,
she checked herself and was silent.
    »I fancy,« said Ratcliffe, with one of his familiar sneers, »the lassie
thinks that nobody has een but hersell - Didna I see when Gentle Geordie was
seeking to get other folk out of the Tolbooth forby Jock Porteous? but ye are of
my mind, hinny - better sit and rue, than flit and rue - ye needna look in my
face sae amazed. I ken mair things than that, maybe.«
    »O my God! my God!« said Effie, springing up and throwing herself down on
her knees before him - »D'ye ken where they hae putten my bairn? - O my bairn!
my bairn! the poor sackless innocent new-born wee ane - bone of my bone, and
flesh of my flesh! - O man, if ye wad e'er deserve a portion in Heaven, or a
broken-hearted creature's blessing upon earth, tell me where they hae put my
bairn - the sign of my shame, and the partner of my suffering! tell me what has
taken't away, or what they hae dune wi't!«
    »Hout tout,« said the turnkey, endeavouring to extricate himself from the
firm grasp with which she held him, »that's taking me at my word wi' a witness -
Bairn, quo' she? How the deil should I ken anything of your bairn, huzzy? Ye maun
ask that of auld Meg Murdockson, if ye dinna ken ower muckle about it yoursell.«
    As his answer destroyed the wild and vague hope which had suddenly gleamed
upon her, the unhappy prisoner let go her hold of his coat, and fell with her
face on the pavement of the apartment in a strong convulsion fit.
    Jeanie Deans possessed, with her excellently clear understanding, the
concomitant advantage of promptitude of spirit, even in the extremity of
distress.
    She did not suffer herself to be overcome by her own feelings of exquisite
sorrow, but instantly applied herself to her sister's relief, with the readiest
remedies which circumstances afforded; and which, to do Ratcliffe justice, he
showed himself anxious to suggest, and alert in procuring. He had even the
delicacy to withdraw to the farthest corner of the room, so as to render his
official attendance upon them as little intrusive as possible, when Effie was
composed enough again to resume her conference with her sister.
    The prisoner once more, in the most earnest and broken tones, conjured
Jeanie to tell her the particulars of the conference with Robertson, and Jeanie
felt it was impossible to refuse her this gratification.
    »Do ye mind,« she said, »Effie, when ye were in the fever before we left
Woodend, and how angry your mother, that's now in a better place, was wi' me for
gieing ye milk and water to drink, because ye grat for it? Ye were a bairn then,
and ye are a woman now, and should ken better than ask what canna but hurt you -
But come weal or woe, I canna refuse ye anything that ye ask me wi' the tear in
your ee.«
    Again Effie threw herself into her arms, and kissed her cheek and forehead,
murmuring, »O, if ye kend how lang it is since I heard his name mentioned? - if
ye but kend how muckle good it does me but to ken anything o' him, that's like
goodness or kindness, ye wadna wonder that I wish to hear o' him!«
    Jeanie sighed, and commenced her narrative of all that had passed betwixt
Robertson and her, making it as brief as possible. Effie listened in breathless
anxiety, holding her sister's hand in hers, and keeping her eye fixed upon her
face, as if devouring every word she uttered. The interjections of »Poor
fellow,« - »Poor George,« which escaped in whispers, and betwixt sighs, were the
only sounds with which she interrupted the story. When it was finished she made
a long pause.
    »And this was his advice?« were the first words she uttered.
    »Just sic as I hae tell'd ye,« replied her sister.
    »And he wanted you to say something to yon folks, that wad save my young
life?«
    »He wanted,« answered Jeanie, »that I should be man-sworn.«
    »And you told him,« said Effie, »that ye wadna hear o' coming between me
and the death that I am to die, and me no aughten year auld yet?«
    »I told him,« replied Jeanie, who now trembled at the turn which her
sister's reflection seemed about to take, »that I daured na swear to an
untruth.«
    »And what d'ye ca' an untruth?« said Effie, again showing a touch of her
former spirit - »Ye are muckle to blame, lass, if ye think a mother would, or
could, murder her ain bairn - Murder! - I wad hae laid down my life just to see
a blink o' its ee!«
    »I do believe,« said Jeanie, »that ye are as innocent of sic a purpose as
the new-born babe itsell.«
    »I am glad ye do me that justice,« said Effie, haughtily; »it's whiles the
faut of very good folk like you, Jeanie, that they think a' the rest of the
warld are as bad as the warst temptations can make them.«
    »I didna deserve this frae ye, Effie,« said her sister, sobbing, and feeling
at once the injustice of the reproach, and compassion for the state of mind
which dictated it.
    »Maybe no, sister,« said Effie. »But ye are angry because I love Robertson -
How can I help loving him, that loves me better than body and soul baith? - Here
he put his life in a niffer, to break the prison to let me out; and sure am I,
had it stude wi' him as it stands wi' you« - Here she paused and was silent.
    »O, if it stude wi' me to save ye wi' risk of my life!« said Jeanie.
    »Ay, lass,« said her sister, »that's lightly said, but no sae lightly
credited, frae ane that winna ware a word for me; and if it be a wrang word,
ye'll hae time enough to repent o't.«
    »But that word is a grievous sin, and it's a deeper offence when it's a sin
wilfully and presumptuously committed.«
    »Weel, well, Jeanie,« said Effie, »I mind a' about the sins o' presumption
in the questions - we'll speak nae mair about this matter, and ye may save your
breath to say your carritch; and for me, I'll soon hae nae breath to waste on
anybody.«
    »I must needs say,« interposed Ratcliffe, »that it's d - d hard, when three
words of your mouth would give the girl the chance to nick Moll Blood,37 that
you make such scrupling about rapping38 to them. D - n me, if they would take
me, if I would not rap to all whatd'yecallums - Hyssop's Fables, for her life -
I am us'd to't, b - t me, for less matters. Why, I have smacked calf-skin39
fifty times in England for a keg of brandy.«
    »Never speak mair o't,« said the prisoner. »It's just as well as it is -and
good-day, sister; ye keep Mr. Ratcliffe waiting on - Ye'll come back and see me,
I reckon, before« - here she stopped and became deadly pale.
    »And are we to part in this way,« said Jeanie, »and you in sic deadly peril?
O Effie, look but up, and say what ye wad hae me to do, and I could find in my
heart amaist to say that I wad do't.«
    »No, Jeanie,« replied her sister after an effort, »I am better minded now.
At my best, I was never half sae good as ye were, and what for should you begin to
make yoursell waur to save me, now that I am no worth saving? God knows, that in
my sober mind, I wadna wuss ony living creature to do a wrang thing to save my
life. I might have fled frae this Tolbooth on that awful' night wi' ane wad hae
carried me through the warld, and friended me, and fended for me. But I said to
them, let life gang when good fame is gone before it. But this lang imprisonment
has broken my spirit, and I am whiles sair left to mysell, and then I wad give
the Indian mines of gold and diamonds, just for life and breath - for I think,
Jeanie, I have such roving fits as I used to hae in the fever; but, instead of
the fiery een and wolves, and Widow Butler's bullseg, that I used to see
spieling upon my bed, I am thinking now about a high, black gibbet, and me
standing up, and such seas of faces all looking up at poor Effie Deans, and
asking if it be her that George Robertson used to call the Lily of St.
Leonard's. And then they stretch out their faces, and make mouths, and girn at
me, and whichever way I look, I see a face laughing like Meg Murdockson, when
she told me I had seen the last of my wean. God preserve us, Jeanie, that
carline has a fearsome face!« She clapped her hands before her eyes as she
uttered this exclamation, as if to secure herself against seeing the fearful
object she had alluded to.
    Jeanie Deans remained with her sister for two hours, during which she
endeavoured, if possible, to extract something from her that might be
serviceable in her exculpation. But she had nothing to say beyond what she had
declared on her first examination, with the purport of which the reader will be
made acquainted in proper time and place. »They wadna believe her,« she said,
»and she had nothing mair to tell them.«
    At length, Ratcliffe, though reluctantly, informed the sisters that there
was a necessity that they should part. »Mr. Novit,« he said, »was to see the
prisoner, and maybe Mr. Langtale too. Langtale likes to look at a bonny lass,
whether in prison or out o' prison.«
    Reluctantly, therefore, and slowly, after many a tear, and many an embrace,
Jeanie retired from the apartment, and heard its jarring bolts turned upon the
dear being from whom she was separated. Somewhat familiarised now even with her
rude conductor, she offered him a small present in money, with a request he
would do what he could for her sister's accommodation. To her surprise,
Ratcliffe declined the fee. »I wasna bloody when I was on the pad,« he said,
»and I winna be greedy - that is, beyond what's right and reasonable - now that
I am in the lock. - Keep the siller; and for civility, your sister sall hae sic
as I can bestow; but I hope you'll think better on it, and rap an oath for her -
deil a hair ill there is in it, if ye are rapping again the crown. I kend a
worthy minister, as good a man, bating the deed they deposed him for, as ever ye
heard claver in a pu'pit, that rapped to a hogshead of pigtail tobacco, just for
as muckle as filled his spleuchan.40 But maybe ye are keeping your ain counsel -
well, well, there's nae harm in that. As for your sister, I'se see that she gets
her meat clean and warm, and I'll try to gar her lie down and take a sleep after
dinner, for deil a ee she'll close the night. I hae good experience of these
matters. The first night is aye the warst o't. I hae never heard o' ane that
sleepit the night afore trial, but of mony a ane that sleepit as sound as a tap
the night before their necks were straughted. And it's nae wonder - the warst
may be tholed when it's kend -Better a finger aff as aye wagging.«
 

                               Chapter Twentieth

 Yet though thou mayst be dragg'd in scorn
 To yonder ignominious tree,
 Thou shalt not want one faithful friend
 To share the cruel fates' decr
                                                                   Jemmy Dawson.
 
After spending the greater part of the morning in his devotions (for his
benevolent neighbours had kindly insisted upon discharging his task of ordinary
labour), David Deans entered the apartment when the breakfast meal was prepared.
His eyes were involuntarily cast down, for he was afraid to look at Jeanie,
uncertain as he was whether she might feel herself at liberty, with a good
conscience, to attend the Court of Justiciary that day, to give the evidence
which he understood that she possessed, in order to her sister's exculpation. At
length, after a minute of apprehensive hesitation, he looked at her dress to
discover whether it seemed to be in her contemplation to go abroad that morning.
Her apparel was neat and plain, but such as conveyed no exact intimation of her
intentions to go abroad. She had exchanged her usual garb for morning labour,
for one something inferior to that with which, as her best, she was wont to
dress herself for church, or any more rare occasion of going into society. Her
sense taught her, that it was respectful to be decent in her apparel on such an
occasion, while her feelings induced her to lay aside the use of the very few
and simple personal ornaments, which, on other occasions, she permitted herself
to wear. So that there occurred nothing in her external appearance which could
mark out to her father, with anything like certainty, her intentions on this
occasion.
    The preparations for their humble meal were that morning made in vain. The
father and daughter sat, each assuming the appearance of eating, when the
other's eyes were turned to them, and desisting from the effort with disgust,
when the affectionate imposture seemed no longer necessary.
    At length these moments of constraint were removed. The sound of St. Giles's
heavy toll announced the hour previous to the commencement of the trial; Jeanie
arose, and with a degree of composure for which she herself could not account,
assumed her plaid, and made her other preparations for a distant walking. It was
a strange contrast between the firmness of her demeanour, and the vacillation
and cruel uncertainty of purpose indicated in all her father's motions; and one
unacquainted with both could scarcely have supposed that the former was, in her
ordinary habits of life, a docile, quiet, gentle, and even timid country maiden,
while her father, with a mind naturally proud and strong, and supported by
religious opinions of a stern, stoical, and unyielding character, had in his
time undergone and withstood the most severe hardships, and the most imminent
peril, without depression of spirit, or subjugation of his constancy. The secret
of this difference was, that Jeanie's mind had already anticipated the line of
conduct which she must adopt, with all its natural and necessary consequences;
while her father, ignorant of every other circumstance, tormented himself with
imagining what the one sister might say or swear, or what effect her testimony
might have upon the awful event of the trial.
    He watched his daughter, with a faltering and indecisive look, until she
looked back upon him, with a look of unutterable anguish, as she was about to
leave the apartment.
    »My dear lassie,« said he, »I will« - His action, hastily and confusedly
searching for his worsted mittans41 and staff, showed his purpose of
accompanying her, though his tongue failed distinctly to announce it.
    »Father,« said Jeanie, replying rather to his action than his words, »ye had
better not.«
    »In the strength of my God,« answered Deans, assuming firmness, »I will go
forth.«
    And, taking his daughter's arm under his, he began to walk from the door
with a step so hasty, that she was almost unable to keep up with him. A trifling
circumstance, but which marked the perturbed state of his mind, checked his
course. »Your bonnet, father?« said Jeanie, who observed he had come out with
his grey hairs uncovered. He turned back with a slight blush on his cheek, being
ashamed to have been detected in an omission which indicated so much mental
confusion, assumed his large blue Scottish bonnet, and with a step slower, but
more composed, as if the circumstance had obliged him to summon up his
resolution, and collect his scattered ideas, again placed his daughter's arm
under his, and resumed the way to Edinburgh.
    The courts of justice were then, and are still, held in what is called the
Parliament Close, or, according to modern phrase, Parliament Square, and
occupied the buildings intended for the accommodation of the Scottish Estates.
This edifice, though in an imperfect and corrupted style of architecture, had
then a grave, decent, and, as it were, a judicial aspect, which was at least
entitled to respect from its antiquity. For which venerable front, I observed,
on my last occasional visit to the metropolis, that modern taste had
substituted, at great apparent expense, a pile so utterly inconsistent with
every monument of antiquity around, and in itself so clumsy at the same time and
fantastic, that it may be likened to the decorations of Tom Errand the porter,
in the Trip to the Jubilee, when he appears bedizened with the tawdry finery of
Beau Clincher. Sed transeat cum coeteris erroribus.
    The small quadrangle, or Close, if we may presume still to give it that
appropriate, though antiquated title, which at Lichfield, Salisbury, and
elsewhere, is properly applied to designate the enclosure adjacent to a
cathedral, already evinced tokens of the fatal scene which was that day to be
acted. The soldiers of the City Guard were on their posts, now enduring, and now
rudely repelling with the butts of their muskets, the motley crew who thrust
each other forward, to catch a glance at the unfortunate object of trial, as she
should pass from the adjacent prison to the Court in which her fate was to be
determined. All must have occasionally observed, with disgust, the apathy with
which the vulgar gaze on scenes of this nature, and how seldom, unless when
their sympathies are called forth by some striking and extraordinary
circumstance, the crowd evince any interest deeper than that of callous,
unthinking bustle, and brutal curiosity. They laugh, jest, quarrel, and push
each other to and fro, with the same unfeeling indifference as if they were
assembled for some holiday sport, or to see an idle procession. Occasionally,
however, this demeanour, so natural to the degraded populace of a large town, is
exchanged for a temporary touch of human affections; and so it chanced on the
present occasion.
    When Deans and his daughter presented themselves in the Close, and
endeavoured to make their way forward to the door of the Court-house, they
became involved in the mob, and subject, of course, to their insolence. As Deans
repelled with some force the rude pushes which he received on all sides, his
figure and antiquated dress caught the attention of the rabble, who often show
an intuitive sharpness in ascribing the proper character from external
appearance, -
 
»Ye're welcome, whigs,
Frae Bothwell briggs,«
 
sung one fellow (for the mob of Edinburgh were at that time jacobitically
disposed, probably because that was the line of sentiment most diametrically
opposite to existing authority).
 
»Mess David Williamson,
Chosen of twenty,
Ran up the pu'pit stair,
And sang Killiecrankie,«
 
chanted a siren, whose profession might be guessed by her appearance. A tattered
caidie, or errand-porter, whom David Deans had jostled in his attempt to
extricate himself from the vicinity of these scorners, exclaimed in a strong
north-country tone, »Ta deil ding out her Cameronian een - what gies her titles
to dunch gentlemans about?«
    »Make room for the ruling elder,« said yet another; »he comes to see a
precious sister glorify God in the Grassmarket!«
    »Whisht; shame's in ye, sirs,« said the voice of a man very loudly, which,
as quickly sinking, said in a low but distinct tone, »It's her father and
sister.«
    All fell back to make way for the sufferers; and all, even the very rudest
and most profligate, were struck with shame and silence. In the space thus
abandoned to them by the mob, Deans stood, holding his daughter by the hand, and
said to her, with a countenance strongly and sternly expressive of his internal
emotion, »Ye hear with your ears, and ye see with your eyes, where and to whom
the backslidings and defections of professors are ascribed by the scoffers. Not
to themselves alone, but to the kirk of which they are members, and to its
blessed and invisible Head. Then, well may we take wi' patience our share and
portion of this outspreading reproach.«
    The man who had spoken, no other than our old friend, Dumbiedikes, whose
mouth, like that of the prophet's ass, had been opened by the emergency of the
case, now joined them, and, with his usual taciturnity, escorted them into the
Court-house. No opposition was offered to their entrance either by the guards or
doorkeepers; and it is even said that one of the latter refused a shilling of
civility-money tendered him by the Laird of Dumbiedikes, who was of opinion that
»siller wad make a' easy.« But this last incident wants confirmation.
    Admitted within the precincts of the Court-house, they found the usual
number of busy office-bearers, and idle loiterers, who attend on these scenes by
choice, or from duty. Burghers gaped and stared; young lawyers sauntered,
sneered, and laughed, as in the pit of the theatre; while others apart sat on a
bench retired, and reasoned highly, inter apices juris, on the doctrines of
constructive crime, and the true import of the statute. The bench was prepared
for the arrival of the judges. The jurors were in attendance. The crown-counsel,
employed in looking over their briefs and notes of evidence, looked grave, and
whispered with each other. They occupied one side of a large table placed
beneath the bench; on the other sat the advocates, whom the humanity of the
Scottish law (in this particular more liberal than that of the sister-country)
not only permits, but enjoins, to appear and assist with their advice and skill
all persons under trial. Mr. Nichil Novit was seen actively instructing the
counsel for the panel (so the prisoner is called in Scottish law-phraseology),
busy, bustling, and important. When they entered the Court-room, Deans asked the
Laird, in a tremulous whisper, »Where will she sit?«
    Dumbiedikes whispered Novit, who pointed to a vacant space at the bar,
fronting the judges, and was about to conduct Deans towards it.
    »No!« he said; »I cannot sit by her - I cannot own her - not as yet, at
least - I will keep out of her sight, and turn mine own eyes elsewhere - better
for us baith.«
    Saddletree, whose repeated interference with the counsel had procured him
one or two rebuffs, and a special request that he would concern himself with his
own matters, now saw with pleasure an opportunity of playing the person of
importance. He bustled up to the poor old man, and proceeded to exhibit his
consequence, by securing, through his interest with the barkeepers and macers, a
seat for Deans, in a situation where he was hidden from the general eye by the
projecting corner of the bench.
    »It's good to have a friend at court,« he said, continuing his heartless
harangues to the passive auditor, who neither heard nor replied to them; »few
folk but mysell could hae sorted ye out a seat like this - the Lords will be
here incontinent, and proceed instanter to trial. They wunna fence the Court as
they do at the Circuit - the High Court of Justiciary is aye fenced. - But,
Lord's sake, what's this o't - Jeanie, ye are a cited witness - Macer, this lass
is a witness - she maun be enclosed - she maun on nae account be at large. - Mr.
Novit, suldna Jeanie Deans be enclosed?«
    Novit answered in the affirmative, and offered to conduct Jeanie to the
apartment, where, according to the scrupulous practice of the Scottish Court,
the witnesses remain in readiness to be called into Court to give evidence; and
separated, at the same time, from all who might influence their testimony, or
give them information concerning that which was passing upon the trial.
    »Is this necessary?« said Jeanie, still reluctant to quit her father's hand.
    »A matter of absolute needcessity,« said Saddletree, »what ever heard of
witnesses no being enclosed?«
    »It is really a matter of necessity,« said the younger counsellor, retained
for her sister; and Jeanie reluctantly followed the macer of the Court to the
place appointed.
    »This, Mr. Deans,« said Saddletree, »is ca'd sequestering a witness; but
it's clean different (whilk maybe ye wadna fund out o' yoursell) frae
sequestering ane's estate or effects, as in cases of bankruptcy. I hae aften
been sequestered as a witness, for the Sheriff is in the use whiles to cry me in
to witness the declarations at precognitions, and so is Mr. Sharpitlaw; but I
was ne'er like to be sequestered o' land and gudes but ance, and that was lang
syne, afore I was married. But whisht, whisht! here's the Court coming.«
    As he spoke, the five Lords of Justiciary, in their long robes of scarlet,
faced with white, and preceded by their mace-bearer, entered with the usual
formalities, and took their places upon the bench of judgment.
    The audience rose to receive them; and the bustle occasioned by their
entrance was hardly composed, when a great noise and confusion of persons
struggling, and forcibly endeavouring to enter at the doors of the Court-room,
and of the galleries, announced that the prisoner was about to be placed at the
bar. This tumult takes place when the doors, at first only opened to those
either having right to be present, or to the better and more qualified ranks,
are at length laid open to all whose curiosity induces them to be present on the
occasion. With inflamed countenances and dishevelled dresses, struggling with,
and sometimes tumbling over each other, in rushed the rude multitude, while a
few soldiers, forming, as it were, the centre of the tide, could scarce, with
all their efforts, clear a passage for the prisoner to the place which she was
to occupy. By the authority of the Court, and the exertions of its officers, the
tumult among the spectators was at length appeased, and the unhappy girl brought
forward, and placed betwixt two sentinels with drawn bayonets, as a prisoner at
the bar, where she was to abide her deliverance for good or evil, according to
the issue of her trial.
 

                              Chapter Twenty-First

 We have strict statutes, and most biting laws -
 The needful bits and curbs for headstrong steeds -
 Which, for these fourteen years, we have let sleep,
 Like to an o'ergrown lion in a cave,
 That goes not out to prey.
                                                            Measure for Measure.
 
»Euphemia Deans,« said the presiding Judge, in an accent in which pity was
blended with dignity, »stand up and listen to the criminal indictment now to be
preferred against you.«
    The unhappy girl, who had been stupefied by the confusion through which the
guards had forced a passage, cast a bewildered look on the multitude of faces
around her, which seemed to tapestry, as it were, the walls, in one broad slope
from the ceiling to the floor, with human countenances, and instinctively obeyed
a command, which rung in her ears like the trumpet of the judgment-day.
    »Put back your hair, Effie,« said one of the macers. For her beautiful and
abundant tresses of long fair hair, which, according to the costume of the
country, unmarried women were not allowed to cover with any sort of cap, and
which, alas! Effie dared no longer confine with the snood or riband, which
implied purity of maiden-fame, now hung unbound and dishevelled over her face,
and almost concealed her features. On receiving this hint from the attendant,
the unfortunate young woman, with a hasty, trembling, and apparently mechanical
compliance, shaded back from her face her luxuriant locks, and showed to the
whole court, excepting one individual, a countenance, which, though pale and
emaciated, was so lovely amid its agony, that it called forth a universal murmur
of compassion and sympathy. Apparently the expressive sound of human feeling
recalled the poor girl from the stupor of fear, which predominated at first over
every other sensation, and awakened her to the no less painful sense of shame
and exposure attached to her present situation. Her eye, which had at first
glanced wildly around, was turned on the ground; her cheek, at first so deadly
pale, began gradually to be overspread with a faint blush, which increased so
fast, that, when in agony of shame she strove to conceal her face, her temples,
her brow, her neck, and all that her slender fingers and small palms could not
cover, became of the deepest crimson.
    All marked and were moved by these changes, excepting one. It was old Deans,
who, motionless in his seat, and concealed, as we have said, by the corner of
the bench, from seeing or being seen, did nevertheless keep his eyes firmly
fixed on the ground, as if determined that, by no possibility whatever, would he
be an ocular witness of the shame of his house.
    »Ichabod!« he said to himself - »Ichabod! my glory is departed!«
    While these reflections were passing through his mind, the indictment, which
set forth in technical form the crime of which the panel stood accused, was read
as usual, and the prisoner was asked if she was Guilty, or Not Guilty.
    »Not guilty of my poor bairn's death,« said Effie Deans, in an accent
corresponding in plaintive softness of tone to the beauty of her features, and
which was not heard by the audience without emotion.
    The presiding Judge next directed the counsel to plead to the relevancy;
that is, to state on either part the arguments in point of law, and evidence in
point of fact, against and in favour of the criminal: after which it is the form
of the Court to pronounce a preliminary judgment, sending the cause to the
cognisance of the jury, or assize.
    The counsel for the crown briefly stated the frequency of the crime of
infanticide, which had given rise to the special statute under which the panel
stood indicted. He mentioned the various instances, many of them marked with
circumstances of atrocity, which had at length induced the King's Advocate,
though with great reluctance, to make the experiment, whether, by strictly
enforcing the Act of Parliament which had been made to prevent such enormities,
their occurrence might be prevented. »He expected,« he said, »to be able to
establish by witnesses, as well as by the declaration of the panel herself, that
she was in the state described by the statute. According to his information, the
panel had communicated her pregnancy to no one, nor did she allege in her own
declaration that she had done so. This secrecy was the first requisite in
support of the indictment. The same declaration admitted, that she had borne a
male child, in circumstances which gave but too much reason to believe it had
died by the hands, or at least with the knowledge or consent, of the unhappy
mother. It was not, however, necessary for him to bring positive proof that the
panel was accessory to the murder, nay, nor even to prove that the child was
murdered at all. It was sufficient to support the indictment, that it could not
be found. According to the stern, but necessary severity of this statute, she
who should conceal her pregnancy, who should omit to call that assistance which
is most necessary on such occasions, was held already to have meditated the
death of her offspring, as an event most likely to be the consequence of her
culpable and cruel concealment. And if, under such circumstances, she could not
alternatively show by proof that the infant had died a natural death, or produce
it still in life, she must, under the construction of the law, be held to have
murdered it, and suffer death accordingly.«
    The counsel for the prisoner, Mr. Fairbrother, a man of considerable fame in
his profession, did not pretend directly to combat the arguments of the King's
Advocate. He began by lamenting that his senior at the bar, Mr. Langtale, had
been suddenly called to the county of which he was sheriff, and that he had been
applied to, on short warning, to give the panel his assistance in this
interesting case. He had had little time, he said, to make up for his
inferiority to his learned brother by long and minute research; and he was
afraid he might give a specimen of his incapacity, by being compelled to admit
the accuracy of the indictment under the statute. »It was enough for their
Lordships,« he observed, »to know that such was the law, and he admitted the
advocate had a right to call for the usual interlocutor of relevancy.« But he
stated, »that when he came to establish his case by proof, he trusted to make
out circumstances which would satisfactorily elide the charge in the libel. His
client's story was a short, but most melancholy one. She was bred up in the
strictest tenets of religion and virtue, the daughter of a worthy and
conscientious person, who, in evil times, had established a character for
courage and religion, by becoming a sufferer for conscience' sake.«
    David Deans gave a convulsive start at hearing himself thus mentioned, and
then resumed the situation, in which, with his face stooped against his hands,
and both resting against the corner of the elevated bench on which the Judges
sate, he had hitherto listened to the procedure in the trial. The Whig lawyers
seemed to be interested; the Tories put up their lip.
    »Whatever may be our difference of opinion,« resumed the lawyer, whose
business it was to carry his whole audience with him if possible, »concerning
the peculiar tenets of these people« (here Deans groaned deeply), »it is
impossible to deny them the praise of sound, and even rigid morals, or the merit
of training up their children in the fear of God; and yet it was the daughter of
such a person whom a jury would shortly be called upon, in the absence of
evidence, and upon mere presumptions, to convict of a crime more properly
belonging to a heathen, or a savage, than to a Christian and civilised country.
It was true,« he admitted, »that the excellent nurture and early instruction
which the poor girl had received, had not been sufficient to preserve her from
guilt and error. She had fallen a sacrifice to an inconsiderate affection for a
young man of prepossessing manners, as he had been informed, but of a very
dangerous and desperate character. She was seduced under promise of marriage - a
promise, which the fellow might have, perhaps, done her justice by keeping, had
he not at that time been called upon by the law to atone for a crime, violent
and desperate in itself, but which became the preface to another eventful
history, every step of which was marked by blood and guilt, and the final
termination of which had not even yet arrived. He believed that no one would
hear him without surprise, when he stated that the father of this infant now
amissing, and said by the learned Advocate to have been murdered, was no other
than the notorious George Robertson, the accomplice of Wilson, the hero of the
memorable escape from the Tolbooth Church, and, as no one knew better than his
learned friend the Advocate, the principal actor in the Porteous conspiracy« -
    »I am sorry to interrupt a counsel in such a case as the present,« said the
presiding Judge; »but I must remind the learned gentleman that he is travelling
out of the case before us.«
    The counsel bowed and resumed. »He only judged it necessary,« he said, »to
mention the name and situation of Robertson, because the circumstance in which
that character was placed, went a great way in accounting for the silence on
which his Majesty's counsel had laid so much weight, as affording proof that his
client proposed to allow no fair play for its life to the helpless being whom
she was about to bring into the world. She had not announced to her friends that
she had been seduced from the path of honour - and why had she not done so? -
Because she expected daily to be restored to character, by her seducer doing her
that justice which she knew to be in his power, and believed to be in his
inclination. Was it natural - was it reasonable - was it fair, to expect that
she should in the interim, become felo de se of her own character, and proclaim
her frailty to the world, when she had every reason to expect, that, by
concealing it for a season, it might be veiled for ever? Was it not, on the
contrary, pardonable, that, in such an emergency, a young woman, in such a
situation, should be found far from disposed to make a confidant of every prying
gossip, who, with sharp eyes, and eager ears, pressed upon her for an
explanation of suspicious circumstances, which females in the lower - he might
say which females of all ranks, are so alert in noticing, that they sometimes
discover them where they do not exist? Was it strange or was it criminal, that
she should have repelled their inquisitive impertinence with petulant denials?
The sense and feeling of all who heard him would answer directly in the
negative. But although his client had thus remained silent towards those to whom
she was not called upon to communicate her situation, - to whom,« said the
learned gentleman, »I will add, it would have been unadvised and improper in her
to have done so; yet, I trust, I shall remove this case most triumphantly from
under the statute, and obtain the unfortunate young woman an honourable
dismissal from your Lordships' bar, by showing that she did, in due time and
place, and to a person most fit for such confidence, mention the calamitous
circumstances in which she found herself. This occurred after Robertson's
conviction, and when he was lying in prison in expectation of the fate which his
comrade Wilson afterwards suffered, and from which he himself so strangely
escaped. It was then, when all hopes of having her honour repaired by wedlock
vanished from her eyes, - when an union with one in Robertson's situation, if
still practicable, might, perhaps, have been regarded rather as an addition to
her disgrace, - it was then, that I trust to be able to prove that the prisoner
communicated and consulted with her sister, a young woman several years older
than herself, the daughter of her father, if I mistake not, by a former
marriage, upon the perils and distress of her unhappy situation.«
    »If, indeed, you are able to instruct that point, Mr. Fairbrother,« said the
presiding Judge -
    »If I am indeed able to instruct that point, my Lord,« resumed Mr.
Fairbrother, »I trust not only to serve my client, but to relieve your Lordships
from that which I know you feel the most painful duty of your high office; and
to give all who now hear me the exquisite pleasure of beholding a creature so
young, so ingenuous, and so beautiful, as she that is now at the bar of your
Lordships' Court, dismissed from thence in safety and in honour.«
    This address seemed to affect many of the audience, and was followed by a
slight murmur of applause. Deans, as he heard his daughter's beauty and innocent
appearance appealed to, was involuntarily about to turn his eyes towards her;
but, recollecting himself, he bent them again on the ground with stubborn
resolution.
    »Will not my learned brother, on the other side of the bar,« continued the
advocate, after a short pause, »share in this general joy, since, I know, while
he discharges his duty in bringing an accused person here, no one rejoices more
in their being freely and honourably sent hence? My learned brother shakes his
head doubtfully, and lays his hand on the panel's declaration. I understand him
perfectly - he would insinuate that the facts now stated to your Lordships are
inconsistent with the confession of Euphemia Deans herself. I need not remind
your Lordships, that her present defence is no whit to be narrowed within the
bounds of her former confession; and that it is not by any account which she may
formerly have given of herself, but by what is now to be proved for or against
her, that she must ultimately stand or fall. I am not under the necessity of
accounting for her choosing to drop out of her declaration the circumstances of
her confession to her sister. She might not be aware of its importance; she
might be afraid of implicating her sister; she might even have forgotten the
circumstance entirely, in the terror and distress of mind incidental to the
arrest of so young a creature on a charge so heinous. Any of these reasons are
sufficient to account for her having suppressed the truth in this instance, at
whatever risk to herself; and I incline most to her erroneous fear of
criminating her sister, because I observe she has had a similar tenderness
towards her lover (however undeserved on his part), and has never once mentioned
Robertson's name from beginning to end of her declaration.
    But, my Lords,« continued Fairbrother, »I am aware the King's Advocate will
expect me to show, that the proof I offer is consistent with other circumstances
of the case, which I do not and cannot deny. He will demand of me how Effie
Deans's confession to her sister, previous to her delivery, is reconcilable with
the mystery of the birth, - with the disappearance, perhaps the murder (for I
will not deny a possibility which I cannot disprove) of the infant. My Lords,
the explanation of this is to be found in the placability, perchance, I may say,
in the facility and pliability, of the female sex. The dulcis Amaryllidis iroe,
as your Lordships well know, are easily appeased; nor is it possible to conceive
a woman so atrociously offended by the man whom she has loved, but that she will
retain a fund of forgiveness, upon which his penitence, whether real or
affected, may draw largely, with a certainty that his bills will be answered. We
can prove, by a letter produced in evidence, that this villain Robertson, from
the bottom of the dungeon whence he already probably meditated the escape, which
he afterwards accomplished by the assistance of his comrade, contrived to
exercise authority over the mind, and to direct the motions, of this unhappy
girl. It was in compliance with his injunctions, expressed in that letter, that
the panel was prevailed upon to alter the line of conduct which her own better
thoughts had suggested; and, instead of resorting, when her time of travail
approached, to the protection of her own family, was induced to confide herself
to the charge of some vile agent of this nefarious seducer, and by her conducted
to one of those solitary and secret purlieus of villainy, which, to the shame of
our police, still are suffered to exist in the suburbs of this city, where, with
the assistance, and under the charge, of a person of her own sex, she bore a
male child, under circumstances which added treble bitterness to the woe
denounced against our original mother. What purpose Robertson had in all this,
it is hard to tell, or even to guess. He may have meant to marry the girl, for
her father is a man of substance. But, for the termination of the story, and the
conduct of the woman whom he had placed about the person of Euphemia Deans, it
is still more difficult to account. The unfortunate young woman was visited by
the fever incidental to her situation. In this fever she appears to have been
deceived by the person that waited on her, and, on recovering her senses, she
found that she was childless in that abode of misery. Her infant had been
carried off, perhaps for the worst purposes, by the wretch that waited on her.
It may have been murdered, for what I can tell.«
    He was here interrupted by a piercing shriek, uttered by the unfortunate
prisoner. She was with difficulty brought to compose herself. Her counsel
availed himself of the tragical interruption, to close his pleading with effect.
    »My Lords,« said he, »in that piteous cry you heard the eloquence of
maternal affection, far surpassing the force of my poor words -Rachel weeping
for her children! Nature herself bears testimony in favour of the tenderness and
acuteness of the prisoner's parental feelings. I will not dishonour her plea by
adding a word more.«
    »Heard ye ever the like o' that, Laird?« said Saddletree to Dumbiedikes,
when the counsel had ended his speech. »There's a chield can spin a muckle pirn
out of a wee tait of tow! Deil naet he kens mair about it than what's in the
declaration, and a surmise that Jeanie Deans should hae been able to say something
about her sister's situation, whilk surmise, Mr. Crossmyloof says, rests on sma'
authority. And he's cleckit this great muckle bird out o' this wee egg! He could
wile the very flounders out o' the Firth. - What garr'd my father no send me to
Utrecht? - But whisht, the Court is gaun to pronounce the interlocutor of
relevancy.«
    And accordingly the Judges, after a few words, recorded their judgment,
which bore, that the indictment, if proved, was relevant to infer the pains of
law: And that the defence, that the panel had communicated her situation to her
sister, was a relevant defence: And, finally, appointed the said indictment and
defence to be submitted to the judgment of an assize.
 

                             Chapter Twenty-Second

            Most righteous judge! a sentence. - Come, prepare.
                                                             Merchant of Venice.
 
It is by no means my intention to describe minutely the forms of a Scottish
criminal trial, nor am I sure that I could draw up an account so intelligible
and accurate as to abide the criticism of the gentlemen of the long robe. It is
enough to say that the jury was impanelled, and the case proceeded. The prisoner
was again required to plead to the charge, and she again replied, »Not Guilty,«
in the same heart-thrilling tone as before.
    The crown counsel then called two or three female witnesses, by whose
testimony it was established, that Effie's situation had been remarked by them,
that they had taxed her with the fact, and that her answers had amounted to an
angry and petulant denial of what they charged her with. But, as very frequently
happens, the declaration of the panel or accused party herself was the evidence
which bore hardest upon her case.
    In the event of these tales ever finding their way across the Border, it may
be proper to apprise the southern reader that it is the practice in Scotland, on
apprehending a suspected person, to subject him to a judicial examination before
a magistrate. He is not compelled to answer any of the questions asked of him,
but may remain silent if he sees it his interest to do so. But whatever answers
he chooses to give are formally written down, and being subscribed by himself
and the magistrate, are produced against the accused in case of his being
brought to trial. It is true, that these declarations are not produced as being
in themselves evidence properly so called, but only as adminicles of testimony,
tending to corroborate what is considered as legal and proper evidence.
Notwithstanding this nice distinction, however, introduced by lawyers to
reconcile this procedure to their own general rule, that a man cannot be
required to bear witness against himself, it nevertheless usually happens that
these declarations become the means of condemning the accused, as it were, out
of their own mouths. The prisoner, upon these previous examinations, has indeed
the privilege of remaining silent if he pleases; but every man necessarily feels
that a refusal to answer natural and pertinent interrogatories, put by judicial
authority, is in itself a strong proof of guilt, and will certainly lead to his
being committed to prison; and few can renounce the hope of obtaining liberty by
giving some specious account of themselves, and showing apparent frankness in
explaining their motives and accounting for their conduct. It, therefore, seldom
happens that the prisoner refuses to give a judicial declaration, in which,
nevertheless, either by letting out too much of the truth, or by endeavouring to
substitute a fictitious story, he almost always exposes himself to suspicion and
to contradictions, which weigh heavily in the minds of the jury.
    The declaration of Effie Deans was uttered on other principles, and the
following is a sketch of its contents, given in the judicial form, in which they
may still be found in the Books of Adjournal.
    The declarant admitted a criminal intrigue with an individual whose name she
desired to conceal. »Being interrogated, what her reason was for secrecy on this
point? She declared, that she had no right to blame that person's conduct more
than she did her own, and that she was willing to confess her own faults, but
not to say anything which might criminate the absent. Interrogated, if she
confessed her situation to any one, or made any preparation for her confinement?
Declares, she did not. And being interrogated, why she forbore to take steps
which her situation so peremptorily required? Declares, she was ashamed to tell
her friends, and she trusted the person she has mentioned would provide for her
and the infant. Interrogated if he did so? Declares, that he did not do so
personally; but that it was not his fault, for that the declarant is convinced
he would have laid down his life sooner than the bairn or she had come to harm.
Interrogated, what prevented him from keeping his promise? Declares, that it was
impossible for him to do so, he being under trouble at the time, and declines
farther answer to this question. Interrogated, where she was from the period she
left her master, Mr. Saddletree's family, until her appearance at her father's,
at St. Leonard's, the day before she was apprehended? Declares, she does not
remember. And, on the interrogatory being repeated, declares, she does not mind
muckle about it, for she was very ill. On the question being again repeated, she
declares, she will tell the truth, if it should be the undoing of her, so long
as she is not asked to tell on other folk; and admits, that she passed that
interval of time in the lodging of a woman, an acquaintance of that person who
had wished her to that place to be delivered, and that she was there delivered
accordingly of a male child. Interrogated, what was the name of that person?
Declares and refuses to answer this question. Interrogated, where she lives?
Declares, she has no certainty, for that she was taken to the lodging aforesaid
under cloud of night. Interrogated, if the lodging was in the city or suburbs?
Declares and refuses to answer that question. Interrogated, whether, when she
left the house of Mr. Saddletree, she went up or down the street? Declares and
refuses to answer the question. Interrogated, whether she had ever seen the
woman before she was wished to her, as she termed it, by the person whose name
she refuses to answer? Declares and replies, not to her knowledge. Interrogated,
whether this woman was introduced to her by the said person verbally, or by word
of mouth? Declares, she has no freedom to answer this question. Interrogated, if
the child was alive when it was born? Declares, that - God help her and it! - it
certainly was alive. Interrogated, if it died a natural death after birth?
Declares, not to her knowledge. Interrogated, where it now is? Declares, she
would give her right hand to ken, but that she never hopes to see mair than the
banes of it. And being interrogated, why she supposes it is now dead? the
declarant wept bitterly and made no answer. Interrogated, if the woman, in whose
lodging she was, seemed to be a fit person to be with her in that situation?
Declares, she might be fit enough for skill, but that she was an hard-hearted
bad woman. Interrogated, if there was any other person in the lodging excepting
themselves two? Declares, that she thinks there was another woman; but her head
was so carried with pain of body and trouble of mind, that she minded her very
little. Interrogated, when the child was taken away from her? Declared that she
fell in a fever, and was light-headed, and when she came to her own mind, the
woman told her the bairn was dead; and that the declarant answered, if it was
dead it had had foul play. That, thereupon, the woman was very sair on her, and
gave her much ill language; and that the deponent was frightened, and crawled
out of the house when her back was turned, and went home to Saint Leonard's
Crags, as well as a woman in her condition dought.42 Interrogated, why she did
not tell her story to her sister and father, and get force to search the house
for her child, dead or alive? Declares, it was her purpose to do so, but she had
not time. Interrogated, why she now conceals the name of the woman, and the
place of her abode? The declarant remained silent for a time, and then said,
that to do so could not repair the skaith that was done, but might be the
occasion of more. Interrogated, whether she had herself, at any time, had any
purpose of putting away the child by violence? Declares, never; so might God be
merciful to her - and then again declares, never, when she was in her perfect
senses; but what bad thoughts the Enemy might put into her brain when she was
out of herself, she cannot answer. And again solemnly interrogated, declares,
that she would have been drawn with wild horses, rather than have touched the
bairn with an unmotherly hand. Interrogated, declares, that among the
ill-language the woman gave her, she did say sure enough that the declarant had
hurt the bairn when she was in the brain fever; but that the declarant does not
believe that she said this from any other cause than to frighten her, and make
her be silent. Interrogated, what else the woman said to her? Declares, that
when the declarant cried loud for her bairn, and was like to raise the
neighbours, the woman threatened her, that they that could stop the wean's
skirling would stop hers, if she did not keep a' the lounder.43 And that this
threat, with the manner of the woman, made the declarant conclude, that the
bairn's life was gone, and her own in danger, for that the woman was a desperate
bad woman, as the declarant judged from the language she used. Interrogated,
declares, that the fever and delirium were brought on her by hearing bad news,
suddenly told to her, but refuses to say what the said news related to.
Interrogated, why she does not now communicate these particulars, which might,
perhaps, enable the magistrate to ascertain whether the child is living or dead;
and requested to observe, that her refusing to do so, exposes her own life, and
leaves the child in bad hands; as also that her present refusal to answer on
such points is inconsistent with her alleged intention to make a clean breast to
her sister? Declares, that she kens the bairn is now dead, or, if living, there
is one that will look after it; that for her own living or dying, she is in
God's hands, who knows her innocence of harming her bairn with her will or
knowledge; and that she has altered her resolution of speaking out, which she
entertained when she left the woman's lodging, on account of a matter which she
has since learned. And declares, in general, that she is wearied, and will
answer no more questions at this time.«
    Upon a subsequent examination, Euphemia Deans adhered to the declaration she
had formerly made, with this addition, that a paper found in her trunk being
shown to her, she admitted that it contained the credentials, in consequence of
which she resigned herself to the conduct of the woman at whose lodgings she was
delivered of the child. Its tenor ran thus: -
 
        »Dearest Effie, - I have gotten the means to send to you by a woman who
        is well qualified to assist you in your approaching streight; she is not
        what I could wish her, but I cannot do better for you in my present
        condition. I am obliged to trust to her in this present calamity, for
        myself and you too. I hope for the best, though I am now in a sore
        pinch; yet thought is free - I think Handie Dandie and I may queer the
        stifler44 for all that is come and gone. You will be angry for me
        writing this to my little Cameronian Lily; but if I can but live to be a
        comfort to you, and a father to your babie, you will have plenty of time
        to scold. - Once more, let none know your counsel - my life depends on
        this hag, d - n her - she is both deep and dangerous, but she has more
        wiles and wit than ever were in a beldam's head, and has cause to be
        true to me. Farewell, my Lily - Do not droop on my account - in a week I
        will be yours or no more my own.«
 
        Then followed a postscript. »If they must truss me, I will repent of
        nothing so much, even at the last hard pinch, as of the injury I have
        done my Lily.«
 
Effie refused to say from whom she had received this letter, but enough of the
story was now known, to ascertain that it came from Robertson; and from the
date, it appeared to have been written about the time when Andrew Wilson (called
for a nickname Handie Dandie) and he were meditating their first abortive
attempt to escape, which miscarried in the manner mentioned in the beginning of
this history.
    The evidence of the Crown being concluded, the counsel for the prisoner
began to lead a proof in her defence. The first witnesses were examined upon the
girl's character. All gave her an excellent one, but none with more feeling than
worthy Mrs. Saddletree, who, with the tears on her cheeks, declared, that she
could not have had a higher opinion of Effie Deans, nor a more sincere regard
for her, if she had been her own daughter. All present gave the honest woman
credit for her goodness of heart, excepting her husband, who whispered to
Dumbiedikes, »That Nichil Novit of yours is but a raw hand at leading evidence,
I'm thinking. What signified his bringing a woman here to snotter and snivel,
and bather their Lordships? He should hae ceeted me, sir, and I should hae gien
them sic a screed o' testimony, they shouldna hae touched a hair o' her head.«
    »Hadna ye better get up and try't yet?« said the Laird. »I'll make a sign to
Novit.«
    »Na, na,« said Saddletree, »thank ye for nothing, neighbour - that would be
ultroneous evidence, and I ken what belangs to that; but Nichil Novit should hae
had me ceeted debito tempore.« And wiping his mouth with his silk handkerchief
with great importance, he resumed the port and manner of an edified and
intelligent auditor.
    Mr. Fairbrother now premised, in a few words, »that he meant to bring
forward his most important witness, upon whose evidence the cause must in a
great measure depend. What his client was, they had learned from the preceding
witnesses; and so far as general character, given in the most forcible terms,
and even with tears, could interest every one in her fate, she had already
gained that advantage. It was necessary, he admitted, that he should produce
more positive testimony of her innocence than what arose out of general
character, and this he undertook to do by the mouth of the person to whom she
had communicated her situation - by the mouth of her natural counsellor and
guardian - her sister. -Macer, call into court, Jean, or Jeanie Deans, daughter
of David Deans, cowfeeder, at Saint Leonard's Crags.«
    When he uttered these words, the poor prisoner instantly started up, and
stretched herself half-way over the bar, towards the side at which her sister
was to enter. And when, slowly following the officer, the witness advanced to
the foot of the table, Effie, with the whole expression of her countenance
altered, from that of confused shame and dismay, to an eager, imploring, and
almost ecstatic earnestness of entreaty, with outstretched hands, hair streaming
back, eyes raised eagerly to her sister's face, and glistening through tears,
exclaimed in a tone which went through the heart of all who heard her, - »O
Jeanie, Jeanie, save me, save me!«
    With a different feeling, yet equally appropriated to his proud and
self-dependent character, old Deans drew himself back still farther under the
cover of the bench; so that when Jeanie, as she entered the court, cast a timid
glance towards the place at which she had left him seated, his venerable figure
was no longer visible. He sate down on the other side of Dumbiedikes, wrung his
hand hard, and whispered, »Ah, Laird, this is warst of a' - if I can but win
ower this part - I feel my head unco dizzy; but my Master is strong in his
servant's weakness.« After a moment's mental prayer, he again started up, as if
impatient of continuing in any one posture, and gradually edged himself forward
towards the place he had just quitted.
    Jeanie in the meantime had advanced to the bottom of the table, when, unable
to resist the impulse of affection, she suddenly extended her hand to her
sister. Effie was just within the distance that she could seize it with both
hers, press it to her mouth, cover it with kisses, and bathe it in tears, with
the fond devotion that a Catholic would pay to a guardian saint descended for
his safety; while Jeanie, hiding her own face with her other hand, wept
bitterly. The sight would have moved a heart of stone, much more of flesh and
blood. Many of the spectators shed tears, and it was some time before the
presiding Judge himself could so far subdue his emotion as to request the
witness to compose herself, and the prisoner to forbear those marks of eager
affection, which, however natural, could not be permitted at that time, and in
that presence.
    The solemn oath, - »the truth to tell, and no truth to conceal, as far as
she knew or should be asked,« was then administered by the Judge »in the name of
God, and as the witness should answer to God at the great day of judgment;« an
awful adjuration, which seldom fails to make impression even on the most
hardened characters, and to strike with fear even the most upright. Jeanie,
educated in deep and devout reverence for the name and attributes of the Deity,
was, by the solemnity of a direct appeal to his person and justice, awed, but at
the same time elevated above all considerations, save those which she could,
with a clear conscience, call HIM to witness. She repeated the form in a low and
reverent, but distinct tone of voice, after the Judge, to whom, and not to any
inferior officer of the Court, the task is assigned in Scotland of directing the
witness in that solemn appeal which is the sanction of his testimony.
    When the Judge had finished the established form, he added in a feeling, but
yet a monitory tone, an advice, which the circumstances appeared to him to call
for.
    »Young woman,« these were his words, »you come before this Court in
circumstances, which it would be worse than cruel not to pity and to sympathise
with. Yet it is my duty to tell you, that the truth, whatever its consequences
may be, the truth is what you owe to your country, and to that God whose word is
truth, and whose name you have now invoked. Use your own time in answering the
questions that gentleman« (pointing to the counsel) »shall put to you. - But
remember, that what you may be tempted to say beyond what is the actual truth,
you must answer both here and hereafter.«
    The usual questions were then put to her: - Whether any one had instructed
her what evidence she had to deliver? Whether any one had given or promised her
any good deed, hire, or reward, for her testimony? Whether she had any malice or
ill-will at his Majesty's Advocate, being the party against whom she was cited
as a witness? To which questions she successively answered by a quiet negative.
But their tenor gave great scandal and offence to her father, who was not aware
that they are put to every witness as a matter of form.
    »Na, na,« he exclaimed, loud enough to be heard, »my bairn is no like the
Widow of Tekoah - nae man has putten words into her mouth.«
    One of the judges, better acquainted, perhaps, with the Books of Adjournal
than with the Book of Samuel, was disposed to make some instant inquiry after
this Widow of Tekoah, who, as he construed the matter, had been tampering with
the evidence. But the presiding Judge, better versed in Scripture history,
whispered to his learned brother the necessary explanation; and the pause
occasioned by this mistake had the good effect of giving Jeanie Deans time to
collect her spirits for the painful task she had to perform.
    Fairbrother, whose practice and intelligence were considerable, saw the
necessity of letting the witness compose herself. In his heart he suspected that
she came to bear false witness in her sister's cause.
    »But that is her own affair,« thought Fairbrother; »and it is my business to
see that she has plenty of time to regain composure, and to deliver her
evidence, be it true, or be it false - valeat quantum.«
    Accordingly, he commenced his interrogatories with uninteresting questions,
which admitted of instant reply.
    »You are, I think, the sister of the prisoner?«
    »Yes, sir.«
    »Not the full sister, however?«
    »No, sir - we are by different mothers.«
    »True; and you are, I think, several years older than your sister?«
    »Yes, sir,« etc.
    After the advocate had conceived that, by these preliminary and unimportant
questions, he had familiarised the witness with the situation in which she
stood, he asked, »whether she had not remarked her sister's state of health to
be altered, during the latter part of the term when she had lived with Mrs.
Saddletree?«
    Jeanie answered in the affirmative.
    »And she told you the cause of it, my dear, I suppose?« said Fairbrother, in
an easy, and, as one may say, an inductive sort of tone.
    »I am sorry to interrupt my brother,« said the Crown Counsel, rising; »but I
am in your Lordships' judgment, whether this be not a leading question?«
    »If this point is to be debated,« said the presiding Judge, »the witness
must be removed.«
    For the Scottish lawyers regard with a sacred and scrupulous horror every
question so shaped by the counsel examining, as to convey to a witness the least
intimation of the nature of the answer which is desired from him. These
scruples, though founded on an excellent principle, are sometimes carried to an
absurd pitch of nicety, especially as it is generally easy for a lawyer who has
his wits about him to elude the objection. Fairbrother did so in the present
case.
    »It is not necessary to waste the time of the Court, my Lord; since the
King's Counsel thinks it worth while to object to the form of my question, I
will shape it otherwise. - Pray, young woman, did you ask your sister any
question when you observed her looking unwell? - take courage - speak out.«
    »I asked her,« replied Jeanie, »what ailed her.«
    »Very well - take your own time - and what was the answer she made?«
continued Mr. Fairbrother.
    Jeanie was silent, and looked deadly pale. It was not that she at any one
instant entertained an idea of the possibility of prevarication - it was the
natural hesitation to extinguish the last spark of hope that remained for her
sister.
    »Take courage, young woman,« said Fairbrother. - »I asked what your sister
said ailed her when you inquired?«
    »Nothing,« answered Jeanie, with a faint voice, which was yet heard
distinctly in the most distant corner of the Court-room, - such an awful and
profound silence had been preserved during the anxious interval, which had
interposed betwixt the lawyer's question and the answer of the witness.
    Fairbrother's countenance fell; but with that ready presence of mind, which
is as useful in civil as in military emergencies, he immediately rallied. -
»Nothing? True; you mean nothing at first -but when you asked her again, did she
not tell you what ailed her?«
    The question was put in a tone meant to make her comprehend the importance
of her answer, had she not been already aware of it. The ice was broken,
however, and with less pause than at first, she now replied, - »Alack! alack!
she never breathed word to me about it.«
    A deep groan passed through the Court. It was echoed by one deeper and more
agonised from the unfortunate father. The hope to which unconsciously, and in
spite of himself, he had still secretly clung, had now dissolved, and the
venerable old man fell forward senseless on the floor of the Court-house, with
his head at the foot of his terrified daughter. The unfortunate prisoner, with
impotent passion, strove with the guards betwixt whom she was placed. »Let me
gang to my father! - I will gang to him - I will gang to him - he is dead - he
is killed - I hae killed him!« - she repeated, in frenzied tones of grief, which
those who heard them did not speedily forget.
    Even in this moment of agony and general confusion, Jeanie did not lose that
superiority, which a deep and firm mind assures to its possessor under the most
trying circumstances.
    »He is my father - he is our father,« she mildly repeated to those who
endeavoured to separate them, as she stooped, - shaded aside his grey hairs, and
began assiduously to chafe his temples.
    The Judge, after repeatedly wiping his eyes, gave directions that they
should be conducted into a neighbouring apartment, and carefully attended. The
prisoner, as her father was borne from the Court, and her sister slowly
followed, pursued them with her eyes so earnestly fixed, as if they would have
started from their sockets. But when they were no longer visible, she seemed to
find, in her despairing and deserted state, a courage which she had not yet
exhibited.
    »The bitterness of it is now past,« she said, and then boldly addressed the
Court. »My Lords, if it is your pleasure to gang on wi' this matter, the
weariest day will hae its end at last.«
    The Judge, who, much to his honour, had shared deeply in the general
sympathy, was surprised at being recalled to his duty by the prisoner. He
collected himself, and requested to know if the panel's counsel had more
evidence to produce. Fairbrother replied, with an air of dejection, that his
proof was concluded.
    The King's Counsel addressed the jury for the crown. He said in a few words,
that no one could be more concerned than he was for the distressing scene which
they had just witnessed. But it was the necessary consequence of great crimes to
bring distress and ruin upon all connected with the perpetrators. He briefly
reviewed the proof, in which he showed that all the circumstances of the case
concurred with those required by the act under which the unfortunate prisoner
was tried: That the counsel for the panel had totally failed in proving, that
Euphemia Deans had communicated her situation to her sister: That, respecting
her previous good character, he was sorry to observe, that it was females who
possessed the world's good report, and to whom it was justly valuable, who were
most strongly tempted, by shame and fear of the world's censure, to the crime of
infanticide: That the child was murdered, he professed to entertain no doubt.
The vacillating and inconsistent declaration of the prisoner herself, marked as
it was by numerous refusals to speak the truth on subjects, when, according to
her own story, it would have been natural, as well as advantageous, to have been
candid; even this imperfect declaration left no doubt in his mind as to the fate
of the unhappy infant. Neither could he doubt that the panel was a partner in
this guilt. Who else had an interest in a deed so inhuman? Surely neither
Robertson, nor Robertson's agent, in whose house she was delivered, had the
least temptation to commit such a crime, unless upon her account, with her
connivance, and for the sake of saving her reputation. But it was not required
of him, by the law, that he should bring precise proof of the murder, or of the
prisoner's accession to it. It was the very purpose of the statute to substitute
a certain chain of presumptive evidence in place of a probation, which, in such
cases, it was peculiarly difficult to obtain. The jury might peruse the statute
itself, and they had also the libel and interlocutor of relevancy to direct them
in point of law. He put it to the conscience of the jury, that under both he was
entitled to a verdict of Guilty.
    The charge of Fairbrother was much cramped by his having failed in the proof
which he expected to lead. But he fought his losing cause with courage and
constancy. He ventured to arraign the severity of the statute under which the
young woman was tried. »In all other cases,« he said, »the first thing required
of the criminal prosecutor was to prove unequivocally that the crime libelled
had actually been committed, which lawyers called proving the corpus delicti.
But this statute, made doubtless with the best intentions, and under the impulse
of a just horror for the unnatural crime of infanticide, ran the risk of itself
occasioning the worst of murders, the death of an innocent person, to atone for
a supposed crime which may never have been committed by anyone. He was so far
from acknowledging the alleged probability of the child's violent death, that he
could not even allow that there was evidence of its having ever lived.«
    The King's Counsel pointed to the woman's declaration; to which the counsel
replied - »A production concocted in a moment of terror and agony, and which
approached to insanity,« he said, »his learned brother well knew was no sound
evidence against the party who emitted it. It was true, that a judicial
confession, in presence of the Justices themselves, was the strongest of all
proof, insomuch that it is said in law, that in confitentem nulloe sunt partes
judicis. But this was true of judicial confession only, by which law meant that
which is made in presence of the justices, and the sworn inquest. Of
extrajudicial confession, all authorities held with the illustrious Farinaceus
and Matthæus, confessio extrajudicialis in se nulla est; et quod nullum est, non
potest adminiculari. It was totally inept, and void of all strength and effect
from the beginning; incapable, therefore, of being bolstered up or supported,
or, according to the law phrase, adminiculated, by other presumptive
circumstances. In the present case, therefore, letting the extrajudicial
confession go, as it ought to go, for nothing,« he contended, »the prosecutor
had not made out the second quality of the statute, that a live child had been
born; and that, at least, ought to be established before presumptions were
received that it had been murdered. If any of the assize,« he said, »should be
of opinion that this was dealing rather narrowly with the statute, they ought to
consider that it was in its nature highly penal, and therefore entitled to no
favourable construction.«
    He concluded a learned speech, with an eloquent peroration on the scene they
had just witnessed, during which Saddletree fell fast asleep.
    It was now the presiding Judge's turn to address the jury. He did so briefly
and distinctly.
    »It was for the jury,« he said, »to consider whether the prosecutor had made
out his plea. For himself, he sincerely grieved to say, that a shadow of doubt
remained not upon his mind concerning the verdict which the inquest had to bring
in. He would not follow the prisoner's counsel through the impeachment which he
had brought against the statute of King William and Queen Mary. He and the jury
were sworn to judge according to the laws as they stood, not to criticise, or
evade, or even to justify them. In no civil case would a counsel have been
permitted to plead his client's case in the teeth of the law; but in the hard
situation in which counsel were often placed in the Criminal Court, as well as
out of favour to all presumptions of innocence, he had not inclined to interrupt
the learned gentleman, or narrow his plea. The present law, as it now stood, had
been instituted by the wisdom of their fathers, to check the alarming progress
of a dreadful crime; when it was found too severe for its purpose it would
doubtless be altered by the wisdom of the Legislature; at present it was the law
of the land, the rule of the Court, and, according to the oath which they had
taken, it must be that of the jury. This unhappy girl's situation could not be
doubted; that she had borne a child, and that the child had disappeared, were
certain facts. The learned counsel had failed to show that she had communicated
her situation. All the requisites of the case required by the statute were
therefore before the jury. The learned gentleman had, indeed, desired them to
throw out of consideration the panel's own confession, which was the plea
usually urged, in penury of all others, by counsel in his situation, who usually
felt that the declarations of their clients bore hard on them. But that the
Scottish law designed that a certain weight should be laid on these
declarations, which, he admitted, were quodammodo extrajudicial, was evident
from the universal practice by which they were always produced and read, as part
of the prosecutor's probation. In the present case, no person who had heard the
witnesses describe the appearance of the young woman before she left
Saddletree's house, and contrasted it with that of her state and condition at
her return to her father's, could have any doubt that the fact of delivery had
taken place, as set forth in her own declaration, which was, therefore, not a
solitary piece of testimony, but adminiculated and supported by the strongest
circumstantial proof.
    He did not,« he said, »state the impression upon his own mind with the
purpose of biassing theirs. He had felt no less than they had done from the
scene of domestic misery which had been exhibited before them; and if they,
having God and a good conscience, the sanctity of their oath, and the regard due
to the law of the country, before their eyes, could come to a conclusion
favourable to this unhappy prisoner, he should rejoice as much as anyone in
Court; for never had he found his duty more distressing than in discharging it
that day, and glad he would be to be relieved from the still more painful task
which would otherwise remain for him.«
    The jury, having heard the Judge's address, bowed and retired, preceded by a
macer of Court, to the apartment destined for their deliberation.
 

                              Chapter Twenty-Third

 Law, take thy victim - May she find the mercy
 In yon mild heaven, which this hard world denies her!
 
It was an hour ere the jurors returned, and as they traversed the crowd with
slow steps, as men about to discharge themselves of a heavy and painful
responsibility, the audience was hushed into profound, earnest, and awful
silence.
    »Have you agreed on your chancellor, gentlemen?« was the first question of
the Judge.
    The foreman, called in Scotland the chancellor of the jury, usually the man
of best rank and estimation among the assizers, stepped forward, and with a low
reverence, delivered to the Court a sealed paper, containing the verdict, which,
until of late years, that verbal returns are in some instances permitted, was
always couched in writing. The jury remained standing while the Judge broke the
seals, and having perused the paper, handed it with an air of mournful gravity
down to the clerk of Court, who proceeded to engross in the record the yet
unknown verdict, of which, however, all omened the tragical contents. A form
still remained, trifling and unimportant in itself, but to which imagination
adds a sort of solemnity, from the awful occasion upon which it is used. A
lighted candle was placed on the table, the original paper containing the
verdict was enclosed in a sheet of paper, and, sealed with the Judge's own
signet, was transmitted to the Crown Office, to be preserved among other records
of the same kind. As all this is transacted in profound silence, the producing
and extinguishing the candle seems a type of the human spark which is shortly
afterwards doomed to be quenched, and excites in the spectators something of the
same effect which in England is obtained by the Judge assuming the fatal cap of
judgment. When these preliminary forms had been gone through, the Judge required
Euphemia Deans to attend to the verdict to be read.
    After the usual words of style, the verdict set forth, that the Jury having
made choice of John Kirk, Esq., to be their chancellor, and Thomas Moore,
merchant, to be their clerk, did, by a plurality of voices, find the said
Euphemia Deans GUILTY of the crime libelled; but, in consideration of her
extreme youth, and the cruel circumstances of her case, did earnestly entreat
that the Judge would recommend her to the mercy of the Crown.
    »Gentlemen,« said the Judge, »you have done your duty - and a painful one it
must have been to men of humanity like you. I will undoubtedly transmit your
recommendation to the throne. But it is my duty to tell all who now hear me, but
especially to inform that unhappy young woman, in order that her mind may be
settled accordingly, that I have not the least hope of a pardon being granted in
the present case. You know the crime has been increasing in this land, and I
know farther, that this has been ascribed to the lenity in which the laws have
been exercised, and that there is therefore no hope whatever of obtaining a
remission for this offence.« The jury bowed again, and, released from their
painful office, dispersed themselves among the mass of bystanders.
    The Court then asked Mr. Fairbrother whether he had anything to say, why
judgment should not follow on the verdict? The counsel had spent some time in
persuing and reperusing the verdict, counting the letters in each juror's name,
and weighing every phrase, nay, every syllable, in the nicest scales of legal
criticism. But the clerk of the jury had understood his business too well. No
flaw was to be found, and Fairbrother mournfully intimated, that he had nothing
to say in arrest of judgment.
    The presiding Judge then addressed the unhappy prisoner: - »Euphemia Deans,
attend to the sentence of the Court now to be pronounced against you.«
    She rose from her seat, and with a composure far greater than could have
been augured from her demeanour during some parts of the trial, abode the
conclusion of the awful scene. So nearly does the mental portion of our feelings
resemble those which are corporeal, that the first severe blows which we receive
bring with them a stunning apathy, which renders us indifferent to those that
follow them. Thus said Mandrin, when he was undergoing the punishment of the
wheel; and so have all felt, upon whom successive inflictions have descended
with continuous and reiterated violence.
    »Young woman,« said the Judge, »it is my painful duty to tell you, that your
life is forfeited under a law, which, if it may seem in some degree severe, is
yet wisely so, to render those of your unhappy situation aware what risk they
run, by concealing, out of pride or false shame, their lapse from virtue, and
making no preparation to save the lives of the unfortunate infants whom they are
to bring into the world. When you concealed your situation from your mistress,
your sister, and other worthy and compassionate persons of your own sex, in
whose favour your former conduct had given you a fair place, you seem to me to
have had in your contemplation, at least, the death of the helpless creature,
for whose life you neglected to provide. How the child was disposed of - whether
it was dealt upon by another, or by yourself - whether the extraordinary story
you have told is partly false, or altogether so, is between God and your own
conscience. I will not aggravate your distress by pressing on that topic, but I
do most solemnly adjure you to employ the remaining space of your time in making
your peace with God, for which purpose such reverend clergymen, as you yourself
may name, shall have access to you. Notwithstanding the humane recommendation of
the jury, I cannot afford to you, in the present circumstances of the country,
the slightest hope that your life will be prolonged beyond the period assigned
for the execution of your sentence. Forsaking, therefore, the thoughts of this
world, let your mind be prepared by repentance for those of more awful moments -
for death, judgment, and eternity. - Doomster, read the sentence.«45
    When the Doomster showed himself, a tall haggard figure, arrayed in a
fantastic garment of black and grey, passmented with silver lace, all fell back
with a sort of instinctive horror, and made wide way for him to approach the
foot of the table. As this office was held by the common executioner, men
shouldered each other backward to avoid even the touch of his garment, and some
were seen to brush their own clothes, which had accidentally become subject to
such contamination. A sound went through the Court, produced by each person
drawing in their breath hard, as men do when they expect or witness what is
frightful, and at the same time affecting. The caitiff villain yet seemed, amid
his hardened brutality, to have some sense of his being the object of public
detestation, which made him impatient of being in public, as birds of evil omen
are anxious to escape from daylight, and from pure air.
    Repeating after the Clerk of Court, he gabbled over the words of the
sentence, which condemned Euphemia Deans to be conducted back to the Tolbooth of
Edinburgh, and detained there until Wednesday the -- day of -; and upon that
day, betwixt the hours of two and four o'clock afternoon, to be conveyed to the
common place of execution, and there hanged by the neck upon a gibbet. »And
this,« said the Doomster, aggravating his harsh voice, »I pronounce for doom.«
    He vanished when he had spoken the last emphatic word, like a foul fiend
after the purpose of his visitation had been accomplished; but the impression of
horror excited by his presence and his errand, remained upon the crowd of
spectators.
    The unfortunate criminal, - for so she must now be termed, - with more
susceptibility, and more irritable feelings than her father and sister, was
found, in this emergence, to possess a considerable share of their courage. She
had remained standing motionless at the bar while the sentence was pronounced,
and was observed to shut her eyes when the Doomster appeared. But she was the
first to break silence when that evil form had left his place.
    »God forgive ye, my Lords,« she said, »and dinna be angry wi' me for wishing
it - we a' need forgiveness. - As for myself, I canna blame ye, for ye act up to
your lights; and if I havena killed my poor infant, ye may witness a' that hae
seen it this day, that I hae been the means of killing my greyheaded father - I
deserve the warst frae man, and frae God too - But God is mair mercifu' to us
than we are to each other.«
    With these words the trial concluded. The crowd rushed, bearing forward and
shouldering each other, out of the Court, in the same tumultuary mode in which
they had entered; and, in excitation of animal motion and animal spirits, soon
forgot whatever they had felt as impressive in the scene which they had
witnessed. The professional spectators, whom habit and theory had rendered as
callous to the distress of the scene as medical men are to those of a surgical
operation, walked homeward in groups, discussing the general principle of the
statute under which the young woman was condemned, the nature of the evidence,
and the arguments of the counsel, without considering even that of the Judge as
exempt from their criticism.
    The female spectators, more compassionate, were loud in exclamation against
that part of the Judge's speech which seemed to cut off the hope of pardon.
    »Set him up, indeed,« said Mrs. Howden, »to tell us that the poor lassie
behoved to die, when Mr. John Kirk, as civil a gentleman as is within the ports
of the town, took the pains to prigg for her himself.«
    »Ay, but, neighbour,« said Miss Damahoy, drawing up her thin maidenly form
to its full height of prim dignity - »I really think this unnatural business of
having bastard-bairns should be putten a stop to. - There isna a hussy now on
this side of thirty that you can bring within your doors, but there will be
chields - writer-lads, prentice-lads, and what not - coming traiking after them
for their destruction, and discrediting ane's honest house into the bargain - I
hae nae patience wi' them.«
    »Hout, neighbour,« said Mrs. Howden, »we should live and let live - we hae
been young oursells, and we are no aye to judge the warst when lads and lasses
forgather.«
    »Young oursells! and judge the warst!« said Miss Damahoy. »I am no sae auld
as that comes to, Mrs. Howden; and as for what ye ca' the warst, I ken neither
good nor bad about the matter, I thank my stars!«
    »Ye are thankfu' for sma' mercies, then,« said Mrs. Howden with a toss of
her head; »and as for you and young - I trow ye were doing for yoursell at the
last riding of the Scots Parliament, and that was in the gracious year seven,
sae ye can be nae sic chicken at ony rate.«
    Plumdamas, who acted as squire of the body to the two contending dames,
instantly saw the hazard of entering into such delicate points of chronology,
and being a lover of peace and good neighbourhood, lost no time in bringing back
the conversation to its original subject.
    »The Judge didna tell us a' he could hae tell'd us, if he had liked, about
the application for pardon, neighbours,« said he; »there is aye a wimple in a
lawyer's clew; but it's a wee bit of a secret.«
    »And what is't - what is't, neighbour Plumdamas?« said Mrs. Howden and Miss
Damahoy at once, the acid fermentation of their dispute being at once
neutralised by the powerful alkali implied in the word secret.
    »Here's Mr. Saddletree can tell ye that better than me, for it was him that
told me,« said Plumdamas as Saddletree came up, with his wife hanging on his
arm, and looking very disconsolate.
    When the question was put to Saddletree, he looked very scornful. »They
speak about stopping the frequency of child-murder,« said he, in a contemptuous
tone; »do ye think our auld enemies of England, as Glendook aye ca's them in his
printed Statute- care a boddle whether we didna kill ane anither, skin and birn,
horse and foot, man, woman, and bairns, all and sindry, omnes et singulos, as
Mr. Crossmyloof says? Na, na, it's no that hinders them frae pardoning the bit
lassie. But here is the pinch of the plea. The king and queen are sae ill
pleased wi' that mistak about Porteous, that deil a kindly Scot will they pardon
again, either by reprieve or remission, if the haill town o' Edinburgh should be
a' hanged on ae tow.«
    »Deil that they were back at their German kale-yard then, as my neighbour
MacCroskie ca's it,« said Mrs. Howden, »an that's the way they're gaun to guide
us!«
    »They say for certain,« said Miss Damahoy, »that King George flang his
periwig in the fire when he heard o' the Porteous mob.«
    »He has done that, they say,« replied Saddletree, »for less thing.«
    »Aweel,« said Miss Damahoy, »he might keep mair wit in his anger - but it's
a' the better for his wigmaker, I'se warrant.«
    »The queen tore her biggonets for perfect anger, - ye'll hae heard o' that
too?« said Plumdamas. »And the king, they say, kickit Sir Robert Walpole for no
keeping down the mob of Edinburgh; but I dinna believe he wad behave sae
ungenteel.«
    »It's dooms truth, though,« said Saddletree; »and he was for kickin' the
Duke of Argyle46 too.«
    »Kickin' the Duke of Argyle!« exclaimed the hearers at once, in all the
various combined keys of utter astonishment.
    »Ay, but MacCallummore's blood wadna sit down wi' that; there was risk of
Andro Ferrara coming in thirdsman.«
    »The duke is a real Scotsman - a true friend to the country,« answered
Saddletree's hearers.
    »Ay, troth is he, to king and country baith, as ye sall hear,« continued the
orator, »if ye will come in bye to our house, for it's safest speaking of sic
things inter parietes.«
    When they entered his shop, he thrust his prentice boy out of it, and,
unlocking his desk, took out, with an air of grave and complacent importance, a
dirty and crumpled piece of printed paper; he observed, »This is new corn - it's
no every body could show you the like o' this. It's the duke's speech about the
Porteous mob, just promulgated by the hawkers. Ye shall hear what Ian Roy Cean47
says for himself. My correspondent bought it in the Palace-yard, that's like
just under the king's nose - I think he claws up their mittans! - It came in a
letter about a foolish bill of exchange that the man wanted me to renew for him.
I wish ye wad see about it, Mrs. Saddletree.«
    Honest Mrs. Saddletree had hitherto been so sincerely distressed about the
situation of her unfortunate protégée, that she had suffered her husband to
proceed in his own way, without attending to what he was saying. The words bills
and renew had, however, an awakening sound in them; and she snatched the letter
which her husband held towards her, and wiping her eyes, and putting on her
spectacles, endeavoured, as fast as the dew which collected on her glasses would
permit, to get at the meaning of the needful part of the epistle; while her
husband, with pompous elevation, read an extract from the speech.
    »I am no minister, I never was a minister, and I never will be
    one« -
    »I didna ken his Grace was ever designed for the ministry,« interrupted Mrs.
Howden.
    »He disna mean a minister of the gospel, Mrs. Howden, but a minister of
state,« said Saddletree, with condescending goodness, and then proceeded: »The
time was when I might have been a piece of a minister, but I was too sensible of
my own incapacity to engage in any state affair. And I thank God that I had
always too great a value for those few abilities which Nature has given me, to
employ them in doing any drudgery, or any job of what kind soever. I have, ever
since I set out in the world (and I believe few have set out more early), served
my prince with my tongue; I have served him with any little interest I had, and
I have served him with my sword, and in my profession of arms. I have held
employments which I have lost, and were I to be to-morrow deprived of those
which still remain to me, and which I have endeavoured honestly to deserve, I
would still serve him to the last acre of my inheritance, and to the last drop
of my blood« -
    Mrs. Saddletree here broke in upon the orator: - »Mr. Saddletree, what is
the meaning of a' this? Here are ye clavering about the Duke of Argyle, and this
man Martingale gaun to break on our hands, and lose us good sixty pounds - I
wonder what duke will pay that, quotha - I wish the Duke of Argyle would pay his
ain accounts - He is in a thousand punds Scots on thae very books when he was
last at Roystoun - I'm no saying but he's a just nobleman, and that it's good
siller - but it wad drive ane daft to be confused wi' deukes and drakes, and
thae distressed folk up-stairs, that's Jeanie Deans and her father. And then,
putting the very callant that was sewing the curpel out o' the shop, to play wi'
blackguards in the close - Sit still, neighbours, it's no that I mean to disturb
you; but what between courts o' law and courts o' state, and upper and under
parliaments, and parliament houses, here and in London, the gudeman's gone clean
gyte, I think.«
    The gossips understood civility, and the rule of doing as they would be done
by, too well, to tarry upon the slight invitation implied in the conclusion of
this speech, and therefore made their farewells and departure as fast as
possible, Saddletree whispering to Plumdamas that he would »meet him at
MacCroskie's« (the low-browed shop in the Luckenbooths, already mentioned), »in
the hour of cause, and put MacCallummore's speech in his pocket, for a' the
gudewife's din.«
    When Mrs. Saddletree saw the house freed of her importunate visitors, and
the little boy reclaimed from the pastimes of the wynd to the exercise of the
awl, she went to visit her unhappy relative, David Deans, and his elder
daughter, who had found in her house the nearest place of friendly refuge.
 

                             Chapter Twenty-Fourth

 Isab. - Alas! what poor ability's in me
 To do him good?
 Lucio. - Assay the power you have.
                                                            Measure for Measure.
 
When Mrs. Saddletree entered the apartment in which her guests had shrouded
their misery, she found the window darkened. The feebleness which followed his
long swoon had rendered it necessary to lay the old man in bed. The curtains
were drawn around him, and Jeanie sate motionless by the side of the bed. Mrs.
Saddletree was a woman of kindness, nay, of feeling, but not of delicacy. She
opened the half-shut window, drew aside the curtain, and, taking her kinsman by
the hand, exhorted him to sit up, and bear his sorrow like a good man, and a
Christian man, as he was. But when she quitted his hand, it fell powerless by
his side, nor did he attempt the least reply.
    »Is all over?« asked Jeanie, with lips and cheeks as pale as ashes, -»and is
there nae hope for her?«
    »Nane, or next to nane,« said Mrs. Saddletree; »I heard the Judge-carle say
it with my ain ears - It was a burning shame to see sae mony o' them set up
yonder in their red gowns and black gowns, and to take the life o' a bit
senseless lassie. I had never muckle broo o' my gudeman's gossips, and now I
like them waur than ever. The only wiselike thing I heard anybody say, was
decent Mr. John Kirk of Kirk-knowe, and he wussed them just to get the king's
mercy, and nae mair about it. But he spoke to unreasonable folk - he might just
hae keep it his breath to hae blawn on his porridge.«
    »But can the king give her mercy?« said Jeanie, earnestly. »Some folk tell me
he canna give mercy in cases of mur -- in cases like hers.«
    »Can he give mercy, hinny? - I well I wot he can, when he likes. There was
young Singlesword, that stickit the Laird of Ballencleuch, and Captain Hackum,
the Englishman, that killed Lady Colgrain's gudeman, and the Master of Saint
Clair, that shot the twa Shaws, and mony mair in my time - to be sure they were
gentle blood, and had their kin to speak for them - And there was Jock Porteous
the other day - I'se warrant there's mercy, an folk could win at it.«
    »Porteous?« said Jeanie; »very true - I forget a' that I should maist mind. -
Fare ye well, Mrs. Saddletree; and may ye never want a friend in the hour of
distress!«
    »Will ye no stay wi' your father, Jeanie, bairn? - Ye had better,« said Mrs.
Saddletree.
    »I will be wanted ower yonder,« indicating the Tolbooth with her hand, »and
I maun leave him now, or I will never be able to leave him. I fearna for his
life - I ken how strong-hearted he is - I ken it,« she said, laying her hand on
her bosom, »by my ain heart at this minute.«
    »Weel, hinny, if ye think it's for the best, better he stay here and rest
him, than gang back to St. Leonard's.«
    »Muckle better - muckle better - God bless you! - God bless you! -At no rate
let him gang till ye hear frae me,« said Jeanie.
    »But ye'll be back belive?« said Mrs. Saddletree, detaining her; »they winna
let ye stay yonder, hinny.«
    »But I maun gang to St. Leonard's - there's muckle to be dune, and little
time to do it in - And I have friends to speak to - God bless you - take care of
my father.«
    She had reached the door of the apartment, when, suddenly turning, she came
back, and knelt down by the bedside. - »O father, give me your blessing - I dare
not go till ye bless me. Say but God bless ye, and prosper ye, Jeanie - try but
to say that!«
    Instinctively, rather than by an exertion of intellect, the old man murmured
a prayer, that »purchased and promised blessings might be multiplied upon her.«
    »He has blessed mine errand,« said his daughter, rising from her knees, »and
it is borne in upon my mind that I shall prosper.«
    So saying, she left the room.
    Mrs. Saddletree looked after her, and shook her head. »I wish she binna
roving, poor thing - There's something queer about a' thae Deanses. I dinna like
folk to be sae muckle better than other folk -seldom comes good o't. But if
she's gaun to look after the kye at St. Leonard's, that's another story; to be
sure they maun be sorted. - Grizzie, come up here, and take tent to the honest
auld man, and see he wants nothing. - Ye silly tawpie« (addressing the
maid-servant as she entered), »what garr'd ye busk up your cockernony that gate?
- I think there's been enough the day to give an awful' warning about your cockups
and your fallal duds - see what they a' come to,« etc. etc. etc.
    Leaving the good lady to her lecture upon worldly vanities, we must
transport our reader to the cell in which the unfortunate Effie Deans was now
immured, being restricted of several liberties which she had enjoyed before the
sentence was pronounced.
    When she had remained about an hour in the state of stupefied horror so
natural in her situation, she was disturbed by the opening of the jarring bolts
of her place of confinement, and Ratcliffe showed himself. »It's your sister,«
he said, »wants to speak t'ye, Effie.«
    »I canna see nobody,« said Effie, with the hasty irritability which misery
had rendered more acute - »I canna see nobody, and least of a' her - Bid her
take care o' the auld man - I am nothing to ony o' them now, nor them to me.«
    »She says she maun see ye, though,« said Ratcliffe; and Jeanie, rushing into
the apartment, threw her arms round her sister's neck, who writhed to extricate
herself from her embrace.
    »What signifies coming to greet ower me,« said poor Effie, »when you have
killed me? - killed me, when a word of your mouth would have saved me - killed
me, when I am an innocent creature -innocent of that guilt at least - and me
that wad hae wared body and soul to save your finger from being hurt!«
    »You shall not die,« said Jeanie, with enthusiastic firmness; »say what you
like o' me - think what you like o' me - only promise - for I doubt your proud
heart - that ye wunna harm yourself, and you shall not die this shameful death.«
    »A shameful death I will not die, Jeanie, lass. I have that in my heart -
though it has been ower kind a ane - that wunna bide shame. Gae hame to our
father, and think nae mair on me - I have eat my last earthly meal.«
    »Oh, this was what I feared!« said Jeanie.
    »Hout, tout, hinny,« said Ratcliffe; »it's but little ye ken o' thae things.
Ane aye thinks at the first dinnle o' the sentence, they hae heart enough to die
rather than bide out the sax weeks; but they aye bide the sax weeks out for a'
that. I ken the gate o't well; I hae fronted the doomster three times, and here
I stand, Jim Ratcliffe, for a' that. Had I tied my napkin strait the first time,
as I had a great mind till't - and it was a' about a bit grey cowt, wasna worth
ten punds sterling - where would I have been now?«
    »And how did you escape?« said Jeanie, the fates of this man, at first so
odious to her, having acquired a sudden interest in her eyes from their
correspondence with those of her sister.
    »How did I escape?« said Ratcliffe, with a knowing wink, - »I tell ye I
'scapit in a way that nobody will escape from this Tolbooth while I keep the
keys.«
    »My sister shall come out in the face of the sun,« said Jeanie; »I will go
to London, and beg her pardon from the king and queen. If they pardoned
Porteous, they may pardon her; if a sister asks a sister's life on her bended
knees, they will pardon her - they shall pardon her - and they will win a
thousand hearts by it.«
    Effie listened in bewildered astonishment, and so earnest was her sister's
enthusiastic assurance, that she almost involuntarily caught a gleam of hope;
but it instantly faded away.
    »Ah, Jeanie! the king and queen live in London, a thousand miles from this -
far ayont the saut sea; I'll be gone before ye win there.«
    »You are mistaen,« said Jeanie; »it is no sae far, and they go to it by
land; I learned something about thae things from Reuben Butler.«
    »Ah, Jeanie! ye never learned anything but what was good frae the folk ye
keep it company wi'; but I - but I« - she wrung her hands and wept bitterly.
    »Dinna think on that now,« said Jeanie; »there will be time for that if the
present space be redeemed. Fare ye well. Unless I die by the road, I will see
the king's face that gies grace - O, sir« (to Ratcliffe), »be kind to her - She
ne'er ken'd what it was to need a stranger's kindness till now. - Fareweel -
fareweel, Effie! - Dinna speak to me - I maunna greet now - my head's ower dizzy
already!«
    She tore herself from her sister's arms, and left the cell. Ratcliffe
followed her, and beckoned her into a small room. She obeyed his signal, but not
without trembling.
    »What's the fule thing shaking for?« said he; »I mean nothing but civility
to you. D - n me, I respect you, and I can't help it. You have so much spunk,
that d - n me, but I think there's some chance of your carrying the day. But you
must not go to the king till you have made some friend; try the duke - try
MacCallummore; he's Scotland's friend - I ken that the great folks dinna muckle
like him - but they fear him, and that will serve your purpose as well. D'ye ken
nobody wad give ye a letter to him?«
    »Duke of Argyle!« said Jeanie, recollecting herself suddenly, »what was he
to that Argyle that suffered in my father's time - in the persecution?«
    »His son or grandson, I'm thinking,« said Ratcliffe, »but what o'that?«
    »Thank God!« said Jeanie, devoutly clasping her hands.
    »You whigs are aye thanking God for something,« said the ruffian. »But hark
ye, hinny, I'll tell ye a secret. Ye may meet wi' rough customers on the Border,
or in the Midland, afore ye get to Lunnon. Now, deil ane o' them will touch an
acquaintance o' Daddie Ratton's; for though I am retired frae public practice,
yet they ken I can do a good or an ill turn yet - and deil a good fellow that
has been but a twelvemonth on the lay, be he ruffler or padder, but he knows my
gybe48 as well as the jark49 of e'er a queer cuffin50 in England - and there's
rogue's Latin for you.«
    It was indeed totally unintelligible to Jeanie Deans, who was only impatient
to escape from him. He hastily scrawled a line or two on a dirty piece of paper,
and said to her, as she drew back when he offered it, »Hey! - what the deil - it
wunna bite you, my lass - if it does nae good, it can do nae ill. But I wish you
to show it, if you have ony fasherie wi' ony o' St. Nicholas's clerks.«
    »Alas!« said she, »I do not understand what you mean.«
    »I mean, if ye fall among thieves, my precious, - that is a Scripture
phrase, if ye will hae ane - the bauldest of them will ken a scart o' my guse
feather. And now away wi' ye - and stick to Argyle; if anybody can do the job, it
maun be him.«
    After casting an anxious look at the grated windows and blackened walls of
the old Tolbooth, and another scarce less anxious at the hospitable lodging of
Mrs. Saddletree, Jeanie turned her back on that quarter, and soon after on the
city itself. She reached St. Leonard's Crags without meeting any one whom she
knew, which, in the state of her mind, she considered as a great blessing. »I
must do nothing,« she thought, as she went along, »that can soften or weaken my
heart - it's ower weak already for what I hae to do. I will think and act as
firmly as I can, and speak as little.«
    There was an ancient servant, or rather cottar, of her father's, who had
lived under him for many years, and whose fidelity was worthy of full
confidence. She sent for this woman, and explaining to her that the
circumstances of her family required that she should undertake a journey, which
would detain her for some weeks from home, she gave her full instructions
concerning the management of the domestic concerns in her absence. With a
precision, which, upon reflection, she herself could not help wondering at, she
described and detailed the most minute steps which were to be taken, and
especially such as were necessary for her father's comfort. »It was probable,«
she said, »that he would return to St. Leonard's to-morrow! certain that he
would return very soon - all must be in order for him. He had enough to distress
him, without being fashed about warldly matters.«
    In the meanwhile she toiled busily, along with May Hettly, to leave nothing
unarranged.
    It was deep in the night when all these matters were settled; and when they
had partaken of some food, the first which Jeanie had tasted on that eventful
day, May Hettly, whose usual residence was a cottage at a little distance from
Deans's house, asked her young mistress, whether she would not permit her to
remain in the house all night? »Ye hae had an awful' day,« she said, »and sorrow
and fear are but bad companions in the watches of the night, as I hae heard the
gudeman say himself.«
    »They are ill companions indeed,« said Jeanie; »but I maun learn to abide
their presence, and better begin in the house than in the field.«
    She dismissed her aged assistant accordingly, - for so slight was the
gradation in their rank of life, that we can hardly term May a servant, - and
proceeded to make a few preparations for her journey.
    The simplicity of her education and country made these preparations very
brief and easy. Her tartan screen served all the purposes of a riding-habit and
of an umbrella; a small bundle contained such changes of linen as were
absolutely necessary. Barefooted, as Sancho says, she had come into the world,
and barefooted she proposed to perform her pilgrimage; and her clean shoes and
change of snow-white thread stockings were to be reserved for special occasions
of ceremony. She was not aware, that the English habits of comfort attach an
idea of abject misery to the idea of a barefooted traveller; and if the
objection of cleanliness had been made to the practice, she would have been apt
to vindicate herself upon the very frequent ablutions to which, with Mahometan
scrupulosity, a Scottish damsel of some condition usually subjects herself. Thus
far, therefore, all was well.
    From an oaken press, or cabinet, in which her father kept a few old books,
and two or three bundles of papers, besides his ordinary accounts and receipts,
she sought out and extracted from a parcel of notes of sermons, calculations of
interest, records of dying speeches of the martyrs, and the like, one or two
documents which she thought might be of some use to her upon her mission. But
the most important difficulty remained behind, and it had not occurred to her
until that very evening. It was the want of money; without which it was
impossible she could undertake so distant a journey as she now meditated.
    David Deans, as we have said, was easy, and even opulent in his
circumstances. But his wealth, like that of the patriarchs of old, consisted in
his kine and herds, and in two or three sums lent out at interest to neighbours
or relatives, who, far from being in circumstances to pay anything to account of
the principal sums, thought they did all that was incumbent on them when, with
considerable difficulty, they discharged the »annual rent.« To these debtors it
would be in vain, therefore, to apply, even with her father's concurrence; nor
could she hope to obtain such concurrence, or assistance in any mode, without
such a series of explanations and debates as she felt might deprive her totally
of the power of taking the step, which, however daring and hazardous, she felt
was absolutely necessary for trying the last chance in favour of her sister.
Without departing from filial reverence, Jeanie had an inward conviction that
the feelings of her father, however just, and upright, and honourable, were too
little in unison with the spirit of the time to admit of his being a good judge
of the measures to be adopted in this crisis. Herself more flexible in manner,
though no less upright in principle, she felt that to ask his consent to her
pilgrimage would be to encounter the risk of drawing down his positive
prohibition, and under that she believed her journey could not be blessed in its
progress and event. Accordingly, she had determined upon the means by which she
might communicate to him her undertaking and its purpose, shortly after her
actual departure. But it was impossible to apply to him for money without
altering this arrangement, and discussing fully the propriety of her journey;
pecuniary assistance from that quarter, therefore, was laid out of the question.
    It now occurred to Jeanie that she should have consulted with Mrs.
Saddletree on this subject. But, besides the time that must now necessarily be
lost in recurring to her assistance, Jeanie internally revolted from it. Her
heart acknowledged the goodness of Mrs. Saddletree's general character, and the
kind interest she took in their family misfortunes; but still she felt that Mrs.
Saddletree was a woman of an ordinary and worldly way of thinking, incapable,
from habit and temperament, of taking a keen or enthusiastic view of such a
resolution as she had formed; and to debate the point with her, and to rely upon
her conviction of its propriety, for the means of carrying it into execution,
would have been gall and wormwood.
    Butler, whose assistance she might have been assured of, was greatly poorer
than herself. In these circumstances, she formed a singular resolution for the
purpose of surmounting this difficulty, the execution of which will form the
subject of the next chapter.
 

                              Chapter Twenty-Fifth

 'Tis the voice of the sluggard, I've heard him complain,
 »You have waked me too soon, I must slumber again;«
 As the door on its hinges, so he on his bed,
 Turns his side, and his shoulders, and his heavy head.
                                                                      Dr. Watts.
 
The mansion-house of Dumbiedikes, to which we are now to introduce our readers,
lay three or four miles - no matter for the exact topography - to the southward
of St. Leonard's. It had once borne the appearance of some little celebrity; for
the »auld laird,« whose humours and pranks were often mentioned in the
ale-houses for about a mile round it, wore a sword, kept a good horse, and a
brace of greyhounds; brawled, swore, and betted at cock-fights and
horse-matches; followed Somerville of Drum's hawks, and the Lord Ross's hounds,
and called himself point devise a gentleman. But the line had been veiled of its
splendour in the present proprietor, who cared for no rustic amusements, and was
as saving, timid, and retired, as his father had been at once grasping and
selfishly extravagant - daring, wild, and intrusive.
    Dumbiedikes was what is called in Scotland a single house; that is, having
only one room occupying its whole depth from back to front, each of which single
apartments was illuminated by six or eight cross lights, whose diminutive panes
and heavy frames permitted scarce so much light to enter as shines through one
well-constructed modern window. This inartificial edifice, exactly such as a
child would build with cards, had a steep roof flagged with coarse grey stones
instead of slates; a half-circular turret, battlemented, or, to use the
appropriate phrase, bartizan'd on the top, served as a case for a narrow
turnpike stair, by which an ascent was gained from storey to storey; and at the
bottom of the said turret was a door studded with large-headed nails. There was
no lobby at the bottom of the tower, and scarce a landing-place opposite to the
doors which gave access to the apartments. One or two low and dilapidated
outhouses, connected by a courtyard wall equally ruinous, surrounded the
mansion. The court had been paved, but the flags being partly displaced and
partly renewed, a gallant crop of docks and thistles sprung up between them, and
the small garden, which opened by a postern through the wall, seemed not to be
in a much more orderly condition. Over the low-arched gateway which led into the
yard there was a carved stone, exhibiting some attempt at armorial bearings; and
above the inner entrance hung, and had hung, for many years, the mouldering
hatchment, which announced that umquhile Laurence Dumbie of Dumbiedikes had been
gathered to his fathers in Newbattle kirkyard. The approach to this palace of
pleasure was by a road formed by the rude fragments of stone gathered from the
fields, and it was surrounded by ploughed, but unenclosed land. Upon a baulk,
that is, an unploughed ridge of land interposed among the corn, the Laird's
trusty palfrey was tethered by the head, and picking a meal of grass. The whole
argued neglect and discomfort; the consequence, however, of idleness and
indifference, not of poverty.
    In this inner court, not without a sense of bashfulness and timidity, stood
Jeanie Deans, at an early hour in a fine spring morning. She was no heroine of
romance, and therefore looked with some curiosity and interest on the
mansion-house and domains, of which, it might at that moment occur to her, a
little encouragement, such as women of all ranks know by instinct how to apply,
might have made her mistress. Moreover, she was no person of taste beyond her
time, rank, and country, and certainly thought the house of Dumbiedikes, though
inferior to Holyrood House, or the palace at Dalkeith, was still a stately
structure in its way, and the land a »very bonny bit, if it were better seen to
and done to.« But Jeanie Deans was a plain, true-hearted, honest girl, who,
while she acknowledged all the splendour of her old admirer's habitation, and
the value of his property, never for a moment harboured a thought of doing the
Laird, Butler, or herself, the injustice, which many ladies of higher rank would
not have hesitated to do to all three on much less temptation.
    Her present errand being with the Laird, she looked round the offices to see
if she could find any domestic to announce that she wished to see him. As all
was silence, she ventured to open one door - it was the old Laird's dog-kennel,
now deserted, unless when occupied, as one or two tubs seemed to testify, as a
washing-house. She tried another - it was the roofless shed where the hawks had
been once kept, as appeared from a perch or two not yet completely rotten, and a
lure and jesses which were mouldering on the wall. A third door led to the
coal-house, which was well stocked. To keep a very good fire was one of the few
points of domestic management in which Dumbiedikes was positively active; in all
other matters of domestic economy he was completely passive, and at the mercy of
his housekeeper - the same buxom dame whom his father had long since bequeathed
to his charge, and who, if fame did her no injustice, had feathered her nest
pretty well at his expense.
    Jeanie went on opening doors, like the second Calender wanting an eye, in
the castle of the hundred obliging damsels, until, like the said prince errant,
she came to a stable. The Highland Pegasus, Rory Bean, to which belonged the
single entire stall, was her old acquaintance, whom she had seen grazing on the
baulk, as she failed not to recognise by the well-known ancient riding furniture
and demi-pique saddle, which half hung on the walls, half trailed on the litter.
Beyond the »treviss,« which formed one side of the stall, stood a cow, who
turned her head and lowed when Jeanie came into the stable, an appeal which her
habitual occupations enabled her perfectly to understand, and with which she
could not refuse complying, by shaking down some fodder to the animal, which had
been neglected like most things else in the castle of the sluggard.
    While she was accommodating »the milky mother« with the food which she
should have received two hours sooner, a slipshod wench peeped into the stable,
and perceiving that a stranger was employed in discharging the task which she,
at length, and reluctantly, had quitted her slumbers to perform, ejaculated,
»Eh, sirs! the Brownie! the Brownie!« and fled, yelling as if she had seen the
devil.
    To explain her terror it may be necessary to notice that the old house of
Dumbiedikes had, according to report, been long haunted by a Brownie, one of
those familiar spirits who were believed in ancient times to supply the
deficiencies of the ordinary labourer -
 
Whirl the long mop, and ply the airy flail.
 
Certes, the convenience of such a supernatural assistance could have been
nowhere more sensibly felt than in a family where the domestics were so little
disposed to personal activity; yet this serving maiden was so far from rejoicing
in seeing a supposed aërial substitute discharging a task which she should have
long since performed herself, that she proceeded to raise the family by her
screams of horror, uttered as thick as if the Brownie had been flaying her.
Jeanie, who had immediately resigned her temporary occupation, and followed the
yelling damsel into the courtyard, in order to undeceive and appease her, was
there met by Mrs. Janet Balchristie, the favourite sultana of the last Laird, as
scandal went - the housekeeper of the present. The good-looking buxom woman,
betwixt forty and fifty (for such we described her at the death of the last
Laird), was now a fat, red-faced, old dame of seventy, or there-abouts, fond of
her place, and jealous of her authority. Conscious that her administration did
not rest on so sure a basis as in the time of the old proprietor, this
considerate lady had introduced into the family the screamer aforesaid, who
added good features and bright eyes to the powers of her lungs. She made no
conquest of the Laird, however, who seemed to live as if there was not another
woman in the world but Jeanie Deans, and to bear no very ardent or overbearing
affection even to her. Mrs. Janet Balchristie, notwithstanding, had her own
uneasy thoughts upon the almost daily visits to St. Leonard's Crags, and often,
when the Laird looked at her wistfully and paused, according to his custom
before utterance, she expected him to say, »Jenny, I am gaun to change my
condition;« but she was relieved by, »Jenny, I am gaun to change my shoon.«
    Still, however, Mrs. Balchristie regarded Jeanie Deans with no small portion
of malevolence, the customary feeling of such persons towards anyone who they
think has the means of doing them an injury. But she had also a general aversion
to any female tolerably young, and decently well-looking, who showed a wish to
approach the house of Dumbiedikes and the proprietor thereof. And as she had
raised her mass of mortality out of bed two hours earlier than usual, to come to
the rescue of her clamorous niece, she was in such extreme bad humour against
all and sundry, that Saddletree would have pronounced that she harboured
inimicitiam contra omnes mortales.
    »Wha the deil are ye?« said the fat dame to poor Jeanie, whom she did not
immediately recognise, »scouping about a decent house at sic an hour in the
morning?«
    »It was ane wanting to speak to the Laird,« said Jeanie, who felt something
of the intuitive terror which she had formerly entertained for this termagant,
when she was occasionally at Dumbiedikes on business of her father's.
    »Ane! - And what sort of ane are ye! - hae ye nae name? - D'ye think his
honour has nothing else to do than to speak wi' ilka idle tramper that comes
about the town, and him in his bed yet, honest man?«
    »Dear Mrs. Balchristie,« replied Jeanie, in a submissive tone, »d'ye no mind
me? - d'ye no mind Jeanie Deans?«
    »Jeanie Deans!« said the termagant, in accents affecting the utmost
astonishment; then, taking two strides nearer to her, she peered into her face
with a stare of curiosity, equally scornful and malignant - »I say Jeanie Deans
indeed - Jeanie Deevil, they had better hae ca'ed ye! - A bonny spot o' wark
your tittie and you hae made out, murdering ae puir wean, and your light limmer
of a sister's to be hanged for't, as well she deserves! - And the like o' you to
come to ony honest man's house, and want to be into a decent bachelor
gentleman's room at this time in the morning, and him in his bed! - Gae wa', gave
wa'!«
    Jeanie was struck mute with shame at the unfeeling brutality of this
accusation, and could not even find words to justify herself from the vile
construction put upon her visit. When Mrs. Balchristie, seeing her advantage,
continued in the same tone, »Come, come, bundle up your pipes and tramp away wi'
ye! - ye may be seeking a father to another wean for ony thing I ken. If it
warna that your father, auld David Deans, had been a tenant on our land, I would
cry up the men-folk, and hae ye dookit in the burn for your impudence.«
    Jeanie had already turned her back, and was walking towards the door of the
court-yard, so that Mrs. Balchristie, to make her last threat impressively
audible to her, had raised her stentorian voice to its utmost pitch. But, like
many a general, she lost the engagement by pressing her advantage too far.
    The Laird had been disturbed in his morning slumbers by the tones of Mrs.
Balchristie's objurgation, sounds in themselves by no means uncommon, but very
remarkable, in respect to the early hour at which they were now heard. He turned
himself on the other side, however, in hopes the squall would blow by, when, in
the course of Mrs. Balchristie's second explosion of wrath, the name of Deans
distinctly struck the tympanum of his ear. As he was, in some degree, aware of
the small portion of benevolence with which his housekeeper regarded the family
at St. Leonard's, he instantly conceived that some message from thence was the
cause of this untimely ire, and getting out of his bed, he splipped as speedily as
possible into an old brocaded night-gown, and some other necessary garments,
clapped on his head his father's gold-laced hat (for though he was seldom seen
without it, yet it is proper to contradict the popular report that he slept in
it, as Don Quixote did in his helmet), and opening the window of his bedroom,
beheld, to his great astonishment, the well-known figure of Jeanie Deans herself
retreating from his gate; while his housekeeper, with arms a-kimbo, fist
clenched and extended, body erect, and head shaking with rage, sent after her a
volley of Billingsgate oaths. His choler rose in proportion to the surprise,
and, perhaps, to the disturbance of his repose. »Hark ye,« he exclaimed from the
window, »ye auld limb of Satan - what the deil gies you commission to guide an
honest man's daughter that gate?«
    Mrs. Balchristie was completely caught in the manner. She was aware, from
the unusual warmth with which the Laird expressed himself, that he was quite
serious in this matter, and she knew, that with all his indolence of nature,
there were points on which he might be provoked, and that, being provoked, he
had in him something dangerous, which her wisdom taught her to fear accordingly.
She began, therefore, to retract her false step as fast as she could. »She was
but speaking for the house's credit, and she couldn't have think of disturbing his
honour in the morning sae early, when the young woman might as well wait or call
again; and to be sure, she might make a mistake between the twa sisters, for ane
o' them wasna sae creditable an acquaintance.«
    »Haud your peace, ye auld jade,« said Dumbiedikes; »the warst queen e'er
stude in their shoon may ca' you cousin, an a' be true that I have heard. -
Jeanie, my woman, gang into the parlour - but stay, that winna be redd up yet -
wait there a minute till I come down to let ye in - Dinna mind what Jenny says
to ye.«
    »Na, na,« said Jenny, with a laugh of affected heartiness, »never mind me,
lass - a' the warld kens my bark's waur than my bite - if ye had had an
appointment wi' the Laird, ye might hae told me - I am nae uncivil person -
gang your ways in by, hinny,« and she opened the door of the house with a
master-key.
    »But I had no appointment wi' the Laird,« said Jeanie, drawing back; »I want
just to speak twa words to him, and I wad rather do it standing here, Mrs.
Balchristie.«
    »In the open court-yard! - Na, na, that wad never do, lass; we mauna guide
ye that gate neither - And how's that douce honest man, your father?«
    Jeanie was saved the pain of answering this hypocritical question by the
appearance of the Laird himself.
    »Gang in and get breakfast ready,« said he to his housekeeper - »and, d'ye
hear, breakfast wi' us yoursell - ye ken how to manage thae porringers of
tea-water - and, hear ye, see abune a' that there's a good fire. - Weel, Jeanie,
my woman, gang in by - gang in by, and rest ye.«
    »Na, Laird,« Jeanie replied, endeavouring as much as she could to express
herself with composure, notwithstanding she still trembled, »I canna gang in - I
have a lang day's darg afore me - I maun be twenty mile o' gate the night yet,
if feet will carry me.«
    »Guide and deliver us! - twenty mile - twenty mile on your feet!« ejaculated
Dumbiedikes, whose walks were of a very circumscribed diameter, - »Ye maun never
think o' that - come in by.«
    »I canna do that, Laird,« replied Jeanie; »the twa words I have to say to ye
I can say here; forby that Mrs. Balchristie« -
    »The deil flee away wi' Mrs. Balchristie,« said Dumbiedikes, »and he'll hae a
heavy lading o' her! I tell ye, Jeanie Deans, I am a man of few words, but I am
laird at hame, as well as in the field; deil a brute or body about my house but
I can manage when I like, except Rory Bean, my powny; but I can seldom be at the
plague, an it binna when my bluid's up.«
    »I was wanting to say to ye, Laird,« said Jeanie, who felt the necessity of
entering upon her business, »that I was gaun a lang journey, outby of my
father's knowledge.«
    »Outby his knowledge, Jeanie! - Is that right? Ye maun think o't again -
it's no right,« said Dumbiedikes, with a countenance of great concern.
    »If I were ance at Lunnon,« said Jeanie, in exculpation, »I am amaist sure I
could get means to speak to the queen about my sister's life.«
    »Lunnon - and the queen - and her sister's life!« said Dumbiedikes,
whistling for very amazement - »the lassie's demented.«
    »I am no out o' my mind,« said she, »and sink or swim, I am determined to
gang to Lunnon, if I should beg my way frae door to door - and so I maun, unless
ye wad lend me a small sum to pay my expenses - little thing will do it; and ye
ken my father's a man of substance, and wad see nae man, far less you, Laird,
come to loss by me.«
    Dumbiedikes, on comprehending the nature of this application, could scarce
trust his ears - he made no answer whatever, but stood with his eyes riveted on
the ground.
    »I see ye are no for assisting me, Laird,« said Jeanie, »sae fare ye well -
and gang and see my poor father as aften as ye can - he will be lonely enough
now.«
    »Where is the silly bairn gaun?« said Dumbiedikes; and, laying hold of her
hand, he led her into the house. »It's no that I didna think o't before,« he
said, »but it stack in my throat.«
    Thus speaking to himself, he led her into an old-fashioned parlour, shut the
door behind them, and fastened it with a bolt. While Jeanie, surprised at this
manoeuvre, remained as near the door as possible, the Laird quitted her hand,
and pressed upon a spring lock fixed in an oak panel in the wainscot, which
instantly slipped aside. An iron strong-box was discovered in a recess of the
wall; he opened this also, and pulling out two or three drawers, showed that
they were filled with leathern bags full of gold and silver coin.
    »This is my bank, Jeanie lass,« he said, looking first at her and then at
the treasure, with an air of great complacency, - »nane o' your goldsmith's
bills for me, - they bring folk to ruin.«
    Then, suddenly changing his tone, he resolutely said, - »Jeanie, I will make
ye Lady Dumbiedikes afore the sun sets, and ye may ride to Lunnon in your ain
coach, if ye like.«
    »Na, Laird,« said Jeanie, »that can never be - my father's grief - my
sister's situation - the discredit to you« -
    »That's my business,« said Dumbiedikes; »ye wad say nothing about that if
ye werena a fule - and yet I like ye the better for't - ae wise body's enough in
the married state. But if your heart's ower fu', take what siller will serve ye,
and let it be when ye come back again - as good syne as sune.«
    »But, Laird,« said Jeanie, who felt the necessity of being explicit with so
extraordinary a lover, »I like another man better than you, and I canna marry
ye.«
    »Another man better than me, Jeanie!« said Dumbiedikes - »how is that
possible? It's no possible, woman - ye hae ken'd me sae lang.«
    »Ay but, Laird,« said Jeanie, with persevering simplicity, »I hae ken'd him
langer.«
    »Langer! It's no possible!« exclaimed the poor Laird. »It canna be; ye were
born on the land. O Jeanie woman, ye haena lookit - ye haena seen the half o'
the gear.« He drew out another drawer - »A' gowd, Jeanie, and there's bands for
siller lent - And the rental book, Jeanie - clear three hunder sterling - deil a
wadset, heritable band, or burden - Ye haena lookit at them, woman - And then my
mother's wardrobe, and my grandmother's forby - silk gowns wad stand on their
ends, their pearline-lace as fine as spiders' webs, and rings and earrings to
the boot of a' that - they are a' in the chamber of deas - Oh, Jeanie, gang up
the stair and look at them!«
    But Jeanie held fast her integrity, though beset with temptations, which
perhaps the Laird of Dumbiedikes did not greatly err in supposing were those
most affecting to her sex.
    »It canna be, Laird - I have said it - and I canna break my word till him,
if ye wad give me the haill barony of Dalkeith, and Lugton into the bargain.«
    »Your word to him,« said the Laird, somewhat pettishly; »but what is he,
Jeanie? - what is he? - I haena heard his name yet - Come now, Jeanie, ye are but
queering us - I am no trowing that there is sic a ane in the warld - ye are but
making fashion - What is he? -what is he?«
    »Just Reuben Butler, that's schulemaster at Liberton,« said Jeanie.
    »Reuben Butler! Reuben Butler!« echoed the Laird of Dumbiedikes, pacing the
apartment in high disdain, - »Reuben Butler, the dominie at Liberton - and a
dominie depute too! - Reuben, the son of my cottar! - Very well, Jeanie lass,
wilfu' woman will hae her way - Reuben Butler! he hasna in his pouch the value
o' the auld black coat he wears - But it disna signify.« And as he spoke, he
shut successively and with vehemence the drawers of his treasury. »A fair offer,
Jeanie, is nae cause of feud - Ae man may bring a horse to the water, but twenty
winna gar him drink - And as for wasting my substance on other folk's joes« -
    There was something in the last hint that nettled Jeanie's honest pride. -
»I was begging nane frae your honour,« she said; »least of a' on sic a score as
ye pit it on. - Gude morning to ye, sir; ye hae been kind to my father, and it
isna in my heart to think otherwise than kindly of you.«
    So saying, she left the room without listening to a faint »But, Jeanie -
Jeanie - stay, woman!« and traversing the courtyard with a quick step, she set
out on her forward journey, her bosom glowing with that natural indignation and
shame, which an honest mind feels at having subjected itself to ask a favour,
which had been unexpectedly refused. When out of the Laird's ground, and once
more upon the public road, her pace slackened, her anger cooled, and anxious
anticipations of the consequence of this unexpected disappointment began to
influence her with other feelings. Must she then actually beg her way to London?
for such seemed the alternative; or must she turn back, and solicit her father
for money? and by doing so lose time, which was precious, besides the risk of
encountering his positive prohibition respecting the journey! Yet she saw no
medium between these alternatives; and, while she walked slowly on, was still
meditating whether it were not better to return.
    While she was thus in an uncertainty, she heard the clatter of a horse's
hoofs, and a well-known voice calling her name. She looked round, and saw
advancing towards her on a pony, whose bare back and halter assorted ill with
the nightgown, slippers, and laced cocked-hat of the rider, a cavalier of no
less importance than Dumbiedikes himself. In the energy of his pursuit, he had
overcome even the Highland obstinacy of Rory Bean, and compelled that
self-willed palfrey to canter the way his rider chose; which Rory, however,
performed with all the symptoms of reluctance, turning his head, and
accompanying every bound he made in advance with a sidelong motion, which
indicated his extreme wish to turn round, - a manoeuvre which nothing but the
constant exercise of the Laird's heels and cudgel could possibly have
counteracted.
    When the Laird came up with Jeanie, the first words he uttered were, -
»Jeanie, they say ane shouldna aye take a woman at her first word?«
    »Ay, but ye maun take me at mine, Laird,« said Jeanie, looking on the
ground, and walking on without a pause. - »I hae but ae word to bestow on ony
body, and that's aye a true ane.«
    »Then,« said Dumbiedikes, »at least ye suldna aye take a man at his first
word. Ye maunna gang this wilfu' gate sillerless, come o't what like.« - He put
a purse into her hand. »I wad give you Rory too, but he's as wilfu' as yoursell,
and he's ower well used to a gate that maybe he and I hae gaen ower aften, and
he'll gang nae road else.«
    »But, Laird,« said Jeanie, »though I ken my father will satisfy every penny
of this siller, whatever there's o't, yet I wadna like to borrow it frae ane
that maybe thinks of something mair than the paying o't back again.«
    »There's just twenty-five guineas o't,« said Dumbiedikes, with a gentle
sigh, »and whether your father pays or disna pay, I make ye free till't without
another word. Gang where ye like - do what ye like - and marry a' the Butlers in
the country gin ye like - And sae, good morning to you, Jeanie.«
    »And God bless you, Laird, wi' mony a good morning!« said Jeanie, her heart
more softened by the unwonted generosity of this uncouth character, than perhaps
Butler might have approved, had he known her feelings at that moment; »and
comfort, and the Lord's peace, and the peace of the world, be with you, if we
should never meet again!«
    Dumbiedikes turned and waved his hand; and his pony, much more willing to
return than he had been to set out, hurried him homeward so fast, that, wanting
the aid of a regular bridle, as well as of saddle and stirrups, he was too much
puzzled to keep his seat to permit of his looking behind, even to give the
parting glance of a forlorn swain. I am ashamed to say, that the sight of a
lover, run away with in nightgown and slippers and a laced hat, by a bare-backed
Highland pony, had something in it of a sedative, even to a grateful and
deserved burst of affectionate esteem. The figure of Dumbiedikes was too
ludicrous not to confirm Jeanie in the original sentiments she entertained
towards him.
    »He's a good creature,« said she, »and a kind - it's a pity he has sae
willyard a powny.« And she immediately turned her thoughts to the important
journey which she had commenced, reflecting with pleasure, that, according to
her habits of life and of undergoing fatigue, she was now amply or even
superfluously provided with the means of encountering the expenses of the road,
up and down from London, and all other expenses whatever.
 

                              Chapter Twenty-Sixth

 What strange and wayward thoughts will slide
 Into a lover's head;
 »O mercy!« to myself I cried,
 »If Lucy should be dead!«
                                                                     Wordsworth.
 
In pursuing her solitary journey, our heroine, soon after passing the house of
Dumbiedikes, gained a little eminence, from which, on looking to the eastward
down a prattling brook, whose meanders were shaded with straggling willows and
alder trees, she could see the cottages of Woodend and Beersheba, the haunts and
habitation of her early life, and could distinguish the common on which she had
so often herded sheep, and the recesses of the rivulet where she had pulled
rushes with Butler, to plait crowns and sceptres for her sister Effie, then a
beautiful but spoiled child, of about three years old. The recollections which
the scene brought with them were so bitter, that, had she indulged them, she
would have sate down and relieved her heart with tears.
    »But I ken'd,« said Jeanie, when she gave an account of her pilgrimage,
»that greeting would do but little good, and that it was mair beseeming to thank
the Lord, that had showed me kindness and countenance by means of a man, that
mony ca'd a Nabal and churl, but what was free of his gudes to me, as ever the
fountain was free of the stream. And I minded the Scripture about the sin of
Israel at Meribah, when the people murmured, although Moses had brought water
from the dry rock that the congregation might drink and live. Sae, I wad not
trust mysell with another look at puir Woodend, for the very blue reek that came
out of the lum-head pat me in mind of the change of market days with us.«
    In this resigned and Christian temper she pursued her journey until she was
beyond this place of melancholy recollections, and not distant from the village
where Butler dwelt, which, with its old-fashioned church and steeple, rises
among a tuft of trees, occupying the ridge of an eminence to the south of
Edinburgh. At a quarter of a mile's distance is a clumsy square tower, the
residence of the Laird of Liberton, who, in former times, with the habits of the
predatory chivalry of Germany, is said frequently to have annoyed the city of
Edinburgh, by intercepting the supplies and merchandise which came to the town
from the southward.
    This village, its tower, and its church, did not lie precisely in Jeanie's
road towards England; but they were not much aside from it, and the village was
the abode of Butler. She had resolved to see him in the beginning of her
journey, because she conceived him the most proper person to write to her father
concerning her resolution and her hopes. There was probably another reason
latent in her affectionate bosom. She wished once more to see the object of so
early and so sincere an attachment, before commencing a pilgrimage, the perils
of which she did not disguise from herself, although she did not allow them so
to press upon her mind as to diminish the strength and energy of her resolution.
A visit to a lover from a young person in a higher rank of life than Jeanie's,
would have had something forward and improper in its character. But the
simplicity of her rural habits was unacquainted with these punctilious ideas of
decorum, and no notion, therefore, of impropriety crossed her imagination, as,
setting out upon a long journey, she went to bid adieu to an early friend.
    There was still another motive that pressed upon her mind with additional
force as she approached the village. She had looked anxiously for Butler in the
courthouse, and had expected that, certainly, in some part of that eventful day,
he would have appeared to bring such countenance and support as he could give to
his old friend, and the protector of his youth, even if her own claims were laid
aside.
    She knew, indeed, that he was under a certain degree of restraint; but she
still had hoped that he would have found means to emancipate himself from it, at
least for one day. In short, the wild and wayward thoughts which Wordsworth has
described as rising in an absent lover's imagination, suggested, as the only
explanation of his absence, that Butler must be very ill. And so much had this
wrought on her imagination, that when she approached the cottage where her lover
occupied a small apartment, and which had been pointed out to her by a maiden
with a milk-pail on her head, she trembled at anticipating the answer she might
receive on inquiring for him.
    Her fears in this case had, indeed, only hit upon the truth. Butler, whose
constitution was naturally feeble, did not soon recover the fatigue of body and
distress of mind which he had suffered, in consequence of the tragical events
with which our narrative commenced. The painful idea that his character was
breathed on by suspicion, was an aggravation to his distress.
    But the most cruel addition was the absolute prohibition laid by the
magistrates on his holding any communication with Deans or his family. It had
unfortunately appeared likely to them, that some intercourse might be again
attempted with that family by Robertson, through the medium of Butler, and this
they were anxious to intercept, or prevent if possible. The measure was not
meant as a harsh or injurious severity on the part of the magistrates; but, in
Butler's circumstances, it pressed cruelly hard. He felt he must be suffering
under the bad opinion of the person who was dearest to him, from an imputation
of unkind desertion, the most alien to his nature.
    This painful thought, pressing on a frame already injured, brought on a
succession of slow and lingering feverish attacks, which greatly impaired his
health, and at length rendered him incapable even of the sedentary duties of the
school, on which his bread depended. Fortunately, old Mr. Whackbairn, who was
the principal teacher of the little parochial establishment, was sincerely
attached to Butler. Besides that he was sensible of his merits and value as an
assistant, which had greatly raised the credit of his little school, the ancient
pedagogue, who had himself been tolerably educated, retained some taste for
classical lore, and would gladly relax, after the drudgery of the school was
over, by conning over a few pages of Horace or Juvenal with his usher. A
similarity of taste begot kindness, and accordingly he saw Butler's increasing
debility with great compassion, roused up his own energies to teaching the
school in the morning hours, insisted upon his assistant's reposing himself at
that period, and, besides, supplied him with such comforts as the patient's
situation required, and his own means were inadequate to compass.
    Such was Butler's situation, scarce able to drag himself to the place where
his daily drudgery must gain his daily bread, and racked with a thousand fearful
anticipations concerning the fate of those who were dearest to him in the world,
when the trial and condemnation of Effie Deans put the copestone upon his mental
misery.
    He had a particular account of these events from a fellow-student who
resided in the same village, and who, having been present on the melancholy
occasion, was able to place it in all its agony of horrors before his
excruciated imagination. That sleep should have visited his eyes after such a
curfew-note, was impossible. A thousand dreadful visions haunted his imagination
all night, and in the morning he was awake from a feverish slumber, by the only
circumstance which could have added to his distress, -the visit of an intrusive
ass.
    This unwelcome visitant was no other than Bartoline Saddletree. The worthy
and sapient burgher had kept his appointment at MacCroskie's with Plumdamas and
some other neighbours, to discuss the Duke of Argyle's speech, the justice of
Effie Deans's condemnation, and the improbability of her obtaining a reprieve.
This sage conclave disputed high and drank deep, and on the next morning
Bartoline felt, as he expressed it, as if his head was like a »confused progress
of writs.«
    To bring his reflective powers to their usual serenity, Saddletree resolved
to take a morning's ride upon a certain hackney, which he, Plumdamas, and
another honest shopkeeper, combined to maintain by joint subscription, for
occasional jaunts for the purpose of business or exercise. As Saddletree had two
children boarded with Whackbairn, and was, as we have seen, rather fond of
Butler's society, he turned his palfrey's head towards Liberton, and came, as we
have already said, to give the unfortunate usher that additional vexation, of
which Imogene complains so feelingly, when she says, -
 
»I'm sprighted with a fool -
Sprighted and anger'd worse.«
 
If anything could have added gall to bitterness, it was the choice which
Saddletree made of a subject for his prosing harangues, being the trial of Effie
Deans, and the probability of her being executed. Every word fell on Butler's
ear like the knell of a death-bell, or the note of a screech-owl.
Jeanie paused at the door of her lover's humble abode upon hearing the loud and
pompous tones of Saddletree sounding from the inner apartment, »Credit me, it
will be sae, Mr. Butler. Brandy cannot save her. She maun gang down the Bow wi'
the lad in the pioted coat51 at her heels. - I am sorry for the lassie, but the
law, sir, maun hae its course -
 
Vivat Rex,
Currat Lex,
 
as the poet has it, in whilk of Horace's odes I know not.«
    Here Butler groaned, in utter impatience of the brutality and ignorance
which Bartoline had contrived to amalgamate into one sentence. But Saddletree,
like other prosers, was blessed with a happy obtuseness of perception concerning
the unfavourable impression which he sometimes made on his auditors. He
proceeded to deal forth his scraps of legal knowledge without mercy, and
concluded by asking Butler, with great self-complacency, »Was it na a pity my
father didna send me to Utrecht? Havena I missed the chance to turn out as
clarissimus an ictus, as auld Grunwiggin himself? - Whatfor dinna ye speak, Mr.
Butler? Wad I no hae been a clarissimus ictus? - Eh, man?«
    »I really do not understand you, Mr. Saddletree,« said Butler, thus pushed
hard for an answer. His faint and exhausted tone of voice was instantly drowned
in the sonorous bray of Bartoline.
    »No understand me, man? Ictus is Latin for a lawyer, is it not?«
    »Not that ever I heard of,« answered Butler in the same dejected tone.
    »The deil ye didna! - See, man, I got the word but this morning out of a
memorial of Mr. Crossmyloof's - see, there it is, ictus clarissimus et perti -
peritissimus - it's a' Latin, for it's printed in the Italian types.«
    »O, you mean juris-consultus - Ictus is an abbreviation for juris-consultus.
«
    »Dinna tell me, man,« persevered Saddletree, »there's nae abbreviates except
in adjudications; and this is a' about a servitude of water-drap - that is to
say, tillicidian52 (maybe ye'll say that's no Latin neither), in Mary King's
Close in the High Street.«
    »Very likely,« said poor Butler, overwhelmed by the noisy perseverance of
his visitor. »I am not able to dispute with you.«
    »Few folk are - few folk are, Mr. Butler, though I say it that shouldna say
it,« returned Bartoline with great delight. »Now, it will be twa hours yet or
ye're wanted in the schule, and as ye are no well, I'll sit wi' you to divert
ye, and explain t'ye the nature of a tillicidian. Ye maun ken, the petitioner,
Mrs. Crombie, a very decent woman, is a friend of mine, and I hae stude her
friend in this case, and brought her wi' credit into the court, and I doubtna
that in due time she will win out o't wi' credit, win she or lose she. Ye see,
being an inferior tenement or laigh house, we grant ourselves to be burdened wi'
the tillicide, that is, that we are obligated to receive the natural water-drap
of the superior tenement, sae far as the same fa's frae the heavens, or the roof
of our neighbour's house, and from thence by the gutters or eaves upon our laigh
tenement. But the other night comes a Highland queen of a lass, and she flashes,
God kens what, out at the eastmost window of Mrs. MacPhail's house, that's the
superior tenement. I believe the auld women wad hae agreed, for Luckie MacPhail
sent down the lass to tell my friend Mrs. Crombie that she had made the gardyloo
out of the wrang window, out of respect for twa Highlandmen that were speaking
Gaelic in the close below the right ane. But luckily for Mrs. Crombie, I just
chanced to come in in time to break aff the communing, for it's a pity the point
suldna be tried. We had Mrs. MacPhail into the Ten-Mark Court - The Hieland
limmer of a lass wanted to swear herself free - but haud ye there, says I« -
    The detailed account of this important suit might have lasted until poor
Butler's hour of rest was completely exhausted, had not Saddletree been
interrupted by the noise of voices at the door. The woman of the house where
Butler lodged, on returning with her pitcher from the well, whence she had heen
fetching water for the family, found our heroine Jeanie Deans standing at the
door, impatient of the prolix harangue of Saddletree, yet unwilling to enter
until he should have taken his leave.
    The good woman abridged the period of hesitation by inquiring, »Was ye
wanting the gudeman or me, lass?«
    »I wanted to speak with Mr. Butler, if he's at leisure,« replied Jeanie.
    »Gang in by then, my woman,« answered the goodwife; and opening the door of
a room, she announced the additional visitor with, »Mr. Butler, here's a lass
wants to speak t'ye.«
    The surprise of Butler was extreme, when Jeanie, who seldom stirred
half-a-mile from home, entered his apartment upon this annunciation.
    »Good God!« he said, starting from his chair, while alarm restored to his
cheek the colour of which sickness had deprived it; »some new misfortune must
have happened!«
    »None, Mr. Reuben, but what you must hae heard of - but oh, ye are looking
ill yoursell!« - for the »hectic of a moment« had not concealed from her
affectionate eyes the ravages which lingering disease and anxiety of mind had
made in her lover's person.
    »No: I am well - quite well,« said Butler with eagerness; »if I can do
anything to assist you, Jeanie - or your father.«
    »Ay, to be sure,« said Saddletree; »the family may be considered as limited
to them twa now, just as if Effie had never been in the tailzie, puir thing.
But, Jeanie lass, what brings you out to Liberton sae air in the morning, and
your father lying ill in the Luckenbooths?«
    »I had a message frae my father to Mr. Butler,« said Jeanie with
embarrassment; but instantly feeling ashamed of the fiction to which she had
resorted, for her love of and veneration for truth was almost Quaker-like, she
corrected herself - »That is to say, I wanted to speak with Mr. Butler about
some business of my father's and puir Effie's.«
    »Is it law business?« said Bartoline; »because if it be, ye had better take
my opinion on the subject than his.«
    »It is not just law business,« said Jeanie, who saw considerable
inconvenience might arise from letting Mr. Saddletree into the secret purpose of
her journey; »but I want Mr. Butler to write a letter for me.«
    »Very right,« said Mr. Saddletree; »and if ye'll tell me what it is about,
I'll dictate to Mr. Butler as Mr. Crossmyloof does to his clerk. - Get your pen
and ink in initialibus, Mr. Butler.«
    Jeanie looked at Butler, and wrung her hands with vexation and impatience.
    »I believe, Mr. Saddletree,« said Butler, who saw the necessity of getting
rid of him at all events, »that Mr. Whackbairn will be somewhat affronted if you
do not hear your boys called up to their lessons.«
    »Indeed, Mr. Butler, and that's as true; and I promised to ask a half
play-day to the schule, so that the bairns might gang and see the hanging, which
canna but have a pleasing effect on their young minds, seeing there is no
knowing what they may come to themselves. - Odd so, I didna mind ye were here,
Jeanie Deans; but ye maun use yoursell to hear the matter spoken o'. - Keep
Jeanie here till I come back, Mr. Butler; I winna bide ten minutes.«
    And with this unwelcome assurance of an immediate return, he relieved them
of the embarrassment of his presence.
    »Reuben,« said Jeanie, who saw the necessity of using the interval of his
absence in discussing what had brought her there, »I am bound on a lang journey
- I am gaun to Lunnon to ask Effie's life of the king and of the queen.«
    »Jeanie! you are surely not yourself,« answered Butler, in the utmost
surprise; - »you go to London - you address the king and queen!«
    »And what for no, Reuben?« said Jeanie, with all the composed simplicity of
her character; »it's but speaking to a morta man and woman when a' is done. And
their hearts maun be made o' flesh and blood like other folk's, and Effie's
story wad melt them were they stane. Forby, I hae heard that they are no sic bad
folk as what the Jacobites ca' them.«
    »Yes, Jeanie,« said Butler; »but their magnificence - their retinue -the
difficulty of getting audience?«
    »I have thought of a' that, Reuben, and it shall not break my spirit. Nae
doubt their claiths will be very grand, wi' their crowns on their heads, and
their sceptres in their hands, like the great King Ahasuerus when he sate upon
his royal throne fornent the gate of his house, as we are told in Scripture. But
I have that within me that will keep my heart from failing, and I am amaist sure
that I will be strengthened to speak the errand I came for.«
    »Alas! alas!« said Butler, »the kings now-a-days do not sit in the gate to
administer justice, as in patriarchal times. I know as little of courts as you
do, Jeanie, by experience; but by reading and report I know, that the King of
Britain does everything by means of his ministers.«
    »And if they be upright, God-fearing ministers,« said Jeanie, »it's sae
muckle the better chance for Effie and me.«
    »But you do not even understand the most ordinary words relating to a
court,« said Butler; »by the ministry is meant not clergymen, but the king's
official servants.«
    »Nae doubt,« returned Jeanie, »he maun hae a great number mair, I daur to
say, than the duchess has at Dalkeith, and great folk's servants are aye mair
saucy than themselves. But I'll be decently put on, and I'll offer them a trifle
o' siller, as if I came to see the palace. Or, if they scruple that, I'll tell
them I'm come on a business of life and death, and then they will surely bring
me to speech of the king and queen?«
    Butler shook his head. »O Jeanie, this is entirely a wild dream. You can
never see them but through some great lord's intercession, and I think it is
scarce possible even then.«
    »Weel, but maybe I can get that too,« said Jeanie, »with a little helping
from you.«
    »From me, Jeanie! this is the wildest imagination of all.«
    »Ay, but it is not, Reuben. Havena I heard you say, that your grandfather
(that my father never likes to hear about) did some good langsyne to the forbear
of this MacCallummore, when he was Lord of Lorn?«
    »He did so,« said Butler, eagerly, »and I can prove it. - I will write to
the Duke of Argyle - report speaks him a good kindly man, as he is known for a
brave soldier and true patriot - I will conjure him to stand between your sister
and this cruel fate. There is but a poor chance of success, but we will try all
means.«
    »We must try all means,« replied Jeanie; »but writing winna do it - a letter
canna look, and pray, and beg, and beseech, as the human voice can do to the
human heart. A letter's like the music that the ladies have for their spinets -
nothing but black scores, compared to the same tune played or sung. It's word
of mouth maun do it, or nothing, Reuben.«
    »You are right,« said Reuben, recollecting his firmness, »and I will hope
that Heaven has suggested to your kind heart and firm courage the only possible
means of saving the life of this unfortunate girl. But, Jeanie, you must not
take this most perilous journey alone; I have an interest in you, and I will not
agree that my Jeanie throws herself away. You must even, in the present
circumstances, give me a husband's right to protect you, and I will go with you
myself on this journey, and assist you to do your duty by your family.«
    »Alas, Reuben!« said Jeanie in her turn, »this must not be; a pardon will
not give my sister her fair fame again, or make me a bride fitting for an honest
man and an usefu' minister. Wha wad mind what he said in the pu'pit, that had to
wife the sister of a woman that was condemned for sic wickedness?«
    »But, Jeanie,« pleaded her lover, »I do not believe, and I cannot believe,
that Effie has done this deed.«
    »Heaven bless ye for saying sae, Reuben,« answered Jeanie; »but she maun
bear the blame o't after all.«
    »But the blame, were it even justly laid on her, does not fall on you.«
    »Ah, Reuben, Reuben,« replied the young woman, »ye ken it is a blot that
spreads to kith and kin. - Ichabod - as my poor father says - the glory is
departed from our house; for the poorest man's house has a glory, where there
are true hands, a divine heart, and an honest fame - And the last has gone frae
us a'.«
    »But, Jeanie, consider your word and plighted faith to me; and would you
undertake such a journey without a man to protect you? - and who should that
protector be but your husband?«
    »You are kind and good, Reuben, and wad take me wi' a' my shame, I doubtna.
But ye canna but own that this is no time to marry or be given in marriage. Na,
if that should ever be, it maun be in another and a better season. - And, dear
Reuben, ye speak of protecting me on my journey - Alas! who will protect and
take care of you? - your very limbs tremble with standing for ten minutes on the
floor; how could you undertake a journey as far as Lunnon?«
    »But I am strong - I am well,« continued Butler, sinking in his seat totally
exhausted, »at least I shall be quite well tomorrow.«
    »Ye see, and ye ken, ye maun just let me depart,« said Jeanie, after a
pause; and then taking his extended hand, and gazing kindly in his face, she
added, »It's e'en a grief the mair to me to see you in this way. But ye maun
keep up your heart for Jeanie's sake, for if she isna your wife, she will never
be the wife of living man. And now give me the paper for MacCallummore, and bid
God speed me on my way.«
    There was something of romance in Jeanie's venturous resolution; yet, on
consideration, as it seemed impossible to alter it by persuasion, or to give her
assistance but by advice, Butler, after some farther debate, put into her hands
the paper she desired, which, with the muster-roll in which it was folded up,
were the sole memorials of the stout and enthusiastic Bible Butler, his
grandfather. While Butler sought this document, Jeanie had time to take up his
pocket Bible. »I have marked a scripture,« she said, as she again laid it down,
»with your kylevine pen, that will be useful to us baith. And ye maun take the
trouble, Reuben, to write a' this to my father, for, God help me, I have neither
head nor hand for lang letters at ony time, forby now; and I trust him entirely
to you, and I trust you will soon be permitted to see him. And, Reuben, when ye
do win to the speech o' him, mind a' the auld man's bits o' ways, for Jeanie's
sake; and dinna speak o' Latin or English terms to him, for he's o' the auld
warld, and downa bide to be fashed wi' them, though I daresay he may be wrang.
And dinna ye say muckle to him, but set him on speaking himself, for he'll bring
himself mair comfort that way. And O, Reuben, the poor lassie in yon dungeon! -
but I needna bid your kind heart - give her what comfort ye can as soon as they
will let ye see her - tell her - But I maunna speak mair about her, for I maunna
take leave o' ye wi' the tear in my ee, for that wouldna be canny. - God bless
ye, Reuben!«
    To avoid so ill an omen she left the room hastily, while her features yet
retained the mournful and affectionate smile which she had compelled them to
wear, in order to support Butler's spirits.
    It seemed as if the power of sight, of speech, and of reflection, had left
him as she disappeared from the room, which she had entered and retired from so
like an apparition. Saddletree, who entered immediately afterwards, overwhelmed
him with questions, which he answered without understanding them, and with legal
disquisitions, which conveyed to him no iota of meaning. At length the learned
burgess recollected that there was a Baron Court to be held at Loanhead that
day, and though it was hardly worth while, »he might as well go to see if there
was anything doing, as he was acquainted with the baron bailie, who was a decent
man, and would be glad of a word of legal advice.«
    So soon as he departed, Butler flew to the Bible, the last book which Jeanie
had touched. To his extreme surprise, a paper, containing two or three pieces of
gold, dropped from the book. With a black-lead pencil, she had marked the
sixteenth and twenty-fifth verses of the thirty-seventh Psalm, - »A little that
a righteous man hath, is better than the riches of the wicked.« - »I have been
young and am now old, yet have I not seen the righteous forsaken, nor his seed
begging their bread.«
    Deeply impressed with the affectionate delicacy which shrouded its own
generosity under the cover of a providential supply to his wants, he pressed the
gold to his lips with more ardour than ever the metal was greeted with by a
miser. To emulate her devout firmness and confidence seemed now the pitch of his
ambition, and his first task was to write an account to David Deans of his
daughter's resolution and journey southward. He studied every sentiment, and
even every phrase, which he thought could reconcile the old man to her
extraordinary resolution. The effect which this epistle produced will be
hereafter adverted to. Butler committed it to the charge of an honest clown, who
had frequent dealings with Deans in the sale of his dairy produce, and who
readily undertook a journey to Edinburgh to put the letter into his own hands.53
 

                             Chapter Twenty-Seventh

 »My native land, good night.«
                                                                     Lord Byron.
 
In the present day, a journey from Edinburgh to London is a matter at once safe,
brief, and simple, however inexperienced or unprotected the traveller. Numerous
coaches of different rates of charge, and as many packets, are perpetually
passing and repassing betwixt the capital of Britain and her northern sister, so
that the most timid or indolent may execute such a journey upon a few hours'
notice. But it was different in 1737. So slight and infrequent was the
intercourse betwixt London and Edinburgh, that men still alive remember that
upon one occasion the mail from the former city arrived at the General
Post-Office in Scotland with only one letter in it.54 The usual mode of
travelling was by means of post-horses, the traveller occupying one, and his
guide another, in which manner, by relays of horses from stage to stage, the
journey might be accomplished in a wonderfully short time by those who could
endure fatigue. To have the bones shaken to pieces by a constant change of those
hacks was a luxury for the rich - the poor were under the necessity of using the
mode of conveyance with which nature had provided them.
    With a strong heart, and a frame patient of fatigue, Jeanie Deans,
travelling at the rate of twenty miles a-day, and sometimes farther, traversed
the southern part of Scotland, and advanced, as far as Durham. Hitherto she had
been either among her own country-folk, or those to whom her bare feet and
tartan screen were objects too familiar to attract much attention. But as she
advanced, she perceived that both circumstances exposed her to sarcasm and
taunts, which she might otherwise have escaped; and although in her heart she
thought it unkind, and inhospitable, to sneer at a passing stranger on account
of the fashion of her attire, yet she had the good sense to alter those parts of
her dress which attracted ill-natured observation. Her chequed screen was
deposited carefully in her bundle, and she conformed to the national
extravagance of wearing shoes and stockings for the whole day. She confessed
afterwards, that, »besides the wastrife, it was lang or she could walk sae
comfortably with the shoes as without them; but there was often a bit saft
heather by the road-side, and that helped her well on.« The want of the screen,
which was drawn over the head like a veil, she supplied by a bon-grace, as she
called it; a large straw bonnet like those worn by the English maidens when
labouring in the fields. »But I thought unco shame o' mysell,« she said, »the
first time I put on a married woman's bon-grace, and me a single maiden.«
    With these changes she had little, as she said, to make »her kenspeckle when
she didna speak,« but her accent and language drew down on her so many jests and
gibes, couched in a worse patois by far than her own, that she soon found it was
her interest to talk as little and as seldom as possible. She answered,
therefore, civil salutations of chance passengers with a civil courtesy, and
chose, with anxious circumspection, such places of repose as looked at once most
decent and sequestered. She found the common people of England, although
inferior in courtesy to strangers, such as was then practised in her own more
unfrequented country, yet, upon the whole, by no means deficient in the real
duties of hospitality. She readily obtained food, and shelter, and protection at
a very moderate rate, which sometimes the generosity of mine host altogether
declined, with a blunt apology,- »Thee hast a long way afore thee, lass; and
I'se ne'er take penny out o' a single woman's purse; it's the best friend thou
can have on the road.«
    It often happened, too, that mine hostess was struck with »the tidy, nice
Scotch body,« and procured her an escort, or a cast in a wagon, for some part
of the way, or gave her a useful advice and recommendation respecting her
resting-places.
    At York our pilgrim stopped for the best part of a day, partly to recruit
her strength, - partly because she had the good luck to obtain a lodging in an
inn kept by a countrywoman, - partly to indite two letters to her father and
Reuben Butler; an operation of some little difficulty, her habits being by no
means those of literary composition. That to her father was in the following
words: -
 
        »Dearest Father, - I make my present pilgrimage more heavy and
        burdensome, through the sad occasion to reflect that it is without your
        knowledge, which, God knows, was far contrary to my heart; for Scripture
        says, that the vow of the daughter should not be binding without the
        consent of the father, wherein it may be I have been guilty to take this
        wearie journey without your consent. Nevertheless, it was borne in upon
        my mind that I should be an instrument to help my poor sister in this
        extremity of needcessity, otherwise I wad not, for wealth or for world's
        gear, or for the haill lands of Da'keith and Lugton, have done the like
        o' this, without your free will and knowledge. Oh, dear father, as ye
        wad desire a blessing on my journey, and upon your household, speak a
        word or write a line of comfort to yon poor prisoner. If she has sinned,
        she has sorrowed and suffered, and ye ken better than me, that we maun
        forgie others, as we pray to be forgien. Dear father, forgive my saying
        this muckle, for it doth not become a young head to instruct grey hairs;
        but I am sae far frae ye, that my heart yearns to ye a', and fain wad I
        hear that ye had forgien her trespass, and sae I nae doubt say mair than
        may become me. The folk here are civil, and, like the barbarians unto
        the holy apostle, hae shown me much kindness; and there are a sort of
        chosen people in the land, for they hae some kirks without organs that
        are like ours, and are called meeting-houses, where the minister
        preaches without a gown. But most of the country are prelatists, whilk
        is awful' to think; and I saw twa men that were ministers following
        hunds, as bauld as Roslin or Driden, the young Laird of Loup-the-dike,
        or ony wild gallant in Lothian. A sorrowfu' sight to behold! Oh, dear
        father, may a blessing be with your down-lying and up-rising, and
        remember in your prayers your affectionate daughter to command,
                                                                    JEAN DEANS.«
 
A postscript bore, »I learned from a decent woman, a grazier's widow, that they
hae a cure for the muir-ill in Cumberland, whilk is ane pint, as they ca't, of
yill, whilk is a dribble in comparison of our gawsie Scots pint, and hardly a
mutchkin, boiled wi' sope and hartshorn draps, and toomed doun the creature's
throat wi' ane whorn. Ye might try it on the bauson-faced year-auld quey; an it
does nae good, it can do nae ill. - She was a kind woman, and seemed skeely
about horned beasts. When I reach Lunnon, I intend to gang to our cousin Mrs.
Glass, the tobacconist, at the sign o' the Thistle, what is so ceevil as to send
you down your spleuchan-fu' anes a year; and as she must be well kend in Lunnon,
I doubt not easily to find out where she lives.«
 
Being seduced into betraying our heroine's confidence thus far, we will stretch
our communication a step beyond, and impart to the reader her letter to her
lover.
 
        »Mr. Reuben Butler, - Hoping this will find you better, this comes to
        say, that I have reached this great town safe, and am not wearied with
        walking, but the better for it. And I have seen many things which I
        trust to tell you one day, also the muckle kirk of this place; and all
        around the city are mills, whilk havena muckle wheels nor mill-dams, but
        gang by the wind - strange to behold. Ane miller asked me to gang in and
        see it work, but I wad not, for I am not come to the south to make
        acquaintance with strangers. I keep the straight road, and just beck if
        anybody speaks to me ceevilly, and answers nobody with the tong but
        women of my ain sect. I wish, Mr. Butler, I kend anything that wad make
        ye well, for they hae mair medicines in this town of York than wad cure
        a' Scotland, and surely some of them wad be good for your complaints. If
        ye had a kindly motherly body to nurse ye, and no to let ye waste
        yoursell wi' reading - whilk ye read mair than enough wi' the bairns in
        the schule - and to give ye warm milk in the morning, I wad be mair easy
        for ye. Dear Mr. Butler, keep a good heart, for we are in the hands of
        Ane that kens better what is good for us than we ken what is for
        oursells. I hae nae doubt to do that for which I am come - I canna doubt
        it - I winna think to doubt it - because, if I haena full assurance, how
        shall I bear myself with earnest entreaties in the great folk's
        presence? But to ken that ane's purpose is right, and to make their
        heart strong, is the way to get through the warst day's darg. The
        bairns' rime says, the warst blast of the borrowing days55 couldn't have kill
        the three silly poor hog-lams. And if it be God's pleasure, we that are
        sindered in sorrow may meet again in joy, even on this hither side of
        Jordan. I dinna bid ye mind what I said at our partin' anent my poor
        father, and that misfortunate lassie, for I ken you will do sae for the
        sake of Christian charity, whilk is mair than the entreaties of her that
        is your servant to command,
                                                                  JEANIE DEANS.«
 
This letter also had a postscript. »Dear Reuben, If ye think that it wad hae
been right for me to have said mair and kinder things to ye, just think that I
hae written sae, since I am sure that I wish a' that is kind and right to ye and
by ye. Ye will think I am turned waster, for I wear clean hose and shoon every
day; but it's the fashion here for decent bodies, and ilka land has it's ain
landlaw. Ower and aboon a', if laughing days were e'er to come back again till
us, ye wad laugh well to see my round face at the far end of a strae bon-grace,
that looks as muckle and round as the middell aisle in Libberton Kirk. But it
sheds the sun well aff, and keeps uncivil folk frae staring as if ane were a
worrycow. I sall tell ye by writ how I come on wi' the Duke of Argyle, when I
won up to Lunnon. Direct a line, to say how ye are, to me, to the charge of Mrs.
Margaret Glass, tobacconist, at the sign of the Thistle, Lunnon, whilk, if it
assures me of your health, will make my mind sae muckle easier. Excuse bad
spelling and writing, as I have ane ill pen.«
 
The orthography of these epistles may seem to the southron to require a better
apology than the letter expresses, though a bad pen was the excuse of a certain
Galwegian laird for bad spelling; but, on behalf of the heroine, I would have
them to know, that, thanks to the care of Butler, Jeanie Deans wrote and spelled
fifty times better than half the women of rank in Scotland at that period, whose
strange orthography and singular diction form the strongest contrast to the good
sense which their correspondence usually intimates.
    For the rest, in the tenor of these epistles, Jeanie expressed, perhaps,
more hopes, a firmer courage, and better spirits, than she actually felt. But
this was with the amiable idea of relieving her father and lover from
apprehensions on her account, which she was sensible must greatly add to their
other troubles. »If they think me well, and like to do well,« said the poor
pilgrim to herself, »my father will be kinder to Effie, and Butler will be
kinder to himself. For I ken well that they will think mair o' me than I do o'
mysell.«
    Accordingly, she sealed her letters carefully, and put them into the
post-office with her own hand, after many inquiries concerning the time in which
they were likely to reach Edinburgh. When this duty was performed, she readily
accepted her landlady's pressing invitation to dine with her, and remain till
the next morning. The hostess, as we have said, was her countrywoman, and the
eagerness with which Scottish people meet, communicate, and, to the extent of
their power, assist each other, although it is often objected to us as a
prejudice and narrowness of sentiment, seems, on the contrary, to arise from a
most justifiable and honourable feeling of patriotism, combined with a
conviction, which, if undeserved, would long since have been confuted by
experience, that the habits and principles of the nation are a sort of guarantee
for the character of the individual. At any rate, if the extensive influence of
this national partiality be considered as an additional tie, binding man to man,
and calling forth the good offices of such as can render them to the countryman
who happens to need them, we think it must be found to exceed, as an active and
efficient motive to generosity, that more impartial and wider principle of
general benevolence, which we have sometimes seen pleaded as an excuse for
assisting no individual whatever.
    Mrs. Bickerton, lady of the ascendant of the Seven Stars, in the
Castle-gate, York, was deeply infected with the unfortunate prejudices of her
country. Indeed, she displayed so much kindness to Jeanie Deans (because she
herself, being a Merse woman, marched with Mid-Lothian, in which Jeanie was
born), showed such motherly regard to her, and such anxiety for her farther
progress, that Jeanie thought herself safe, though by temper sufficiently
cautious, in communicating her whole story to her.
    Mrs. Bickerton raised her hands and eyes at the recital, and exhibited much
wonder and pity. But she also gave some effectual good advice.
    She required to know the strength of Jeanie's purse, reduced by her deposit
at Liberton, and the necessary expense of her journey, to about fifteen pounds.
»This,« she said, »would do very well, providing she would carry it a' safe to
London.«
    »Safe!« answered Jeanie; »I'se warrant my carrying it safe, bating the
needful expenses.«
    »Ay, but highwaymen, lassie,« said Mrs. Bickerton; »for ye are come into a
more civilised, that is to say, a more roguish country than the north, and how
ye are to get forward, I do not profess to know. If ye could wait here eight
days, our wagons would go up, and I would recommend you to Joe Broadwheel, who
would see you safe to the Swan and two Necks. And dinna sneeze at Joe, if he
should be for drawing up wi' you« (continued Mrs. Bickerton, her acquired
English mingling with her national or original dialect), »he's a handy boy, and
a wanter, and no lad better thought o' on the road; and the English make good
husbands enough, witness my poor man, Moses Bickerton, as is i' the kirkyard.«
    Jeanie hastened to say, that she could not possibly wait for the setting
forth of Joe Broadwheel; being internally by no means gratified with the idea of
becoming the object of his attention during the journey.
    »Aweel, lass,« answered the good landlady, »then thou must pickle in thine
ain poke-nook, and buckle thy girdle thine ain gate. But take my advice, and
hide thy gold in thy stays, and keep a piece or two and some silver, in case
thou be'st spoke withal; for there's as wud lads haunt within a day's walk from
hence, as on the braes of Doune in Perthshire. And, lass, thou maunna gang
staring through Lunnon, asking what kens Mrs. Glass at the sign o' the Thistle;
marry, they would laugh thee to scorn. But gang thou to this honest man,« and
she put a direction into Jeanie's hand, »he kens maist part of the sponsible
Scottish folk in the city, and he will find out your friend for thee.«
    Jeanie took the little introductory letter with sincere thanks; but,
something alarmed on the subject of the highway robbers, her mind recurred to
what Ratcliffe had mentioned to her, and briefly relating the circumstances
which placed a document so extraordinary in her hands, she put the paper he had
given her into the hand of Mrs. Bickerton.
    The Lady of the Seven Stars did not indeed ring a bell, because such was not
the fashion of the time, but she whistled on a silver call, which was hung by
her side, and a tight serving-maid entered the room.
    »Tell Dick Ostler to come here,« said Mrs. Bickerton.
    »Dick Ostler accordingly made his appearance; - a queer, knowing, shambling
animal, with a hatchet-face, a squint, a game-arm, and a limp.
    Dick Ostler,« said Mrs. Bickerton, in a tone of authority that showed she
was (at least by adoption) Yorkshire too, »thou knows most people and most
things o' the road.«
    »Eye, eye, God help me, mistress,« said Dick, shrugging his shoulders
betwixt a repentant and a knowing expression - »Eye! I ha' know'd a thing or twa
i' ma day, mistress.« He looked sharp and laughed - looked grave and sighed, as
one who was prepared to take the matter either way.
    »Kenst thou this wee bit paper amang the rest, man?« said Mrs. Bickerton,
handing him the protection which Ratcliffe had given Jeanie Deans.
    When Dick had looked at the paper, he winked with one eye, extended his
grotesque mouth from ear to ear, like a navigable canal, scratched his head
powerfully, and then said, »Ken! - ay -maybe we ken summat, an it werena for
harm to him, mistress!«
    »None in the world,« said Mrs. Bickerton; »only a dram of Hollands to
thyself, man, an thou wilt speak.«
    »Why, then,« said Dick, giving the head-band of his breeches a knowing hoist
with one hand, and kicking out one foot behind him to accommodate the adjustment
of that important habiliment, »I dares to say the pass will be kend well enough
on the road, an that be all.«
    »But what sort of a lad was he?« said Mrs. Bickerton, winking to Jeanie, as
proud of her knowing ostler.
    »Why, what ken I? - Jim the Rat - why he was Cock o' the North within this
twelmonth - he and Scotch Wilson, Handie Dandie, as they called him - but he's
been out o' this country a while, as I rackon; but ony gentleman, as keeps the
road o' this side Stamford, will respect Jim's pass.«
    Without asking farther questions, the landlady filled Dick Ostler a bumper
of Hollands. He ducked with his head and shoulders, scraped with his more
advanced hoof, bolted the alcohol, to use the learned phrase, and withdrew to
his own domains.
    »I would advise thee, Jeanie,« said Mrs. Bickerton, »an thou meetest with
ugly customers o' the road, to show them this bit paper, for it will serve thee,
assure thyself.«
    A neat little supper concluded the evening. The exported Scotswoman, Mrs.
Bickerton by name, ate heartily of one or two seasoned dishes, drank some sound
old ale, and a glass of stiff negus; while she gave Jeanie a history of her
gout, admiring how it was possible that she, whose fathers and mothers for many
generations had been farmers in Lammermuir, could have come by a disorder so
totally unknown to them. Jeanie did not choose to offend her friendly landlady,
by speaking her mind on the probable origin of this complaint; but she thought
on the flesh-pots of Egypt, and, in spite of all entreaties to better fare, made
her evening meal upon vegetables, with a glass of fair water.
    Mrs. Bickerton assured her, that the acceptance of any reckoning was
entirely out of the question, furnished her with credentials to her
correspondent in London, and to several inns upon the road where she had some
influence or interest, reminded her of the precautions she should adopt for
concealing her money, and as she was to depart early in the morning, took leave
of her very affectionately, taking her word that she would visit her on her
return to Scotland, and tell her how she had managed, and that summum bonum for
a gossip, »all how and about it.« This Jeanie faithfully promised.
 

                             Chapter Twenty-Eighth

 And Need and Misery, Vice and Danger, bind,
 In sad alliance, each degraded mind.
 
As our traveller set out early on the ensuing morning to prosecute her journey,
and was in the act of leaving the inn-yard, Dick Ostler, who either had risen
early or neglected to go to bed, either circumstance being equally incident to
his calling, hollowed out after her, - »The top of the morning to you, Moggie.
Have a care o' Gunderby Hill, young one. Robin Hood's dead and gwone, but there
be takers yet in the vale of Bever. Jeanie looked at him as if to request a
farther explanation, but, with a leer, a shuffle, and a shrug, inimitable
(unless by Emery), Dick turned again to the raw-boned steed which he was
currying, and sung as he employed the comb and brush, -
 
Robin Hood was a yeoman right good,
And his bow was of trusty yew;
And if Robin said stand on the king's lea-land,
Pray, why should not we say so too?«
 
Jeanie pursued her journey without farther inquiry, for there was nothing in
Dick's manner that inclined her to prolong their conference. A painful day's
journey brought her to Ferrybridge, the best inn, then and since, upon the great
northern road; and an introduction from Mrs. Bickerton, added to her own simple
and quiet manners, so propitiated the landlady of the Swan in her favour, that
the good dame procured her the convenient accommodation of a pillion and
post-horse then returning to Tuxford, so that she accomplished, upon the second
day after leaving York, the longest journey she had yet made. She was a good
deal fatigued by a mode of travelling to which she was less accustomed than to
walking, and it was considerably later than usual on the ensuing morning that
she felt herself able to resume her pilgrimage. At noon the hundred-armed Trent,
and the blackened ruins of Newark Castle, demolished in the great civil war, lay
before her. It may easily be supposed, that Jeanie had no curiosity to make
antiquarian researches, but, entering the town, went straight to the inn to
which she had been directed at Ferrybridge. While she procured some refreshment,
she observed the girl who brought it to her, looked at her several times with
fixed and peculiar interest, and at last, to her infinite surprise, inquired if
her name was not Deans, and if she was not a Scotchwoman, going to London upon
justice business. Jeanie, with all her simplicity of character, had some of the
caution of her country, and, according to Scottish universal custom, she
answered the question by another, requesting the girl would tell her why she
asked these questions?
    The Maritornes of the Saracen's Head, Newark, replied, »Two women had passed
that morning, who had made inquiries after one Jeanie Deans, travelling to
London on such an errand, and could scarce be persuaded that she had not passed
on.«
    Much surprised and somewhat alarmed (for what is inexplicable is usually
alarming), Jeanie questioned the wench about the particular appearance of these
two women, but could only learn that the one was aged, and the other young; that
the latter was the taller, and that the former spoke most, and seemed to
maintain an authority over her companion, and that both spoke with the Scottish
accent.
    This conveyed no information whatever, and with an indescribable
presentiment of evil designed towards her, Jeanie adopted the resolution of
taking post-horses for the next stage. In this, however, she could not be
gratified; some accidental circumstances had occasioned what is called a run
upon the road, and the landlord could not accommodate her with a guide and
horses. After waiting some time, in hopes that a pair of horses that had gone
southward would return in time for her use, she at length, feeling ashamed at
her own pusillanimity, resolved to prosecute her journey in her usual manner.
    »It was all plain road,« she was assured, »except a high mountain called
Gunnerby Hill, about three miles from Grantham, which was her stage for the
night.
    I'm glad to hear there's a hill,« said Jeanie, »for baith my sight and my
very feet are weary o' sic tracts o' level ground - it looks a' the way between
this and York as if a' the land had been trenched and levelled, whilk is very
wearisome to my Scotch een. When I lost sight of a muckle blue hill they ca'
Ingleboro', I thought I hadna a friend left in this strange land.«
    »As for the matter of that, young woman,« said mine host, »an you be so fond
o' hill, I carena an thou couldst carry Gunnerby away with thee in thy lap, for
it's a murder to post-horses. But here's to thy journey, and mayst thou win well
through it, for thou is a bold and a canny lass.«
    So saying, he took a powerful pull at a solemn tankard of home-brewed ale.
    »I hope there is nae bad company on the road, sir?« said Jeanie.
    »Why, when it's clean without them I'll thatch Groby pool wi' pancakes. But
there arena sae mony now; and since they hae lost Jim the Rat, they hold
together no better than the men of Marsham when they lost their common. Take a
drop ere thou goest,« he concluded, offering her the tankard; »thou wilt get
nothing at night save Grantham gruel, nine grots and a gallon of water.«
    Jeanie courteously declined the tankard, and inquired what was her »lawing?«
    »Thy lawing! Heaven help thee, wench! what ca'st thou that?«
    »It is - I was wanting to ken what was to pay,« replied Jeanie.
    »Pay? Lord help thee! - why nought, woman - we hae drawn no liquor but a
gill o' beer, and the Saracen's Head can spare a mouthful o' meat to a stranger
like o' thee, that cannot speak Christian language. So here's to thee once more.
The same again, quoth Mark of Bellgrave,« and he took another profound pull at
the tankard.
    The travellers who have visited Newark more lately, will not fail to
remember the remarkably civil and gentlemanly manners of the person who now
keeps the principal inn there, and may find some amusement in contrasting them
with those of his more rough predecessor. But we believe it will be found that
the polish has worn off none of the real worth of the metal.
    Taking leave of her Lincolnshire Gaius, Jeanie resumed her solitary walk,
and was somewhat alarmed when evening and twilight overtook her in the open
ground which extends to the foot of Gunnerby Hill, and is intersected with
patches of copse and with swampy spots. The extensive commons on the north road,
most of which are now enclosed, and in general a relaxed state of police,
exposed the traveller to a highway robbery in a degree which is now unknown,
except in the immediate vicinity of the metropolis. Aware of this circumstance,
Jeanie mended her pace when she heard the trampling of a horse behind, and
instinctively drew to one side of the road, as if to allow as much room for the
rider to pass as might be possible. When the animal came up, she found that it
was bearing two women, the one placed on a side-saddle, the other on a pillion
behind her, as may still occasionally be seen in England.
    »A braw good-night to ye, Jeanie Deans,« said the foremost female as the
horse passed our heroine; »What think ye o' yon bonny hill yonder, lifting its
brow to the moon? Trow ye yon's the gate to heaven, that ye are sae fain of? -
maybe we will win there the night yet, God sain us, though our minny here's
rather dreigh in the upgang.«
    The speaker kept changing her seat in the saddle, and half-stopping the
horse as she brought her body round, while the woman that sate behind her on the
pillion seemed to urge her on, in words which Jeanie heard but imperfectly.
    »Haud your tongue, ye moon-raised b--! what is your business with -, or with
heaven or hell either?«
    »Troth, mither, no muckle wi' heaven, I doubt, considering what I carry ahint
me - and as for hell, it will fight its ain battle at its ain time, I'se be
bound. - Come, naggie, trot away, man, an as thou wert a broomstick, for a witch
rides thee -
 
With my curtch on my foot, and my shoe on my hand,
I glance like the wildfire through brugh and through land.«
 
The tramp of the horse, and the increasing distance, drowned the rest of her
song, but Jeanie heard for some time the inarticulate sounds ring along the
waste.
    Our pilgrim remained stupefied with undefined apprehensions. The being named
by her name in so wild a manner, and in a strange country, without farther
explanation or communing, by a person who thus strangely flitted forward and
disappeared before her, came near to the supernatural sounds in Comus: -
 
The airy tongues, which syllable men's names
On sands, and shores, and desert wildernesses.
 
And although widely different in features, deportment, and rank, from the Lady
of that enchanting masque, the continuation of the passage may be happily
applied to Jeanie Deans upon this singular alarm: -
 
These thoughts may startle well, but not astound
The virtuous mind, that ever walks attended
By a strong siding champion - Conscience.
 
In fact, it was, with the recollection of the affectionate and dutiful errand on
which she was engaged, her right, if such a word could be applicable, to expect
protection in a task so meritorious. She had not advanced much farther, with a
mind calmed by these reflections, when she was disturbed by a new and more
instant subject of terror. Two men, who had been lurking among some copse,
started up as she advanced, and met her on the road in a menacing manner. »Stand
and deliver,« said one of them, a short stout fellow, in a smock-frock, such as
are worn by waggoners.
    »The woman,« said the other, a tall thin figure, »does not understand the
words of action. - Your money, my precious, or your life.«
    »I have but very little money, gentlemen,« said poor Jeanie, tendering that
portion which she had separated from her principal stock, and kept apart for
such an emergency; »but if you are resolved to have it, to be sure you must have
it.«
    »This won't do, my girl. D - n me, if it shall pass!« said the shorter
ruffian; »do ye think gentlemen are to hazard their lives on the road to be
cheated in this way? We'll have every farthing you have got, or we will strip
you to the skin, curse me.«
    His companion, who seemed to have something like compassion for the horror
which Jeanie's countenance now expressed, said, »No, no, Tom, this is one of the
precious sisters, and we'll take her word, for once, without putting her to the
stripping proof. - Hark ye, my lass, if ye look up to heaven, and say, this is
the last penny you have about ye, why, hang it, we'll let you pass.«
    »I am not free,« answered Jeanie, »to say what I have about me, gentlemen,
for there's life and death depends on my journey; but if you leave me as much as
finds me bread and water, I'll be satisfied, and thank you, and pray for you.«
    »D - n your prayers!« said the shorter fellow, »that's a coin that won't
pass with us;« and at the same time made a motion to seize her.
    »Stay, gentlemen,« Ratcliffe's pass suddenly occurring to her; »perhaps you
know this paper.«
    »What the devil is she after now, Frank?« said the more savage ruffian - »Do
you look at it, for, d - n me if I could read it if it were for the benefit of
my clergy.«
    »This is a jark from Jim Ratcliffe,« said the taller, having looked at the
bit of paper. »The wench must pass by our cutter's law.«
    »I say no,« answered his companion; »Rat has left the lay, and turned
bloodhound, they say.«
    »We may need a good turn from him all the same,« said the taller ruffian
again.
    »But what are we to do then?« said the shorter man - »We promised, you know,
to strip the wench, and send her begging back to her own beggarly country, and
now you are for letting her go on.«
    »I did not say that,« said the other fellow, and whispered to his companion,
who replied, »Be alive about it then, and don't keep chattering till some
travellers come up to nab us.«
    »You must follow us off the road, young woman,« said the taller.
    »For the love of God!« exclaimed Jeanie, »as you were born of woman, dinna
ask me to leave the road! rather take all I have in the world.«
    »What the devil is the wench afraid of?« said the other fellow. »I tell you
you shall come to no harm; but if you will not leave the road and come with us,
d - n me, but I'll beat your brains out where you stand.«
    »Thou art a rough bear, Tom,« said his companion. - »An ye touch her, I'll
give ye a shake by the collar shall make the Leicester beans rattle in thy guts.
- Never mind him, girl; I will not allow him to lay a finger on you, if you walk
quietly on with us; but if you keep jabbering there, d - n me, but I'll leave
him to settle it with you.«
    This threat conveyed all that is terrible to the imagination of poor Jeanie,
who saw in him that »was of milder mood« her only protection from the most
brutal treatment. She, therefore, not only followed him, but even held him by
the sleeve, lest he should escape from her; and the fellow, hardened as he was,
seemed something touched by these marks of confidence, and repeatedly assured
her, that he would suffer her to receive no harm.
    They conducted their prisoner in a direction leading more and more from the
public road, but she observed that they kept a sort of track or by-path, which
relieved her from part of her apprehensions, which would have been greatly
increased had they not seemed to follow a determined and ascertained route.
After about half-an-hour's walking, all three in profound silence, they
approached an old barn, which stood on the edge of some cultivated ground, but
remote from everything like a habitation. It was itself, however, tenanted, for
there was light in the windows.
    One of the footpads scratched at the door, which was opened by a female, and
they entered with their unhappy prisoner. An old woman, who was preparing food
by the assistance of a stifling fire of lighted charcoal, asked them, in the
name of the devil, what they brought the wench there for, and why they did not
strip her and turn her abroad on the common?
    »Come, come, Mother Blood,« said the tall man, »we'll do what's right to
oblige you, and we'll do no more; we are bad enough, but not such as you would
make us, - devils incarnate.«
    »She has got a jark from Jim Ratcliffe,« said the short fellow, »and Frank
here won't hear of our putting her through the mill.«
    »No, that I will not, by G - d!« answered Frank; »but if old Mother Blood
could keep her here for a little while, or send her back to Scotland, without
hurting her, why, I see no harm in that - not I.«
    »I'll tell you what, Frank Levitt,« said the old woman, »if you call me
Mother Blood again, I'll paint this gully« (and she held a knife up as if about
to make good her threat) »in the best blood in your body, my bonny boy.«
    »The price of ointment must be up in the north,« said Frank, »that puts
Mother Blood so much out of humour.«
    Without a moment's hesitation the fury darted her knife at him with the
vengeful dexterity of a wild Indian. As he was on his guard, he avoided the
missile by a sudden motion of his head, but it whistled past his ear, and stuck
deep in the clay wall of a partition behind.
    »Come, come, mother,« said the robber, seizing her by both wrists, »I shall
teach you who's master;« and so saying, he forced the hag backwards by main
force, who strove vehemently until she sunk on a bunch of straw, and then,
letting go her hands, he held up his finger towards her in the menacing posture
by which a maniac is intimidated by his keeper. It appeared to produce the
desired effect; for she did not attempt to rise from the seat on which he had
placed her, or to resume any measures of actual violence, but wrung her withered
hands with impotent rage, and brayed and howled like a demoniac.
    »I will keep my promise with you, you old devil,« said Frank; »the wench
shall not go forward on the London road, but I will not have you touch a hair of
her head, if it were but for your insolence.«
    This intimation seemed to compose in some degree the vehement passion of the
old hag; and while her exclamations and howls sunk into a low, maundering,
growling tone of voice, another personage was added to this singular party.
    »Eh, Frank Levitt,« said this new-comer, who entered with a hop, step, and
jump, which at once conveyed her from the door into the centre of the party,
»were ye killing our mother? or were ye cutting the grunter's weasand that Tam
brought in this morning? or have ye been reading your prayers backward, to bring
up my auld acquaintance the deil amang ye?«
    The tone of the speaker was so particular, that Jeanie immediately
recognised the woman who had rode foremost of the pair which passed her just
before she met the robbers; a circumstance which greatly increased her terror,
as it served to show that the mischief designed against her was premeditated,
though by whom, or for what cause, she was totally at a loss to conjecture. From
the style of her conversation, the reader also may probably acknowledge in this
female an old acquaintance in the earlier part of our narrative.
    »Out, ye mad devil!« said Tom, whom she had disturbed in the middle of a
draught of some liquor with which he had found means of accommodating himself;
»betwixt your Bess of Bedlam pranks, and your dam's frenzies, a man might live
quieter in the devil's ken than here.« - And he again resumed the broken jug out
of which he had been drinking.
    »And what's this o't?« said the mad woman, dancing up to Jeanie Deans, who,
although in great terror, yet watched the scene with a resolution to let nothing
pass unnoticed which might be serviceable in assisting her to escape, or
informing her as to the true nature of her situation, and the danger attending
it, - »Wha's this o't?« again exclaimed Madge Wildfire. »Douce Davie Deans, the
auld doited whig body's daughter, in a gipsy's barn, and the night setting in?
This is a sight for sair een! - Eh, sirs, the falling off o' the godly! -and the
t'other sister's in the Tolbooth of Edinburgh; I am very sorry for her, for my
share - it's my mother wusses ill to her, and no me - though maybe I hae as
muckle cause.«
    »Hark ye, Madge,« said the taller ruffian, »you have not such a touch of the
devil's blood as the hag your mother, who may be his dam for what I know - take
this young woman to your kennel, and do not let the devil enter, though he
should ask in God's name.«
    »Ou ay; that I will, Frank,« said Madge, taking hold of Jeanie by the arm,
and pulling her along; »for it's no for decent Christian young leddies, like her
and me, to be keeping the like o' you and Tyburn Tam company at this time o'
night. Sae good e'en t'ye, sirs, and mony o' them; and may ye a' sleep till the
hangman wauken ye, and then it will be well for the country.«
    She then, as her wild fancy seemed suddenly to prompt her, walked demurely
towards her mother, who, seated by the charcoal fire, with the reflection of the
red light on her withered and distorted features marked by every evil passion,
seemed the very picture of Hecate at her infernal rites; and, suddenly dropping
on her knees, said, with the manner of a six years' old child, »Mammie, hear me
say my prayers before I go to bed, and say God bless my bonny face, as ye used
to do lang syne.«
    »The deil flay the hide o' it to sole his brogues wi'!« said the old lady,
aiming a buffet at the supplicant, in answer to her duteous request.
    The blow missed Madge, who, being probably acquainted by experience with the
mode in which her mother was wont to confer her maternal benedictions, splipped out
of arm's length with great dexterity and quickness. The hag then started up,
and, seizing a pair of old fire-tongs, would have amended her motion, by beating
out the brains either of her daughter or Jeanie (she did not seem greatly to
care which), when her hand was once more arrested by the man whom they called
Frank Levitt, who, seizing her by the shoulder, flung her from him with great
violence, exclaiming, »What, Mother Damnable - again, and in my sovereign
presence! -Hark ye, Madge of Bedlam! get to your hole with your playfellow, or
we shall have the devil to pay here, and nothing to pay him with.«
    Madge took Levitt's advice, retreating as fast as she could, and dragging
Jeanie along with her into a sort of recess, partitioned off from the rest of
the barn, and filled with straw, from which it appeared that it was intended for
the purpose of slumber. The moonlight shone, through an open hole, upon a
pillion, a pack-saddle, and one or two wallets, the travelling furniture of
Madge and her amiable mother. - »Now, saw ye e'er in your life,« said Madge,
»sae dainty a chamber of deas? see as the moon shines down sae caller on the
fresh strae! There's no a pleasanter cell in Bedlam, for as braw a place as it
is on the outside. - Were ye ever in Bedlam?«
    »No,« answered Jeanie faintly, appalled by the question, and the way in
which it was put, yet willing to soothe her insane companion, being in
circumstances so unhappily precarious, that even the society of this gibbering
madwoman seemed a species of protection.
    »Never in Bedlam?« said Madge, as if with some surprise. - »But ye'll hae
been in the cells at Edinburgh!«
    »Never,« repeated Jeanie.
    »Weel, I think thae daft carles the magistrates send nobody to Bedlam but
me - thae maun hae an unco respect for me, for whenever I am brought to them,
thae aye hae me back to Bedlam. But troth, Jeanie« (she said this in a very
confidential tone), »to tell ye my private mind about it, I think ye are at nae
great loss; for the keeper's a cross-patch, and he maun hae it a' his ain gate,
to be sure, or he makes the place waur than hell. I often tell him he's the
daftest in a' the house. - But what are they making sic a skirling for? - Deil
ane o' them's get in here - it wadna be mensfu'! I will sit wi' my back again
the door; it winna be that easy stirring me.«
    »Madge!« - »Madge!« - »Madge Wildfire!« - »Madge devil! what have ye done
with the horse?« was repeatedly asked by the men without.
    »He's e'en at his supper, puir thing,« answered Madge; »deil an ye were at
yours, too, an it were scauding brimstane, and then we wad hae less o' your
din.«
    »His supper!« answered the more sulky ruffian - »What d'ye mean by that! -
Tell me where he is, or I will knock your Bedlam brains out!«
    »He's in Gaffer Gablewood's wheat-close, an ye maun ken.«
    »His wheat-close, you crazed jilt!« answered the other, with an accent of
great indignation.
    »O, dear Tyburn Tam, man, what ill will the blades of the young wheat do to
the puir nag?«
    »That is not the question,« said the other robber; »but what the country
will say to us to-morrow, when they see him in such quarters? - Go, Tom, and
bring him in; and avoid the soft ground, my lad; leave no hoof-track behind
you.«
    »I think you give me always the fag of it, whatever is to be done,« grumbled
his companion.
    »Leap, Laurence, you're long enough,« said the other; and the fellow left
the barn accordingly, without farther remonstrance.
    In the meanwhile, Madge had arranged herself for repose on the straw; but
still in a half-sitting posture, with her back resting against the door of the
hovel, which, as it opened inwards, was in this manner kept shut by the weight
of the person.
    »There's mair shifts by stealing, Jeanie,« said Madge Wildfire; »though
whiles I can hardly get our mother to think sae. Wha wad hae thought but mysell
of making a bolt of my ain back-bane? But it's no sae strong as thae that I hae
seen in the Tolbooth at Edinburgh. The hammermen of Edinburgh are to my mind
afore the warld for making stancheons, ring-bolts, fetter-bolts, bars, and
locks. And they arena that bad at girdles for carcakes neither, though the
Cu'ross hammermen have the gree for that. My mother had ance a bonny Cu'ross
girdle, and I thought to have baked carcakes on it for my puir wean that's dead
and gone nae fair way - But we maun a' dee, ye ken, Jeanie - You Cameronian
bodies ken that brawlies; and ye're for making a hell upon earth that ye may be
less unwillin' to part wi' it. But as touching Bedlam that ye were speaking
about, I'se ne'er recommend it muckle the tae gate or the other, be it right -
be it wrang. But ye ken what the sang says.« And, pursuing the unconnected and
floating wanderings of her mind, she sung aloud -
 
»In the bonny cells of Bedlam,
Ere I was ane-and-twenty,
I had hempen bracelets strong,
And merry whips, ding-dong,
And prayer and fasting plenty.
 
Weel, Jeanie, I am something herse the night, and I canna sing muckle mair; and
troth, I think, I am gaun to sleep.«
    She drooped her head on her breast, a posture from which Jeanie, who would
have given the world for an opportunity of quiet to consider the means and the
probability of her escape, was very careful not to disturb her. After nodding,
however, for a minute or two, with her eyes half-closed, the unquiet and
restless spirit of her malady again assailed Madge. She raised her head, and
spoke, but with a lowered tone, which was again gradually overcome by
drowsiness, to which the fatigue of a day's journey on horseback had probably
given unwonted occasion, - »I dinna ken what makes me sae sleepy - I amaist
never sleep till my bonny Lady Moon gangs till her bed - mair by token, when
she's at the full, ye ken, rowing aboon us yonder in her grand silver coach - I
have danced to her my lane sometimes for very joy - and whiles dead folk came
and danced wi' me - the like o' Jock Porteous, or ony body I had ken'd when I
was living - for ye maun ken I was ance dead mysell.« Here the poor maniac sung,
in a low and wild tone,
 
»My banes are buried in yon kirkyard
Sae far ayont the sea,
And it is but my blithesome ghost
That's speaking now to thee.
 
But after a', Jeanie, my woman, nobody kens well what's living and what's dead -
or what's gone to Fairyland - there's another question. Whiles I think my puir
bairn's dead - ye ken very well it's buried - but that signifies nothing. I
have had it on my knee a hundred times, and a hundred till that, since it was
buried - and how could that be were it dead, ye ken? - it's merely impossible.«
- And here, some conviction half-overcoming the reveries of her imagination, she
burst into a fit of crying and ejaculation, »Wae's me! wae's me! wae's me!« till
at length she moaned and sobbed herself into a deep sleep, which was soon
intimated by her breathing hard, leaving Jeanie to her own melancholy
reflections and observations.
 

                              Chapter Twenty-Ninth

 Bind her quickly; or, by this steel,
 I'll tell, although I truss for company
                                                                       Fletcher.
 
The imperfect light which shone into the window enabled Jeanie to see that there
was scarcely any chance of making her escape in that direction; for the aperture
was high in the wall, and so narrow, that, could she have climbed up to it, she
might well doubt whether it would have permitted her to pass her body through
it. An unsuccessful attempt to escape would be sure to draw down worse treatment
than she now received, and she, therefore, resolved to watch her opportunity
carefully ere making such a perilous effort. For this purpose she applied
herself to the ruinous clay partition, which divided the hovel in which she now
was from the rest of the waste barn. It was decayed and full of cracks and
chinks, one of which she enlarged with her fingers, cautiously and without
noise, until she could obtain a plain view of the old hag and the taller
ruffian, whom they called Levitt, seated together beside the decayed fire of
charcoal, and apparently engaged in close conference. She was at first terrified
by the sight; for the features of the old woman had a hideous cast of hardened
and inveterate malice and ill-humour, and those of the man, though naturally
less unfavourable, were such as corresponded well with licentious habits, and a
lawless profession.
    »But I remembered,« said Jeanie, »my worthy father's tales of a winter
evening, how he was confined with the blessed martyr, Mr. James Renwick, who
lifted up the fallen standard of the true reformed Kirk of Scotland, after the
worthy and renowned Daniel Cameron, our last blessed banner-man, had fallen
among the swords of the wicked at Airsmoss, and how the very hearts of the
wicked malefactors and murderers, whom they were confined withal, were melted
like wax at the sound of their doctrine: and I bethought mysell, that the same
help that was wi' them in their strait, wad be wi' me in mine, an I could but
watch the Lord's time and opportunity for delivering my feet from their snare;
and I minded the Scripture of the blessed Psalmist, whilk he insisteth on, as
well in the forty-second as in the forty-third psalm - Why art thou cast down, O
my soul, and why art thou disquieted within me? Hope in God, for I shall yet
praise Him, who is the health of my countenance, and my God.«
    Strengthened in a mind naturally calm, sedate, and firm, by the influence of
religious confidence, this poor captive was enabled to attend to, and
comprehend, a great part of an interesting conversation which passed betwixt
those into whose hands she had fallen, notwithstanding that their meaning was
partly disguised by the occasional use of cant terms, of which Jeanie knew not
the import, by the low tone in which they spoke, and by their mode of supplying
their broken phrases by shrugs and signs, as is usual amongst those of their
disorderly profession.
    The man opened the conversation by saying, »Now, dame, you see I am true to
my friend. I have not forgot that you planked a chury,56 which helped me through
the bars of the Castle of York, and I came to do your work without asking
questions; for one good turn deserves another. But now that Madge, who is as
loud as Tom of Lincoln, is somewhat still, and this same Tyburn Neddie is
shaking his heels after the old nag, why, you must tell me what all this is
about, and what's to be done - for d - n me if I touch the girl, or let her be
touched, and she with Jim Rat's pass, too.«
    »Thou art an honest lad, Frank,« answered the old woman, »but e'en too good
for thy trade; thy tender heart will get thee into trouble. I will see ye gang
up Holborn Hill backward, and a' on the word of some silly loon that could never
hae rapped to ye had ye drawn your knife across his weasand.«
    »You may be balked there, old one,« answered the robber; »I have known many
a pretty lad cut short in his first summer upon the road, because he was
something hasty with his flats and sharps. Besides, a man would fain live out
his two years with a good conscience. So, tell me what all this is about, and
what's to be done for you that one can do decently?«
    »Why, you must know, Frank - but first taste a snap of right Hollands.« She
drew a flask from her pocket, and filled the fellow a large bumper, which he
pronounced to be the right thing. - »You must know, then, Frank - wunna ye mend
your hand?« again offering the flask.
    »No, no, - when a woman wants mischief from you, she always begins by
filling you drunk. D - n all Dutch courage. What I do I will do soberly - I'll
last the longer for that too.«
    »Well, then, you must know,« resumed the old woman, without any further
attempts at propitiation, »that this girl is going to London.«
    Here Jeanie could only distinguish the word sister.
    The robber answered in a louder tone, »Fair enough that; and what the devil
is your business with it?«
    »Business enough, I think. If the b - queers the noose, that silly cull will
marry her.«
    »And who cares if he does?« said the man.
    »Who cares, ye donnard Neddie! I care; and I will strangle her with my own
hands, rather than she should come to Madge's preferment.«
    »Madge's preferment! Does your old blind eyes see no farther than that? If
he is as you say, d'ye think he'll ever marry a moon-calf like Madge? Ecod,
that's a good one - Marry Madge Wildfire! - Ha! ha! ha!«
    »Hark ye, ye crack-rope padder, born beggar, and bred thief!« replied the
hag, »suppose he never marries the wench, is that a reason he should marry
another, and that other to hold my daughter's place, and she crazed, and I a
beggar, and all along of him? But I know that of him will hang him - I know that
of him will hang him, if he had a thousand lives - I know that of him will hang
- hang - hang him!«
    She grinned as she repeated and dwelt upon the fatal monosyllable, with the
emphasis of a vindictive fiend.
    »Then why don't you hang - hang - hang him?« said Frank, repeating her words
contemptuously. »There would be more sense in that, than in wreaking yourself
here upon two wenches that have done you and your daughter no ill.«
    »No ill?« answered the old woman - »and he to marry this jail-bird, if ever
she gets her foot loose!«
    »But as there is no chance of his marrying a bird of your brood, I cannot,
for my soul, see what you have to do with all this,« again replied the robber,
shrugging his shoulders. »Where there is aught to be got, I'll go as far as my
neighbours, but I hate mischief for mischief's sake.«
    »And would you go nae length for revenge?« said the hag - »for revenge - the
sweetest morsel to the mouth that ever was cooked in hell!«
    »The devil may keep it for his own eating, then,« said the robber; »for hang
me if I like the sauce he dresses it with.«
    »Revenge!« continued the old woman; »why, it is the best reward the devil
gives us for our time here and hereafter. I have wrought hard for it - I have
suffered for it - and I have sinned for it - and I will have it, - or there is
neither justice in heaven or in hell!«
    Levitt had by this time lighted a pipe, and was listening with great
composure to the frantic and vindictive ravings of the old hag. He was too much
hardened by his course of life to be shocked with them - too indifferent, and
probably too stupid, to catch any part of their animation or energy. »But,
mother,« he said, after a pause, »still I say, that if revenge is your wish, you
should take it on the young fellow himself.«
    »I wish I could,« she said, drawing in her breath, with the eagerness of a
thirsty person while mimicking the action of drinking - »I wish I could - but no
- I cannot - I cannot.«
    »And why not? - You would think little of peaching and hanging him for this
Scotch affair. - Rat me, one might have milled the Bank of England, and less
noise about it.«
    »I have nursed him at this withered breast,« answered the old woman, folding
her hands on her bosom, as if pressing an infant to it, »and, though he has
proved an adder to me - though he has been the destruction of me and mine -
though he has made me company for the devil, if there be a devil, and food for
hell, if there be such a place, yet I cannot take his life. - No, I cannot,« she
continued, with an appearance of rage against herself; »I have thought of it - I
have tried it - but, Francis Levitt, I canna gang through wi't - Na, na - he was
the first bairn I ever nurst - ill I had been - and man can never ken what woman
feels for the bairn she has held first to her bosom!«
    »To be sure,« said Levitt, »we have no experience; but, mother, they say you
ha'n't been so kind to other bairns, as you call them, that have come in your
way. - Nay, d - n me, never lay your hand on the whittle, for I am captain and
leader here, and I will have no rebellion.«
    The hag, whose first motion had been, upon hearing the question, to grasp
the haft of a large knife, now unclosed her hand, stole it away from the weapon,
and suffered it to fall by her side, while she proceeded with a sort of smile -
»Bairns! ye are joking, lad -what wad touch bairns? Madge, puir thing, had a
misfortune wi' ane - and the t'other« - Here her voice sunk so much, that
Jeanie, though anxiously upon the watch, could not catch a word she said, until
she raised her tone at the conclusion of the sentence - »So Madge, in her
daffin', threw it into the Nor'-lock, I trow.«
    Madge, whose slumbers, like those of most who labour under mental malady,
had been short, and were easily broken, now made herself heard from her place of
repose.
    »Indeed, mother, that's a great lie, for I did nae sic thing.«
    »Hush, thou hellicat devil,« said her mother - »By Heaven! the other wench
will be waking too.«
    »That may be dangerous,« said Frank; and he rose, and followed Meg
Murdockson across the floor.
    »Rise,« said the hag to her daughter, »or I sall drive the knife between the
planks into the Bedlam back of thee!«
    Apparently she at the same time seconded her threat by pricking her with the
point of a knife, for Madge, with a faint scream, changed her place, and the
door opened.
    The old woman held a candle in one hand, and a knife in the other. Levitt
appeared behind her, whether with a view of preventing, or assisting her in any
violence she might meditate, could not be well guessed. Jeanie's presence of
mind stood her friend in this dreadful crisis. She had resolution enough to
maintain the attitude and manner of one who sleeps profoundly, and to regulate
even her breathing, notwithstanding the agitation of instant terror, so as to
correspond with her attitude.
    The old woman passed the light across her eyes; and although Jeanie's fears
were so powerfully awakened by this movement, that she often declared
afterwards, that she thought she saw the figures of her destined murderers
through her closed eye-lids, she had still the resolution to maintain the feint,
on which her safety perhaps depended.
    Levitt looked at her with fixed attention; he then turned the old woman out
of the place, and followed her himself. Having regained the outward apartment,
and seated themselves, Jeanie heard the highwayman say, to her no small relief,
»She's as fast as if she were in Bedfordshire. - Now, old Meg, d - n me if I can
understand a glim of this story of yours, or what good it will do you to hang
the one wench and torment the other; but, rat me, I will be true to my friend,
and serve ye the way ye like it. I see it will be a bad job; but I do think I
could get her down to Surfleet on the Wash, and so on board Tom Moonshine's neat
lugger, and keep her out of the way three or four weeks, if that will please ye
- But d - n me if any one shall harm her, unless they have a mind to choke on a
brace of blue plums. - It's a cruel bad job, and I wish you and it, Meg, were
both at the devil.«
    »Never mind, hinny Levitt,« said the old woman; »you are a ruffler, and will
have a' your ain gate - She shanna gang to heaven an hour sooner for me; I
carena whether she live or die - it's her sister - ay, her sister!«
    »Well, we'll say no more about it; I hear Tom coming in. We'll couch a
hogshead,57 and so better had you.« They retired to repose accordingly, and all
was silent in this asylum of iniquity.
    Jeanie lay for a long time awake. At break of day she heard the two ruffians
leave the barn, after whispering to the old woman for some time. The sense that
she was now guarded by persons of her own sex gave her some confidence, and
irresistible lassitude at length threw her into slumber.
    When the captive awakened, the sun was high in heaven, and the morning
considerably advanced. Madge Wildfire was still in the hovel which had served
them for the night, and immediately bid her good-morning, with her usual air of
insane glee. »And d'ye ken, lass,« said Madge, »there's queer things chanced
since ye hae been in the land of Nod. The constables hae been here, woman, and
they met wi' my minnie at the door, and they whirl'd her away to the Justice's
about the man's wheat. - Dear! thae English churls think as muckle about a blade
of wheat or grass, as a Scotch laird does about his maukins and his muir-poots.
Now, lass, if ye like, we'll play them a fine jink; we will away out and take a
walk - they will make unco wark when they miss us, but we can easily be back by
dinner time, or before dark night at ony rate, and it will be some frolic and
fresh air. - But maybe ye wad like to take some breakfast, and then lie down
again? I ken by mysell, there's whiles I can sit wi' my head in my hand the
haill day, and havena a word to cast at a dog - and other whiles, that I canna
sit still a moment. That's when the folk think me warst, but I am aye canny
enough - ye needna be feared to walk wi' me.«
    Had Madge Wildfire been the most raging lunatic, instead of possessing a
doubtful, uncertain, and twilight sort of rationality, varying, probably, from
the influence of the most trivial causes, Jeanie would hardly have objected to
leave a place of captivity, where she had so much to apprehend. She eagerly
assured Madge that she had no occasion for further sleep, no desire whatever for
eating; and, hoping internally that she was not guilty of sin in doing so, she
flattered her keeper's crazy humour for walking in the woods.
    »It's no a'thegither for that neither,« said poor Madge; »but I am judging
ye will wun the better out o' thae folk's hands; no that they are a'thegither
bad folk neither, but they have queer ways wi' them, and I whiles dinna think it
has ever been well wi' my mother and me since we kept sic-like company.«
    With the haste, the joy, the fear, and the hope of a liberated captive,
Jeanie snatched up her little bundle, followed Madge into the free air, and
eagerly looked round her for a human habitation; but none was to be seen. The
ground was partly cultivated, and partly left in its natural state, according as
the fancy of the slovenly agriculturists had decided. In its natural state it
was waste, in some places covered with dwarf trees and bushes, in others swamp,
and elsewhere firm and dry downs or pasture grounds.
    Jeanie's active mind next led her to conjecture which way the high-road lay,
whence she had been forced. If she regained that public road, she imagined she
must soon meet some person, or arrive at some house, where she might tell her
story, and request protection. But, after a glance around her, she saw with
regret that she had no means whatever of directing her course with any degree of
certainty, and that she was still in dependence upon her crazy companion. »Shall
we not walk upon the high-road?« said she to Madge, in such a tone as a nurse
uses to coax a child. »It's brawer walking on the road than amang thae wild
bushes and whins.«
    Madge, who was walking very fast, stopped at this question, and looked at
Jeanie with a sudden and scrutinising glance, that seemed to indicate complete
acquaintance with her purpose. »Aha, lass!« she exclaimed, »are ye gaun to guide
us that gate? - Ye'll be for making your heels save your head, I am judging.«
    Jeanie hesitated for a moment, on hearing her companion thus express
herself, whether she had not better take the hint, and try to outstrip and get
rid of her. But she knew not in which direction to fly; she was by no means sure
that she would prove the swiftest, and perfectly conscious that in the event of
her being pursued and overtaken, she would be inferior to the madwoman in
strength. She therefore gave up thoughts for the present of attempting to escape
in that manner, and, saying a few words to allay Madge's suspicions, she
followed in anxious apprehension the wayward path by which her guide thought
proper to lead her. Madge, infirm of purpose, and easily reconciled to the
present scene, whatever it was, began soon to talk with her usual diffuseness of
ideas.
    »It's a dainty thing to be in the woods on a fine morning like this! I like
it far better than the town, for there isna a wheen duddie bairns to be crying
after ane, as if ane were a warld's wonder, just because ane maybe is a thought
bonnier and better put-on than their neighbours - though, Jeanie, ye should never
be proud o' braw claiths, or beauty neither - wae's me! they're but a snare - I
ance thought better o' them, and what came o't?«
    »Are ye sure ye ken the way ye are taking us?« said Jeanie, who began to
imagine that she was getting deeper into the woods and more remote from the
high-road.
    »Do I ken the road? - Wasna I mony a day living here, and what for shouldna
I ken the road? I might hae forgotten, too, for it was afore my accident; but
there are some things ane can never forget, let them try it as muckle as they
like.«
    By this time they had gained the deepest part of a patch of woodland. The
trees were a little separated from each other, and at the foot of one of them, a
beautiful poplar, was a hillock of moss, such as the poet of Grasmere has
described. So soon as she arrived at this spot, Madge Wildfire, joining her
hands above her head with a loud scream that resembled laughter, flung herself
all at once upon the spot, and remained lying there motionless.
    Jeanie's first idea was to take the opportunity of flight; but her desire to
escape yielded for a moment to apprehension for the poor insane being, who, she
thought, might perish for want of relief. With an effort, which in her
circumstances, might be termed heroic, she stooped down, spoke in a soothing
tone, and endeavoured to raise up the forlorn creature. She effected this with
difficulty, and as she placed her against the tree in a sitting posture, she
observed with surprise, that her complexion, usually florid, was now deadly
pale, and that her face was bathed in tears. Notwithstanding her own extreme
danger, Jeanie was affected by the situation of her companion; and the rather,
that, through the whole train of her wavering and inconsistent state of mind and
line of conduct, she discerned a general colour of kindness towards herself, for
which she felt gratitude.
    »Let me alane! - let me alane!« said the poor young woman, as her paroxysm
of sorrow began to abate - »Let me alane - it does me good to weep. I canna shed
tears but maybe ance or twice a year, and I aye come to wet this turf with them,
that the flowers may grow fair, and the grass may be green.«
    »But what is the matter with you?« said Jeanie - »Why do you weep so
bitterly?«
    »There's matter enough,« replied the lunatic, - »mair than ae puir mind can
bear, I trow. Stay a bit, and I'll tell you a' about it; for I like ye, Jeanie
Deans - a'body spoke well about ye when we lived in the Pleasaunts - And I mind
aye the drink o' milk ye gave me yon day, when I had been on Arthur's Seat for
four-and-twenty hours, looking for the ship that somebody wag sailing in.«
    These words recalled to Jeanie's recollection, that, in fact, she had been
one morning much frightened by meeting a crazy young woman near her father's
house at an early hour, and that, as she appeared to be harmless, her
apprehension had been changed into pity, and she had relieved the unhappy
wanderer with some food, which she devoured with the haste of a famished person.
The incident, trifling in itself, was at present of great importance, if it
should be found to have made a favourable and permanent impression in her favour
on the mind of the object of her charity.
    »Yes,« said Madge, »I'll tell ye a' about it, for ye are a decent man's
daughter - Douce Davie Deans, ye ken - and maybe ye'll can teach me to find out
the narrow way, and the straight path, for I have been burning bricks in Egypt,
and walking through the weary wilderness of Sinai, for lang and mony a day. But
whenever I think about mine errors, I am like to cover my lips for shame.« -
Here she looked up and smiled. - »It's a strange thing now - I hae spoke mair
good words to you in ten minutes, than I wad speak to my mother in as mony years
- it's no that I dinna think on them -and whiles they are just at my tongue's
end, but then comes the devil, and brushes my lips with his black wing, and lays
his broad black loof on my mouth - for a black loof it is, Jeanie - and sweeps
away a' my good thoughts, and dits up my good words, and pits a wheen fule sangs
and idle vanities in their place.«
    »Try, Madge,« said Jeanie, - »try to settle your mind and make your breast
clean, and you'll find your heart easier. - Just resist the devil, and he will
flee from you - and mind that, as my worthy father tells me, there is nae devil
sae deceitfu' as our ain wandering thoughts.«
    »And that's true too, lass,« said Madge, starting up; »and I'll gang a gate
where the devil daurna follow me; and it's a gate that you will like dearly to
gang - but I'll keep a fast haud o' your arm, for fear Apollyon should stride
across the path, as he did in the Pilgrim's Progress.«
    Accordingly she got up, and, taking Jeanie by the arm, began to walk forward
at a great pace; and soon, to her companion's no small joy, came into a marked
path, with the meanders of which she seemed perfectly acquainted. Jeanie
endeavoured to bring her back to the confessional, but the fancy was gone by. In
fact, the mind of this deranged being resembled nothing so much as a quantity of
dry leaves, which may for a few minutes remain still, but are instantly
discomposed and put in motion by the first casual breath of air. She had now got
John Bunyan's parable into her head, to the exclusion of everything else, and on
she went with great volubility.
    »Did ye never read the Pilgrim's Progress? And you shall be the woman,
Christiana, and I will be the maiden, Mercy - for ye ken Mercy was of the fairer
countenance, and the more alluring than her companion - and if I had my little
messan dog here, it would be Great-heart, their guide, ye ken, for he was e'en
as bauld, that he wad bark at ony thing twenty times his size; and that was e'en
the death of him, for he bit Corporal MacAlpine's heels ae morning when they
were hauling me to the guard-house, and Corporal MacAlpine killed the bit
faithfu' thing wi' his Lochaber axe - deil pike the Highland banes o' him.«
    »O fie! Madge,« said Jeanie, »ye should not speak such words.«
    »It's very true,« said Madge, shaking her head; »but then I maunna think o'
my puir bit doggie, Snap, when I saw it lying dying in the gutter. But it's just
as well, for it suffered baith cauld and hunger when it was living, and in the
grave there is rest for a' things - rest for the doggie, and my puir bairn, and
me.«
    »Your bairn?« said Jeanie, conceiving that by speaking on such a topic,
supposing it to be a real one, she could not fail to bring her companion to a
more composed temper.
    She was mistaken, however, for Madge coloured, and replied with some anger,
»My bairn? ay, to be sure, my bairn. Whatfor shouldna I hae a bairn and lose a
bairn too, as well as your bonnie tittie, the Lily of St. Leonard's?«
    The answer struck Jeanie with some alarm, and she was anxious to soothe the
irritation she had unwittingly given occasion to. »I am very sorry for your
misfortune« -
    »Sorry! what wad ye be sorry for?« answered Madge. »The bairn was a blessing
- that is, Jeanie, it wad hae been a blessing if it hadna been for my mother;
but my mother's a queer woman. - Ye see, there was an auld carle wi' a bit land,
and a good clat o' siller besides, just the very picture of old Mr. Feeblemind
or Mr. Ready-to-halt, that Great-heart delivered from Slaygood the giant, when
he was rifling him and about to pick his bones, for Slaygood was of the nature
of the flesh-eaters - and Great-heart killed Giant Despair too - but I am
doubting Giant Despair's come alive again, for a' the story book - I find him
busy at my heart whiles.«
    »Weel, and so the auld carle,« said Jeanie, for she was painfully interested
in getting to the truth of Madge's history, which she could not but suspect was
in some extraordinary way linked and entwined with the fate of her sister. She
was also desirous, if possible, to engage her companion in some narrative which
might be carried on in a lower tone of voice, for she was in great apprehension
lest the elevated notes of Madge's conversation should direct her mother or the
robbers in search of them.
    »And so the auld carle,« said Madge, repeating her words - »I wish ye had
seen him stoiting about, aff ae leg on to the other, wi' a kind o'
dot-and-go-one sort o' motion, as if ilk ane o' his twa legs had belanged to
sindry folk - but Gentle George could take him aff brawly - Eh, as I used to
laugh to see George gang hip-hop like him! - I dinna ken, I think I laughed
heartier then than what I do now, though maybe no just sae muckle.«
    »And who was Gentle George?« said Jeanie, endeavouring to bring her back to
her story.
    »O, he was Geordie Robertson, ye ken, when he was in Edinburgh; but that's
no his right name neither - His name is - But what is your business wi' his
name?« said she, as if upon sudden recollection. »What have ye to do asking for
folk's names? - Have ye a mind I should scour my knife between your ribs, as my
mother says?«
    As this was spoken with a menacing tone and gesture, Jeanie hastened to
protest her total innocence of purpose in the accidental question which she had
asked, and Madge Wildfire went on somewhat pacified.
    »Never ask folk's names, Jeanie - it's no civil - I hae seen half-a-dozen o'
folk in my mother's at ance, and ne'er ane a' them ca'd the ither by his name;
and Daddie Ratton says, it is the most uncivil thing may be, because the bailie
bodies are aye asking fashious questions, when ye saw sic a man, or sic a man;
and if ye dinna ken their names, ye ken there can be nae mair speer'd about it.«
    »In what strange school,« thought Jeanie to herself, »has this poor creature
been bred up, where such remote precautions are taken against the pursuits of
justice? What would my father or Reuben Butler think if I were to tell them
there are sic folk in the world? And to abuse the simplicity of this demented
creature! Oh, that I were but safe at hame amang mine ain leal and true people!
and I'll bless God, while I have breath, that placed me amongst those who live
in His fear, and under the shadow of His wing.«
    She was interrupted by the insane laugh of Madge Wildfire, as she saw a
magpie hop across the path.
    »See there! - that was the gate my auld joe used to cross the country, but
no just sae lightly - he hadna wings to help his auld legs, I trow; but I
behoved to have married him for a' that, Jeanie, or my mother wad hae been the
dead o' me. But then came in the story of my poor bairn, and my mother thought
he wad be deaved wi' it's skirling, and she pat it away in below the bit bourock
of turf yonder, just to be out o' the gate; and I think she buried my best wits
with it, for I have never been just mysell since. And only think, Jeanie, after
my mother had been at a' these pains, the auld doited body Johnny Drottle turned
up his nose, and wadna hae aught to say to me! But it's little I care for him,
for I have led a merry life ever since, and ne'er a braw gentleman looks at me
but ye wad think he was gaun to drop off his horse for mere love of me. I have
ken'd some o' them put their hand in their pocket, and give me as muckle as
sixpence at a time, just for my well-faured face.«
    This speech gave Jeanie a dark insight into Madge's history. She had been
courted by a wealthy suitor, whose addresses her mother had favoured,
notwithstanding the objection of old age and deformity. She had been seduced by
some profligate, and, to conceal her shame and promote the advantageous match
she had planned, her mother had not hesitated to destroy the offspring of their
intrigue. That the consequence should be the total derangement of a mind which
was constitutionally unsettled by giddiness and vanity, was extremely natural;
and such was, in fact, the history of Madge Wildfire's insanity.
 

                               Chapter Thirtieth

 So free from danger, free from fear,
 They crossed the court - right glad they were.
                                                                     Christabel.
 
Pursuing the path which Madge had chosen, Jeanie Deans observed, to her no small
delight, that marks of more cultivation appeared, and the thatched roofs of
houses, with their blue smoke arising in little columns, were seen embosomed in
a tuft of trees at some distance. The track led in that direction, and Jeanie,
therefore, resolved, while Madge continued to pursue it, that she would ask her
no questions; having had the penetration to observe, that by doing so she ran
the risk of irritating her guide, or awakening suspicions, to the impressions of
which, persons in Madge's unsettled state of mind are particularly liable.
    Madge, therefore, uninterrupted, went on with the wild disjointed chat which
her rambling imagination suggested; a mood in which she was much more
communicative respecting her own history, and that of others, than when there
was any attempt made, by direct queries, or cross-examinations, to extract
information on these subjects.
    »It's a queer thing,« she said, »but whiles I can speak about the bit bairn
and the rest of it, just as if it had been another body's, and no my ain; and
whiles I am like to break my heart about it - Had you ever a bairn, Jeanie?«
    Jeanie replied in the negative.
    »Ay; but your sister had, though - and I ken what came o't too.«
    »In the name of heavenly mercy,« said Jeanie, forgetting the line of conduct
which she had hitherto adopted, »tell me but what became of that unfortunate
babe, and« -
    Madge stopped, looked at her gravely and fixedly, and then broke into a
great fit of laughing - »Aha, lass, - catch me if you can - I think it's easy to
gar you trow ony thing. - How should I ken anything o' your sister's wean? Lasses
should hae nothing to do wi' weans till they are married - and then a' the
gossips and cummers come in and feast as if it were the blithest day in the
warld. - They say maidens' bairns are well guided. I wot that wasna true of your
tittie's and mine; but these are sad tales to tell. - I maun just sing a bit to
keep up my heart - It's a sang that Gentle George made on me lang syne, when I
went with him to Lockington wake, to see him act upon a stage, in fine clothes,
with the player folk. He might hae dune waur than married me that night as he
promised - better wed over the mixen58 as over the moor, as they say in
Yorkshire - he may gang farther and fare waur - but that's a' ane to the sang, -
 
I'm Madge of the country, I'm Madge of the town,
And I'm Madge of the lad I am blithest to own -
The Lady of Beeve in diamonds may shine,
But has not a heart half so lightsome as mine.
 
I am Queen of the Wake, and I'm Lady of May,
And I lead the blithe ring round the May-pole to-day;
The wildfire that flashes so fair and so free,
Was never so bright, or so bonny, as me.
 
I like that the best o' a' my sangs,« continued the maniac, »because he made it.
I am often singing it, and that's maybe the reason folk ca' me Madge Wildfire. I
aye answer to the name, though it's no my ain, for what's the use of making a
fash?«
    »But ye shouldna sing upon the Sabbath at least,« said Jeanie, who, amid all
her distress and anxiety, could not help being scandalised at the deportment of
her companion, especially as they now approached near to the little village.
    »Ay! is this Sunday?« said Madge. »My mother leads sic a life, wi' turning
night into day, that ane loses a' count o' the days o' the week, and disna ken
Sunday frae Saturday. Besides, it's a' your whiggery - in England, folk sings
when they like - And then, ye ken, you are Christiana and I am Mercy - and ye
ken, as they went on their way, they sang.« - And she immediately raised one of
John Bunyan's ditties: -
 
»He that is down need fear no fall,
He that is low no pride,
He that is humble ever shall
Have God to be his guide.
 
Fulness to such a burden is
That go on pilgrimage;
Here little, and hereafter bliss,
Is best from age to age.«
 
»And do ye ken, Jeanie, I think there's much truth in that book, the Pilgrim's
Progress. The boy that sings that song was feeding his father's sheep in the
Valley of Humiliation, and Mr. Great-heart says, that he lived a merrier life,
and had more of the herb called heart's-ease in his bosom, than they that wear
silk and velvet like me, and are as bonny as I am.«
    Jeanie Deans had never read the fanciful and delightful parable to which
Madge alluded. Bunyan was, indeed, a rigid Calvinist, but then he was also a
member of a Baptist congregation, so that his works had no place on David
Deans's shelf of divinity. Madge, however, at some time of her life, had been
well acquainted, as it appeared, with the most popular of his performances,
which, indeed, rarely fails to make a deep impression upon children, and people
of the lower rank.
    »I am sure,« she continued, »I may well say I am come out of the city of
Destruction, for my mother is Mrs. Bat's-eyes, that dwells at Deadman's corner;
and Frank Levitt, and Tyburn Tam, they may be likened to Mistrust and Guilt,
that came galloping up, and struck the poor pilgrim to the ground with a great
club, and stole a bag of silver, which was most of his spending money, and so
have they done to many, and will do to more. But now we will gang to the
Interpreter's house, for I ken a man that will play the Interpreter right well;
for he has eyes lifted up to Heaven, the best of books in his hand, the law of
truth written on his lips, and he stands as if he pleaded wi' men - Oh, if I had
minded what he had said to me, I had never been the castaway creature that I am!
- But it is all over now. - But we'll knock at the gate, and then the keeper
will admit Christiana, but Mercy will be left out - and then I'll stand at the
door, trembling and crying, and then Christiana - that's you, Jeanie - will
intercede for me; and then Mercy - that's me, ye ken, will faint; and then the
Interpreter - yes, the Interpreter, that's Mr. Staunton himself, will come out
and take me - that's poor, lost, demented me - by the hand, and give me a
pomegranate, and a piece of honeycomb, and a small bottle of spirits, to stay my
fainting - and then the good times will come back again, and we'll be the
happiest folk you ever saw.«
    In the midst of the confused assemblage of ideas indicated in this speech,
Jeanie thought she saw a serious purpose on the part of Madge, to endeavour to
obtain the pardon and countenance of some one whom she had offended; an attempt
the most likely of all others to bring them once more into contact with law and
legal protection. She, therefore, resolved to be guided by her while she was in
so hopeful a disposition, and act for her own safety according to circumstances.
    They were now close by the village, one of those beautiful scenes which are
so often found in merry England, where the cottages, instead of being built in
two direct lines on each side of a dusty high-road, stand in detached groups,
interspersed not only with large oaks and elms, but with fruit-trees, so many of
which were at this time in flourish, that the grove seemed enamelled with their
crimson and white blossoms. In the centre of the hamlet stood the parish church,
and its little Gothic tower, from which at present was heard the Sunday chime of
bells.
    »We will wait here until the folk are a' in the church - they ca' the kirk a
church in England, Jeanie, be sure you mind that - for if I was gaun forward
amang them, a' the gaitts o' boys and lasses wad be crying at Madge Wildfire's
tail, the little hell-rakers! and the beadle would be as hard upon us as if it
was our fault. I like their skirling as ill as he does, I can tell him; I'm sure
I often wish there was a het peat doun their throats when they set them up that
gate.«
    Conscious of the disorderly appearance of her own dress after the adventure
of the preceding night, and of the grotesque habit and demeanour of her guide,
and sensible how important it was to secure an attentive and patient audience to
her strange story from some one who might have the means to protect her, Jeanie
readily acquiesced in Madge's proposal to rest under the trees, by which they
were still somewhat screened, until the commencement of service should give them
an opportunity of entering the hamlet without attracting a crowd around them.
She made the less opposition, that Madge had intimated that this was not the
village where her mother was in custody, and that the two squires of the pad
were absent in a different direction.
    She sate herself down, therefore, at the foot of an oak, and by the
assistance of a placid fountain, which had been dammed up for the use of the
villagers, and which served her as a natural mirror, she began - no uncommon
thing with a Scottish maiden of her rank -to arrange her toilette in the open
air, and bring her dress, soiled and disordered as it was, into such order as
the place and circumstances admitted.
    She soon perceived reason, however, to regret that she had set about this
task, however decent and necessary, in the present time and society. Madge
Wildfire, who, among other indications of insanity, had a most overweening
opinion of those charms, to which, in fact, she had owed her misery, and whose
mind, like a raft upon a lake, was agitated and driven about at random by each
fresh impulse, no sooner beheld Jeanie begin to arrange her hair, place her
bonnet in order, rub the dust from her shoes and clothes, adjust her
neck-handkerchief and mittans, and so forth, than with imitative zeal she began
to bedizen and trick herself out with shreds and remnants of beggarly finery,
which she took out of a little bundle, and which, when disposed around her
person, made her appearance ten times more fantastic and apish than it had been
before.
    Jeanie groaned in spirit, but dared not interfere in a matter so delicate.
Across the man's cap or riding hat which she wore, Madge placed a broken and
soiled white feather, intersected with one which had been shed from the train of
a peacock. To her dress, which was a kind of riding-habit, she stitched, pinned,
and otherwise secured, a large furbelow of artificial flowers, all crushed,
wrinkled and dirty, which had at first bedecked a lady of quality, then
descended to her Abigail, and dazzled the inmates of the servants' hall. A
tawdry scarf of yellow silk, trimmed with tinsel and spangles, which had seen as
hard service, and boasted as honourable a transmission, was next flung over one
shoulder, and fell across her person in the manner of a shoulder-belt, or
baldrick. Madge then stripped off the coarse ordinary shoes, which she wore, and
replaced them by a pair of dirty satin ones, spangled and embroidered to match
the scarf, and furnished with very high heels. She had cut a willow switch in
her morning's walk, almost as long as a boy's fishing-rod. This she set herself
seriously to peel, and when it was transformed into such a wand as the Treasurer
or High Steward bears on public occasions, she told Jeanie that she thought they
now looked decent, as young women should do upon the Sunday morning, and that,
as the bells had done ringing, she was willing to conduct her to the
Interpreter's house.
    Jeanie sighed heavily, to think it should be her lot on the Lord's day, and
during kirk time too, to parade the street of an inhabited village with so very
grotesque a comrade; but necessity had no law, since, without a positive quarrel
with the madwoman, which, in the circumstances, would have been very
unadvisable, she could see no means of shaking herself free of her society.
    As for poor Madge, she was completely elated with personal vanity, and the
most perfect satisfaction concerning her own dazzling dress, and superior
appearance. They entered the hamlet without being observed, except by one old
woman, who, being nearly »high-gravel blind,« was only conscious that something
very fine and glittering was passing by, and dropped as deep a reverence to
Madge as she would have done to a countess. This filled up the measure of
Madge's self-approbation. She minced, she ambled, she smiled, she simpered, and
waved Jeanie Deans forward with the condescension of a noble chaperone, who has
undertaken the charge of a country miss on her first journey to the capital.
    Jeanie followed in patience, and with her eyes fixed on the ground, that she
might save herself the mortification of seeing her companion's absurdities; but
she started when, ascending two or three steps, she found herself in the
churchyard, and saw that Madge was making straight for the door of the church.
As Jeanie had no mind to enter the congregation in such company, she walked
aside from the pathway, and said in a decided tone, »Madge, I will wait here
till the church comes out - you may go in by yourself if you have a mind.«
    As she spoke these words, she was about to seat herself upon one of the
grave-stones.
    Madge was a little before Jeanie when she turned aside; but, suddenly
changing her course, she followed her with long strides, and, with every feature
inflamed with passion, overtook and seized her by the arm. »Do ye think, ye
ungratefu' wretch, that I am gaun to let you sit doun upon my father's grave?
The deil settle ye doun, if ye dinna rise and come into the Interpreter's house,
that's the house of God, wi' me, but I'll rive every dud aff your back!«
    She adapted the action to the phrase; for with one clutch she stripped
Jeanie of her straw bonnet and a handful of her hair to boot, and threw it up
into an old yew-tree, where it stuck fast. Jeanie's first impulse was to scream,
but conceiving she might receive deadly harm before she could obtain the
assistance of anyone, notwithstanding the vicinity of the church, she thought it
wiser to follow the madwoman into the congregation, where she might find some
means of escape from her, or at least be secured against her violence. But when
she meekly intimated her consent to follow Madge, her guide's uncertain brain
had caught another train of ideas. She held Jeanie fast with one hand, and with
the other pointed to the inscription on the grave-stone, and commanded her to
read it. Jeanie obeyed, and read these words: -
 
        »THIS MONUMENT WAS ERECTED TO THE MEMORY OF DONALD MURDOCKSON OF THE
        KING'S XXVI., OR CAMERONIAN REGIMENT, A SINCERE CHRISTIAN, A BRAVE
        SOLDIER, AND A FAITHFUL SERVANT, BY HIS GRATEFUL AND SORROWING MASTER,
        ROBERT STAUNTON.«
 
»It's very well read, Jeanie; it's just the very words,« said Madge, whose ire
had now faded into deep melancholy, and with a step which, to Jeanie's great
joy, was uncommonly quiet and mournful, she led her companion towards the door
of the church.
    It was one of those old-fashioned Gothic parish churches which are frequent
in England, the most cleanly, decent, and reverential places of worship that
are, perhaps, anywhere to be found in the Christian world. Yet, notwithstanding
the decent solemnity of its exterior, Jeanie was too faithful to the directory
of the Presbyterian kirk to have entered a prelatic place of worship, and would,
upon any other occasion, have thought that she beheld in the porch the venerable
figure of her father waving her back from the entrance, and pronouncing in a
solemn tone, »Cease, my child, to hear the instruction which causeth to err from
the words of knowledge.« But in her present agitating and alarming situation,
she looked for safety to this forbidden place of assembly, as the hunted animal
will sometimes seek shelter from imminent danger in the human habitation, or in
other places of refuge most alien to its nature and habits. Not even the sound
of the organ, and of one or two flutes which accompanied the psalmody, prevented
her from following her guide into the chancel of the church.
    No sooner had Madge put her foot upon the pavement, and become sensible that
she was the object of attention to the spectators, than she resumed all the
fantastic extravagance of deportment which some transient touch of melancholy
had banished for an instant. She swam rather than walked up the centre aisle,
dragging Jeanie after her, whom she held fast by the hand. She would, indeed,
have fain slipped aside into the pew nearest to the door, and left Madge to
ascend in her own manner and alone to the high places of the synagogue; but this
was impossible, without a degree of violent resistance, which seemed to her
inconsistent with the time and place, and she was accordingly led in captivity
up the whole length of the church by her grotesque conductress, who, with
half-shut eyes, a prim smile upon her lips, and a mincing motion with her hands,
which corresponded with the delicate and affected pace at which she was pleased
to move, seemed to take the general stare of the congregation, which such an
exhibition necessarily excited, as a high compliment, and which she returned by
nods and half-courtesies to individuals amongst the audience, whom she seemed to
distinguish as acquaintances. Her absurdity was enhanced in the eyes of the
spectators by the strange contrast which she formed to her companion, who, with
dishevelled hair, downcast eyes, and a face glowing with shame, was dragged, as
it were, in triumph after her.
    Madge's airs were at length fortunately cut short by her encountering in her
progress the looks of the clergyman, who fixed upon her a glance, at once
steady, compassionate, and admonitory. She hastily opened an empty pew which
happened to be near her, and entered, dragging in Jeanie after her. Kicking
Jeanie on the shins, by way of hint that she should follow her example, she sunk
her head upon her hand for the space of a minute. Jeanie, to whom this posture
of mental devotion was entirely new, did not attempt to do the like, but looked
round her with a bewildered stare, which her neighbours, judging from the
company in which they saw her, very naturally ascribed to insanity. Every person
in their immediate vicinity drew back from this extraordinary couple as far as
the limits of their pew permitted; but one old man could not get beyond Madge's
reach, ere she had snatched the prayer-book from his hand, and ascertained the
lesson of the day. She then turned up the ritual, and with the most overstrained
enthusiasm of gesture and manner, showed Jeanie the passages as they were read
in the service, making, at the same time, her own responses so loud as to be
heard above those of every other person.
    Notwithstanding the shame and vexation which Jeanie felt in being thus
exposed in a place of worship, she could not and durst not omit rallying her
spirits so as to look around her, and consider to whom she ought to appeal for
protection so soon as the service should be concluded. Her first ideas naturally
fixed upon the clergyman, and she was confirmed in the resolution by observing
that he was an aged gentleman, of a dignified appearance and deportment, who
read the service with an undisturbed and decent gravity, which brought back to
becoming attention those younger members of the congregation who had been
disturbed by the extravagant behaviour of Madge Wildfire. To the clergyman,
therefore, Jeanie resolved to make her appeal when the service was over.
    It is true she felt disposed to be shocked at his surplice, of which she had
heard so much, but which she had never seen upon the person of a preacher of the
word. Then she was confused by the change of posture adopted in different parts
of the ritual, the more so as Madge Wildfire, to whom they seemed familiar, took
the opportunity to exercise authority over her, pulling her up and pushing her
down with a bustling assiduity, which Jeanie felt must make them both the
objects of painful attention. But, notwithstanding these prejudices, it was her
prudent resolution, in this dilemma, to imitate as nearly as she could what was
done around her. The prophet, she thought, permitted Naaman the Syrian to bow
even in the house of Rimmon. Surely if I, in this streight, worship the God of
my fathers in mine own language, although the manner thereof be strange to me,
the Lord will pardon me in this thing.
    In this resolution she became so much confirmed, that, withdrawing herself
from Madge as far as the pew permitted, she endeavoured to evince, by serious
and composed attention to what was passing, that her mind was composed to
devotion. Her tormentor would not long have permitted her to remain quiet, but
fatigue overpowered her, and she fell fast asleep in the other corner of the
pew.
    Jeanie, though her mind in her own despite sometimes reverted to her
situation, compelled herself to give attention to a sensible, energetic, and
well-composed discourse, upon the practical doctrines of Christianity, which she
could not help approving, although it was every word written down and read by
the preacher, and although it was delivered in a tone and gesture very different
from those of Boanerges Stormheaven, who was her father's favourite preacher.
The serious and placid attention with which Jeanie listened, did not escape the
clergyman. Madge Wildfire's entrance had rendered him apprehensive of some
disturbance, to provide against which, as far as possible, he often turned his
eyes to the part of the church where Jeanie and she were placed, and became soon
aware that, although the loss of her head-gear, and the awkwardness of her
situation, had given an uncommon and anxious air to the features of the former,
yet she was in a state of mind very different from that of her companion. When
he dismissed the congregation, he observed her look around with a wild and
terrified look, as if uncertain what course she ought to adopt, and noticed that
she approached one or two of the most decent of the congregation, as if to
address them, and then shrunk back timidly, on observing that they seemed to
shun and to avoid her. The clergyman was satisfied there must be something
extraordinary in all this, and as a benevolent man, as well as a good Christian
pastor, he resolved to inquire into the matter more minutely.
 

                              Chapter Thirty-First

 - There governed in that year
 A stern, stout churl - an angry overseer.
                                                                         Crabbe.
 
While Mr. Staunton, for such was this worthy clergyman's name, was laying aside
his gown in the vestry, Jeanie was in the act of coming to an open rupture with
Madge.
    »We must return to Mummer's barn directly,« said Madge; »we'll be ower late,
and my mother will be angry.«
    »I am not going back with you, Madge,« said Jeanie, taking out a guinea, and
offering it to her; »I am much obliged to you, but I maun gang my ain road.«
    »And me coming a' this way out o' my gate to pleasure you, ye ungratefu'
cutty,« answered Madge; »and me to be brained by my mother when I gang hame, and
a' for your sake! - But I will gar ye as good« -
    »For God's sake,« said Jeanie to a man who stood beside them, »keep her off!
- she is mad.«
    »Ey, ey,« answered the boor; »I hae some guess of that, and I trow thou
be'st a bird of the same feather. - Howsomever, Madge, I redd thee keep hand off
her, or I'se lend thee a whisterpoop.«
    Several of the lower class of the parishioners now gathered round the
strangers, and the cry arose among the boys that »there was a-going to be a fite
between mad Madge Murdockson and another Bess of Bedlam.« But while the fry
assembled with the humane hope of seeing as much of the fun as possible, the
laced cocked-hat of the beadle was discerned among the multitude, and all made
way for that person of awful authority. His first address was to Madge.
    »What's brought thee back again, thou silly donnot, to plague this parish?
Hast thou brought ony more bastards wi' thee to lay to honest men's doors? or
does thou think to burden us with this goose, that's as gare-brained as thysell,
as if rates were no up enough? Away wi' thee to thy thief of a mother; she's fast
in the stocks at Barkston town-end - Away wi' ye out o' the parish, or I'se be
at ye with the ratan.«
    Madge stood sulky for a minute; but she had been too often taught submission
to the beadle's authority by ungentle means to feel courage enough to dispute
it.
    »And my mother - my puir auld mother, is in the stocks at Barkston! - This
is a' your wyte, Miss Jeanie Deans; but I'll be upsides wi' you, as sure as my
name's Madge Wildfire - I mean Murdockson - God help me, I forget my very name
in this confused waste.«
    So saying, she turned upon her heel, and went off, followed by all the
mischievous imps of the village, some crying, »Madge, canst thou tell thy name
yet?« some pulling the skirts of her dress, and all, to the best of their
strength and ingenuity, exercising some new device or other to exasperate her
into frenzy.
    Jeanie saw her departure with infinite delight, though she wished that, in
some way or other, she could have requited the service Madge had conferred upon
her.
    In the meantime, she applied to the beadle to know whether »there was any
house in the village where she could be civilly entertained for her money, and
whether she could be permitted to speak to the clergyman?«
    »Ay, ay, we'se ha' reverend care on thee; and I think,« answered the man of
constituted authority, »that, unless thou answer the Rector all the better,
we'se spare thy money, and give thee lodging at the parish charge, young woman.«
    »Where am I to go then?« said Jeanie, in some alarm.
    »Why, I am to take thee to his Reverence, in the first place, to give an
account o' thysell, and to see thou comena to be a burden upon the parish.«
    »I do not wish to burden anyone,« replied Jeanie; »I have enough for my own
wants, and only wish to get on my journey safely.
    Why, that's another matter,« replied the beadle, »and if it be true - and I
think thou dost not look so polrumptious as thy playfellow yonder - Thou wouldst
be a mettle lass enough, an thou wert snog and snod a bid better. Come thou away,
then - the Rector is a good man.«
    »Is that the minister,« said Jeanie, »who preached« -
    »The minister? Lord help thee! What kind o' Presbyterian art thou? - Why,
'tis the Rector - the Rector's sell, woman, and there isna the like o' him in
the county, nor the four next to it. Come away - away with thee - we maunna bide
here.«
    »I am sure I am very willing to go to see the minister,« said Jeanie; »for
though he read his discourse, and wore that surplice, as they call it here, I
canna but think he must be a very worthy God-fearing man, to preach the root of
the matter in the way he did.«
    The disappointed rabble, finding that there was like to be no farther sport,
had by this time dispersed, and Jeanie, with her usual patience, followed her
consequential and surly, but not brutal, conductor towards the rectory.
    This clerical mansion was large and commodious, for the living was an
excellent one, and the advowson belonged to a very wealthy family in the
neighbourhood, who had usually bred up a son or nephew to the church for the
sake of inducting him, as opportunity offered, into this very comfortable
provision. In this manner the rectory of Willingham had always been considered
as a direct and immediate appanage of Willingham Hall; and as the rich baronets
to whom the latter belonged had usually a son, or brother, or nephew, settled in
the living, the utmost care had been taken to render their habitation not merely
respectable and commodious, but even dignified and imposing.
    It was situated about four hundred yards from the village, and on a rising
ground which sloped gently upward, covered with small enclosures, or closes,
laid out irregularly, so that the old oaks and elms, which were planted in
hedge-rows, fell into perspective, and were blended together in beautiful
irregularity. When they approached nearer to the house, a handsome gateway
admitted them into a lawn, of narrow dimensions indeed, but which was
interspersed with large sweet chestnut trees and beeches, and kept in handsome
order. The front of the house was irregular. Part of it seemed very old, and
had, in fact, been the residence of the incumbent in Romish times. Successive
occupants had made considerable additions and improvements, each in the taste of
his own age, and without much regard to symmetry. But these incongruities of
architecture were so graduated and happily mingled, that the eye, far from being
displeased with the combinations of various styles, saw nothing but what was
interesting in the varied and intricate pile which they displayed. Fruit-trees
displayed on the southern wall, outer staircases, various places of entrance, a
combination of roofs and chimneys of different ages, united to render the front,
not indeed beautiful or grand, but intricate, perplexed, or, to use Mr. Price's
appropriate phrase, picturesque. The most considerable addition was that of the
present Rector, who, »being a bookish man,« as the beadle was at the pains to
inform Jeanie, to augment, perhaps, her reverence for the person before whom she
was to appear, had built a handsome library and parlour, and no less than two
additional bedrooms.
    »Mony men would hae scrupled such expense,« continued the parochial officer,
»seeing as the living mun go as it pleases Sir Edmund to will it; but his
Reverence has a canny bit land of his own, and need not look on two sides of a
penny.«
    Jeanie could not help comparing the irregular yet extensive and commodious
pile of building before her to the »Manses« in her own country, where a set of
penurious heritors, professing all the while the devotion of their lives and
fortunes to the Presbyterian establishment, strain their inventions to discover
what may be nipped, and clipped, and pared from a building which forms but a
poor accommodation even for the present incumbent, and, despite the superior
advantage of stone-masonry, must, in the course of forty or fifty years, again
burden their descendants with an expense, which, once liberally and handsomely
employed, ought to have freed their estates from a recurrence of it for more
than a century at least.
    Behind the Rector's house the ground sloped down to a small river, which,
without possessing the romantic vivacity and rapidity of a northern stream, was,
nevertheless, by its occasional appearance through the ranges of willows and
poplars that crowned its banks, a very pleasing accompaniment to the landscape.
»It was the best trouting stream,« said the beadle, whom the patience of Jeanie,
and especially the assurance that she was not about to become a burden to the
parish, had rendered rather communicative, »the best trouting stream in all
Lincolnshire; for when you got lower, there was nought to be done wi'
fly-fishing.«
    Turning aside from the principal entrance, he conducted Jeanie towards a
sort of portal connected with the older part of the building, which was chiefly
occupied by servants, and knocking at the door, it was opened by a servant in
grave purple livery, such as befitted a wealthy and dignified clergyman.
    »How dost do, Tummas?« said the beadle - »and how's young Measter Staunton?«
    »Why, but poorly - but poorly, Measter Stubbs. - Are you wanting to see his
Reverence?«
    »Ay, ay, Tummas; please to say I ha' brought up the young woman as came to
service to-day with mad Madge Murdockson - she seems to be a decentish koind o'
body; but I ha' asked her never a question. Only I can tell his Reverence that
she is a Scotchwoman, I judge, and as flat as the fens of Holland.«
    Tummas honoured Jeanie Deans with such a stare, as the pampered domestics of
the rich, whether spiritual or temporal, usually esteem it part of their
privilege to bestow upon the poor, and then desired Mr. Stubbs and his charge to
step in till he informed his master of their presence.
    The room into which he showed them was a sort of steward's parlour, hung
with a county map or two, and three or four prints of eminent persons connected
with the county, as Sir William Monson, James York the blacksmith of Lincoln,
and the famous Peregrine, Lord Willoughby, in complete armour, looking as when
he said, in the words of the legend below the engraving, -
 
»Stand to it, noble pikemen,
And face ye well about;
And shoot ye sharp, bold bowmen,
And we will keep them out.
 
Ye musquet and calliver-men,
Do you prove true to me,
I'll be the foremost man in fight,
Said brave Lord Willoughbee.«
 
When they had entered this apartment, Tummas as a matter of course offered, and
as a matter of course Mr. Stubbs accepted, a »summat« to eat and drink, being
the respectable relics of a gammon of bacon, and a whole whiskin, or black pot
of sufficient double ale. To these eatables Mr. Beadle seriously inclined
himself, and (for we must do him justice) not without an invitation to Jeanie,
in which Tummas joined, that his prisoner or charge would follow his good
example. But although she might have stood in need of refreshment, considering
she had tasted no food that day, the anxiety of the moment, her own sparing and
abstemious habits, and a bashful aversion to eat in company of the two
strangers, induced her to decline their courtesy. So she sate in a chair apart,
while Mr. Stubbs and Mr. Tummas, who had chosen to join his friend in
consideration that dinner was to be put back till after the afternoon service,
made a hearty luncheon, which lasted for half-an-hour, and might not then have
concluded, had not his Reverence rung his bell, so that Tummas was obliged to
attend his master. Then, and no sooner, to save himself the labour of a second
journey to the other end of the house, he announced to his master the arrival of
Mr. Stubbs, with the other madwoman, as he chose to designate Jeanie, as an
event which had just taken place. He returned with an order that Mr. Stubbs and
the young woman should be instantly ushered up to the library.
    The beadle bolted in haste his last mouthful of fat bacon, washed down the
greasy morsel with the last rinsings of the pot of ale, and immediately
marshalled Jeanie through one or two intricate passages which led from the
ancient to the more modern buildings, into a handsome little hall, or anteroom,
adjoining to the library, and out of which a glass door opened to the lawn.
    »Stay here,« said Stubbs, »till I tell his Reverence you are come.«
    So saying, he opened a door and entered the library.
    Without wishing to hear their conversation, Jeanie, as she was
circumstanced, could not avoid it; for as Stubbs stood by the door, and his
Reverence was at the upper end of a large room, their conversation was
necessarily audible in the anteroom.
    »So you have brought the young woman here at last, Mr. Stubbs. I expected
you some time since. You know I do not wish such persons to remain in custody a
moment without some inquiry into their situation.«
    »Very true, your Reverence,« replied the beadle; »but the young woman had
eat nought to-day, and so Measter Tummas did set down a drap of drink and a
morsel, to be sure.«
    »Thomas was very right, Mr. Stubbs; and what has become of the other most
unfortunate being?«
    »Why,« replied Mr. Stubbs, »I did think the sight on her would but vex your
Reverence, and soa I did let her go her ways back to her mother, who is in
trouble in the next parish.«
    »In trouble! - that signifies in prison, I suppose?« said Mr. Staunton.
    »Ay, truly; something like it, an it like your Reverence.«
    »Wretched, unhappy, incorrigible woman!« said the clergyman. »And what sort
of person is this companion of hers?«
    »Why, decent enough, an it like your Reverence,« said Stubbs; »for aught I
sees of her, there's no harm of her, and she says she has cash enough to carry her
out of the county.«
    »Cash! that is always what you think of, Stubbs - But, has she sense? - has
she her wits? - has she the capacity of taking care of herself?«
    »Why, your Reverence,« replied Stubbs, »I cannot just say - I will be sworn
she was not born at Witt-ham;59 for Gaffer Gibbs looked at her all the time of
service, and he says, she could not turn up a single lesson like a Christian,
even though she had Madge Murdockson to help her - but then, as to fending for
hersell, why, she's a bit of a Scotchwoman, your Reverence, and they say the
worst donnot of them can look out for their own turn - and she is decently put
on enough, and not bechounched like t'other.«
    »Send her in here, then, and do you remain below, Mr. Stubbs.«
    This colloquy had engaged Jeanie's attention so deeply, that it was not
until it was over that she observed that the sashed door, which, we have said,
led from the anteroom into the garden, was opened, and that there entered, or
rather was borne in by two assistants, a young man, of a very pale and sickly
appearance, whom they lifted to the nearest couch, and placed there, as if to
recover from the fatigue of an unusual exertion. Just as they were making this
arrangement, Stubbs came out of the library, and summoned Jeanie to enter it.
She obeyed him, not without tremor; for, besides the novelty of the situation,
to a girl of her secluded habits, she felt also as if the successful prosecution
of her journey was to depend upon the impression she should be able to make on
Mr. Staunton.
    It is true, it was difficult to suppose on what pretext a person travelling
on her own business, and at her own charge, could be interrupted upon her route.
But the violent detention she had already undergone, was sufficient to show that
there existed persons at no great distance who had the interest, the
inclination, and the audacity, forcibly to stop her journey, and she felt the
necessity of having some countenance and protection, at least till she should
get beyond their reach. While these things passed through her mind, much faster
than our pen and ink can record, or even the reader's eye collect the meaning of
its traces, Jeanie found herself in a handsome library, and in presence of the
Rector of Willingham. The well-furnished presses and shelves which surrounded
the large and handsome apartment, contained more books than Jeanie imagined
existed in the world, being accustomed to consider as an extensive collection
two fir shelves, each about three feet long, which contained her father's
treasured volumes, the whole pith and marrow, as he used sometimes to boast, of
modern divinity. An orrery, globes, a telescope, and some other scientific
implements, conveyed to Jeanie an impression of admiration and wonder, not
unmixed with fear; for, in her ignorant apprehension, they seemed rather adapted
for magical purposes than any other; and a few stuffed animals (as the Rector
was fond of natural history) added to the impressive character of the apartment.
    Mr. Staunton spoke to her with great mildness. He observed, that, although
her appearance at church had been uncommon, and in strange, and he must add,
discreditable society, and calculated, upon the whole, to disturb the
congregation during divine worship, he wished, nevertheless, to hear her own
account of herself before taking any steps which his duty might seem to demand.
He was a justice of peace, he informed her, as well as a clergyman.
    »His Honour« (for she would not say his Reverence) »was very civil and
kind,« was all that poor Jeanie could at first bring out.
    »Who are you, young woman?« said the clergyman, more peremptorily - »and
what do you do in this country, and in such company? - We allow no strollers or
vagrants here.«
    »I am not a vagrant or a stroller, sir,« said Jeanie, a little roused by the
supposition. »I am a decent Scots lass, travelling through the land on my own
business and my own expenses; and I was so unhappy as to fall in with bad
company, and was stopped a' night on my journey. And this puir creature, who is
something light-headed, let me out in the morning.«
    »Bad company!« said the clergyman. »I am afraid, young woman, you have not
been sufficiently anxious to avoid them.«
    »Indeed, sir,« returned Jeanie, »I have been brought up to shun evil
communication. But these wicked people were thieves, and stopped me by violence
and mastery.«
    »Thieves!« said Mr. Staunton; »then you charge them with robbery, I
suppose?«
    »No, sir; they did not take so much as a boddle from me,« answered Jeanie;
»nor did they use me ill, otherwise than by confining me.«
    The clergyman inquired into the particulars of her adventure, which she told
him from point to point.
    »This is an extraordinary, and not a very probable tale, young woman,«
resumed Mr. Staunton. »Here has been, according to your account, a great
violence committed without any adequate motive. Are you aware of the law of this
country - that if you lodge this charge, you will be bound over to prosecute
this gang?«
    Jeanie did not understand him, and he explained, that the English law, in
addition to the inconvenience sustained by persons who have been robbed or
injured, has the goodness to entrust to them the care and the expense of
appearing as prosecutors.
    Jeanie said, »that her business at London was express; all she wanted was,
that any gentleman would, out of Christian charity, protect her to some town
where she could hire horses and a guide; and finally,« she thought, »it would be
her father's mind that she was not free to give testimony in an English court of
justice, as the land was not under a direct gospel dispensation.«
    Mr. Staunton stared a little, and asked if her father was a Quaker.
    »God forbid, sir,« said Jeanie - »He is nae schismatic nor sectary, nor ever
treated for sic black commodities as theirs, and that's well kend o' him.«
    »And what is his name, pray?« said Mr. Staunton.
    »David Deans, sir, the cowfeeder at Saint Leonard's Crags, near Edinburgh.«
    A deep groan from the anteroom prevented the Rector from replying, and,
exclaiming, »Good God! that unhappy boy!« he left Jeanie alone, and hastened
into the outer apartment.
    Some noise and bustle was heard, but no one entered the library for the best
part of an hour.
 

                             Chapter Thirty-Second

 Fantastic passions' maddening brawl!
 And shame and terror over all!
 Deeds to be hid which were not hid,
 Which, all confused, I could not know
 Whether I suffer'd or I did,
 For all seem'd guilt, remorse, or woe;
 My own, or others, still the same
 Life-stifling fear, soul-stifling shame.
                                                                      Coleridge.
 
During the interval while she was thus left alone, Jeanie anxiously revolved in
her mind what course was best for her to pursue. She was impatient to continue
her journey, yet she feared she could not safely adventure to do so while the
old hag and her assistants were in the neighbourhood, without risking a
repetition of their violence. She thought she could collect from the
conversation which she had partly overheard, and also from the wild confessions
of Madge Wildfire, that her mother had a deep and revengeful motive for
obstructing her journey if possible. And from whom could she hope for assistance
if not from Mr. Staunton? His whole appearance and demeanour seemed to encourage
her hopes. His features were handsome, though marked with a deep cast of
melancholy; his tone and language were gentle and encouraging; and, as he had
served in the army for several years during his youth, his air retained that
easy frankness which is peculiar to the profession of arms. He was, besides, a
minister of the gospel; and, although a worshipper, according to Jeanie's
notions, in the court of the Gentiles, and so benighted as to wear a surplice;
although he read the Common Prayer, and wrote down every word of his sermon
before delivering it; and although he was, moreover, in strength of lungs, as
well as pith and marrow of doctrine, vastly inferior to Boanerges Stormheaven,
Jeanie still thought he must be a very different person from Curate Kilstoup,
and other prelatical divines of her father's earlier days, who used to get drunk
in their canonical dress, and hound out the dragoons against the wandering
Cameronians. The house seemed to be in some disturbance, but as she could not
suppose she was altogether forgotten, she thought it better to remain quiet in
the apartment where she had been left, till some one should take notice of her.
    The first who entered was, to her no small delight, one of her own sex, a
motherly-looking aged person of a housekeeper. To her Jeanie explained her
situation in a few words, and begged her assistance.
    The dignity of a housekeeper did not encourage too much familiarity with a
person who was at the Rectory on justice-business, and whose character might
seem in her eyes somewhat precarious; but she was civil, although distant.
    »Her young master,« she said, »had had a bad accident by a fall from his
horse, which made him liable to fainting fits; he had been taken very ill just
now, and it was impossible his Reverence could see Jeanie for some time; but
that she need not fear his doing all that was just and proper in her behalf the
instant he could get her business attended to.« - She concluded by offering to
show Jeanie a room, where she might remain till his Reverence was at leisure.
    Our heroine took the opportunity to request the means of adjusting and
changing her dress.
    The housekeeper, in whose estimation order and cleanliness ranked high among
personal virtues, gladly complied with a request so reasonable; and the change
of dress which Jeanie's bundle furnished made so important an improvement in her
appearance, that the old lady hardly knew the soiled and disordered traveller,
whose attire showed the violence she had sustained, in the neat, clean,
quiet-looking little Scotchwoman, who now stood before her. Encouraged by such a
favourable alteration in her appearance, Mrs. Dalton ventured to invite Jeanie
to partake of her dinner, and was equally pleased with the decent propriety of
her conduct during the meal.
    »Thou canst read this book, canst thou, young woman?« said the old lady,
when their meal was concluded, laying her hand upon a large Bible.
    »I hope sae, madam,« said Jeanie, surprised at the question; »my father wad
hae wanted mony a thing ere I had wanted that schuling.«
    »The better sign of him, young woman. There are men here, well to pass in
the world, would not want their share of a Leicester plover, and that's a
bag-pudding, if fasting for three hours would make all their poor children read
the Bible from end to end. Take thou the book, then, for my eyes are something
dazed, and read where thou listest - it's the only book thou canst not happen
wrong in.«
    Jeanie was at first tempted to turn up the parable of the good Samaritan,
but her conscience checked her, as if it were a use of Scripture, not for her
own edification, but to work upon the mind of others for the relief of her
worldly afflictions; and under this scrupulous sense of duty, she selected, in
preference, a chapter of the prophet Isaiah, and read it, notwithstanding her
northern accent and tone, with a devout propriety, which greatly edified Mrs.
Dalton.
    »Ah,« she said, »an all Scotchwomen were sic as thou! - but it was our luck
to get born devils of thy country, I think - every one worse than t'other. If
thou knows of any tidy lass like thysell that wanted a place, and could bring
a good character, and would not go laiking about to wakes and fairs, and wore
shoes and stockings all the day round - why, I'll not say but we might find room
for her at the Rectory. Hast no cousin or sister, lass, that such an offer would
suit?«
    This was touching upon a sore point, but Jeanie was spared the pain of
replying by the entrance of the same man-servant she had seen before.
    »Measter wishes to see the young woman from Scotland,« was Tummas's address.
    »Go to his Reverence, my dear, as fast as you can, and tell him all your
story - his Reverence is a kind man,« said Mrs. Dalton. »I will fold down the
leaf, and make you a cup of tea, with some nice muffin, against you come down,
and that's what you seldom see in Scotland, girl.«
    »Measter's waiting for the young woman,« said Tummas impatiently.
    »Well, Mr. Jack-Sauce, and what is your business to put in your oar? - And
how often must I tell you to call Mr. Staunton his Reverence, seeing as he is a
dignified clergyman, and not be meastering, meastering him, as if he were a
little petty squire?«
    As Jeanie was now at the door, and ready to accompany Tummas, the footman
said nothing till he got into the passage, when he muttered, »There are moe
masters than one in this house, and I think we shall have a mistress too, an
Dame Dalton carries it thus.«
    Tummas led the way through a more intricate range of passages than Jeanie
had yet threaded, and ushered her into an apartment which was darkened by the
closing of most of the window-shutters, and in which was a bed with the curtains
partly drawn.
    »Here is the young woman, sir,« said Tummas.
    »Very well,« said a voice from the bed, but not that of his Reverence; »be
ready to answer the bell, and leave the room.«
    »There is some mistake,« said Jeanie, confounded at finding herself in the
apartment of an invalid; »the servant told me that the minister« -
    »Don't trouble yourself,« said the invalid, »there is no mistake. I know
more of your affairs than my father, and I can manage them better. - Leave the
room, Tom.« The servant obeyed. - »We must not,« said the invalid, »lose time,
when we have little to lose. Open the shutters of that window.«
    She did so, and as he drew aside the curtain of his bed, the light fell on
his pale countenance, as, turban'd with bandages, and dressed in a night-gown,
he lay, seemingly exhausted, upon the bed.
    »Look at me,« he said, »Jeanie Deans; can you not recollect me?«
    »No, sir,« said she, full of surprise. »I was never in this country before.«
    »But I may have been in yours. Think - recollect. I should faint did I name
the name you are most dearly bound to loathe and to detest. Think - remember!«
    A terrible recollection flashed on Jeanie, which every tone of the speaker
confirmed, and which his next words rendered certainty.
    »Be composed - remember Muschat's Cairn, and the moonlight night!«
    Jeanie sunk down on a chair with clasped hands, and gasped in agony.
    »Yes, here I lie,« he said, »like a crushed snake, writhing with impatience
at my incapacity of motion - here I lie, when I ought to have been in Edinburgh,
trying every means to save a life that is dearer to me than my own. - How is
your sister? - how fares it with her? - condemned to death, I know it, by this
time! O, the horse that carried me safely on a thousand errands of folly and
wickedness, that he should have broke down with me on the only good mission I
have undertaken for years! But I must rein in my passion - my frame cannot
endure it, and I have much to say. Give me some of the cordial which stands on
that table. - Why do you tremble? But you have too good cause. - Let it stand -
I need it not.«
    Jeanie, however reluctant, approached him with the cup into which she had
poured the draught, and could not forbear saying, »There is a cordial for the
mind, sir, if the wicked will turn from their transgressions, and seek to the
Physician of souls.«
    »Silence!« he said sternly - »and yet I thank you. But tell me, and lose no
time in doing so, what you are doing in this country? Remember, though I have
been your sister's worst enemy, yet I will serve her with the best of my blood,
and I will serve you for her sake; and no one can serve you to such purpose, for
no one can know the circumstances so well - so speak without fear.«
    »I am not afraid, sir,« said Jeanie, collecting her spirits. »I trust in
God; and if it pleases Him to redeem my sister's captivity, it is all I seek,
whosoever be the instrument. But, sir, to be plain with you, I dare not use your
counsel, unless I were enabled to see that it accords with the law which I must
rely upon.«
    »The devil take the Puritan!« cried George Staunton, for so we must now call
him - »I beg your pardon; but I am naturally impatient, and you drive me mad!
What harm can it possibly do to tell me in what situation your sister stands,
and your own expectations of being able to assist her? It is time enough to
refuse my advice when I offer any which you may think improper. I speak calmly
to you, though 'tis against my nature; but don't urge me to impatience - it will
only render me incapable of serving Effie.«
    There was in the looks and words of this unhappy young man a sort of
restrained eagerness and impetuosity which seemed to prey upon itself, as the
impatience of a fiery steed fatigues itself with churning upon the bit. After a
moment's consideration, it occurred to Jeanie that she was not entitled to
withhold from him, whether on her sister's account or her own, the fatal account
of the consequences of the crime which he had committed, nor to reject such
advice, being in itself lawful and innocent, as he might be able to suggest in
the way of remedy. Accordingly, in as few words as she could express it, she
told the history of her sister's trial and condemnation, and of her own journey
as far as Newark. He appeared to listen in the utmost agony of mind, yet
repressed every violent symptom of emotion, whether by gesture or sound, which
might have interrupted the speaker, and, stretched on his couch like the Mexican
monarch on his bed of live coals, only the contortions of his cheek, and the
quivering of his limbs, gave indication of his sufferings. To much of what she
said he listened with stifled groans, as if he were only hearing those miseries
confirmed, whose fatal reality he had known before; but when she pursued her
tale through the circumstances which had interrupted her journey, extreme
surprise and earnest attention appeared to succeed to the symptoms of remorse
which he had before exhibited. He questioned Jeanie closely concerning the
appearance of the two men, and the conversation which she had overheard between
the taller of them and the woman.
    When Jeanie mentioned the old woman having alluded to her foster-son - »It
is too true,« he said; »and the source from which I derived food, when an
infant, must have communicated to me the wretched - the fated - propensity to
vices that were strangers in my own family. - But go on.«
    Jeanie passed slightly over her journey in company with Madge, having no
inclination to repeat what might be the effect of mere raving on the part of her
companion, and therefore her tale was now closed.
    Young Staunton lay for a moment in profound meditation and at length spoke
with more composure than he had yet displayed during their interview. - »You are
a sensible, as well as a good young woman, Jeanie Deans, and I will tell you
more of my story than I have told to any one. - Story did I call it? - it is a
tissue of folly, guilt, and misery. - But take notice - I do it because I desire
your confidence in return - that is, that you will act in this dismal matter by
my advice and direction. Therefore do I speak.«
    »I will do what is fitting for a sister, and a daughter, and a Christian
woman to do,« said Jeanie; »but do not tell me any of your secrets. - It is not
good that I should come into your counsel, or listen to the doctrine which
causeth to err.«
    »Simple fool!« said the young man. »Look at me. My head is not horned, my
foot is not cloven, my hands are not garnished with talons; and, since I am not
the very devil himself, what interest can any one else have in destroying the
hopes with which you comfort or fool yourself? Listen to me patiently, and you
will find that, when you have heard my counsel, you may go to the seventh heaven
with it in your pocket, if you have a mind, and not feel yourself an ounce
heavier in the ascent.«
    At the risk of being somewhat heavy, as explanations usually prove, we must
here endeavour to combine into a distinct narrative, information which the
invalid communicated in a manner at once too circumstantial, and too much broken
by passion, to admit of our giving his precise words. Part of it indeed he read
from a manuscript, which he had perhaps drawn up for the information of his
relations after his decease.
    »To make my tale short - this wretched hag - this Margaret Murdockson, was
the wife of a favourite servant of my father - she had been my nurse - her
husband was dead - she resided in a cottage near this place - she had a daughter
who grew up, and was then a beautiful but very giddy girl; her mother
endeavoured to promote her marriage with an old and wealthy churl in the
neighbourhood - the girl saw me frequently - She was familiar with me, as our
connection seemed to permit - and I - in a word, I wronged her cruelly - It was
not so bad as your sister's business, but it was sufficiently villainous - her
folly should have been her protection. Soon after this I was sent abroad - To do
my father justice, if I have turned out a fiend it is not his fault - he used
the best means. When I returned, I found the wretched mother and daughter had
fallen into disgrace, and were chased from this country. - My deep share in
their shame and misery was discovered - my father used very harsh language - we
quarrelled. I left his house, and led a life of strange adventure, resolving
never again to see my father or my father's home.
    And now comes the story! - Jeanie, I put my life into your hands, and not
only my own life, which, God knows, is not worth saving, but the happiness of a
respectable old man, and the honour of a family of consideration. My love of low
society, as such propensities as I was cursed with are usually termed, was, I
think of an uncommon kind, and indicated a nature, which, if not depraved by
early debauchery, would have been fit for better things. I did not so much
delight in the wild revel, the low humour, the unconfined liberty of those with
whom I associated, as in the spirit of adventure, presence of mind in peril, and
sharpness of intellect which they displayed in prosecuting their maraudings upon
the revenue, or similar adventures. - Have you looked round this rectory? - is
it not a sweet and pleasant retreat?«
    Jeanie, alarmed at this sudden change of subject, replied in the
affirmative.
    »Well! I wish it had been ten thousand fathoms under ground, with its
church-lands, and tithes, and all that belongs to it. Had it not been for this
cursed rectory, I should have been permitted to follow the bent of my own
inclinations and the profession of arms, and half the courage and address that I
have displayed among smugglers and deer-stealers would have secured me an
honourable rank among my contemporaries. Why did I not go abroad when I left
this house! - Why did I leave it at all! - why - But it came to that point with
me that it is madness to look back, and misery to look forward!«
    He paused, and then proceeded with more composure.
    »The chances of a wandering life brought me unhappily to Scotland, to
embroil myself in worse and more criminal actions than I had yet been concerned
in. It was now I became acquainted with Wilson, a remarkable man in his station
of life; quiet, composed, and resolute, firm in mind, and uncommonly strong in
person, gifted with a sort of rough eloquence which raised him above his
companions. Hitherto I had been
 
As dissolute as desperate, yet through both
Were seen some sparkles of a better hope.
 
But it was this man's misfortune, as well as mine, that, notwithstanding the
difference of our rank and education, he acquired an extraordinary and
fascinating influence over me, which I can only account for by the calm
determination of his character being superior to the less sustained impetuosity
of mine. Where he led I felt myself bound to follow; and strange was the courage
and address which he displayed in his pursuits. While I was engaged in desperate
adventures, under so strange and dangerous a preceptor, I became acquainted with
your unfortunate sister at some sports of the young people in the suburbs, which
she frequented by stealth - and her ruin proved an interlude to the tragic
scenes in which I was now deeply engaged. Yet this let me say - the villainy was
not premeditated, and I was firmly resolved to do her all the justice which
marriage could do, so soon as I should be able to extricate myself from my
unhappy course of life, and embrace some one more suited to my birth. I had wild
visions - visions of conducting her as if to some poor retreat, and introducing
her at once to rank and fortune she never dreamt of. A friend, at my request,
attempted a negotiation with my father, which was protracted for some time, and
renewed at different intervals. At length, and just when I expected my father's
pardon, he learned by some means or other my infamy, painted in even exaggerated
colours, which was, God knows, unnecessary. He wrote me a letter - how it found
me out I know not - enclosing me a sum of money, and disowning me for ever. I
became desperate - I became frantic - I readily joined Wilson in a perilous
smuggling adventure in which we miscarried, and was willingly blinded by his
logic to consider the robbery of the officer of the customs in Fife as a fair
and honourable reprisal. Hitherto I had observed a certain line in my
criminality, and stood free of assaults upon personal property, but now I felt a
wild pleasure in disgracing myself as much as possible.
    The plunder was no object to me. I abandoned that to my comrades, and only
asked the post of danger. I remember well, that when I stood with my drawn sword
guarding the door while they committed the felony, I had not a thought of my own
safety. I was only meditating on my sense of supposed wrong from my family, my
impotent thirst of vengeance, and how it would sound in the haughty ears of the
family of Willingham, that one of their descendants, and the heir apparent of
their honours, should perish by the hands of the hangman for robbing a Scottish
gauger of a sum not equal to one-fifth part of the money I had in my
pocket-book. We were taken - I expected no less. We were condemned - that also I
looked for. But death, as he approached nearer, looked grimly; and the
recollection of your sister's destitute condition determined me on an effort to
save my life. - I forgot to tell you, that in Edinburgh I again met the woman
Murdockson and her daughter. She had followed the camp when young, and had now,
under pretence of a trifling traffic, resumed predatory habits, with which she
had already been too familiar. Our first meeting was stormy; but I was liberal
of what money I had, and she forgot, or seemed to forget, the injury her
daughter had received. The unfortunate girl herself seemed hardly even to know
her seducer, far less to retain any sense of the injury she had received. Her
mind is totally alienated, which, according to her mother's account, is
sometimes the consequence of an unfavourable confinement. But it was my doing.
Here was another stone knitted round my neck to sink me into the pit of
perdition. Every look - every word of this poor creature - her false spirits -
her imperfect recollections - her allusions to things which she had forgotten,
but which were recorded in my conscience, were stabs of a poniard - stabs did I
say? - they were tearing with hot pincers, and scalding the raw wound with
burning sulphur - they were to be endured however, and they were endured. - I
return to my prison thoughts.
    It was not the least miserable of them that your sister's time approached. I
knew her dread of you and of her father. She often said she would die a thousand
deaths ere you should know her shame - yet her confinement must be provided for.
I knew this woman Murdockson was an infernal hag, but I thought she loved me,
and that money would make her true. She had procured a file for Wilson, and a
spring-saw for me; and she undertook readily to take charge of Effie during her
illness, in which she had skill enough to give the necessary assistance. I gave
her the money which my father had sent me. It was settled that she should
receive Effie into her house in the meantime, and wait for farther directions
from me, when I should effect my escape. I communicated this purpose, and
recommended the old hag to poor Effie by a letter, in which I recollect that I
endeavoured to support the character of Macheath under condemnation - a fine,
gay, bold-faced ruffian, who is game to the last. Such, and so wretchedly poor,
was my ambition! Yet I had resolved to forsake the courses I had been engaged
in, should I be so fortunate as to escape the gibbet. My design was to marry
your sister, and go over to the West Indies. I had still a considerable sum of
money left, and I trusted to be able, in one way or other, to provide for myself
and my wife.
    We made the attempt to escape, and by the obstinacy of Wilson, who insisted
upon going first, it totally miscarried. The undaunted and self-denied manner in
which he sacrificed himself to redeem his error, and accomplish my escape from
the Tolbooth Church, you must have heard of - all Scotland rang with it. It was
a gallant and extraordinary deed - All men spoke of it - all men, even those who
most condemned the habits and crimes of this self-devoted man, praised the
heroism of his friendship. I have many vices, but cowardice or want of
gratitude, are none of the number. I resolved to requite his generosity, and
even your sister's safety became a secondary consideration with me for the time.
To effect Wilson's liberation was my principal object, and I doubted not to find
the means.
    Yet I did not forget Effie neither. The bloodhounds of the law were so close
after me, that I dared not trust myself near any of my old haunts, but old
Murdockson met me by appointment, and informed me that your sister had happily
been delivered of a boy. I charged the hag to keep her patient's mind easy, and
let her want for nothing that money could purchase, and I retreated to Fife,
where, among my old associates of Wilson's gang, I hid myself in those places of
concealment where the men engaged in that desperate trade are used to find
security for themselves and their uncustomed goods. Men who are disobedient both
to human and divine laws are not always insensible to the claims of courage and
generosity. We were assured that the mob of Edinburgh, strongly moved with the
hardship of Wilson's situation, and the gallantry of his conduct, would back any
bold attempt that might be made to rescue him even from the foot of the gibbet.
Desperate as the attempt seemed, upon my declaring myself ready to lead the
onset on the guard, I found no want of followers who engaged to stand by me, and
returned to Lothian, soon followed by some steady associates, prepared to act
whenever the occasion might require.
    I have no doubt I should have rescued him from the very noose that dangled
over his head,« he continued with animation, which seemed a flash of the
interest which he had taken in such exploits; »but amongst other precautions,
the magistrates had taken one, suggested, as we afterwards learned, by the
unhappy wretch Porteous, which effectually disconcerted my measures. They
anticipated, by half-an-hour, the ordinary period for execution; and, as it had
been resolved amongst us, that, for fear of observation from the officers of
justice, we should not show ourselves upon the street until the time of action
approached, it followed, that all was over before our attempt at a rescue
commenced. It did commence, however, and I gained the scaffold and cut the rope
with my own hand. It was too late! The bold, stout-hearted, generous criminal
was no more - and vengeance was all that remained to us - a vengeance, as I then
thought, doubly due from my hand, to whom Wilson had given life and liberty when
he could as easily have secured his own.«
    »O sir,« said Jeanie, »did the Scripture never come into your mind,
Vengeance is mine, and I will repay it?«
    »Scripture! Why, I had not opened a Bible for five years,« answered
Staunton.
    »Wae's me, sirs,« said Jeanie - »and a minister's son too!«
    »It is natural for you to say so; yet do not interrupt me, but let me finish
my most accursed history. The beast, Porteous, who kept firing on the people
long after it had ceased to be necessary, became the object of their hatred for
having overdone his duty, and of mine for having done it too well. We - that is,
I and the other determined friends of Wilson, resolved to be avenged - but
caution was necessary. I thought I had been marked by one of the officers, and
therefore continued to lurk about the vicinity of Edinburgh, but without daring
to venture within the walls. At length I visited, at the hazard of my life, the
place where I hoped to find my future wife and my son - they were both gone.
Dame Murdockson informed me, that so soon as Effie heard of the miscarriage of
the attempt to rescue Wilson, and the hot pursuit after me, she fell into a
brain fever; and that being one day obliged to go out on some necessary business
and leave her alone, she had taken that opportunity to escape, and she had not
seen her since. I loaded her with reproaches, to which she listened with the
most provoking and callous composure; for it is one of her attributes, that,
violent and fierce as she is upon most occasions, there are some in which she
shows the most imperturbable calmness. I threatened her with justice; she said I
had more reason to fear justice than she had. I felt she was right, and was
silenced. I threatened her with vengeance; she replied in nearly the same words,
that, to judge by injuries received, I had more reason to fear her vengeance,
than she to dread mine. She was again right, and I was left without an answer. I
flung myself from her in indignation, and employed a comrade to make inquiry in
the neighbourhood of Saint Leonard's concerning your sister; but ere I received
his answer, the opening quest of a well-scented terrier of the law drove me from
the vicinity of Edinburgh, to a more distant and secluded place of concealment.
A secret and trusty emissary at length brought me the account of Porteous's
condemnation, and of your sister's imprisonment on a criminal charge; thus
astounding one of mine ears, while he gratified the other.
    I again ventured to the Pleasance - again charged Murdockson with treachery
to the unfortunate Effie and her child, though I could conceive no reason, save
that of appropriating the whole of the money I had lodged with her. Your
narrative throws light on this, and shows another motive, not less powerful
because less evident - the desire of wreaking vengeance on the seducer of her
daughter, - the destroyer at once of her reason and reputation. Great God! how I
wish that, instead of the revenge she made choice of, she had delivered me up to
the cord!«
    »But what account did the wretched woman give of Effie and the bairn?« said
Jeanie, who, during this long and agitating narrative, had firmness and
discernment enough to keep her eye on such points as might throw light on her
sister's misfortunes.
    »She would give none,« said Staunton; »she said the mother made a moonlight
flitting from her house, with the infant in her arms - that she had never seen
either of them since - that the lass might have thrown the child into the North
Loch or the Quarry Holes for what she knew, and it was like enough she had done
so.«
    »And how came you to believe that she did not speak the fatal truth?« said
Jeanie, trembling.
    »Because, on this second occasion, I saw her daughter, and I understood from
her, that, in fact, the child had been removed or destroyed during the illness
of the mother. But all knowledge to be got from her is so uncertain and
indirect, that I could not collect any farther circumstances. Only the
diabolical character of old Murdockson makes me augur the worst.«
    »The last account agrees with that given by my poor sister,« said Jeanie;
»but gang on wi' your ain tale, sir.«
    »Of this I am certain,« said Staunton, »that Effie, in her senses, and with
her knowledge, never injured living creature. - But what could I do in her
exculpation? - Nothing - and, therefore, my whole thoughts were turned toward
her safety. I was under the cursed necessity of suppressing my feelings towards
Murdockson; my life was in the hag's hand - that I cared not for; but on my life
hung that of your sister. I spoke the wretch fair; I appeared to confide in her;
and to me, so far as I was personally concerned, she gave proofs of
extraordinary fidelity. I was at first uncertain what measures I ought to adopt
for your sister's liberation, when the general rage excited among the citizens
of Edinburgh on account of the reprieve of Porteous, suggested to me the daring
idea of forcing the jail, and at once carrying off your sister from the clutches
of the law, and bringing to condign punishment a miscreant, who had tormented
the unfortunate Wilson, even in the hour of death, as if he had been a wild
Indian taken captive by a hostile tribe. I flung myself among the multitude in
the moment of fermentation - so did others among Wilson's mates, who had, like
me, been disappointed in the hope of glutting their eyes with Porteous's
execution. All was organised, and I was chosen for the captain. I felt not - I
do not now feel, compunction for what was to be done, and has since been
executed.«
    »O, God forgive ye, sir, and bring ye to a better sense of your ways!«
exclaimed Jeanie, in horror at the avowal of such violent sentiments.
    »Amen,« replied Staunton, »if my sentiments are wrong. But I repeat, that,
although willing to aid the deed, I could have wished them to have chosen
another leader; because I foresaw that the great and general duty of the night
would interfere with the assistance which I proposed to render Effie. I gave a
commission, however, to a trusty friend to protect her to a place of safety, so
soon as the fatal procession had left the jail. But for no persuasions which I
could use in the hurry of the moment, or which my comrade employed at more
length, after the mob had taken a different direction, could the unfortunate
girl be prevailed upon to leave the prison. His arguments were all wasted upon
the infatuated victim, and he was obliged to leave her in order to attend to his
own safety. Such was his account; but, perhaps, he persevered less steadily in
his attempts to persuade her than I would have done.«
    »Effie was right to remain,« said Jeanie; »and I love her the better for
it.«
    »Why will you say so?« said Staunton.
    »You cannot understand my reasons, sir, if I should render them,« answered
Jeanie composedly; »they that thirst for the blood of their enemies have no
taste for the well-spring of life.«
    »My hopes,« said Staunton, »were thus a second time disappointed. My next
efforts were to bring her through her trial by means of yourself. How I urged
it, and where, you cannot have forgotten. I do not blame you for your refusal;
it was founded, I am convinced, on principle, and not on indifference to your
sister's fate. For me, judge of me as a man frantic; I knew not what hand to
turn to, and all my efforts were unavailing. In this condition, and close beset
on all sides, I thought of what might be done by means of my family, and their
influence. I fled from Scotland - I reached this place - my miserably wasted and
unhappy appearance procured me from my father that pardon, which a parent finds
it so hard to refuse, even to the most undeserving son. And here I have awaited
in anguish of mind, which the condemned criminal might envy, the event of your
sister's trial.«
    »Without taking any steps for her relief?« said Jeanie.
    »To the last I hoped her case might terminate more favourably; and it is
only two days since that the fatal tidings reached me. My resolution was
instantly taken. I mounted my best horse with the purpose of making the utmost
haste to London, and there compounding with Sir Robert Walpole for your sister's
safety, by surrendering to him, in the person of the heir of the family of
Willingham, the notorious George Robertson, the accomplice of Wilson, the
breaker of the Tolbooth prison, and the well-known leader of the Porteous mob.«
    »But would that save my sister?« said Jeanie, in astonishment.
    »It would, as I should drive my bargain,« said Staunton. »Queens love
revenge as well as their subjects - Little as you seem to esteem it, it is a
poison which pleases all palates, from the prince to the peasant. Prime
ministers love no less the power of gratifying sovereigns by gratifying their
passions. - The life of an obscure village girl! Why, I might ask the best of
the crown-jewels for laying the head of such an insolent conspiracy at the foot
of her majesty, with a certainty of being gratified. All my other plans have
failed, but this could not - Heaven is just, however, and would not honour me
with making this voluntary atonement for the injury I have done your sister. I
had not rode ten miles, when my horse, the best and most sure-footed animal in
this country, fell with me on a level piece of road, as if he had been struck by
a cannon-shot. I was greatly hurt, and was brought back here in the condition in
which you now see me.«
    As young Stauton had come to the conclusion, the servant opened the door,
and, with a voice which seemed intended rather for a signal, than merely the
announcing of a visit, said. »His Reverence, sir, is coming up stairs to wait
upon you.«
    »For God's sake, hide yourself, Jeanie,« exclaimed Staunton, »in that
dressing closet!«
    »No, sir,« said Jeanie; »as I am here for nae ill, I canna take the shame of
hiding mysell frae the master of the house.«
    »But, good Heavens!« exclaimed George Staunton, »do but consider« -
    Ere he could complete the sentence, his father entered the apartment.
 

                              Chapter Thirty-Third

 And now, will pardon, comfort, kindness, draw
 The youth from vice? will honour, duty, law?
                                                                         Crabbe.
 
Jeanie arose from her seat, and made her quiet reverence, when the elder Mr.
Staunton entered the apartment. His astonishment was extreme at finding his son
in such company.
    »I perceive, madam, I have made a mistake respecting you, and ought to have
left the task of interrogating you, and of righting your wrongs, to this young
man, with whom, doubtless, you have been formerly acquainted.«
    »It's unwitting on my part that I am here;« said Jeanie; »the servant told
me his master wished to speak with me.«
    »There goes the purple coat over my ears,« murmured Tummas. »D-n her, why
must she needs speak the truth, when she could have as well said anything else
she had a mind?«
    »George,« said Mr. Staunton, »if you are still, as you have ever been, -
lost to all self-respect, you might at least have spared your father and your
father's house, such a disgraceful scene as this.«
    »Upon my life - upon my soul, sir!« said George, throwing his feet over the
side of the bed, and starting from his recumbent posture.
    »Your life, sir!« interrupted his father, with melancholy sternness, - »What
sort of life has it been? - Your soul! alas! what regard have you ever paid to
it? Take care to reform both ere offering either as pledges of your sincerity.«
    »On my honour, sir, you do me wrong,« answered George Staunton; »I have been
all that you can call me that's bad, but in the present instance you do me
injustice. By my honour you do!«
    »Your honour!« said his father, and turned from him, with a look of the most
upbraiding contempt, to Jeanie. »From you, young woman, I neither ask nor expect
any explanation; but as a father alike and as a clergyman, I request your
departure from this house. If your romantic story has been other than a pretext
to find admission into it (which, from the society in which you first appeared,
I may be permitted to doubt), you will find a justice of peace within two miles,
with whom, more properly than with me, you may lodge your complaint.«
    »This shall not be,« said George Staunton, starting up to his feet. »Sir,
you are naturally kind and humane - you shall not become cruel and inhospitable
on my account. Turn out that eaves-dropping rascal,« pointing to Thomas, »and
get what hartshorn drops, or what better receipt you have against fainting, and
I will explain to you in two words the connection betwixt this young woman and
me. She shall not lose her fair character through me. I have done too much
mischief to her family already, and I know too well what belongs to the loss of
fame.«
    »Leave the room, sir,« said the Rector to the servant; and when the man had
obeyed, he carefully shut the door behind him. Then, addressing his son, he said
sternly, »Now, sir, what new proof of your infamy have you to impart to me?«
    Young Staunton was about to speak, but it was one of those moments when
those, who, like Jeanie Deans, possess the advantage of a steady courage and
unruffled temper, can assume the superiority over more ardent but less
determined spirits.
    »Sir,« she said to the elder Staunton, »ye have an undoubted right to ask
your ain son to render a reason of his conduct. But respecting me, I am but a
wayfaring traveller, no ways obligated or indebted to you, unless it be for the
meal of meat which, in my ain country, is willingly gien by rich or poor,
according to their ability, to those who need it; and for which, forby that, I
am willing to make payment, if I didna think it would be an affront to offer
siller in a house like this - only I dinna ken the fashions of the country.«
    »This is all very well, young woman,« said the Rector, a good deal
surprised, and unable to conjecture whether to impute Jeanie's language to
simplicity or impertinence - »this may be all very well - but let me bring it to
a point. Why do you stop this young man's mouth, and prevent his communicating
to his father and his best friend, an explanation (since he says he has one) of
circumstances which seem in themselves not a little suspicious?«
    »He may tell of his ain affairs what he likes,« answered Jeanie; »but my
family and friends have nae right to hae ony stories told anent them without
their express desire; and, as they canna be here to speak for themselves, I
entreat ye wadna ask Mr. George Rob - I mean Staunton, or whatever his name is,
ony questions anent me or my folk; for I maun be free to tell you, that he will
neither have the bearing of a Christian or a gentleman, if he answers you
against my express desire.«
    »This is the most extraordinary thing I ever met with,« said the Rector, as,
after fixing his eyes keenly on the placid, yet modest countenance of Jeanie, he
turned them suddenly upon his son. »What have you to say, sir?«
    »That I feel I have been too hasty in my promise, sir,« answered George
Staunton; »I have no title to make any communications respecting the affairs of
this young person's family without her assent.«
    The elder Mr. Staunton turned his eyes from one to the other with marks of
surprise.
    »This is more, and worse, I fear,« he said, addressing his son, »than one of
your frequent and disgraceful connections - I insist upon knowing the mystery.«
    »I have already said, sir,« replied his son, rather sullenly, »that I have
no title to mention the affairs of this young woman's family without her
consent.«
    »And I hae nae mysteries to explain, sir,« said Jeanie, »but only to pray
you, as a preacher of the gospel and a gentleman, to permit me to go safe to the
next public-house on the Lunnon road.«
    »I shall take care of your safety,« said young Staunton; »you need ask that
favour from no one.«
    »Do you say so before my face?« said the justly-incensed father. »Perhaps,
sir, you intend to fill up the cup of disobedience and profligacy by forming a
low and disgraceful marriage? But let me bid you beware.«
    »If you were feared for sic a thing happening wi' me, sir,« said Jeanie, »I
can only say, that not for all the land that lies between the twa ends of the
rainbow wad I be the woman that should wed your son.«
    »There is something very singular in all this,« said the elder Staunton;
»follow me into the next room, young woman.«
    »Hear me speak first,« said the young man. »I have but one word to say. I
confide entirely in your prudence; tell my father as much or as little of these
matters as you will, he shall know neither more nor less from me.«
    His father darted at him a glance of indignation, which softened into sorrow
as he saw him sink down on the couch, exhausted with the scene he had undergone.
He left the apartment, and Jeanie followed him, George Staunton raising himself
as she passed the door-way, and pronouncing the word, »Remember!« in a tone as
monitory as it was uttered by Charles I. upon the scaffold. The elder Staunton
led the way into a small parlour, and shut the door.
    »Young woman,« said he, »there is something in your face and appearance that
marks both sense and simplicity, and, if I am not deceived, innocence also -
Should it be otherwise, I can only say, you are the most accomplished hypocrite
I have ever seen. - I ask to know no secret that you have unwillingness to
divulge, least of all those which concern my son. His conduct has given me too
much unhappiness to permit me to hope comfort or satisfaction from him. If you
are such as I suppose you, believe me, that whatever unhappy circumstances may
have connected you with George Staunton, the sooner you break them through the
better.
    I think I understand your meaning, sir,« replied Jeanie; »and as ye are sae
frank as to speak o' the young gentleman in sic a way, I must needs say that it
is but the second time of my speaking wi' him in our lives, and what I hae heard
frae him on these twa occasions has been such that I never wish to hear the like
again.«
    »Then it is your real intention to leave this part of the country, and
proceed to London?« said the Rector.
    »Certainly, sir; for I may say, in one sense, that the avenger of blood is
behind me; and if I were but assured against mischief by the way« -
    »I have made inquiry,« said the clergyman, »after the suspicious characters
you described. They have left their place of rendezvous; but as they may be
lurking in the neighbourhood, and as you say you have special reason to
apprehend violence from them, I will put you under the charge of a steady
person, who will protect you as far as Stamford, and see you into a light coach,
which goes from thence to London.«
    »A coach is not for the like of me, sir,« said Jeanie, to whom the idea of a
stage-coach was unknown, as, indeed, they were then only used in the
neighbourhood of London.
    Mr. Staunton briefly explained that she would find that mode of conveyance
more commodious, cheaper, and more safe, than travelling on horseback. She
expressed her gratitude with so much singleness of heart, that he was induced to
ask her whether she wanted the pecuniary means of prosecuting her journey. She
thanked him, but said she had enough for her purpose; and, indeed, she had
husbanded her stock with great care. This reply served also to remove some
doubts, which naturally enough still floated in Mr. Staunton's mind, respecting
her character and real purpose, and satisfied him, at least, that money did not
enter into her scheme of deception, if an impostor she should prove. He next
requested to know what part of the city she wished to go to.
    »To a very decent merchant, a cousin o' my ain, a Mrs. Glass, sir, that
sells snuff and tobacco, at the sign o' the Thistle, somegate in the town.«
    Jeanie communicated this intelligence with a feeling that a connection so
respectable ought to give her consequence in the eyes of Mr. Staunton; and she
was a good deal surprised when he answered -
    »And is this woman your only acquaintance in London, my poor girl? and have
you really no better knowledge where she is to be found?«
    »I was gaun to see the Duke of Argyle, forby Mrs. Glass,« said Jeanie; »and
if your honour thinks it would be best to go there first, and get some of his
Grace's folk to show me my cousin's shop« -
    »Are you acquainted with any of the Duke of Argyle's people?« said the
Rector.
    »No, sir.«
    »Her brain must be something touched after all, or it would be impossible
for her to rely on such introductions. - Well,« said he aloud, »I must not
inquire into the cause of your journey, and so I cannot be fit to give you
advice how to manage it. But the landlady of the house where the coach stops is
a very decent person; and as I use her house sometimes, I will give you a
recommendation to her.«
    Jeanie thanked him for his kindness with her best courtesy, and said, »That
with his honour's line, and ane from worthy Mrs. Bickerton, that keeps the Seven
Stars at York, she did not doubt to be well taken out in Lunnon.«
    »And now,« said he, »I presume you will be desirous to set out immediately.«
    »If I had been in an inn, sir, or any suitable resting-place,« answered
Jeanie, »I wad not have presumed to use the Lord's day for travelling; but as I
am on a journey of mercy, I trust my doing so will not be imputed.«
    »You may, if you choose, remain with Mrs. Dalton for the evening; but I
desire you will have no farther correspondence with my son, who is not a proper
counsellor for a person of your age, whatever your difficulties may be.«
    »Your honour speaks ower truly in that,« said Jeanie; »it was not with my
will that I spoke wi' him just now, and - not to wish the gentleman anything but
good - I never wish to see him between the een again.«
    »If you please,« added the Rector, »as you seem to be a seriously disposed
young woman, you may attend family worship in the hall this evening.«
    »I thank your honour,« said Jeanie; »but I am doubtful if my attendance
would be to edification.«
    »How!« said the Rector; »so young, and already unfortunate enough to have
doubts upon the duties of religion!«
    »God forbid, sir,« replied Jeanie; »it is not for that; but I have been bred
in the faith of the suffering remnant of the Presbyterian doctrine in Scotland,
and I am doubtful if I can lawfully attend upon your fashion of worship, seeing
it has been testified against by many precious souls of our kirk, and specially
by my worthy father.«
    »Well, my good girl,« said the Rector, with a good-humoured smile, »far be
it from me to put any force upon your conscience; and yet you ought to recollect
that the same divine grace dispenses its streams to other kingdoms as well as to
Scotland. As it is as essential to our spiritual, as water to our earthly wants,
its springs, various in character, yet alike efficacious in virtue, are to be
found in abundance throughout the Christian world.«
    »Ah, but,« said Jeanie, »though the waters may be alike, yet, with your
worship's leave, the blessing upon them may not be equal. It would have been in
vain for Naaman the Syrian leper to have bathed in Pharpar and Abana, rivers of
Damascus, when it was only the waters of Jordon that were sanctified for the
cure.«
    »Well,« said the Rector, »we will not enter upon the great debate betwixt
our national churches at present. We must endeavour to satisfy you, that, at
least, amongst our errors, we preserve Christian charity, and a desire to assist
our brethren.«
    He then ordered Mrs. Dalton into his presence, and consigned Jeanie to her
particular charge, with directions to be kind to her, and with assurances, that,
early in the morning, a trusty guide and a good horse should be ready to conduct
her to Stamford. He then took a serious and dignified, yet kind leave of her,
wishing her full success in the objects of her journey, which he said he doubted
not were laudable, from the soundness of thinking which she had displayed in
conversation.
    Jeanie was again conducted by the housekeeper to her own apartment. But the
evening was not destined to pass over without farther torment from young
Staunton. A paper was slipped into her hand by the faithful Tummas, which
intimated his young master's desire, or rather demand, to see her instantly, and
assured her he had provided against interruption.
    »Tell your young master,« said Jeanie, openly, and regardless of all the
winks and signs by which Tummas strove to make her comprehend that Mrs. Dalton
was not to be admitted into the secret of the correspondence, »that I promised
faithfully to his worthy father that I would not see him again.«
    »Tummas,« said Mrs. Dalton, »I think you might be much more creditably
employed, considering the coat you wear, and the house you live in, than to be
carrying messages between your young master and girls that chance to be in this
house.«
    »Why, Mrs. Dalton, as to that, I was hired to carry messages, and not to ask
any questions about them; and it's not for the like of me to refuse the young
gentleman's bidding, if he were a little wildish or so. If there was harm meant,
there's no harm done, you see.«
    »However,« said Mrs. Dalton, »I give you fair warning, Tummas Ditton, that an
I catch thee at this work again, his Reverence shall make a clear house of you.«
    Thomas retired, abashed and in dismay. The rest of the evening passed away
without anything worthy of notice.
    Jeanie enjoyed the comforts of a good bed and a sound sleep with grateful
satisfaction, after the perils and hardships of the preceding day; and such was
her fatigue, that she slept soundly until six o'clock, when she was awakened by
Mrs. Dalton, who acquainted her that her guide and horse were ready, and in
attendance. She hastily rose, and, after her morning devotions, was soon ready
to resume her travels. The motherly care of the housekeeper had provided an
early breakfast, and, after she had partaken of this refreshment, she found
herself safe seated on a pillion behind a stout Lincolnshire peasant, who was,
besides, armed with pistols, to protect her against any violence which might be
offered.
    They trudged along in silence for a mile or two along a country road, which
conducted them, by hedge and gate-way, into the principal highway, a little
beyond Grantham. At length her master of the horse asked her whether her name
was not Jean, or Jane, Deans. She answered in the affirmative, with some
surprise. »Then here's a bit of a note as concerns you,« said the man, handing
it over his left shoulder. »It's from young master, as I judge, and every man
about Willingham is fain to pleasure him either for love or fear; for he'll come
to be landlord at last, let them say what they like.«
    Jeanie broke the seal of the note, which was addressed to her, and read as
follows: -
    »You refuse to see me. I suppose you are shocked at my character: but, in
painting myself such as I am, you should give me credit for my sincerity. I am,
at least, no hypocrite. You refuse, however, to see me, and your conduct may be
natural - but is it wise? I have expressed my anxiety to repair your sister's
misfortunes at the expense of my honour, - my family's honour - my own life; and
you think me too debased to be admitted even to sacrifice what I have remaining
of honour, fame, and life, in her cause. Well, if the offerer be despised, the
victim is still equally at hand; and perhaps there may be justice in the decree
of Heaven, that I shall not have the melancholy credit of appearing to make this
sacrifice out of my own free good-will. You, as you have declined my
concurrence, must take the whole upon yourself. Go, then, to the Duke of Argyle,
and, when other arguments fail you, tell him you have it in your power to bring
to condign punishment the most active conspirator in the Porteous mob. He will
hear you on this topic, should he be deaf to every other. Make your own terms,
for they will be at your own making. You know where I am to be found; and you
may be assured I will not give you the dark side of the hill, as at Muschat's
Cairn; I have no thoughts of stirring from the house I was born in; like the
hare, I shall be worried in the seat I started from. I repeat it - make your own
terms. I need not remind you to ask your sister's life, for that you will do of
course; but make terms of advantage for yourself - ask wealth and reward -
office and income for Butler - ask anything - you will get anything - and all
for delivering to the hands of the executioner a man most deserving of his
office; - one who, though young in years, is old in wickedness, and whose most
earnest desire is, after the storms of an unquiet life, to sleep and be at
rest.«
    This extraordinary letter was subscribed with the initials G.S.
    Jeanie read it over once or twice with great attention, which the slow pace
of the horse, as he stalked through a deep lane, enabled her to do with
facility.
    When she had perused this billet, her first employment was to tear it into
as small pieces as possible, and disperse these pieces in the air by a few at a
time, so that a document containing so perilous a secret might not fall into any
other person's hand.
    The question how far, in point of extremity, she was entitled to save her
sister's life by sacrificing that of a person who, though guilty towards the
state, had done her no injury, formed the next earnest and most painful subject
of consideration. In one sense, indeed, it seemed as if denouncing the guilt of
Staunton, the cause of her sister's errors and misfortunes, would have been an
act of just, and even providential retribution. But Jeanie, in the strict and
severe tone of morality in which she was educated, had to consider not only the
general aspect of a proposed action, but its justness and fitness in relation to
the actor, before she could be, according to her own phrase, free to enter upon
it. What right had she to make a barter between the lives of Staunton and of
Effie, and to sacrifice the one for the safety of the other? His guilt - that
guilt for which he was amenable to the laws - was a crime against the public
indeed, but it was not against her.
    Neither did it seem to her that his share in the death of Porteous, though
her mind revolted at the idea of using violence to any one, was in the relation
of a common murder, against the perpetrator of which every one is called to aid
the public magistrate. That violent action was blended with many circumstances,
which, in the eyes of those in Jeanie's rank of life, if they did not altogether
deprive it of the character of guilt, softened, at least, its most atrocious
features. The anxiety of the government to obtain conviction of some of the
offenders, had but served to increase the public feeling which connected the
action, though violent and irregular, with the idea of ancient national
independence. The rigorous measures adopted or proposed against the city of
Edinburgh, the ancient metropolis of Scotland - the extremely unpopular and
injudicious measure of compelling the Scottish clergy, contrary to their
principles and sense of duty, to promulgate from the pulpit the reward offered
for the discovery of the perpetrators of this slaughter, had produced on the
public mind the opposite consequences from what were intended; and Jeanie felt
conscious, that whoever should lodge information concerning that event, and for
whatsoever purpose it might be done, it would be considered as an act of treason
against the independence of Scotland. With the fanaticism of the Scottish
Presbyterians, there was always mingled a glow of national feeling, and Jeanie
trembled at the idea of her name being handed down to posterity with that of the
»fause Monteath,« and one or two others, who, having deserted and betrayed the
cause of their country, are damned to perpetual remembrance and execration among
its peasantry. Yet, to part with Effie's life once more, when a word spoken
might save it, pressed severely on the mind of her affectionate sister.
    »The Lord support and direct me!« said Jeanie, »for it seems to be His will
to try me with difficulties far beyond my ain strength.«
    While this thought passed through Jeanie's mind, her guard, tired of
silence, began to show some inclination to be communicative. He seemed a
sensible, steady peasant, but not having more delicacy or prudence than is
common to those in his situation, he, of course, chose the Willingham family as
the subject of his conversation. From this man Jeanie learned some particulars
of which she had hitherto been ignorant, and which we will briefly recapitulate
for the information of the reader.
    The father of George Staunton had been bred a soldier, and during service in
the West Indies, had married the heiress of a wealthy planter. By this lady he
had an only child, George Staunton, the unhappy young man who has been so often
mentioned in this narrative. He passed the first part of his early youth under
the charge of a doting mother, and in the society of negro slaves, whose study
it was to gratify his every caprice. His father was a man of worth and sense;
but as he alone retained tolerable health among the officers of the regiment he
belonged to, he was much engaged with his duty. Besides, Mrs. Staunton was
beautiful and wilful, and enjoyed but delicate health; so that it was difficult
for a man of affection, humanity, and a quiet disposition, to struggle with her
on the point of her over-indulgence to an only child. Indeed, what Mr. Staunton
did do towards counteracting the baneful effects of his wife's system, only
tended to render it more pernicious; for every restraint imposed on the boy in
his father's presence, was compensated by treble license during his absence. So
that George Staunton acquired, even in childhood, the habit of regarding his
father as a rigid censor, from whose severity he was desirous of emancipating
himself as soon and absolutely as possible.
    When he was about ten years old, and when his mind had received all the
seeds of those evil weeds which afterwards grew apace, his mother died, and his
father, half heart-broken, returned to England. To sum up her imprudence and
unjustifiable indulgence, she had contrived to place a considerable part of her
fortune at her son's exclusive control or disposal, in consequence of which
management, George Staunton had not been long in England till he learned his
independence, and how to abuse it. His father had endeavoured to rectify the
defects of his education by placing him in a well-regulated seminary. But
although he showed some capacity for learning, his riotous conduct soon became
intolerable to his teachers. He found means (too easily afforded to all youths
who have certain expectations) of procuring such a command of money as enabled
him to anticipate in boyhood the frolics and follies of a more mature age, and,
with these accomplishments, he was returned on his father's hands as a
profligate boy, whose example might ruin a hundred.
    The elder Mr. Staunton, whose mind, since his wife's death, had been tinged
with a melancholy, which certainly his son's conduct did not tend to dispel, had
taken orders, and was inducted by his brother Sir William Staunton into the
family living of Willingham. The revenue was a matter of consequence to him, for
he derived little advantage from the estate of his late wife; and his own
fortune was that of a younger brother.
    He took his son to reside with him at the rectory, but he soon found that
his disorders rendered him an intolerable inmate. And as the young men of his
own rank would not endure the purse-proud insolence of the Creole, he fell into
that taste for low society, which is worse than »pressing to death, whipping, or
hanging.« His father sent him abroad, but he only returned wilder and more
desperate than before. It is true, this unhappy youth was not without his good
qualities. He had lively wit, good temper, reckless generosity, and manners,
which, while he was under restraint, might pass well in society. But all these
availed him nothing. He was so well acquainted with the turf, the gaming-table,
the cock-pit, and every worse rendezvous of folly and dissipation, that his
mother's fortune was spent before he was twenty-one, and he was soon in debt and
in distress. His early history may be concluded in the words of our British
Juvenal, when describing a similar character: -
 
Headstrong, determined in his own career,
He thought reproof unjust, and truth severe.
The soul's disease was to its crisis come,
He first abused, and then abjured, his home;
And when he chose a vagabond to be,
He made his shame his glory, »I'll be free!«
 
»And yet 'tis pity on Measter George, too,« continued the honest boor, »for he
has an open hand, and winna let a poor body want an he has it.«
    The virtue of profuse generosity, by which, indeed, they themselves are most
directly advantaged, is readily admitted by the vulgar as a cloak for many sins.
    At Stamford our heroine was deposited in safety by her communicative guide.
She obtained a place in the coach, which, although termed a light one, and
accommodated with no fewer than six horses, only reached London on the afternoon
of the second day. The recommendation of the elder Mr. Staunton procured Jeanie
a civil reception at the inn where the carriage stopped, and, by the aid of Mrs.
Bickerton's correspondent, she found out her friend and relative Mrs. Glass, by
whom she was kindly received and hospitably entertained.
 

                             Chapter Thirty-Fourth

 My name is Argyle, you may well think it strange,
 To live at the court and never to change.
                                                                         Ballad.
 
Few names deserve more honourable mention in the history of Scotland, during
this period, than that of John, Duke of Argyle and Greenwich. His talents as a
statesman and a soldier were generally admitted; he was not without ambition,
but »without the illness that attends it« - without that irregularity of thought
and aim, which often excites great men, in his peculiar situation, (for it was a
very peculiar one), to grasp the means of raising themselves to power, at the
risk of throwing a kingdom into confusion. Pope has distinguished him as
 
Argyle, the state's whole thunder born to wield,
And shake alike the senate and the field.
 
He was alike free from the ordinary vices of statesmen, falsehood, namely, and
dissimulation; and from those of warriors, inordinate and violent thirst after
self-aggrandisement.
    Scotland, his native country, stood at this time in a very precarious and
doubtful situation. She was indeed united to England, but the cement had not had
time to acquire consistence. The irritation of ancient wrongs still subsisted,
and betwixt the fretful jealousy of the Scottish, and the supercilious disdain
of the English, quarrels repeatedly occurred, in the course of which the
national league, so important to the safety of both, was in the utmost danger of
being dissolved. Scotland had, besides, the disadvantage of being divided into
intestine factions, which hated each other bitterly, and waited but a signal to
break forth into action.
    In such circumstances, another man, with the talents and rank of Argyle, but
without a mind so happily regulated, would have sought to rise from the earth in
the whirlwind, and direct its fury. He chose a course more safe and more
honourable.
    Soaring above the petty distinctions of faction, his voice was raised,
whether in office or opposition, for those measures which were at once just and
lenient. His high military talents enabled him, during the memorable year 1715,
to render such services to the House of Hanover, as, perhaps, were too great to
be either acknowledged or repaid. He had employed, too, his utmost influence in
softening the consequences of that insurrection to the unfortunate gentlemen
whom a mistaken sense of loyalty had engaged in the affair, and was rewarded by
the esteem and affection of his country in an uncommon degree. This popularity,
with a discontented and warlike people, was supposed to be a subject of jealousy
at court, where the power to become dangerous is sometimes of itself obnoxious,
though the inclination is not united with it. Besides, the Duke of Argyle's
independent and somewhat haughty mode of expressing himself in Parliament, and
acting in public, were ill calculated to attract royal favour. He was,
therefore, always respected, and often employed; but he was not a favourite of
George the Second, his consort, or his ministers. At several different periods
in his life, the Duke might be considered as in absolute disgrace at court,
although he could hardly be said to be a declared member of opposition. This
rendered him the dearer to Scotland, because it was usually in her cause that he
incurred the displeasure of his sovereign; and upon this very occasion of the
Porteous mob, the animated and eloquent opposition which he had offered to the
severe measures which were about to be adopted towards the city of Edinburgh,
was the more gratefully received in that metropolis, as it was understood that
the Duke's interposition had given personal offence to Queen Caroline.
    His conduct upon this occasion, as, indeed, that of all the Scottish members
of the legislature, with one or two unworthy exceptions, had been in the highest
degree spirited. The popular tradition, concerning his reply to Queen Caroline,
has been given already, and some fragments of his speech against the Porteous
Bill are still remembered. He retorted upon the Chancellor, Lord Hardwicke, the
insinuation that he had stated himself in this case rather as a party than as a
judge: - »I appeal,« said Argyle, »to the House - to the nation, if I can be
justly branded with the infamy of being a jobber or a partisan. Have I been a
briber of votes? - a buyer of boroughs? - the agent of corruption for any
purpose, or on behalf of any party? - Consider my life; examine my actions in
the field and in the cabinet, and see where there lies a blot that can attach to
my honour. I have shown myself the friend of my country - the loyal subject of
my king. I am ready to do so again, without an instant's regard to the frowns or
smiles of a court. I have experienced both, and am prepared with indifference
for either.
    I have given my reasons for opposing this bill, and have made it appear that
it is repugnant to the international treaty of union, to the liberty of
Scotland, and, reflectively, to that of England, to common justice, to common
sense, and to the public interest. Shall the metropolis of Scotland, the capital
of an independent nation, the residence of a long line of monarchs, by whom that
noble city was graced and dignified - shall such a city, for the fault of an
obscure and unknown body of rioters, be deprived of its honours and its
privileges - its gates and its guards? - and shall a native Scotsman tamely
behold the havoc? I glory, my Lords, in opposing such unjust rigour, and reckon
it my dearest pride and honour to stand up in defence of my native country while
thus laid open to undeserved shame, and unjust spoliation.«
    Other statesmen and orators, both Scottish and English, used the same
arguments, the bill was gradually stripped of its most oppressive and obnoxious
clauses, and at length ended in a fine upon the city of Edinburgh in favour of
Porteous's widow. So that, as somebody observed at the time, the whole of these
fierce debates ended in making the fortune of an old cook-maid, such having been
the good woman's original capacity.
    The court, however, did not forget the baffle they had received in this
affair, and the Duke of Argyle, who had contributed so much to it, was
thereafter considered as a person in disgrace. It is necessary to place these
circumstances under the reader's observation, both because they are connected
with the preceding and subsequent part of our narrative.
    The Duke was alone in his study, when one of his gentlemen acquainted him,
that a country-girl, from Scotland, was desirous of speaking with his Grace.
    »A country-girl, and from Scotland!« said the Duke; »what can have brought
the silly fool to London? - Some lover pressed and sent to sea, or some stock
sunk in the South-Sea funds, or some such hopeful concern, I suppose, and then
nobody to manage the matter but MacCallummore. - Well, this same popularity has
its inconveniences. - However, show our countrywoman up, Archibald - it is ill
manners to keep her in attendance.«
    A young woman of rather low stature, and whose countenance might be termed
very modest and pleasing in expression, though sun-burnt, somewhat freckled, and
not possessing regular features, was ushered into the splendid library. She wore
the tartan plaid of her country, adjusted so as partly to cover her head, and
partly to fall back over her shoulders. A quantity of fair hair, disposed with
great simplicity and neatness, appeared in front of her round and good-humoured
face, to which the solemnity of her errand, and her sense of the Duke's rank and
importance, gave an appearance of deep awe, but not of slavish fear, or
fluttered bashfulness. The rest of Jeanie's dress was in the style of Scottish
maidens of her own class; but arranged with that scrupulous attention to
neatness and cleanliness, which we often find united with that purity of mind,
of which it is a natural emblem.
    She stopped near the entrance of the room, made her deepest reverence, and
crossed her hands upon her bosom, without uttering a syllable. The Duke of
Argyle advanced towards her; and, if she admired his graceful deportment and
rich dress, decorated with the orders which had been deservedly bestowed on him,
his courteous manner, and quick and intelligent cast of countenance, he on his
part was not less, or less deservedly, struck with the quiet simplicity and
modesty expressed in the dress, manners, and countenance of his humble
countrywoman.
    »Did you wish to speak with me, my bonny lass?« said the Duke, using the
encouraging epithet which at once acknowledged the connection betwixt them as
country-folk; »or did you wish to see the Duchess?«
    »My business is with your honour, my Lord - I mean your Lordship's Grace.«
    »And what is it, my good girl?« said the Duke, in the same mild and
encouraging tone of voice. Jeanie looked at the attendant. »Leave us,
Archibald,« said the Duke, »and wait in the anteroom.« The domestic retired.
»And now sit down, my good lass,« said the Duke; »take your breath - take your
time, and tell me what you have got to say. I guess by your dress, you are just
come up from poor Scotland - Did you come through the streets in your tartan
plaid?«
    »No, sir,« said Jeanie; »a friend brought me in ane o' their street coaches
- a very decent woman,« she added, her courage increasing as she became familiar
with the sound of her own voice in such a presence; »your Lordship's Grace kens
her - it's Mrs. Glass, at the sign o' the Thistle.«
    »O, my worthy snuff-merchant - I have always a chat with Mrs. Glass when I
purchase my Scots high-dried. Well, but your business, my bonny woman - time and
tide, you know, wait for no one.«
    »Your honour - I beg your Lordship's pardon - I mean your Grace,« - for it
must be noticed, that this matter of addressing the Duke by his appropriate
title had been anxiously inculcated upon Jeanie by her friend Mrs. Glass, in
whose eyes it was a matter of such importance, that her last words, as Jeanie
left the coach, were, »Mind to say your Grace;« and Jeanie, who had scarce ever
in her life spoke to a person of higher quality than the Laird of Dumbiedikes,
found great difficulty in arranging her language according to the rules of
ceremony.
    The Duke, who saw her embarrassment, said, with his usual affability, »Never
mind my grace, lassie; just speak out a plain tale, and show you have a Scots
tongue in your head.«
    »Sir, I am muckle obliged - Sir, I am the sister of that poor unfortunate
criminal, Effie Deans, who is ordered for execution at Edinburgh.«
    »Ah!« said the Duke, »I have heard of that unhappy story, I think - a case
of child-murder, under a special act of parliament - Duncan Forbes mentioned it
at dinner the other day.«
    »And I was come up frae the north, sir, to see what could be done for her in
the way of getting a reprieve or pardon, sir, or the like of that.«
    »Alas! my poor girl,« said the Duke; »you have made a long and a sad journey
to very little purpose - Your sister is ordered for execution.«
    »But I am given to understand that there is law for reprieving her, if it is
in the king's pleasure,« said Jeanie.
    »Certainly, there is,« said the Duke; »but that is purely in the king's
breast. The crime has been but too common - the Scots crown-lawyers think it is
right there should be an example. Then the late disorders in Edinburgh have
excited a prejudice in government against the nation at large, which they think
can only be managed by measures of intimidation and severity. What argument have
you, my poor girl, except the warmth of your sisterly affection, to offer
against all this? - What is your interest? - What friends have you at court?«
    »None, excepting God and your Grace,« said Jeanie, still keeping her ground
resolutely, however.
    »Alas!« said the Duke, »I could almost say with old Ormond, that there could
not be any, whose influence was smaller with kings and minsters. It is a cruel
part of our situation, young woman - I mean of the situation of men in my
circumstances, that the public ascribe to them influence which they do not
possess; and that individuals are led to expect from them assistance which we
have no means of rendering. But candour and plain dealing is in the power of
every one, and I must not let you imagine you have resources in my influence,
which do not exist, to make your distress the heavier - I have no means of
averting your sister's fate - She must die.«
    »We must a' die, sir,« said Jeanie; »it is our common doom for our father's
transgression; but we shouldna hasten ilk other out o' the world, that's what
your honour kens better than me.«
    »My good young woman,« said the Duke, mildly, »we are all apt to blame the
law under which we immediately suffer; but you seem to have been well educated
in your line of life, and you must know that it is alike the law of God and man,
that the murderer shall surely die.«
    »But, sir, Effie - that is, my poor sister, sir - canna be proved to be a
murderer; and if she be not, and the law take her life notwithstanding, what is
it that is the murderer then?«
    »I am no lawyer,« said the Duke; »and I own I think the statute a very
severe one.«
    »You are a law-maker, sir, with your leave; and, therefore, ye have power
over the law,« answered Jeanie.
    »Not in my individual capacity,« said the Duke; »though, as one of a large
body, I have a voice in the legislation. But that cannot serve you - nor have I
at present, I care not who knows it, so much personal influence with the
sovereign, as would entitle me to ask from him the most insignificant favour.
What could tempt you, young woman, to address yourself to me?«
    »It was yoursell, sir.«
    »Myself?« he replied - »I am sure you have never seen me before.«
    »No, sir; but a' the world kens that the Duke of Argyle is his country's
friend; and that ye fight for the right, and speak for the right, and that
there's nane like you in our present Israel, and so they that think themselves
wranged draw to refuge under your shadow; and if ye wunna stir to save the blood
of an innocent countrywoman of your ain, what should we expect frae southerns
and strangers? And maybe I had another reason for troubling your honour.«
    »And what is that?« asked the Duke.
    »I hae understood from my father, that your honour's house, and especially
your gudesire and his father, laid down their lives on the scaffold in the
persecuting time. And my father was honoured to give his testimony baith in the
cage and in the pillory, as is specially mentioned in the books of Peter Walker
the packman, that your honour, I dare say, kens, for he uses maist partly the
westland of Scotland. And, sir, there's ane that takes concern in me, that
wished me to gang to your Grace's presence, for his gudesire had done your
gracious gudesire some good turn, as ye will see frae these papers.«
    With these words, she delivered to the Duke the little parcel which she had
received from Butler. He opened it, and, in the envelope, read with some
surprise, »Musterroll of the men serving in the troop of that godly gentleman,
Captain Salathiel Bangtext. - Obadiah Muggleton, Sin-Despise Double-knock,
Stand-fast-in-faith Gipps, Turn-to-the-right Thwack-away - What the deuce is
this? A list of Praise-God Barebone's Parliament I think, or of old Noll's
evangelical army - that last fellow should understand his wheelings, to judge by
his name. - But what does all this mean, my girl?«
    »It was the other paper, sir,« said Jeanie, somewhat abashed at the mistake.
    »O, this is my unfortunate grandfather's hand sure enough - To all who may
have friendship for the house of Argyle, these are to certify, that Benjamin
Butler, of Monk's regiment of dragoons, having been, under God, the means of
saving my life from four English troopers who were about to slay me, I, having
no other present means of recompense in my power, do give him this
acknowledgement, hoping that it may be useful to him or his during these
troublesome times; and do conjure my friends, tenants, kinsmen, and whoever will
do aught for me, either in the Highlands or Lowlands, to protect and assist the
said Benjamin Butler, and his friends or family, on their lawful occasions,
giving them such countenance, maintenance, and supply, as may correspond with
the benefit he hath bestowed on me; witness my hand -
                                                                          LORNE.
    This is a strong injunction - This Benjamin Butler was your grandfather, I
suppose? - You seem too young to have been his daughter.«
    »He was nae akin to me, sir - he was grandfather to ane - to a neighbour's
son - to a sincere well-wisher of mine, sir,« dropping her little courtesy as
she spoke.
    »O, I understand,« said the Duke - »a true-love affair. He was the grandsire
of one you are engaged to?«
    »One I was engaged to, sir,« said Jeanie, sighing; »but this unhappy
business of my poor sister« -
    »What!« said the Duke, hastily - »he has not deserted you on that account,
has he?«
    »No, sir; he wad be the last to leave a friend in difficulties,« said
Jeanie; »but I maun think for him as well as for mysell. He is a clergyman, sir,
and it would not beseem him to marry the like of me, wi' this disgrace on my
kindred.«
    »You are a singular young woman,« said the Duke. »You seem to me to think of
every one before yourself. And have you really come up from Edinburgh on foot,
to attempt this hopeless solicitation for your sister's life?«
    »It was not a'thegither on foot, sir,« answered Jeanie; »for I sometimes got
a cast in a wagon, and I had a horse from Ferrybridge, and then the coach« -
    »Well, never mind all that,« interrupted the Duke - »What reason have you
for thinking your sister innocent?«
    »Because she has not been proved guilty, as will appear from looking at
these papers.«
    She put into his hand a note of the evidence, and copies of her sister's
declaration. These papers Butler had procured after her departure, and
Saddletree had them forwarded to London, to Mrs. Glass's care, so that Jeanie
found the documents, so necessary for supporting her suit, lying in readiness at
her arrival.
    »Sit down in that chair, my good girl,« said the Duke, »until I glance over
the papers.«
    She obeyed, and watched with the utmost anxiety each change in his
countenance as he cast his eye through the papers briefly, yet with attention,
and making memoranda as he went along. After reading them hastily over, he
looked up, and seemed about to speak, yet changed his purpose, as if afraid of
committing himself by giving too hasty an opinion, and read over again several
passages which he had marked as being most important. All this he did in shorter
time than can be supposed by men of ordinary talents; for his mind was of that
acute and penetrating character which discovers, with the glance of intuition,
what facts bear on the particular point that chances to be subjected to
consideration. At length he rose, after a few minutes' deep reflection. - »Young
woman,« said he, »your sister's case must certainly be termed a hard one.«
    »God bless you, sir, for that very word!« said Jeanie.
    »It seems contrary to the genius of British law,« continued the Duke, »to
take that for granted which is not proved, or to punish with death for a crime,
which, for aught the prosecutor has been able to show, may not have been
committed at all.«
    »God bless you, sir!« again said Jeanie, who had risen from her seat, and,
with clasped hands, eyes glittering through tears, and features which trembled
with anxiety, drank in every word which the Duke uttered.
    »But, alas! my poor girl,« he continued, »what good will my opinion do you,
unless I could impress it upon those in whose hands your sister's life is placed
by the law? Besides, I am no lawyer; and I must speak with some of our Scottish
gentlemen of the gown about the matter.«
    »O, but, sir, what seems reasonable to your honour, will certainly be the
same to them,« answered Jeanie.
    »I do not know that,« replied the Duke; »ilka man buckles his belt his ain
gate - you know our old Scots proverb? - But you shall not have placed this
reliance on me altogether in vain. Leave these papers with me, and you shall
hear from me to-morrow or next day. Take care to be at home at Mrs. Glass's, and
ready to come to me at a moment's warning. It will be unnecessary for you to
give Mrs. Glass the trouble to attend you; - and by the by, you will please to
be dressed just as you are at present.«
    »I wad hae putten on a cap, sir,« said Jeanie, »but your honour kens it isna
the fashion of my country for single women; and I judged that, being sae mony
hundred miles frae hame, your Grace's heart wad warm to the tartan,« looking at
the corner of her plaid.
    »You judged quite right,« said the Duke. »I know the full value of the
snood; and MacCallummore's heart will be as cold as death can make it, when it
does not warm to the tartan. Now, go away, and don't be out of the way when I
send.«
    Jeanie replied, - »There is little fear of that, sir, for I have little
heart to go to see sights amang this wilderness of black houses. But if I might
say to your gracious honour, that if ye ever condescend to speak to ony ane that
is of greater degree than yoursell, though maybe it isna civil in me to say sae,
just if you would think there can be nae sic odds between you and them, as
between poor Jeanie Deans from St. Leonard's and the Duke of Argyle; and so
dinna be chappit back or cast down wi' the first rough answer.«
    »I am not apt,« said the Duke, laughing, »to mind rough answers much - Do
not you hope too much from what I have promised. I will do my best, but God has
the hearts of Kings in his own hand.«
    Jeanie courtesied reverently and withdrew, attended by the Duke's gentleman,
to her hackney-coach, with a respect which her appearance did not demand, but
which was perhaps paid to the length of the interview with which his master had
honoured her.
 

                              Chapter Thirty-Fifth

 - Ascend,
 While radiant summer opens all its pride,
 Thy hill, delightful Shene! Here let us sweep
 The boundless landscape.
                                                                        Thomson.
 
From her kind and officious, but somewhat gossiping friend, Mrs. Glass, Jeanie
underwent a very close catechism on their road to the Strand, where the Thistle
of the good lady flourished in full glory, and, with its legend of Nemo me
impune, distinguished a shop then well known to all Scottish folk of high and
low degree.
    »And were you sure aye to say your Grace to him?« said the good old lady;
»for ane should make a distinction between MacCallummore and the bits o'
southern bodies that they ca' lords here - there are as mony o' them, Jeanie, as
would gar ane think they maun cost but little fash in the making - some of them
I wadna trust wi' six pennies-worth of black-rappee - some of them I wadna give
mysell the trouble to put up a hapnyworth in brown paper for - But I hope you
showed your breeding to the Duke of Argyle, for what sort of folk would he think
your friends in London, if you had been lording him, and him a Duke?«
    »He didna seem muckle to mind,« said Jeanie; »he kend that I was landward
bred.«
    »Weel, well,« answered the good lady. »His Grace kens me well; so I am the
less anxious about it. I never fill his snuff-box but he says, How d'ye do, good
Mrs. Glass? - How are all our friends in the North? or it may be - Have ye heard
from the North lately? And you may be sure, I make my best courtesy, and answer,
My Lord Duke, I hope your Grace's noble Duchess, and your Grace's young ladies,
are well; and I hope the snuff continues to give your Grace satisfaction. And
then ye will see the people in the shop begin to look about them; and if there's
a Scotsman, as there may be three or half-a-dozen, aff go the hats, and mony a
look after him, and There goes the Prince of Scotland, God bless him! But ye
have not told me yet the very words he said t'ye.«
    Jeanie had no intention to be quite so communicative. She had, as the reader
may have observed, some of the caution and shrewdness, as well as of the
simplicity of her country. She answered generally, that the Duke had received
her very compassionately, and had promised to interest himself in her sister's
affair, and to let her hear from him in the course of the next day, or the day
after. She did not choose to make any mention of his having desired her to be in
readiness to attend him, far less of his hint, that she should not bring her
landlady. So that honest Mrs. Glass was obliged to remain satisfied with the
general intelligence above mentioned, after having done all she could to extract
more.
    It may easily be conceived, that, on the next day, Jeanie declined all
invitations and inducements, whether of exercise or curiosity, to walk abroad,
and continued to inhale the close, and somewhat professional atmosphere of Mrs.
Glass's small parlour. The latter flavour it owed to a certain cupboard,
containing, among other articles, a few canisters of real Havannah, which,
whether from respect to the manufacture, or out of a reverend fear of the
exciseman, Mrs. Glass did not care to trust in the open shop below, and which
communicated to the room a scent, that, however fragrant to the nostrils of the
connoisseur, was not very agreeable to those of Jeanie.
    »Dear sirs,« she said to herself, »I wonder how my cousin's silk manty, and
her gowd watch, or ony thing in the world, can be worth sitting sneezing all her
life in this little stifling room, and might walk on green braes if she liked.«
    Mrs. Glass was equally surprised at her cousin's reluctance to stir abroad,
and her indifference to the fine sights of London.
    »It would always help to pass away the time,« she said, »to have something
to look at, though ane was in distress.« But Jeanie was unpersuadable.
    The day after her interview with the Duke was spent in that »hope delayed,
which maketh the heart sick.« Minutes glided after minutes - hours fled after
hours - it became too late to have any reasonable expectation of hearing from
the Duke that day; yet the hope which she disowned, she could not altogether
relinquish, and her heart throbbed, and her ears tingled, with every casual
sound in the shop below. It was in vain. The day wore away in the anxiety of
protracted and fruitless expectation.
    The next morning commenced in the same manner. But before noon, a
well-dressed gentleman entered Mrs. Glass's shop, and requested to see a young
woman from Scotland.
    »That will be my cousin Jeanie Deans, Mr. Archibald,« said Mrs. Glass, with
a courtesy of recognisance. »Have you any message for her from his Grace the
Duke of Argyle, Mr. Archibald? I will carry it to her in a moment.«
    »I believe I must give her the trouble of stepping down, Mrs. Glass.«
    »Jeanie - Jeanie Deans!« said Mrs. Glass, screaming at the bottom of the
little staircase, which ascended from the corner of the shop to the higher
regions. »Jeanie - Jeanie Deans, I say! come down stairs instantly; here is the
Duke of Argyle's groom of the chambers desires to see you directly.« This was
announced in a voice so loud, as to make all who chanced to be within hearing
aware of the important communication.
    It may easily be supposed, that Jeanie did not tarry long in adjusting
herself to attend the summons, yet her feet almost failed her as she came down
stairs.
    »I must ask the favour of your company a little way,« said Archibald, with
civility.
    »I am quite ready, sir,« said Jeanie.
    »Is my cousin going out, Mr. Archibald? then I will hae to go wi' her, no
doubt. - James Rasper - Look to the shop, James. - Mr. Archibald,« pushing a jar
towards him, »you take his Grace's mixture, I think. Please to fill your box,
for old acquaintance' sake, while I get on my things.«
    Mr. Archibald transferred a modest parcel of snuff from the jar to his own
mull, but said he was obliged to decline the pleasure of Mrs. Glass's company,
as his message was particularly to the young person.
    »Particularly to the young person?« said Mrs. Glass; »is not that uncommon,
Mr. Archibald? But his Grace is the best judge; and you are a steady person, Mr.
Archibald. It is not every one that comes from a great man's house I would trust
my cousin with. - But, Jeanie, you must not go through the streets with Mr.
Archibald with your tartan what-d'ye-call-it there upon your shoulders, as if
you had come up with a drove of Highland cattle. Wait till I bring down my silk
cloak. Why, we'll have the mob after you!«
    »I have a hackney-coach in waiting, madam,« said Mr. Archibald, interrupting
the officious old lady, from whom Jeanie might otherwise have found it difficult
to escape; »and, I believe, I must not allow her time for any change of dress.«
    So saying, he hurried Jeanie into the coach, while she internally praised
and wondered at the easy manner in which he shifted off Mrs. Glass's officious
offers and inquiries, without mentioning his master's orders, or entering into
any explanation.
    On entering the coach, Mr. Archibald seated himself in the front seat
opposite to our heroine, and they drove on in silence. After they had driven
nearly half-an-hour, without a word on either side, it occurred to Jeanie, that
the distance and time did not correspond with that which had been occupied by
her journey on the former occasion, to and from the residence of the Duke of
Argyle. At length she could not help asking her taciturn companion, »Whilk way
they were going?«
    »My Lord Duke will inform you himself, madam,« answered Archibald, with the
same solemn courtesy which marked his whole demeanour. Almost as he spoke, the
hackney-coach drew up, and the coachman dismounted and opened the door.
Archibald got out, and assisted Jeanie to get down. She found herself in a large
turnpike road, without the bounds of London, upon the other side of which road
was drawn up a plain chariot and four horses, the panels without arms, and the
servants without liveries.
    »You have been punctual, I see, Jeanie,« said the Duke of Argyle, as
Archibald opened the carriage-door. »You must be my companion for the rest of
the way. Archibald will remain here with the hackney-coach till your return.«
    Ere Jeanie could make answer, she found herself, to her no small
astonishment, seated by the side of a duke, in a carriage which rolled forward
at a rapid yet smooth rate, very different in both particulars from the
lumbering, jolting vehicle which she had just left; and which, lumbering and
jolting as it was, conveyed to one who had seldom been in a coach before a
certain feeling of dignity and importance.
    »Young woman,« said the Duke, »after thinking as attentively on your
sister's case as is in my power, I continue to be impressed with the belief that
great injustice may be done by the execution of her sentence. So are one or two
liberal and intelligent lawyers of both countries whom I have spoken with. -
Nay, pray hear me out before you thank me. - I have already told you my personal
conviction is of little consequence, unless I could impress the same upon
others. Now I have done for you what I would certainly not have done to serve
any purpose of my own - I have asked an audience of a lady whose interest with
the king is deservedly very high. It has been allowed me, and I am desirous that
you should see her and speak for yourself. You have no occasion to be abashed;
tell your story simply, as you did to me.«
    »I am much obliged to your Grace,« said Jeanie, remembering Mrs. Glass's
charge, »and I am sure, since I have had the courage to speak to your Grace in
poor Effie's cause, I have less reason to be shame-faced in speaking to a leddy.
But, sir, I would like to ken what to ca' her, whether your grace or your
honour, or your leddyship, as we say to lairds and leddies in Scotland, and I
will take care to mind it; for I ken leddies are full mair particular than
gentlemen about their titles of honour.«
    »You have no occasion to call her anything but Madam. Just say what you
think is likely to make the best impression - look at me from time to time - and
if I put my hand to my cravat so - (showing her the motion) - you will stop; but
I shall only do this when you say anything that is not likely to please.«
    »But, sir, your Grace,« said Jeanie, »if it wasna ower muckle trouble, wad
it no be better to tell me what I should say, and I could get it by heart?«
    »No, Jeanie, that would not have the same effect - that would be like
reading a sermon, you know, which we good Presbyterians think has less unction
than when spoken without book,« replied the Duke. »Just speak as plainly and
boldly to this lady, as you did to me the day before yesterday; and if you can
gain her consent, I'll wad ye a plack, as we say in the north, that you get the
pardon from the king.«
    As he spoke, he took a pamphlet from his pocket, and began to read. Jeanie
had good sense and tact, which constitute betwixt them that which is called
natural good breeding. She interpreted the Duke's manoeuvre as a hint that she
was to ask no more questions, and she remained silent accordingly.
    The carriage rolled rapidly onwards through fertile meadows, ornamented with
splendid old oaks, and catching occasionally a glance of the majestic mirror of
a broad and placid river. After passing through a pleasant village, the equipage
stopped on a commanding eminence, where the beauty of English landscape was
displayed in its utmost luxuriance. Here the Duke alighted, and desired Jeanie
to follow him. They paused for a moment on the brow of a hill, to gaze on the
unrivalled landscape which it presented. A huge sea of verdure, with crossing
and intersecting promontories of massive and tufted groves, was tenanted by
numberless flocks and herds, which seemed to wander unrestrained and unbounded
through the rich pastures. The Thames, here turreted with villas, and there
garlanded with forests, moved on slowly and placidly, like the mighty monarch of
the scene, to whom all its other beauties were but accessories, and bore on its
bosom an hundred barks and skiffs, whose white sails and gaily fluttering
pennons gave life to the whole.
    The Duke of Argyle was, of course, familiar with this scene; but to a man of
taste it must be always new. Yet, as he paused and looked on this inimitable
landscape, with the feeling of delight which it must give to the bosom of every
admirer of nature, his thoughts naturally reverted to his own more grand, and
scarce less beautiful, domains of Inverary. - »This is a fine scene,« he said to
his companion, curious, perhaps, to draw out her sentiments; »we have nothing
like it in Scotland.«
    »It's braw rich feeding for the cows, and they have a fine breed o' cattle
here,« replied Jeanie; »but I like just as well to look at the craigs of
Arthur's Seat, and the sea coming in ayont them as at a' thae muckle trees.«
    The Duke smiled at a reply equally professional and national, and made a
signal for the carriage to remain where it was. Then adopting an unfrequented
footpath, he conducted Jeanie through several complicated mazes to a
postern-door in a high brick wall.
    It was shut; but as the Duke tapped slightly at it, a person in waiting
within, after reconnoitring through a small iron grate, contrived for the
purpose, unlocked the door and admitted them. They entered, and it was
immediately closed and fastened behind them. This was all done quickly, the door
so instantly closing, and the person who opened it so suddenly disappearing,
that Jeanie could not even catch a glimpse of his exterior.
    They found themselves at the extremity of a deep and narrow alley, carpeted
with the most verdant and close-shaven turf, which felt like velvet under their
feet, and screened from the sun by the branches of the lofty elms which united
over the path, and caused it to resemble, in the solemn obscurity of the light
which they admitted, as well as from the range of columnar stems, and intricate
union of their arched branches, one of the narrow side aisles in an ancient
Gothic cathedral.
 

                              Chapter Thirty-Sixth

 - I beseech you -
 These tears beseech you, and these chaste hands woo you
 That never yet were heaved but to things holy -
 Things like yourself - You are a God above us;
 Be as a God, then, full of saving mercy!
                                                             The Bloody Brother.
 
Encouraged as she was by the courteous manners of her noble countryman, it was
not without a feeling of something like terror that Jeanie felt herself in a
place apparently so lonely with a man of such high rank. That she should have
been permitted to wait on the Duke in his own house, and have been there
received to a private interview, was in itself an uncommon and distinguished
event in the annals of a life so simple as hers; but to find herself his
travelling companion in a journey, and then suddenly to be left alone with him
in so secluded a situation, had something in it of awful mystery. A romantic
heroine might have suspected and dreaded the power of her own charms; but Jeanie
was too wise to let such a silly thought intrude on her mind. Still, however,
she had a most eager desire to know where she now was, and to whom she was to be
presented.
    She remarked that the Duke's dress, though still such as indicated rank and
fashion (for it was not the custom of men of quality at that time to dress
themselves like their own coachmen or grooms), was nevertheless plainer than
that in which she had seen him upon a former occasion, and was divested, in
particular, of all those badges of external decoration which intimated superior
consequence. In short, he was attired as plainly as any gentleman of fashion
could appear in the streets of London in a morning; and this circumstance helped
to shake an opinion which Jeanie began to entertain, that, perhaps, he intended
she should plead her cause in the presence of royalty itself. »But surely,« said
she to herself, »he wad hae putten on his braw star and garter, an he had
thought o' coming before the face of majesty - and after a', this is mair like a
gentleman's policy than a royal palace.«
    There was some sense in Jeanie's reasoning; yet she was not sufficiently
mistress either of the circumstances of etiquette, or the particular relations
which existed betwixt the government and the Duke of Argyle, to form an accurate
judgment. The Duke, as we have said, was at this time in open opposition to the
administration of Sir Robert Walpole, and was understood to be out of favour
with the royal family, to whom he had rendered such important services. But it
was a maxim of Queen Caroline to bear herself towards her political friends with
such caution, as if there was a possibility of their one day being her enemies,
and towards political opponents with the same degree of circumspection, as if
they might again become friendly to her measures. Since Margaret of Anjou, no
queen-consort had exercised such weight in the political affairs of England, and
the personal address which she displayed on many occasions, had no small share
in reclaiming from their political heresy many of those determined Tories, who,
after the reign of the Stuarts had been extinguished in the person of Queen
Anne, were disposed rather to transfer their allegiance to her brother the
Chevalier de St. George, than to acquiesce in the settlement of the crown on the
Hanover family. Her husband, whose most shining quality was courage in the field
of battle, and who endured the office of King of England, without ever being
able to acquire English habits, or any familiarity with English dispositions,
found the utmost assistance from the address of his partner, and while he
jealously affected to do everything according to his own will and pleasure, was
in secret prudent enough to take and follow the advice of his more adroit
consort. He entrusted to her the delicate office of determining the various
degrees of favour necessary to attach the wavering, or to confirm such as were
already friendly, or to regain those whose good-will had been lost.
    With all the winning address of an elegant, and, according to the times, an
accomplished woman, Queen Caroline possessed the masculine soul of the other
sex. She was proud by nature, and even her policy could not always temper her
expressions of displeasure, although few were more ready at repairing any false
step of this kind, when her prudence came up to the aid of her passions. She
loved the real possession of power rather than the show of it, and whatever she
did herself that was either wise or popular, she always desired that the King
should have the full credit as well as the advantage of the measure, conscious
that, by adding to his respectability, she was most likely to maintain her own.
And so desirous was she to comply with all his tastes, that, when threatened
with the gout, she had repeatedly had recourse to checking the fit, by the use
of the cold bath, thereby endangering her life, that she might be able to attend
the king in his walks.
    It was a very consistent part of Queen Caroline's character, to keep up many
private correspondences with those to whom in public she seemed unfavourable, or
who, for various reasons, stood ill with the court. By this means she kept in
her hands the thread of many a political intrigue, and, without pledging herself
to anything, could often prevent discontent from becoming hatred, and opposition
from exaggerating itself into rebellion. If by any accident her correspondence
with such persons chanced to be observed or discovered, which she took all
possible pains to prevent, it was represented as a mere intercourse of society,
having no reference to politics; an answer with which even the prime minister,
Sir Robert Walpole, was compelled to remain satisfied, when he discovered that
the Queen had given a private audience to Pulteney, afterwards Earl of Bath, his
most formidable and most inveterate enemy.
    In thus maintaining occasional intercourse with several persons who seemed
most alienated from the crown, it may readily be supposed that Queen Caroline
had taken care not to break entirely with the Duke of Argyle. His high birth,
his great talents, the estimation in which he was held in his own country, the
great services which he had rendered the house of Brunswick in 1715, placed him
high in that rank of persons who were not to be rashly neglected. He had, almost
by his single and unassisted talents, stopped the irruption of the banded force
of all the Highland chiefs; there was little doubt, that, with the slightest
encouragement, he could put them all in motion, and renew the civil war; and it
was well known that the most flattering overtures had been transmitted to the
Duke from the court of St. Germains. The character and temper of Scotland was
still little known, and it was considered as a volcano, which might, indeed,
slumber for a series of years, but was still liable, at a moment the least
expected, to break out into a wasteful irruption. It was, therefore, of the
highest importance to retain some hold over so important a personage as the Duke
of Argyle, and Caroline preserved the power of doing so by means of a lady, with
whom, as wife of George II., she might have been supposed to be on less intimate
terms.
    It was not the least instance of the Queen's address, that she had contrived
that one of her principal attendants, Lady Suffolk, should unite in her own
person the two apparently inconsistent characters, of her husband's mistress,
and her own very obsequious and complaisant confidant. By this dexterous
management the Queen secured her power against the danger which might most have
threatened it - the thwarting influence of an ambitious rival; and if she
submitted to the mortification of being obliged to connive at her husband's
infidelity, she was at least guarded against what she might think its most
dangerous effects, and was besides at liberty, now and then, to bestow a few
civil insults upon »her good Howard,« whom, however, in general, she treated
with great decorum.60 Lady Suffolk lay under strong obligations to the Duke of
Argyle, for reasons which may be collected from Horace Walpole's Reminiscences
of that reign, and through her means the Duke had some occasional correspondence
with Queen Caroline, much interrupted, however, since the part he had taken in
the debate concerning the Porteous mob, an affair which the Queen, though
somewhat unreasonably, was disposed to resent, rather as an intended and
premeditated insolence to her own person and authority, than as a sudden
ebullition of popular vengeance. Still, however, the communication remained open
betwixt them, though it had been of late disused on both sides. These remarks
will be found necessary to understand the scene which is about to be presented
to the reader.
    From the narrow alley which they had traversed, the Duke turned into one of
the same character, but broader and still longer. Here, for the first time since
they had entered these gardens, Jeanie saw persons approaching them.
    They were two ladies; one of whom walked a little behind the other, yet not
so much as to prevent her from hearing and replying to whatever observation was
addressed to her by the lady who walked foremost, and that without her having
the trouble to turn her person. As they advanced very slowly, Jeanie had time to
study their features and appearance. The Duke also slackened his pace, as if to
give her time to collect herself, and repeatedly desired her not to be afraid.
The lady who seemed the principal person had remarkably good features, though
somewhat injured by the small-pox, that venomous scourge which each village
Esculapius (thanks to Jenner) can now tame as easily as their tutelary deity
subdued the Python. The lady's eyes were brilliant, her teeth good, and her
countenance formed to express at will either majesty or courtesy. Her form,
though rather embonpoint, was nevertheless graceful; and the elasticity and
firmness of her step gave no room to suspect, what was actually the case, that
she suffered occasionally from a disorder the most unfavourable to pedestrian
exercise. Her dress was rather rich than gay, and her manner commanding and
noble.
    Her companion was of lower stature, with light brown hair and expressive
blue eyes. Her features, without being absolutely regular, were perhaps more
pleasing than if they had been critically handsome. A melancholy, or at least a
pensive expression, for which her lot gave too much cause, predominated when she
was silent, but gave way to a pleasing and good-humoured smile when she spoke to
any one.
    When they were within twelve or fifteen yards of these ladies, the Duke made
a sign that Jeanie should stand still, and stepping forward himself, with the
grace which was natural to him, made a profound obeisance, which was formally,
yet in a dignified manner, returned by the personage whom he approached.
    »I hope,« she said, with an affable and condescending smile, »that I see so
great a stranger at court, as the Duke of Argyle has been of late, in as good
health as his friends there and elsewhere could wish him to enjoy.«
    The Duke replied, »That he had been perfectly well;« and added, »that the
necessity of attending to the public business before the House, as well as the
time occupied by a late journey to Scotland, had rendered him less assiduous in
paying his duty at the levee and drawing-room than he could have desired.«
    »When your Grace can find time for a duty so frivolous,« replied the Queen,
»you are aware of your title to be well received. I hope my readiness to comply
with the wish which you expressed yesterday to Lady Suffolk, is a sufficient
proof that one of the royal family, at least, has not forgotten ancient and
important services, in resenting something which resembles recent neglect.« This
was said apparently with great good humour, and in a tone which expressed a
desire of conciliation.
    The Duke replied, »That he would account himself the most unfortunate of
men, if he could be supposed capable of neglecting his duty, in modes and
circumstances when it was expected, and would have been agreeable. He was deeply
gratified by the honour which her Majesty was now doing to him personally, and
he trusted she would soon perceive that it was in a matter essential to his
Majesty's interest that he had the boldness to give her this trouble.«
    »You cannot oblige me more, my Lord Duke,« replied the Queen, »than by
giving me the advantage of your lights and experience on any point of the King's
service. Your Grace is aware, that I can only be the medium through which the
matter is subjected to his Majesty's superior wisdom; but if it is a suit which
respects your Grace personally, it shall lose no support by being preferred
through me.«
    »It is no suit of mine, madam,« replied the Duke; »nor have I any to prefer
for myself personally, although I feel in full force my obligation to your
Majesty. It is a business which concerns his Majesty, as a lover of justice and
of mercy, and which, I am convinced, may be highly useful in conciliating the
unfortunate irritation which at present subsists among his Majesty's good
subjects in Scotland.«
    There were two parts of this speech disagreeable to Caroline. In the first
place, it removed the flattering notion she had adopted, that Argyle designed to
use her personal intercession in making his peace with the administration, and
recovering the employments of which he had been deprived; and next, she was
displeased that he should talk of the discontents in Scotland as irritations to
be conciliated, rather than suppressed.
    Under the influence of these feelings, she answered, hastily, »That his
Majesty has good subjects in England, my Lord Duke, he is bound to thank God and
the laws - that he has subjects in Scotland, I think he may thank God and his
sword.«
    The Duke, though a courtier, coloured slightly, and the Queen, instantly
sensible of her error, added, without displaying the least change of
countenance, and as if the words had been an original branch of the sentence -
»And the swords of those real Scotchmen who are friends to the House of
Brunswick, particularly that of his Grace of Argyle.«
    »My sword, madam,« replied the Duke, »like that of my fathers, has been
always at the command of my lawful king, and of my native country - I trust it
is impossible to separate their real rights and interests. But the present is a
matter of more private concern, and respects the person of an obscure
individual.«
    »What is the affair, my Lord?« said the Queen. »Let us find out what we are
talking about, lest we should misconstrue and misunderstand each other.«
    »The matter, madam,« answered the Duke of Argyle, »regards the fate of an
unfortunate young woman in Scotland, now lying under sentence of death, for a
crime of which I think it highly probable that she is innocent. And my humble
petition to your Majesty is, to obtain your powerful intercession with the King
for a pardon.«
    It was now the Queen's turn to colour, and she did so over cheek and brow,
neck and bosom. She paused a moment as if unwilling to trust her voice with the
first expression of her displeasure; and on assuming the air of dignity and an
austere regard of control, she at length replied, »My Lord Duke, I will not ask
your motives for addressing to me a request, which circumstances have rendered
such an extraordinary one. Your road to the King's closet, as a peer and a
privy-councillor, entitled to request an audience, was open, without giving me
the pain of this discussion. I, at least, have had enough of Scotch pardons.«
    The Duke was prepared for this burst of indignation, and he was not shaken
by it. He did not attempt a reply while the Queen was in the first heat of
displeasure, but remained in the same firm, yet respectful posture, which he had
assumed during the interview. The Queen, trained from her situation to
self-command, instantly perceived the advantage she might give against herself
by yielding to passion; and added, in the same condescending and affable tone in
which she had opened the interview, »You must allow me some of the privileges of
the sex, my Lord; and do not judge uncharitably of me, though I am a little
moved at the recollection of the gross insult and outrage done in your capital
city to the royal authority, at the very time when it was vested in my unworthy
person. Your Grace cannot be surprised that I should both have felt it at the
time, and recollected it now.«
    »It is certainly a matter not speedily to be forgotten,« answered the Duke.
»My own poor thoughts of it have been long before your Majesty, and I must have
expressed myself very ill if I did not convey my detestation of the murder which
was committed under such extraordinary circumstances. I might, indeed, be so
unfortunate as to differ with his Majesty's advisers on the degree in which it
was either just or politic to punish the innocent instead of the guilty. But I
trust your Majesty will permit me to be silent on a topic in which my sentiments
have not the good fortune to coincide with those of more able men.«
    »We will not prosecute a topic on which we may probably differ,« said the
Queen. »One word, however, I may say in private - you know our good Lady Suffolk
is a little deaf - the Duke of Argyle, when disposed to renew his acquaintance
with his master and mistress, will hardly find many topics on which we should
disagree.«
    »Let me hope,« said the Duke, bowing profoundly to so flattering an
intimation, »that I shall not be so unfortunate as to have found one on the
present occasion.«
    »I must first impose on your Grace the duty of confession,« said the Queen,
»before I grant you absolution. What is your particular interest in this young
woman? She does not seem« (and she scanned Jeanie, as she said this, with the
eye of a connoisseur) »much qualified to alarm my friend the Duchess's
jealousy.«
    »I think your Majesty,« replied the Duke, smiling in his turn, »will allow
my taste may be a pledge for me on that score.«
    »Then, though she has not much the air d'une grande dame, I suppose she is
some thirtieth cousin in the terrible chapter of Scottish genealogy?«
    »No, madam,« said the Duke; »but I wish some of my nearer relations had half
her worth, honesty, and affection.«
    »Her name must be Campbell, at least?« said Queen Caroline.
    »No, madam; her name is not quite so distinguished, if I may be permitted to
say so,« answered the Duke.
    »Ah! but she comes from Inverary or Argyleshire?« said the Sovereign.
    »She has never been farther north in her life than Edinburgh, madam.«
    »Then my conjectures are all ended,« said the Queen, »and your Grace must
yourself take the trouble to explain the affair of your protégée.«
    With that precision and easy brevity which is only acquired by habitually
conversing in the higher ranks of society, and which is the diametrical opposite
of that protracted style of disquisition,
 
Which squires call potter, and which men call prose,
 
the Duke explained the singular law under which Effie Deans had received
sentence of death, and detailed the affectionate exertions which Jeanie had made
in behalf of a sister, for whose sake she was willing to sacrifice all but truth
and conscience.
    Queen Caroline listened with attention; she was rather fond, it must be
remembered, of an argument, and soon found matter in what the Duke told her for
raising difficulties to his request.
    »It appears to me, my Lord,« she replied, »that this is a severe law. But
still it is adopted upon good grounds, I am bound to suppose, as the law of the
country, and the girl has been convicted under it. The very presumptions which
the law construes into a positive proof of guilt exist in her case; and all that
your Grace has said concerning the possibility of her innocence may be a very
good argument for annulling the Act of Parliament, but cannot, while it stands
good, be admitted in favour of any individual convicted upon the statute.«
    The Duke saw and avoided the snare, for he was conscious, that, by replying
to the argument, he must have been inevitably led to a discussion, in the course
of which the Queen was likely to be hardened in her own opinion, until she
became obliged, out of mere respect to consistency, to let the criminal suffer.
»If your Majesty,« he said, »would condescend to hear my poor countrywoman
herself, perhaps she may find an advocate in your own heart, more able than I
am, to combat the doubts suggested by your understanding.«
    The Queen seemed to acquiesce, and the Duke made a signal for Jeanie to
advance from the spot where she had hitherto remained watching countenances,
which were too long accustomed to suppress all apparent signs of emotion, to
convey to her any interesting intelligence. Her Majesty could not help smiling
at the awe-struck manner in which the quiet demure figure of the little
Scotchwoman advanced towards her, and yet more at the first sound of her broad
northern accent. But Jeanie had a voice low and sweetly toned, an admirable
thing in woman, and eke besought »her Leddyship to have pity on a poor misguided
young creature,« in tones so affecting, that, like the notes of some of her
native songs, provincial vulgarity was lost in pathos.
    »Stand up, young woman,« said the Queen, but in a kind tone, »and tell me
what sort of a barbarous people your country-folk are, where child-murder is
become so common as to require the restraint of laws like yours?«
    »If your Leddyship pleases,« answered Jeanie, »there are mony places besides
Scotland where mothers are unkind to their ain flesh and blood.«
    It must be observed, that the disputes between George the Second and
Frederick Prince of Wales were then at the highest, and that the good-natured
part of the public laid the blame on the Queen. She coloured highly, and darted
a glance of a most penetrating character first at Jeanie, and then at the Duke.
Both sustained it unmoved; Jeanie from total unconsciousness of the offence she
had given, and the Duke from his habitual composure. But in his heart he
thought, My unlucky protégée has with this luckless answer shot dead, by a kind
of chance-medley, her only hope of success.
    Lady Suffolk, good-humouredly and skilfully, interposed in this awkward
crisis. »You should tell this lady,« she said to Jeanie, »the particular causes
which render this crime common in your country.«
    »Some thinks it's the Kirk-session - that is - it's the - it's the
cutty-stool, if your Leddyship pleases,« said Jeanie, looking down and
courtesying.
    »The what?« said Lady Suffolk, to whom the phrase was new, and who besides
was rather deaf.
    »That's the stool of repentance, madam, if it please your Leddyship,«
answered Jeanie, »for light life and conversation, and for breaking the seventh
command.« Here she raised her eyes to the Duke, saw his hand at his chin, and,
totally unconscious of what she had said out of joint, gave double effect to the
innuendo, by stopping short and looking embarrassed.
    As for Lady Suffolk, she retired like a covering party, which, having
interposed betwixt their retreating friends and the enemy, have suddenly drawn
on themselves a fire unexpectedly severe.
    The deuce take the lass, thought the Duke of Argyle to himself; there goes
another shot - and she has hit with both barrels right and left!
    Indeed the Duke had himself his share of the confusion, for, having acted as
master of ceremonies to this innocent offender, he felt much in the
circumstances of a country squire, who, having introduced his spaniel into a
well-appointed drawing-room, is doomed to witness the disorder and damage which
arises to china and to dress-gowns, in consequence of its untimely frolics.
Jeanie's last chance-hit, however, obliterated the ill impression which had
arisen from the first; for her Majesty had not so lost the feelings of a wife in
those of a Queen, but that she could enjoy a jest at the expense of »her good
Suffolk.« She turned towards the Duke of Argyle with a smile, which marked that
she enjoyed the triumph, and observed, »The Scotch are a rigidly moral people.«
Then, again applying herself to Jeanie, she asked how she travelled up from
Scotland.
    »Upon my foot mostly, madam,« was the reply.
    »What, all that immense way upon foot? - How far can you walk in a day.«
    »Five-and-twenty miles and a bittock.«
    »And a what?« said the Queen, looking towards the Duke of Argyle.
    »And about five miles more,« replied the Duke.
    »I thought I was a good walker,« said the Queen, »but this shames me sadly.«
    »May your Leddyship never hae sae weary a heart, that ye canna be sensible
of the weariness of the limbs,« said Jeanie.
    That came better off, thought the Duke; it's the first thing she has said to
the purpose.
    »And I didna just a'thegither walk the haill way neither, for I had whiles
the cast of a cart; and I had the cast of a horse from Ferrybridge - and divers
other easements,« said Jeanie, cutting short her story, for she observed the
Duke made the sign he had fixed upon.
    »With all these accommodations,« answered the Queen, »you must have had a
very fatiguing journey, and, I fear, to little purpose; since, if the King were
to pardon your sister, in all probability it would do her little good, for I
suppose your people of Edinburgh would hang her out of spite.«
    She will sink herself now outright, thought the Duke.
    But he was wrong. The shoals on which Jeanie had touched in this delicate
conversation lay under ground, and were unknown to her; this rock was above
water, and she avoided it.
    »She was confident,« she said, »that baith town and country wad rejoice to
see his Majesty taking compassion on a poor unfriended creature.«
    »His Majesty has not found it so in a late instance,« said the Queen; »but I
suppose my Lord Duke would advise him to be guided by the votes of the rabble
themselves, who should be hanged and who spared?«
    »No, madam,« said the Duke; »but I would advise his Majesty to be guided by
his own feelings, and those of his royal consort; and then I am sure punishment
will only attach itself to guilt, and even then with cautious reluctance.«
    »Well, my Lord,« said her Majesty, »all these fine speeches do not convince
me of the propriety of so soon showing any mark of favour to your - I suppose I
must not say rebellious? - but, at least, your very disaffected and intractable
metropolis. Why, the whole nation is in a league to screen the savage and
abominable murderers of that unhappy man; otherwise, how is it possible but
that, of so many perpetrators, and engaged in so public an action for such a
length of time, one at least must have been recognised? Even this wench, for
aught I can tell, may be a depositary of the secret. - Hark you, young woman,
had you any friends engaged in the Porteous mob?«
    »No, madam,« answered Jeanie, happy that the question was so framed that she
could, with a good conscience, answer it in the negative.
    »But I suppose,« continued the Queen, »if you were possessed of such a
secret, you would hold it a matter of conscience to keep it to yourself?«
    »I would pray to be directed and guided what was the line of duty, madam,«
answered Jeanie.
    »Yes, and take that which suited your own inclinations,« replied her
Majesty.
    »If it like you, madam,« said Jeanie, »I would hae gaen to the end of the
earth to save the life of John Porteous, or any other unhappy man in his
condition; but I might lawfully doubt how far I am called upon to be the avenger
of his blood, though it may become the civil magistrate to do so. He is dead and
gone to his place, and they that have slain him must answer for their ain act.
But my sister, my puir sister, Effie, still lives, though her days and hours are
numbered! She still lives, and a word of the King's mouth might restore her to a
broken-hearted auld man, that never in his daily and nightly exercise, forgot to
pray that his Majesty might be blessed with a long and a prosperous reign, and
that his throne, and the throne of his posterity, might be established in
righteousness. O madam, if ever ye kend what it was to sorrow for and with a
sinning and a suffering creature, whose mind is sae tossed that she can be
neither ca'd fit to live or die, have some compassion on our misery! - Save an
honest house from dishonour, and an unhappy girl, not eighteen years of age,
from an early and dreadful death! Alas! it is not when we sleep soft and wake
merrily ourselves that we think on other people's sufferings. Our hearts are
waxed light within us then, and we are for righting our ain wrangs and fighting
our ain battles. But when the hour of trouble comes to the mind or to the body -
and seldom may it visit your Leddyship - and when the hour of death comes, that
comes to high and low - lang and late may it be yours! - Oh, my Leddy, then it
isna what we hae dune for oursells, but what we hae dune for others, that we
think on maist pleasantly. And the thoughts that ye hae intervened to spare the
puir thing's life will be sweeter in that hour, come when it may, than if a word
of your mouth could hang the haill Porteous mob at the tail of ae tow.«
    Tear followed tear down Jeanie's cheeks, as, her features glowing and
quivering with emotion, she pleaded her sister's cause with a pathos which was
at once simple and solemn.
    »This is eloquence,« said her Majesty to the Duke of Argyle. »Young woman,«
she continued, addressing herself to Jeanie, »I cannot grant a pardon to your
sister - but you shall not want my warm intercession with his Majesty. Take this
housewife case,« she continued, putting a small embroidered needle-case into
Jeanie's hands; »do not open it now, but at your leisure - you will find
something in it which will remind you that you have had an interview with Queen
Caroline.«
    Jeanie, having her suspicions thus confirmed, dropped on her knees, and
would have expanded herself in gratitude; but the Duke who was upon thorns lest
she should say more or lees than just enough, touched his chin once more.
    »Our business is, I think, ended for the present, my Lord Duke,« said the
Queen, »and, I trust, to your satisfaction. Hereafter I hope to see your Grace
more frequently, both at Richmond and St. James's. - Come Lady Suffolk, we must
wish his Grace good-morning.«
    They exchanged their parting reverences, and the Duke, so soon as the ladies
had turned their backs, assisted Jeanie to rise from the ground, and conducted
her back through the avenue, which she trode with the feeling of one who walks
in her sleep.
 

                             Chapter Thirty-Seventh

 So soon as I can win the offended king,
 I will be known your advocate.
                                                                      Cymbeline.
 
The Duke of Argyle led the way in silence to the small postern by which they had
been admitted into Richmond Park, so long the favourite residence of Queen
Caroline. It was opened by the same half-seen janitor, and they found themselves
beyond the precincts of the royal demesne. Still not a word was spoken on either
side. The Duke probably wished to allow his rustic protégée time to recruit her
faculties, dazzled and sunk with colloquy sublime; and betwixt what she had
guessed, had heard, and had seen, Jeanie Deans's mind was too much agitated to
permit her to ask any questions.
    They found the carriage of the Duke in the place where they had left it; and
when they resumed their places, soon began to advance rapidly on their return to
town.
    »I think, Jeanie,« said the Duke, breaking silence, »you have every reason
to congratulate yourself on the issue of your interview with her Majesty.«
    »And that leddy was the Queen hersell?« said Jeanie; »I misdoubted it when I
saw that your honour didna put on your hat - And yet I can hardly believe it,
even when I heard her speak it hersell.«
    »It was certainly Queen Caroline,« replied the Duke. »Have you no curiosity
to see what is in the little pocket-book?«
    »Do you think the pardon will be in it, sir?« said Jeanie, with the eager
animation of hope.
    »Why, no,« replied the Duke; »that is unlikely. They seldom carry these
things about them, unless they were likely to be wanted; and, besides, her
Majesty told you it was the King, not she, who was to grant it.«
    »That is true, too,« said Jeanie; »but I am so confused in my mind - But
does your honour think there is a certainty of Effie's pardon then?« continued
she, still holding in her hand the unopened pocket-book.
    »Why, kings are kittle cattle to shoe behind, as we say in the north,«
replied the Duke; »but his wife knows his trim, and I have not the least doubt
that the matter is quite certain.«
    »Oh, God be praised! God be praised!« ejaculated Jeanie; »and may the good
leddy never want the heart's ease she has gien me at this moment! - And God
bless you too, my Lord! - without your help I wad ne'er hae won near her.«
    The Duke let her dwell upon this subject for a considerable time, curious,
perhaps, to see how long the feelings of gratitude would continue to supersede
those of curiosity. But so feeble was the latter feeling in Jeanie's mind, that
his Grace, with whom, perhaps, it was for the time a little stronger, was
obliged once more to bring forward the subject of the Queen's present. It was
opened accordingly. In the inside of the case was the usual assortment of silk
and needles, with scissors, tweezers, etc.; and in the pocket was a bank-bill
for fifty pounds.
    The Duke had no sooner informed Jeanie of the value of this last document,
for she was unaccustomed to see notes for such sums, than she expressed her
regret at the mistake which had taken place. »For the hussy itsell,« she said,
»was a very valuable thing for a keepsake, with the Queen's name written in the
inside with her ain hand doubtless - Caroline - as plain as could be, and a
crown drawn aboon it.«
    She therefore tendered the bill to the Duke, requesting him to find some
mode of returning it to the royal owner.
    »No, no, Jeanie,« said the Duke, »there is no mistake in the case. Her
Majesty knows you have been put to great expense, and she wishes to make it up
to you.«
    »I am sure she is even ower good,« said Jeanie, »and it glads me muckle that
I can pay back Dumbiedikes his siller, without distressing my father, honest
man.«
    »Dumbiedikes? What, a freeholder of Mid-Lothian, is he not?« said his Grace,
whose occasional residence in that county made him acquainted with most of the
heritors, as landed persons are termed in Scotland. - »He has a house not far
from Dalkeith, wears a black wig and a laced hat?«
    »Yes, sir,« answered Jeanie, who had her reasons for being brief in her
answers upon this topic.
    »Ah, my old friend Dumbie!« said the Duke; »I have thrice seen him fou, and
only once heard the sound of his voice - Is he a cousin of yours, Jeanie?«
    »No, sir, - my Lord.«
    »Then he must be a well-wisher, I suspect?«
    »Ye - yes, - my Lord, sir,« answered Jeanie, blushing, and with hesitation.
    »Aha! then, if the Laird starts, I suppose my friend Butler must be in some
danger?«
    »O no, sir,« answered Jeanie, much more readily, but at the same time
blushing much more deeply.
    »Well, Jeanie,« said the Duke, »you are a girl may be safely trusted with
your own matters, and I shall inquire no farther about them. But as to this same
pardon, I must see to get it passed through the proper forms; and I have a
friend in office who will, for auld lang syne, do me so much favour. And then,
Jeanie, as I shall have occasion to send an express down to Scotland, who will
travel with it safer and more swiftly than you can do, I will take care to have
it put into the proper channel; meanwhile you may write to your friends by post,
of your good success.«
    »And does your Honour think,« said Jeanie, »that will do as well as if I
were to take my tap in my lap, and slip my ways hame again on my ain errand?«
    »Much better, certainly,« said the Duke. »You know the roads are not very
safe for a single woman to travel.«
    Jeanie internally acquiesced in this observation.
    »And I have a plan for you besides. One of the Duchess's attendants, and one
of mine - your acquaintance Archibald - are going down to Inverary in a light
calash, with four horses I have bought, and there is room enough in the carriage
for you to go with them as far as Glasgow, where Archibald will find means of
sending you safely to Edinburgh. - And in the way I beg you will teach the woman
as much as you can of the mystery of cheese-making, for she is to have a charge
in the dairy, and I dare swear you are as tidy about your milk-pail as about
your dress.«
    »Does your Honour like cheese?« said Jeanie, with a gleam of conscious
delight as she asked the question.
    »Like it?« said the Duke, whose good-nature anticipated what was to follow,
- »cakes and cheese are a dinner for an emperor, let alone a Highlandman.«
    »Because,« said Jeanie, with modest confidence, and great and evident
self-gratulation, »we have been thought so particular in making cheese, that
some folk think it as good as the real Dunlop; and if your honour's Grace wad
but accept a stane or twa, blithe, and fain, and proud it wad make us? But maybe
ye may like the ewe-milk, that is, the Buckholmside61 cheese better; or maybe
the gait-milk, as ye come frae the Highlands - and I canna pretend just to the
same skeel o' them; but my cousin Jean, that lives at Lockermachus in
Lammermuir, I could speak to her, and« -
    »Quite unnecessary,« said the Duke; »the Dunlop is the very cheese of which
I am so fond, and I will take it as the greatest favour you can do me to send
one to Caroline Park. But remember, be on honour with it, Jeanie, and make it
all yourself, for I am a real good judge.«
    »I am not feared,« said Jeanie, confidently, »that I may please your Honour;
for I am sure you look as if you could hardly find fault wi' anybody that did
their best; and well is it my part, I trow, to do mine.«
    This discourse introduced a topic upon which the two travellers, though so
different in rank and education, found each a good deal to say. The Duke,
besides his other patriotic qualities, was a distinguished agriculturist, and
proud of his knowledge in that department. He entertained Jeanie with his
observations on the different breeds of cattle in Scotland, and their capacity
for the dairy, and received so much information from her practical experience in
return, that he promised her a couple of Devonshire cows in reward for the
lesson. In short, his mind was so transported back to his rural employments and
amusements, that he sighed when his carriage stopped opposite to the old
hackney-coach, which Archibald had kept in attendance at the place where they
had left it. While the coachman again bridled his lean cattle, which had been
indulged with a bite of musty hay, the Duke cautioned Jeanie not to be too
communicative to her landlady concerning what had passed. »There is,« he said,
»no use of speaking of matters till they are actually settled; and you may refer
the good lady to Archibald, if she presses you hard with questions. She is his
old acquaintance, and he knows how to manage with her.«
    He then took a cordial farewell of Jeanie, and told her to be ready in the
ensuing week to return to Scotland - saw her safely established in her
hackney-coach, and rolled off in his own carriage, humming a stanza of the
ballad which he is said to have composed: -
 
»At the sight of Dumbarton once again,
I'll cock up my bonnet and march amain,
With my claymore hanging down to my heel,
To whang at the bannocks of barley meal.«
 
Perhaps one ought to be actually a Scotsman to conceive how ardently, under all
distinctions of rank and situation, they feel their mutual connection with each
other as natives of the same country. There are, I believe, more associations
common to the inhabitants of a rude and wild, than of a well-cultivated and
fertile country; their ancestors have more seldom changed their place of
residence; their mutual recollection of remarkable objects is more accurate; the
high and the low are more interested in each other's welfare; the feelings of
kindred and relationship are more widely extended, and in a word, the bonds of
patriotic affection, always honourable even when a little too exclusively
strained, have more influence on men's feelings and actions.
    The rumbling hackney-coach, which tumbled over the (then) execrable London
pavement, at a rate very different from that which had conveyed the ducal
carriage to Richmond, at length deposited Jeanie Deans and her attendant at the
national sign of the Thistle. Mrs. Glass, who had been in long and anxious
expectation, now rushed, full of eager curiosity and open-mouthed interrogation,
upon our heroine, who was positively unable to sustain the overwhelming cataract
of her questions, which burst forth with the sublimity of a grand gardyloo: -
»Had she seen the Duke, God bless him - the Duchess - the young ladies? - Had
she seen the King, God bless him - the Queen - the Prince of Wales - the
Princess - or any of the rest of the royal family? - Had she got her sister's
pardon? - Was it out and out - or was it only a commutation of punishment! - How
far had she gone - where had she driven to - whom had she seen - what had been
said - what had kept her so long?«
    Such were the various questions huddled upon each other by a curiosity so
eager, that it could hardly wait for its own gratification. Jeanie would have
been more than sufficiently embarrassed by this overbearing tide of
interrogations, had not Archibald, who had probably received from his master a
hint to that purpose, advanced to her rescue. »Mrs. Glass,« said Archibald, »his
Grace desired me particularly to say, that he would take it as a great favour if
you would ask the young woman no questions, as he wishes to explain to you more
distinctly than she can do how her affairs stand, and consult you on some
matters which she cannot altogether so well explain. The Duke will call at the
Thistle to-morrow or next day for that purpose.«
    »His Grace is very condescending,« said Mrs. Glass, her zeal for inquiry
slaked for the present by the dexterous administration of this sugar plum - »his
Grace is sensible that I am in a manner accountable for the conduct of my young
kinswoman, and no doubt his Grace is the best judge how far he should entrust
her or me with the management of her affairs.«
    »His Grace is quite sensible of that,« answered Archibald, with national
gravity, »and will certainly trust what he has to say to the most discreet of
the two; and therefore, Mrs. Glass, his Grace relies you will speak nothing to
Mrs. Jean Deans, either of her own affairs or her sister's, until he sees you
himself. He desired me to assure you, in the meanwhile, that all was going on as
well as your kindness could wish, Mrs. Glass.«
    »His Grace is very kind - very considerate, certainly, Mr. Archibald - his
Grace's commands shall be obeyed, and -- But you have had a far drive, Mr.
Archibald, as I guess by the time of your absence, and I guess« (with an
engaging smile) »you winna be the waur o' a glass of the right Rosa Solis.«
    »I thank you, Mrs. Glass,« said the great man's great man, »but I am under
the necessity of returning to my Lord directly.« And, making his adieus civilly
to both cousins, he left the shop of the Lady of the Thistle.
    »I am glad your affairs have prospered so well, Jeanie, my love,« said Mrs.
Glass; »though, indeed, there was little fear of them so soon as the Duke of
Argyle was so condescending as to take them into hand. I will ask you no
questions about them, because his Grace, who is most considerate and prudent in
such matters, intends to tell me all that you ken yourself, dear, and doubtless
a great deal more; so that anything that may lie heavily on your mind may be
imparted to me in the meantime, as you see it is his Grace's pleasure that I
should be made acquainted with the whole matter forthwith, and whether you or he
tells it, will make no difference in the world, ye ken. If I ken what he is
going to say beforehand, I will be much more ready to give my advice, and
whether you or he tell me about it, cannot much signify after all, my dear. So
you may just say whatever you like, only mind I ask you no questions about it.«
    Jeanie was a little embarrassed. She thought that the communication she had
to make was perhaps the only means she might have in her power to gratify her
friendly and hospitable kinswoman. But her prudence instantly suggested that her
secret interview with Queen Caroline, which seemed to pass under a certain sort
of mystery, was not a proper subject for the gossip of a woman like Mrs. Glass,
of whose heart she had a much better opinion than of her prudence. She,
therefore, answered in general, that the Duke had had the extraordinary kindness
to make very particular inquiries into her sister's bad affair, and that he
thought he had found the means of putting it a' straight again, but that he
proposed to tell all that he thought about the matter to Mrs. Glass herself.
    This did not quite satisfy the penetrating mistress of the Thistle.
Searching as her own small rappee, she, in spite of her promise, urged Jeanie
with still farther questions. »Had she been a' that time at Argyle House? Was
the Duke with her the whole time? and had she seen the Duchess? and had she seen
the young ladies - and specially Lady Caroline Campbell?« - To these questions
Jeanie gave the general reply, that she knew so little of the town that she
could not tell exactly where she had been; that she had not seen the Duchess to
her knowledge; that she had seen two ladies, one of whom, she understood, bore
the name of Caroline; and more, she said, she could not tell about the matter.
    »It would be the Duke's eldest daughter, Lady Caroline Campbell, there is no
doubt of that,« said Mrs. Glass; »but doubtless, I shall know more particularly
through his Grace. - And so, as the cloth is laid in the little parlour above
stairs, and it is past three o'clock, for I have been waiting this hour for you,
and I have had a snack myself; and, as they used to say in Scotland in my time -
I do not ken if the word be used now - there is ill talking between a full body
and a fasting.«
 

                             Chapter Thirty-Eighth

 Heaven first taught letters for some wretch's aid, -
 Some banished lover or some captive maid.
                                                                           Pope.
 
By dint of unwonted labour with the pen, Jeanie Deans contrived to indite, and
give to the charge of the postman on the ensuing day, no less than three
letters, an exertion altogether strange to her habits; insomuch so, that, if
milk had been plenty, she would rather have made thrice as many Dunlop cheeses.
The first of them was very brief. It was addressed to George Staunton, Esq., at
the Rectory, Willingham, by Grantham; the address being part of the information
she had extracted from the communicative peasant who rode before her to
Stamford. It was in these words: -
 
        »Sir, - To prevent farder mischieves, whereof there hath been enough,
        comes these: Sir, I have my sister's pardon from the Queen's Majesty,
        whereof I do not doubt you will be glad, having had to say naut of
        matters whereof you know the purport. So, Sir, I pray for your better
        welfare in bodie and soul, and that it will please the fisycian to visit
        you in His good time. Alwaies, sir, I pray you will never come again to
        see my sister, whereof there has been too much. And so, wishing you no
        evil, but even your best good, that you may be turned from your iniquity
        (for why should ye die?) I rest your humble servant to command,
                                                                    Ye ken what.«
 
The next letter was to her father. It is too long altogether for insertion, so
we only give a few extracts. It commenced -
 
        »Dearest and truly honoured Father, - This comes with my duty to inform
        you, that it has pleased God to redeem that captivitie of my poor
        sister, in respect the Queen's blessed Majesty, for whom we are ever
        bound to pray, hath redeemed her soul from the slayer, granting the
        ransom of her, whilk is ane pardon or reprieve. And I spoke with the
        Queen face to face and yet live; for she is not muckle differing from
        other grand leddies, saving that she has a stately presence, and een
        like a blue huntin' hawk's, whilk gaed throu' and throu' me like a
        Highland durk - And all this good was, alway under the Great Giver, to
        whom all are but instruments, wrought forth for us by the Duk of Argile,
        what is ane native true-hearted Scotsman, and not pridefu', like other
        folk we ken of - and likewise skeely enough in bestial, whereof he has
        promised to give me twa Devonshire kye, of which he is enamoured,
        although I do still haud by the real hawkit Airshire breed - and I have
        promised him a cheese; and I wad wuss ye, if Gowans, the brockit cow,
        has a quey, that she should suck her fill of milk, as I am given to
        understand he has none of that breed, and is not scornfu' but will take
        a thing frae a puir body, that it may lighten their heart of the loading
        of debt that they awe him. Also his honour the Duke will accept ane of
        our Dunlop cheeses, and it sall be my faut if a better was ever yearned
        in Lowden.« - [Here follow some observations respecting the breed of
        cattle, and the produce of the dairy, which it is our intention to
        forward to the Board of Agriculture.] - »Nevertheless, these are but
        matters of the after-harvest, in respect of the great good which
        Providence hath gifted us with - and, in especial, poor Effie's life.
        And oh, my dear father, since it hath pleased God to be merciful to her,
        let her not want your free pardon, whilk will make her meet to be ane
        vessel of grace, and also a comfort to your ain graie hairs. Dear
        Father, will ye let the Laird ken that we have had friends strangely
        raised up to us, and that the talent whilk he lent me will be thankfully
        repaid. I hae some of it to the fore; and the rest of it is not knotted
        up in ane purse or napkin, but in ane wee bit paper, as is the fashion
        heir, whilk I am assured is good for the siller. And, dear father,
        through Mr. Butler's means I hae good friendship with the Duke, for
        their had been kindness between their forbears in the auld troublesome
        time bye-past. And Mrs. Glass has been kind like my very mother. She has
        a braw house here, and lives bien and warm, wi' twa servant lasses, and
        a man and a callant in the shop. And she is to send you doun a pound of
        her hie-dried, and some other tobaka, and we maun think of some propine
        for her, since her kindness hath been great. And the Duk is to send the
        pardun doun by an express messenger, in respect that I canna travel sae
        fast; and I am to come doun wi' twa of his Honour's servants - that is,
        John Archibald, a decent elderly gentleman, that says he has seen you
        lang syne, when ye were buying beasts in the west frae the Laird of
        Aughtermuggitie - but maybe ye winna mind him - ony way, he's a civil
        man - and Mrs. Dolly Dutton, that is to be dairy-maid at Inverara; and
        they bring me on as far as Glasgo, whilk will make it nae pinch to win
        hame, whilk I desire of all things. May the Giver of all good things
        keep ye in your outgauns and incomings, whereof devoutly prayeth your
        loving dauter,
                                                                    JEAN DEANS.«
 
The third letter was to Butler, and its tenor as follows: -
 
        »Master Butler. - Sir, - It will be pleasure to you to ken, that all I
        came for is, thanks be to God, well dune and to the good end, and that
        your forbear's letter was right welcome to the Duke of Argile, and that
        he wrote your name down with a kylevine pen in a leathern book, whereby
        it seems like he will do for you either wi' a scule or a kirk; he has
        enough of baith, as I am assured. And I have seen the queen, which gave me
        a hussy-case out of her own hand. She had not her crown and skeptre, but
        they are laid by for her, like the bairns' best claise, to be worn when
        she needs them. And they are keep it in a tour, whilk is not like the
        tour of Libberton, nor yet Craigmillar, but mair like to the castell of
        Edinburgh, if the buildings were taken and set down in the midst of the
        Nor'-Loch. Also the Queen was very bounteous, giving me a paper worth
        fiftie pounds, as I am assured, to pay my expenses here and back again.
        Sae, Master Butler, as we were aye neebours' bairns, forby anything else
        that may hae been spoken between us, I trust you winna skrimp yoursell
        for what is needfu' for your health, since it signifies not muckle whilk
        o' us has the siller, if the other wants it. And mind this is no meant
        to haud ye to anything whilk ye wad rather forget, if ye should get a
        charge of a kirk or a scule, as above said. Only I hope it will be a
        scule, and not a kirk, because of these difficulties anent aiths and
        patronages, whilk might gang ill down wi' my honest father. Only if ye
        could compass a harmonious call frae the parish of Skreegh-me- dead, as
        ye anes had hope of, I trow it wad please him well; since I hae heard
        him say, that the root of the matter was mair deeply hafted in that wild
        muirland parish than in the Canongate of Edinburgh. I wish I had whaten
        books ye wanted, Mr. Butler, for they hae haill houses of them here, and
        they are obliged to set sum out in the street, whilk are sald cheap,
        doubtless, to get them out of the weather. It is a muckle place, and I
        hae seen sae muckle of it, that my poor head turns round. And ye ken
        langsyne, I am nae great pen-woman, and it is near eleven o'clock o' the
        night. I am cumming down in good company, and safe - and I had troubles
        in gaun up whilk makes me blither of travelling wi' kend folk. My
        cousin, Mrs. Glass, has a braw house here, but a' thing is sae poisoned
        wi' snuff, that I am like to be scomfished whiles. But what signifies
        these things, in comparison of the great deliverance whilk has been
        vouchsafed to my father's house, in whilk you, as our auld and dear
        well-wisher, will, I dout not, rejoice and be exceedingly glad. And I
        am, dear Mr. Butler, your sincere well- wisher in temporal and eternal
        things,
                                                                           J.D.«
 
After these labours of an unwonted kind, Jeanie retired to her bed, yet scarce
could sleep a few minutes together, so often was she awakened by the
heart-stirring consciousness of her sister's safety, and so powerfully urged to
deposit her burden of joy, where she had before laid her doubts and sorrows, in
the warm and sincere exercises of devotion.
    All the next, and all the succeeding day, Mrs. Glass fidgeted about her shop
in the agony of expectation, like a pea (to use a vulgar simile which her
profession renders appropriate) upon one of her own tobacco pipes. With the
third morning came the expected coach, with four servants clustered behind on
the foot- in dark brown and yellow liveries; the Duke in person, with laced
coat, gold-headed cane, star and garter, all, as the story-book says, very
grand.
    He inquired for his little countrywoman of Mrs. Glass, but without
requesting to see her, probably because he was unwilling to give an appearance
of personal intercourse betwixt them, which scandal might have misinterpreted.
»The Queen,« he said to Mrs. Glass, »had taken the case of her kinswoman into
her gracious consideration, and being specially moved by the affectionate and
resolute character of the elder sister, had condescended to use her powerful
intercession with his Majesty, in consequence of which a pardon had been
despatched to Scotland to Effie Deans, on condition of her banishing herself
forth of Scotland for fourteen years. The King's Advocate had insisted,« he
said, »upon this qualification of the pardon, having pointed out to his
Majesty's ministers, that, within the course of only seven years, twenty-one
instances of child-murder had occurred in Scotland.
    Weary on him!« said Mrs. Glass, »what for needed he to have telled that of
his ain country, and to the English folk abune a'? I used aye to think the
Advocate a douce decent man, but it is an ill bird - begging your Grace's pardon
for speaking of such a coorse by-word. And then what is the poor lassie to do in
a foreign land? - Why, wae's me, it's just sending her to play the same pranks
ower again, out of sight or guidance of her friends.«
    »Pooh! pooh!« said the Duke, »that need not be anticipated. Why, she may
come up to London, or she may go over to America, and marry well for all that is
come and gone.«
    »In troth, and so she may, as your Grace is pleased to intimate,« replied
Mrs. Glass; »and now I think upon it, there is my old correspondent in Virginia,
Ephraim Buckskin, that has supplied the Thistle this forty years with tobacco,
and it is not a little that serves our turn, and he has been writing to me this
ten years to send him out a wife. The carle is not above sixty, and hale and
hearty, and well to pass in the world, and a line from my hand would settle the
matter, and Effie Deans's misfortune (forby that there is no special occasion to
speak about it) would be thought little of there.«
    »Is she a pretty girl?« said the Duke; »her sister does not get beyond a
good comely sonsy lass.«
    »Oh, far prettier is Effie than Jeanie,« said Mrs. Glass; »though it is long
since I saw her mysell, but I hear of the Deanses by all my Lowden friends when
they come - your Grace kens we Scots are clannish bodies.«
    »So much the better for us,« said the Duke, »and the worse for those who
meddle with us, as your good old-fashioned sign says, Mrs. Glass. And now I hope
you will approve of the measures I have taken for restoring your kinswoman to
her friends.« These he detailed at length, and Mrs. Glass gave her unqualified
approbation, with a smile and a courtesy at every sentence. »And now, Mrs.
Glass, yon must tell Jeanie, I hope she will not forget my cheese when she gets
down to Scotland. Archibald has my orders to arrange all her expenses.«
    »Begging your Grace's humble pardon,« said Mrs. Glass, »it is a pity to
trouble yourself about them; the Deanses are wealthy people in their way, and
the lass has money in her pocket.«
    »That's all very true,« said the Duke; »but you know, where MacCallummore
travels he pays all; it is our Highland privilege to take from all what we want,
and to give to all what they want.«
    »Your Grace is better at giving than taking,« said Mrs. Glass.
    »To show you the contrary,« said the Duke, »I will fill my box out of this
canister without paying you a bawbee;« and again desiring to be remembered to
Jeanie, with his good wishes for her safe journey, he departed, leaving Mrs.
Glass uplifted in heart and in countenance, the proudest and happiest of tobacco
and snuff dealers.
    Reflectively, his Grace's good humour and affability had a favourable effect
upon Jeanie's situation. - Her kinswoman, though civil and kind to her, had
acquired too much of London breeding to be perfectly satisfied with her cousin's
rustic and national dress, and was, besides, something scandalised at the cause
of her journey to London. Mrs. Glass might, therefore, have been less sedulous
in her attentions towards Jeanie, but for the interest which the foremost of the
Scottish nobles (for such, in all men's estimation, was the Duke of Argyle)
seemed to take in her fate. Now, however, as a kinswoman whose virtues and
domestic affections had attracted the notice and approbation of royalty itself,
Jeanie stood to her relative in a light very different and much more favourable,
and was not only treated with kindness, but with actual observance and respect.
    It depended on herself alone to have made as many visits, and seen as many
sights, as lay within Mrs. Glass's power to compass. But, excepting that she
dined abroad with one or two »far away kinsfolk,« and that she paid the same
respect, on Mrs. Glass's strong urgency, to Mrs. Deputy Dabby, wife of the
Worshipful Mr. Deputy Dabby, of Farringdon Without, she did not avail herself of
the opportunity. As Mrs. Dabby was the second lady of great rank whom Jeanie had
seen in London, she used sometimes afterwards to draw a parallel betwixt her and
the Queen, in which she observed, »that Mrs. Dabby was dressed twice as grand,
and was twice as big, and spoke twice as loud, and twice as muckle, as the Queen
did, but she hadna the same goss-hawk glance that makes the skin creep, and the
knee bend; and though she had very kindly gifted her with a loaf of sugar and
twa punds of tea, yet she hadna a'thegither the sweet look that the Queen had
when she put the needle-book into her hand.«
    Jeanie might have enjoyed the sights and novelties of this great city more,
had it not been for the qualification added to her sisters pardon, which greatly
grieved her affectionate disposition. On this subject, however, her mind was
somewhat relieved by a letter which she received in return of post, in answer to
that which she had written to her father. With his affectionate blessing, it
brought his full approbation of the step which she had taken, as one inspired by
the immediate dictates of Heaven, and which she had been thrust upon in order
that she might become the means of safety to a perishing household.
    »If ever a deliverance was dear and precious, this,« said the letter, »is a
dear and precious deliverance - and if life saved can be made more sweet and
savoury, it is when it cometh by the hands of those whom we hold in the ties of
affection. And do not let your heart be disquieted within you, that this victim,
who is rescued from the horns of the altar, whereuntil she was fast bound by the
chains of human law, is now to be driven beyond the bounds of our land. Scotland
is a blessed land to those who love the ordinances of Christianity, and it is a
faer land to look upon, and dear to them who have dwelt in it a' their days; and
well said that judicious Christian, worthy John Livingstone, a sailor in
Borrowstouness, as the famous Patrick Walker reporteth his words, that howbeit
he thought Scotland was a Gehennah of wickedness when he was at home, yet when
he was abroad, he accounted it ane paradise; for the evils of Scotland he found
everywhere, and the good of Scotland he found nowhere. But we are to hold in
remembrance that Scotland, though it be our native land, and the land of our
fathers, is not like Goshen, in Egypt, on whilk the sun of the heavens and of
the gospel shineth allenarly, and leaveth the rest of the world in utter
darkness. Therefore, and also because this increase of profit at Saint Leonard's
Crags may be a cauld waff of wind blawing from the frozen land of earthly self,
where never plant of grace took root or grew, and because my concerns make me
take something ower muckle a grip of the gear of the warld in mine arms, I
receive this dispensation anent Effie as a call to depart out of Haran, as
righteous Abraham of old, and leave my father's kindred and my mother's house,
and the ashes and mould of them who have gone to sleep before me, and which wait
to be mingled with these auld crazed bones of mine own. And my heart is
lightened to do this, when I call to mind the decay of active and earnest
religion in this land, and survey the height and the depth, the length and the
breadth, of national defections, and how the love of many is waxing lukewarm and
cold; and I am strengthened in this resolution to change my domicile likewise,
as I hear that store-farms are to be set at an easy mail in Northumberland,
where there are many precious souls that are of our true though suffering
persuasion. And sic part of the kye or stock as I judge it fit to keep, may be
driven thither without incommodity - say about Wooler, or that gate, keeping aye
a shouther to the hills, - and the rest may be sauld to good profit and
advantage, if we had grace well to use and guide these gifts of the warld. The
Laird has been a true friend on our unhappy occasions, and I have paid him back
the siller for Effie's misfortune, whereof Mr. Nichil Novit returned him no
balance, as the Laird and I did expect he wad hae done. But law licks up a', as
the common folk say. I have had the siller to borrow out of sax purses. Mr.
Saddletree advised to give the Laird of Lounsbeck a charge on his band for a
thousand merks. But I hae nae broo' of charges, since that awful' morning that a
tout of a horn, at the Cross of Edinburgh, blew half the faithfu' ministers of
Scotland out of their pulpits. However, I sall raise an adjudication, whilk Mr.
Saddletree says comes instead of the auld apprisings, and will not lose well-won
gear with the like of him, if it may be helped. As for the Queen, and the credit
that she hath done to a poor man's daughter, and the mercy and the grace ye
found with her, I can only pray for her well-being here and hereafter, for the
establishment of her house now and for ever, upon the throne of these kingdoms.
I doubt not but what you told her Majesty, that I was the same David Deans of
whom there was a sport at the Revolution, when I noited thegither the heads of
twa false prophets, these ungracious Graces the prelates, as they stood on the
Hie Street, after being expelled from the Convention-parliament.62 The Duke of
Argyle is a noble and true-hearted nobleman, who pleads the cause of the poor,
and those who have none to help them; verily his reward shall not be lacking
unto him. - I have been writing of many things, but not of that whilk lies
nearest mine heart. I have seen the misguided thing; she will be at freedom the
morn, on enacted caution that she shall leave Scotland in four weeks. Her mind
is in an evil frame, - casting her eye backward on Egypt, I doubt, as if the
bitter waters of the wilderness were harder to endure than the brick furnaces,
by the side of which there were savoury flesh-pots. I need not bid you make
haste down, for you are, excepting always my Great Master, my only comfort in
these straits. I charge you to withdraw your feet from the delusion of that
Vanity-fair in whilk ye are a sojourner, and not to go to their worship, whilk
is an ill-mumbled mass, as it was well termed by James the Sext, though he
afterwards, with his unhappy son, strove to bring it ower back and belly into
his native kingdom, wherethrough their race have been cut off as foam upon the
water, and shall be as wanderers among the nations - see the prophecies of
Hosea, ninth and seventeenth, and the same, tenth and seventh. But us and our
house, let us say with the same prophet, Let us return to the Lord, for he hath
torn, and he will heal us - He hath smitten, and he will bind us up.«
    He proceeded to say, that he approved of her proposed mode of returning by
Glasgow, and entered into sundry minute particulars not necessary to be quoted.
A single line in the letter, but not the least frequently read by the party to
whom it was addressed, intimated, that »Reuben Butler had been as a son to him
in his sorrows.« As David Deans scarce ever mentioned Butler before, without
some gibe, more or less direct, either at his carnal gifts and learning, or at
his grandfather's heresy, Jeanie drew a good omen from no such qualifying clause
being added to this sentence respecting him.
    A lover's hope resembles the bean in the nursery tale, - let it once take
root, and it will grow so rapidly, that in the course of a few hours the giant
Imagination builds a castle on the top, and by and by comes Disappointment with
the »curtal axe,« and hews down both the plant and the superstructure. Jeanie's
fancy, though not the most powerful of her faculties, was lively enough to
transport her to a wild farm in Northumberland, well stocked with milk-cows,
yeald beasts, and sheep; a meeting-house, hard by, frequented by serious
Presbyterians, who had united in a harmonious call to Reuben Butler to be their
spiritual guide - Effie restored, not to gaiety, but to cheerfulness at least -
their father, with his grey hairs smoothed down, and spectacles on his nose -
herself, with the maiden snood exchanged for a matron's curch - all arranged in
a pew in the said meeting-house, listening to words of devotion, rendered
sweeter and more powerful by the affectionate ties which combined them with the
preacher. She cherished such visions from day to day, until her residence in
London began to become insupportable and tedious to her; and it was with no
ordinary satisfaction that she received a summons from Argyle House, requiring
her in two days to be prepared to join their northward party.
 

                              Chapter Thirty-Ninth

 One was a female, who had grievous ill
 Wrought in revenge, and she enjoy'd it still;
 Sullen she was, and threatening; in her eye
 Glared the stern triumph that she dared to die.
                                                                         Crabbe.
 
The summons of preparation arrived after Jeanie Deans had resided in the
metropolis about three weeks.
    On the morning appointed she took a grateful farewell of Mrs. Glass, as that
good woman's attention to her particularly required, placed herself and her
movable goods, which purchases and presents had greatly increased, in a
hackney-coach, and joined her travelling companions in the housekeeper's
apartment at Argyle House. While the carriage was getting ready, she was
informed that the Duke wished to speak with her; and being ushered into a
splendid saloon, she was surprised to find that he wished to present her to his
lady and daughters.
    »I bring you my little countrywoman, Duchess,« these were the words of the
introduction. »With an army of young fellows, as gallant and steady as she is,
and a good cause, I would not fear two to one.«
    »Ah, papa!« said a lively young lady, about twelve years old, »remember you
were full one to two at Sheriffmuir, and yet« (singing the well-known ballad) -
 
- »Some say that we wan, and some say that they wan,
And some say that nane wan at a', man;
But of ae thing I'm sure, that on Sheriff-muir
A battle there was that I saw, man.«
 
»What, little Mary turned Tory on my hands? - This will be fine news for our
countrywoman to carry down to Scotland!«
    »We may all turn Tories for the thanks we have got for remaining Whigs,«
said the second young lady.
    »Well, hold your peace, you discontented monkeys, and go dress your babies;
and as for the Bob of Dunblane,
 
If it wasna well bobbit, well bobbit, well bobbit,
If it wasna well bobbit, we'll bob it again.«
 
»Papa's wit is running low,« said Lady Mary: »the poor gentleman is repeating
himself - he sang that on the field of battle, when he was told the Highlanders
had cut his left wing to pieces with their claymores.«
    A pull by the hair was the repartee to this sally.
    »Ah! brave Highlanders and bright claymores,« said the Duke, »well do I wish
them, for a' the ill they've done me yet, as the song goes. - But come, madcaps,
say a civil word to your countrywoman - I wish ye had half her canny hamely
sense; I think you may be as leal and true-hearted.«
    The Duchess advanced, and, in a few words, in which there was as much
kindness as civility, assured Jeanie of the respect which she had for a
character so affectionate, and yet so firm, and added, »When you get home, you
will perhaps hear from me.«
    »And from me.« »And from me.« »And from me, Jeanie,« added the young ladies
one after the other, »for you are a credit to the land we love so well.«
    Jeanie, overpowered by these unexpected compliments, and not aware that the
Duke's investigation had made him acquainted with her behaviour on her sister's
trial, could only answer by blushing, and courtesying round and round, and
uttering at intervals, »Mony thanks! mony thanks!«
    »Jeanie,« said the Duke, »you must have doch an' dorroch, or you will be
unable to travel.«
    There was a salver with cake and wine on the table. He took up a glass,
drank »to all true hearts that lo'ed Scotland,« and offered a glass to his
guest.
    Jeanie, however, declined it, saying, »that she had never tasted wine in her
life.«
    »How comes that, Jeanie?« said the Duke, - »wine maketh glad the heart, you
know.«
    »Ay, sir, but my father is like Jonadab the son of Rechab, who charged his
children that they should drink no wine.«
    »I thought your father would have had more sense,« said the Duke, »unless
indeed he prefers brandy. But, however, Jeanie, if you will not drink, you must
eat, to save the character of my house.«
    He thrust upon her a large piece of cake, nor would he permit her to break
off a fragment, and lay the rest on a salver. »Put it in your pouch, Jeanie,«
said he; »you will be glad of it before you see St. Giles's steeple. I wish to
Heaven I were to see it as soon as you! and so my best service to all my friends
at and about Auld Reekie, and a blithe journey to you.«
    And, mixing the frankness of a soldier with his natural affability, he shook
hands with his protégée, and committed her to the charge of Archibald, satisfied
that he had provided sufficiently for her being attended to by his domestics,
from the unusual attention with which he had himself treated her.
    Accordingly, in the course of her journey, she found both her companions
disposed to pay her every possible civility, so that her return, in point of
comfort and safety, formed a strong contrast to her journey to London.
    Her heart also was disburdened of the weight of grief, shame, apprehension,
and fear, which had loaded her before her interview with the Queen at Richmond.
But the human mind is so strangely capricious, that, when freed from the
pressure of real misery, it becomes open and sensitive to the apprehension of
ideal calamities. She was now much disturbed in mind, that she had heard nothing
from Reuben Butler, to whom the operation of writing was so much more familiar
than it was to herself.
    »It would have cost him sae little fash,« she said to herself; »for I hae
seen his pen gang as fast ower the paper, as ever it did ower the water when it
was in the grey goose's wing. Wae's me! maybe he may be badly - but then my
father wad likely hae said something about it - Or maybe he may hae taken the
rue, and kensna how to let me wot of his change of mind. He needna be at muckle
fash about it,« - she went on, drawing herself up, though the tear of honest
pride and injured affection gathered in her eye, as she entertained the
suspicion, - »Jeanie Deans is no the lass to pu' him by the sleeve, or put him
in mind of what he wishes to forget. I shall wish him well and happy a' the
same; and if he has the luck to get a kirk in our country, I sall gang and hear
him just the very same, to show that I bear nae malice.« And as she imagined the
scene, the tear stole over her eye.
    In these melancholy reveries, Jeanie had full time to indulge herself; for
her travelling companions, servants in a distinguished and fashionable family,
had, of course, many topics of conversation, in which it was absolutely
impossible she could have either pleasure or portion. She had, therefore,
abundant leisure for reflection, and even for self-tormenting, during the
several days which, indulging the young horses the Duke was sending down to the
North with sufficient ease and short stages, they occupied in reaching the
neighbourhood of Carlisle.
    In approaching the vicinity of that ancient city, they discerned a
considerable crowd upon an eminence at a little distance from the high road, and
learned from some passengers who were gathering towards that busy scene from the
southward, that the cause of the concourse was, the laudable public desire »to
see a doomed Scotch witch and thief get half of her due upo' Haribeebroo'
yonder, for she was only to be hanged; she should hae been boorned aloive, an'
cheap on't.«
    »Dear Mr. Archibald,« said the dame of the dairy elect, »I never seed a
woman hanged in a' my life, and only four men, as made a goodly spectacle.«
    Mr. Archibald, however, was a Scotchman, and promised himself no exuberant
pleasure in seeing his countrywoman undergo »the terrible behests of law.«
Moreover, he was a man of sense and delicacy in his way, and the late
circumstances of Jeanie's family, with the cause of her expedition to London,
were not unknown to him; so that he answered drily, it was impossible to stop,
as he must be early at Carlisle on some business of the Duke's, and he
accordingly bid the postilions get on.
    The road at that time passed at about a quarter of a mile's distance from
the eminence, called Haribee or Harabee-brow, which, though it is very moderate
in size and height, is nevertheless seen from a great distance around, owing to
the flatness of the country through which the Eden flows. Here many an outlaw,
and border-rider of both kingdoms, had wavered in the wind during the wars, and
scarce less hostile truces, between the two countries. Upon Harabee, in latter
days, other executions had taken place with as little ceremony as compassion;
for these frontier provinces remained long unsettled, and, even at the time of
which we write, were ruder than those in the centre of England.
    The postilions drove on, wheeling as the Penrith road led them, round the
verge of the rising ground. Yet still the eyes of Mrs. Dolly Dutton, which, with
the head and substantial person to which they belonged, were all turned towards
the scene of action, could discern plainly the outline of the gallows-tree,
relieved against the clear sky, the dark shade formed by the persons of the
executioner and the criminal upon the light rounds of the tall aërial ladder,
until one of the objects, launched into the air, gave unequivocal signs of
mortal agony, though appearing in the distance not larger than a spider
dependent at the extremity of his invisible thread, while the remaining form
descended from its elevated situation, and regained with all speed an
undistinguished place among the crowd. This termination of the tragic scene drew
forth of course a squall from Mrs. Dutton, and Jeanie, with instinctive
curiosity, turned her head in the same direction.
    The sight of a female culprit in the act of undergoing the fatal punishment
from which her beloved sister had been so recently rescued, was too much, not
perhaps for her nerves, but for her mind and feelings. She turned her head to
the other side of the carriage, with a sensation of sickness, of loathing, and
of fainting. Her female companion overwhelmed her with questions, with proffers
of assistance, with requests that the carriage might be stopped - that a doctor
might be fetched - that drops might be gotten - that burnt feathers and
asafoetida, fair water, and hartshorn, might be procured, all at once, and
without one instant's delay. Archibald, more calm and considerate, only desired
the carriage to push forward; and it was not till they had got beyond sight of
the fatal spectacle, that, seeing the deadly paleness of Jeanie's countenance,
he stopped the carriage, and jumping out himself, went in search of the most
obvious and most easily procured of Mrs. Dutton's pharmacopoeia - a draught,
namely, of fair water.
    While Archibald was absent on this good-natured piece of service, damning
the ditches which produced nothing but mud, and thinking upon the thousand
bubbling springlets of his own mountains, the attendants on the execution began
to pass the stationary vehicle in their way back to Carlisle.
    From their half-heard and half-understood words, Jeanie, whose attention was
involuntarily riveted by them, as that of children is by ghost stories, though
they know the pain with which they will afterwards remember them, Jeanie, I say,
could discern that the present victim of the law had died game, as it is termed
by those unfortunates; that is, sullen, reckless, and impenitent, neither
fearing God nor regarding man.
    »A sture woife, and a dour,« said one Cumbrian peasant, as he clattered by
in his wooden brogues, with a noise like the trampling of a dray-horse.
    »She has gone to ho master, with ho's name in her mouth,« said another;
»Shame the country should be harried wi' Scotch witches and Scotch bitches this
gate - but I say hang and drown.«
    »Ay, ay, Gaffer Tramp, take away yealdon, take away low - hang the witch, and
there will be less scathe amang us; mine owsen hae been reckan this towmont.«
    »And mine bairns hae been crining too, mon,« replied his neighbour.
    »Silence wi' your fule tongues, ye churls,« said an old woman, who hobbled
past them, as they stood talking near the carriage; »this was nae witch, but a
bluidy-fingered thief and murderess.«
    »Ay? was it e'en sae, Dame Hinchup?« said one in a civil tone, and stepping
out of his place to let the old woman pass along the footpath - »Nay, you know
best, sure - but at ony rate, we hae but tint a Scot of her, and that's a thing
better lost than found.«
    The old woman passed on without making any answer.
    »Ay, ay, neighbour,« said Gaffer Tramp, »seest thou how one witch will speak
for t'other - Scots or English, the same to them.«
    His companion shook his head, and replied in the same subdued tone, »Ay, ay,
when a Sark-foot wife gets on her broomstick, the dames of Allonby are ready to
mount, just as sure as the by-word gangs o' the hills, -
 
If Skiddaw hath a cap,
Criffel wots full well of that«
 
»But,« continued Gaffer Tramp, »thinkest thou the daughter o' yon hangit body
isna as rank a witch as ho?«
    »I kenna clearly,« returned the fellow, »but the folk are speaking o'
swimming her i' the Eden.« And they passed on their several roads, after wishing
each other good-morning.
    Just as the clowns left the place, and as Mr. Archibald returned with some
fair water, a crowd of boys and girls, and some of the lower rabble of more
mature age, came up from the place of execution, grouping themselves with many a
yell of delight around a tall female fantastically dressed, who was dancing,
leaping, and bounding in the midst of them. A horrible recollection pressed on
Jeanie as she looked on this unfortunate creature; and the reminiscence was
mutual, for by a sudden exertion of great strength and agility, Madge Wildfire
broke out of the noisy circle of tormentors who surrounded her, and clinging
fast to the door of the calash, uttered, in a sound betwixt laughter and
screaming, »Eh, d'ye ken, Jeanie Deans, they hae hangit our mother?« Then
suddenly changing her tone to that of the most piteous entreaty, she added, »O
gar them let me gang to cut her down! - let me but cut her down! - she is my
mother, if she was waur than the deil, and she'll be nae mair kenspeckle than
half-hangit Maggie Dickson, that cried saut mony a day after she had been
hangit; her voice was roupit and hoarse, and her neck was a wee agee, or ye wad
hae kend nae odds on her frae ony other saut-wife.«
    Mr. Archibald, embarrassed by the madwoman's clinging to the carriage, and
detaining around them her noisy and mischievous attendants, was all this while
looking out for a constable or beadle, to whom he might commit the unfortunate
creature. But seeing no such person of authority, he endeavoured to loosen her
hold from the carriage, that they might escape from her by driving on. This,
however, could hardly be achieved without some degree of violence; Madge held
fast, and renewed her frantic entreaties to be permitted to cut down her mother.
»It was but a tenpenny tow lost,« she said, »and what was that to a woman's
life?« There came up, however, a parcel of savage-looking fellows, butchers and
graziers chiefly, among whose cattle there had been of late a very general and
fatal distemper, which their wisdom imputed to witchcraft. They laid violent
hands on Madge, and tore her from the carriage, exclaiming - »What, doest stop
folk o' king's highway? Hast no done mischief enough already, wi' thy murders and
thy witcherings?«
    »Oh, Jeanie Deans - Jeanie Deans!« exclaimed the poor maniac, »save my
mother, and I will take ye to the Interpreter's house again, - and I will teach
ye a' my bonny sangs, - and I will tell ye what came o' the -.« The rest of her
entreaties were drowned in the shouts of the rabble.
    »Save her, for God's sake! - save her from those people!« exclaimed Jeanie
to Archibald.
    »She is mad, but quite innocent; she is mad, gentlemen,« said Archibald; »do
not use her ill, take her before the Mayor.«
    »Ay, ay, we'se hae care enough on her,« answered one of the fellows; »gang
thou thy gate, man, and mind thine own matters.«
    »He's a Scot by his tongue,« said another; »and an he will come out o' his
whirligig there, I'se give him his tartan plaid fu' o' broken banes.«
    It was clear nothing could be done to rescue Madge; and Archibald, who was a
man of humanity, could only bid the postilions hurry on to Carlisle, that he
might obtain some assistance to the unfortunate woman. As they drove off, they
heard the hoarse roar with which the mob preface acts of riot or cruelty, yet
even above that deep and dire note, they could discern the screams of the
unfortunate victim. They were soon out of hearing of the cries, but had no
sooner entered the streets of Carlisle, than Archibald, at Jeanie's earnest and
urgent entreaty, went to a magistrate, to state the cruelty which was likely to
be exercised on this unhappy creature.
    In about an hour and a half he returned, and reported to Jeanie, that the
magistrate had very readily gone in person, with some assistance, to the rescue
of the unfortunate woman, and that he had himself accompanied him; that when
they came to the muddy pool, in which the mob were ducking her, according to
their favourite mode of punishment, the magistrate succeeded in rescuing her
from their hands, but in a state of insensibility, owing to the cruel treatment
which she had received. He added, that he had seen her carried to the
work-house, and understood that she had been brought to herself, and was
expected to do well.
    This last averment was a slight alteration in point of fact, for Madge
Wildfire was not expected to survive the treatment she had received; but Jeanie
seemed so much agitated, that Mr. Archibald did not think it prudent to tell her
the worst at once. Indeed, she appeared so fluttered and disordered by this
alarming accident, that, although it had been their intention to proceed to
Longtown that evening, her companions judged it most advisable to pass the night
at Carlisle.
    This was particularly agreeable to Jeanie, who resolved, if possible to
procure an interview with Madge Wildfire. Connecting some of her wild flights
with the narrative of George Staunton, she was unwilling to omit the opportunity
of extracting from her, if possible, some information concerning the fate of
that unfortunate infant which had cost her sister so dear. Her acquaintance with
the disordered state of poor Madge's mind did not permit her to cherish much
hope that she could acquire from her any useful intelligence; but then, since
Madge's mother had suffered her deserts, and was silent for ever, it was her
only chance of obtaining any kind of information, and she was loath to lose the
opportunity.
    She coloured her wish to Mr. Archibald by saying that she had seen Madge
formerly, and wished to know, as a matter of humanity, how she was attended to
under her present misfortunes. That complaisant person immediately went to the
workhouse, or hospital, in which he had seen the sufferer lodged, and brought
back for reply, that the medical attendants positively forbade her seeing any
one. When the application for admittance was repeated next day, Mr. Archibald
was informed that she had been very quiet and composed, insomuch that the
clergyman who acted as chaplain to the establishment thought it expedient to
read prayers beside her bed, but that her wandering fit of mind had returned
soon after his departure; however, her countrywoman might see her if she chose
it. She was not expected to live above an hour or two.
    Jeanie had no sooner received this information than she hastened to the
hospital, her companions attending her. They found the dying person in a large
ward, where there were ten beds, of which the patient's was the only one
occupied.
    Madge was singing when they entered - singing her own wild snatches of songs
and obsolete airs, with a voice no longer overstrained by false spirits, but
softened, saddened, and subdued by bodily exhaustion. She was still insane, but
was no longer able to express her wandering ideas in the wild notes of her
former state of exalted imagination. There was death in the plaintive tones of
her voice, which yet, in this moderated and melancholy mood, had something of
the lulling sound with which a mother sings her infant asleep. As Jeanie entered
she heard first the air, and then a part of the chorus and words, of what had
been, perhaps, the song of a jolly harvest-home:
 
»Our work is over - over now,
The goodman wipes his weary brow,
The last long wain wends slow away,
And we are free to sport and play.
 
The night comes on when sets the sun,
And labour ends when day is done.
When Autumn's gone and Winter's come,
We hold our jovial harvest-home.«
 
Jeanie advanced to the bedside when the strain was finished, and addressed Madge
by her name. But it produced no symptoms of recollection. On the contrary, the
patient, like one provoked by interruption, changed her posture, and called out
with an impatient tone, »Nurse - nurse, turn my face to the wa', that I may
never answer to that name ony mair, and never see mair of a wicked world.«
    The attendant on the hospital arranged her in her bed as she desired, with
her face to the wall and her back to the light. So soon as she was quiet in this
new position, she began again to sing in the same low and modulated strains, as
if she was recovering the state of abstraction which the interruption of her
visitants had disturbed. The strain, however, was different, and rather
resembled the music of the Methodist hymns, though the measure of the song was
similar to that of the former:
 
»When the fight of grace is fought -
When the marriage vest is wrought -
When Faith hath chased cold Doubt away,
And Hope but sickens at delay -
 
When Charity, imprison'd here,
Longs for a more expanded sphere,
Doff thy robes of sin and clay;
Christian, rise, and come away.«
 
The strain was solemn and affecting, sustained as it was by the pathetic warble
of a voice which had naturally been a fine one, and which weakness, if it
diminished its power, had improved in softness. Archibald, though a follower of
the court, and a pococurante by profession, was confused, if not affected; the
dairy-maid blubbered; and Jeanie felt the tears rise spontaneously to her eyes.
Even the nurse, accustomed to all modes in which the spirit can pass, seemed
considerably moved.
    The patient was evidently growing weaker, as was intimated by an apparent
difficulty of breathing, which seized her from time to time, and by the
utterance of low listless moans, intimating that nature was succumbing in the
last conflict. But the spirit of melody, which must originally have so strongly
possessed this unfortunate young woman, seemed, at every interval of ease, to
triumph over her pain and weakness. And it was remarkable that there could
always be traced in her songs something appropriate, though perhaps only
obliquely or collaterally so, to her present situation. Her next seemed the
fragment of some old ballad:
 
»Cauld is my bed, Lord Archibald,
And sad my sleep of sorrow;
But thine sall be as sad and cauld,
My fause true-love! to-morrow.
 
And weep ye not, my maidens free,
Though death your mistress borrow;
For he for whom I die to-day
Shall die for me to-morrow.«
 
Again she changed the tune to one wilder, less monotonous, and less regular. But
of the words, only a fragment or two could be collected by those who listened to
this singular scene:
 
»Proud Maisie is in the wood,
Walking so early;
Sweet Robin sits on the bush,
Singing so rarely.
 
Tell me, thou bonny bird,
When shall I marry me?
When six braw gentlemen
Kirkward shall carry ye.
 
Who makes the bridal bed,
Birdie, say truly? -
The grey-headed sexton,
That delves the grave duly.
 
The glow-worm o'er grave and stone
Shall light thee steady;
The owl from the steeple sing,
Welcome, proud lady.«
 
Her voice died away with the last notes, and she fell into a slumber, from which
the experienced attendant assured them that she never would awake at all, or
only in the death agony.
    The nurse's prophecy proved true. The poor maniac parted with existence,
without again uttering a sound of any kind. But our travellers did not witness
this catastrophe. They left the hospital as soon as Jeanie had satisfied herself
that no elucidation of her sister's misfortunes was to be hoped from the dying
person.63
 

                                Chapter Fortieth

 Wilt thou go on with me?
 The moon is bright, the sea is calm,
 And I know well the ocean paths ...
 Thou wilt go on with me!
                                                                        Thalaba.
 
The fatigue and agitation of these various scenes had agitated Jeanie so much,
notwithstanding her robust strength of constitution, that Archibald judged it
necessary that she should have a day's repose at the village of Longtown. It was
in vain that Jeanie protested against any delay. The Duke of Argyle's man of
confidence was of course consequential; and as he had been bred to the medical
profession in his youth (at least he used this expression to describe his
having, thirty years before, pounded for six months in the mortar of old Mungo
Mangle-man, the surgeon at Greenock), he was obstinate whenever a matter of
health was in question.
    In this case he discovered febrile symptoms, and having once made a happy
application of that learned phrase to Jeanie's case, all farther resistance
became in vain; and she was glad to acquiesce, and even to go to bed, and drink
water-gruel, in order that she might possess her soul in quiet and without
interruption.
    Mr. Archibald was equally attentive in another particular. He observed that
the execution of the old woman, and the miserable fate of her daughter, seemed
to have had a more powerful effect upon Jeanie's mind, than the usual feelings
of humanity might naturally have been expected to occasion. Yet she was
obviously a strong-minded, sensible young woman, and in no respect subject to
nervous affections; and therefore Archibald, being ignorant of any special
connection between his master's protégée and these unfortunate persons,
excepting that she had seen Madge formerly in Scotland, naturally imputed the
strong impression these events had made upon her, to her associating them with
the unhappy circumstances in which her sister had so lately stood. He became
anxious, therefore, to prevent anything occurring which might recall these
associations to Jeanie's mind.
    Archibald had speedily an opportunity of exercising this precaution. A
pedlar brought to Longtown that evening, amongst other wares, a large broad-side
sheet, giving an account of the »Last Speech and Execution of Margaret
Murdockson, and of the barbarous Murder of her Daughter, Magdalene or Madge
Murdockson, called Madge Wildfire; and of her pious conversation with his
Reverence Archdeacon Fleming;« which authentic publication had apparently taken
place on the day they left Carlisle, and being an article of a nature peculiarly
acceptable to such country-folk as were within hearing of the transaction, the
itinerant bibliopolist had forthwith added them to his stock in trade. He found
a merchant sooner than he expected; for Archibald, much applauding his own
prudence, purchased the whole lot for two shillings and ninepence; and the
pedlar, delighted with the profit of such a wholesale transaction, instantly
returned to Carlisle to supply himself with more.
    The considerate Mr. Archibald was about to commit his whole purchase to the
flames, but it was rescued by the yet more considerate dairy-damsel, who said,
very prudently, it was a pity to waste so much paper, which might crepe hair,
pin up bonnets, and serve many other useful purposes; and who promised to put
the parcel into her own trunk, and keep it carefully out of the sight of Mrs.
Jeanie Deans: »Though, by-the-bye, she had no great notion of folk being so very
nice. Mrs. Deans might have had enough to think about the gallows all this time
to endure a sight of it, without all this to-do about it.«
    Archibald reminded the dame of the dairy of the Duke's particular charge,
that they should be attentive and civil to Jeanie; as also that they were to
part company soon, and consequently would not be doomed to observing any one's
health or temper during the rest of the journey. With which answer Mrs. Dolly
Dutton was obliged to hold herself satisfied.
    On the morning they resumed their journey, and prosecuted it successfully,
travelling through Dumfriesshire and part of Lanarkshire, until they arrived at
the small town of Rutherglen, within about four miles of Glasgow. Here an
express brought letters to Archibald from the principal agent of the Duke of
Argyle in Edinburgh.
    He said nothing of their contents that evening; but when they were seated in
the carriage the next day, the faithful squire informed Jeanie, that he had
received directions from the Duke's factor, to whom his Grace had recommended
him to carry her, if she had no objection, for a stage or two beyond Glasgow.
Some temporary causes of discontent had occasioned tumults in that city and the
neighbourhood, which would render it unadvisable for Mrs. Jeanie Deans to travel
alone and unprotected betwixt that city and Edinburgh; whereas, by going forward
a little farther, they would meet one of his Grace's subfactors, who was coming
down from the Highlands to Edinburgh with his wife, and under whose charge she
might journey with comfort and in safety.
    Jeanie remonstrated against this arrangement. »She had been lang« she said,
»frae hame - her father and her sister behoved to be very anxious to see her -
there were other friends she had that werena well in health. She was willing to
pay for man and horse at Glasgow, and surely nobody wad meddle wi' sae harmless
and feckless a creature as she was. - She was muckle obliged by the offer; but
never hunted deer langed for its resting-place as I do to find myself at Saint
Leonard's.«
    The groom of the chambers exchanged a look with his female companion, which
seemed so full of meaning, that Jeanie screamed aloud - »O Mr. Archibald - Mrs.
Dutton, if ye ken of anything that has happened at Saint Leonard's, for God's
sake - for pity's sake, tell me, and dinna keep me in suspense!«
    »I really know nothing, Mrs. Deans,« said the groom of the chambers.
    »And I - I - I am sure, I knows as little,« said the dame of the dairy,
while some communication seemed to tremble on her lips, which, at a glance of
Archibald's eye, she appeared to swallow down, and compressed her lips
thereafter into a state of extreme and vigilant firmness, as if she had been
afraid of its bolting out before she was aware.
    Jeanie saw there was to be something concealed from her, and it was only the
repeated assurances of Archibald that her father - her sister - all her friends
were, as far as he knew, well and happy, that at all pacified her alarm. From
such respectable people as those with whom she travelled she could apprehend no
harm, and yet her distress was so obvious, that Archibald, as a last resource,
pulled out, and put into her hand, a slip of paper, on which these words were
written: -
 
        »Jeanie Deans - You will do me a favour by going with Archibald and my
        female domestic a day's journey beyond Glasgow, and asking them no
        questions, which will greatly oblige your friend.
                                                        ARGYLE &amp; GREENWICH.«
 
Although this laconic epistle, from a nobleman to whom she was bound by such
inestimable obligations, silenced all Jeanie's objections to the proposed route,
it rather added to than diminished the eagerness of her curiosity. The
proceeding to Glasgow seemed now no longer to be an object with her
fellow-travellers. On the contrary, they kept the left-hand side of the river
Clyde, and travelled through a thousand beautiful and changing views down the
side of that noble stream, till, ceasing to hold its inland character, it began
to assume that of a navigable river.
    »You are not for gaun intill Glasgow then?« said Jeanie, as she observed
that the drivers made no motion for inclining their horses' heads towards the
ancient bridge, which was then the only mode of access to St. Mungo's capital.
    »No,« replied Archibald; »there is some popular commotion, and as our Duke
is in opposition to the court, perhaps we might be too well received; or they
might take it in their heads to remember that the Captain of Carrick came down
upon them with his Highlandmen in the time of Shawfield's mob in 1725, and then
we would be too ill received.64 And, at any rate, it is best for us, and for me
in particular, who may be supposed to possess his Grace's mind upon many
particulars, to leave the good people of the Gorbals to act according to their
own imaginations, without either provoking or encouraging them by my presence.«
    To reasoning of such tone and consequence Jeanie had nothing to reply,
although it seemed to her to contain fully as much self-importance as truth.
    The carriage meantime rolled on; the river expanded itself, and gradually
assumed the dignity of an estuary or arm of the sea. The influence of the
advancing and retiring tides became more and more evident, and in the beautiful
words of him of the laurel wreath, the river waxed -
 
A broader and yet broader stream.
* * * * *
The cormorant stands upon its shoals,
His black and dripping wings
Half open'd to the wind.
 
»Which way lies Inverary?« said Jeanie, gazing on the dusky ocean of Highland
hills, which now, piled above each other, and intersected by many a lake,
stretched away on the opposite side of the river to the northward. »Is yon high
castle the Duke's hoose?«
    »That, Mrs. Deans? - Lud help thee,« replied Archibald, »that's the old
castle of Dumbarton, the strongest place in Europe, be the other what it may.
Sir William Wallace was governor of it in the old wars with the English, and his
Grace is governor just now. It is always entrusted to the best man in Scotland.«
    »And does the Duke live on that high rock, then?« demanded Jeanie.
    »No, no, he has his deputy-governor, who commands in his absence; he lives
in the white house you see at the bottom of the rock - His Grace does not reside
there himself.«
    »I think not, indeed,« said the dairy-woman, upon whose mind the road, since
they had left Dumfries, had made no very favourable impression, »for if he did,
he might go whistle for a dairy-woman, an he were the only duke in England. I
did not leave my place and my friends to come down to see cows starve to death
upon hills as they be at that pig-stye of Elfinfoot, as you call it, Mr.
Archibald, or to be perched upon the top of a rock, like a squirrel in his cage,
hung out of a three pair of stairs' window.«
    Inwardly chuckling that these symptoms of recalcitration had not taken place
until the fair malcontent was, as he mentally termed it, under his thumb,
Archibald coolly replied, »That the hills were none of his making, nor did he
know how to mend them; but as to lodging, they would soon be in a house of the
Duke's in a very pleasant island called Roseneath, where they went to wait for
shipping to take them to Inverary, and would meet the company with whom Jeanie
was to return to Edinburgh.«
    »An island?« said Jeanie, who, in the course of her various and adventurous
travels, had never quitted terra firma, »then I am doubting we maun gang in ane
of these boats; they look unco sma', and the waves are something rough, and« -
    »Mr. Archibald,« said Mrs. Dutton, »I will not consent to it; I was never
engaged to leave the country, and I desire you will bid the boys drive round the
other way to the Duke's house.«
    »There is a safe pinnace belonging to his Grace, ma'am, close by,« replied
Archibald, »and you need be under no apprehensions whatsoever.«
    »But I am under apprehensions,« said the damsel; »and I insist upon going
round by land, Mr. Archibald, were it ten miles about.«
    »I am sorry I cannot oblige you, madam, as Roseneath happens to be an
island.«
    »If it were ten islands,« said the incensed dame, »that's no reason why I
should be drowned in going over the seas to it.«
    »No reason why you should be drowned certainly, ma'am,« answered the unmoved
groom of the chambers, »but an admirable good one why you cannot proceed to it
by land.« And, fixed his master's mandates to perform, he pointed with his hand,
and the drivers, turning off the high-road, proceeded towards a small hamlet of
fishing huts, where a shallop, somewhat more gaily decorated than any which they
had yet seen, having a flag which displayed a boar's head, crested with a ducal
coronet, waited with two or three seamen, and as many Highlanders.
    The carriage stopped, and the men began to unyoke their horses, while Mr.
Archibald gravely superintended the removal of the baggage from the carriage to
the little vessel. »Has the Caroline been long arrived?« said Archibald to one
of the seamen.
    »She has been here in five days from Liverpool, and she's lying down at
Greenock,« answered the fellow.
    »Let the horses and carriage go down to Greenock then,« said Archibald, »and
be embarked there for Inverary when I send notice - they may stand in my
cousin's, Duncan Archibald the stabler's. - Ladies,« he added, »I hope you will
get yourselves ready; we must not lose the tide.«
    »Mrs. Deans,« said the Cowslip of Inverary, »you may do as you please - but
I will sit here all night, rather than go into that there painted egg-shell. -
Fellow - fellow!« (this was addressed to a Highlander who was lifting a
travelling trunk), »that trunk is mine, and that there band-box, and that
pillion mail, and those seven bundles, and the paper-bag; and if you venture to
touch one of them, it shall be at your peril.«
    The Celt kept his eye fixed on the speaker, then turned his head towards
Archibald, and receiving no countervailing signal, he shouldered the
portmanteau, and without farther notice of the distressed damsel, or paying any
attention to remonstrances, which probably he did not understand, and would
certainly have equally disregarded whether he understood them or not, moved off
with Mrs. Dutton's wearables, and deposited the trunk containing them safely in
the boat.
    The baggage being stowed in safety, Mr. Archibald handed Jeanie out of the
carriage, and, not without some tremor on her part, she was transported through
the surf and placed in the boat. He then offered the same civility to his
fellow-servant, but she was resolute in her refusal to quit the carriage, in
which she now remained in solitary state, threatening all concerned or
unconcerned with actions for wages and board-wages, damages and expenses, and
numbering on her fingers the gowns and other habiliments, from which she seemed
in the act of being separated for ever. Mr. Archibald did not give himself the
trouble of making many remonstrances, which, indeed, seemed only to aggravate
the damsel's indignation, but spoke two or three words to the Highlanders in
Gaelic; and the wily mountaineers, approaching the carriage cautiously, and
without giving the slightest intimation of their intention, at once seized the
recusant so effectually fast that she could neither resist nor struggle, and
hoisting her on their shoulders in nearly a horizontal posture, rushed down with
her to the beach, and through the surf, and with no other inconvenience than
ruffling her garments a little, deposited her in the boat; but in a state of
surprise, mortification, and terror, at her sudden transportation, which
rendered her absolutely mute for two or three minutes. The men jumped in
themselves; one tall fellow remained till he had pushed off the boat, and then
tumbled in upon his companions. They took their oars and began to pull from the
shore, then spread their sail, and drove merrily across the firth.
    »You Scotch villain!« said the infuriated damsel to Archibald, »how dare you
use a person like me in this way?«
    »Madam,« said Archibald, with infinite composure, »it's high time you should
know you are in the Duke's country, and that there is not one of these fellows
but would throw you out of the boat as readily as into it, if such were his
Grace's pleasure.«
    »Then the Lord have mercy on me!« said Mrs. Dutton. »If I had had any on
myself, I would never have engaged with you.«
    »It's something of the latest to think of that now, Mrs. Dutton,« said
Archibald; »but I assure you, you will find the Highlands have their pleasures.
You will have a dozen of cow-milkers under your own authority at Inverary, and
you may throw any of them into the lake, if you have a mind, for the Duke's head
people are almost as great as himself.«
    »This is a strange business, to be sure, Mr. Archibald,« said the lady; »but
I suppose I must make the best on't. - Are you sure the boat will not sink? it
leans terribly to one side, in my poor mind.«
    »Fear nothing,« said Mr. Archibald, taking a most important pinch of snuff;
»this same ferry on Clyde knows us very well, or we know it, which is all the
same; no fear of any of our people meeting with any accident. We should have
crossed from the opposite shore, but for the disturbances at Glasgow, which made
it improper for his Grace's people to pass through the city.«
    »Are you not afraid, Mrs. Deans,« said the dairy-vestal, addressing Jeanie,
who sat, not in the most comfortable state of mind, by the side of Archibald,
who himself managed the helm; - »are you not afraid of these wild men with their
naked knees, and of this nut-shell of a thing, that seems bobbing up and down
like a skimming-dish in a milk-pail?«
    »No - no - madam,« answered Jeanie with some hesitation, »I am not feared;
for I hae seen Hielandmen before, though I never was sae near them; and for the
danger of the deep waters, I trust there is a Providence by sea as well as by
land.«
    »Well,« said Mrs. Dutton, »it is a beautiful thing to have learned to write
and read, for one can always say such fine words whatever should befall them.«
    Archibald, rejoicing in the impression which his vigorous measures had made
upon the intractable dairymaid, now applied himself, as a sensible and
good-natured man, to secure by fair means the ascendency which he had obtained
by some wholesome violence; and he succeeded so well in representing to her the
idle nature of her fears, and the impossibility of leaving her upon the beach
enthroned in an empty carriage, that the good understanding of the party was
completely revived ere they landed at Roseneath.
 

                              Chapter Forty-First

 Did Fortune guide,
 Or rather Destiny, our bark, to which
 We could appoint no port, to this best place?
                                                                       Fletcher.
 
The islands in the Firth of Clyde, which the daily passage of so many
smoke-pennoned steamboats now renders so easily accessible, were in our fathers'
times secluded spots, frequented by no travellers, and few visitants of any
kind. They are of exquisite, yet varied beauty. Arran, a mountainous region, or
Alpine island, abounds with the grandest and most romantic scenery. Bute is of a
softer and more woodland character. The Cumbrays, as if to exhibit a contrast to
both, are green, level, and bare, forming the links of a sort of natural bar
which is drawn along the mouth of the firth, leaving large intervals, however,
of ocean. Roseneath, a smaller isle, lies much higher up the firth, and towards
its western shore, near the opening of the lake called the Gare Loch, and not
far from Loch Long and Loch Seant, or the Holy Loch, which wind from the
mountains of the Western Highlands to join the estuary of the Clyde.
    In these isles the severe frost winds which tyrannise over the vegetable
creation during a Scottish spring, are comparatively little felt; nor, excepting
the gigantic strength of Arran, are they much exposed to the Atlantic storms,
lying landlocked and protected to the westward by the shores of Ayrshire.
Accordingly, the weeping-willow, the weeping-birch, and other trees of early and
pendulous shoots, flourish in these favoured recesses in a degree unknown in our
eastern districts; and the air is also said to possess that mildness which is
favourable to consumptive cases.
    The picturesque beauty of the island of Roseneath, in particular, had such
recommendations, that the Earls and Dukes of Argyle, from an early period made
it their occasional residence, and had their temporary accommodation in a
fishing or hunting-lodge, which succeeding improvements have since transformed
into a palace. It was in its original simplicity when the little bark which we
left traversing the firth at the end of last chapter approached the shores of
the isle.
    When they touched the landing-place, which was partly shrouded by some old
low but wide-spreading oak-trees, intermixed with hazel-bushes, two or three
figures were seen as if awaiting their arrival. To these Jeanie paid little
attention, so that it was with a shock of surprise almost electrical, that, upon
being carried by the rowers out of the boat to the shore, she was received in
the arms of her father!
    It was too wonderful to be believed - too much like a happy dream to have
the stable feeling of reality - She extricated herself from his close and
affectionate embrace, and held him at arm's length, to satisfy her mind that it
was no illusion. But the form was indisputable - Douce David Deans himself, in
his best light-blue Sunday's coat, with broad metal buttons, and waistcoat and
breeches of the same, his strong gramashes or leggins of thick grey cloth - the
very copper buckles - the broad Lowland blue bonnet, thrown back as he lifted
his eyes to Heaven in speechless gratitude - the grey locks that straggled from
beneath it down his weather-beaten »haffets« - the bald and furrowed forehead -
the clear blue eye, that, undimmed by years, gleamed bright and pale from under
its shaggy grey pent-house - the features, usually so stern and stoical, now
melted into the unwonted expression of rapturous joy, affection, and gratitude -
were all those of David Deans; and so happily did they assort together, that,
should I ever again see my friends Wilkie or Allan, I will try to borrow or
steal from them a sketch of this very scene.
    »Jeanie - my ain Jeanie - my best - my maist dutiful bairn - the Lord of
Israel be thy father, for I am hardly worthy of thee! Thou hast redeemed our
captivity - brought back the honour of our house - Bless thee, my bairn, with
mercies promised and purchased! But He has blessed thee, in the good of which He
has made thee the instrument.«
    These words broke from him not without tears, though David was of no melting
mood. Archibald had, with delicate attention, withdrawn the spectators from the
interview, so that the wood and setting sun alone were witnesses of the
expansion of their feelings.
    »And Effie? - and Effie, dear father?« was an eager interjectional question
which Jeanie repeatedly threw in among her expressions of joyful thankfulness.
    »Ye will hear - ye will hear,« said David hastily, and ever and anon renewed
his grateful acknowledgments to Heaven for sending Jeanie safe down from the
land of prelatic deadness and schismatic heresy; and had delivered her from the
dangers of the way, and the lions that were in the path.
    »And Effie?« repeated her affectionate sister again and again. »And - and«
(fain would she have said Butler, but she modified the direct inquiry) - »and
Mr. and Mrs. Saddletree - and Dumbiedikes - and a' friends?«
    »A' well - a' well, praise to His name!«
    »And - Mr. Butler - he wasna well when I gaed away?«
    »He is quite mended - quite well,« replied her father.
    »Thank God - but O, dear father, Effie? - Effie?«
    »You will never see her mair, my bairn,« answered Deans in a solemn tone -
»You are the ae and only leaf left now on the auld tree - hale be your portion!«
    »She is dead! - She is slain! - It has come ower late!« exclaimed Jeanie,
wringing her hands.
    »No, Jeanie,« returned Deans, in the same grave melancholy tone. »She lives
in the flesh, and is at freedom from earthly restraint, if she were as much
alive in faith, and as free from the bonds of Satan.«
    »The Lord protect us!« said Jeanie. - »Can the unhappy bairn hae left you
for that villain?«
    »It is ower truly spoken,« said Deans - »She has left her auld father, that
has wept and prayed for her - She has left her sister, that travailed and toiled
for her like a mother - She has left the bones of her mother, and the land of
her people, and she is ower the march wi' that son of Belial - She has made a
moonlight flitting of it.« He paused, for a feeling betwixt sorrow and strong
resentment choked his utterance.
    »And wi' that man? - that fearfu' man?« said Jeanie. »And she has left us to
gang aff wi' him? - O Effie, Effie, what could hae thought it, after sic a
deliverance as you had been gifted wi'!«
    »She went out from us, my bairn, because she was not of us,« replied David.
»She is a withered branch will never bear fruit of grace - a scapegoat gone
forth into the wilderness of the world, to carry wi' her, as I trust, the sins
of our little congregation. The peace of the warld gang wi' her, and a better
peace when she has the grace to turn to it! If she is of His elected, His ain
hour will come. What would her mother have said, that famous and memorable
matron, Rebecca Mac-Naught, whose memory is like a flower of sweet savour in
Newbattle, and a pot of frankincense in Lugton? But be it sae - let her part -
let her gang her gate - let her bite on her ain bridle - The Lord kens his time
- She was the bairn of prayers, and may not prove an utter castaway. But never,
Jeanie, never more let her name be spoken between you and me - She hath passed
from us like the brook which vanisheth when the summer waxeth warm, as patient
Job saith - let her pass, and be forgotten.«
    There was a melancholy pause which followed these expressions. Jeanie would
fain have asked more circumstances relating to her sister's departure, but the
tone of her father's prohibition was positive. She was about to mention her
interview with Staunton at his father's rectory; but, on hastily running over
the particulars in her memory, she thought that, on the whole, they were more
likely to aggravate than diminish his distress of mind. She turned, therefore,
the discourse from this painful subject, resolving to suspend farther inquiry
until she should see Butler, from whom she expected to learn the particulars of
her sister's elopement.
    But when was she to see Butler? was a question she could not forbear asking
herself, especially while her father, as if eager to escape from the subject of
his youngest daughter, pointed to the opposite shore of Dumbartonshire, and
asking Jeanie »if it werena a pleasant abode?« declared to her his intention of
removing his earthly tabernacle to that country, »in respect he was solicited by
his Grace the Duke of Argyle, as one well skilled in country labour, and a' that
appertained to flocks and herds, to superintend a store-farm, whilk his Grace
had taken into his ain hand for the improvement of stock.«
    Jeanie's heart sunk within her at this declaration. »She allowed it was a
goodly and pleasant land, and sloped bonnily to the western sun; and she
doubtedna that the pasture might be very good, for the grass looked green, for
as drouthy as the weather had been. But it was far frae hame, and she thought
she wad be often thinking on the bonny spots of turf, sae fu' of gowans and
yellow king-cups, amang the Crags at St Leonard's.«
    »Dinna speak on't, Jeanie,« said her father; »I wish never to hear it named
mair - that is, after the rouping is ower, and the bills paid. But I brought a'
the beasts owerby that I thought ye wad like best. There is Gowans, and there's
your ain brockit cow, and the wee hawkit ane, that ye ca'd - I needna tell ye
how ye ca'd it - but I couldn't have bid them sell the petted creature, though the
sight o' it may sometimes give us a sair heart - it's no the poor dumb creature's
fault - And ane or twa beasts mair I hae reserved, and I caused them to be
driven before the other beasts, that men might say, as when the son of Jesse
returned from battle, This is David's spoil.«
    Upon more particular inquiry, Jeanie found new occasion to admire the active
beneficence of her friend the Duke of Argyle. While establishing a sort of
experimental farm on the skirts of his immense Highland estates, he had been
somewhat at a loss to find a proper person in whom to vest the charge of it. The
conversation his Grace had upon country matters with Jeanie Deans during their
return from Richmond, had impressed him with a belief that the father, whose
experience and success she so frequently quoted, must be exactly the sort of
person whom he wanted. When the condition annexed to Effie's pardon rendered it
highly probable that David Deans would choose to change his place of residence,
this idea again occurred to the Duke more strongly, and as he was an enthusiast
equally in agriculture and in benevolence, he imagined he was serving the
purposes of both, when he wrote to the gentleman in Edinburgh entrusted with his
affairs, to inquire into the character of David Deans, cowfeeder, and so forth,
at St. Leonard's Crags; and if he found him such as he had been represented, to
engage him without delay, and on the most liberal terms, to superintend his
fancy-farm in Dumbartonshire.
    The proposal was made to old David by the gentleman so commissioned, on the
second day after his daughter's pardon had reached Edinburgh. His resolution to
leave St. Leonard's had been already formed; the honour of an express invitation
from the Duke of Argyle to superintend a department where so much skill and
diligence was required, was in itself extremely flattering; and the more so,
because honest David, who was not without an excellent opinion of his own
talents, persuaded himself that, by accepting this charge, he would in some sort
repay the great favour he had received at the hands of the Argyle family. The
appointments, including the right of sufficient grazing for a small stock of his
own, were amply liberal; and David's keen eye saw that the situation was
convenient for trafficking to advantage in Highland cattle. There was risk of
»her'ship«65 from the neighbouring mountains, indeed, but the awful name of the
Duke of Argyle would be a great security, and a trifle of black-mail would,
David was aware, assure his safety.
    Still, however, there were two points on which he haggled. The first was the
character of the clergyman with whose worship he was to join; and on this
delicate point he received, as we will presently show the reader, perfect
satisfaction. The next obstacle was the condition of his youngest daughter,
obliged as she was to leave Scotland for so many years.
    The gentleman of the law smiled, and said, »There was no occasion to
interpret that clause very strictly - that if the young woman left Scotland for
a few months, or even weeks, and came to her father's new residence by sea from
the western side of England, nobody would know of her arrival, or at least
nobody who had either the right or inclination to give her disturbance. The
extensive heritable jurisdictions of his Grace excluded the interference of
other magistrates with those living on his estates, and they who were in
immediate dependence on him would receive orders to give the young woman no
disturbance. Living on the verge of the Highlands, she might, indeed, be said to
be out of Scotland, that is, beyond the bounds of ordinary law and
civilisation.«
    Old Deans was not quite satisfied with this reasoning; but the elopement of
Effie, which took place on the third night after her liberation, rendered his
residence at St. Leonard's so detestable to him, that he closed at once with the
proposal which had been made him, and entered with pleasure into the idea of
surprising Jeanie, as had been proposed by the Duke, to render the change of
residence more striking to her. The Duke had apprised Archibald of these
circumstances, with orders to act according to the instructions he should
receive from Edinburgh, and by which accordingly he was directed to bring Jeanie
to Roseneath.
    The father and daughter communicated these matters to each other, now
stopping, now walking slowly towards the Lodge, which showed itself among the
trees, at about half-a-mile's distance from the little bay in which they had
landed.
    As they approached the house, David Deans informed his daughter, with
somewhat like a grim smile, which was the utmost advance he ever made towards a
mirthful expression of visage, that »there was baith a worshipful gentleman, and
ane reverend gentleman, residing therein. The worshipful gentleman was his
honour the Laird of Knocktarlitie, who was bailie of the lordship under the Duke
of Argyle, ane Highland gentleman, tarr'd wi' the same stick,« David doubted,
»as mony of them, namely, a hasty and choleric temper, and a neglect of the
higher things that belong to salvation, and also a gripping unto the things of
this world, without muckle distinction of property; but, however, ane good
hospitable gentleman, with whom it would be a part of wisdom to live on a good
understanding (for Hielandmen were hasty, ower hasty). As for the reverend
person of whom he had spoken, he was candidate by favour of the Duke of Argyle
(for David would not for the universe have called him presentee) for the kirk of
the parish in which their farm was situated, and he was likely to be highly
acceptable unto the Christian souls of the parish, who were hungering for
spiritual manna, having been fed but upon sour Hieland sowens by Mr. Duncan
MacDonought, the last minister, who began the morning duly, Sunday and Saturday,
with a mutchkin of usquebaugh. But I need say the less about the present lad,«
said David, again grimly grimacing, »as I think ye may hae seen him afore; and
here he is come to meet us.«
    She had indeed seen him before, for it was no other than Reuben Butler
himself.
 

                              Chapter Forty-Second

 No more shalt thou behold thy sister's face;
 Thou hast already had her last embrace.
                                                   Elegy on Mrs. Anne Killigrew.
 
This second surprise had been accomplished for Jeanie Deans by the rod of the
same benevolent enchanter, whose power had transplanted her father from the
Crags of St. Leonard's to the banks of the Gare Loch. The Duke of Argyle was not
a person to forget the hereditary debt of gratitude, which had been bequeathed
to him by his grandfather, in favour of the grandson of old Bible Butler. He had
internally resolved to provide for Reuben Butler in this kirk of Knocktarlitie,
of which the incumbent had just departed this life. Accordingly, his agent
received the necessary instructions for that purpose, under the qualifying
condition always, that the learning and character of Mr. Butler should be found
proper for the charge. Upon inquiry, these were found as highly satisfactory as
had been reported in the case of David Deans himself.
    By this preferment, the Duke of Argyle more essentially benefited his friend
and protégée, Jeanie, than he himself was aware of, since he contributed to
remove objections in her father's mind to the match, which he had no idea had
been in existence.
    We have already noticed that Deans had something of a prejudice against
Butler, which was, perhaps, in some degree owing to his possessing a sort of
consciousness that the poor usher looked with eyes of affection upon his eldest
daughter. This, in David's eyes, was a sin of presumption, even although it
should not be followed by any overt act, or actual proposal. But the lively
interest which Butler had displayed in his distresses, since Jeanie set forth on
her London expedition, and which, therefore, he ascribed to personal respect for
himself individually, had greatly softened the feelings of irritability with
which David had sometimes regarded him. And, while he was in this good
disposition towards Butler, another incident took place which had great
influence on the old man's mind.
    So soon as the shock of Effie's second elopement was over, it was Deans's
early care to collect and refund to the Laird of Dumbiedikes the money which he
had lent for Effie's trial, and for Jeanie's travelling expenses. The Laird, the
pony, the cocked hat, and the tabacco-pipe, had not been seen at St. Leonard's
Crags for many a day; so that, in order to pay this debt, David was under the
necessity of repairing in person to the mansion of Dumbiedikes.
    He found it in a state of unexpected bustle. There were workmen pulling down
some of the old hangings, and replacing them with others, altering, repairing,
scrubbing, painting, and white-washing. There was no knowing the old house,
which had been so long the mansion of sloth and silence. The Laird himself
seemed in some confusion, and his reception, though kind, lacked something of
the reverential cordiality, with which he used to greet David Deans. There was a
change also, David did not very well know of what nature, about the exterior of
this landed proprietor - an improvement in the shape of his garments, a
spruceness in the air with which they were put on, that were both novelties.
Even the old hat looked smarter; the cock had been newly pointed, the lace had
been refreshed, and instead of slouching backward or forward on the Laird's
head, as it happened to be thrown on, it was adjusted with a knowing inclination
over one eye.
    David Deans opened his business, and told down the cash. Dumbiedikes
steadily inclined his ear to the one, and counted the other with great accuracy,
interrupting David, while he was talking of the redemption of the captivity of
Judah, to ask him whether he did not think one or two of the guineas looked
rather light. When he was satisfied on this point, had pocketed his money, and
had signed a receipt, he addressed David with some little hesitation, - »Jeanie
wad be writing ye something, gudeman?«
    »About the siller?« replied David - »Nae doubt, she did.«
    »And did she say nae mair about me?« asked the Laird.
    »Nae mair but kind and Christian wishes - what should she hae said?« replied
David, fully expecting that the Laird's long courtship (if his dangling after
Jeanie deserves so active a name) was now coming to a point. And so indeed it
was, but not to that point which he wished or expected.
    »Aweel, she kens her ain mind best, gudeman. I hae made a clean house o'
Jenny Balchristie, and her niece. They were a bad pack - steal'd meat and mault,
and loot the carters magg the coals - I'm to be married the morn, and kirkit on
Sunday.«
    Whatever David felt, he was too proud and too steady-minded to show any
unpleasant surprise in his countenance and manner.
    »I wuss ye happy, sir, through Him that gies happiness - marriage is an
honourable state.«
    »And I am wedding into an honourable house, David - the Laird of Lickpelf's
youngest daughter - she sits next us in the kirk, and that's the way I came to
think on't.«
    There was no more to be said, but again to wish the Laird joy, to taste a
cup of his liquor, and to walk back again to St. Leonard's, musing on the
mutability of human affairs and human resolutions. The expectation that one day
or other Jeanie would be Lady Dumbiedikes, had, in spite of himself kept a more
absolute possession of David's mind than he himself was aware of. At least, it
had hitherto seemed a union at all times within his daughter's reach, whenever
she might choose to give her silent lover any degree of encouragement, and now
it was vanished for ever. David returned, therefore, in no very gracious humour
for so good a man. He was angry with Jeanie for not having encouraged the Laird
- he was angry with the Laird for requiring encouragement - and he was angry
with himself for being angry at all on the occasion.
    On his return he found the gentleman who managed the Duke of Argyle's
affairs was desirous of seeing him, with a view to completing the arrangement
between them. Thus, after a brief repose, he was obliged to set off anew for
Edinburgh, so that old May Hettly declared, »That a' this was to end with the
master just walking himself aff his feet.«
    When the business respecting the farm had been talked over and arranged, the
professional gentleman acquainted David Deans, in answer to his inquiries
concerning the state of public worship, that it was the pleasure of the Duke to
put an excellent young clergyman, called Reuben Butler, into the parish, which
was to be his future residence.
    »Reuben Butler!« exclaimed David - »Reuben Butler, the usher at Liberton?«
    »The very same,« said the Duke's commissioner; »his Grace has heard an
excellent character of him, and has some hereditary obligations to him besides -
few ministers will be so comfortable as I am directed to make Mr. Butler.«
    »Obligations? - The Duke? - Obligations to Reuben Butler - Reuben Butler a
placed minister of the Kirk of Scotland?« exclaimed David, in interminable
astonishment, for somehow he had been led by the bad success which Butler had
hitherto met with in all his undertakings, to consider him as one of those
step-sons of Fortune, whom she treats with unceasing rigour, and ends with
disinheriting altogether.
    There is, perhaps, no time at which we are disposed to think so highly of a
friend, as when we find him standing higher than we expected in the esteem of
others. When assured of the reality of Butler's change of prospects, David
expressed his great satisfaction at his success in life, which, he observed, was
entirely owing to himself (David). »I advised his puir grandmother, who was but
a silly woman, to breed him up to the ministry; and I prophesied that, with a
blessing on his endeavours, he would become a polished shaft in the temple. He
may be something ower proud o' his carnal learning, but a good lad, and has the
root of the matter - as ministers gang now, where ye'll find ane better, ye'll
find ten waur, than Reuben Butler.«
    He took leave of the man of business, and walked homeward, forgetting his
weariness in the various speculations to which this wonderful piece of
intelligence gave rise. Honest David had now, like other great men, to go to
work to reconcile his speculative principles with existing circumstances; and,
like other great men, when they set seriously about that task, he was tolerably
successful.
    Ought Reuben Butler in conscience to accept of this preferment in the Kirk
of Scotland, subject as David at present thought that establishment was to the
Erastian encroachments of the civil power? This was the leading question, and he
considered it carefully. »The Kirk of Scotland was shorn of its beams, and
deprived of its full artillery and banners of authority; but still it contained
zealous and fructifying pastors, attentive congregations, and, with all her
spots and blemishes, the like of this Kirk was nowhere else to be seen upon
earth.«
    David's doubts had been too many and too critical to permit him ever
unequivocally to unite himself with any of the dissenters, who upon various
accounts absolutely seceded from the national church. He had often joined in
communion with such of the established clergy as approached nearest to the old
Presbyterian model and principles of 1640. And although there were many things
to be amended in that system, yet he remembered that he, David Deans, had
himself ever been an humble pleader for the good old cause in a legal way, but
without rushing into right-hand excesses, divisions and separations. But, as an
enemy to separation, he might join the right-hand of fellowship with a minister
of the Kirk of Scotland in its present model. Ergo, Reuben Butler might take
possession of the parish of Knocktarlitie, without forfeiting his friendship or
favour - Q.E.D. But, secondly, came the trying point of lay-patronage, which
David Deans had ever maintained to be a coming in by the window, and over the
wall, a cheating and starving the souls of a whole parish, for the purpose of
clothing the back and filling the belly of the incumbent.
    This presentation, therefore, from the Duke of Argyle, whatever was the
worth and high character of that nobleman, was a limb of the brazen image, a
portion of the evil thing, and with no kind of consistency could David bend his
mind to favour such a transaction. But if the parishioners themselves joined in
a general call to Reuben Butler to be their pastor, it did not seem quite so
evident that the existence of this unhappy presentation was a reason for his
refusing them the comforts of his doctrine. If the Presbytery admitted him to
the kirk, in virtue rather of that act of patronage than of the general call of
the congregation, that might be their error, and David allowed it was a heavy
one. But if Reuben Butler accepted of the cure as tendered to him by those whom
he was called to teach, and who had expressed themselves desirous to learn,
David, after considering and reconsidering the matter, came, through the great
virtue of IF, to be of opinion that he might safely so act in that matter.
    There remained a third stumbling-block - the oaths to Government exacted
from the established clergymen, in which they acknowledge an Erastian king and
parliament, and homologate the incorporating Union between England and Scotland,
through which the latter kingdom had become part and portion of the former,
wherein Prelacy, the sister of Popery, had made fast her throne, and elevated
the horns of her mitre. These were symptoms of defection which had often made
David cry out, »My bowels - my bowels! - I am pained at the very heart!« And he
remembered that a godly Bow-head matron had been carried out of the Tolbooth
church in a swoon, beyond the reach of brandy and burnt feathers, merely on
hearing these fearful words, »It is enacted by the Lords spiritual and
temporal,« pronounced from a Scottish pulpit, in the proem to the Porteous
Proclamation. These oaths were, therefore, a deep compliance and dire
abomination - a sin and a snare, and a danger and a defection. But this
shibboleth was not always exacted. Ministers had respect to their own tender
consciences, and those of their brethren; and it was not till a later period
that the reins of discipline were taken up tight by the General Assemblies and
Presbyteries. The peace-making particle came again to David's assistance. If an
incumbent was not called upon to make such compliances, and if he got a right
entry into the church without intrusion, and by orderly appointment, why, upon
the whole, David Deans came to be of opinion, that the said incumbent might
lawfully enjoy the spirituality and temporality of the cure of souls at
Knocktarlitie, with stipend, manse, glebe, and all thereunto appertaining.
    The best and most upright-minded men are so strongly influenced by existing
circumstances, that it would be somewhat cruel to inquire too nearly what weight
parental affection gave to these ingenious trains of reasoning. Let David
Deans's situation be considered. He was just deprived of one daughter, and his
eldest, to whom he owed so much, was cut off, by the sudden resolution of
Dumbiedikes, from the high hope which David had entertained, that she might one
day be mistress of that fair lordship. Just while this disappointment was
bearing heavy on his spirits, Butler comes before his imagination - no longer
the half-starved threadbare usher, but fat and sleek and fair, the beneficed
minister of Knocktarlitie, beloved by his congregation - exemplary in his life -
powerful in his doctrine - doing the duty of the kirk as never Highland minister
did before - turning sinners as a colley dog turns sheep - a favourite of the
Duke of Argyle, and drawing a stipend of eight hundred punds Scots, and four
chalders of victual. Here was a match, making up in David's mind, in a tenfold
degree, the disappointment in the case of Dumbiedikes, in so far as the good-man
of St. Leonard's held a powerful minister in much greater admiration than a mere
landed proprietor. It did not occur to him, as an additional reason in favour of
the match, that Jeanie might herself have some choice in the matter; for the
idea of consulting her feelings never once entered into the honest man's head,
any more than the possibility that her inclination might perhaps differ from his
own.
    The result of his meditations was, that he was called upon to take the
management of the whole affair into his own hand, and give, if it should be
found possible without sinful compliance, or backsliding, or defection of any
kind, a worthy pastor to the kirk of Knocktarlitie. Accordingly, by the
intervention of the honest dealer in butter-milk who dwelt in Liberton, David
summoned to his presence Reuben Butler. Even from this worthy messenger he was
unable to conceal certain swelling emotions of dignity, insomuch, that, when the
carter had communicated his message to the usher, he added, that »Certainly the
Gudeman of St. Leonard's had some grand news to tell him, for he was as uplifted
as a midden-cock upon pattens.«
    Butler, it may readily be conceived, immediately obeyed the summons. He was
a plain character, in which worth and good sense and simplicity were the
principal ingredients; but love, on this occasion, gave him a certain degree of
address. He had received an intimation of the favour designed him by the Duke of
Argyle, with what feelings those only can conceive who have experienced a sudden
prospect of being raised to independence and respect from penury and toil. He
resolved, however, that the old man should retain all the consequence of being,
in his own opinion, the first to communicate the important intelligence. At the
same time, he also determined that in the expected conference he would permit
David Deans to expatiate at length upon the proposal, in all its bearings,
without irritating him either by interruption or contradiction. This last was
the most prudent plan he could have adopted; because, although there were many
doubts which David Deans could himself clear up to his own satisfaction, yet he
might have been by no means disposed to accept the solution of any other person;
and to engage him in an argument would have been certain to confirm him at once
and for ever in the opinion which Butler chanced to impugn.
    He received his friend with an appearance of important gravity, which real
misfortune had long compelled him to lay aside, and which belonged to those days
of awful authority in which he predominated over Widow Butler, and dictated the
mode of cultivating the crofts of Beersheba. He made known to Reuben, with great
prolixity, the prospect of his changing his present residence for the charge of
the Duke of Argyle's stock-farm in Dumbartonshire, and enumerated the various
advantages of the situation with obvious self-congratulation; but assured the
patient hearer, that nothing had so much moved him to acceptance, as the sense
that, by his skill in bestial, he could render the most important services to
his Grace the Duke of Argyle, to whom, »in the late unhappy circumstance« (here
a tear dimmed the sparkle of pride in the old man's eye), »he had been sae
muckle obliged.«
    »To put a rude Hielandman into sic a charge,« he continued, »what could be
expected but that he should be sic a chiefest herdsman, as wicked Doeg the
Edomite? whereas, while this grey head is to the fore, not a clute o' them but
sall be as well cared for as if they were the fatted kine of Pharaoh. - And now,
Reuben, lad, seeing we maun remove our tent to a strange country, ye will be
casting a dolefu' look after us, and thinking with whom ye are to hold counsel
anent your government in thae slippery and backsliding times; and nae doubt
remembering, that the auld man, David Deans, was made the instrument to bring
you out of the mire of schism and heresy, wherein your father's house delighted
to wallow; aften also, nae doubt, when ye are pressed wi' ensnaring trials and
tentations and heart-plagues, you, that are like a recruit that is marching for
the first time to the touk of drum, will miss the auld, bauld, and experienced
veteran soldier that has felt the brunt of mony a foul day, and heard the
bullets whistle as aften as he has hairs left on his auld pow.«
    It is very possible that Butler might internally be of opinion, that the
reflection on his ancestor's peculiar tenets might have been spared, or that he
might be presumptuous enough even to think, that, at his years, and with his own
lights, he might be able to hold his course without the pilotage of honest
David. But he only replied, by expressing his regret, that anything should
separate him from an ancient, tried, and affectionate friend.
    »But how can it be helped, man?« said David, twisting his features into a
sort of smile - »How can we help it? - I trow, ye canna tell me that - Ye maun
leave that to ither folk - to the Duke of Argyle and me, Reuben. It's a good
thing to hae friends in this warld - how muckle better to hae an interest beyond
it!«
    And David, whose piety, though not always quite rational, was as sincere as
it was habitual and fervent, looked reverentially upward and paused. Mr. Butler
intimated the pleasure with which he would receive his friend's advice on a
subject so important, and David resumed.
    »What think ye now, Reuben, of a kirk - a regular kirk under the present
establishment? - Were sic offered to ye, wad ye be free to accept it, and under
whilk provisions? - I am speaking but by way of query.«
    Butler replied, »That if such a prospect were held out to him, he would
probably first consult whether he was likely to be useful to the parish he
should be called to; and if there appeared a fair prospect of his proving so,
his friend must be aware, that in every other point of view, it would be highly
advantageous for him.«
    »Right, Reuben, very right, lad,« answered the monitor, »your ain conscience
is the first thing to be satisfied - for how sall he teach others that has
himself sae ill learned the Scriptures, as to grip for the lucre of foul earthly
preferment, sic as gear and manse, money and victual, that which is not his in a
spiritual sense - or what makes his kirk a stalking-horse, from behind which he
may take aim at his stipend? But I look for better things of you - and specially
ye maun be minded not to act altogether on your ain judgment, for therethrough
comes sair mistakes, backslidings and defections, on the left and on the right.
If there were sic a day of trial put to you, Reuben, you, who are a young lad,
although it may be ye are gifted wi' the carnal tongues, and those whilk were
spoken at Rome, whilk is now the seat of the scarlet abomination, and by the
Greeks, to whom the Gospel was as foolishness, yet nae-the-less ye may be
entreated by your well-wisher to take the counsel of those prudent and resolved
and weather-withstanding professors, what hae kend what it was to lurk on banks
and in mosses, in bogs and in caverns, and to risk the peril of the head rather
than renounce the honesty of the heart.«
    Butler replied, »That certainly, possessing such a friend as he hoped and
trusted he had in the goodman himself, who had seen so many changes in the
preceding century, he should be much to blame if he did not avail himself of his
experience and friendly counsel.«
    »Eneugh said - enough said, Reuben,« said David Deans, with internal
exultation; »and say that ye were in the predicament whereof I hae spoken, of a
surety I would deem it my duty to gang to the root o' the matter, and lay bare
to you the ulcers and imposthumes, and the sores and the leprosies, of this our
time, crying aloud and sparing not.«
    David Deans was now in his element. He commenced his examination of the
doctrines and belief of the Christian Church with the very Culdees, from whom he
passed to John Knox, - from John Knox to the recusants in James the Sixth's time
- Bruce, Black, Blair, Livingstone, - from them to the brief, and at length
triumphant period of the Presbyterian Church's splendour, until it was overrun
by the English Independents. Then followed the dismal times of prelacy, the
indulgences, seven in number, with all their shades and bearings, until he
arrived at the reign of King James the Second, in which he himself had been, in
his own mind, neither an obscure actor nor an obscure sufferer. Then was Butler
doomed to hear the most detailed and annotated edition of what he had so often
heard before, - David Deans's confinement, namely, in the iron cage in the
Canongate Tolbooth, and the cause thereof.
    We should be very unjust to our friend David Deans, if we should »pretermit«
- to use his own expression - a narrative which he held essential to his fame. A
drunken trooper of the Royal Guards, Francis Gordon by name, had chased five or
six of the skulking Whigs, among whom was our friend David; and after he had
compelled them to stand, and was in the act of brawling with them, one of their
number fired a pocket-pistol, and shot him dead. David used to sneer and shake
his head when any one asked him whether he had been the instrument of removing
this wicked persecutor from the face of the earth. In fact the merit of the deed
lay between him and his friend, Patrick Walker, the pedlar, whose works he was
so fond of quoting. Neither of them cared directly to claim the merit of
silencing Mr. Francis Gordon of the Elfe-Guards, there being some wild cousins
of his about Edinburgh, who might have been even yet addicted to revenge, but
yet neither of them chose to disown or yield to the other the merit of this
active defence of their religious rights. David said, that if he had fired a
pistol then, it was what he never did after or before. And as for Mr. Patrick
Walker, he has left it upon record, that his great surprise was, that so small a
pistol could kill so big a man. These are the words of that venerable
biographer, whose trade had not taught him by experience, that an inch was as
good as an ell. »He« (Francis Gordon) »got a shot in his head out of a
pocket-pistol, rather fit for diverting a boy than killing such a furious, mad,
brisk man, which notwithstanding killed him dead!«66
    Upon the extensive foundation which the history of the kirk afforded, during
its short-lived triumph and long tribulation, David, with length of breath and
of narrative, which would have astounded any one but a lover of his daughter,
proceeded to lay down his own rules for guiding the conscience of his friend, as
an aspirant to serve in the ministry. Upon this subject, the good man went
through such a variety of nice and casuistical problems, supposed so many
extreme cases, made the distinctions so critical and nice betwixt the right hand
and the left hand - betwixt compliance and defection - holding back and stepping
aside - slipping and stumbling - snares and errors - that at length, after
having limited the path of truth to a mathematical line, he was brought to the
broad admission, that each man's conscience, after he had gained a certain view
of the difficult navigation which he was to encounter, would be the best guide
for his pilotage. He stated the examples and arguments for and against the
acceptance of a kirk on the present revolution model, with much more
impartiality to Butler than he had been able to place them before his own view.
And he concluded, that his young friend ought to think upon these things, and be
guided by the voice of his own conscience, whether he could take such an awful
trust as the charge of souls without doing injury to his own internal conviction
of what is right or wrong.
    When David had finished his very long harangue, which was only interrupted
by monosyllables, or little more, on the part of Butler, the orator himself was
greatly astonished to find that the conclusion, at which he very naturally
wished to arrive, seemed much less decisively attained than when he had argued
the case in his own mind.
    In this particular, David's current of thinking and speaking only
illustrated the very important and general proposition, concerning the
excellence of the publicity of debate. For, under the influence of any partial
feeling, it is certain, that most men can more easily reconcile themselves to
any favourite measure, when agitating it in their own mind, than when obliged to
expose its merits to a third party, when the necessity of seeming impartial
procures for the opposite arguments a much more fair statement than that which
he affords it in tacit meditation. Having finished what he had to say, David
thought himself obliged to be more explicit in point of fact, and to explain
that this was no hypothetical case, but one on which (by his own influence and
that of the Duke of Argyle) Reuben Butler would soon be called to decide.
    It was even with something like apprehension that David Deans heard Butler
announce, in return to this communication, that he would take that night to
consider on what he had said with such kind intentions, and return him an answer
the next morning. The feelings of the father mastered David on this occasion. He
pressed Butler to spend the evening with him - He produced, most unusual at his
meals, one, nay, two bottles of aged strong ale. - He spoke of his daughter - of
her merits - her housewifery - her thrift - her affection. He led Butler so
decidedly up to a declaration of his feelings towards Jeanie, that, before
nightfall, it was distinctly understood she was to be the bride of Reuben
Butler; and if they thought it indelicate to abridge the period of deliberation
which Reuben had stipulated, it seemed to be sufficiently understood betwixt
them, that there was a strong probability of his becoming minister of
Knocktarlitie, providing the congregation were as willing to accept of him, as
the Duke to grant him the presentation. The matter of the oaths, they agreed, it
was time enough to dispute about, whenever the shibboleth should be tendered.
    Many arrangements were adopted that evening, which were afterwards ripened
by correspondence with the Duke of Argyle's man of business, who entrusted Deans
and Butler with the benevolent wish of his principal, that they should all meet
with Jeanie, on her return from England, at the Duke's hunting-lodge in
Roseneath.
    This retrospect, so far as the placid loves of Jeanie Deans and Reuben
Butler are concerned, forms a full explanation of the preceding narrative up to
their meeting on the island, as already mentioned.
 

                              Chapter Forty-Third

 »I come,« he said, »my love, my life,
 And - nature's dearest name - my wife:
 Thy father's house and friends resign,
 My home, my friends, my sire, are thine.«
                                                                          Logan.
 
The meeting of Jeanie and Butler, under circumstances promising to crown an
affection so long delayed, was rather affecting, from its simple sincerity than
from its uncommon vehemence of feeling. David Deans, whose practice was
sometimes a little different from his theory, appalled them at first, by giving
them the opinion of sundry of the suffering preachers and champions of his
younger days, that marriage, though honourable by the laws of Scripture, was yet
a state over-rashly coveted by professors, and specially by young ministers,
whose desire, he said, was at whiles too inordinate for kirks, stipends, and
wives, which had frequently occasioned over-ready compliance with the general
defections of the times. He endeavoured to make them aware also, that hasty
wedlock had been the bane of many a savoury professor - that the unbelieving
wife had too often reversed the text, and perverted the believing husband - that
when the famous Donald Cargill, being then hiding in Lee- in Lanarkshire, it
being killing-time, did, upon importunity, marry Robert Marshal of Starry Shaw,
he had thus expressed himself: »What hath induced Robert to marry this woman?
her ill will overcome his good - he will not keep the way long - his thriving
days are done.« To the sad accomplishment of which prophecy David said he was
himself a living witness, for Robert Marshal, having fallen into foul
compliances with the enemy, went home, and heard the curates, declined into
other steps of defection, and became lightly esteemed. Indeed, he observed, that
the great upholders of the standard, Cargill, Peden, Cameron, and Renwick, had
less delight in tying the bonds of matrimony than in any other piece of their
ministerial work; and although they would neither dissuade the parties, nor
refuse their office, they considered the being called to it as an evidence of
indifference, on the part of those between whom it was solemnised, to the many
grievous things of the day. Notwithstanding, however, that marriage was a snare
unto many, David was of opinion (as, indeed, he had showed in his practice) that
it was in itself honourable, especially if times were such that honest men could
be secure against being shot, hanged, or banished, and had ane competent
livelihood to maintain themselves, and those that might come after them. »And,
therefore,« as he concluded something abruptly, addressing Jeanie and Butler,
who, with faces as high-coloured as crimson, had been listening to his
lengthened argument for and against the holy state of matrimony, »I will leave
you to your ain cracks.«
    As their private conversation, however interesting to themselves, might
probably be very little so to the reader, so far as it respected their present
feelings and future prospects, we shall pass it over, and only mention the
information which Jeanie received from Butler concerning her sister's elopement,
which contained many particulars that she had been unable to extract from her
father.
    Jeanie learned, therefore, that, for three days after her pardon had
arrived, Effie had been the inmate of her father's house at St. Leonard's - that
the interviews betwixt David and his erring child, which had taken place before
she was liberated from prison, had been touching in the extreme; but Butler
could not suppress his opinion, that, when he was freed from the apprehension of
losing her in a manner so horrible, her father had tightened the bands of
discipline, so as, in some degree, to gall the feelings, and aggravate the
irritability of a spirit naturally impatient and petulant, and now doubly so
from the sense of merited disgrace.
    On the third night, Effie disappeared from St. Leonard's, leaving no
intimation whatever of the route she had taken. Butler, however, set out in
pursuit of her, and with much trouble traced her towards a little landing-place,
formed by a small brook which enters the sea betwixt Musselburgh and Edinburgh.
This place, which has been since made into a small harbour, surrounded by many
villas and lodging-houses, is now termed Portobello. At this time it was
surrounded by a waste common, covered with furze, and unfrequented, save by
fishing-boats, and now and then a smuggling lugger. A vessel of this description
had been hovering in the firth at the time of Effie's elopement, and, as Butler
ascertained, a boat had come ashore in the evening on which the fugitive had
disappeared, and had carried on board a female. As the vessel made sail
immediately, and landed no part of their cargo, there seemed little doubt that
they were accomplices of the notorious Robertson, and that the vessel had only
come into the firth to carry off his paramour.
    This was made clear by a letter which Butler himself soon afterwards
received by post, signed E.D., but without bearing any date of place or time. It
was miserably ill written and spelt; sea-sickness having apparently aided the
derangement of Effie's very irregular orthography and mode of expression. In
this epistle, however, as in all that unfortunate girl said or did, there was
something to praise as well as to blame. She said in her letter, »That she could
not endure that her father and her sister should go into banishment, or be
partakers of her shame, - that if her burden was a heavy one, it was of her own
binding, and she had the more right to bear it alone, - that in future they
could not be a comfort to her, or she to them, since every look and word of her
father put her in mind of her transgression, and was like to drive her mad, -
that she had nearly lost her judgment during the three days she was at St.
Leonard's - her father meant well by her, and all men, but he did not know the
dreadful pain he gave her in casting up her sins. If Jeanie had been at hame, it
might hae dune better - Jeanie was ane, like the angels in heaven, that rather
weep for sinners, than reckon their transgressions. But she should never see
Jeanie ony mair, and that was the thought that gave her the sairest heart of a'
that had come and gone yet. On her bended knees would she pray for Jeanie night
and day, baith for what she had done, and what she had scorned to do, in her
behalf; for what a thought would it have been to her at that moment o' time, if
that upright creature had made a fault to save her! She desired her father would
give Jeanie a' the gear - her ain (i.e. Effie's) mother's and a' - She had made
a deed, giving up her right, and it was in Mr. Novit's hand - Warld's gear was
henceforward the least of her care, nor was it likely to be muckle her mister -
She hoped this would make it easy for her sister to settle;« and immediately
after this expression, she wished Butler himself all good things, in return for
his kindness to her. »For herself,« she said, »she kend her lot would be a
waesome ane, but it was of her own framing, sae she desired the less pity. But,
for her friends' satisfaction, she wished them to know that she was gaun nae ill
gate - that they who had done her maist wrong were now willing to do her what
justice was in their power; and she would, in some warldly respects, be far
better off than she deserved. But she desired her family to remain satisfied
with this assurance, and give themselves no trouble in making farther inquiries
after her.«
    To David Deans and to Butler this letter gave very little comfort; for what
was to be expected from this unfortunate girl's uniting her fate to that of a
character so notorious as Robertson, who they readily guessed was alluded to in
the last sentence, excepting that she should become the partner and victim of
his future crimes? Jeanie, who knew George Staunton's character and real rank,
saw her sister's situation under a ray of better hope. She augured well of the
haste he had shown to reclaim his interest in Effie, and she trusted he had made
her his wife. If so, it seemed improbable that, with his expected fortune, and
high connections, he should again resume the life of criminal adventure which he
had led, especially since, as matters stood, his life depended upon his keeping
his own secret, which could only be done by an entire change of his habits, and
particularly by avoiding all those who had known the heir of Willingham under
the character of the audacious, criminal, and condemned Robertson.
    She thought it most likely that the couple would go abroad for a few years,
and not return to England until the affair of Porteous was totally forgotten.
Jeanie, therefore, saw more hopes for her sister than Butler or her father had
been able to perceive; but she was not at liberty to impart the comfort which
she felt in believing that she would be secure from the pressure of poverty, and
in little risk of being seduced into the paths of guilt. She could not have
explained this without making public what it was essentially necessary for
Effie's chance of comfort to conceal, the identity, namely, of George Staunton
and George Robertson. After all, it was dreadful to think that Effie had united
herself to a man condemned for felony, and liable to trial for murder, whatever
might be his rank in life, and the degree of his repentance. Besides, it was
melancholy to reflect, that, she herself being in possession of the whole
dreadful secret, it was most probable he would, out of regard to his own
feelings, and fear for his safety, never again permit her to see poor Effie.
After perusing and re-perusing her sister's valedictory letter, she gave ease to
her feelings in a flood of tears, which Butler in vain endeavoured to check by
every soothing attention in his power. She was obliged, however, at length to
look up and wipe her eyes, for her father, thinking he had allowed the lovers
time enough for conference, was now advancing towards them from the Lodge,
accompanied by the Captain of Knockdunder, or, as his friends called him for
brevity's sake, Duncan Knock, a title which some youthful exploits had rendered
peculiarly appropriate.
    This Duncan of Knockdunder was a person of first-rate importance in the
island of Roseneath, and the continental parishes of Knocktarlitie, Kilmun, and
so forth; nay, his influence extended as far as Cowal, where, however, it was
obscured by that of another factor. The Tower of Knockdunder still occupies,
with its remains, a cliff overhanging the Holy Loch. Duncan swore it had been a
royal castle; if so, it was one of the smallest, the space within only forming a
square of sixteen feet, and bearing therefore a ridiculous proportion to the
thickness of the walls, which was ten feet at least. Such as it was, however, it
had long given the title of Captain, equivalent to that of Chatellain, to the
ancestors of Duncan, who were retainers of the house of Argyle, and held a
hereditary jurisdiction under them, of little extent indeed, but which had great
consequence in their own eyes, and was usually administered with a vigour
somewhat beyond the law.
    The present representative of that ancient family was a stout short man
about fifty, whose pleasure it was to unite in his own person the dress of the
Highlands and Lowlands, wearing on his head a black tie-wig, surmounted by a
fierce cocked-hat, deeply guarded with gold lace, while the rest of his dress
consisted of the plaid and philabeg. Duncan superintended a district which was
partly Highland, partly Lowland, and therefore might be supposed to combine
their national habits, in order to show his impartiality to Trojan or Tyrian.
The incongruity, however, had a whimsical and ludicrous effect, as it made his
head and body look as if belonging to different individuals; or, as some one
said who had seen the executions of the insurgent prisoners in 1715, it seemed
as if some Jacobite enchanter, having recalled the sufferers to life, had
clapped, in his haste, an Englishman's head on a Highlander's body. To finish
the portrait, the bearing of the gracious Duncan was brief, bluff, and
consequential, and the upward turn of his short copper-coloured nose indicated
that he was somewhat addicted to wrath and usquebaugh.
    When this dignitary had advanced up to Butler and to Jeanie, »I take the
freedom, Mr. Deans,« he said in a very consequential manner, »to salute your
daughter, whilk I presume this young lass to be - I kiss every pretty girl that
comes to Roseneath, in virtue of my office.« Having made this gallant speech, he
took out his quid, saluted Jeanie with a hearty smack, and bade her welcome to
Argyle's country. Then addressing Butler, he said, »Ye maun gang ower and meet
the carle ministers yonder the morn, for they will want to do your job, and synd
it down with usquebaugh doubtless - they seldom make dry wark in this kintra.«
    »And the Laird« - said David Deans, addressing Butler in farther explanation
-
    »The Captain, man,« interrupted Duncan; »folk winna ken what ye are speaking
about, unless ye give shentlemens their proper title.«
    »The Captain, then,« said David, »assures me that the call is unanimous on
the part of the parishioners - a real harmonious call, Reuben.«
    »I pelieve,« said Duncan, »it was as harmonious as could pe expected, when
the tae half o' the bodies were clavering Sassenach, and the t'other skirling
Gaelic, like sea-maws and clackgeese before a storm. Ane wad hae needed the gift
of tongues to ken preceesely what they said - but I pelieve the best end of it
was, Long live MacCallummore and Knockdunder! - And as to its being an unanimous
call, I wad be glad to ken fat business the carles have to call ony thing or ony
body but what the Duke and mysell likes!«
    »Nevertheless,« said Mr. Butler, »if any of the parishioners have any
scruples, which sometimes happen in the mind of sincere professors, I should be
happy of an opportunity of trying to remove« -
    »Never fash your peard about it, man,« interrupted Duncan Knock - »Leave it
a' to me. - Scruple! deil ane o' them has been bred up to scruple anything that
they're bidden to do. And if sic a thing should happen as ye speak o', ye sall see
the sincere professor, as ye ca' him, towed at the stern of my boat for a few
furlongs. I'll try if the water of the Haly Loch winna wash off scruples as well
as fleas - Cot tam!« -
    The rest of Duncan's threat was lost in a growling gurgling sort of sound,
which he made in his throat, and which menaced recusants with no gentle means of
conversion. David Deans would certainly have given battle in defence of the
right of the Christian congregation to be consulted in the choice of their own
pastor, which, in his estimation, was one of the choicest and most inalienable
of their privileges; but he had again engaged in close conversation with Jeanie,
and, with more interest than he was in use to take in affairs foreign alike to
his occupation and to his religious tenets, was inquiring into the particulars
of her London journey. This was, perhaps, fortunate for the new-formed
friendship betwixt him and the Captain of Knockdunder, which rested, in David's
estimation, upon the proofs he had given of his skill in managing stock; but, in
reality, upon the special charge transmitted to Duncan from the Duke and his
agent, to behave with the utmost attention to Deans and his family.
    »And now, sirs,« said Duncan, in a commanding tone, »I am to pray ye a' to
come in to your supper, for yonder is Mr. Archibald half famished, and a Saxon
woman, that looks as if her een were fleeing out o' her head wi' fear and
wonder, as if she had never seen a shentleman in a philabeg pefore.«
    »And Reuben Butler.« said David, »will doubtless desire instantly to retire,
that he may prepare his mind for the exercise of to-morrow, that his work may
suit the day, and be an offering of a sweet savour in the nostrils of the
reverend Presbytery.«
    »Hout tout, man, it's but little ye ken about them,« interrupted the
Captain. »Teil a ane o' them wad give the savour of the hot venison pasty which I
smell« (turning his squab nose up in the air) »a' the way frae the Lodge, for a'
that Mr. Putler, or you either, can say to them.«
    David groaned; but judging he had to do with a Gallio, as he said, did not
think it worth his while to give battle. They followed the Captain to the house,
and arranged themselves with great ceremony round a well-loaded supper-table.
The only other circumstance of the evening worthy to be recorded is, that Butler
pronounced the blessing; that Knockdunder found it too long, and David Deans
censured it as too short, from which the charitable reader may conclude it was
exactly the proper length.
 

                              Chapter Forty-Fourth

 Now turn the Psalms of David ower,
 And lilt wi' holy clangor;
 Of double verse come give us four,
 And skirl up the Bangor.
                                                                          Burns.
 
The next was the important day, when, according to the forms and ritual of the
Scottish Kirk, Reuben Butler was to be ordained minister of Knocktarlitie, by
the Presbytery of -. And so eager were the whole party, that all, excepting Mrs.
Dutton, the destined Cowslip of Inverary, were stirring at an early hour.
    Their host, whose appetite was as quick and keen as his temper, was not long
in summoning them to a substantial breakfast, where there were at least a dozen
of different preparations of milk, plenty of cold meat, scores boiled and
roasted eggs, a huge cag of butter, half-a-firkin herrings boiled and broiled,
fresh and salt, and tea and coffee for them that liked it, which, as their
landlord assured them, with a nod and a wink, pointing, at the same time, to a
little cutter which seemed dodging under the lee of the island, cost them little
beside the fetching ashore.
    »Is the contraband trade permitted here so openly?« said Butler. »I should
think it very unfavourable to the people's morals.«
    »The Duke, Mr. Putler, has gien nae orders concerning the putting of it
down,« said the magistrate, and seemed to think that he had said all that was
necessary to justify his connivance.
    Butler was a man of prudence, and aware that real good can only be obtained
by remonstrance when remonstrance is well-timed; so for the present he said
nothing more on the subject.
    When breakfast was half over, in flounced Mrs. Dolly, as fine as a blue
sacque and cherry-coloured ribands could make her.
    »Good morrow to you, madam,« said the master of ceremonies; »I trust your
early rising will not skaith ye.«
    The dame apologised to Captain Knockunder, as she was pleased to term their
entertainer; »but, as we say in Cheshire,« she added, »I was like the Mayor of
Altringham, who lies in bed while his breeches are mending, for the girl did not
bring up the right bundle to my room, till she had brought up all the others by
mistake one after t'other. - Well, I suppose we are all for church to-day, as I
understand - Pray may I be so bold as to ask, if it is the fashion for your
North country gentlemen to go to church in your petticoats, Captain Knockunder?«
    »Captain of Knockdunder, madam, if you please, for I knock under to no man;
and in respect of my garb, I shall go to church as I am, at your service, madam;
for if I were to lie in bed like your Major What-d'ye-callum, till my preeches
were mended, I might be there all my life, seeing I never had a pair of them on
my person but twice in my life, which I am pound to remember, it peing when the
Duke brought his Duchess here, when her Grace pehoved to be pleasured; so I e'en
porrowed the minister's trews for the twa days his Grace was pleased to stay -
but I will put myself under sic confinement again for no man on earth, or woman
either, but her Grace being always excepted, as in duty pound.«
    The mistress of the milking-pail stared, but, making no answer to this round
declaration, immediately proceeded to show, that the alarm of the preceding
evening had in no degree injured her appetite.
    When the meal was finished, the Captain proposed to them to take boat, in
order that Mrs. Jeanie might see her new place of residence, and that he himself
might inquire whether the necessary preparations had been made there, and at the
Manse, for receiving the future inmates of these mansions.
    The morning was delightful, and the huge mountain-shadows slept upon the
mirrored wave of the firth, almost as little disturbed as if it had been an
inland lake. Even Mrs. Dutton's fears no longer annoyed her. She had been
informed by Archibald, that there was to be some sort of junketting after the
sermon, and that was what she loved dearly; and as for the water, it was so
still that it would look quite like a pleasuring on the Thames.
    The whole party being embarked, therefore, in a large boat, which the
captain called his coach and six, and attended by a smaller one termed his gig,
the gallant Duncan steered straight upon the little tower of the old-fashioned
church of Knocktarlitie, and the exertions of six stout rowers sped them rapidly
on their voyage. As they neared the land, the hills appeared to recede from
them, and a little valley, formed by the descent of a small river from the
mountains, evolved itself as it were upon their approach. The style of the
country on each side was simply pastoral, and resembled, in appearance and
character, the description of a forgotten Scottish poet, which runs nearly thus:
-
 
The water gently down a level slid,
With little din, but couthy what it made,
On ilka side the trees grew thick and lang,
And wi' the wild birds' notes were a' in sang;
On either side, a full bow-shot and mair,
The green was even, gowany, and fair;
With easy slope on every hand the braes
To the hills' feet with scatter'd bushes raise;
With goats and sheep aboon, and kye below,
The bonny banks all in a swarm did go.67
 
They landed in this Highland Arcadia, at the mouth of the small stream which
watered the delightful and peaceable valley. Inhabitants of several descriptions
came to pay their respects to the Captain of Knockdunder, a homage which he was
very peremptory in exacting, and to see the new settlers. Some of these were men
after David Deans's own heart, elders of the kirk-session, zealous professors,
from the Lennox, Lanarkshire, and Ayrshire, to whom the preceding Duke of Argyle
had given rooms in this corner of his estate, because they had suffered for
joining his father, the unfortunate Earl, during his ill-fated attempt in 1686.
These were cakes of the right leaven for David regaling himself with; and, had
it not been for this circumstance, he has been heard to say, »that the Captain
of Knockdunder would have swore him out of the country in twenty-four hours, sae
awsome it was to ony thinking soul to hear his imprecations, upon the slightest
temptation that crossed his humour.«
    Besides these, there were a wilder set of parishioners, mountaineers from
the upper glen and adjacent hill, who spoke Gaelic, went about armed, and wore
the Highland dress. But the strict commands of the Duke had established such
good order in this part of his territories, that the Gael and Saxons lived upon
the best possible terms of good neighbourhood.
    They first visited the Manse, as the parsonage is termed in Scotland. It was
old, but in good repair, and stood snugly embosomed in a grove of sycamore, with
a well-stocked garden in front, bounded by the small river, which was partly
visible from the windows, partly concealed by the bushes, trees, and bounding
hedge. Within, the house looked less comfortable than it might have been, for it
had been neglected by the late incumbent; but workmen had been labouring, under
the directions of the Captain of Knockdunder, and at the expense of the Duke of
Argyle, to put it into some order. The old »plenishing« had been removed, and
neat, but plain household furniture had been sent down by the Duke in a brig of
his own called the Caroline, and was now ready to be placed in order in the
apartments.
    The gracious Duncan, finding matters were at a stand among the workmen,
summoned before him the delinquents, and impressed all who heard him with a
sense of his authority, by the penalties with which he threatened them for their
delay. Mulcting them in half their charge, he assured them, would be the least
of it; for, if they were to neglect his pleasure and the Duke's, »he would be
tamn'd if he paid them the t'other half either, and they might seek law for it
where they could get it.« The work-people humbled themselves before the offended
dignitary, and spoke him soft and fair; and at length, upon Mr. Butler recalling
to his mind that it was the ordination-day, and that the workmen were probably
thinking of going to church, Knockdunder agreed to forgive them, out of respect
to their new minister.
    »But an I catch them neglecking my duty again, Mr. Putler, the teil pe in me
if the kirk shall be an excuse; for what has the like o' them rapparees to do at
the kirk ony day put Sundays, or then either, if the Duke and I has the
necessitous uses for them?«
    It may be guessed with what feelings of quiet satisfaction and delight
Butler looked forward to spending his days, honoured and useful as he trusted to
be, in this sequestered valley, and how often an intelligent glance was
exchanged betwixt him and Jeanie, whose good-humoured face looked positively
handsome, from the expression of modesty, and, at the same time, of
satisfaction, which she wore when visiting the apartments of which she was soon
to call herself mistress. She was left at liberty to give more open indulgence
to her feelings of delight and admiration, when, leaving the Manse, the company
proceeded to examine the destined habitation of David Deans.
    Jeanie found with pleasure that it was not above a musket-shot from the
Manse; for it had been a bar to her happiness to think she might be obliged to
reside at a distance from her father, and she was aware that there were strong
objections to his actually living in the same house with Butler. But this brief
distance was the very thing which she could have wished.
    The farm-house was on the plan of an improved cottage, and contrived with
great regard to convenience; an excellent little garden, an orchard, and a set
of offices complete, according to the best ideas of the time, combined to render
it a most desirable habitation for the practical farmer, and far superior to the
hovel at Woodend, and the small house at Saint Leonard's Crags. The situation
was considerably higher than that of the Manse, and fronted to the west. The
windows commanded an enchanting view of the little vale over which the mansion
seemed to preside, the windings of the stream, and the firth, with its
associated lakes and romantic islands. The hills of Dumbartonshire, once
possessed by the fierce clan of MacFarlanes, formed a crescent behind the
valley, and far to the right were seen the dusky and more gigantic mountains of
Argyleshire, with a seaward view of the shattered and thunder-splitten peaks of
Arran.
    But to Jeanie, whose taste for the picturesque, if she had any by nature,
had never been awakened or cultivated, the sight of the faithful old May Hettly,
as she opened the door to receive them in her clean toy, Sunday's russet-gown,
and blue apron, nicely smoothed down before her, was worth the whole varied
landscape. The raptures of the faithful old creature at seeing Jeanie were equal
to her own, as she hastened to assure her, »that baith the gudeman and the
beasts had been as well seen after as she possibly could contrive.« Separating
her from the rest of the company, May then hurried her young mistress to the
offices, that she might receive the compliments she expected for her care of the
cows. Jeanie rejoiced, in the simplicity of her heart, to see her charge once
more; and the mute favourites of our heroine, Gowans, and the others,
acknowledged her presence by lowing, turning round their broad and decent brows
when they heard her well-known »Pruh, my leddy - pruh, my woman,« and, by
various indications, known only to those who have studied the habits of the
milky mothers, showing sensible pleasure as she approached to caress them in
their turn.
    »The very brute beasts are glad to see ye again,« said May; »but nae wonder,
Jeanie, for ye were aye kind to beast and body. And I maun learn to ca' ye
mistress now, Jeanie, since ye hae been up to Lunnon, and seen the Duke, and the
King, and a' the braw folk. But what kens,« added the old dame slyly, »what I'll
hae to ca' ye forby mistress, for I am thinking it wunna lang be Deans.«
    »Ca' me your ain Jeanie, May, and then ye can never gang wrang.«
    In the cow-house which they examined, there was one animal which Jeanie
looked at till the tears gushed from her eyes. May, who had watched her with a
sympathising expression, immediately observed, in an under-tone, »The gudeman
aye sorts that beast himself, and is kinder to it than ony beast in the byre;
and I noticed he was that way e'en when he was angriest, and had maist cause to
be angry. - Eh, sirs! a parent's heart's a queer thing! - Mony a warsle he has
had for that puir lassie - I am thinking he petitions mair for her than for
your-sell, hinny; for what can he plead for you but just to wish you the
blessing ye deserve? And when I sleepit ayont the hallan, when we came first
here, he was often earnest a' night, and I could hear him come ower and ower
again wi', Effie - puir blinded misguided thing! it was aye Effie! Effie! - If
that puir wandering lamb comena into the sheepfauld in the Shepherd's ain time,
it will be an unco wonder, for I wot she has been a child of prayers. Oh, if the
puir prodigal wad return, sae blithely as the goodman wad kill the fatted calf!
- though Brockie's calf will no be fit for killing this three weeks yet.«
    And then, with the discursive talent of persons of her description, she got
once more afloat in her account of domestic affairs, and left this delicate and
affecting topic.
    Having looked at every thing in the offices and the dairy, and expressed her
satisfaction with the manner in which matters had been managed in her absence,
Jeanie rejoined the rest of the party, who were surveying the interior of the
house, all excepting David Deans and Butler, who had gone down to the church to
meet the kirk-session and the clergymen of the Presbytery, and arrange matters
for the duty of the day.
    In the interior of the cottage all was clean, neat, and suitable to the
exterior. It had been originally built and furnished by the Duke, as a retreat
for a favourite domestic of the higher class, who did not long enjoy it, and had
been dead only a few months, so that every thing was in excellent taste and good
order. But in Jeanie's bedroom was a neat trunk, which had greatly excited Mrs.
Dutton's curiosity, for she was sure that the direction, »For Mrs. Jean Deans,
at Auchingower, parish of Knocktarlitie,« was the writing of Mrs. Semple, the
Duchess's own woman. May Hettly produced the key in a sealed parcel, which bore
the same address, and attached to the key was a label, intimating that the trunk
and its contents were »a token of remembrance to Jeanie Deans, from her friends
the Duchess of Argyle and the young ladies.« The trunk, hastily opened, as the
reader will not doubt, was found to be full of wearing apparel of the best
quality, suited to Jeanie's rank in life; and to most of the articles the names
of the particular donors were attached, as if to make Jeanie sensible not only
of the general, but of the individual interest she had excited in the noble
family. To name the various articles by their appropriate names, would be to
attempt things unattempted yet in prose or rhyme; besides that the old-fashioned
terms of manteaus, sacques, kissing-strings, and so forth, would convey but
little information even to the milliners of the present day. I shall deposit,
however, an accurate inventory of the contents of the trunk with my kind friend,
Miss Martha Buskbody, who has promised, should the public curiosity seem
interested in the subject, to supply me with a professional glossary and
commentary. Suffice it to say, that the gift was such as became the donors, and
was suited to the situation of the receiver; that every thing was handsome and
appropriate, and nothing forgotten which belonged to the wardrobe of a young
person in Jeanie's situation in life, the destined bride of a respectable
clergyman.
    Article after article was displayed, commented upon, and admired, to the
wonder of May, who declared, »she didna think the queen had mair or better
claise,« and somewhat to the envy of the northern Cowslip. This unamiable, but
not very unnatural, disposition of mind, broke forth in sundry unfounded
criticisms to the disparagement of the articles, as they were severally
exhibited. But it assumed a more direct character, when, at the bottom of all,
was found a dress of white silk, very plainly made, but still of white silk, and
French silk to boot, with a paper pinned to it, bearing that it was a present
from the Duke of Argyle to his travelling companion, to be worn on the day when
she should change her name.
    Mrs. Dutton could forbear no longer, but whispered into Mr. Archibald's ear,
that it was a clever thing to be a Scotchwoman: »She supposed all her sisters,
and she had half-a-dozen, might have been hanged, without any one sending her a
present of a pocket handkerchief.«
    »Or without your making any exertion to save them, Mrs. Dolly,« answered
Archibald drily. - »But I am surprised we do not hear the bell yet,« said he,
looking at his watch.
    »Fat ta deil, Mr. Archibald,« answered the Captain of Knockdunder, »wad ye
hae them ring the bell before I am ready to gang to kirk? - I wad gar the bedral
eat the bell-rope, if he took ony sic freedom. But if ye want to hear the bell,
I will just show mysell on the knowe-head, and it will begin jowing forthwith.«
    Accordingly, so soon as they sallied out, and that the gold-laced hat of the
Captain was seen rising like Hesper above the dewy verge of the rising ground,
the clash (for it was rather a clash than a clang) of the bell was heard from
the old moss-grown tower, and the clapper continued to thump its cracked sides
all the while they advanced towards the kirk, Duncan exhorting them to take
their own time, »for teil ony sport wad be till he came.«68
    Accordingly, the bell only changed to the final and impatient chime when
they crossed the stile; and »rang in,« that is, concluded its mistuned summons,
when they had entered the Duke's seat, in the little kirk, where the whole party
arranged themselves, with Duncan at their head, excepting David Deans, who
already occupied a seat among the elders.
    The business of the day, with a particular detail of which it is unnecessary
to trouble the reader, was gone through according to the established form, and
the sermon pronounced upon the occasion had the good fortune to please even the
critical David Deans, though it was only an hour and a quarter long, which David
termed a short allowance of spiritual provender.
    The preacher, who was a divine that held many of David's opinions, privately
apologised for his brevity by saying, »That he observed the Captain was gaunting
grievously, and that if he had detained him longer, there was no knowing how
long he might be in paying the next term's victual stipend.«
    David groaned to find that such carnal motives could have influence upon the
mind of a powerful preacher. He had, indeed, been scandalised by another
circumstance during the service.
    So soon as the congregation were seated after prayers, and the clergyman had
read his text, the gracious Duncan, after rummaging the leathern purse which
hung in front of his petticoat, produced a short tobacco-pipe made of iron, and
observed, almost aloud, »I hae forgotten my spleuchan - Lachlan, gang down to
the clachan, and bring me up a pennyworth of twist.« Six arms, the nearest
within reach, presented, with an obedient start, as many tobacco-pouches to the
man of office. He made choice of one with an nod of acknowledgement, filled his
pipe, lighted it with the assistance of his pistol-flint, and smoked with
infinite composure during the whole time of the sermon. When the discourse was
finished, he knocked the ashes out of his pipe, replaced it in his sporran,
returned the tobacco-pouch or spleuchan to its owner, and joined in the prayer
with decency and attention.
    At the end of the service, when Butler had been admitted minister of the
kirk of Knocktarlitie, with all its spiritual immunities and privileges, David,
who had frowned, groaned, and murmured at Knockdunder's irreverent demeanour,
communicated his plain thoughts of the matter to Isaac Meiklehose, one of the
elders, with whom a reverential aspect and huge grizzle wig had especially
disposed him to seek fraternisation. »It didna become a wild Indian,« David
said, »much less a Christian, and a gentleman, to sit in the kirk puffing
tobacco-reek, as if he were in a change-house.«
    Meiklehose shook his head, and allowed it was »far frae beseeming - But what
will ye say? The Captain's a queer hand, and to speak to him about that or
anything else that crosses the maggot, wad be to set the kiln a-low. He keeps a
high hand ower the country, and we couldn't have deal wi' the Hielandmen without his
protection, sin' a' the keys o' the kintray hings at his belt; and he's no an
ill body in the main, and maistry, ye ken, maws the meadows doun.«
    »That may be very true, neighbour,« said David; »but Reuben Butler isna the
man I take him to be, if he disna learn the Captain to fuff his pipe some other
gate than in God's house, or the quarter be ower.«
    »Fair and softly gangs far,« said Meiklehose; »and if a fule may give a wise
man a counsel, I wad hae him think twice or he mells with Knockdunder - He should
hae a lang-shankit spune that wad sup kail wi' the deil. But they are a' away to
their dinner to the change-house, and if we dinna mend our pace, we'll come
short at meal-time.«
    David accompanied his friend without answer; but began to feel from
experience, that the glen of Knocktarlitie, like the rest of the world, was
haunted by its own special subjects of regret and discontent. His mind was so
much occupied by considering the best means of converting Duncan of Knock to a
sense of reverend decency during public worship, that he altogether forgot to
inquire whether Butler was called upon to subscribe the oaths to Government.
    Some have insinuated, that his neglect on this head was, in some degree,
intentional; but I think this explanation inconsistent with the simplicity of my
friend David's character. Neither have I ever been able, by the most minute
inquiries, to know whether the formula, at which he so much scrupled, had been
exacted from Butler, ay or no. The books of the kirk-session might have thrown
some light on this matter; but unfortunately they were destroyed in the year
1746, by one Donacha Dhu na Dunaigh, at the instance, it was said, or at least
by the connivance, of the gracious Duncan of Knock, who had a desire to
obliterate the recorded foibles of a certain Kate Finlayson.
 

                              Chapter Forty-Fifth

 Now butt and been the change-house fills
 Wi' yill-caup commentators,
 Here's crying out for bakes and gills,
 And there the pint-stoup clatters.
 Wi' thick and thrang, and loud and lang, -
 Wi' logic and wi' scripture,
 They raise a din that in the end
 Is like to breed a rupture,
 O' wrath that day.
                                                                          Burns.
 
A plentiful entertainment, at the Duke of Argyle's cost, regaled the reverend
gentlemen who had assisted at the ordination of Reuben Butler, and almost all
the respectable part of the parish. The feast was, indeed, such as the country
itself furnished; for plenty of all the requisites for »a rough and round
dinner« were always at Duncan of Knock's command. There was the beef and mutton
on the braes, the fresh and salt-water fish in the lochs, the brooks, and firth;
game of every kind, from the deer to the leveret, were to be had for the
killing, in the Duke's forests, moors, heaths, and mosses; and for liquor,
home-brewed ale flowed as freely as water; brandy and usquebaugh both were had
in those happy times without duty; even white wine and claret were got for
nothing, since the Duke's extensive rights of admiralty gave him a title to all
the wine in cask which is drifted ashore on the western coast and isles of
Scotland, when shipping have suffered by severe weather. In short, as Duncan
boasted, the entertainment did not cost MacCallummore a plack out of his
sporran, and was nevertheless not only liberal, but overflowing.
    The Duke's health was solemnised in a bonâ fide bumper, and David Deans
himself added perhaps the first huzza that his lungs had ever uttered, to swell
the shout with which the pledge was received. Nay, so exalted in heart was he
upon this memorable occasion, and so much disposed to be indulgent, that he
expressed no dissatisfaction when three bagpipers struck up, »The Campbells are
coming.« The health of the reverend minister of Knocktarlitie was received with
similar honours; and there was a roar of laughter, when one of his brethren
slyly subjoined the addition of, »A good wife to our brother, to keep the Manse
in order.« On this occasion David Deans was delivered of his first-born joke;
and apparently the parturition was accompanied with many throes, for sorely did
he twist about his physiognomy, and much did he stumble in his speech, before he
could express his idea, »That the lad being now wedded to his spiritual bride,
it was hard to threaten him with ane temporal spouse in the same day.« He then
laughed a hoarse and brief laugh, and was suddenly grave and silent, as if
abashed at his own vivacious effort.
    After another toast or two, Jeanie, Mrs. Dolly, and such of the female
natives as had honoured the feast with their presence, retired to David's new
dwelling at Auchingower, and left the gentlemen to their potations.
    The feast proceeded with great glee. The conversation, where Duncan had it
under his direction, was not indeed always strictly canonical, but David Deans
escaped any risk of being scandalised, by engaging with one of his neighbours in
a recapitulation of the sufferings of Ayrshire and Lanarkshire, during what was
called the invasion of the Highland Host; the prudent Mr. Meiklehose cautioning
them from time to time to lower their voices, »for that Duncan Knock's father
had been at that onslaught, and brought back muckle good plenishing, and that
Duncan was no unlikely to hae been there himself, for what he kend.«
    Meanwhile, as the mirth grew fast and furious, the graver members of the
party began to escape as well as they could. David Deans accomplished his
retreat, and Butler anxiously watched an opportunity to follow him. Knockdunder,
however, desirous, he said, of knowing what stuff was in the new minister, had
no intention to part with him so easily, but kept him pinned to his side,
watching him sedulously, and with obliging violence filling his glass to the
brim, as often as he could seize an opportunity of doing so. At length, as the
evening was wearing late, a venerable brother chanced to ask Mr. Archibald when
they might hope to see the Duke, tam carum caput, as he would venture to term
him, at the Lodge of Roseneath. Duncan of Knock, whose ideas were somewhat
conglomerated, and who, it may be believed, was no great scholar, catching up
some imperfect sound of the words, conceived the speaker was drawing a parallel
between the Duke and Sir Donald Gorme of Sleat; and being of opinion that such
comparison was odious, snorted thrice, and prepared himself to be in a passion.
    To the explanation of the venerable divine the Captain answered, »I heard
the word Gorme myself, sir, with my ain ears. D'ye think I do not know Gaelic
from Latin?«
    »Apparently not, sir;« - so the clergyman, offended in his turn, and taking
a pinch of snuff, answered with great coolness.
    The copper nose of the gracious Duncan now became heated like the Bull of
Phalaris, and while Mr. Archibald mediated betwixt the offended parties, and the
attention of the company was engaged by their dispute, Butler took an
opportunity to effect his retreat.
    He found the females at Auchingower very anxious for the breaking up of the
convivial party; for it was a part of the arrangement, that although David Deans
was to remain at Auchingower, and Butler was that night to take possession of
the Manse, yet Jeanie, for whom complete accommodations were not yet provided in
her father's house, was to return for a day or two to the Lodge at Roseneath,
and the boats had been held in readiness accordingly. They waited, therefore,
for Knockdunder's return, but twilight came, and they still waited in vain. At
length Mr. Archibald, who was a man of decorum, had taken care not to exceed in
his conviviality, made his appearance, and advised the females strongly to
return to the island under his escort; observing, that, from the humour in which
he had left the Captain, it was a great chance whether he budged out of the
public-house that night, and it was absolutely certain that he would not be very
fit company for ladies. The gig was at their disposal, he said, and there was
still pleasant twilight for a party on the water.
    Jeanie, who had considerable confidence in Archibald's prudence, immediately
acquiesced in this proposal; but Mrs. Dolly positively objected to the small
boat. If the big boat could be gotten, she agreed to set out, otherwise she
would sleep on the floor, rather than stir a step. Reasoning with Dolly was out
of the question, and Archibald did not think the difficulty so pressing as to
require compulsion. He observed, it was not using the Captain very politely to
deprive him of his coach and six; »but as it was in the ladies' service,« he
gallantly said, »he would use so much freedom - besides the gig would serve the
Captain's purpose better, as it could come off at any hour of the tide; the
large boat should, therefore, be at Mrs. Dolly's service.«
    They walked to the beach accordingly, accompanied by Butler. It was some
time before the boatmen could be assembled, and ere they were well embarked, and
ready to depart the pale moon was come over the hill, and flinging a trembling
reflection on the broad and glittering waves. But so soft and pleasant was the
night, that Butler, in bidding farewell to Jeanie, had no apprehension for her
safety; and what is yet more extraordinary, Mrs. Dolly felt no alarm for her
own. The air was soft, and came over the cooling wave with something of summer
fragrance. The beautiful scene of headlands, and capes, and bays, around them,
with the broad blue chain of mountains, were dimly visible in the moonlight;
while every dash of the oars made the waters glance and sparkle with the
brilliant phenomenon called the sea fire.
    This last circumstance filled Jeanie with wonder, and served to amuse the
mind of her companion, until they approached the little bay, which seemed to
stretch its dark and wooded arms into the sea as if to welcome them.
    The usual landing-place was at a quarter of a mile's distance from the
Lodge, and although the tide did not admit of the large boat coming quite close
to the jetty of loose stones which served as a pier, Jeanie, who was both bold
and active, easily sprung ashore; but Mrs. Dolly positively refusing to commit
herself to the same risk, the complaisant Mr. Archibald ordered the boat round
to a more regular landing-place, at a considerable distance along the shore. He
then prepared to land himself, that he might, in the meanwhile, accompany Jeanie
to the Lodge. But as there was no mistaking the woodland lane, which led from
thence to the shore, and as the moonlight showed her one of the white chimneys
rising out of the wood which embosomed the building, Jeanie declined this favour
with thanks, and requested him to proceed with Mrs. Dolly, who, being »in a
country where the ways were so strange to her, had mair need of countenance.«
    This, indeed, was a fortunate circumstance, and might even be said to save
poor Cowslip's life, if it was true, as she herself used solemnly to aver, that
she must positively have expired for fear, if she had been left alone in the
boat with six wild Highlanders in kilts.
    The night was so exquisitely beautiful, that Jeanie, instead of immediately
directing her course towards the Lodge, stood looking after the boat as it again
put off from the side, and rowed into the little bay, the dark figures of her
companions growing less and less distinct as they diminished in the distance,
and the jorram, or melancholy boat-song of the rowers, coming on the ear with
softened and sweeter sound, until the boat rounded the headland, and was lost to
her observation.
    Still Jeanie remained in the same posture, looking out upon the sea. It
would, she was aware, be some time ere her companions could reach the Lodge, as
the distance by the more convenient landing-place was considerably greater than
from the point where she stood, and she was not sorry to have an opportunity to
spend the interval by herself.
    The wonderful change which a few weeks had wrought in her situation, from
shame and grief, and almost despair, to honour, joy, and a fair prospect of
future happiness, passed before her eyes with a sensation which brought the
tears into them. Yet they flowed at the same time from another source. As human
happiness is never perfect, and as well-constructed minds are never more
sensible of the distresses of those whom they love, than when their own
situation forms a contrast with them, Jeanie's affectionate regrets turned to
the fate of her poor sister - the child of so many hopes - the fondled nursling
of so many years - now an exile, and, what was worse, dependent on the will of a
man, of whose habits she had every reason to entertain the worst opinion, and
who, even in his strongest paroxysms of remorse, had appeared too much a
stranger to the feelings of real penitence.
    While her thoughts were occupied with these melancholy reflections, a
shadowy figure seemed to detach itself from the copsewood on her right hand.
Jeanie started, and the stories of apparitions and wraiths, seen by solitary
travellers in wild situations, at such times, and in such an hour, suddenly came
full upon her imagination. The figure glided on, and as it came betwixt her and
the moon, she was aware that it had the appearance of a woman. A soft voice
twice repeated, »Jeanie - Jeanie!« - Was it indeed - could it be the voice of
her sister? - Was she still among the living, or had the grave given up its
tenant? - Ere she could state these questions to her own mind, Effie, alive, and
in the body, had clasped her in her arms, and was straining her to her bosom,
and devouring her with kisses. »I have wandered here,« she said, »like a ghost,
to see you, and nae wonder you take me for ane - I thought but to see you gang
by, or to hear the sound, of your voice; but to speak to yoursell again, Jeanie,
was mair than I deserved, and mair than I durst pray for.«
    »O Effie! how came ye here alone, and at this hour, and on the wild
sea-beach? - Are you sure it's your ain living sell?«
    There was something of Effie's former humour in her practically answering
the question by a gentle pinch, more beseeming the fingers of a fairy than of a
ghost. And again the sisters embraced, and laughed, and wept by turns.
    »But ye maun gang up wi' me to the Lodge, Effie,« said Jeanie, »and tell me
a' your story - I hae good folk there that will make ye welcome for my sake.«
    »Na, na, Jeanie,« replied her sister sorrowfully, - »ye hae forgotten what I
am - a banished outlawed creature, scarce escaped the gallows by your being the
bauldest and the best sister that ever lived - I'll gave near nane o' your grand
friends, even if there was nae danger to me.«
    »There is nae danger - there shall be nae danger,« said Jeanie eagerly. »O
Effie, dinna be wilfu' - be guided for ance - we will be sae happy a'
thegither!«
    »I have a' the happiness I deserve on this side of the grave, now that I hae
seen you,« answered Effie; »and whether there were danger to mysell or no,
nobody shall ever say that I come with my cheat-the-gallows face to shame my
sister among her grand friends.«
    »I hae nae grand friends,« said Jeanie; »nae friends but what are friends of
yours - Reuben Butler and my father. - O unhappy lassie, dinna be dour, and turn
your back on your happiness again! We wunna see another acquaintance - Come hame
to us, your ain dearest friends - it's better sheltering under an auld hedge
than under a new-planted wood.«
    »It's in vain speaking, Jeanie, - I maun drink as I hae brewed - I am
married, and I maun follow my husband for better for worse.«
    »Married, Effie!« exclaimed Jeanie - »Misfortunate creature! and to that
awful« -
    »Hush, hush,« said Effie, clapping one hand on her mouth, and pointing to
the thicket with the other, »he is yonder.«
    She said this in a tone which showed that her husband had found means to
inspire her with awe, as well as affection. At this moment a man issued from the
wood.
    It was young Staunton. Even by the imperfect light of the moon, Jeanie could
observe that he was handsomely dressed, and had the air of a person of rank.
    »Effie,« he said, »our time is well-nigh spent - the skiff will be aground
in the creek, and I dare not stay longer. - I hope your sister will allow me to
salute her?« But Jeanie shrunk back from him with a feeling of internal
abhorrence. »Well,« he said, »it does not much signify; if you keep up the
feeling of ill-will, at least you do not act upon it, and I thank you for your
respect to my secret, when a word (which in your place I would have spoken at
once) would have cost me my life. People say, you should keep from the wife of
your bosom the secret that concerns your neck - my wife and her sister both know
mine, and I shall not sleep a wink the less sound.«
    »But are you really married to my sister, sir?« asked Jeanie, in great doubt
and anxiety; for the haughty, careless tone in which he spoke seemed to justify
her worst apprehensions.
    »I really am legally married, and by my own name,« replied Staunton, more
gravely.
    »And your father - and your friends?«
    »And my father and my friends must just reconcile themselves to that which
is done and cannot be undone,« replied Staunton. »However, it is my intention,
in order to break off dangerous connections, and to let my friends come to their
temper, to conceal my marriage for the present, and stay abroad for some years.
So that you will not hear of us for some time, if ever you hear of us again at
all. It would be dangerous, you must be aware, to keep up the correspondence;
for all would guess that the husband of Effie was the - what shall I call
myself? - the slayer of Porteous.«
    Hard-hearted light man! thought Jeanie - to what a character she has
entrusted her happiness! - She has sown the wind, and maun reap the whirlwind.
    »Dinna think ill o' him,« said Effie, breaking away from her husband, and
leading Jeanie a step or two out of hearing - »dinna think very ill o' him -
he's good to me, Jeanie - as good as I deserve - And he is determined to give up
his bad courses - Sae, after a', dinna greet for Effie; she is better off than
she has wrought for. - But you - oh, you! - how can you be happy enough! never
till ye get to heaven, where a'body is as good as yoursell. - Jeanie, if I live
and thrive, ye shall hear of me - if not, just forget that sic a creature ever
lived to vex ye - fare ye well - fare - fare ye well!«
    She tore herself from her sister's arms - rejoined her husband - they
plunged into the copsewood, and she saw them no more. The whole scene had the
effect of a vision, and she could almost have believed it such, but that very
soon after they quitted her, she heard the sound of oars, and a skiff was seen
on the firth, pulling swiftly towards the small smuggling sloop which lay in the
offing. It was on board of such a vessel that Effie had embarked at Portobello,
and Jeanie had no doubt that the same conveyance was destined, as Staunton had
hinted, to transport them to a foreign country.
    Although it was impossible to determine whether this interview, while it was
passing, gave more pain or pleasure to Jeanie Deans, yet the ultimate impression
which remained on her mind was decidedly favourable. Effie was married - made,
according to the common phrase, an honest woman - that was one main point; it
seemed also as if her husband were about to abandon the path of gross vice in
which he had run so long and so desperately - that was another. For his final
and effectual conversion he did not want understanding, and God knew his own
hour.
    Such were the thoughts with which Jeanie endeavoured to console her anxiety
respecting her sister's future fortune. On her arrival at the lodge, she found
Archibald in some anxiety at her stay, and about to walk out in quest of her. A
headache served as an apology for retiring to rest, in order to conceal her
visible agitation of mind from her companions.
    By this secession also she escaped a scene of a different sort. For, as if
there were danger in all gigs, whether by sea or land, that of Knockdunder had
been run down by another boat, an accident owing chiefly to the drunkenness of
the Captain, his crew, and passengers. Knockdunder, and two or three guests,
whom he was bringing along with him to finish the conviviality of the evening at
the Lodge, got a sound ducking; but, being rescued by the crew of the boat which
endangered them, there was no ultimate loss, excepting that of the Captain's
laced hat, which, greatly to the satisfaction of the Highland part of the
district, as well as to the improvement of the conformity of his own personal
appearance, he replaced by a smart Highland bonnet next day. Many were the
vehement threats of vengeance which, on the succeeding morning, the gracious
Duncan threw out against the boat which had upset him; but as neither she, nor
the small smuggling vessel to which she belonged, was any longer to be seen in
the firth, he was compelled to sit down with the affront. This was the more
hard, he said, as he was assured the mischief was done on purpose, these
scoundrels having lurked about after they had landed every drop of brandy, and
every bag of tea they had on board; and he understood the coxswain had been on
shore, making particular inquiries concerning the time when his boat was to
cross over, and to return, and so forth.
    »Put the neist time they meet me on the firth,« said Duncan, with great
majesty, »I will teach the moonlight rapscallions and vagabonds to keep their
ain side of the road, and pe tamn'd to them!«
 

                              Chapter Forty-Sixth

 Lord! who would live turmoiled in a court,
 And may enjoy such quiet walks as these?
                                                                    Shakespeare.
 
Within a reasonable time after Butler was safely and comfortably settled in his
living, and Jeanie had taken up her abode at Auchingower with her father, - the
precise extent of which interval we request each reader to settle according to
his own sense of what is decent and proper upon the occasion, - and after due
proclamation of banns, and all other formalities, the long wooing of this worthy
pair was ended by their union in the holy bands of matrimony. On this occasion,
David Deans stoutly withstood the iniquities of pipes, fiddles, and promiscuous
dancing, to the great wrath of the Captain of Knockdunder, who said, if he »had
guessed it was to be sic a tamn'd Quakers' meeting, he wad hae seen them peyont
the cairn before he wad hae darkened their doors.«
    And so much rancour remained on the spirits of the gracious Duncan upon this
occasion, that various »picqueerings,« as David called them, took place upon the
same and similar topics; and it was only in consequence of an accidental visit
of the Duke to his Lodge at Roseneath, that they were put a stop to. But upon
that occasion his Grace showed such particular respect to Mr. and Mrs. Butler,
and such favour even to old David, that Knockdunder held it prudent to change
his course towards the latter. He, in future, used to express himself among
friends, concerning the minister and his wife, as »very worthy decent folk, just
a little over strict in their notions; put it was pest for thae plack cattle to
err on the safe side.« And respecting David, he allowed that »he was an
excellent judge of nowte and sheep, and a sensible enough carle, an it werena
for his tamn'd Cameronian nonsense, whilk it is not worth while of a shentleman
to knock out of an auld silly head, either by force of reason or otherwise.« So
that, by avoiding topics of dispute, the personages of our tale lived in great
good habits with the gracious Duncan, only that he still grieved David's soul,
and set a perilous example to the congregation, by sometimes bringing his pipe
to the church during a cold winter day, and almost always sleeping during sermon
in the summer time.
    Mrs. Butler, whom we must no longer, if we can help it, term by the familiar
name of Jeanie, brought into the married state the same firm mind and
affectionate disposition - the same natural and homely good sense, and spirit of
useful exertion - in a word, all the domestic good qualities of which she had
given proof during her maiden life. She did not indeed rival Butler in learning;
but then no woman more devoutly venerated the extent of her husband's erudition.
She did not pretend to understand his expositions of divinity; but no minister
of the Presbytery had his humble dinner so well arranged, his clothes and linen
in equal good order, his fireside so neatly swept, his parlour so clean, and his
books so well dusted.
    If he talked to Jeanie of what she did not understand - and (for the man was
mortal, and had been a schoolmaster) he sometimes did harangue more scholarly
and wisely than was necessary - she listened in placid silence; and whenever the
point referred to common life, and was such as came under the grasp of a strong
natural understanding, her views were more forcible, and her observations more
acute, than his own. In acquired politeness of manners, when it happened that
she mingled a little in society, Mrs. Butler was, of course, judged deficient.
But then she had that obvious wish to oblige, and that real and natural
good-breeding depending on good sense and good humour, which, joined to a
considerable degree of archness and liveliness of manner, rendered her behaviour
acceptable to all with whom she was called upon to associate. Notwithstanding
her strict attention to all domestic affairs, she always appeared the clean
well-dressed mistress of the house, never the sordid household drudge. When
complimented on this occasion by Duncan Knock, who swore »that he thought the
fairies must help her, since her house was always clean, and nobody ever saw
anybody sweeping it,« she modestly replied, »That much might be dune by timing
ane's turns.«
    Duncan replied, »He heartily wished she could teach that art to the huzzies
at the Lodge, for he could never discover that the house was washed at a',
except now and then by breaking his shins over the pail - Cot tamn the jauds!«
    Of lesser matters there is not occasion to speak much. It may easily be
believed that the Duke's cheese was carefully made, and so graciously accepted,
that the offering became annual. Remembrances and acknowledgments of past
favours were sent to Mrs. Bickerton and Mrs. Glass, and an amicable intercourse
maintained from time to time with these two respectable and benevolent persons.
    It is especially necessary to mention that, in the course of five years,
Mrs. Butler had three children, two boys and a girl, all stout healthy babes of
grace, fair-haired, blue-eyed, and strong-limbed. The boys were named David and
Reuben, an order of nomenclature which was much to the satisfaction of the old
hero of the Covenant, and the girl, by her mother's special desire, was
christened Euphemia, rather contrary to the wish both of her father and husband,
who nevertheless loved Mrs. Butler too well, and were too much indebted to her
for their hours of happiness, to withstand any request which she made with
earnestness, and as a gratification to herself. But from some feeling, I know
not of what kind, the child was never distinguished by the name of Effie, but by
the abbreviation of Femie, which in Scotland is equally commonly applied to
persons called Euphemia.
    In this state of quiet and unostentatious enjoyment, there were, besides the
ordinary rubs and ruffles which disturb even the most uniform life, two things
which particularly chequered Mrs. Butler's happiness. »Without these,« she said
to our informer, »her life would have been but too happy; and perhaps,« she
added, »she had need of some crosses in this world to remind her that there was
a better to come behind it.«
    The first of these related to certain polemical skirmishes betwixt her
father and her husband, which, notwithstanding the mutual respect and affection
they entertained for each other, and their great love for her - notwithstanding,
also, their general agreement in strictness, and even severity, of Presbyterian
principle - often threatened unpleasant weather between them. David Deans, as
our readers must be aware, was sufficiently opinionative and intractable, and
having prevailed on himself to become a member of a kirk-session under the
Established Church, he felt doubly obliged to evince that, in so doing, he had
not compromised any whit of his former professions, either in practice or
principle. Now Mr. Butler, doing all credit to his father-in-law's motives, was
frequently of opinion that it were better to drop out of memory points of
division and separation, and to act in the manner most likely to attract and
unite all parties who were serious in religion. Moreover, he was not pleased, as
a man and a scholar, to be always dictated, to by his unlettered father-in-law;
and as a clergyman, he did not think it fit to seem for ever under the thumb of
an elder of his own kirk-session. A proud but honest thought carried his
opposition now and then a little farther than it would otherwise have gone. »My
brethren,« he said, »will suppose I am flattering and conciliating the old man
for the sake of his succession, if I defer and give way to him on every
occasion; and, besides, there are many on which I neither can nor will
conscientiously yield to his notions. I cannot be persecuting old women for
witches, or ferreting out matter of scandal among the young ones, which might
otherwise have remained concealed.«
    From this difference of opinion it happened that, in many cases of nicety,
such as in owning certain defections, and failing to testify against certain
backslidings of the time, in not always severely tracing forth little matters of
scandal and fama clamosa, which David called a loosening of the reins of
discipline, and in failing to demand clear testimonies in other points of
controversy which had, as it were, drifted to leeward with the change of times,
Butler incurred the censure of his father-in-law; and sometimes the disputes
betwixt them became eager and almost unfriendly. In all such cases Mrs. Butler
was a mediating spirit, who endeavoured, by the alkaline smoothness of her own
disposition, to neutralise the acidity of theological controversy. To the
complaints of both she lent an unprejudiced and attentive ear, and sought always
rather to excuse than absolutely to defend the other party.
    She reminded her father that Butler had not »his experience of the auld and
wrastling times, when folk were gifted wi' a far look into eternity, to make up
for the oppressions whilk they suffered here below in time. She freely allowed
that many devout ministers and professors in times past had enjoyed downright
revelation, like the blessed Peden, and Lundie, and Cameron, and Renwick, and
John Caird the tinkler, what entered into the secrets, and Elizabeth Melvil, Lady
Culross, what prayed in her bed, surrounded by a great many Christians in a large
room, in whilk it was placed on purpose, and that for three hours' time, with
wonderful assistance; and Lady Robertland, whilk got six sure outgates of grace,
and mony other in times past; and of a specialty, Mr. John Scrimgeour, minister
of Kinghorn, who, having a beloved child sick to death of the crewels, was free
to expostulate with his Maker with such impatience of displeasure, and
complaining so bitterly, that at length it was said unto him, that he was heard
for this time, but that he was requested to use no such boldness in time coming;
so that when he returned he found the child sitting up in the bed hale and fair,
with all its wounds closed, and supping its parritch, whilk babe he had left at
the time of death. But though these things might be true in these needful times,
she contended that those ministers who had not seen such vouchsafed and especial
mercies, were to seek their rule in the records of ancient times; and therefore
Reuben was carefu' both to search the Scriptures and the books written by wise
and good men of old; and sometimes in this way it wad happen that twa precious
saints might pu' sundry wise, like twa cows riving at the same hayband.«
    To this David used to reply, with a sigh, »Ah, hinny, thou kenn'st little
o't; but that saam John Scrimgeour, that blew open the gates of heaven as an it
had been wi' a sax-pund cannon-ball, used devoutly to wish that most part of
books were burnt, except the Bible. Reuben's a good lad and a kind - I have aye
allowed that; but as to his not allowing inquiry anent the scandal of Marjory
Kittlesides and Rory MacRand, under pretence that they have southered sin wi'
marriage, it's clear agane the Christian discipline o' the kirk. And then
there's Aily MacClure of Deepheugh, that practises her abominations, spaeing
folks' fortunes wi' egg-shells, and mutton-banes, and dreams and divinations,
whilk is a scandal to ony Christian land to suffer sic a wretch to live; and
I'll uphaud that, in a judicatures, civil or ecclesiastical.«
    »I daresay ye are very right, father,« was the general style of Jeanie's
answer; »but ye maun come down to the Manse to your dinner the day. The bits o'
bairns, puir things, are wearying to see their luckie dad; and Reuben never
sleeps well, nor I neither, when you and he hae had ony bit outcast.«
    »Nae outcast, Jeanie; God forbid I should cast out wi' thee, or aught that is
dear to thee!« And he put on his Sunday's coat, and came to the Manse
accordingly.
    With her husband, Mrs. Butler had a more direct conciliatory process. Reuben
had the utmost respect for the old man's motives, and affection for his person,
as well as gratitude for his early friendship. So that, upon any such occasion
of accidental irritation, it was only necessary to remind him with delicacy of
his father-in-law's age, of his scanty education, strong prejudices, and family
distresses. The least of these considerations always inclined Butler to measures
of conciliation, in so far as he could accede to them without compromising
principle; and thus our simple and unpretending heroine had the merit of those
peacemakers, to whom it is pronounced as a benediction, that they shall inherit
the earth.
    The second crook in Mrs. Butler's lot, to use the language of her father,
was the distressing circumstance, that she had never heard of her sister's
safety, or of the circumstances in which she found herself, though betwixt four
and five years had elapsed since they had parted on the beach of the island of
Roseneath. Frequent intercourse was not to be expected - not to be desired,
perhaps, in their relative situations; but Effie had promised, that, if she
lived and prospered, her sister should hear from her. She must then be no more,
or sunk into some abyss of misery, since she had never redeemed her pledge. Her
silence seemed strange and portentous, and wrung from Jeanie, who could never
forget the early years of their intimacy, the most painful anticipation
concerning her fate. At length, however, the veil was drawn aside.
    One day, as the Captain of Knockdunder had called in at the Manse, on his
return from some business in the Highland part of the parish, and had been
accommodated, according to his special request, with a mixture of milk, brandy,
honey, and water, which he said Mrs. Butler compounded »petter than ever a woman
in Scotland,« - for, in all innocent matters, she studied the taste of every one
around her, - he said to Butler, »Py the py, minister, I have a letter here
either for your canny pody of a wife or you, which I got when I was last at
Glasco; the postage comes to fourpence, which you may either pay me forthwith,
or give me tooble or quits in a hit at packcammon.«
    The playing at backgammon and draughts had been a frequent amusement of Mr.
Whackbairn, Butler's principal, when at Liberton school. The minister,
therefore, still piqued himself on his skill at both games, and occasionally
practised them, as strictly canonical, although David Deans, whose notions of
every kind were more rigorous, used to shake his head, and groan grievously,
when he espied the tables lying in the parlour, or the children playing with the
dice boxes or backgammon men. Indeed, Mrs. Butler was sometimes chidden for
removing these implements of pastime into some closet or corner out of sight.
»Let them be where they are, Jeanie,« would Butler say upon such occasions; »I
am not conscious of following this, or any other trifling relaxation, to the
interruption of my more serious studies, and still more serious duties. I will
not, therefore, have it supposed that I am indulging by stealth, and against my
conscience, in an amusement which, using it so little as I do, I may well
practise openly, and without any check of mind - Nil conscire sibi, Jeanie, that
is my motto; which signifies, my love, the honest and open confidence which a
man ought to entertain when he is acting openly, and without any sense of doing
wrong.«
    Such being Butler's humour, he accepted the Captain's defiance to a twopenny
hit at backgammon, and handed the letter to his wife, observing the post-mark
was York, but, if it came from her friend Mrs. Bickerton, she had considerably
improved her handwriting, which was uncommon at her years.
    Leaving the gentlemen to their game, Mrs. Butler went to order something for
supper, for Captain Duncan had proposed kindly to stay the night with them, and
then carelessly broke open her letter. It was not from Mrs. Bickerton; and,
after glancing over the first few lines, she soon found it necessary to retire
to her own bedroom, to read the document at leisure.
 

                             Chapter Forty-Seventh

 Happy thou art! then happy be,
 Nor envy me my lot;
 Thy happy state I envy thee,
 And peaceful cot.
                                                        Lady Charlotte Campbell.
 
The letter, which Mrs. Butler, when retired into her own apartment, perused with
anxious wonder, was certainly from Effie, although it had no other signature
than the letter E.; and although the orthography, style, and penmanship, were
very far superior not only to anything which Effie could produce, who, though a
lively girl, had been a remarkably careless scholar, but even to her more
considerate sister's own powers of composition and expression. The manuscript
was a fair Italian hand, though something stiff and constrained - the spelling
and the diction that of a person who had been accustomed to read good
composition, and mix in good society.
    The tenor of the letter was as follows: -
 
        »My Dearest Sister, - At many risks I venture to write to you, to inform
        you that I am still alive, and, as to worldly situation, that I rank
        higher than I could expect or merit. If wealth, and distinction, and an
        honourable rank, could make a woman happy, I have them all; but you,
        Jeanie, whom the world might think placed far beneath me in all these
        respects, are far happier than I am. I have had means of hearing of your
        welfare, my dearest Jeanie, from time to time - I think I should have
        broken my heart otherwise. I have learned with great pleasure of your
        increasing family. We have not been worthy of such a blessing; two
        infants have been successively removed, and we are now childless - God's
        will be done! But, if we had a child, it would perhaps divert him from
        the gloomy thoughts which make him terrible to himself and others. Yet
        do not let me frighten you, Jeanie; he continues to be kind, and I am
        far better off than I deserve. You will wonder at my better scholarship;
        but when I was abroad, I had the best teachers, and I worked hard,
        because my progress pleased him. He is kind, Jeanie, only he has much to
        distress him, especially when he looks backward. When I look backward
        myself, I have always a ray of comfort: it is in the generous conduct of
        a sister, who forsook me not when I was forsaken by every one. You have
        had your reward. You live happy in the esteem and love of all who know
        you, and I drag on the life of a miserable impostor, indebted for the
        marks of regard I receive to a tissue of deceit and lies, which the
        slightest accident may unravel. He has produced me to his friends, since
        the estate opened to him, as a daughter of a Scotchman of rank, banished
        on account of the Viscount of Dundee's wars - that is, our Fr's old
        friend Clavers, you know - and he says I was educated in a Scotch
        convent; indeed, I lived in such a place long enough to enable me to
        support the character. But when a countryman approaches me, and begins
        to talk, as they all do, of the various families engaged in Dundee's
        affair, and to make inquiries into my connections, and when I see his
        eye bent on mine with such an expression of agony, my terror brings me
        to the very risk of detection. Good- nature and politeness have hitherto
        saved me, as they prevented people from pressing on me with distressing
        questions. But how long - O how long, will this be the case! - And if I
        bring this disgrace on him, he will hate me - he will kill me, for as
        much as he loves me; he is as jealous of his family honour now, as ever
        he was careless about it. I have been in England four months, and have
        often thought of writing to you; and yet, such are the dangers that
        might arise from an intercepted letter, that I have hitherto forborne.
        But now I am obliged to run the risk. Last week I saw your great friend,
        the D. of A. He came to my box, and sate by me; and something in the
        play put him in mind of you - Gracious Heaven! he told over your whole
        London journey to all who were in the box, but particularly to the
        wretched creature who was the occasion of it all. If he had known - if
        he could have conceived, beside whom he was sitting, and to whom the
        story was told! - I suffered with courage, like an Indian at the stake,
        while they are rending his fibres and boring his eyes, and while he
        smiles applause at each well-imagined contrivance of his torturers. It
        was too much for me at last, Jeanie - I fainted; and my agony was
        imputed partly to the heat of the place, and partly to my extreme
        sensibility; and, hypocrite all over, I encouraged both opinions -
        anything but discovery! Luckily, he was not there. But the incident has
        more alarms. I am obliged to meet your great man often; and he seldom
        sees me without talking of E.D. and J.D., and R.B. and D.D., as persons
        in whom my amiable sensibility is interested. My amiable sensibility!!!
        - And then the cruel tone of light indifference with which persons in
        the fashionable world speak together on the most affecting subjects! To
        hear my guilt, my folly, my agony, the foibles and weaknesses of my
        friends - even your heroic exertions, Jeanie, spoken of in the drolling
        style which is the present tone in fashionable life - Scarce all that I
        formerly endured is equal to this state of irritation - then it was
        blows and stabs - now it is pricking to death with needles and pins. -
        He - I mean the D. - goes down next month to spend the shooting-season
        in Scotland - he says, he makes a point of always dining one day at the
        Manse - be on your guard, and do not betray yourself, should he mention
        me - Yourself, alas! you have nothing to betray - nothing to fear; you,
        the pure, the virtuous, the heroine of unstained faith, unblemished
        purity, what can you have to fear from the world or its proudest
        minions? It is E. whose life is once more in your hands - it is E. whom
        you are to save from being plucked of her borrowed plumes, discovered,
        branded, and trodden down, first by him, perhaps, who has raised her to
        this dizzy pinnacle! - The enclosure will reach you twice a-year - do
        not refuse it - it is out of my own allowance, and may be twice as much
        when you want it. With you it may do good - with me it never can.
            Write to me soon, Jeanie, or I shall remain in the agonising
        apprehension that this has fallen into wrong hands - Address simply to
        L.S., under cover, to the Reverend George White-rose, in the
        Minster-Close, York. He thinks I correspond with some of my noble
        Jacobite relations who are in Scotland. How high-church and jacobitical
        zeal would burn in his cheeks, if he knew he was the agent, not of
        Euphemia Setoun, of the honourable house of Winton, but of E.D.,
        daughter of a Cameronian cowfeeder! - Jeanie, I can laugh yet sometimes
        - but God protect you from such mirth. - My father - I mean your father,
        would say it was like the idle crackling of thorns; but the thorns keep
        their poignancy, they remain unconsumed. Farewell, my dearest Jeanie -
        Do not show this even to Mr. Butler, much less to any one else. I have
        every respect for him, but his principles are over strict, and my case
        will not endure severe handling. - I rest your affectionate sister, E.«
 
In this long letter there was much to surprise as well as to distress Mrs.
Butler. That Effie - her sister Effie, should be mingling freely in society, and
apparently on not unequal terms, with the Duke of Argyle, sounded like something
so extraordinary, that she even doubted if she read truly. Nor was it less
marvellous, that, in the space of four years, her education should have made
such progress. Jeanie's humility readily allowed that Effie had always, when she
chose it, been smarter at her book than she herself was, but then she was very
idle, and, upon the whole, had made much less proficiency. Love, or fear, or
necessity, however, had proved an able schoolmistress, and completely supplied
all her deficiencies.
    What Jeanie least liked in the tone of the letter, was a smothered degree of
egotism. »We should have heard little about her,« said Jeanie to herself, »but
that she was feared the Duke might come to learn what she was, and a' about her
puir friends here; but Effie, puir thing, aye looks her ain way, and folk that
do that think mair o' themselves than of their neighbours. - I am no clear about
keeping her siller,« she added, taking up a £50 note which had fallen out of the
paper to the floor. »We hae enough, and it looks unco like theftboot, or
hushmoney, as they ca' it; she might hae been sure that I wad say nothing wad
harm her, for a' the gowd in Lunnon. And I maun tell the minister about it. I
dinna see that she should be sae feared for her ain bonny bargain o' a gudeman,
and that I shouldna reverence Mr. Butler just as much; and sae I'll e'en tell
him, when that tippling body the Captain has ta'en boat in the morning. - But I
wonder at my ain state of mind,« she added, turning back, after she had made a
step or two to the door to join the gentlemen; »surely I am no sic a fule as to
be angry that Effie's a braw lady, while I am only a minister's wife? - and yet
I am as petted as a bairn, when I should bless God, that has redeemed her from
shame, and poverty, and guilt, as ower likely she might hae been plunged into.«
    Sitting down upon a stool at the foot of the bed, she folded her arms upon
her bosom, saying within herself, »From this place will I not rise till I am in
a better frame of mind;« and so placed, by dint of tearing the veil from the
motives of her little temporary spleen against her sister, she compelled herself
to be ashamed of them, and to view as blessings the advantages of her sister's
lot, while its embarrassments were the necessary consequences of errors long
since committed. And thus she fairly vanquished the feeling of pique which she
naturally enough entertained, at seeing Effie, so long the object of her care
and her pity, soar suddenly so high above her in life, as to reckon amongst the
chief objects of her apprehension the risk of their relationship being
discovered.
    When this unwonted burst of amour propre was thoroughly subdued, she walked
down to the little parlour where the gentlemen were finishing their game, and
heard from the Captain a confirmation of the news intimated in her letter, that
the Duke of Argyle was shortly expected at Roseneath.
    »He'll find plenty of moor-fowls and plack-cock on the moors of Auchingower,
and he'll pe nae doubt for taking a late dinner, and a ped at the Manse, as he
has done pefore now.«
    »He has a good right, Captain,« said Jeanie.
    »Teil ane petter to ony ped in the kintra,« answered the Captain. »And ye
had petter tell your father, puir body, to get his beasts a' in order, and put
his tamn'd Cameronian nonsense out o' his head for twa or three days, if he can
pe so opliging; for fan I speak to him apout prute pestil, he answers me out o'
the Pible, whilk is not using a shentleman well, unless it be a person of your
cloth, Mr. Putler.«
    No one understood better than Jeanie the merit of the soft answer, which
turneth away wrath; and she only smiled, and hoped that his Grace would find
everything that was under her father's care to his entire satisfaction.
    But the Captain, who had lost the whole postage of the letter at backgammon,
was in the pouting mood not unusual to losers, and which, says the proverb, must
be allowed to them.
    »And, Master Putler, though you know I never meddle with the things of your
kirk-sessions, yet I must pe allowed to say that I will not be pleased to allow
Ailie MacClure of Deepheugh to be poonished as a witch, in respect she only
spaes fortunes, and does not lame, or plind, or pedevil any persons, or coup
cadger's carts, or ony sort of mischief; put only tells people good fortunes, as
anent our poats killing so many seals and doug-fishes, whilk is very pleasant to
hear.«
    »The woman,« said Butler, »is, I believe, no witch, but a cheat: and it is
only on that head that she is summoned to the kirk-session, to cause her to
desist in future from practising her impostures upon ignorant persons.«
    »I do not know,« replied the gracious Duncan, »what her practices or
postures are, but I pelieve that if the poys take hould on her to duck her in
the Clachan purn, it will be a very sorry practice - and I pelieve, moreover,
that if I come in thirdsman among you at the kirk-sessions, you will be all in a
tamn'd pad posture indeed.«
    Without noticing this threat, Mr. Butler replied, »That he had not attended
to the risk of ill-usage which the poor woman might undergo at the hands of the
rabble, and that he would give her the necessary admonition in private, instead
of bringing her before the assembled session.«
    »This,« Duncan said, »was speaking like a reasonable shentleman;« and so the
evening passed peaceably off.
    Next morning, after the Captain had swallowed his morning draught of Athole
brose, and departed in his coach and six, Mrs. Butler anew deliberated upon
communicating to her husband her sister's letter. But she was deterred by the
recollection, that, in doing so, she would unveil to him the whole of a dreadful
secret, of which, perhaps, his public character might render him an unfit
depositary. Butler already had reason to believe that Effie had eloped with that
same Robertson who had been a leader in the Porteous mob, and who lay under
sentence of death for the robbery at Kirkcaldy. But he did not know his identity
with George Staunton, a man of birth and fortune, who had now apparently
reassumed his natural rank in society. Jeanie had respected Staunton's own
confession as sacred, and upon reflection she considered the letter of her
sister as equally so, and resolved to mention the contents to no one.
    On reperusiug the letter, she could not help observing the staggering and
unsatisfactory condition of those who have risen to distinction by undue paths,
and the outworks and bulwarks of fiction and falsehood, by which they are under
the necessity of surrounding and defending their precarious advantages. But she
was not called upon, she thought, to unveil her sister's original history - it
would restore no right to any one, for she was usurping none - it would only
destroy her happiness, and degrade her in the public estimation. Had she been
wise, Jeanie thought she would have chosen seclusion and privacy, in place of
public life and gaiety; but the power of choice might not be hers. The money,
she thought, could not be returned without her seeming haughty and unkind. She
resolved, therefore, upon reconsidering this point, to employ it as occasion
should serve, either in educating her children better than her own means could
compass, or for their future portion. Her sister had enough, was strongly bound
to assist Jeanie by any means in her power, and the arrangement was so natural
and proper, that it ought not to be declined out of fastidious or romantic
delicacy. Jeanie accordingly wrote to her sister, acknowledging her letter, and
requesting to hear from her as often as she could. In entering into her own
little details of news, chiefly respecting domestic affairs, she experienced a
singular vacillation of ideas; for sometimes she apologised for mentioning
things unworthy the notice of a lady of rank, and then recollected that
everything which concerned her should be interesting to Effie. Her letter, under
the cover of Mr. Whiterose, she committed to the post-office at Glasgow, by the
intervention of a parishioner who had business at that city.
    The next week brought the Duke to Roseneath, and shortly afterwards he
intimated his intention of sporting in their neighbourhood, and taking his bed
at the Manse; an honour which he had once or twice done to its inmates on former
occasions.
    Effie proved to be perfectly right in her anticipations. The Duke had hardly
set himself down at Mrs. Butler's right hand, and taken upon himself the task of
carving the excellent »barndoor chucky,« which had been selected as the high
dish upon this honourable occasion, before he began to speak of Lady Staunton of
Willingham, in Lincolnshire, and the great noise which her wit and beauty made
in London. For much of this Jeanie was, in some measure, prepared - but Effie's
wit! that would never have entered into her imagination, being ignorant how
exactly raillery in the higher rank resembles flippancy among their inferiors.
    »She has been the ruling belle - the blazing star - the universal toast of
the winter,« said the Duke; »and is really the most beautiful creature that was
seen at court upon the birthday.«
    The birthday! and at court! - Jeanie was annihilated, remembering well her
own presentation, all its extraordinary circumstances, and particularly the
cause of it.
    »I mention this lady particularly to you, Mrs. Butler,« said the Duke,
»because she has something in the sound of her voice, and cast of her
countenance, that reminded me of you - not when you look so pale though - you
have over-fatigued yourself - you must pledge me in a glass of wine.«
    She did so, and Butler observed, »It was dangerous flattery in his Grace to
tell a poor minister's wife that she was like a court-beauty.«
    »Oho, Mr. Butler,« said the Duke, »I find you are growing jealous; but it's
rather too late in the day, for you know how long I have admired your wife. But
seriously, there is betwixt them one of those inexplicable likenesses which we
see in countenances, that do not otherwise resemble each other.«
    »The perilous part of the compliment has flown off,« thought Mr. Butler.
    His wife, feeling the awkwardness of silence, forced herself to say, »That,
perhaps, the lady might be her countrywoman, and the language might have made
some resemblance.«
    »You are quite right,« replied the Duke. »She is a Scotch-woman, and speaks
with a Scotch accent, and now and then a provincial word drops out so prettily,
that it is quite Doric, Mr. Butler.«
    »I should have thought,« said the clergyman, »that would have sounded vulgar
in the great city.«
    »Not at all,« replied the Duke; »you must suppose it is not the broad coarse
Scotch that is spoken in the Cowgate of Edinburgh, or in the Gorbals. This lady
has been very little in Scotland, in fact she was educated in a convent abroad,
and speaks that pure court-Scotch, which was common in my younger days; but it
is so generally disused now, that it sounds like a different dialect, entirely
distinct from our modern patois.«
    Notwithstanding her anxiety, Jeanie could not help admiring within herself,
how the most correct judges of life and manners can be imposed on by their own
preconceptions, while the Duke proceeded thus: »She is of the unfortunate house
of Winton, I believe; but, being bred abroad, she had missed the opportunity of
learning her own pedigree, and was obliged to me for informing her, that she
must certainly come of the Setons of Windygoul. I wish you could have seen how
prettily she blushed at her own ignorance. Amidst her noble and elegant manners,
there is now and then a little touch of bashfulness and conventual rusticity, if
I may call it so, that makes her quite enchanting. You see at once the rose that
had bloomed untouched amid the chaste precincts of the cloister, Mr. Butler.«
    True to the hint, Mr. Butler failed not to start with his
 
»Ut flos in septis secretus nascitur hortis,« etc.,
 
while his wife could hardly persuade herself that all this was spoken of Effie
Deans, and by so competent a judge as the Duke of Argyle; and had she been
acquainted with Catullus, would have thought the fortunes of her sister had
reversed the whole passage.
    She was, however, determined to obtain some indemnification for the anxious
feelings of the moment, by gaining all the intelligence she could; and therefore
ventured to make some inquiry about the husband of the lady his Grace admired so
much.
    »He is very rich,« replied the Duke; »of an ancient family, and has good
manners: but he is far from being such a general favourite as his wife. Some
people say he can be very pleasant - I never saw him so; but should rather judge
him reserved, and gloomy, and capricious. He was very wild in his youth, they
say, and has bad health; yet he is a good-looking man enough - a great friend of
your Lord High Commissioner of the Kirk, Mr. Butler.«
    »Then he is the friend of a very worthy and honourable nobleman,« said
Butler.
    »Does he admire his lady as much as other people do?« said Jeanie, in a low
voice.
    »Who - Sir George? They say he is very fond of her,« said the Duke; »but I
observe she trembles a little when he fixes his eye on her, and that is no good
sign - But it is strange how I am haunted by this resemblance of yours to Lady
Staunton, in look and tone of voice. One would almost swear you were sisters.«
    Jeanie's distress became uncontrollable, and beyond concealment. The Duke of
Argyle was much disturbed, good-naturedly ascribing it to his having unwittingly
recalled to her remembrance her family misfortunes. He was too well-bred to
attempt to apologise; but hastened to change the subject, and arrange certain
points of dispute which had occurred betwixt Duncan of Knock and the minister,
acknowledging that his worthy substitute was sometimes a little too obstinate,
as well as too energetic, in his executive measures.
    Mr. Butler admitted his general merits; but said, »He would presume to apply
to the worthy gentleman the words of the poet to Marrucinus Asinius,
 
Manu -
Non belle uteris in joco atque vino.«
 
The discourse being thus turned on parish business, nothing farther occurred
that can interest the reader.
 

                              Chapter Forty-Eighth

 Upon my head they placed a fruitless crown,
 And put a barren sceptre in my gripe,
 Thence to be wrench'd by an unlineal hand,
 No son of mine succeeding.
                                                                        Macbeth.
 
After this period, but under the most strict precautions against discovery, the
sisters corresponded occasionally, exchanging letters about twice every year.
Those of Lady Staunton spoke of her husband's health and spirits as being
deplorably uncertain; her own seemed also to be sinking, and one of the topics
on which she most frequently dwelt was their want of family. Sir George
Staunton, always violent, had taken some aversion at the next heir, whom he
suspected of having irritated his friends against him during his absence; and he
declared, he would bequeath Willingham and all its lands to an hospital, ere
that fetch-and-carry tell-tale should inherit an acre of it.
    »Had he but a child,« said the unfortunate wife, »or had that luckless
infant survived, it would be some motive for living and for exertion. But Heaven
has denied us a blessing which we have not deserved.«
    Such complaints, in varied form, but turning frequently on the same topic,
filled the letters which passed from the spacious but melancholy halls of
Willingham, to the quiet and happy parsonage at Knocktarlitie. Years meanwhile
rolled on amid these fruitless repinings. John, Duke of Argyle and Greenwich,
died in the year 1743, universally lamented, but by none more than by the
Butlers, to whom his benevolence had been so distinguished. He was succeeded by
his brother Duke Archibald, with whom they had not the same intimacy; but who
continued the protection which his brother had extended towards them. This,
indeed, became more necessary than ever; for, after the breaking out and
suppression of the rebellion in 1745, the peace of the country, adjacent to the
Highlands, was considerably disturbed. Marauders, or men that had been driven to
that desperate mode of life, quartered themselves in the fastnesses nearest to
the Lowlands, which were their scene of plunder; and there is scarce a glen in
the romantic and now peaceable Highlands of Perth, Stirling, and Dumbartonshire,
where one or more did not take up their residence.
    The prime pest of the parish of Knocktarlitie was a certain Donacha dhu na
Dunaigh, or Black Duncan the Mischievous, whom we have already casually
mentioned. This fellow had been originally a tinkler, or caird, many of whom
stroll about these districts; but when all police was disorganised by the civil
war, he threw up his profession, and from half thief became whole robber; and
being generally at the head of three or four active young fellows, and he
himself artful, bold, and well acquainted with the passes, he plied his new
profession with emolument to himself, and infinite plague to the country.
    All were convinced that Duncan of Knock could have put down his namesake
Donacha any morning he had a mind; for there were in the parish a set of stout
young men, who had joined Argyle's banner in the war under his old friend, and
behaved very well on several occasions. And as for their leader, as no one
doubted his courage, it was generally supposed that Donacha had found out the
mode of conciliating his favour, a thing not very uncommon in that age and
country. This was the more readily believed, as David Deans's cattle (being the
property of the Duke) were left untouched, when the minister's cows were carried
off by the thieves. Another attempt was made to renew the same act of rapine,
and the cattle were in the act of being driven off, when Butler, laying his
profession aside in a case of such necessity, put himself at the head of some of
his neighbours, and rescued the creagh, an exploit at which Deans attended in
person, notwithstanding his extreme old age, mounted on a Highland pony, and
girded with an old broadsword, likening himself (for he failed not to arrogate
the whole merit of the expedition) to David, the son of Jesse, when he recovered
the spoil of Ziklag from the Amalekites. This spirited behaviour had so far a
good effect, that Donacha dhu na Dunaigh kept his distance for some time to
come; and, though his distant exploits were frequently spoken of, he did not
exercise any depredations in that part of the country. He continued to flourish,
and to be heard of occasionally, until the year 1751, when, if the fear of the
second David had kept him in check, fate released him from that restraint, for
the venerable patriarch of St. Leonard's was that year gathered to his fathers.
    David Deans died full of years and of honour. He is believed, for the exact
time of his birth is not known, to have lived upwards of ninety years; for he
used to speak of events as falling under his own knowledge, which happened about
the time of the battle of Bothwell Bridge. It was said that he even bore arms
there; for once, when a drunken Jacobite laird wished for a Bothwell Brigg whig,
that »he might stow the lugs out of his head,« David informed him with a
peculiar austerity of countenance, that, if he liked to try such a prank, there
was one at his elbow; and it required the interference of Butler to preserve the
peace.
    He expired in the arms of his beloved daughter, thankful for all the
blessings which Providence had vouchsafed to him while in this valley of strife
and toil - and thankful also for the trials he had bean visited with; having
found them, he said, needful to mortify that spiritual pride and confidence in
his own gifts, which was the side on which the wily Enemy did most sorely beset
him. He prayed in the most affecting manner for Jeanie, her husband, and her
family, and that her affectionate duty to the puir auld man might purchase her
length of days here, and happiness hereafter; then, in a pathetic petition, too
well understood by those who knew his family circumstances, he besought the
Shepherd of souls, while gathering his flock, not to forget the little one that
had strayed from the fold, and even then might be in the hands of the ravening
wolf. - He prayed for the national Jerusalem, that peace might be in her land,
and prosperity in her palaces - for the welfare of the honourable House of
Argyle, and for the conversion of Duncan of Knockdunder. After this he was
silent, being exhausted, nor did he again utter anything distinctly. He was
heard, indeed, to mutter something about national defections, right-hand
extremes, and left-hand fallings off; but, as May Hettly observed, his head was
carried at the time; and it is probable that these expressions occurred to him
merely out of general habit, and that he died in the full spirit of charity with
all men. About an hour afterwards he slept in the Lord.
    Notwithstanding her father's advanced age, his death was a severe shock to
Mrs. Butler. Much of her time had been dedicated to attending to his health and
his wishes, and she felt as if part of her business in the world was ended, when
the good old man was no more. His wealth, which came nearly to fifteen hundred
pounds, in disposable capital, served to raise the fortunes of the family at the
Manse. How to dispose of this sum for the best advantage of his family, was
matter of anxious consideration to Butler. »If we put it on heritable bond, we
shall maybe lose the interest; for there's that bond over Lounsbeck's land, your
father could neither get principal nor interest for it - If we bring it into the
funds, we shall maybe lose the principal and all, as many did in the South Sea
scheme. The little estate of Craigsture is in the market - it lies within two
miles of the Manse, and Knock says his Grace has no thought to buy it. But they
ask £2500, and they may, for it is worth the money; and were I to borrow the
balance, the creditor might call it up suddenly, or in case of my death my
family might be distressed.«
    »And so if we had mair siller, we might buy that bonny pasture-ground, where
the grass comes so early?« asked Jeanie.
    »Certainly, my dear; and Knockdunder, who is a good judge, is strongly
advising me to it. To be sure it is his nephew that is selling it.«
    »Aweel, Reuben,« said Jeanie, »ye maun just look up a text in Scripture, as
ye did when ye wanted siller before - just look up a text in the Bible.«
    »Ah, Jeanie,« said Butler, laughing and pressing her hand at the same time,
»the best people in these times can only work miracles once.«
    »We will see,« said Jeanie composedly; and going to the closet in which she
kept her honey, her sugar, her pots of jelly, her vials of the more ordinary
medicines, and which served her, in short, as a sort of store-room, she jangled
vials and gallipots, till, from out the darkest nook, well flanked by a triple
row of bottles and jars, which she was under the necessity of displacing, she
brought a cracked brown cann, with a piece of leather tied over the top. Its
contents seemed to be written papers, thrust in disorder into this uncommon
secrétaire. But from among these Jeanie brought an old clasped Bible, which had
been David Deans's companion in his earlier wanderings, and which he had given
to his daughter when the failure of his eyes had compelled him to use one of a
larger print. This she gave to Butler, who had been looking at her motions with
some surprise, and desired him to see what that book could do for him. He opened
the clasps, and to his astonishment a parcel of £50 bank-notes dropped out from
betwixt the leaves, where they had been separately lodged, and fluttered upon
the floor. »I didna think to hae told you o' my wealth, Reuben,« said his wife,
smiling at his surprise, »till on my deathbed, or maybe on some family pinch;
but it wad be better laid out on yon bonny grass-holms, than lying useless here
in this auld pigg.«
    »How on earth came ye by that siller, Jeanie? - Why, here is more than a
thousand pounds,« said Butler lifting up and counting the notes.
    »If it were ten thousand, it's a' honestly come by,« said Jeanie; »and troth
I kenna how muckle there is o't, but it's a' there that ever I got. - And as for
how I came by it, Reuben - it's well come by, and honestly, as I said before -
And it's mair folk's secret than mine, or ye wad hae kend about it lang syne;
and as for anything else, I am not free to answer mair questions about it, and
ye maun just ask me nane.«
    »Answer me but one,« said Butler. »Is it all freely and indisputably your
own property, to dispose of it as you think fit? - Is it possible no one has a
claim in so large a sum except you?«
    »It was mine, free to dispose of it as I like,« answered Jeanie; »and I have
disposed of it already, for now it is yours, Reuben - You are Bible Butler now,
as well as your forbear, that my puir father had sic an ill will at. Only, if ye
like, I wad wish Femie to get a good share o't when we are gone.«
    »Certainly, it shall be as you choose - But who on earth ever pitched on
such a hiding-place for temporal treasures?«
    »That is just ane o' my auld-fashioned gates, as you ca' them, Reuben. I
thought if Donacha Dhu was to make an outbreak upon us, the Bible was the last
thing in the house he wad meddle wi' - but an ony mair siller should drap in, as
it is not unlikely, I shall e'en pay it ower to you, and ye may lay it out your
ain way.«
    »And I positively must not ask you how you have come by all this money?«
said the clergyman.
    »Indeed, Reuben, you must not; for if you were asking me very sair I wad
maybe tell you, and then I am sure I would do wrong.«
    »But tell me,« said Butler, »is it anything that distresses your own mind?«
    »There is baith weal and woe come aye wi' world's gear, Reuben; but ye maun
ask me nothing mair - This siller binds me to nothing, and can never be
speered back again.«
    »Surely,« said Mr. Butler, when he had again counted over the money, as if
to assure himself that the notes were real, »there was never man in the world
had a wife like mine - a blessing seems to follow her.«
    »Never,« said Jeanie, »since the enchanted princess in the bairn's fairy
tale, that kamed gold nobles out o' the tae side of her haffit locks, and Dutch
dollars out o' the tother. But gang away now, minister, and put by the siller,
and dinna keep the notes wampishing in your hand that gate, or I shall wish them
in the brown pigg again, for fear we get a black cast about them - we're ower
near the hills in these times to be thought to hae siller in the house. And,
besides, ye maun gree wi' Knockdunder, that has the selling o' the lands; and
dinna you be simple and let him ken o' this windfa', but keep him to the very
lowest penny, as if ye had to borrow siller to make the price up.«
    In the last admonition, Jeanie showed distinctly, that, although she did not
understand how to secure the money which came into her hands otherwise than by
saving and hoarding it, yet she had some part of her father David's shrewdness,
even upon worldly subjects. And Reuben Butler was a prudent man, and went and
did even as his wife had advised him.
    The news quickly went abroad into the parish that the minister had bought
Craigsture; and some wished him joy, and some »were sorry it had gone out of the
auld name.« However, his clerical brethren, understanding that he was under the
necessity of going to Edinburgh about the ensuing Whitsunday, to get together
David Deans's cash to make up the purchase-money of his new acquisition, took
the opportunity to name him their delegate to the General Assembly, or
Convocation of the Scottish Church, which takes place usually in the latter end
of the month of May.
 

                              Chapter Forty-Ninth

 But who is this? what thing of sea or land -
 Female of sex it seems -
 That so bedeck'd, ornate, and gay,
 Comes this way sailing?
                                                                         Milton.
 
Not long after the incident of the Bible and the bank-notes, Fortune showed that
she could surprise Mrs. Butler as well as her husband. The minister, in order to
accomplish the various pieces of business which his unwonted visit to Edinburgh
rendered necessary, had been under the necessity of setting out from home in the
latter end of the month of February, concluding justly that he would find the
space betwixt his departure and the term of Whitsunday (24th May) short enough
for the purpose of bringing forward those various debtors of old David Deans,
out of whose purses a considerable part of the price of his new purchase was to
be made good.
    Jeanie was thus in the unwonted situation of inhabiting a lonely house, and
she felt yet more solitary from the death of the good old man who used to divide
her cares with her husband. Her children were her principal resource, and to
them she paid constant attention.
    It happened a day or two after Butler's departure that, while she was
engaged in some domestic duties, she heard a dispute among the young folk,
which, being maintained with obstinacy, appeared to call for her interference.
All came to their natural umpire with their complaints. Femie, not yet ten years
old, charged Davie and Reubie with an attempt to take away her book by force;
and David and Reuben replied, the elder, »That it was not a book for Femie to
read,« and Reuben, »That it was about a bad woman.«
    »Where did you get the book, ye little hempie?« said Mrs. Butler. »How dare
ye touch papa's books when he is away?«
    But the little lady, holding fast a sheet of crumpled paper, declared »It
was nane o' papa's books, and May Hettly had taken it off the muckle cheese
which came from Inverara;« for, as was very natural to suppose, a friendly
intercourse, with interchange of mutual civilities, was kept up from time to
time between Mrs. Dolly Dutton, now Mrs. MacCorkindale, and her former friends.
    Jeanie took the subject of contention out of the child's hand, to satisfy
herself of the propriety of her studies; but how much was she struck when she
read upon the title of the broadside-sheet, »The Last Speech, Confession, and
Dying Words of Margaret MacCraw, or Murdockson, executed on Harabee Hill, near
Carlisle, the - day of - 1737.« It was, indeed, one of those papers which
Archibald had bought at Longtown, when he monopolised the pedlar's stock, which
Dolly had thrust into her trunk out of sheer economy. One or two copies, it
seems, had remained in her repositories at Inverary, till she chanced to need
them in packing a cheese, which, as a very superior production, was sent, in the
way of civil challenge, to the dairy at Knocktarlitie.
    The title of this paper, so strangely fallen into the very hands from which,
in well-meant respect to her feelings, it had been so long detained, was of
itself sufficiently startling; but the narrative itself was so interesting, that
Jeanie, shaking herself loose from the children, ran upstairs to her own
apartment, and bolted the door, to peruse it without interruption.
    The narrative, which appeared to have been drawn up, or at least corrected,
by the clergyman who attended this unhappy woman, stated the crime for which she
suffered to have been »her active part in that atrocious robbery and murder,
committed near two years since near Haltwhistle, for which the notorious Frank
Levitt was committed for trial at Lancaster assizes. It was supposed the
evidence of the accomplice Thomas Tuck, commonly called Tyburn Tom, upon which
the woman had been convicted, would weigh equally heavy against him; although
many were inclined to think it was Tuck himself who had struck the fatal blow,
according to the dying statement of Meg Murdockson.«
    After a circumstantial account of the crime for which she suffered, there
was a brief sketch of Margaret's life. It was stated that she was a Scotchwoman
by birth, and married a soldier in the Cameronian regiment - that she long
followed the camp, and had doubtless acquired in fields of battle, and similar
scenes, that ferocity and love of plunder for which she had been afterwards
distinguished - that her husband, having obtained his discharge, became servant
to a beneficed clergyman of high situation and character in Lincolnshire, and
that she acquired the confidence and esteem of that honourable family. She had
lost this many years after her husband's death, it was stated, in consequence of
conniving at the irregularities of her daughter with the heir of the family,
added to the suspicious circumstances attending the birth of a child, which was
strongly suspected to have met with foul play, in order to preserve, if
possible, the girl's reputation. After this she had led a wandering life both in
England and Scotland, under colour sometimes of telling fortunes, sometimes of
driving a trade in smuggled wares, but, in fact, receiving stolen goods, and
occasionally actively joining in the exploits by which they were obtained. Many
of her crimes she had boasted of after conviction, and there was one
circumstance for which she seemed to feel a mixture of joy and occasional
compunction. When she was residing in the suburbs of Edinburgh during the
preceding summer, a girl, who had been seduced by one of her confederates, was
entrusted to her charge, and in her house delivered of a male infant. Her
daughter, whose mind was in a state of derangement ever since she had lost her
own child, according to the criminal's account, carried off the poor girl's
infant, taking it for her own, of the reality of whose death she at times could
not be persuaded.
    Margaret Murdockson stated that she, for some time, believed her daughter
had actually destroyed the infant in her mad fits, and that she gave the father
to understand so, but afterwards learned that a female stroller had got it from
her. She showed some compunction at having separated mother and child,
especially as the mother had nearly suffered death, being condemned, on the
Scotch law, for the supposed murder of her infant. When it was asked what
possible interest she could have had in exposing the unfortunate girl to suffer
for a crime she had not committed, she asked, if they thought she was going to
put her own daughter into trouble to save another? She did not know what the
Scotch law would have done to her for carrying the child away. This answer was
by no means satisfactory to the clergyman, and he discovered, by close
examination, that she had a deep and revengeful hatred against the young person
whom she had thus injured. But the paper intimated, that, whatever besides she
had communicated upon this subject was confided by her in private to the worthy
and reverend Archdeacon who had bestowed such particular pains in affording her
spiritual assistance. The broadside went on to intimate, that, after her
execution, of which the particulars were given, her daughter, the insane person
mentioned more than once, and who was generally known by the name of Madge
Wildfire, had been very ill-used by the populace, under the belief that she was
a sorceress, and an accomplice in her mother's crimes, and had been with
difficulty rescued by the prompt interference of the police.
    Such (for we omit moral reflections, and all that may seem unnecessary to
the explanation of our story) was the tenor of the broadside. To Mrs. Butler it
contained intelligence of the highest importance, since it seemed to afford the
most unequivocal proof of her sister's innocence respecting the crime for which
she had so nearly suffered. It is true, neither she nor her husband, nor even
her father, had ever believed her capable of touching her infant with an unkind
hand when in possession of her reason; but there was a darkness on the subject,
and what might have happened in a moment of insanity was dreadful to think upon.
Besides, whatever was their own conviction, they had no means of establishing
Effie's innocence to the world, which, according to the tenor of this fugitive
publication, was now at length completely manifested by the dying confession of
the person chiefly interested in concealing it.
    After thanking God for a discovery so dear to her feelings, Mrs. Butler
began to consider what use she should make of it. To have shown it to her
husband would have been her first impulse; but, besides that he was absent from
home, and the matter too delicate to be the subject of correspondence by an
indifferent penwoman, Mrs. Butler recollected that he was not possessed of the
information necessary to form a judgment upon the occasion; and that, adhering
to the rule which she had considered as most advisable, she had best transmit
the information immediately to her sister, and leave her to adjust with her
husband the mode in which they should avail themselves of it. Accordingly, she
despatched a special messenger to Glasgow with a packet, enclosing the
Confession of Margaret Murdockson, addressed, as usual, under cover, to Mr.
Whiterose of York. She expected, with anxiety, an answer, but none arrived in
the usual course of post, and she was left to imagine how many various causes
might account for Lady Staunton's silence. She began to be half sorry that she
had parted with the printed paper, both for fear of its having fallen into bad
hands, and from the desire of regaining the document which might be essential to
establish her sister's innocence. She was even doubting whether she had not
better commit the whole matter to her husband's consideration, when other
incidents occurred to divert her purpose.
    Jeanie (she is a favourite, and we beg her pardon for still using the
familiar title) had walked down to the sea-side with her children one morning
after breakfast, when the boys, whose sight was more discriminating than hers,
exclaimed, that »the Captain's coach and six was coming right for the shore,
with ladies in it.« Jeanie instinctively bent her eyes on the approaching boat,
and became soon sensible that there were two females in the stern, seated beside
the gracious Duncan, who acted as pilot. It was a point of politeness to walk
towards the landing-place, in order to receive them, especially as she saw that
the Captain of Knockdunder was upon honour and ceremony. His piper was in the
bow of the boat, sending forth music, of which one half sounded the better that
the other was drowned by the waves and the breeze. Moreover, he himself had his
brigadier wig newly frizzed, his bonnet (he had abjured the cocked-hat)
decorated with Saint George's red cross, his uniform mounted as a captain of
militia, the Duke's flag with the boar's head displayed - all intimated parade
and gala.
    As Mrs. Butler approached the landing-place, she observed the Captain hand
the ladies ashore with marks of great attention, and the parties advanced
towards her, the Captain a few steps before the two ladies, of whom the taller
and elder leaned on the shoulder of the other, who seemed to be an attendant or
servant.
    As they met, Duncan, in his best, most important, and deepest tone of
Highland civility, »pegged leave to introduce to Mrs. Putler, Lady - eh - eh - I
hae forgotten your leddyship's name!«
    »Never mind my name, sir,« said the lady; »I trust Mrs. Butler will be at no
loss. The Duke's letter« - And, as she observed Mrs. Butler look confused, she
said again to Duncan something sharply, »Did you not send the letter last night,
sir?«
    »In troth and I didna, and I crave your leddyship's pardon; but you see,
matam, I thought it would do as well to-tay, pecause Mrs. Putler is never taken
out o' sorts - never - and the coach was out fishing - and the gig was gone to
Greenock for a cag of prandy - and -- Put here's his Grace's letter.«
    »Give it me, sir,« said the lady, taking it out of his hand; »since you have
not found it convenient to do me the favour to send it before me, I will deliver
it myself.«
    Mrs. Butler looked with great attention, and a certain dubious feeling of
deep interest, on the lady, who thus expressed herself with authority over the
man of authority, and to whose mandates he seemed to submit, resigning the
letter with a »Just as your leddyship is pleased to order it.«
    The lady was rather above the middle size, beautifully made, though
something embonpoint, with a hand and arm exquisitely formed. Her manner was
easy, dignified, and commanding, and seemed to evince high birth and the habits
of elevated society. She wore a travelling dress - a grey beaver hat, and a veil
of Flanders lace. Two footmen, in rich liveries, who got out of the barge, and
lifted out a trunk and portmanteau, appeared to belong to her suite.
    »As you did not receive the letter, madam, which should have served for my
introduction - for I presume you are Mrs. Butler - I will not present it to you
till you are so good as to admit me into your house without it.«
    »To pe sure, matam,« said Knockdunder, »ye canna doubt Mrs. Putler will do
that. - Mrs. Putler, this is Lady - Lady - these tamned Southern names rin out
o' my head like a stane trowling down hill - put I believe she is a Scottish
woman porn - the mair our credit - and I presume her leddyship is of the house
of« -
    »The Duke of Argyle knows my family very well, sir,« said the lady, in a
tone which seemed designed to silence Duncan, or, at any rate, which had that
effect completely.
    There was something about the whole of this stranger's address, and tone,
and manner, which acted upon Jeanie's feelings like the illusions of a dream,
that tease us with a puzzling approach to reality. Something there was of her
sister in the gait and manner of the stranger, as well as in the sound of her
voice, and something also, when, lifting her veil, she showed features, to
which, changed as they were in expression and complexion, she could not but
attach many remembrances.
    The stranger was turned of thirty certainly; but so well were her personal
charms assisted by the power of dress, and arrangement of ornament, that she
might well have passed for one-and-twenty. And her behaviour was so steady and
so composed, that, as often as Mrs. Butler perceived anew some point of
resemblance to her unfortunate sister, so often the sustained self-command and
absolute composure of the stranger destroyed the ideas which began to arise in
her imagination. She led the way silently towards the Manse, lost in a confusion
of reflections, and trusting the letter with which she was to be there
entrusted, would afford her satisfactory explanation of what was a most puzzling
and embarrassing scene.
    The lady maintained in the meanwhile the manners of a stranger of rank. She
admired the various points of view like one who has studied nature, and the best
representations of art. At length she took notice of the children.
    »These are two fine young mountaineers - Yours, madam, I presume?«
    Jeanie replied in the affirmative. The stranger sighed, and sighed once more
as they were presented to her by name.
    »Come here, Femie,« said Mrs. Butler, »and hold your head up.«
    »What is your daughter's name, madam?« said the lady.
    »Euphemia, madam,« answered Mrs. Butler.
    »I thought the ordinary Scottish contraction of the name had been Effie;«
replied the stranger, in a tone which went to Jeanie's heart; for in that single
word there was more of her sister - more of lang syne ideas - than in all the
reminiscences which her own heart had anticipated, or the features and manner of
the stranger had suggested.
    When they reached the Manse, the lady gave Mrs. Butler the letter which she
had taken out of the hands of Knockdunder; and as she gave it she pressed her
hand, adding aloud, »Perhaps, madam, you will have the goodness to get me a
little milk.«
    »And me a drap of the grey-peard, if you please, Mrs. Putler,« added Duncan.
    Mrs. Butler withdrew; but, deputing to May Hettly and to David the supply of
the strangers' wants, she hastened into her own room to read the letter. The
envelope was addressed in the Duke of Argyle's hand, and requested Mrs. Butler's
attentions and civility to a lady of rank, a particular friend of his late
brother, Lady Staunton of Willingham, who, being recommended to drink goats'
whey by the physicians, was to honour the Lodge at Roseneath with her residence,
while her husband made a short tour in Scotland. But within the same cover,
which had been given to Lady Staunton unsealed, was a letter from that lady,
intended to prepare her sister for meeting her, and which, but for the Captain's
negligence, she ought to have received on the preceding evening. It stated that
the news in Jeanie's last letter had been so interesting to her husband, that he
was determined to inquire farther into the confession made at Carlisle, and the
fate of that poor innocent, and that, as he had been in some degree successful,
she had, by the most earnest entreaties, extorted rather than obtained his
permission, under promise of observing the most strict incognito, to spend a
week or two with her sister, or in her neighbourhood, while he was prosecuting
researches, to which (though it appeared, to her very vainly) he seemed to
attach some hopes of success.
    There was a postscript, desiring that Jeanie would trust to Lady S. the
management of their intercourse, and be content with assenting to what she
should propose. After reading and again reading the letter, Mrs. Butler hurried
down stairs, divided betwixt the fear of betraying her secret, and the desire to
throw herself upon her sister's neck. Effie received her with a glance at once
affectionate and cautionary, and immediately proceeded to speak.
    »I have been telling Mr. --, Captain --, this gentleman, Mrs. Butler, that
if you could accommodate me with an apartment in your house, and a place for
Ellis to sleep, and for the two men, it would suit me better than the Lodge,
which his Grace has so kindly placed at my disposal. I am advised I should
reside as near where the goats feed as possible.«
    »I have peen assuring my leddy, Mrs. Putler,« said Duncan, »that though it
could not discommode you to receive any of his Grace's visitors or mine, yet she
had mooch petter stay at the Lodge; and for the gaits, the creatures can be
fetched there, in respect it is mair fitting they should wait upon her Leddyship,
than she upon the like o' them.«
    »By no means derange the goats for me,« said Lady Staunton; »I am certain
the milk must be much better here.« And this she said with languid negligence,
as one whose slightest intimation of humour is to bear down all argument.
    Mrs. Butler hastened to intimate, that her house, such as it was, was
heartily at the disposal of Lady Staunton; but the Captain continued to
remonstrate.
    »The Duke,« he said, »had written« -
    »I will settle all that with his Grace« -
    »And there were the things had been sent down frae Glasco« -
    »Anything necessary might be sent over to the Parsonage - She would beg the
favour of Mrs. Butler to show her an apartment, and of the Captain to have her
trunks, etc., sent over from Roseneath.«
    So she courtesied off poor Duncan, who departed, saying in his secret soul,
»Cot tamn her English impudence! - she takes possession of the minister's house
as an it were her ain - and speaks to shentlemens as if they were pounden
servants, and pe tamned to her! - And there's the deer that was shot too - but
we will send it ower to the Manse, whilk will pe put civil, seeing I hae prought
worthy Mrs. Putler sic a fliskmahoy.« - And with these kind intentions, he went
to the shore to give his orders accordingly.
    In the meantime, the meeting of the sisters was as affectionate as it was
extraordinary, and each evinced her feelings in the way proper to her character.
Jeanie was so much overcome by wonder, and even by awe, that her feelings were
deep, stunning, and almost overpowering. Effie, on the other hand, wept,
laughed, sobbed, screamed, and clapped her hands for joy, all in the space of
five minutes, giving way at once, and without reserve, to a natural excessive
vivacity of temper, which no one, however, knew better how to restrain under the
rules of artificial breeding.
    After an hour had passed like a moment in their expressions of mutual
affection, Lady Staunton observed the Captain walking with impatient steps below
the window. »That tiresome Highland fool has returned upon our hands,« she said.
»I will pray him to grace us with his absence.«
    »Hout no! hout no!« said Mrs. Butler, in a tone of entreaty; »ye maunna
affront the Captain.«
    »Affront?« said Lady Staunton; »nobody is ever affronted at what I do or
say, my dear. However, I will endure him, since you think it proper.«
    The Captain was accordingly graciously requested by Lady Staunton to remain
during dinner. During this visit his studious and punctilious complaisance
towards the lady of rank was happily contrasted by the cavalier air of civil
familiarity in which he indulged towards the minister's wife.
    »I have not been able to persuade Mrs. Butler,« said Lady Staunton to the
Captain, during the interval when Jeanie had left the parlour, »to let me talk
of making any recompense for storming her house, and garrisoning it in the way I
have done.«
    »Doubtless, matam,« said the Captain, »it wad ill pecome Mrs. Putler, what is
a very decent pody, to make any such sharge to a lady who comes from my house,
or his Grace's, which is the same thing. - And speaking of garrisons, in the
year forty-five, I was poot with a garrison of twenty of my lads in the house of
Inver-Garry, whilk had near been unhappily, for« -
    »I beg your pardon, sir - But I wish I could think of some way of
indemnifying this good lady.«
    »O, no need of intemnifying at all - no trouble for her, nothing at all -
So, peing in the house of Inver-Garry, and the people about it being uncanny, I
doubted the warst, and« -
    »Do you happen to know, sir,« said Lady Staunton, »if any of these two lads,
these young Butlers, I mean, show any turn for the army?«
    »Could not say, indeed, my leddy,« replied Knockdunder - »So, I knowing the
people to pe unchancy, and not to lippen to, and hearing a pibroch in the wood,
I pegan to pid my lads look to their flints, and then« -
    »For,« said Lady Staunton, with the most ruthless disregard to the narrative
which she mangled by these interruptions, »if that should be the case, it should
cost Sir George but the asking a pair of colours for one of them at the
War-Office, since we have always supported Government, and never had occasion to
trouble ministers.«
    »And if you please, my leddy,« said Duncan, who began to find some savour in
this proposal, »as I hae a braw well-grown lad of a nevoy, ca'd Duncan
MacGilligan, that is as pig as paith the Putler pairns putten thegither, Sir
George could ask a pair for him at the same time, and it wad pe put ae asking
for a'.«
    Lady Staunton only answered this hint with a well-bred stare, which gave no
sort of encouragement.
    Jeanie, who now returned, was lost in amazement at the wonderful difference
betwixt the helpless and despairing girl, whom she had seen stretched on a
flock-bed in a dungeon, expecting a violent and disgraceful death, and last as a
forlorn exile upon the midnight beach, with the elegant, well-bred, beautiful
woman before her. The features, now that her sister's veil was laid aside, did
not appear so extremely different, as the whole manner, expression, look, and
bearing. In outside show, Lady Staunton seemed completely a creature too soft
and fair for sorrow to have touched; so much accustomed to have all her whims
complied with by those around her, that she seemed to expect she should even be
saved the trouble of forming them; and so totally unacquainted with
contradiction, that she did not even use the tone of self-will, since to breathe
a wish was to have it fulfilled. She made no ceremony of ridding herself of
Duncan as soon as the evening approached; but complimented him out of the house
under pretext of fatigue, with the utmost nonchalance.
    When they were alone, her sister could not help expressing her wonder at the
self-possession with which Lady Staunton sustained her part.
    »I daresay you are surprised at it,« said Lady Staunton composedly; »for
you, my dear Jeanie, have been truth itself from your cradle upwards; but you
must remember that I am a liar of fifteen years' standing, and therefore must by
this time be used to my character.«
    In fact, during the feverish tumult of feelings excited during the two or
three first days, Mrs. Butler thought her sister's manner was completely
contradictory of the despondent tone which pervaded her correspondence. She was
moved to tears, indeed, by the sight of her father's grave, marked by a modest
stone, recording his piety and integrity; but lighter impressions and
associations had also power over her. She amused herself with visiting the
dairy, in which she had so long been assistant, and was so near discovering
herself to May Hettly, by betraying her acquaintance with the celebrated receipt
for Dunlop cheese, that she compared herself to Bedreddin Hassan, whom the
vizier, his father-in-law, discovered by his superlative skill in composing
cream-tarts with pepper in them. But when the novelty of such avocations ceased
to amuse her, she showed to her sister but too plainly, that the gaudy colouring
with which she veiled her unhappiness afforded as little real comfort, as the
gay uniform of the soldier when it is drawn over his mortal wound. There were
moods and moments, in which her despondence seemed to exceed even that which she
herself had described in her letters, and which too well convinced Mrs. Butler
how little her sister's lot, which in appearance was so brilliant, was in
reality to be envied.
    There was one source, however, from which Lady Staunton derived a pure
degree of pleasure. Gifted in every particular with a higher degree of
imagination than that of her sister, she was an admirer of the beauties of
nature, a taste which compensates many evils to those who happen to enjoy it.
Here her character of a fine lady stopped short, where she ought to have
 
Scream'd at ilk cleugh, and screech'd at ilka how,
As loud as she had seen the worrie-cow.
 
On the contrary, with the two boys for her guides, she undertook long and
fatiguing walks among the neighbouring mountains, to visit glens, lakes,
waterfalls, or whatever scenes of natural wonder or beauty lay concealed among
their recesses. It is Wordsworth, I think, who, talking of an old man under
difficulties, remarks, with a singular attention to nature,
 
- whether it was care that spurr'd him,
God only knows; but to the very last,
He had the lightest foot in Ennerdale.
 
In the same manner, languid, listless, and unhappy, within doors, at times even
indicating something which approached near to contempt of the homely
accommodations of her sister's house, although she instantly endeavoured, by a
thousand kindnesses, to atone for such ebullitions of spleen, Lady Staunton
appeared to feel interest and energy while in the open air, and traversing the
mountain landscapes in society with the two boys, whose ears she delighted with
stories of what she had seen in other countries, and what she had to show them
at Willingham Manor. And they, on the other hand, exerted themselves in doing
the honours of Dumbartonshire to the lady who seemed so kind, insomuch that
there was scarce a glen in the neighbouring hills to which they did not
introduce her.
    Upon one of these excursions, while Reuben was otherwise employed, David
alone acted as Lady Staunton's guide, and promised to show her a cascade in the
hills, grander and higher than any they had yet visited. It was a walk of five
long miles, and over rough ground, varied, however, and cheered, by mountain
views, and peeps now of the firth and its islands, now of distant lakes, now of
rocks and precipices. The scene itself, too, when they reached it, amply
rewarded the labour of the walk. A single shoot carried a considerable stream
over the face of a black rock, which contrasted strongly in colour with the
white foam of the cascade, and, at the depth of about twenty feet, another rock
intercepted the view of the bottom of the fall. The water, wheeling out far
beneath, swept round the crag, which thus bounded their view, and tumbled down
the rocky glen in a torrent of foam. Those who love nature always desire to
penetrate into its utmost recesses, and Lady Staunton asked David whether there
was not some mode of gaining a view of the abyss at the foot of the fall. He
said that he knew a station on a shelf on the farther side of the intercepting
rock, from which the whole waterfall was visible, but that the road to it was
steep and slippery and dangerous. Bent, however, on gratifying her curiosity,
she desired him to lead the way; and accordingly he did so over crag and stone,
anxiously pointing out to her the resting-places where she ought to step, for
their mode of advancing soon ceased to be walking, and became scrambling.
    In this manner, clinging like sea-birds to the face of the rock, they were
enabled at length to turn round it, and came full in front of the fall, which
here had a most tremendous aspect, boiling, roaring, and thundering with
unceasing din, into a black cauldron, a hundred feet at least below them, which
resembled the crater of a volcano. The noise, the dashing of the waters, which
gave an unsteady appearance to all around them, the trembling even of the huge
crag on which they stood, the precariousness of their footing, for there was
scarce room for them to stand on the shelf of rock which they had thus attained,
had so powerful an effect on the senses and imagination of Lady Staunton, that
she called out to David she was falling, and would in fact have dropped from the
crag had he not caught hold of her. The boy was bold and stout of his age -
still he was but fourteen years old, and as his assistance gave no confidence to
Lady Staunton, she felt her situation become really perilous. The chance was,
that, in the appalling novelty of the circumstances, he might have caught the
infection of her panic, in which case it is likely that both must have perished.
She now screamed with terror, though without hope of calling any one to her
assistance. To her amazement, the scream was answered by a whistle from above,
of a tone so clear and shrill, that it was heard even amid the noise of the
waterfall.
    In this moment of terror and perplexity, a human face, black, and having
grizzled hair hanging down over the forehead and cheeks, and mixing with
moustaches and a beard of the same colour, and as much matted and tangled, looked
down on them from a broken part of the rock above.
    »It is the Enemy!« said the boy, who had very nearly become incapable of
supporting Lady Staunton.
    »No, no,« she exclaimed, inaccessible to supernatural terrors, and restored
to the presence of mind of which she had been deprived by the danger of her
situation, »it is a man - For God's sake, my friend, help us!«
    The face glared at them, but made no answer; in a second or two afterwards,
another, that of a young lad, appeared beside the first, equally swart and
begrimed, but having tangled black hair, descending in elf-locks, which gave an
air of wildness and ferocity to the whole expression of the countenance. Lady
Staunton repeated her entreaties, clinging to the rock with more energy, as she
found that, from the superstitious terror of her guide, he became incapable of
supporting her. Her words were probably drowned in the roar of the falling
stream, for, though she observed the lips of the young being whom she
supplicated move as he spoke in reply, not a word reached her ear.
    A moment afterwards it appeared he had not mistaken the nature of her
supplication, which, indeed, was easy to be understood from her situation and
gestures. The younger apparition disappeared, and immediately after lowered a
ladder of twisted osiers, about eight feet in length, and made signs to David to
hold it fast while the lady ascended. Despair gives courage, and finding herself
in this fearful predicament, Lady Staunton did not hesitate to risk the ascent
by the precarious means which this accommodation afforded; and, carefully
assisted by the person who had thus providentially come to her aid, she reached
the summit in safety. She did not, however, even look around her until she saw
her nephew lightly and actively follow her example, although there was now no
one to hold the ladder fast. When she saw him safe she looked round, and could
not help shuddering at the place and company in which she found herself. They
were on a sort of platform of rock, surrounded on every side by precipices, or
overhanging cliffs, and which it would have been scarce possible for any
research to have discovered, as it did not seem to be commanded by any
accessible position. It was partly covered by a huge fragment of stone, which,
having fallen from the cliffs above, had been intercepted by others in its
descent, and jammed so as to serve for a sloping roof to the farther part of the
broad shelf or platform on which they stood. A quantity of withered moss and
leaves, strewed beneath this rude and wretched shelter, showed the lairs, - they
could not be termed the beds, - of those who dwelt in this eyrie, for it
deserved no other name. Of these, two were before Lady Staunton. One, the same
who had afforded such timely assistance, stood upright before them, a tall,
lathy, young savage; his dress a tattered plaid and philabeg, no shoes, no
stockings, no hat or bonnet, the place of the last being supplied by his hair,
twisted and matted like the glibbe of the ancient wild Irish, and, like theirs,
forming a natural thick-set stout enough to bear off the cut of a sword. Yet the
eyes of the lad were keen and sparkling; his gesture free and noble, like that
of all savages. He took little notice of David Butler, but gazed with wonder on
Lady Staunton, as a being different probably in dress, and superior in beauty,
to anything he had ever beheld. The old man, whose face they had first seen,
remained recumbent in the same posture as when he had first looked down on them,
only his face was turned towards them as he lay and looked up with a lazy and
listless apathy, which belied the general expression of his dark and rugged
features. He seemed a very tall man, but was scarce better clad than the
younger. He had on a loose Lowland greatcoat, and ragged tartan trews or
pantaloons.
    All around looked singularly wild and unpropitious. Beneath the brow of the
incumbent rock was a charcoal fire, on which there was a still working, with
bellows, pincers, hammers, a movable anvil, and other smith's tools; three guns,
with two or three sacks and barrels, were disposed against the wall of rock,
under shelter of the superincumbent crag; a dirk and two swords, and a Lochaber
axe, lay scattered around the fire, of which the red glare cast a ruddy tinge on
the precipitous foam and mist of the cascade. The lad, when he had satisfied his
curiosity with staring at Lady Staunton, fetched an earthen jar and a horn-cup,
into which he poured some spirits, apparently hot from the still, and offered
them successively to the lady and to the boy. Both declined, and the young
savage quaffed off the draught, which could not amount to less than three
ordinary glasses. He then fetched another ladder from the corner of the cavern,
if it could be termed so, adjusted it against the transverse rock, which served
as a roof, and made signs for the lady to ascend it, while he held it fast
below. She did so, and found herself on the top of a broad rock, near the brink
of the chasm into which the brook precipitates itself. She could see the crest
of the torrent flung loose down the rock, like the mane of a wild horse, but
without having any view of the lower platform from which she had ascended.
    David was not suffered to mount so easily; the lad, from sport or love of
mischief, shook the ladder a good deal as he ascended, and seemed to enjoy the
terror of young Butler, so that, when they had both come up, they looked on each
other with no friendly eyes. Neither, however, spoke. The young caird, or
tinker, or gipsy, with a good deal of attention, assisted Lady Staunton up a
very perilous ascent which she had still to encounter, and they were followed by
David Butler, until all three stood clear of the ravine on the side of a
mountain, whose sides were covered with heather and sheets of loose shingle. So
narrow was the chasm out of which they ascended, that, unless when they were on
the very verge, the eye passed to the other side without perceiving the
existence of a rent so fearful, and nothing was seen of the cataract, though its
deep hoarse voice was still heard.
    Lady Staunton, freed from the danger of rock and river, had now a new
subject of anxiety. Her two guides confronted each other with angry
countenances; for David, though younger by two years at least, and much shorter,
was a stout, well-set, and very bold boy.
    »You are the black-coat's son of Knocktarlitie,« said the young caird; »if
you come here again, I'll pitch you down the linn like a foot-ball.«
    »Ay, lad, ye are very short to be sae lang,« retorted young Butler
undauntedly, and measuring his opponent's height with an undismayed eye; »I am
thinking you are a gillie of Black Donacha; if you come down the glen, we'll
shoot you like a wild buck.«
    »You may tell your father,« said the lad, »that the leaf on the timber is
the last he shall see - we will hae amends for the mischief he has done to us.«
    »I hope he will live to see mony simmers, and do ye muckle mair,« answered
David.
    More might have passed, but Lady Staunton stepped between them with her
purse in her hand, and taking out a guinea, of which it contained several,
visible through the net-work, as well as some silver in the opposite end,
offered it to the caird.
    »The white siller, lady - the white siller,« said the young savage, to whom
the value of gold was probably unknown.
    Lady Staunton poured what silver she had into his hand, and the juvenile
savage snatched it greedily, and made a sort of half inclination of
acknowledgement and adieu.
    »Let us make haste now, Lady Staunton,« said David, »for there will be
little peace with them since they hae seen your purse.«
    They hurried on as fast as they could; but they had not descended the hill a
hundred yards or two before they heard a halloo behind them, and looking back,
saw both the old man and the young one pursuing them with great speed, the
former with a gun on his shoulder. Very fortunately, at this moment a sportsman,
a gamekeeper of the Duke, who was engaged in stalking deer, appeared on the face
of the hill. The bandits stopped on seeing him, and Lady Staunton hastened to
put herself under his protection. He readily gave them his escort home, and it
required his athletic form and loaded rifle to restore to the lady her usual
confidence and courage.
    Donald listened with much gravity to the account of their adventure; and
answered with great composure to David's repeated inquiries, whether he could
have suspected that the cairds had been lurking there, - »Inteed, Master Tavie,
I might hae had some guess that they were there, or thereabout, though maybe I
had nane. But I am aften on the hill; and they are like wasps - they stang only
them that fashes them; sae, for my part, I make a point not to see them, unless
I were ordered out on the preceese errand by MacCallummore or Knockdunder, whilk
is a clean different case.«
    They reached the Manse late; and Lady Staunton, who had suffered much both
from fright and fatigue, never again permitted her love of the picturesque to
carry her so far among the mountains without a stronger escort than David,
though she acknowledged he had won the stand of colours by the intrepidity he
had displayed, so soon as assured he had to do with an earthly antagonist. »I
couldn't have maybe hae made muckle o' a bargain wi' yon lang callant,« said David,
when thus complimented on his valour; »but when ye deal wi' thae folk, it's tyne
heart tyne a'.«
 

                                Chapter Fiftieth

 - What see you there,
 That hath so cowarded and chased your blood
 Out of appearance?
                                                                Henry the Fifth.
 
We are under the necessity of returning to Edinburgh, where the General Assembly
was now sitting. It is well known, that some Scottish nobleman is usually
deputed as High Commissioner, to represent the person of the King in this
convocation; that he has allowances for the purpose of maintaining a certain
outward show and solemnity, and supporting the hospitality of the representative
of Majesty. Whoever are distinguished by rank, or office, in or near the
capital, usually attend the morning levees of the Lord Commissioner, and walk
with him in procession to the place where the Assembly meets.
    The nobleman who held this office chanced to be particularly connected with
Sir George Staunton, and it was in his train that he ventured to tread the High
Street of Edinburgh for the first time since the fatal night of Porteous's
execution. Walking at the right hand of the representative of Sovereignty,
covered with lace and embroidery, and with all the paraphernalia of wealth and
rank, the handsome though wasted figure of the English stranger attracted all
eyes. Who could have recognised in a form so aristocratic the plebeian convict,
that, disguised in the rags of Madge Wildfire, had led the formidable rioters to
their destined revenge? There was no possibility that this could happen, even if
any of his ancient acquaintances, a race of men whose lives are so brief, had
happened to survive the span commonly allotted to evil-doers. Besides, the whole
affair had long fallen asleep, with the angry passions in which it originated.
Nothing is more certain than that persons known to have had a share in that
formidable riot, and to have fled from Scotland on that account, had made money
abroad, returned to enjoy it in their native country, and lived and died
undisturbed by the law.69 The forbearance of the magistrate was, in these
instances, wise, certainly, and just; for what good impression could be made on
the public mind by punishment, when the memory of the offence was obliterated,
and all that was remembered was the recent inoffensive, or perhaps exemplary
conduct of the offender?
    Sir George Staunton might, therefore, tread the scene of his former
audacious exploits, free from the apprehension of the law, or even of discovery
or suspicion. But with what feelings his heart that day throbbed, must be left
to those of the reader to imagine. It was an object of no common interest which
had brought him to encounter so many painful remembrances.
    In consequence of Jeanie's letter to Lady Staunton, transmitting the
confession, he had visited the town of Carlisle, and had found Archdeacon
Fleming still alive, by whom that confession had been received. This reverend
gentleman, whose character stood deservedly very high, he so far admitted into
his confidence, as to own himself the father of the unfortunate infant which had
been spirited away by Madge Wildfire, representing the intrigue as a matter of
juvenile extravagance on his own part, for which he was now anxious to atone, by
tracing, if possible, what had become of the child. After some recollection of
the circumstances, the clergyman was able to call to memory, that the unhappy
woman had written a letter to George Staunton, Esq., younger, Rectory,
Willingham, by Grantham; that he had forwarded it to the address accordingly,
and that it had been returned, with a note from the Reverend Mr. Staunton,
Rector of Willingham, saying, he knew no such person as him to whom the letter
was addressed. As this had happened just at the time when George had, for the
last time, absconded from his father's house to carry off Effie, he was at no
loss to account for the cause of the resentment, under the influence of which
his father had disowned him. This was another instance in which his ungovernable
temper had occasioned his misfortune; had he remained at Willingham but a few
days longer, he would have received Margaret Murdockson's letter, in which were
exactly described the person and haunts of the woman, Annaple Bailzou, to whom
she had parted with the infant. It appeared that Meg Murdockson had been induced
to make this confession, less from any feelings of contrition, than from the
desire of obtaining, through George Staunton or his father's means, protection
and support for her daughter Madge. Her letter to George Staunton said, »That
while the writer lived, her daughter would have needed nought from any body, and
that she would never have meddled in these affairs, except to pay back the ill
that George had done to her and hers. But she was to die, and her daughter would
be destitute, and without reason to guide her. She had lived in the world long
enough to know that people did nothing for nothing; - so she had told George
Staunton all he could wish to know about his wean, in hopes he would not see the
demented young creature he had ruined perish for want. As for her motives for
not telling them sooner, she had a long account to reckon for in the next world,
and she would reckon for that too.«
    The clergyman said that Meg had died in the same desperate state of mind,
occasionally expressing some regret about the child which was lost, but oftener
sorrow that the mother had not been hanged - her mind at once a chaos of guilt,
rage, and apprehension for her daughter's future safety; that instinctive
feeling of parental anxiety which she had in common with the she-wolf and
lioness, being the last shade of kindly affection that occupied a breast equally
savage.
    The melancholy catastrophe of Madge Wildfire was occasioned by her taking
the confusion of her mother's execution, as affording an opportunity of leaving
the workhouse to which the clergyman had sent her, and presenting herself to the
mob in their fury, to perish in the way we have already seen. When Dr. Fleming
found the convict's letter was returned from Lincolnshire, he wrote to a friend
in Edinburgh, to inquire into the fate of the unfortunate girl whose child had
been stolen, and was informed by his correspondent, that she had been pardoned,
and that, with all her family, she had retired to some distant part of Scotland,
or left the kingdom entirely. And here the matter rested, until, at Sir George
Staunton's application, the clergyman looked out, and produced Margaret
Murdockson's returned letter, and the other memoranda which he had kept
concerning the affair.
    Whatever might be Sir George Staunton's feelings in ripping up this
miserable history, and listening to the tragical fate of the unhappy girl whom
he had ruined, he had so much of his ancient wilfulness of disposition left, as
to shut his eyes on everything, save the prospect which seemed to open itself of
recovering his son. It was true, it would be difficult to produce him, without
telling much more of the history of his birth, and the misfortunes of his
parents, than it was prudent to make known. But let him once be found, and,
being found, let him but prove worthy of his father's protection, and many ways
might be fallen upon to avoid such risk. Sir George Staunton was at liberty to
adopt him as his heir, if he pleased, without communicating the secret of his
birth; or an Act of Parliament might be obtained, declaring him legitimate, and
allowing him the name and arms of his father. He was indeed already a legitimate
child according to the law of Scotland, by the subsequent marriage of his
parents. Wilful in everything, Sir George's sole desire now was to see this son,
even should his recovery bring with it a new series of misfortunes, as dreadful
as those which followed on his being lost.
    But where was the youth who might eventually be called to the honours and
estates of this ancient family? On what heath was he wandering, and shrouded by
what mean disguise? Did he gain his precarious bread by some petty trade, by
menial toil, by violence, or by theft? These were questions on which Sir
George's anxious investigations could obtain no light. Many remembered that
Annaple Bailzou wandered through the country as a beggar and fortune-teller, or
spae-wife - some remembered that she had been seen with an infant in 1737 or
1738, but for more than ten years she had not travelled that district; and that
she had been heard to say she was going to a distant part of Scotland, of which
country she was a native. To Scotland, therefore, came Sir George Staunton,
having parted with his lady at Glasgow; and his arrival at Edinburgh happening
to coincide with the sitting of the General Assembly of the Kirk, his
acquaintance with the nobleman who held the office of Lord High Commissioner
forced him more into public than suited either his views or inclinations.
    At the public table of this nobleman, Sir George Staunton was placed next to
a clergyman of respectable appearance, and well-bred, though plain demeanour,
whose name he discovered to be Butler. It had been no part of Sir George's plan
to take his brother-in-law into his confidence, and he had rejoiced exceedingly
in the assurances he received from his wife, that Mrs. Butler, the very soul of
integrity and honour, had never suffered the account he had given of himself at
Willingham Rectory to transpire, even to her husband. But he was not sorry to
have an opportunity to converse with so near a connection, without being known
to him, and to form a judgment of his character and understanding. He saw much,
and heard more, to raise Butler very high in his opinion. He found he was
generally respected by those of his own profession, as well as by the laity who
had seats in the Assembly. He had made several public appearances in the
Assembly, distinguished by good sense, candour, and ability; and he was followed
and admired as a sound, and, at the same time, an eloquent preacher.
    This was all very satisfactory to Sir George Staunton's pride, which had
revolted at the idea of his wife's sister being obscurely married. He now began,
on the contrary, to think the connection so much better than he expected, that,
if it should be necessary to acknowledge it, in consequence of the recovery of
his son, it would sound well enough that Lady Staunton had a sister, who, in the
decayed state of the family, had married a Scottish clergyman, high in the
opinion of his countrymen, and a leader in the church.
    It was with these feelings, that, when the Lord High Commissioner's company
broke up, Sir George Staunton, under pretence of prolonging some inquiries
concerning the constitution of the Church of Scotland, requested Butler to go
home to his lodgings in the Lawnmarket, and drink a cup of coffee. Butler agreed
to wait upon him, providing Sir George would permit him, in passing, to call at
a friend's house where he resided, and make his apology for not coming to
partake her tea. They proceeded up the High Street, entered the Krames, and
passed the begging-box, placed to remind those at liberty of the distresses of
the poor prisoners. Sir George paused there one instant, and next day a £20 note
was found in that receptacle for public charity.
    When he came up to Butler again, he found him with his eyes fixed on the
entrance of the Tolbooth, and apparently in deep thought.
    »That seems a very strong door,« said Sir George, by way of saying
something.
    »It is so, sir,« said Butler, turning off and beginning to walk forward,
»but it was my misfortune at one time to see it prove greatly too weak.«
    At this moment, looking at his companion, he asked him whether he felt
himself ill? and Sir George Staunton admitted, that he had been so foolish as to
eat ice, which sometimes disagreed with him. With kind officiousness, that would
not be gainsaid, and ere he could find out where he was going, Butler hurried
Sir George into the friend's house, near to the prison, in which he himself had
lived since he came to town, being, indeed, no other than that of our old friend
Bartoline Saddletree, in which Lady Staunton had served a short novitiate as a
shop-maid. This recollection rushed on her husband's mind, and the blush of
shame which it excited overpowered the sensation of fear which had produced his
former paleness. Good Mrs. Saddletree, however, bustled about to receive the
rich English baronet as the friend of Mr. Butler, and requested an elderly
female in a black gown to sit still, in a way which seemed to imply a wish, that
she would clear the way for her betters. In the meanwhile, understanding the
state of the case, she ran to get some cordial waters, sovereign, of course, in
all cases of faintishness whatsoever. During her absence, her visitor, the
female in black, made some progress out of the room, and might have left it
altogether without particular observation, had she not stumbled at the
threshold, so near Sir George Staunton, that he, in point of civility, raised
her and assisted her to the door.
    »Mrs. Porteous is turned very doited now, puir body,« said Mrs. Saddletree,
as she returned with her bottle in her hand - »She is no sae auld, but she got a
sair back-cast wi' the slaughter o' her husband - Ye had some trouble about that
job, Mr. Butler. - I think, sir,« to Sir George, »ye had better drink out the
haill glass, for to my een ye look waur than when ye came in.«
    And, indeed, he grew as pale as a corpse, on recollecting who it was that
his arm had so lately supported - the widow whom he had so large a share in
making such.
    »It is a prescribed job that case of Porteous now,« said old Saddletree, who
was confined to his chair by the gout - »clean prescribed and out of date.«
    »I am not clear of that, neighbour,« said Plumdamas, »for I have heard them
say twenty years should rin, and this is but the fifty-ane - Porteous's mob was
in thretty-seven.«
    »Ye'll no teach me law, I think, neighbour - me that has four gaun pleas,
and might hae had fourteen, an it hadna been the gudewife? I tell ye, if the
foremost of the Porteous mob were standing there where that gentleman stands,
the King's Advocate wadna meddle wi' him - it fa's under the negative
prescription.«
    »Haud your din, carles,« said Mrs. Saddletree, »and let the gentleman sit
down and get a dish of comfortable tea.«
    But Sir George had had quite enough of their conversation; and Butler, at
his request, made an apology to Mrs. Saddletree, and accompanied him to his
lodgings. Here they found another guest waiting Sir George Staunton's return.
This was no other than our reader's old acquaintance, Ratcliffe.
    This man had exercised the office of turnkey with so much vigilance,
acuteness, and fidelity, that he gradually rose to be governor, or captain of
the Tolbooth. And it is yet to be remembered in tradition, that young men, who
rather sought amusing than select society in their merry-meetings, used
sometimes to request Ratcliffe's company, in order that he might regale them
with legends of his extraordinary feats in the way of robbery and escape.70 But
he lived and died without re- suming his original vocation, otherwise than in
his narratives over a bottle.
    Under these circumstances, he had been recommended to Sir George Staunton by
a man of the law in Edinburgh, as a person likely to answer any questions he
might have to ask about Annaple Bailzou, who, according to the colour which Sir
George Staunton gave to his cause of inquiry, was supposed to have stolen a
child in the west of England, belonging to a family in which he was interested.
The gentleman had not mentioned his name, but only his official title; so that
Sir George Staunton, when told that the captain of the Tolbooth was waiting for
him in his parlour, had no idea of meeting his former acquaintance, Jem
Ratcliffe.
    This, therefore, was another new and most unpleasant surprise, for he had no
difficulty in recollecting this man's remarkable features. The change, however,
from George Robertson to Sir George Staunton, baffled even the penetration of
Ratcliffe, and he bowed very low to the baronet and his guest, hoping Mr. Butler
would excuse his recollecting that he was an old acquaintance.
    »And once rendered my wife a piece of great service,« said Mr. Butler, »for
which she sent you a token of grateful acknowledgement, which I hope came safe
and was welcome.«
    »Deil a doubt on't,« said Ratcliffe, with a knowing nod; »but ye are muckle
changed for the better since I saw ye, Maister Butler.«
    »So much so, that I wonder you knew me.«
    »Aha, then! - Deil a face I see I ever forget,« said Ratcliffe; while Sir
George Staunton, tied to the stake, and incapable of escaping, internally cursed
the accuracy of his memory. »And yet, sometimes,« continued Ratcliffe, »the
sharpest hand will be ta'en in. There is a face in this very room, if I might
presume to be sae bauld, that, if I didna ken the honourable person it belangs
to, I might think it had some cast of an auld acquaintance.«
    »I should not be much flattered,« answered the Baronet, sternly, and roused
by the risk in which he saw himself placed, »if it is to me you mean to apply
that compliment.«
    »By no manner of means, sir,« said Ratcliffe, bowing very low; »I am come to
receive your honour's commands, and no to trouble your honour wi' my poor
observations.«
    »Well, sir,« said Sir George, »I am told you understand police matters - So
do I. - To convince you of which, here are ten guineas of retaining fee - I make
them fifty when you can find me certain notice of a person, living or dead, whom
you will find described in that paper. I shall leave town presently - you may
send your written answer to me to the care of Mr. --« (naming his highly
respectable agent), »or of his Grace the Lord High Commissioner.« Ratcliffe
bowed and withdrew.
    »I have angered the proud peat now,« he said to himself, »by finding out a
likeness; but if George Robertson's father had lived within a mile of his
mother, d - n me if I should not know what to think, for as high as he carries
his head.«
    When he was left alone with Butler, Sir George Staunton ordered tea and
coffee, which were brought by his valet, and then, after considering with
himself for a minute, asked his guest whether he had lately heard from his wife
and family. Butler, with some surprise at the question, replied, »that he had
received no letter for some time; his wife was a poor penwoman.«
    »Then,« said Sir George Staunton, »I am the first to inform you there has
been an invasion of your quiet premises since you left home. My wife, whom the
Duke of Argyle had the goodness to permit to use Roseneath Lodge, while she was
spending some weeks in your country, has sallied across and taken up her
quarters in the Manse, as she says, to be nearer the goats, whose milk she is
using; but, I believe, in reality, because she prefers Mrs. Butler's company to
that of the respectable gentleman who acts as seneschal on the Duke's domains.«
    Mr. Butler said, »He had often heard the late Duke and the present speak
with high respect of Lady Staunton, and was happy if his house could accommodate
any friend of theirs - it would be but a very slight acknowledgement of the many
favours he owed them.«
    »That does not make Lady Staunton and myself the less obliged to your
hospitality, sir,« said Sir George. »May I inquire if you think of returning
home soon?«
    »In the course of two days,« Mr. Butler answered, »his duty in the Assembly
would be ended; and the other matters he had in town being all finished, he was
desirous of returning to Dumbartonshire as soon as he could; but he was under
the necessity of transporting a considerable sum in bills and money with him,
and therefore wished to travel in company with one or two of his brethren of the
clergy.«
    »My escort will be more safe,« said Sir George Staunton, »and I think of
setting off to-morrow or next day. If you will give me the pleasure of your
company, I will undertake to deliver you and your charge safe at the Manse,
provided you will admit me along with you.«
    Mr. Butler gratefully accepted of this proposal; the appointment was made
accordingly, and, by despatches with one of Sir George's servants, who was sent
forward for the purpose, the inhabitants of the manse of Knocktarlitie were made
acquainted with the intended journey; and the news rung through the whole
vicinity, »that the minister was coming back wi' a braw English gentleman and a'
the siller that was to pay for the estate of Craigsture.«
    This sudden resolution of going to Knocktarlitie had been adopted by Sir
George Staunton in consequence of the incidents of the evening. In spite of his
present consequence, he felt he had presumed too far in venturing so near the
scene of his former audacious acts of violence, and he knew too well, from past
experience, the acuteness of a man like Ratcliffe, again to encounter him. The
next two days he kept his lodgings, under pretence of indisposition, and took
leave by writing of his noble friend the High Commissioner, alleging the
opportunity of Mr. Butler's company as a reason for leaving Edinburgh sooner
than he had proposed. He had a long conference with his agent on the subject of
Annaple Bailzou; and the professional gentleman, who was the agent also of the
Argyle family, had directions to collect all the information which Ratcliffe or
others might be able to obtain concerning the fate of that woman and the
unfortunate child, and so soon as anything transpired which had the least
appearance of being important, that he should send an express with it instantly
to Knocktarlitie. These instructions were backed with a deposit of money, and a
request that no expense might be spared; so that Sir George Staunton had little
reason to apprehend negligence on the part of the persons entrusted with the
commission.
    The journey, which the brothers made in company, was attended with more
pleasure, even to Sir George Staunton, than he had ventured to expect. His heart
lightened in spite of himself when they lost sight of Edinburgh; and the easy,
sensible conversation of Butler was well calculated to withdraw his thoughts
from painful reflections. He even began to think whether there could be much
difficulty in removing his wife's connections to the rectory of Willingham; it
was only on his part procuring some still better preferment for the present
incumbent, and on Butler's, that he should take orders according to the English
Church, to which he could not conceive a possibility of his making objection,
and then he had them residing under his wing. No doubt there was pain in seeing
Mrs. Butler, acquainted, as he knew her to be, with the full truth of his evil
history; but then her silence, though he had no reason to complain of her
indiscretion hitherto, was still more absolutely ensured. It would keep his
lady, also, both in good temper and in more subjection; for she was sometimes
troublesome to him by insisting on remaining in town when he desired to retire
to the country, alleging the total want of society at Willingham. »Madam, your
sister is there,« would, he thought, be a sufficient answer to this ready
argument.
    He sounded Butler on this subject, asking what he would think of an English
living of twelve hundred pounds yearly, with the burden of affording his company
now and then to a neighbour, whose health was not strong or his spirits equal.
»He might meet,« he said, »occasionally, a very learned and accomplished
gentleman, who was in orders as a Catholic priest, but he hoped that would be no
insurmountable objection to a man of his liberality of sentiment. What,« he
said, »would Mr. Butler think of as an answer, if the offer should be made to
him?«
    »Simply that I could not accept of it,« said Mr. Butler. »I have no mind to
enter into the various debates between the churches; but I was brought up in
mine own, have received her ordination, am satisfied of the truth of her
doctrines, and will die under the banner I have enlisted to.«
    »What may be the value of your preferment?« said Sir George Staunton,
»unless I am asking an indiscreet question.«
    »Probably one hundred a-year, one year with another, besides my glebe and
pasture-ground.«
    »And you scruple to exchange that for twelve hundred a-year, without
alleging any damning difference of doctrine betwixt the two churches of England
and Scotland?«
    »On that, sir, I have reserved my judgment; there may be much good, and
there are certainly saving means in both; but every man must act according to
his own lights. I hope I have done, and am in the course of doing, my Master's
work in this Highland parish; and it would ill become me, for the sake of lucre,
to leave my sheep in the wilderness. But, even in the temporal view which you
have taken of the matter, Sir George, this hundred pounds a-year of stipend hath
fed and clothed us, and left us nothing to wish for; my father-in-law's
succession, and other circumstances, have added a small estate of about twice as
much more, and how we are to dispose of it I do not know - So I leave it to you,
sir, to think if I were wise, not having the wish or opportunity of spending
three hundred a-year, to covet the possession of four times that sum.«
    »This is philosophy,« said Sir George; »I have heard of it, but I never saw
it before.«
    »It is common sense,« replied Butler, »which accords with philosophy and
religion more frequently than pedants or zealots are apt to admit.«
    Sir George turned the subject, and did not again resume it. Although they
travelled in Sir George's chariot, he seemed so much fatigued with the motion,
that it was necessary for him to remain for a day at a small town called
Mid-Calder, which was their first stage from Edinburgh. Glasgow occupied another
day, so slow were their motions.
    They travelled on to Dumbarton, where they had resolved to leave the
equipage and to hire a boat to take them to the shores near the manse, as the
Gare-Loch lay betwixt them and that point, besides the impossibility of
travelling in that district with wheel-carriages. Sir George's valet, a man of
trust, accompanied them, as also a footman; the grooms were left with the
carriage. Just as this arrangement was completed, which was about four o'clock
in the afternoon, an express arrived from Sir George's agent in Edinburgh, with
a packet, which he opened and read with great attention, appearing much
interested and agitated by the contents. The packet had been despatched very
soon after their leaving Edinburgh, but the messenger had missed the travellers
by passing through Mid-Calder in the night, and overshot his errand by getting
to Roseneath before them. He was now on his return, after having waited more
than four-and-twenty hours. Sir George Staunton instantly wrote back an answer,
and rewarding the messenger liberally, desired him not to sleep till he placed
it in his agent's hands.
    At length they embarked in the boat, which had waited for them some time.
During their voyage, which was slow, for they were obliged to row the whole way,
and often against the tide, Sir George Staunton's inquiries ran chiefly on the
subject of the Highland banditti who had infested that country since the year
1745. Butler informed him that many of them were not native Highlanders, but
gipsies, tinkers, and other men of desperate fortunes, who had taken advantage
of the confusion introduced by the civil war, the general discontent of the
mountaineers, and the unsettled state of police, to practise their plundering
trade with more audacity. Sir George next inquired into their lives, their
habits, whether the violences which they committed were not sometimes atoned for
by acts of generosity, and whether they did not possess the virtues as well as
the vices of savage tribes?
    Butler answered, that certainly they did sometimes show sparks of
generosity, of which even the worst class of malefactors are seldom utterly
divested; but that their evil propensities were certain and regular principles
of action, while any occasional burst of virtuous feeling was only a transient
impulse not to be reckoned upon, and excited probably by some singular and
unusual concatenation of circumstances. In discussing these inquiries, which Sir
George pursued with an apparent eagerness that rather surprised Butler, the
latter chanced to mention the name of Donacha dhu na Dunaigh, with which the
reader is already acquainted. Sir George caught the sound up eagerly, and as if
it conveyed particular interest to his ear. He made the most minute inquiries
concerning the man whom he mentioned, the number of his gang, and even the
appearance of those who belonged to it. Upon these points Butler could give
little answer. The man had a name among the lower class, but his exploits were
considerably exaggerated; he had always one or two fellows with him, but never
aspired to the command of above three or four. In short, he knew little about
him, and the small acquaintance he had had by no means inclined him to desire
more.
    »Nevertheless, I should like to see him some of these days.«
    »That would be a dangerous meeting, Sir George, unless you mean we are to
see him receive his deserts from the law, and then it were a melancholy one.«
    »Use every man according to his deserts, Mr. Butler, and who shall escape
whipping? But I am talking riddles to you. I will explain them more fully to you
when I have spoken over the subject with Lady Staunton. - Pull away, my lads,«
he added, addressing himself to the rowers; »the clouds threaten us with a
storm.«
    In fact, the dead and heavy closeness of the air, the huge piles of clouds
which assembled in the western horizon, and glowed like a furnace under the
influence of the setting sun - that awful stillness in which nature seems to
expect the thunder-burst, as a condemned soldier waits for the platoon fire
which is to stretch him on the earth, all betokened a speedy storm. Large broad
drops fell from time to time, and induced the gentlemen to assume the
boat-cloaks; but the rain again ceased, and the oppressive heat, so unusual in
Scotland in the end of May, inclined them to throw them aside. »There is
something solemn in this delay of the storm,« said Sir George; »it seems as if
it suspended its peal till it solemnised some important event in the world
below.«
    »Alas!« replied Butler, »what are we that the laws of nature should
correspond in their march with our ephemeral deeds or sufferings! The clouds
will burst when surcharged with the electric fluid, whether a goat is falling at
that instant from the cliffs of Arran, or a hero expiring on the field of battle
he has won.«
    »The mind delights to deem it otherwise,« said Sir George Staunton; »and to
dwell on the fate of humanity as on that which is the prime central movement of
the mighty machine. We love not to think that we shall mix with the ages that
have gone before us, as these broad black raindrops mingle with the waste of
waters, making a trifling and momentary eddy, and are then lost for ever.«
    »For ever! - we are not - we cannot be lost for ever,« said Butler, looking
upward; »death is to us change, not consummation; and the commencement of a new
existence, corresponding in character to the deeds which we have done in the
body.«
    While they agitated these grave subjects, to which the solemnity of the
approaching storm naturally led them, their voyage threatened to be more tedious
than they expected, for gusts of wind, which rose and fell with sudden
impetuosity, swept the bosom of the firth, and impeded the efforts of the
rowers. They had now only to double a small headland, in order to get to the
proper landing-place in the mouth of the little river; but in the state of the
weather, and the boat being heavy, this was like to be a work of time, and in
the meanwhile they must necessarily be exposed to the storm.
    »Could we not land on this side of the headland,« asked Sir George, »and so
gain some shelter?«
    Butler knew of no landing-place, at least none affording a convenient or
even practicable passage up the rocks which surrounded the shore.
    »Think again,« said Sir George Staunton; »the storm will soon be violent.«
    »Hout, ay,« said one of the boatmen, »there's the Caird's Cove; but we dinna
tell the minister about it, and I am no sure if I can steer the boat to it, the
bay is sae fu' o' shoals and sunk rocks.«
    »Try,« said Sir George, »and I will give you half-a-guinea.«
    The old fellow took the helm, and observed, »That, if they could get in,
there was a steep path up from the beach, and half-an-hour's walk from thence to
the Manse.«
    »Are you sure you know the way?« said Butler to the old man.
    »I maybe kend it a wee better fifteen years syne, when Dandie Wilson was in
the firth wi' his clean-ganging lugger. I mind Dandie had a wild young Englisher
wi' him, that they ca'd« -
    »If you chatter so much,« said Sir George Staunton, »you will have the boat
on the Grindstone - bring that white rock in a line with the steeple.«
    »By G -,« said the veteran, staring, »I think your honour kens the bay as
well as me. - Your honour's nose has been on the Grindstone ere now, I'm
thinking.«
    As they spoke thus, they approached the little cove, which, concealed behind
crags, and defended on every point by shallows and sunken rocks, could scarce be
discovered or approached, except by those intimate with the navigation. An old
shattered boat was already drawn up on the beach within the cove, close beneath
the trees, and with precautions for concealment.
    Upon observing this vessel, Butler remarked to his companion, »It is
impossible for you to conceive, Sir George, the difficulty I have had with my
poor people, in teaching them the guilt and the danger of this contraband trade
- yet they have perpetually before their eyes all its dangerous consequences. I
do not know anything that more effectually depraves and ruins their moral and
religious principles.«
    Sir George forced himself to say something in a low voice about the spirit
of adventure natural to youth, and that unquestionably many would become wiser
as they grew older.
    »Too seldom, sir,« replied Butler. »If they have been deeply engaged, and
especially if they have mingled in the scenes of violence and blood to which
their occupation naturally leads, I have observed, that, sooner or later, they
come to an evil end. Experience, as well as Scripture, teaches us, Sir George,
that mischief shall hunt the violent man, and that the bloodthirsty man shall
not live half his days - But take my arm to help you ashore.«
    Sir George needed assistance, for he was contrasting in his altered thought
the different feelings of mind and frame with which he had formerly frequented
the same place. As they landed, a low growl of thunder was heard at a distance.
    »That is ominous, Mr. Butler,« said Sir George.
    »Intonuit lævum - it is ominous of good, then,« answered Butler, smiling.
    The boatmen were ordered to make the best of their way round the headland to
the ordinary landing-place; the two gentlemen, followed by their servant, sought
their way by a blind and tangled path, through a close copsewood, to the Manse
of Knocktarlitie, where their arrival was anxiously expected.
    The sisters in vain had expected their husbands' return on the preceding
day, which was that appointed by Sir George's letter. The delay of the
travellers at Calder had occasioned this breach of appointment. The inhabitants
of the Manse began even to doubt whether they would arrive on the present day.
Lady Staunton felt this hope of delay as a brief reprieve, for she dreaded the
pangs which her husband's pride must undergo at meeting with a sister-in-law, to
whom the whole of his unhappy and dishonourable history was too well known. She
knew, whatever force or constraint he might put upon his feelings in public,
that she herself must be doomed to see them display themselves in full vehemence
in secret, - consume his health, destroy his temper, and render him at once an
object of dread and compassion. Again and again she cautioned Jeanie to display
no tokens of recognition, but to receive him as a perfect stranger, - and again
and again Jeanie renewed her promise to comply with her wishes.
    Jeanie herself could not fail to bestow an anxious thought on the
awkwardness of the approaching meeting; but her conscience was ungalled - and
then she was cumbered with many household cares of an unusual nature, which,
joined to the anxious wish once more to see Butler, after an absence of unusual
length, made her extremely desirous that the travellers should arrive as soon as
possible. And - why should I disguise the truth? - ever and anon a thought stole
across her mind that her gala dinner had now been postponed for two days; and
how few of the dishes, after every art of her simple cuisine had been exerted to
dress them, could with any credit or propriety appear again upon the third; and
what was she to do with the rest? - Upon this last subject she was saved the
trouble of farther deliberation, by the sudden appearance of the Captain at the
head of half-a-dozen stout fellows, dressed and armed in the Highland fashion.
    »Goot-morrow morning to ye, Leddy Staunton, and I hope I hae the pleasure to
see you well - And goot-morrow to you, goot Mrs. Putler - I do peg you will
order some victuals and ale and prandy for the lads, for we hae peen out on
firth and moor since afore daylight, and a' to no purpose neither - Cot tam!«
    So saying, he sate down, pushed back his brigadier wig, and wiped his head
with an air of easy importance; totally regardless of the look of well-bred
astonishment by which Lady Staunton endeavoured to make him comprehend that he
was assuming too great a liberty.
    »It is some comfort, when one has had a sair tussel,« continued the Captain,
addressing Lady Staunton, with an air of gallantry, »that it is in a fair
leddy's service, or in the service of a gentleman whilk has a fair leddy, whilk
is the same thing, since serving the husband is serving the wife, as Mrs. Putler
does very well know.«
    »Really, sir,« said Lady Staunton, »as you seem to intend this compliment
for me, I am at a loss to know what interest Sir George or I can have in your
movements this morning.«
    »O, Cot tam! - this is too cruel, my leddy - as if it was not py special
express from his Grace's honourable agent and commissioner at Edinburgh, with a
warrant conform, that I was to seek for and apprehend Donacha dhu na Dunaigh,
and pring him pefore myself and Sir George Staunton, that he may have his
deserts, that is to say, the gallows, whilk he has doubtless deserved, py peing
the means of frightening your leddyship, as well as for something of less
importance.«
    »Frightening me!« said her ladyship; »why, I never wrote to Sir George about
my alarm at the waterfall.«
    »Then he must have heard it otherwise; for what else can give him sic an
earnest tesire to see this rapscallion, that I maun ripe the haill mosses and
muirs in the country for him, as if I were to get something for finding him,
when the pest o't might pe a pall through my prains?«
    »Can it be really true, that it is on Sir George's account that you have
been attempting to apprehend this fellow?«
    »Py Cot, it is for no other cause that I know than his honour's pleasure;
for the creature might hae gone on in a decent quiet way for me, sae lang as he
respectit the Duke's pounds - put reason goot he should be taken, and hangit to
poot, if it may pleasure ony honourable shentleman that is the Duke's friend -
Sae I got the express over night, and I caused warn half a score of pretty lads,
and was up in the morning pefore the sun, and I garr'd the lads take their kilts
and short coats.«
    »I wonder you did that, Captain,« said Mrs. Butler, »when you know the act
of Parliament against wearing the Highland dress.«
    »Hout, tout, ne'er fash your thumb, Mrs. Putler. The law is put twa-three
years auld yet, and is ower young to hae come our length; and pesides, how is
the lads to climb the praes wi' thae tamn'd breekens on them? It makes me sick
to see them. Put ony how, I thought I kend Donacha's haunt gey and well, and I
was at the place where he had rested yestreen; for I saw the leaves the limmers
had lain on, and the ashes of them; by the same token, there was a pit greeshoch
purning yet. I am thinking they got some word out o' the island what was
intended - I sought every glen and cleuch, as if I had been deer-stalking, but
teil a wauff of his coat-tail could I see - Cot tam!«
    »He'll be away down the Firth to Cowal,« said David; and Reuben, who had
been out early that morning a-nutting, observed, »That he had seen a boat making
for the Caird's Cove;« a place well known to the boys, though their less
adventurous father was ignorant of its existence.
    »Py Cot,« said Duncan, »then I will stay here no longer than to trink this
very horn of prandy and water, for it's very possible they will pe in the wood.
Donacha's a clever fellow, and maype thinks it pest to sit next the chimley when
the lum reeks. He thought nobody would look for him sae near hand! I peg your
leddyship will excuse my aprupt departure, as I will return forthwith, and I
will either pring you Donacha in life, or else his head, whilk I dare to say
will be as satisfactory. And I hope to pass a pleasant evening with your
leddyship; and I hope to have mine revenges on Mr. Putler at packgammon, for the
four pennies whilk he won, for he will pe surely at home soon, or else he will
have a wet journey, seeing it is apout to pe a scud.«
    Thus saying, with many scrapes and bows, and apologies for leaving them,
which were very readily received, and reiterated assurances of his speedy return
(of the sincerity whereof Mrs. Butler entertained no doubt, so long as her best
greybeard of brandy was upon duty), Duncan left the Manse, collected his
followers, and began to scour the close and entangled wood which lay between the
little glen and the Caird's Cove. David, who was a favourite with the Captain,
on account of his spirit and courage, took the opportunity of escaping, to
attend the investigations of that great man.
 

                              Chapter Fifty-First

 - I did send for thee,
 * * * * *
 That Talbot's name might be in thee revived,
 When sapless age and weak, unable limbs,
 Should bring thy father to his drooping chair.
 But - O malignant and ill-boding stars! -
                                                  First Part of Henry the Sixth.
 
Duncan and his party had not proceeded very far in the direction of the Caird's
Cove before they heard a shot, which was quickly followed by one or two others.
»Some tamn'd villains among the roe-deer,« said Duncan; »look sharp out, lads.«
    The clash of swords was next heard, and Duncan and his myrmidons, hastening
to the spot, found Butler and Sir George Staunton's servant in the hands of four
ruffians. Sir George himself lay stretched on the ground, with his drawn sword
in his hand. Duncan, who was as brave as a lion, instantly fired his pistol at
the leader of the band, unsheathed his sword, cried out to his men, Claymore!
and run his weapon through the body of the fellow whom he had previously
wounded, who was no other than Donacha dhu na Dunaigh himself. The other
banditti were speedily overpowered, excepting one young lad, who made wonderful
resistance for his years, and was at length secured with difficulty.
    Butler, so soon as he was liberated from the ruffians, ran to raise Sir
George Staunton, but life had wholly left him.
    »A creat misfortune,« said Duncan; »I think it will pe pest that I go
forward to intimate it to the coot lady. - Tavie, my dear, you hae smelled
pouther for the first time this day - take my sword and hack off Donacha's head,
whilk will pe coot practice for you against the time you may wish to do the same
kindness to a living shentleman - or hould! as your father does not approve, you
may leave it alone, as he will pe a greater object of satisfaction to Leddy
Staunton to see him entire; and I hope she will do me the credit to pelieve that
I can afenge a shentleman's plood fery speedily and well.«
    Such was the observation of a man too much accustomed to the ancient state
of manners in the Highlands, to look upon the issue of such a skirmish as
anything worthy of wonder or emotion.
    We will not attempt to describe the very contrary effect which the
unexpected disaster produced upon Lady Staunton, when the bloody corpse of her
husband was brought to the house, where she expected to meet him alive and well.
All was forgotten, but that he was the lover of her youth; and whatever were his
faults to the world, that he had towards her exhibited only those that arose
from the inequality of spirits and temper, incident to a situation of
unparalleled difficulty. In the vivacity of her grief she gave way to all the
natural irritability of her temper; shriek followed shriek, and swoon succeeded
to swoon. It required all Jeanie's watchful affection to prevent her from making
known, in these paroxysms of affliction, much which it was of the highest
importance that she should keep secret.
    At length silence and exhaustion succeeded to frenzy, and Jeanie stole out
to take counsel with her husband, and to exhort him to anticipate the Captain's
interference, by taking possession, in Lady Staunton's name, of the private
papers of her deceased husband. To the utter astonishment of Butler, she now,
for the first time, explained the relation betwixt herself and Lady Staunton,
which authorised, nay, demanded, that he should prevent any stranger from being
unnecessarily made acquainted with her family affairs. It was in such a crisis
that Jeanie's active and undaunted habits of virtuous exertion were most
conspicuous. While the Captain's attention was still engaged by a prolonged
refreshment, and a very tedious examination, in Gaelic and English, of all the
prisoners, and every other witness of the fatal transaction, she had the body of
her brother-in-law undressed and properly disposed. It then appeared, from the
crucifix, the beads, and the shirt of hair which he wore next his person, that
his sense of guilt had induced him to receive the dogmata of a religion, which
pretends, by the maceration of the body, to expiate the crimes of the soul. In
the packet of papers which the express had brought to Sir George Staunton from
Edinburgh, and which Butler, authorised by his connection with the deceased, did
not scruple to examine, he found new and astonishing intelligence, which gave
him reason to thank God he had taken that measure.
    Ratcliffe, to whom all sorts of misdeeds and misdoers were familiar,
instigated by the promised reward, soon found himself in a condition to trace
the infant of these unhappy parents. The woman to whom Meg Murdockson had sold
that most unfortunate child, had made it the companion of her wanderings and her
beggary, until he was about seven or eight years old, when, as Ratcliffe learned
from a companion of hers, then in the Correction House of Edinburgh, she sold
him in her turn to Donacha dhu na Dunaigh. This man, to whom no act of mischief
was unknown, was occasionally an agent in a horrible trade then carried on
betwixt Scotland and America, for supplying the plantations with servants, by
means of kidnapping, as it was termed, both men and women, but especially
children under age. Here Ratcliffe lost sight of the boy, but had no doubt but
Donacha Dhu could give an account of him. The gentleman of the law, so often
mentioned, despatched therefore an express, with a letter to Sir George
Staunton, and another covering a warrant for apprehension of Donacha, with
instructions to the Captain of Knockdunder to exert his utmost energy for that
purpose.
    Possessed of this information, and with a mind agitated by the most gloomy
apprehensions, Butler now joined the Captain, and obtained from him with some
difficulty a sight of the examinations. These, with a few questions to the elder
of the prisoners, soon confirmed the most dreadful of Butler's anticipations. We
give the heads of the information, without descending into minute details.
    Donacha Dhu had indeed purchased Effie's unhappy child, with the purpose of
selling it to the American traders, whom he had been in the habit of supplying
with human flesh. But no opportunity occurred for some time; and the boy, who
was known by the name of »The Whistler,« made some impression on the heart and
affections even of this rude savage, perhaps because he saw in him flashes of a
spirit as fierce and vindictive as his own. When Donacha struck or threatened
him - a very common occurrence - he did not answer with complaints and
entreaties like other children, but with oaths and efforts at revenge - he had
all the wild merit, too, by which Woggarwolfe's arrow-bearing page won the hard
heart of his master:
 
Like a wild cub, rear'd at the ruffian's feet,
He could say biting jests, bold ditties sing,
And quaff his foaming bumper at the board,
With all the mockery of a little man.71
 
In short, as Donacha Dhu said, the Whistler was a born imp of Satan, and
therefore he should never leave him. Accordingly, from his eleventh year
forward, he was one of the band, and often engaged in acts of violence. The last
of these was more immediately occasioned by the researches which the Whistler's
real father made after him whom he had been taught to consider as such. Donacha
Dhu's fears had been for some time excited by the strength of the means which
began now to be employed against persons of his description. He was sensible he
existed only by the precarious indulgence of his namesake, Duncan of
Knockdunder, who was used to boast that he could put him down or string him up
when he had a mind. He resolved to leave the kingdom by means of one of those
sloops which were engaged in the traffic of his old kidnapping friends, and
which was about to sail for America; but he was desirous first to strike a bold
stroke.
    The ruffian's cupidity was excited by the intelligence, that a wealthy
Englishman was coming to the Manse - he had neither forgotten the Whistler's
report of the gold he had seen in Lady Staunton's purse, nor his old vow of
revenge against the minister; and, to bring the whole to a point, he conceived
the hope of appropriating the money, which, according to the general report of
the country, the minister was to bring from Edinburgh to pay for his new
purchase. While he was considering how he might best accomplish his purpose, he
received the intelligence from one quarter, that the vessel in which he proposed
to sail was to sail immediately from Greenock; from another, that the minister
and a rich English lord, with a great many thousand pounds, were expected the
next evening at the Manse; and from a third, that he must consult his safety by
leaving his ordinary haunts as soon as possible, for that the Captain had
ordered out a party to scour the glens for him at break of day. Donacha laid his
plans with promptitude and decision. He embarked with the Whistler and two
others of his band (whom, by the by, he meant to sell to the kidnappers), and
set sail for the Caird's Cove. He intended to lurk till night-fall in the wood
adjoining to this place, which he thought was too near the habitation of men to
excite the suspicion of Duncan Knock, then break into Butler's peaceful
habitation, and flesh at once his appetite for plunder and revenge. When his
villainy was accomplished, his boat was to convey him to the vessel, which,
according to previous agreement with the master, was instantly to set sail.
    This desperate design would probably have succeeded, but for the ruffians
being discovered in their lurking-place by Sir George Staunton and Butler, in
their accidental walk from the Caird's Cove towards the Manse. Finding himself
detected, and at the same time observing that the servant carried a casket, or
strong-box, Donacha conceived that both his prize and his victims were within
his power, and attacked the travellers without hesitation. Shots were fired and
swords drawn on both sides; Sir George Staunton offered the bravest resistance
till he fell, as there was too much reason to believe, by the hand of a son, so
long sought, and now at length so unhappily met.
    While Butler was half-stunned with this intelligence, the hoarse voice of
Knockdunder added to his consternation.
    »I will take the liperty to take down the pell-ropes, Mr. Putler, as I must
pe taking order to hang these idle people up to-morrow morning, to teach them
more consideration in their doings in future.«
    Butler entreated him to remember the act abolishing the heritable
jurisdictions, and that he ought to send them to Glasgow or Inverary, to be
tried by the Circuit. Duncan scorned the proposal.
    »The Jurisdiction Act,« he said, »had nothing to do put with the rebels, and
specially not with Argyle's country; and he would hang the men up all three in
one row before coot Leddy Staunton's windows, which would be a great comfort to
her in the morning to see that the coot gentleman, her husband, had been
suitably afenged.«
    And the utmost length that Butler's most earnest entreaties could prevail
was, that he would reserve »the twa pig carles for the Circuit, but as for him
they ca'd the Fustler, he should try how he could fustle in a swinging tow, for
it suldna be said that a shentleman, friend to the Duke, was killed in his
country, and his people didna take at least twa lives for ane.«
    Butler entreated him to spare the victim for his soul's sake. But
Knockdunder answered, »that the soul of such a scum had been long the tefil's
property, and that, Cot tam! he was determined to gif the tefil his due.«
    All persuasion was in vain, and Duncan issued his mandate for execution on
the succeeding morning. The child of guilt and misery was separated from his
companions, strongly pinioned, and committed to a separate room, of which the
Captain kept the key.
    In the silence of the night, however, Mrs. Butler arose, resolved, if
possible, to avert, at least to delay, the fate which hung over her nephew,
especially if, upon conversing with him, she should see any hope of his being
brought to better temper. She had a master-key that opened every lock in the
house; and at midnight, when all was still, she stood before the eyes of the
astonished young savage, as, hard bound with cords, he lay, like a sheep
designed for slaughter, upon a quantity of the refuse of flax which filled a
corner in the apartment. Amid features sunburnt, tawny, grimed with dirt, and
obscured by his shaggy hair of a rusted black colour, Jeanie tried in vain to
trace the likeness of either of his very handsome parents. Yet how could she
refuse compassion to a creature so young and so wretched, - so much more
wretched than even he himself could be aware of, since the murder he had too
probably committed with his own hand, but in which he had at any rate
participated, was in fact a parricide? She placed food on a table near him,
raised him, and slacked the cords on his arms, so as to permit him to feed
himself. He stretched out his hands, still smeared with blood, perhaps that of
his father, and he ate voraciously and in silence.
    »What is your first name?« said Jeanie, by way of opening the conversation.
    »The Whistler.«
    »But your Christian name, by which you were baptized?«
    »I never was baptized that I know of - I have no other name than the
Whistler.«
    »Poor unhappy abandoned lad!« said Jeanie. »What would ye do if you could
escape from this place, and the death you are to die to-morrow morning?«
    »Join wi' Rob Roy, or wi' Sergeant More Cameron« (noted freebooters at that
time), »and revenge Donacha's death on all and sundry.«
    »O ye unhappy boy,« said Jeanie, »do ye ken what will come o' ye when ye
die?«
    »I shall neither feel cauld nor hunger more,« said the youth doggedly.
    »To let him be execute in this dreadful state of mind would be to destroy
baith body and soul - and to let him gang I dare not - what will be done? - But
he is my sister's son - my own nephew - our flesh and blood - and his hands and
feet are yerked as tight as cords can be drawn. - Whistler, do the cords hurt
you?«
    »Very much.«
    »But, if I were to slacken them, you would harm me?«
    »No, I would not - you never harmed me or mine.«
    There may be good in him yet, thought Jeanie; I will try fair play with him.
    She cut his bonds - he stood upright, looked round with a laugh of wild
exultation, clapped his hands together, and sprung from the ground, as if in
transport on finding himself at liberty. He looked so wild, that Jeanie trembled
at what she had done.
    »Let me out,« said the young savage.
    »I wunna, unless you promise« -
    »Then I'll make you glad to let us both out.«
    He seized the lighted candle and threw it among the flax, which was
instantly in a flame. Jeanie screamed, and ran out of the room; the prisoner
rushed past her, threw open a window in the passage, jumped into the garden,
sprung over its enclosure, bounded through the woods like a deer, and gained the
seashore. Meantime, the fire was extinguished, but the prisoner was sought in
vain. As Jeanie kept her own secret, the share she had in his escape was not
discovered: but they learned his fate some time afterwards - it was as wild as
his life had hitherto been.
    The anxious inquiries of Butler at length learned, that the youth had gained
the ship in which his master, Donacha, had designed to embark. But the
avaricious shipmaster, inured by his evil trade to every species of treachery,
and disappointed of the rich booty which Donacha had proposed to bring aboard,
secured the person of the fugitive, and having transported him to America, sold
him as a slave, or indented servant, to a Virginian planter, far up the country.
When these tidings reached Butler, he sent over to America a sufficient sum to
redeem the lad from slavery, with instructions that measures should be taken for
improving his mind, restraining his evil propensities, and encouraging whatever
good might appear in his character. But this aid came too late. The young man
had headed a conspiracy in which his inhuman master was put to death, and had
then fled to the next tribe of wild Indians. He was never more heard of; and it
may therefore be presumed that he lived and died after the manner of that savage
people, with whom his previous habits had well fitted him to associate.
    All hopes of the young man's reformation being now ended, Mr. and Mrs.
Butler thought it could serve no purpose to explain to Lady Staunton a history
so full of horror. She remained their guest more than a year, during the greater
part of which period her grief was excessive. In the latter months, it assumed
the appearance of listlessness and low spirits, which the monotony of her
sister's quiet establishment afforded no means of dissipating. Effie, from her
earliest youth, was never formed for a quiet low content. Far different from her
sister, she required the dissipation of society to divert her sorrow, or enhance
her joy. She left the seclusion of Knocktarlitie with tears of sincere
affection, and after heaping its inmates with all she could think of that might
be valuable in their eyes. But she did leave it; and, when the anguish of the
parting was over, her departure was a relief to both sisters.
    The family at the Manse of Knocktarlitie, in their own quiet happiness,
heard of the well-dowered and beautiful Lady Staunton resuming her place in the
fashionable world. They learned it by more substantial proofs, for David
received a commission; and as the military spirit of Bible Butler seemed to have
revived in him, his good behaviour qualified the envy of five hundred young
Highland cadets, »come of good houses,« who were astonished at the rapidity of
his promotion. Reuben followed the law, and rose more slowly, yet surely.
Euphemia Butler, whose fortune, augmented by her aunt's generosity, and added to
her own beauty, rendered her no small prize, married a Highland laird, who never
asked the name of her grandfather, and was loaded on the occasion with presents
from Lady Staunton, which made her the envy of all the beauties in Dumbarton and
Argyle shires.
    After blazing nearly ten years in the fashionable world, and hiding, like
many of her compeers, an aching heart with a gay demeanour - after declining
repeated offers of the most respectable kind for a second matrimonial
engagement, Lady Staunton betrayed the inward wound by retiring to the
Continent, and taking up her abode in the convent where she had received her
education. She never took the veil, but lived and died in severe seclusion, and
in the practice of the Roman Catholic religion, in all its formal observances,
vigils, and austerities.
    Jeanie had so much of her father's spirit as to sorrow bitterly for this
apostasy, and Butler joined in her regret. »Yet any religion, however
imperfect,« he said, »was better than cold scepticism, or the hurrying din of
dissipation, which fills the ears of worldlings, until they care for none of
these things.«
    Meanwhile, happy in each other, in the prosperity of their family, and the
love and honour of all who knew them, this simple pair lived beloved, and died
lamented.
 



                                    Reader,

 
This tale will not be told in vain, if it shall be found to illustrate the great
truth, that guilt, though it may attain temporal splendour, can never confer
real happiness; that the evil consequences of our crimes long survive their
commission, and, like the ghosts of the murdered, for ever haunt the steps of
the malefactor; and that the paths of virtue, though seldom those of worldly
greatness, are always those of pleasantness and peace.
 

                       L'envoy, by Jedediah Cleishbotham.

Thus concludeth the Tale of »THE HEART OF MID-LOTHIAN,« which hath filled more
pages than I opined. The Heart of Mid-Lothian is now no more, or rather it is
transferred to the extreme side of the city, even as the Sieur Jean Baptiste
Popuelin hath it, in his pleasant comedy called Le Médecin Malgrè Lui, where the
simulated doctor wittily replieth to a charge, that he had placed the heart on
the right side, instead of the left, »Cela était autrefois ainsi, mais nous
avons changé tout cela.« Of which witty speech if any reader shall demand the
purport, I have only to respond, that I teach the French as well as the
Classical tongues, at the easy rate of five shillings per quarter, as my
advertisements are periodically making known to the public.
 

                                     Notes

1 It is an old proverb, that »many a true word is spoken in jest.« The existence
of Walter Scott, third son of Sir William Scott of Harden, is instructed, as it
is called, by a charter under the great seal, Domino Willielmo Scott de Harden
Militi, et Waltero Scott suo filio legitimo tertio genito, terrarum de Roberton.
The munificent old gentleman left all his four sons considerable estates, and
settled those of Eilrig and Raeburn, together with valuable possessions around
Lessuden, upon Walter, his third son, who is ancestor of the Scotts of Raeburn,
and of the Author of Waverley. He appears to have become a convert to the
doctrine of the Quakers, or Friends, and a great assertor of their peculiar
tenets. This was probably at the time when George Fox, the celebrated apostle of
the sect, made an expedition into the south of Scotland about 1657, on which
occasion, he boasts, that »as he first set his horse's feet upon Scottish
ground, he felt the seed of grace to sparkle about him like innumerable sparks
of fire.« Upon the same occasion, probably, Sir Gideon Scott of Highchester,
second son of Sir William, immediate elder brother of Walter, and ancestor of
the author's friend and kinsman, the present representative of the family of
Harden, also embraced the tenets of Quakerism. This last convert, Gideon,
entered into a controversy with the Rev. James Kirkton, author of the Secret and
True History of the Church of Scotland, which is noticed by my ingenious friend
Mr. Charles Kirkpatrick Sharpe, in his valuable and curious edition of that
work, 4to, 1817. Sir William Scott, eldest of the brothers, remained, amid the
defection of his two younger brethren, an orthodox member of the Presbyterian
Church, and used such means for reclaiming Walter of Raeburn from his heresy, as
savoured far more of persecution than persuasion. In this he was assisted by
MacDougal of Makerston, brother to Isabella MacDougal, the wife of the said
Walter, and who, like her husband, had conformed to the Quaker tenets.
The interest possessed by Sir William Scott and Makerston was powerful enough to
procure the two following acts of the Privy Council of Scotland, directed
against Walter of Raeburn as an heretic and convert to Quakerism, appointing him
to be imprisoned first in Edinburgh jail, and then in that of Jedburgh; and his
children to be taken by force from the society and direction of their parents,
and educated at a distance from them, besides the assignment of a sum for their
maintenance, sufficient in those times to be burdensome to a moderate Scottish
estate.
 
»Apud Edin., vigesimo Junii 1665.
The Lords of his Magesty's Privy Council having receaved information that Scott
of Raeburn, and Isobel Mackdougall, his wife, being infected with the error of
Quakerism, doe endeavour to breid and traine up William, Walter, and Isobel
Scotts, their children, in the same profession, doe therefore give order and
command to Sir William Scott of Harden, the said Raeburn's brother, to seperat
and take away the saids children from the custody and society of the saids
parents, and to cause educat and bring them up in his owne house, or any other
convenient place, and ordaines letters to be direct at the said Sir William's
instance against Raeburn, for a maintenance to the saids children, and that the
said Sir Wm. give ane account of his diligence with all conveniency.«
 
»Edinburgh, 5th July 1666.
Anent a petition presented be Sir Wm. Scott of Harden, for himself and in name
and behalf of the three children of Walter Scott of Raeburn, his brother,
showing that the Lords of Councill, by ane act of the 22d day of Junii 1665, did
grant power and warrand to the petitioner, to separat and take away Raeburn's
children, from his family and education, and to breed them in some convenient
place, where they might be free from all infection in their younger years, from
the principalls of Quakerism, and, for maintenance of the saids children, did
ordain letters to be direct against Raeburn; and, seeing the Petitioner, in
obedience to the said order, did take away the saids children, being two sonnes
and a daughter, and after some paines taken upon them in his owne family, hes
sent them to the city of Glasgow, to be bread at schooles, and there to be
principled with the knowledge of the true religion, and that it is necessary the
Councill determine what shall be the maintenance for which Raeburn's three
children may be charged, as likewise that Raeburn himself, being now in the
Tolbooth of Edinburgh, where he dayley converses with all the Quakers who are
prisoners there, and others who daily resort to them, whereby he is hardened in
his pernitious opinions and principles, without all hope of recovery, unlesse he
be separat from such pernitious company, humbly therefore, desyring that the
Councell might determine upon the soume of money to be payed be Raeburn, for the
education of his children, to the petitioner, who will be countable therefor;
and that, in order to his conversion, the place of his imprisonment may be
changed. The Lords of his Maj. Privy Councell having at length heard and
considered the foresaid petition, doe modifie the soume of two thousand pounds
Scots, to be payed yearly at the terme of Whitsunday be the said Walter Scott of
Raeburn, furth of his estate to the petitioner, for the entertainment and
education of the said children, beginning the first termes payment therof at
Whitsunday last for the half year preceding, and so furth yearly, at the said
terme of Whitsunday in tym comeing till further orders; and ordaines the said
Walter Scott of Raeburn to be transported from the tolbooth of Edinburgh to the
prison of Jedburgh, where his friends and others may have occasion to convert
him. And to the effect he may be secured from the practice of other Quakers, the
said Lords doe hereby discharge the magistrates of Jedburgh to suffer any
persons suspect of these principles to have access to him; and in case any
contraveen, that they secure there persons till they be therfore puneist; and
ordaines letters to be direct heirupon in form, as effeirs.«
 
Both the sons, thus harshly separated from their father, proved good scholars.
The eldest, William, who carried on the line of Raeburn, was, like his father, a
deep Orientalist; the younger, Walter, became a good classical scholar, a great
friend and correspondent of the celebrated Dr. Pitcairn, and a Jacobite so
distinguished for zeal, that he made a vow never to shave his beard till the
restoration of the exiled family. This last Walter Scott was the author's
great-grandfather.
There is yet another link betwixt the author and the simple-minded and excellent
Society of Friends, through a proselyte of much more importance than Walter
Scott of Raeburn. The celebrated John Swinton, of Swinton, nineteenth baron in
descent of that ancient and once powerful family, was, with Sir William Lockhart
of Lee, the person whom Cromwell chiefly trusted in the management of the
Scottish affairs during his usurpation. After the Restoration, Swinton was
devoted as a victim to the new order of things, and was brought down in the same
vessel which conveyed the Marquis of Argyle to Edinburgh, where that nobleman
was tried and executed. Swinton was destined to the same fate. He had assumed
the habit, and entered into the Society of the Quakers, and appeared as one of
their number before the Parliament of Scotland. He renounced all legal defence,
though several pleas were open to him, and answered, in conformity to the
principles of his sect, that at the time these crimes were imputed to him, he
was in the gall of bitterness and bond of iniquity; but that God Almighty having
since called him to the light, he saw and acknowledged these errors, and did not
refuse to pay the forfeit of them, even though, in the judgment of the
Parliament, it should extend to life itself.
Respect to fallen greatness, and to the patience and calm resignation with which
a man once in high power expressed himself under such a change of fortune, found
Swinton friends; family connections, and some interested considerations of
Middleton the Commissioner, joined to procure his safety, and he was dismissed,
but after a long imprisonment, and much dilapidation of his estates. It is said
that Swinton's admonitions, while confined in the Castle of Edinburgh, had a
considerable share in converting to the tenets of the Friends Colonel David
Barclay, then lying there in the garrison. This was the father of Robert
Barclay, author of the celebrated Apology for the Quakers. It may be observed
among the inconsistencies of human nature, that Kirkton, Wodrow, and other
Presbyterian authors, who have detailed the sufferings of their own sect for
nonconformity with the established church, censure the government of the time
for not exerting the civil power against the peaceful enthusiasts we have
treated of, and some express particular chagrin at the escape of Swinton.
Whatever might be his motives for assuming the tenets of the Friends, the old
man retained them faithfully till the close of his life.
Jean Swinton, grand-daughter of Sir John Swinton, son of Judge Swinton, as the
Quaker was usually termed, was mother of Anne Rutherford, the author's mother.
And thus, as in the play of the Anti-Jacobin, the ghost of the author's
grandmother having arisen to speak the Epilogue, it is full time to conclude,
lest the reader should remonstrate that his desire to know the Author of
Waverley never included a wish to be acquainted with his whole ancestry.
 
2 His honour Gilbert Goslinn of Gandercleugh; for I love to be precise in
matters of importance. - J.C.
 
3 The Lord Provost was ex-officio commander and colonel of the corps, which
might be increased to three hundred men when the times required it. No other
drum but theirs was allowed to sound on the High Street between the Luckenbooths
and the Netherbow.
 
4 This hook was to enable the bearer of the Lochaber-axe to scale a gateway, by
grappling the top of the door, and swinging himself up by the staff of his
weapon.
 
5 This ancient corps is now entirely disbanded. Their last march to do duty at
Hallowfair had something in it affecting. Their drums and fifes had been wont on
better days to play, on this joyous occasion, the lively tune of
 
                             »Jockey to the fair;«
 
bat on this final occasion the afflicted veterans moved slowly to the dirge of
 
                     »The last time I came ower the muir.«
 
6 The signatures affixed to the death-warrant of Captain Porteous were -
 
ANDREW FLETCHER of Milton, Lord Justice-Clerk.
Sir JAMES MACKENZIE, Lord Royston.
DAVID ERSKINE, Lord Dun.
Sir WALTER PRINGLE, Lord Newhall.
Sir GILBERT ELLIOT, Lord Minto.
 
7 There is a tradition, that while a little stream was swollen into a torrent by
recent showers, the discontented voice of the Water Spirit was heard to
pronounce these words. At the some moment a man, urged on by his fate, or, in
Scottish language, fey, arrived at a gallop, and prepared to cross the water. No
remonstrance from the bystanders was of power to stop him - he plunged into the
stream and perished.
 
8 A nobleman was called a Lord of State. The Senators of the College of Justice
were termed Lords of Seat, or of the Session.
 
9 Wide is the fronting gate, and, raised on high,
With adamantine columns threats the sky;
Vain is the force of man, and Heaven's as vain,
To crush the pillars which the pile sustain:
Sublime on these a tower of steel is rear'd.
                                                       DRYDEN'S Virgil. Book vi.
 
10 A near relation of the author's used to tell of having been stopped by the
rioters, and escorted home in the manner described. On reaching her own home,
one of her attendants, in appearance a baxter, i.e. a baker's lad, handed her
out of her chair, and took leave with a bow, which, in the lady's opinion,
argued breeding that could hardly be learned at the oven's mouth.
 
11 The ancient Tolbooth of Edinburgh, situated as described in this chapter, was
built by the citizens in 1561, and destined for the accommodation of Parliament,
as well as of the High Courts of Justice; and at the same time for the
confinement of prisoners for debt, or on criminal charges. Since the year 1640,
when the present Parliament House was erected, the Tolbooth was occupied as a
prison only. Gloomy and dismal as it was, the situation in the centre of the
High Street rendered it so particularly well-aired, that when the plague laid
waste the city in 1645, it affected none within these melancholy precincts. The
Tolbooth was removed, with the mass of buildings in which it was incorporated,
in the autumn of the year 1817. At that time the kindness of his old
schoolfellow and friend, Robert Johnstone, Esquire, then Dean of Guild of the
city, with the liberal acquiescence of the persons who had contracted for the
work, procured for the Author of Waverley the stones which composed the gateway,
together with the door, and its ponderous fastenings, which he employed in
decorating the entrance of his kitchen-court at Abbotsford. »To such base
offices may we return.« The application of these relics of the Heart of
Mid-Lothian to serve as the postern-gate to a court of modern offices, may be
justly ridiculed as whimsical; but yet it is not without interest, that we see
the gateway through which so much of the stormy politics of a rude age, and the
vice and misery of later times, had found their passage, now occupied in the
service of rural economy. Last year, to complete the change, a tomtit was
pleased to build her nest within the lock of the Tolbooth, - a strong temptation
to have committed a sonnet, had the Author, like Tony Lumpkin, been in a
concatenation accordingly.
It is worth mentioning, that an act of beneficence celebrated the demolition of
the Heart of Mid-Lothian. A subscription, raised and applied by the worthy
Magistrate above mentioned, procured the manumission of most of the unfortunate
debtors confined in the old jail, so that there were few or none transferred to
the new place of confinement.
 
12 This little incident, characteristic of the extreme composure of this
extraordinary mob, was witnessed by a lady, who, disturbed like others from her
slumbers, had gone to the window. It was told to the Author by the lady's
daughter.
 
13 The following interesting and authentic account of the inquiries made by
Crown Counsel into the affair of the Porteous Mob, seems to have been drawn up
by the Solicitor-General. The office was held in 1737 by Charles Erskine, Esq.
I owe this curious illustration to the kindness of a professional friend. It
throws, indeed, little light on the origin of the tumult; but shows how profound
the darkness must have been, which so much investigation could not dispel.
»Upon the 7th of September last, when the unhappy wicked murder of Captain
Porteus was committed, His Majesty's Advocate and Solicitor were out of town;
the first beyond Inverness, and the other in Annandale, not far from Carlyle;
neither of them knew anything of the reprieve, nor did they in the least suspect
that any disorder was to happen.
When the disorder happened, the magistrates and other persons concerned in the
management of the town, seemed to be all struck of a heap; and whether, from the
great terror that had seized all the inhabitants, they thought ane immediate
enquiry would be fruitless, or whether, being a direct insult upon the
prerogative of the crown, they did not care rashly to intermeddle; but no
proceedings was had by them. Only, soon after, ane express was sent to his
Majestie's Solicitor, who came to town as soon as was possible for him; but, in
the meantime, the persons who had been most guilty, had either run off, or, at
least, kept themselves upon the wing until they should see what steps were taken
by the Government.
When the Solicitor arrived, he perceived the whole inhabitants under a
consternation. He had no materials furnished him; nay, the inhabitants were so
much afraid of being reputed informers, that very few people had so much as the
courage to speak with him on the streets. However, having received her
Majestie's orders, by a letter from the Duke of New castle, he resolved to sett
about the matter in earnest, and entered upon ane enquiry, gropeing in the dark.
He had no assistance from the magistrates worth mentioning, but called witness
after witness in the privatest manner, before himself in his own house, and for
six weeks time, from morning to evening, went on in the enquiry without taking
the least diversion, or turning his thoughts to any other business.
He tried at first what he could do by declarations, by engaging secrecy, so that
those who told the truth should never be discovered; made use of no clerk, but
wrote all the declarations with his own hand, to encourage them to speak out.
After all, for some time, he could get nothing but ends of stories which, when
pursued, broke off; and those who appeared and knew anything of the matter, were
under the utmost terror, lest it should take air that they had mentioned any one
man as guilty.
During the course of the enquiry, the run of the town, which was strong for the
villainous actors, begun to alter a little, and when they saw the King's servants
in earnest to do their best, the generality, who before had spoke very warmly in
defence of the wickedness, began to be silent, and at that period more of the
criminals began to abscond.
At length the enquiry began to open a little, and the Sollicitor was under some
difficulty how to proceed. He very well saw that the first warrand that was
issued out would start the whole gang; and as he had not come at any of the most
notorious offenders, he was unwilling, upon the slight evidence he had, to
begin. However, upon notice given him by Generall Moyle, that one King, a
butcher in the Canongate, had boasted, in presence of Bridget Knell, a soldier's
wife, the morning after Captain Porteus was hanged, that he had a very active
hand in the mob, a warrand was issued out, and King was apprehended, and
imprisoned in the Canongate Tolbooth.
This obliged the Sollicitor immediately to take up those against whom he had any
information. By a signed declaration, William Stirling, apprentice to James
Stirling, merchant in Edinburgh, was charged as haveing been at the Nether-Bow,
after the gates were shutt, with a Lochaber-axe or halbert in his hand, and
haveing begun a huzza, marched upon the head of the mob towards the Guard.
James Braidwood, son to a candlemaker in town, was, by a signed declaration,
charged as haveing been at the Tolbooth door, giveing directions to the mob
about setting fire to the door, and that the mob named him by his name, and
asked his advice.
By another declaration, one Stoddart, a journeyman smith, was charged of having
boasted publicly, in a smith's shop at Leith, that he had assisted in breaking
open the Tolbooth door.
Peter Traill, a journeyman wright, by one of the declarations, was also accused
of haveing lockt the Nether-Bow Port, when it was shutt by the mob.
His Majestie's Sollicitor having these informations, imployed privately such
persons as he could best rely on, and the truth was, there were very few in whom
he could repose confidence. But he was, indeed, faithfully served by one
Webster, a soldier in the Welsh fuzileers, recommended him by Lieutenant
Alshton, who, with very great address, informed himself, and really run some
risk in getting his information, concerning the places where the persons
informed against used to haunt, and how they might be seized. In consequence of
which, a party of the Guard from the Canongate was agreed on to march up at a
certain hour, when a message should be sent. The Sollicitor wrote a letter and
gave it to one of the town officers, ordered to attend Captain Maitland, one of
the town Captains, promoted to that command since the unhappy accident, who,
indeed, was extremely diligent and active throughout the whole; and haveing got
Stirling and Braidwood apprehended, dispatched the officer with the letter to
the military in the Canongate, who immediately begun their march, and by the
time the Sollicitor had half examined the said two persons in the Burrow-room,
where the Magistrates were present, a party of fifty men, drums beating, marched
into the Parliament close, and drew up, which was the first thing that struck a
terror, and from that time forward, the insolence was succeeded by fear.
Stirling and Braidwood were immediately sent to the Castle and imprisoned. That
same night, Stoddart, the smith, was seized, and he was committed to the Castle
also; as was likewise Traill, the journeyman wright, who were all severally
examined, and denyed the least accession.
In the meantime, the enquiry was going on, and it haveing cast up in one of the
declarations, that a hump'd backed creature marched with a gun as one of the
guards to Porteus when he went up to the Lawn Markett, the person who emitted
this declaration was employed to walk the streets to see if he could find him
out; at last he came to the Sollicitor and told him he had found him, and that
he was in a certain house. Whereupon a warrand was issued out against him, and
he was apprehended and sent to the Castle, and he proved to be one Birnie, a
helper to the Countess of Weemys's coachman.
Thereafter, ane information was given in against William M'Lauchlan, ffootman to
the said Countess, he haveing been very active in the mob; ffor sometime he kept
himself out of the way, but at last he was apprehended and likewise committed to
the Castle.
And these were all the prisoners who were putt under confinement in that place.
There were other persons imprisoned in the Tolbooth of Edinburgh, and severalls
against whom warrands were issued, but could not be apprehended, whose names and
cases shall afterwards be more particularly taken notice of.
The ffriends of Stirling made an application to the Earl of Islay, Lord
Justice-Generall, setting furth, that he was seized with a bloody fflux; that
his life was in danger; and that upon ane examination of witnesses whose names
were given in, it would appear to conviction, that he had not the least access
to any of the riotous proceedings of that wicked mob.
This petition was by his Lordship putt in the hands of his Majestie's
Sollicitor, who examined the witnesses; and by their testimonies it appeared,
that the young man, who was not above eighteen years of age, was that night in
company with about half a dozen companions, in a public house in Stephen Law's
closs, near the back of the Guard, where they all remained until the noise came
to the house, that the mob had shut the gates and seized the Guard, upon which
the company broke up, and he, and one of his companions, went towards his
master's house; and, in the course of the after examination, there was a witness
who declared, nay, indeed swore (for the Sollicitor, by this time, saw it
necessary to put those he examined upon oath), that he met him after he entered
into the alley where his master lives, going towards his house; and another
witness, fellow-prentice with Stirling, declares, that after the mob had seized
the Guard, he went home, where he found Stirling before him; and, that his
master lockt the door, and kept them both at home till after twelve at night:
upon weighing of which testimonies, and upon consideration had, That he was
charged by the declaration only of one person, who really did not appear to be a
witness of the greatest weight, and that his life was in danger from the
imprisonment, he was admitted to baill by the Lord Justice-Generall, by whose
warrand he was committed.
Braidwood's friends applyed in the same manner; but as he stood charged by more
than one witness, he was not released - tho', indeed, the witnesses adduced for
him say somewhat in his exculpation - that he does not seem to have been upon
any original concert; and one of the witnesses says he was along with him at the
Tolbooth door, and refuses what is said against him, with regard to his having
advised the burning of the Tolbooth door. But he remains still in prison.
As to Traill, the journeyman wright, he is charged by the same witness who
declared against Stirling, and there is none concurrs with him; and, to say the
truth concerning him, he seemed to be the most ingenuous of any of them whom the
Solicitor examined, and pointed out a witness by whom one of the first
accomplices was discovered, and who escaped when the warrand was to be putt in
execution against them. He positively denys his having shutt the gate, and 'tis
thought Traill ought to be admitted to baill.
As to Birnie, he is charged only by one witness, who had never seen him before,
nor knew his name; so, tho' I dare say the witness honestly mentioned him, 'tis
possible he may be mistaken; and in the examination of above 200 witnesses there
is no body concurrs with him, and he is ane insignificant little creature.
With regard to M'Lauchlan, the proof is strong against him by one witness, that
he acted as a sergeant, or sort of commander, for some time, of a Guard, that
stood cross between the upper end of the Luckenbooths and the north side of the
street, to stop all but friends from going towards the Tolbooth; and by other
witnesses, that he was at the Tolbooth door with a link in his hand, while the
operation of beating and burning it was going on; that he went along with the
mob with a halbert in his hand, until he came to the gallows stone in the
Grassmarket, and that he stuck the halbert into the hole of the gallows stone:
that afterwards he went in amongst the mob when Captain Porteus was carried to
the dyer's tree; so that the proof seems very heavy against him.
To sum up this matter with regard to the prisoners in the Castle, 'tis believed
there is strong proof against M'Lauchlan; there is also proof against Braidwood.
But, as it consists only in emission of words said to have been had by him while
at the Tolbooth door, and that he is ane insignificant pitifull creature, and
will find people to swear heartily in his favours, 'tis at best doubtfull
whether a jury will be got to condemn him.
As to those in the Tolbooth of Edinburgh, John Crawford, who had for some time
been employed to ring the bells in the steeple of the New Church of Edinburgh,
being in company with a soldier accidentally, the discourse falling in
concerning the Captain Porteus and his murder, as he appears to be a
light-headed fellow, he said, that he knew people that were more guilty than any
that were putt in prison. Upon this information, Crawford was seized, and being
examined, it appeared, that when the mob begun, as he was comeing down from the
steeple, the mob took the keys from him; that he was that night in several
corners, and did indeed delate severall persons whom he saw there, and
immediately warrands were despatched, and it was found they had absconded and
fled. But there was no evidence against him of any kind. Nay, on the contrary,
it appeared, that he had been with the Magistrates in Clerk's, the vintner's,
relating to them what he had seen in the streets. Therefore, after haveing
detained him in prison ffor a very considerable time, his Majestie's Advocate
and Sollicitor signed a warrand for his liberation.
There was also one James Wilson incarcerated in the said Tolbooth, upon the
declaration of one witness, who said he saw him on the streets with a gun; and
there he remained for some time, in order to try if a concurring witness could
be found, or that he acted any part in the tragedy and wickedness. But nothing
farther appeared against him; and being seized with a severe sickness, he is, by
a warrand signed by his Majestie's Advocate and Sollicitor, liberated upon
giveing sufficient baill.
As to King, enquiry was made, and the ffact comes out beyond all exception, that
he was in the lodge at the Nether-Bow with Lindsay the waiter, and several other
people, not at all concerned in the mob. But after the affair was over, he went
up towards the guard, and having met with Sandie the Turk and his wife, who
escaped out of prison, they returned to his house at the Abbey, and then 'tis
very possible he may have thought fitt in his beer to boast of villainy, in which
he could not possibly have any share for that reason; he was desired to find
baill and he should be set at liberty. But he is a stranger and a fellow of very
indifferent character, and 'tis believed it won't be easy for him to find baill.
Wherefore, it's thought he must be sett at liberty without it. Because he is a
burden upon the Government while kept in confinement, not being able to maintain
himself.
What is above is all that relates to persons in custody. But there are warrands
out against a great many other persons who had fled, particularly against one
William White, a journeyman baxter, who, by the evidence, appears to have been
at the beginning of the mob, and to have gone along with the drum, from the
West-Port to the Nether-Bow, and is said to have been one of those who attacked
the guard, and probably was as deep as any one there.
Information was given that he was lurking at Falkirk, where he was born.
Whereupon directions were sent to the Sheriff of the County, and a warrand from
his Excellency Generall Wade, to the commanding officers at Stirling and
Linlithgow, to assist, and all possible endeavours were used to catch hold of
him, and 'tis said he escaped very narrowly, having been concealed in some
outhouse; and the misfortune was, that those who were employed in the search did
not know him personally. Nor, indeed, was it easy to trust any of the
acquaintances of so low, obscure a fellow with the secret of the warrand to be
putt in execution.
There was also strong evidence found against Robert Taylor, servant to William
and Charles Thomsons, periwig-makers, that he acted as ane officer among the
mob, and he was traced from the guard to the well at the head of Forester's
Wynd, where he stood and had the appellation of Captain from the mob, and from
that walking down the Bow before Captain Porteus, with his Lochaber axe; and, by
the description given of one who hawl'd the rope by which Captain Porteus was
pulled up, 'tis believed Taylor was the person; and 'tis farther probable, that
the witness who delated Stirling had mistaken Taylor for him, their stature and
age (so far as can be gathered from the description) being the same.
A great deal of pains were taken, and no charge was saved, in order to have
caught hold of this Taylor, and warrands were sent to the country where he was
born; but it appears he had shipt himself off for Holland, where it is said he
now is.
There is strong evidence also against Thomas Burns, butcher, that he was ane
active person from the beginning of the mob to the end of it. He lurkt for some
time amongst those of his trade; and artfully enough a train was laid to catch
him, under pretence of a message that had come from his father in Ireland, so
that he came to a blind alehouse in the Flesh-market close, and, a party being
ready, was, by Webster the soldier, who was upon this exploit, advertised to
come down. However, Burns escaped out at a back window, and hid himself in some
of the houses which are heaped together upon one another in that place, so that
it was not possible to catch him. 'Tis now said he is gone to Ireland to his
father who lives there.
There is evidence also against one Robert Anderson, journeyman and servant to
Colin Alison, wright; and against Thomas Linnen and James Maxwell, both servants
also to the said Colin Alison, who all seem to have been deeply concerned in the
matter. Anderson is one of those who putt the rope upon Captain Porteus's neck.
Linnen seems also to have been very active; and Maxwell (which is pretty
remarkable) is proven to have come to a shop upon the Friday before, and charged
the journeymen and prentices there to attend in the Parliament close on Tuesday
night, to assist to hang Captain Porteus. These three did early abscond, and,
though warrands had been issued out against them, and all endeavours used to
apprehend them, could not be found.
One Waldie, a servant to George Campbell, wright, has also absconded, and many
others, and 'tis informed that numbers of them have shipt themselves off ffor
the Plantations; and upon an information that a ship was going off ffrom
Glasgow, in which severall of the rogues were to transport themselves beyond
seas, proper warrands were obtained, and persons despatched to search the said
ship, and seize any that can be found.
The like warrands had been issued with regard to ships from Leith. But whether
they had been scard, or whether the information had been groundless, they had no
effect.
This is a summary of the enquiry, ffrom which it appears there is no prooff on
which one can rely, but against M'Lauchlan. There is a prooff also against
Braidwood, but more exceptionable. His Majestie's Advocate, since he came to
town, has join'd with the Sollicitor, and has done his utmost to gett at the
bottom of this matter, but hitherto it stands as is above represented. They are
resolved to have their eyes and their ears open, and to do what they can. But
they laboured exceedingly against the stream; and it may truly be said, that
nothing was wanting on their part. Nor have they declined any labour to answer
the commands laid upon them to search the matter to the bottom.«
 
                               The Porteous Mob.
 
In the preceding chapters (I. to VI.) the circumstances of that extraordinary
riot and conspiracy, called the Porteous Mob, are given with as much accuracy as
the author was able to collect them. The order, regularity, and determined
resolution with which such a violent action was devised and executed, were only
equalled by the secrecy which was observed concerning the principal actors.
Although the fact was performed by torch-light, and in presence of a great
multitude, to some of whom, at least, the individual actors must have been
known, yet no discovery was ever made concerning any of the perpetrators of the
slaughter.
Two men only were brought to trial for an offence which the Government were so
anxious to detect and punish. William M'Lauchlan, footman to the Countess of
Wemyss, who is mentioned in the report of the Solicitor-General (page 543),
against whom strong evidence had been obtained, was brought to trial in March
1737, charged as having been accessory to the riot, armed with a Lochaber axe.
But this man (who was at all times a silly creature) proved, that he was in a
state of mortal intoxication during the time he was present with the rabble,
incapable of giving them either advice or assistance, or, indeed, of knowing
what he or they were doing. He was also able to prove, that he was forced into
the riot, and upheld while there by two bakers, who put a Lochaber axe into his
hand. The jury, wisely judging this poor creature could be no proper subject of
punishment, found the panel Not Guilty. The same verdict was given in the case
of Thomas Linning, also mentioned in the Solicitor's memorial, who was tried in
1738. In short, neither then, nor for a long period afterwards, was anything
discovered relating to the organisation of the Porteous Plot.
The imagination of the people of Edinburgh was long irritated, and their
curiosity kept awake, by the mystery attending this extraordinary conspiracy. It
was generally reported of such natives of Edinburgh as, having left the city in
youth, returned with a fortune amassed in foreign countries, that they had
originally fled on account of their share in the Porteous Mob. But little credit
can be attached to these surmises, as in most of the cases they are contradicted
by dates, and in none supported by anything but vague rumours, grounded on the
ordinary wish of the vulgar, to impute the success of prosperous men to some
unpleasant source. The secret history of the Porteous Mob has been till this day
unravelled; and it has always been quoted as a close, daring, and calculated act
of violence, of a nature peculiarly characteristic of the Scottish people.
Nevertheless, the author, for a considerable time, nourished hopes to have found
himself enabled to throw some light on this mysterious story. An old man, who
died about twenty years ago, at the advanced age of ninety-three, was said to
have made a communication to the clergyman who attended upon his death bed,
respecting the origin of the Porteous Mob. This person followed the trade of a
carpenter, and had been employed as such on the estate of a family of opulence
and condition. His character in his line of life and amongst his neighbours, was
excellent, and never underwent the slightest suspicion. His confession was said
to have been to the following purpose: That he was one of twelve young men
belonging to the village of Pathhead, whose animosity against Porteous, on
account of the execution of Wilson, was so extreme, that they resolved to
execute vengeance on him with their own hands, rather than he should escape
punishment. With this resolution they crossed the Forth at different ferries,
and rendezvoused at the suburb called Portsburgh, where their appearance in a
body soon called numbers around them. The public mind was in such a state of
irritation, that it only wanted a single spark to create an explosion; and this
was afforded by the exertions of the small and determined band of associates.
The appearance of premeditation and order which distinguished the riot,
according to his account, had its origin, not in any previous plan or
conspiracy, but in the character of those who were engaged in it. The story also
serves to show why nothing of the origin of the riot has ever been discovered,
since though in itself a great conflagration, its source, according to this
account, was from an obscure and apparently inadequate cause.
I have been disappointed, however, in obtaining the evidence on which this story
rests. The present proprietor of the estate on which the old man died (a
particular friend of the author) undertook to question the son of the deceased
on the subject. This person follows his father's trade, and holds the employment
of carpenter to the same family. He admits that his father's going abroad at the
time of the Porteous Mob was popularly attributed to his having been concerned
in that affair; but adds that, so far as is known to him, the old man had never
made any confession to that effect; and, on the contrary, had uniformly denied
being present. My kind friend, therefore, had recourse to a person from whom he
had formerly heard the story; but who, either from respect to an old friend's
memory, or from failure of his own, happened to have forgotten that ever such a
communication was made. So my obliging correspondent (who is a fox-hunter) wrote
to me that he was completely planted; and all that can be said with respect to
the tradition is, that it certainly once existed, and was generally believed.
 
14 A beautiful and solid pathway has, within a few years, been formed around
these romantic rocks; and the Author has the pleasure to think, that the passage
in the text gave rise to the undertaking.
 
15 Dumbiedikes, selected as descriptive of the taciturn character of the
imaginary owner, is really the name of a house bordering on the King's Park, so
called because the late Mr. Braidwood, an instructor of the deaf and dumb,
resided there with his pupils. The situation of the real house is different from
that assigned to the ideal mansion.
 
16 Immediately previous to the Revolution, the students at the Edinburgh College
were violent anti-catholics. They were strongly suspected of burning the house
of Prestonfield, belonging to Sir James Dick, the Lord Provost; and certainly
were guilty of creating considerable riots in 1688-9.
 
17 The Author has been flattered by the assurance, that this naïve mode of
recommending arboriculture (which was actually delivered in these very words by
a Highland laird, while on his death-bed, to his son) had so much weight with a
Scottish earl as to lead to his planting a large tract of country.
 
18 Cheverons - gloves.
 
19 John Semple, called Carspharn John, because minister of the parish in
Galloway so called, was a Presbyterian clergyman of singular piety and great
zeal, of whom Patrick Walker records the following passage: »That night after
his wife died, he spent the whole ensuing night in prayer and meditation in his
garden. The next morning, one of his elders coming to see him, and lamenting his
great loss and want of rest, he replied, - I declare I have not, all night, had
one thought of the death of my wife, I have been so taken up in meditating on
heavenly things. I have been this night on the banks of Ulai, plucking an apple
here and there.« - Walker's Remarkable Passages of the Life and Death of Mr.
John Semple.
 
20 This personage, whom it would be base ingratitude in the author to pass over
without some notice, was by far the most zealous and faithful collector and
recorder of the actions and opinions of the Cameronians. He resided, while
stationary, at the Bristo Port of Edinburgh, but was by trade an itinerant
merchant, or pedlar, which profession he seems to have exercised in Ireland as
well as Britain. He composed biographical notices of Alexander Peden, John
Semple, John Welwood, and Richard Cameron, all ministers of the Cameronian
persuasion, to which the last mentioned member gave the name.
It is from such tracts as these, written in the sense, feeling, and spirit of
the sect, and not from the sophisticated narratives of a later period, that the
real character of the persecuted class is to be gathered. Walker writes with a
simplicity which sometimes slides into the burlesque, and sometimes attains a
tone of simple pathos, but always expressing the most daring confidence in his
own correctness of creed and sentiments, sometimes with narrow-minded and
disgusting bigotry. His turn for the marvellous was that of his time and sect;
but there is little room to doubt his veracity concerning whatever he quotes on
his own knowledge. His small tracts now bring a very high price, especially the
earlier and authentic editions.
The tirade against dancing, pronounced by David Deans, is, as intimated in the
text, partly borrowed from Peter Walker. He notices, as a foul reproach upon the
name of Richard Cameron, that his memory was vituperated, »by pipers and
fiddlers playing the Cameronian march - carnal vain springs, which too many
professors of religion dance to; a practice unbecoming the professors of
Christianity to dance to any spring, but somewhat more to this. Whatever,« he
proceeds, »be the many foul blots recorded of the saints in Scripture, none of
them is charged with this regular fit of distraction. We find it has been
practised by the wicked and profane, as the dancing at that brutish, base action
of the calf-making; and it had been good for that unhappy lass, who danced off
the head of John the Baptist, that she had been born a cripple, and never drawn
a limb to her. Historians say, that her sin was written upon her judgment, who
some time thereafter was dancing upon the ice, and it broke, and snapt the head
off her; her head danced above, and her feet beneath. There is ground to think
and conclude, that when the world's wickedness was great, dancing at their
marriages was practised; but when the heavens above, and the earth beneath, were
let loose upon them with that overflowing flood, their mirth was soon staid; and
when the Lord in holy justice rained fire and brimstone from heaven upon that
wicked people and city Sodom, enjoying fullness of bread and idleness, their
fiddle-strings and hands went all in a flame; and the whole people in thirty
miles of length, and ten of breadth, as historians say, were all made to fry in
their skins; and at the end, whoever are giving in marriages and dancing when
all will go in a flame, they will quickly change their note.
I have often wondered thorow my life, how any that ever knew what it was to bow
a knee in earnest to pray, durst crook a hough to fyke and fling at a piper's
and fiddler's springs. I bless the Lord that ordered my lot so in my dancing
days, that made the fear of the bloody rope and bullets to my neck and head, the
pain of boots, thumikens, and irons, cold and hunger, wetness and weariness, to
stop the lightness of my head, and the wantonness of my feet. What the
never-to-be-forgotten Man of God, John Knox, said to Queen Mary, when she gave
him that sharp challenge, which would strike our mean-spirited, tongue-tacked
ministers dumb, for his giving public faithful warning of the danger of the
church and nation, through her marrying the Dauphine of France, when he left her
bubbling and greeting, and came to an outer court, where her Lady Maries were
fyking and dancing, he said, O brave ladies, a brave world, if it would last,
and heaven at the hinder end! But fye upon the knave Death, that will seize upon
those bodies of yours; and where will all your fiddling and flinging be then?
Dancing being such a common evil, especially amongst young professors, that all
the lovers of the Lord should hate, has caused me to insist the more upon it,
especially that foolish spring the Cameronian march!« - Life and Death of three
Famous Worthies, etc., collected and printed for Patrick Walker, Edin. 1727,
12mo, p. 59.
It may be here observed, that some of the milder class of Cameronians made a
distinction between the two sexes dancing separately, and allowed of it as a
healthy and not unlawful exercise; but when men and women mingled in sport, it
was then called promiscuous dancing, and considered as a scandalous enormity.
 
21 This custom of making a mark by folding a leaf in the party's Bible, when a
solemn resolution is formed, is still held to be, in some sense, an appeal to
Heaven for his or her sincerity.
 
22 Nichol Muschat, a debauched and profligate wretch, having conceived a hatred
against his wife, entered into a conspiracy with another brutal libertine and
gambler, named Campbell of Burnbank (repeatedly mentioned in Pennycuick's
satirical poems of the time), by which Campbell undertook to destroy the woman's
character, so as to enable Muschat, on false pretences, to obtain a divorce from
her. The brutal devices to which these worthy accomplices resorted for that
purpose having failed, they endeavoured to destroy her by administering medicine
of a dangerous kind, and in extraordinary quantities.
This purpose also failing, Nichol Muschat, or Muschet, did finally, on the 17th
October 1720, carry his wife under cloud of night to the King's Park, adjacent
to what is called the Duke's Walk, near Holyrood Palace, and there took her life
by cutting her throat almost quite through, and inflicting other wounds. He
pleaded guilty to the indictment, for which he suffered death. His associate,
Campbell, was sentenced to transportation for his share in the previous
conspiracy. See MacLaurin's Criminal Cases, pp. 64 and 738.
In memory, and at the same time execration, of the deed, a cairn, or pile of
stones, long marked the spot. It is now almost totally removed, in consequence
of an alteration on the road in that place.
 
23 Lockman, so called from the small quantity of meal (Scottice, lock) which he
was entitled to take out of every boll exposed to market in the city. In
Edinburgh, the duty has been very long commuted; but in Dumfries, the finisher
of the law still exercises, or did lately exercise, his privilege, the quantity
taken being regulated by a small iron ladle, which he uses as the measure of his
perquisite. The expression lock, for a small quantity of any readily divisible
dry substance, as corn, meal, flax, or the like, is still preserved, not only
popularly, but in a legal description, as the lock and gowpen, or small quantity
and handful, payable in thirlage cases, as in town multure.
 
24 This legend was in former editions inaccurately said to exist in Baxter's
»World of Spirits;« but is, in fact, to be found, in »Pandæmonium, or the
Devil's Cloyster; being a further blow to Modern Sadduceism,« by Richard Bovet,
Gentleman, 12mo, 1684. The work is inscribed to Dr. Henry More. The story is
entitled, »A remarkable passage of one named the Fairy Boy of Leith, in
Scotland, given me by my worthy friend, Captain George Burton, and attested
under his hand;« and is as follows: -
»About fifteen years since, having business that detained me for some time in
Leith, which is near Edenborough, in the kingdom of Scotland, I often met some
of my acquaintance at a certain house there, where we used to drink a glass of
wine for our refection. The woman which kept the house was of honest reputation
amongst the neighbours, which made me give the more attention to what she told
me one day about a Fairy Boy (as they called him) who lived about that town. She
had given me so strange an account of him, that I desired her I might see him
the first opportunity, which she promised; and not long after, passing that way,
she told me there was the Fairy Boy but a little before I came by; and casting
her eye into the street, said, Look you, sir, yonder he is at play with those
other boys, and designing him to me, I went, and by smooth words, and a piece of
money, got him to come into the house with me; where, in the presence of divers
people, I demanded of him several astrological questions, which he answered with
great subtility, and through all his discourse carried it with a cunning much
beyond his years, which seemed not to exceed ten or eleven. He seemed to make a
motion like drumming upon the table with his fingers, upon which I asked him,
whether he could beat a drum, to which he replied, Yes, sir, as well as any man
in Scotland; for every Thursday night I beat all points to a sort of people that
use to meet under yon hill (pointing to the great hill between Edenborough and
Leith). How, boy, quoth I; what company have you there? - There are, sir said
he, a great company both of men and women, and they are entertained with many
sorts of music besides my drum; they have, besides, plenty variety of meats and
wine; and many times we are carried into France or Holland in a night, and
return again; and whilst we are there, we enjoy all the pleasures the country
doth afford. I demanded of him, how they got under that hill? To which he
replied, that there were a great pair of gates that opened to them, though they
were invisible to others, and that within there were brave large rooms, as well
accommodated as most in Scotland. I then asked him, how I should know what he
said to be true? upon which he told me he would read my fortune, saying I should
have two wives, and that he saw the forms of them sitting on my shoulders; that
both would be very handsome women.
As he was thus speaking, a woman of the neighbourhood, coming into the room,
demanded of him what her fortune should be? He told her that she had two
bastards before she was married; which put her in such a rage, that she desired
not to hear the rest. The woman of the house told me that all the people in
Scotland could not keep him from the rendezvous on Thursday night; upon which,
by promising him some more money, I got a promise of him to meet me at the same
place, in the afternoon of the Thursday following, and so dismissed him at that
time. The boy came again at the place and time appointed, and I had prevailed
with some friends to continue with me, if possible, to prevent his moving that
night; he was placed between us, and answered many questions, without offering
to go from us, until about eleven of the clock, he was got away unperceived of
the company; but I suddenly missing him, hasted to the door, and took hold of
him, and so returned him into the same room; we all watched him, and on a sudden
he was again out of the doors. I followed him close, and he made a noise in the
street as if he had been set upon; but from that time I could never see him.
                                                                 GEORGE BURTON.«
 
25 The gloomy, dangerous, and constant wanderings of the persecuted sect of
Cameronians, naturally led to their entertaining with peculiar credulity the
belief that they were sometimes persecuted, not only by the wrath of men, but by
the secret wiles and open terrors of Satan. In fact, a flood could not happen, a
horse cast a shoe, or any other the most ordinary interruption thwart a
minister's wish to perform service at a particular spot, than the accident was
imputed to the immediate agency of fiends. The encounter of Alexander Peden with
the Devil in the cave, and that of John Semple with the demon in the ford, are
given by Peter Walker almost in the language of the text.
 
26 Nichol Muschat, a debauched and profligate wretch, having conceived a hatred
against his wife, entered into a conspiracy with another brutal libertine and
gambler, named Campbell of Burnbank (repeatedly mentioned in Pennycuick's
satirical poems of the time), by which Campbell undertook to destroy the woman's
character, so as to enable Muschat, on false pretences, to obtain a divorce from
her. The brutal devices to which these worthy accomplices resorted for that
purpose having failed, they endeavoured to destroy her by administering medicine
of a dangerous kind, and in extraordinary quantities.
This purpose also failing, Nichol Muschat, or Muschet, did finally, on the 17th
October 1720, carry his wife under cloud of night to the King's Park, adjacent
to what is called the Duke's Walk, near Holyrood Palace, and there took her life
by cutting her throat almost quite through, and inflicting other wounds. He
pleaded guilty to the indictment, for which he suffered death. His associate,
Campbell, was sentenced to transportation for his share in the previous
conspiracy. See MacLaurin's Criminal Cases, pp. 64 and 738.
In memory, and at the same time execration, of the deed, a cairn, or pile of
stones, long marked the spot. It is now almost totally removed, in consequence
of an alteration on the road in that place.
 
27 The Scottish Statute Book, anno 1690, chapter 21, in consequence of the great
increase of the crime of child-murder, both from the temptations to commit the
offence and the difficulty of discovery, enacted a certain set of presumptions,
which, in the absence of direct proof, the jury were directed to receive as
evidence of the crime having actually been committed. The circumstances selected
for this purpose were, that the woman should have concealed her situation during
the whole period of pregnancy; that she should not have called for help at her
delivery; and that, combined with these grounds of suspicion, the child should
be either found dead or be altogether missing. Many persons suffered death
during the last century under this severe act. But during the author's memory a
more lenient course was followed, and the female accused under the act, and
conscious of no competent defence, usually lodged a petition to the Court of
Justiciary, denying, for form's sake, the tenor of the indictment, but stating,
that as her good name had been destroyed by the charge, she was willing to
submit to sentence of banishment, to which the crown counsel usually consented.
This lenity in practice, and the comparative infrequency of the crime since the
doom of public ecclesiastical penance has been generally dispensed with, have
led to the abolition of the Statute of William and Mary, which is now replaced
by another, imposing banishment in those circumstances in which the crime was
formerly capital. This alteration took place in 1803.
 
28 A Scottish form of procedure, answering, in some respects, to the English
Habeas Corpus.
 
29 The journal of Graves, a Bow Street officer, despatched to Holland to obtain
the surrender of the unfortunate William Brodie, bears a reflection on the
ladies somewhat like that put in the mouth of the police-officer Sharpitlaw. It
had been found difficult to identify the unhappy criminal; and when a Scotch
gentleman of respectability had seemed disposed to give evidence on the point
required, his son-in-law, a clergyman in Amsterdam, and his daughter, were
suspected by Graves to have used arguments with the witness to dissuade him from
giving his testimony. On which subject the journal of the Bow Street officer
proceeds thus: -
»Saw then a manifest reluctance in Mr. --, and had no doubt the daughter and
parson would endeavour to persuade him to decline troubling himself in the
matter, but judged he could not go back from what he had said to Mr. Rich. -
NOTA BENE. No mischief but a woman or a priest in it - here both.«
 
30 The magistrates were closely interrogated before the House of Peers,
concerning the particulars of the Porteous Mob, and the patois in which these
functionaries made their answers, sounded strange in the ears of the Southern
nobles. The Duke of Newcastle having demanded to know with what kind of shot the
guard which Porteous commanded had loaded their muskets, was answered, naïvely,
»Ow, just sic as ane shoots dukes and fools with.« This reply was considered as
a contempt of the House of Lords, and the Provost would have suffered
accordingly, but that the Duke of Argyle explained, that the expression,
properly rendered into English, meant ducks and waterfowls.
 
31 This gentleman formed a striking example of the instability of human
prosperity. He was once the wealthiest man of his time in Scotland, a merchant
in an extensive line of commerce, and a farmer of the public revenue; insomuch
that, about 1640, he estimated his fortune at two hundred thousand pounds
sterling. Sir William Dick was a zealous Covenanter; and in the memorable year
1641, he lent the Scottish Convention of Estates one hundred thousand merks at
once, and thereby enabled them to support and pay their army, which must
otherwise have broken to pieces. He afterwards advanced £20,000 for the service
of King Charles, during the usurpation; and having, by owning the royal cause,
provoked the displeasure of the ruling party, he was fleeced of more money,
amounting in all to £65,000 sterling.
Being in this manner reduced to indigence, he went to London to try to recover
some part of the sums which had been lent on Government security. Instead of
receiving any satisfaction, the Scottish Croesus was thrown into prison, in
which he died, 19th December 1655. It is said his death was hastened by the want
of common necessaries. But this statement is somewhat exaggerated, if it be
true, as is commonly said, that though he was not supplied with bread, he had
plenty of pie-crust, thence called »Sir William Dick's necessity.«
The changes of fortune are commemorated in a folio pamphlet, entitled, »The
Lamentable Estate and distressed Case of Sir William Dick«. It contains three
copper-plates, one representing Sir William on horseback, and attended with
guards as Lord Provost of Edinburgh, superintending the unloading of one of his
rich argosies. A second exhibiting him as arrested, and in the hands of the
bailiffs. A third presents him dead in prison. The tract is esteemed highly
valuable by collectors of prints. The only copy I ever saw upon sale, was rated
at £30. (In London sales, copies have varied in price from £15 to £52: 10s.)
 
32 I think so too - But if the reader be curious, he may consult Mr. Chambers's
Traditions of Edinburgh.
 
33 See Life of Peden, p. 14.
34 This personage, whom it would be base ingratitude in the author to pass over
without some notice, was by far the most zealous and faithful collector and
recorder of the actions and opinions of the Cameronians. He resided, while
stationary, at the Bristo Port of Edinburgh, but was by trade an itinerant
merchant, or pedlar, which profession he seems to have exercised in Ireland as
well as Britain. He composed biographical notices of Alexander Peden, John
Semple, John Welwood, and Richard Cameron, all ministers of the Cameronian
persuasion, to which the last mentioned member gave the name.
It is from such tracts as these, written in the sense, feeling, and spirit of
the sect, and not from the sophisticated narratives of a later period, that the
real character of the persecuted class is to be gathered. Walker writes with a
simplicity which sometimes slides into the burlesque, and sometimes attains a
tone of simple pathos, but always expressing the most daring confidence in his
own correctness of creed and sentiments, sometimes with narrow-minded and
disgusting bigotry. His turn for the marvellous was that of his time and sect;
but there is little room to doubt his veracity concerning whatever he quotes on
his own knowledge. His small tracts now bring a very high price, especially the
earlier and authentic editions.
The tirade against dancing, pronounced by David Deans, is, as intimated in the
text, partly borrowed from Peter Walker. He notices, as a foul reproach upon the
name of Richard Cameron, that his memory was vituperated, »by pipers and
fiddlers playing the Cameronian march - carnal vain springs, which too many
professors of religion dance to; a practice unbecoming the professors of
Christianity to dance to any spring, but somewhat more to this. Whatever,« he
proceeds, »be the many foul blots recorded of the saints in Scripture, none of
them is charged with this regular fit of distraction. We find it has been
practised by the wicked and profane, as the dancing at that brutish, base action
of the calf-making; and it had been good for that unhappy lass, who danced off
the head of John the Baptist, that she had been born a cripple, and never drawn
a limb to her. Historians say, that her sin was written upon her judgment, who
some time thereafter was dancing upon the ice, and it broke, and snapt the head
off her; her head danced above, and her feet beneath. There is ground to think
and conclude, that when the world's wickedness was great, dancing at their
marriages was practised; but when the heavens above, and the earth beneath, were
let loose upon them with that overflowing flood, their mirth was soon staid; and
when the Lord in holy justice rained fire and brimstone from heaven upon that
wicked people and city Sodom, enjoying fullness of bread and idleness, their
fiddle-strings and hands went all in a flame; and the whole people in thirty
miles of length, and ten of breadth, as historians say, were all made to fry in
their skins; and at the end, whoever are giving in marriages and dancing when
all will go in a flame, they will quickly change their note.
I have often wondered thorow my life, how any that ever knew what it was to bow
a knee in earnest to pray, durst crook a hough to fyke and fling at a piper's
and fiddler's springs. I bless the Lord that ordered my lot so in my dancing
days, that made the fear of the bloody rope and bullets to my neck and head, the
pain of boots, thumikens, and irons, cold and hunger, wetness and weariness, to
stop the lightness of my head, and the wantonness of my feet. What the
never-to-be-forgotten Man of God, John Knox, said to Queen Mary, when she gave
him that sharp challenge, which would strike our mean-spirited, tongue-tacked
ministers dumb, for his giving public faithful warning of the danger of the
church and nation, through her marrying the Dauphine of France, when he left her
bubbling and greeting, and came to an outer court, where her Lady Maries were
fyking and dancing, he said, O brave ladies, a brave world, if it would last,
and heaven at the hinder end! But fye upon the knave Death, that will seize upon
those bodies of yours; and where will all your fiddling and flinging be then?
Dancing being such a common evil, especially amongst young professors, that all
the lovers of the Lord should hate, has caused me to insist the more upon it,
especially that foolish spring the Cameronian march!« - Life and Death of three
Famous Worthies, etc., collected and printed for Patrick Walker, Edin. 1727,
12mo, p. 59.
It may be here observed, that some of the milder class of Cameronians made a
distinction between the two sexes dancing separately, and allowed of it as a
healthy and not unlawful exercise; but when men and women mingled in sport, it
was then called promiscuous dancing, and considered as a scandalous enormity.
 
35 All various species of the great genus Cameronian.
 
36 This remarkable convocation took place upon 15th June 1682, and an account of
its confused and divisive proceedings may be found in Michael Shield's Faithful
Contendings Displayed (first printed at Glasgow, 1780, p.21). It affords a
singular and melancholy example how much a metaphysical and polemical spirit had
crept in amongst these unhappy sufferers, since amid so many real injuries which
they had to sustain, they were disposed to add disagreement and disunion
concerning the character and extent of such as were only imaginary.
 
37 The gallows.
 
38 Swearing.
 
39 Kissed the book.
 
40 Tobacco-pouch.
 
41 A kind of worsted gloves, used by the lower orders.
 
42 i.e. Was able to do.
 
43 i.e. The quieter.
 
44 Avoid the gallows.
 
45 The name of this officer is equivalent to the pronouncer of doom or sentence.
In this comprehensive sense, the Judges of the Isle of Man were called
Dempsters. But in Scotland the word was long restricted to the designation of an
official person, whose duty it was to recite the sentence after it had been
pronounced by the Court, and recorded by the clerk; on which occasion the
Dempster legalised it by the words of form, »And this I pronounce for doom.« For
a length of years, the office, as mentioned in the text, was held in commendam
with that of the executioner; for when this odious but necessary officer of
justice received his appointment, he petitioned the Court of Justiciary to be
received as their Dempster, which was granted as a matter of course.
The production of the executioner in open court, and in presence of the wretched
criminal, had something in it hideous and disgusting to the more refined
feelings of later times. But if an old tradition of the Parliament House of
Edinburgh may be trusted, it was the following anecdote which occasioned the
disuse of the Dempster's office.
It chanced at one time that the office of public executioner was vacant. There
was occasion for some one to act as Dempster, and, considering the party who
generally held the office, it is not wonderful that a locum tenens was hard to
be found. At length, one Hume, who had been sentenced to transportation, for an
attempt to burn his own house, was induced to consent that he would pronounce
the doom on this occasion. But when brought forth to officiate, instead of
repeating the doom to the criminal, Mr. Hume addressed himself to their
lordships in a bitter complaint of the injustice of his own sentence. It was in
vain that he was interrupted, and reminded of the purpose for which he had come
hither; »I ken what ye want of me well enough,« said the fellow, »ye want me to
be your Dempster; but I am come to be none of your Dempster, I am come to summon
you, Lord T --, and you, Lord E --, to answer at the bar of another world for
the injustice you have done me in this.« In short, Hume had only made a pretext
of complying with the proposal, in order to have an opportunity of reviling the
Judges to their faces, or giving them, in the phrase of his country, »a sloan.«
He was hurried off amid the laughter of the audience, but the indecorous scene
which had taken place contributed to the abolition of the office of Dempster.
The sentence is now read over by the clerk of court, and the formality of
pronouncing doom is altogether omitted.
 
46 This nobleman was very dear to his countrymen, who were justly proud of his
military and political talents, and grateful for the ready zeal with which he
asserted the rights of his native country. This was never more conspicuous than
in the matter of the Porteous Mob, when the ministers brought in a violent and
vindictive bill, for declaring the Lord Provost of Edinburgh incapable of
bearing any public office in future, for not foreseeing a disorder which no one
foresaw, or interrupting the course of a riot too formidable to endure
opposition. The same bill made provision for pulling down the city gates, and
abolishing the city guard, - rather a Hibernian mode of enabling them better to
keep the peace within burgh in future.
The Duke of Argyle opposed this bill as a cruel, unjust, and fanatical
proceeding, and an encroachment upon the privileges of the royal burghs of
Scotland, secured to them by the treaty of Union. »In all the proceedings of
that time,« said his Grace, »the nation of Scotland treated with the English as
a free and independent people; and as that treaty, my Lords, had no other
guarantee for the due performance of its articles, but the faith and honour of a
British Parliament, it would be both unjust and ungenerous, should this House
agree to any proceedings that have a tendency to injure it.«
Lord Hardwicke, in reply to the Duke of Argyle, seemed to insinuate, that his
Grace had taken up the affair in a party point of view, to which the nobleman
replied in the spirited language quoted in the text. Lord Hardwicke apologised.
The bill was much modified, and the clauses concerning the dismantling the city,
and disbanding the guard, were departed from. A fine of £2000 was imposed on the
city for the benefit of Porteous's widow. She was contented to accept
three-fourths of the sum, the payment of which closed the transaction. It is
remarkable, that, in our day, the Magistrates of Edinburgh have had recourse to
both those measures, held in such horror by their predecessors, as necessary
steps for the improvement of the city.
It may be here noticed, in explanation of another circumstance mentioned in the
text, that there is a tradition in Scotland, that George II., whose irascible
temper is said sometimes to have hurried him into expressing his displeasure par
voie du fait, offered to the Duke of Argyle in angry audience, some menace of
this nature, on which he left the presence in high disdain, and with little
ceremony. Sir Robert Walpole, having met the Duke as he retired, and learning
the cause of his resentment and discomposure, endeavoured to reconcile him to
what had happened by saying, »Such was his Majesty's way, and that he often took
such liberties with himself without meaning any harm.« This did not mend matters
in MacCallummore's eyes, who replied, in great disdain, »You will please to
remember, Sir Robert, the infinite distance there is betwixt you and me.«
Another frequent expression of passion on the part of the same monarch, is
alluded to in the old Jacobite song -
 
The fire shall get both hat and wig,
As oft-times they've got a' that.
 
47 Red John the warrior, a name personal and proper in the Highlands to John
Duke of Argyle and Greenwich, as MacCummin was that of his race or dignity.
 
48 Pass.
 
49 Seal.
 
50 Justice of Peace.
 
51 The executioner, in livery of black or dark grey and silver, likened by low
wit to a magpie.
 
52 He meant, probably, stillicidium.
 
53 By dint of assiduous research I am enabled to certiorate the reader, that the
name of this person was Saunders Broadfoot, and that he dealt in the wholesome
commodity called kirn-milk (Anglicè, butter-milk). - J.C.
 
54 The fact is certain. The single epistle was addressed to the principal
director of the British Linen Company.
 
55 The last three days of March, old style, are called the Borrowing Days; for,
as they are remarked to be unusually stormy, it is feigned that March had
borrowed them from April, to extend the sphere of his rougher sway. The rhyme on
the subject is quoted in the glossary to Leyden's edition of the »Complaynt of
Scotland« -
 
56 Concealed a knife.
 
57 Lay ourselves down to sleep.
 
58 A homely proverb, signifying better wed a neighbour than one fetched from a
distance. - Mixen signifies dunghill.
 
59 A proverbial and punning expression in that county, to intimate that a person
is not very clever.
 
60 See Horace Walpole's Reminiscences.
 
61 The hilly pastures of Buckholm, which the Author now surveys, - »Not in the
frenzy of a dreamer's eye,« - are famed for producing the best ewe-milk cheese
in the south of Scotland.
 
62 For some time after the Scottish Convention had commenced its sittings, the
Scottish prelates retained their seats, and said prayers by rotation to the
meeting, until the character of the Convention became, through the secession of
Dundee, decidedly Presbyterian. Occasion was then taken on the Bishop of Ross
mentioning King James in his prayer, as him for whom they watered their couch
with tears. On this the Convention exclaimed, they had no occasion for spiritual
Lords, and commanded the Bishops to depart and return no more, Montgomery of
Skelmorley breaking at the same time a coarse jest upon the scriptural
expression used by the prelate. Davie Deans's oracle, Patrick Walker, gives this
account of their dismissal. »When they came out, some of the Convention said
they wished the honest lads knew they were put out, for then they would not get
away with haill (whole) gowns. All the fourteen gathered together with pale
faces, and stood in a cloud in the Parliament Close; James Wilson, Robert
Neilson, Francis Hislop, and myself, were standing close by them; Francis Hislop
with force thrust Robert Neilson upon them, their heads went hard on one
another. But there being so many enemies in the city fretting and gnashing the
teeth, waiting for an occasion to raise a mob, when undoubtedly blood would have
been shed, and having laid down conclusions amongst ourselves to avoid giving
the least occasion to all mobs, kept us from tearing off their gowns.
Their graceless Graces went quickly off, and there was neither bishop nor curate
seen in the street - this was a surprising sudden change not to be forgotten.
Some of us would have rejoiced near them in large sums to have seen these
Bishops sent legally down the Bow that they might have found the weight of their
tails in a tow to dry their tow-soles; that they might know what hanging was,
they having been active for themselves and the main instigators to all the
mischiefs, cruelties, and bloodshed of that time, wherein the streets of
Edinburgh and other places of the land did run with the innocent precious dear
blood of the Lord's people.« - Life and Death of three famous Worthies (Semple,
etc.), by Patrick Walker, Edin. 1727, pp. 72, 73.
 
63 In taking leave of the poor maniac, the Author may here observe that the
first conception of the character, though afterwards greatly altered, was taken
from that of a person calling herself, and called by others, Feckless Fannie
(weak or feeble Fannie), who always travelled with a small flock of sheep. The
following account, furnished by the persevering kindness of Mr. Train, contains,
probably, all that can now be known of her history, though many, among whom is
the Author, may remember having heard of Feckless Fannie in the days of their
youth.
»My leisure hours,« says Mr. Train, »for some time past have been mostly spent
in searching for particulars relating to the maniac called Feckless Fannie, who
travelled over all Scotland and England, between the years 1767 and 1775, and
whose history is altogether so like a romance, that I have been at all possible
pains to collect every particular that can be found relative to her in Galloway,
or in Ayrshire.
When Feckless Fannie appeared in Ayrshire, for the first time, in the summer of
1769, she attracted much notice, from being attended by twelve or thirteen
sheep, who seemed all endued with faculties so much superior to the ordinary
race of animals of the same species, as to excite universal astonishment. She
had for each a different name, to which it answered when called by its mistress,
and would likewise obey in the most surprising manner any command she thought
proper to give. When travelling, she always walked in front of her flock, and
they followed her closely behind. When she lay down at night in the fields, for
she would never enter into a house, they always disputed who should lie next to
her, by which means she was kept warm, while she lay in the midst of them; when
she attempted to rise from the ground, an old ram, whose name was Charlie,
always claimed the sole right of assisting her; pushing any that stood in his
way aside, until he arrived right before his mistress; he then bowed his head
nearly to the ground that she might lay her hands on his horns, which were very
large; he then lifted her gently from the ground by raising his head. If she
chanced to leave her flock feeding, as soon as they discovered she was gone,
they all began to bleat most piteously, and would continue to do so till she
returned; they would then testify their joy by rubbing their sides against her
petticoat and frisking about.
Feckless Fannie was not, like most other demented creatures, fond of fine dress;
on her head she wore an old slouched hat, over her shoulders an old plaid, and
carried always in her hand a shepherd's crook; with any of these articles she
invariably declared she would not part for any consideration whatever. When she
was interrogated why she set so much value on things seemingly so insignificant,
she would sometimes relate the history of her misfortune, which was briefly as
follows: -
I am the only daughter of a wealthy squire in the north of England, but I loved
my father's shepherd, and that has been my ruin; for my father, fearing his
family would be disgraced by such an alliance, in a passion mortally wounded my
lover with a shot from a pistol. I arrived just in time to receive the last
blessing of the dying man, and to close his eyes in death. He bequeathed me his
little all, but I only accepted these sheep, to be my sole companions through
life, and this hat, this plaid, and this crook, all of which I will carry until
I descend into the grave.
This is the substance of a ballad, eighty-four lines of which I copied down
lately from the recitation of an old woman in this place, who says she has seen
it in print, with a plate on the title-page, representing Fannie with her sheep
behind her. As this ballad is said to have been written by Lowe, the author of
Mary's Dream, I am surprised that it has not been noticed by Cromek in his
Remains of Nithsdale and Galloway Song; but he perhaps thought it unworthy of a
place in his collection, as there is very little merit in the composition; which
want of room prevents me from transcribing at present. But if I thought you had
never seen it, I would take an early opportunity of doing so.
After having made the tour of Galloway in 1769, as Fannie was wandering in the
neighbourhood of Moffat, on her way to Edinburgh, where, I am informed, she was
likewise well known, Old Charlie, her favourite ram, chanced to break into a
kale-yard, which the proprietor observing, let loose a mastiff, that hunted the
poor sheep to death. This was a sad misfortune; it seemed to renew all the pangs
which she formerly felt on the death of her lover. She would not part from the
side of her old friend for several days, and it was with much difficulty she
consented to allow him to be buried; but still wishing to pay a tribute to his
memory, she covered his grave with moss, and fenced it round with osiers, and
annually returned to the same spot, and pulled the weeds from the grave and
repaired the fence. This is altogether like a romance; but I believe it is
really true that she did so. The grave of Charlie is still held sacred even by
the school-boys of the present day in that quarter. It is now, perhaps, the only
instance of the law of Kenneth being attended to, which says, The grave where
anie that is slaine lieth buried, leave untilled for seven years. Repute every
grave holie so as thou be well advised, that in no wise with thy feet thou tread
upon it.
Through the storms of winter, as well as in the milder seasons of the year, she
continued her wandering course, nor could she be prevented from doing so, either
by entreaty or promise of reward. The late Dr. Fullarton of Rosemount, in the
neighbourhood of Ayr, being well acquainted with her father when in England,
endeavoured, in a severe season, by every means in his power, to detain her at
Rosemount for a few days until the weather should become more mild; but when she
found herself rested a little, and saw her sheep fed, she raised her crook,
which was the signal she always gave for the sheep to follow her, and off they
all marched together.
But the hour of poor Fannie's dissolution was now at hand, and she seemed
anxious to arrive at the spot where she was to terminate her mortal career. She
proceeded to Glasgow, and while passing through that city a crowd of idle boys,
attracted by her singular appearance, together with the novelty of seeing so
many sheep obeying her command, began to torment her with their pranks, till she
became so irritated that she pelted them with bricks and stones, which they
returned in such a manner, that she was actually stoned to death between Glasgow
and Anderston.
To the real history of this singular individual credulity has attached several
superstitious appendages. It is said that the farmer who was the cause of
Charlie's death shortly afterwards drowned himself in a peat-hag; and that the
hand with which a butcher in Kilmarnock struck one of the other sheep became
powerless, and withered to the very bone. In the summer of 1769, when she was
passing by New Cumnock, a young man, whose name was William Forsyth, son of a
farmer in the same parish, plagued her so much that she wished he might never
see the morn; upon which he went home and hanged himself in his father's barn.
And I doubt not that many such stories may yet be remembered in other parts
where she had been.«
So far Mr. Train. The Author can only add to this narrative that Feckless Fannie
and her little flock were well known in the pastoral districts.
In attempting to introduce such a character into fiction, the Author felt the
risk of encountering a comparison with the Maria of Sterne; and, besides, the
mechanism of the story would have been as much retarded by Feckless Fannie's
flock as the night march of Don Quixote was delayed by Sancho's tale of the
sheep that were ferried over the river.
The Author has only to add, that notwithstanding the preciseness of his friend
Mr. Train's statement, there may be some hopes that the outrage on Feckless
Fannie and her little flock was not carried to extremity. There is no mention of
any trial on account of it, which, had it occurred in the manner stated, would
have certainly taken place; and the Author has understood that it was on the
Border she was last seen, about the skirts of the Cheviot hills, but without her
little flock.
 
64 In 1725, there was a great riot in Glasgow on account of the malt-tax. Among
the troops brought in to restore order, was one of the independent companies of
Highlanders levied in Argyleshire, and distinguished, in a lampoon of the
period, as »Campbell of Carrick and his Highland thieves.« It was called
Shawfield's Mob, because much of the popular violence was directed against
Daniel Campbell, Esq. of Shawfield, M.P., Provost of the town.
 
65 Her' ship, a Scottish word which may be said to be now obsolete; because,
fortunately, the practice of »plundering by armed force,« which is its meaning,
does not require to be commonly spoken of.
 
66 This exploit seems to have been one in which Patrick Walker prided himself
not a little; and there is reason to fear, that that excellent person would have
highly resented the attempt to associate another with him in the slaughter of a
King's Life-Guardsman. Indeed, he would have had the more right to be offended
at losing any share of the glory, since the party against Gordon was already
three to one, besides having the advantage of firearms. The manner in which he
vindicates his claim to the exploit, without committing himself by a direct
statement of it, is not a little amusing. It is as follows: -
»I shall give a brief and true account of that man's death, which I did not
design to do while I was upon the stage; I resolve, indeed (if it be the Lord's
will), to leave a more full account of that and many other remarkable steps of
the Lord's dispensations towards me through my life. It was then commonly said,
that Francis Gordon was a volunteer out of wickedness of principles, and could
not stay with the troop, but was still raging and ranging to catch hiding
suffering people. Meldrum and Airly's troops, lying at Lanark upon the first day
of March 1682, Mr. Gordon and another wicked comrade, with their two servants
and four horses, came to Kilcaigow, two miles from Lanark, searching for William
Caigow and others, under hiding.
Mr. Gordon, rambling throw the town, offered to abuse the women. At night, they
came a mile further to the Easter-Seat, to Robert Muir's, he being also under
hiding. Gordon's comrade and the two servants went to bed, but he could sleep
none, roaring all night for women. When day came, he took only his sword in his
hand, and came to Moss-platt, and some new men (who had been in the fields all
night) seeing him, they fled, and he pursued. James Wilson, Thomas Young, and
myself, having been in a meeting all night, were lying down in the morning. We
were alarmed, thinking there were many more than one; he pursued hard, and
overtook us. Thomas Young said, Sir, what do ye pursue us for? He said, he was
come to send us to hell. James Wilson said, that shall not be, for we will
defend ourselves. He said, that either he or we should go to it now. He run his
sword furiously throw James Wilson's coat. James fired upon him, but missed him.
All this time he cried, Damn his soul! He got a shot in his head out of a
pocket-pistol, rather fit for diverting a boy than killing such a furious, mad,
brisk man, which, notwithstanding, killed him dead. The foresaid William Caigow
and Robert Muir came to us. We searched him for papers, and found a long scroll
of sufferers' names, either to kill or take. I tore it all in pieces. He had
also some Popish books and bonds of money, with one dollar, which a poor man
took off the ground; all which we put in his pocket again. Thus, he was four
miles from Lanark, and near a mile from his comrade, seeking his own death and
got it. And for as much as we have been condemned for this, I could never see
how any one could condemn us that allows of self-defence, which the laws both of
God and nature allow to every creature. For my own part, my heart never smote me
for this. When I saw his blood run, I wished that all the blood of the Lord's
stated and avowed enemies in Scotland had been in his veins. Having such a clear
call and opportunity, I would have rejoiced to have seen it all gone out with a
gush. I have many times wondered at the greater part of the indulged, lukewarm
ministers and professors in that time, who made more noise of murder, when one
of these enemies had been killed even in our own defence, than of twenty of us
being murdered by them. None of these men present was challenged for this but
myself. Thomas Young thereafter suffered at Mauchline, but was not challenged
for this; Robert Muir was banished; James Wilson outlived the persecution;
William Caigow died in the Canongate Tolbooth, in the beginning of 1685. Mr.
Wodrow is misinformed, who says that he suffered unto death.«
 
67 Ross's Fortunate Shepherdess. Edit. 1778, p. 23.
 
68 In the old days of Scotland, when persons of property (unless they happened
to be non-jurors) were as regular as their inferiors in attendance on parochial
worship, there was a kind of etiquette, in waiting till the patron or
acknowledged great man of the parish should make his appearance. This ceremonial
was so sacred in the eyes of a parish beadle in the Isle of Bute, that the kirk
bell being out of order, he is said to have mounted the steeple every Sunday, to
imitate with his voice the successive summonses which its mouth of metal used to
send forth. The first part of this imitative harmony was simply the repetition
of the words Bell bell, bell bell, two or three times in a manner as much
resembling the sound as throat of flesh could imitate throat of iron. Bellùm!
bellùm! was sounded forth in a more urgent manner; but he never sent forth the
third and conclusive peal, the varied tone of which is called in Scotland the
ringing-in, until the two principal heritors of the parish approached, when the
chime ran thus: -
 
Bellùm Bellèllum,
Bernera and Knockdow's coming!
Bellùm Bellèllum,
Bernera and Knockdow's coming!
 
Thereby intimating that service was instantly to proceed.
 
69 See Arnot's Criminal Trials, 4to ed. p. 235.
 
70 There seems an anachronism in the history of this person. Ratcliffe, among
other escapes from justice, was released by the Porteous mob when under sentence
of death; and he was again under the same predicament when the Highlanders made
a similar jail-delivery in 1745. He was too sincere a whig to embrace liberation
at the hands of the Jacobites, and in reward was made one of the keepers of the
Tolbooth. So at least runs constant tradition.
 
71 Ethwald.
