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CHATELARD.
VOL. III. P. 22.
W I L S O N'S
HISTORICAL, TRADITIONARY, AND IMAGINATIVE
TALES OF THE BORDERS.
AND OF
SCOTLAND;
WITH AN
Xtf i]p JltxrJiidj JHdbti
VOL, III.
LONDON
WILLIAM MACKENZIE, 69 LUDGATE HILL, E.G.; GLASGOW AND EDINBURGH.
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)?77 V,3
INDEX
VOL. III.
Attorney, The, 92
Bonnet Rock, The, 220
Breaking up of the Forest of Plater, The, . . . 141
Bride of Bramblehaugh, The, 233
Chatelard, 17
Christie of the Cleek, 158
Chronicle of the Death of James I., . . . 129
Chronicle of the Death of James III., . . . 345
Compensation, 319
Conscience Stricken, The, 33
Contrast of Wives, The, 385
Curate of Govan, The, 73
Destitute, The 305
Dream, The, 337
Duncan Schulebred's Vision of Judgment, . . .113 Early Days of a Friend of the Covenant, The, . . 177
Falsehood Reproved, 144
Floshend Inn, The, 273
Fortunes of William VVigh ton, The, . . . .121
Gipsy Lover, The, 241
Heiress of Balgowan, The, 399
Heiress of Insanity, The, 281
Hume and the Governor of Berwick, .... 409
Hypochondriac, The, 97
Intended Bridegrooms, The, ..... 201
Interrupted Ceremony, The, 396
Katheran, The, 105
Legend of Calder Moor, A, ... 369
Matchmaker of Salford, The, 169
May Darling, the Village Pride, .... 25
Medal, The, 324
Meeting at St. Boswell's, The, .... 41
Mike Maxwell of Gretna, 193
Miser of Newabbey, The, 377
Mistake, The, . . 245
Mountain Storm, The, . . . . . 321 Mysterious Disappearance, The, . . . . 119
Parental Discipline, 361
FAOB
Paying of Debts, 343
Peat-Casting Time, 326
Proof Positive, 243
Raid of Roxburgh, The, 249
Randal Barclay, 49
Recollections of Burns, 145
Recollections of Ferguson, 81
Reformed, The, ....... 204
Ringan Oliver, . . 301
Rival Sheriffs of Teviotdale, The, .... 9
Roseallan's Daughter, 265
Rothesay Fisherman, The, 209
Salmon Fisher of Udoll, The 313
Sandy Murray, the Legacy Hunter, . . . 353
Scotch Law, 185
Scottish Hunters of Hudson's Bay, The, . .257
Scrap of the Covenant, A, 223
Scrap of the Rebellion, A, 128
Sea Storm, The, 161
Seven Year's Dearth, The, 225
Skean Dhu, The, 137
Sketches from a Surgeon's Note-Book—
Chap. L— The Suicide. 1
II. — The Conscience Stricken, . . 33 III.— The Hypochondriac, .... 97 IV.— The Heiress of Insanity, . . 281
Snow Storm of 1825, The, 57
Snuff-Miller's Daughter, The, 393
Soldier's Wife, The, 297
Sportsman of Outfieldhaugh, . . . . . 329
Suicide, The, 1
Triumph of Industry, The, 289
Two Sailors, The, 401
Victim of Public Opinion, The, , 65
Wedding, The, 264
Weird of the Three Arrows, The, .... 143 Writer's Daughter, The, . - . . . .217
WILSON'S
fcal, arratrftuwarg, antr Emas
TALES OF THE BORDERS,
AND OF SCOTLAND.
SKETCHES FROM A SURGEON'S NOTE-BOOK. CHAP. I. — THE SUICIDE.
IT is a rain question, that which has been often stirred among men of our profession and metaphysicians, whether insanity — includingunder thatword allthemodes of derange- ment of the mental powers — is strictly a disease, the defini- tion of which, according to the best authorities, is " an alteration from a perfect state of bodily health." Both parties may, to a certain extent, be right; for the one, including chiefly the metaphysicians, can successfully exhibit a gradation in the scale of derangement; beginning at the slightest peculiarity; passing dn to an eccentricity; from that to idiosyncrasy ; from that to a decay or an extraordi- nary increase of strength in a particular faculty — say memory; from that to a decay or an increase in the in- tensity of a feeling, an emotion, or a passion ; from that to false perception — such as monomania, progressing to derangement as to one point or subject, often called mad- ness, quoad hoc ,* and so on, through many other stages, almost imperceptible in their differences, to perfect madness • — all without the slightest indication of a pathological nature being to be discovered or detected by the finest dissecting knife. On the other hand, again, it is indisputable — for we medical men have demonstrated the fact — that a certain degree of madness is almost always accompanied with derangement in the cerebral organs — the most ordinary appearance being the existence of a fluid of a certain kind in the chambers of the brain.
The best and the cleverest of us must let these questions alone; for, so long as we remain — and that may be, as it likely will be, for ever — ignorant of the subtle principle of organic life — the nature of the mysterious union of mind and matter — we will never be able to tell (notwithstanding all our mental achievements) whether madness has its primary beginning in the body or in the mind. We must remain contented with a knowledge of exciting causes, and with that melancholy lore which treasures up — alas ! for how little good — the dreadful symptoms which distinguish this miser- able state of proud man from all other conditions of his earthly sorrow ; exhibiting him conscious of being still a human being impressed with the image of God, yet incapa- ble of using the proudest gift of heaven — his reason ; sus- ceptible of and suffering the most excruciating of all pains — imaginary evils, torments, agonies — yet placed beyond the pale of human sympathy ; bent upon — following with cun- ning and assiduity, the crudest modes of self-immolation ; and sometimes calmly reasoning on the nature of the mys- terious power that impels to a horrible and revolting sui cide.
I have been led into this train of thought by the circum stances of the case I am now about to relate. It is one of a calm, reasoning, determined self- destroyer, in whom, with the single exception of wishing to die by violent and bloody means, I could discover no mental derangement. The case occurs every day ; but there are circumstances in this of a peculiar nature, which set it apart from others I have witnessed and seen described; and, as it bears the in va- luable stamp of truth, my description of it may be held to be a 105. VOL. III.
chapter, and a melancholy one, in the wonderful history of human life, wherein perhaps the succeeding capital division may consist of an account of our own tragic fate, not less lamentable or less awful. Such creatures are we lords of the creation ! — so completely veiled are the destinies of man!
It was, I think, in the month of December in the winter of 18 — , that a man in the garb of a farmer called
upon me and requested me to visit George B , a person,
he said, of his own craft, who held a small sheep farm back among the hills about three miles distant. I asked the messenger if the man was in danger, and if he wished me to proceed instantly to his residence, or if a call the first time that I passed that way, which might be next day, would suffice. He replied that his friend was not in imme- diate danger, and did not wish me to travel three miles for the special purpose of seeing him, but would be contented with and grateful for a visit from me on any early day that suited my convenience.
On the following day, I happened to be in that quarter of the country, and called at the house to which I had been directed. The day was cloudy, raw, and cold, and a stern north wind whistled among the brackens of the hills. 1 was struck with the situation and appearance of the house. It had formerly been a mansion-house, and was much larger than the ordinary residences of small sheep farmers among the hills. The situation was peculiarly bleak, sequestered, and even dismal : no trees could be discovered in any direc- tion ; there were no out-houses attached to the dwelling ; and no neighbouring residence was to be seen. The house stood alone, big, gaunt, cold, and comfortless, in the midst of bare hills, exposed to the bitter wind that careered through the valleys and ravines. Nor, as I approached, did I dis- cover any signs of domestic stir or comfort. Several of the windows were closed up — the under part of the house appa- rently being only inhabited by the inmates, who shewed no anxiety to ascertain by looking out who it was that had accomplished the task of getting to this barren and seques- tered place.
On knocking at the door, it was opened by a young woman about eighteen years of age. She appeared to be delicate — being thin in her person, pale in her complexion, and of an irritable temperament, for she started when she saw me. An expression of melancholy pervaded features not unhandsome, and attracted particularly my attention, by almost instantly exciting my sympathy. I asked her if
George B was in the house. She answered that her
father, for such he was, had just gone to bed, having been for some time ailing. I told her that it was upon that account I had come to see him. She seemed then to know who I was, and thanked me for my attention. I stepped in ; and, as I followed the young woman through a long passage to the room occupied by her father, she told me that her mother had died about a year before, and that there was no other individual living in the house but her and her remain- ing parent. A gloomy, unhappy pair ! thought I, as I looked on her sombre face, and heard the wind moaning through the big, open house.
On entering the room, which was cold and poorly furnished, I observed George B sitting up in Lis bed
TALES OF THE BORDERS.
reading a book, which I discovered to be a large Bible. He had a napkin bound round his temples. His face exhibited the true melancholic hue, being of a swarthy yellow ; his eyes wore the heaviness generally found in people of that temperament ; the muscles were firmly bound down by the rigid, severe, and desponding expression of dejection, generally found associated with these other characteristics ; and, throughout his face and manner, there was exhibited an indifference to surrounding objects, which was only very partially relaxed by his recognition of me as I entered. There was, however, nothing of the look of a diseased man about him; for his face was full and fleshy, his nerves firm and well strung, his eye steady and unclouded, and his voice, as he welcomed me in, strong and even rough and burly. Mis face resembled very much the ideal of that of the old Covenanters ; and the large Bible he held in his hands aided the conception, and increased the picturesque effect of the whole aspect of the man.
He knew, or took it for granted, that I was the surgeon he had sent for, pointed to a chair that I might sit down, and beckoned to his daughter, Margaret, as he called her, to leave the room. The young woman retired slowly, and I observed, as she proceeded towards the door, she threw back two or three nervous looks, which I thought indicated a strong feeling of apprehension, mixed with her filial sympathy. As the door shut, it sounded as if it had lost the catch ; the father caught the sound, appeared angry, and requested me to rise and shut it effectually, and, as he added, carefully. I complied, and he seemed to listen for some time, as if to try to ascertain whether his daughter had proceeded along the passage to the kitchen. He was uncer- tain, and listened again, but was still unresolved ; at last, he said he was sorry to give me so much trouble, but he felt he could not enter upon the subject about which he wished to consult me until he was satisfied, beyond the possibility of doubt, that Margaret was not listening. I rose and went to the door. Upon opening it, I saw the young woman standing behind it. On perceiving me, she retreated precipitately and fearfully along the dark passage. I shut the door; and, being unwilling, in my ignorance of the cause of all this mysterious secrecy and suspicion to betray the poor girl, who had perhaps some good legitimate object in her solicitude, I said simply that there was now nobody there. He was satisfied ; and I again sat down.
I then asked him what was the particular complaint about which he wished to consult me.
" That is precisely what I wish to know," he replied. " I hae nae complaint aboot my body, which, God be thanked ! is just as strong as it used to be. But there is a change in my mind, different frae the healthy griefs, an' sorrows, an' pains o' mortals. My wife, the best o' women, died a year ago. In a short time after, I lost the greater number o' my sheep in a storm, which prevented me frae payin my Candlemas rent. But mony a man loses his wife, an' mony a shepherd his sheep, without tellin a doctor o' their loss. I laid my account wi' sufferin grief as heavy as mortal ever suffered ; and in this house, in this bed, on these hills, in the kirk, and at our cattle trysts, I hae struggled wi' my sorrow. But, sir," leaning his head to- wards me, and speaking low, " it rvinna a do.
He paused, and, as he fixed his eye upon me, drew a deep sigh, as if he had already, as it were, broached a sub- ject that was fearful to himself.
" "What mean you ?" said I.
"• I mean, that / canna live !" he replied, energetically, seizing the Bible with a spasmodic grasp — closing it — throwing it to the back of the bed — then falling in an Instant into a state of real dejection, with his arms folded over his breast, and his eyes cast down.
" Grief often produces these gloomy thoughts," said I ; ** but they are the mere fancies of a sick mind — generated
in sorrow, and dying with the time-subdued cause that pro- duces them. There is not a bereaved husband, wife, parent, or child in the land, that does not, in the first struggle with a new grief, entertain and cherish, for passing moments of agony, such sick fancies of rebelling nature. You have not yet given time and your energies a fair trial. You must have patience.'
" There is some consolation in that/' he replied. " I am glad when I think that that thought that haunts and alarms me is no sae dangerous as it sometimes appears to me. This book (sweet comforter !) tells me that Tobit prayed to be dissolved and become earth, because o' his sorrow. It tells me, also, that Job, in his agonies, cried — ' My soul chooseth strangling, and death rather than life.' My ex- perience o' the ills o' life (and a man o' sixty-five must have some portion o' that) informs me o' the truth o' what you have told me, that an extraordinary burden o' grief often wrings frae the sick soul a wish to dee and be at rest. But, oh ! I foar my situation is different. I hae mair than a wish to be dissolved ; for, sure, none o' my brethren in sorrow" — here his voice fell almost to a whisper, and tears rolled down his cheek — " ever lay wi' the Hike o' that"— holding up a razor " under his sick pillow."
I was alarmed, being utterly unprepared for this exhi. bition.
" You need be under nae alarm," he continued, wiping the tears from his eyes. <f My courage is not yet strong enough. God be praised for it ! Moments o' fearfu' forti- tude sometimes come owre me, and I have held that instru-. ment in my clenched hand — ay, within an inch o' my bared throat ; but the resolution passes as quickly as it comes, and terror, cowardice, and a shiverin cauld — dreadful to suffer — come in their place. Lay it past, sir — lay it past."
I obeyed ; and, as I proceeded to place the instrument on the top of a chest of drawers, I heard the noise of some one in the passage, with suppressed ejaculations of — "O God ! O God !"
" I wadna hae shewn you that," he continued, as I sat down, " but that it is my wish to tell you the worst ; for nae man can expect assistance if he is ashamed or afraid to shew his necessities and his danger. I didna send for you to cure my body, but to examine my mind, and tell me if it is sound and healthy, or weak and diseased, and, there- fore, I will conceal naething frae ye that may shew you its state and condition."
I was pleased to find I had so tractable a patient. I paused for a moment, to consider in what way I should draw him out, and on what side I should attack him—- whether I should argue calmly with him, and endeavour to stimulate his feelings of duty to his Maker, to himself and his poor daughter ; or shake him roughly, as a vain and sinful dreamer who had voluntarily swallowed a pernicious soporific, and try to awaken him and keep him awake, after the manner of our remedial endeavours to save those who have attempted to poison themselves by laudanum. I saw, in an instant, that he was by far too strong-minded a man to be operated upon by the mere power of the charm of the imputed reach and strength of our cabalistic lore — an agent, if well employed, of great good in our profession — and too determined (for such resolutions are always, in some degree, a false result of reasoning powers) to be put from his purpose by a dogmatic pressure of logical authority, or the subtle and more dangerous means of good-humoured or severe satire. My course was clearly to endeavour to affect the form of his own reasoning, and, if possible, to invest it with a character which might be recognised as true by the peculiar and, no doubt, morbid sense of per- ceptions he possessed of moral truth. I began by securing his eye, which I saw was, at times, inclined to wander, or take on that unmeaning, dull, glazed aspect which people in
TALES OF THE BORDERS.
the act of brooding over intense sorrows — as if the optic nerves were thereby paralysed — so often exhibit.
" What train of mind are you in generally," said I, ' ' when the wish to die, accompanied with the fortitude you have mentioned, comes upon you in its strongest form ?"
" I first fall into a state of low spirits," said he, " and then nae effort I can use will tak my mind off my dead wife. I think for whole hours — sometimes on the hills, sometimes in the house, and sometimes in my bed — of our courtship, our marriage, our happy life, and her miserable, painful, untimely death. This feeds my sorrow, which grows stronger, and descends deeper and deeper, till reaches my brain, and I am sunk in the darkness despair. To escape frae thoughts o' past sorrows that are owre strong to be borne, I try to look forward to the future; but, alas ! I see naething there but the pain o' livin for a number o' comfortless years o' auld age, draggin after me a memory clogged wi' past ills, and naething afore me but a gaol, and want, and a lingerin death."
" These are false views of life," said I — " overstrained and morbid. I must teach you to think better. You have a daughter who will comfort you, and whom you are bound to support and protect."
" True, true," he cried — " I hae a dochter, and a better never sacrificed her ain thochts and feelins to the comforts o' a faither. The idea o' leavin her, young, faitherless, poor, and full o' sorrow, in the midst o' a bad world, has, before this" — lowering his voice — " brought down that rebellious hand from this throat. But, alas for the inconsistency and muta- bility o' man's fancies! — dearly as I love that creature, and she is now my only comfort, my very affection for her some- times sinks me deeper into that sorrow which produces the dreadful purpose o' takin awa my ain life ; for I think — oh ! how weak is man's proud reason, when the heart is broken wi' grief! — that an auld parent under the ban o' po- verty is a burden to a child. His death (so in these unhappy moments do I think) relieves the unhappy bairn o' twa evils — that o' toilin maybe in vain to support him, and that o' witnessin age, decrepitude, pain, misery, and want, wringin frae his shrivelled and diseased body groans o' agony, striking the heart o' his child wi' mair pain than would be caused by the knell o' his death."
He now sank his face in the bedclothes, which he grasped with a spasmodic action, and groaned so deep and loud that the sounds may have reached the passage. I again heard a noise from that qtiarter, as if of stifled sighs and hysterical sobs. I was placed between the groans of a father bent against his own judgment on self-destruction, and the terrors and griefs of a daughter listening to the horrible recital of her parent's designs against his life. The loneliness of the house, and the solitude of the unhappy pair — with no one to aid the young woman, in the event of any appalling extremity to which the unnatural purpose of her father might drive him — struck me forcibly. I had no recollection of ever experiencing a scene of grief so peculiar, with such fearful and uncertain issues, so irremediable and heart-stirring. The groans of the one and the sobs of the other seemed to vie with each other in the effect they pro- duced upon me ; but, great as the pain of the father was, the sufferings of the daughter, perhaps as peculiar and touching as any that could be conceived, engaged to the greatest extent my sympathy. It was my duty and wish to try to remove the fundamental cause of all this suffer- ing ; and I waited the end of the paroxysm of the father's sorrow in order to resume the conversation.
" These views," said I, as he calmed, " wliich you take of life, and its duties and affections, are all false and dis- torted. It is our duty to try to regulate our thoughts as well as our actions by some steady regulating principle, which mankind have agreed in considering as true, whether it be derived from the direct word of God or from the
written tablets of the heart. The taking away of our life— originally given to us as a trust, or imposed on us by the Author of ill good, for certain ends and purposes which are veiled from our view— is undoubtedly, in many respects, as regards God himself, ourselves, our children, and our neigh- bours—a great, flagrant, horrible crime. It is against the law of God, the law of our country, the organic law of our physical constitution, and the moral law of our minds. It is indeed the only act that can be mentioned that is against all these. It does not require me to tell you that suicide, with other murders, was denounced by God himself, speak- ing in^ words that all mankind have heard, from the " thick cloud" that hung over Mount Sinai. You are, I presume, a Christian, and the Sacred Book containing that denunciation lies at your side ; and yet you have made the dreadful con- fession to me, that you have dared to meditate on the break- ing, the despising, the contemning of the command of Him who by less than a command — ay, than even a word, by the lifting up of his finger — may consign you to an eternity of agony, in comparison of which all the sorrow you now suffer is less than a grain of sand to the sand-banks of the sea.
" It is true, it is true !" replied the unhappy man. " I know, I Jed that every word you have uttered is true, maist true and undeniable as are the sentiments o' this holy book," grasping again the Bible; "but can ye, wha, by the command o' books and education, can dive farther into the nature o' the mind than ane like me, explain this mystery, that, when, my soul is filled wi' the darkness o' sorrow, and my rebellious purpose o' self-murder whispers in my mind treachery and war against God, thae truths ye hae uttered, for they hae occurred to me before, tak flight like guid angels, an' leave me to warsle wi' a power that subdues me ? It is then that I am in danger, an' the hand that has held up to my throat that fatal instrument I had under my pillow, has the moment before been lifted up vainly in prayer to God, to throw owr* my mind the light o' thae grand truths. What avails it, then, that there are times when I love them, and am guided by them, and thank heaven for the precious gift o' knowin, feelin, and appreciatin them, if there are other moments when they flee frae me, and I am left power- less in the grasp o' my enemy?" Pausing and falling again into a fit of dejection. "I fear, I fear the best o' us are only the slaves o' some mysterious power. But" — starting up, as if recollecting himself — "I put a question to you — answer me in the name o' Heaven ; for if I gie mysel up to the belief o' an all-powerful necessity, I am a lost man and a self- murderer."
He was now clearly approaching a rock whereon many a gallant bark has been shivered to atoms. Even healthy- minded men cannot look at the question of the necessity of the will without staggering and reeling ; and hypochond- riacs love to get drunk by inhaling the vapours of mys- ticism that rise from it, destroying, as they do, all moral responsibility, and concealing the vengeance of heaven and the terrors of hell. It was necessary to lead him from this dangerous subject, which it was clear he had been studying and dreaming about, with all that love of subtility and mys- ticism which melancholy generates.
" No sensible man," said I, " believes in the absolute necessity of the will. After the will is fixed, the liberty is already exercised, and there is indeed no mill in the mind at all, until it takes the form of an active, moving, propel- ling principle. But these are abstruse fancies, which you must fly, if you wish to possess a healthy mind. Sorrow, or any other feeling of pain, will extinguish while it lasts the burning lights of principle or sentiment. The pain of the amputation of a limb prevents, while it lasts, the natural working of the mind ; but grief may be averted, and the great healing secret of that is, that the mind must be occupied. Renounce all abstruse thinking, all dav-dreamine, all
TALES OF THE BORDERS.
sorrowful remembering, all sentimental muting— look upon application, exercise, work, as a duty and a medicine, and I will answer for your expelling from your mind that dread- ful purpose that entails upon you misery, and disgraces the nature of man."
" Your advice is excellent," replied he, somewhat roused; " but, unfortunately, I hae got the same frae my ain mind ; and, what is mair, I hae tried it — I hae tried it again and again ; — the medicine is worth nae mair to me than a bread pill. My efforts to exercise my mind, when a fit o' sorrow presses upon it, only make the sorrow the heavier, by making the mind less able to bear it. My soul is for ever bent on that question o' the necessity o' the will which you despise and avoid. I will, God is my witness, argue it with you, calmly and reasonably."
" Unless you agree to renounce that question," said I, " I can do you no good."
" Then," replied he, with a groan, " I am left to heaven and my unavoidable fate. May God hae mercy on my soul !"
And he again relapsed into a fit of dejection, his head leaning on his breast, and his eyes fixed on the bed.
I could, I found, make no more of him that day, and my other avocations required my departure. I told him I would call again, and bring or send him some medicine.
" It is an unnecessary waste o' your valuable time," he said, lifting up his head, " to call again upon a wretch like me. I am much obliged to you for advice ; but the only medicine for me is — death."
He pronounced the fearful word with an emphatic gut tural tone, which gave it a terrific effect. I opened the door to depart, and was surprised to find that it would not go back sufficiently to allow me to pass freely. The pro- bable cause of the interruption flashed upon my mind in an instant. Without speaking a word, I edged myself through, and saw, lying at the back of the door, the body of the unfortunate young woman, in a state of insensibility. I had presence of mind enough not to carry her into the room where her father lay ; but, seeing the light of the kitchen at the further end of the long gloomy passage, I snatched her up in my arms, and hastened with her thither. Having laid her on a small truckle bed, whereon, I presume, she usually slept, I found she was in a deep swoon ; and, notwithstand- ing that it was getting dark, and my time was expired, I waited her recovery. As she lay before me, pale as a corpse, and as I thought of the cause of her illness, and looked round in vain for any one to give her assistance or consolation, (the groans of her father, which I indistinctly heard, being the only answer that would have been given to a call for aid in a house more like a haunt for ghosts and spectres than a residence for human beings,) I felt the impression of her peculiar misery pass over me, making me shudder as if I had been seized with a fit of the ague. The frail, brittle creature lying there, a victim of hysterics, fit only to be cherished and guarded by a doting mother — placed in a large, empty, gousty mansion — doomed to guard alone a suicide and a father, and, perhaps, to wrestle with him through blood — her parent's blood ! — for the preservation of a remaining spark of a self-taken life ! She at length recovered, exhibiting the ordinary precursors of returning consciousness — convulsive shiverings, rolling of the eyes, and beating about with the hands. On perceiving me indistinctly, she articulated —
" Death ! death ! — that was the word he spoke sae wildly.
— Ah ! I know it now ! — James H has lang tried to
conceal it frae me j but I hae discovered it at last. Can you save him, sir ? — can you save the faither o' her wha has scarcely another friend on earth ?"
A flood of teara followed this ejaculation. She tore her hair like a maniac. I tried everything in my power to pacify her ; but terror had completely mastered her weak
nerves, and she shoo* as the successive frightful image* suggested by her situation passed through her excited and still confused mind.
" Is there no one in those parts," said I, " that can attend your father, and assist you ? Who is the James H— — — you just now mentioned ?"
" He is my cousin," replied she. " He lived with us for some time ; but my father and he quarrelled about a razor which he said James wanted to steal from him. But I see it now. There was nae theft. James, poor James, was innocent, and wanted to save him ; but they concealed it frae me, and my cousin was turned away."
The mention of the word razor made me start. I had left the instrument on the head of the drawers, and I had even now heard the wretched man's groans. I hurried to the room, and entered softly. He was in a fit of dejection, groaning, at intervals, deeply, like a man in bodily pain.
took up the instrument without being noticed, and returned to the kitchen. It was now almost dark. I had three miles to ride, through wild hill paths, and I heard some threatening indications of a night storm. The young woman was still lying on the couch, with her terrors undi- minished ; but I could do nothing more for her, and to have impressed her with the necessity of watching her parent would have created additional alarm, without mcreas ing her zeal in a cause that concerned too nearly her own heart. I told her, therefore, that I required to depart, and was in the act of leaving to go to the door, when, in a pa roxysm of terror, she started up, and seized me, clutching me firmly, and crying loudly —
" Will you leave me alone wi' him in this house, and throughout the dark night ? He will do it when you are gone. Heaven preserve me frae the sight o' a father's blood !"
I tried to calm her, and to reason with her ; but it was in vain. She still clung to me ; and I found myself neces- sitated either to use some gentle force to detach myself from her grasp, or remain all night. I adopted the former expedient, and, rushing out, shut the door after me, mounted my horse, and proceeded home. She had come out after me ; for I heard her cries for some time as I rode forward in the dark.
Though soon out of sight of the house, I felt myself un- consciously turning my head once or twice in the direction of the deserted mansion. With all my efforts to think of some other subject — and my own safety among these wild hills might have been sufficient to occupy my attention — I could not, for some time, take my mind off the scene I had witnessed, and the prospective misery that, in such different forms, waited these two individuals. When I had gone about a mile and a half on my journey, I was accosted by a
man, who asked me familiarly how George B was. I
recognised in him at once the individual who had asked me to call for him. I told him that he was well enough in his body, but had taken some wild and distorted views of life, which might place him in danger of his own hands, while there was nobody in the house to watch him but his daughter, who did not seem to me to be well fitted for the task, seeing she was weakly, hysterical, and timid. He told me he knew all I had stated ; that his name was James
H ; that he was a cousin of the young woman's, George
B having been married on his mother's sister ; that he
had resided in the house, and had discovered the tendency of his uncle's mind ; and that, on one occasion, he had snatched out of his hands a razor with which he intended to destroy himself — an act for which he was expelled the house, though he was the acknowledged suitor of the young woman, whom he intended to wed X told him he should marry her, protect her, and save the father ; but he replied that the old man would neither allow him to live in the house nor take his daughter from him ; so that she was
TALES OF THE BORDERS.
compelled to remain in the dreadful condition in which I had found her. I told him to call upon me next day, and proceeded homewards.
Before James H called, which he did about two
o'clock, I revolved in my mind what should be done for the unfortunate man. I recollected that, in a conversation I
had with Dr D of Edinburgh, he told me of a case of
melancholy, and accompanying determination to commit self-murder, which he had successfully treated by present- ing to the mind of the patient such horrific stones and narratives of men who had taken their own lives and suf- fered in their death inexpressible agonies, and such shock- ing pictures of murders, where the wretched victims were brought back, by the hand of their offended Maker, from the gates of death, with their consciences seared with the burning iron of His vengeance — that the man got alarmed, was cured of his thirst for his own blood, and never again spoke of self-destruction. I resolved upon trying this expe- dient, and could not think of a better book for my pur- pose than that extraordinary record of human vice and suffering, " The Newgate Calendar." I fortunately possessed a copy, with those fearfully graphic pictures, that suit so well, in their coarse, half-caricatured, grotesque delinea- tions, with the dreadful narratives they are intended to illustrate. I picked out the most fearful volume, that con- tained, at same time, the greatest number of attempted self- murders, where the victims were snatched from their own chosen death, and, after their wounds were healed, devoted to that pointed out by the law as due to their crimes.
When James H called in the afternoon, I gave him the
volume, and requested him to hand it to the patient's daughter, with directions to put it into the hands of her father, as having been sent to him by me. He said he would take the first opportunity of complying with my request.
I had no visits to make that required my presence in that part of the country, for two or three days. On the second day after I had sent the book, I had another call from James H , who said that he had been requested by the patient's daughter to return the volume, and to request another one, which the patient desired, above all things, to be sent to him that day. I accordingly sent him another volume, although I did not know whether to augur well or ill from this anxiety ; but I was inclined to be of opinion that the symptom was an auspicious one. Two days after wards, the messenger called again, with a repetition of his former request for another volume as soon as it could be sent. I complied with it instantly ; sending, however, on this occa- sion, two — for I thought my medicine was operating bene- ficially, and it was of that kind that could be of no use unless administeied in large doses ; so, as it were, to surfeit and sicken the disease, and force it, by paralysing its energies, to relinquish its grasp of the patient's mind and body.
Two days more having elapsed, I felt anxious to ascer- tain the effect of my moral emetocatharlics, and set out on the special errand of visiting my patient. The house, as I approached, exhibited the same still, dead-like aspect it possessed on my first visit. On knocking at the door, it was opened timidly and slowly by the daughter, who appeared to be paler, more sorrow- stricken, more weak and irritable, than on the occasion of my former visit. Her eye exhibited that terror-struck look which nervous peo- ple, kept on the rack of a fearful apprehension, so often exhibit. Her voice was low, monotonous, and weak, as if she had been exhausted by mental anxiety, watching, and care. There was still no one in the house but her and her father ; the same stillness reigned everywhere — the same air of dejection — the same goustiness in the large empty dwelling. On asking her how her father was, she replied, mournfully, that he had scarcely ever been out of his bed
since my last visit ; that he lay, night and day, reading the books I had sent him ; that he had eaten very little meat, and had fallen several times into dreadful fits of groaning, and talking to himself. She added that he felt, at times, disinclined to see her ; but, at others, his affection for her rose to such a height that he flung his arms about her neck, and wept like a child on her bosom. She had proposed to him, she said, to bring some person into the house ; but he got into a violent rage when she mentioned it, and said he would expel the first intruder, whether man or woman. She had therefore been compelled to remain alone. She had lain at the back of his room door every night, watching his motions, whereby, in addition to her grief, she had caught a violent rheumatism which had stricken into her bones. When, for a short time, she had gone to sleep, she was awakened by terrific dreams and nightmares, which made her cry aloud for help, and exposed the situation she had taken, for the purpose of watching her parent and de- feating his purpose of self-murder.
I proceeded to the patient's room. When I entered, which I did softly, I found him lying in bed, with his head, as formerly, bound up in a handkerchief ; a volume of the Newgate Calendar lying on his breast. So occupied was he with his enjoyment of this morceau of horrors, that he did not notice my entry or approach to his bedside. I stood and gazed at him. He had finished the page that was open before him — exhibiting John Torrance, the blacksmith of Hockley. His eye rested at least five minutes on this hor- rific picture ; and, as he continued his rapt gaze, he drew deep sighs — his breast heaving with great force, as if to throw off an unbearable load. He turned the page and noticed me.
" You are very intent upon that book," said I. <c I hope it interests you."
" Yes," replied he. " My mind has been dead or entranced for a year. This is the only thing in the world I have met with during my sorrow capable of putting life into my soul. It seems as if all the energies that have been lying useless for that period, had risen at the magic power of this wonderful book, to pour their collected strength upon its pages."
" Then it has served its end," said I, doubting greatly the truth of my own statement. " I sent it for the purpose of entertaining you — that is, interesting you."
" Entertaining me !" he ejaculated ; " you mean, binding my soul wi' iron bands : — my heart now loves the misery it formerly loathed. But, sir, I am not fed with this food. 1 devour it with a false and ravenous appetite ; and were there a thousand volumes, I think I could read them all before 1 broke bread or closed an eye."
He rolled out these words with a volubility and an enthusiasm that surprised me. It was clear that I had poisoned the mind of this poor man. I had stimu- lated and partly fed his appetite for horrors. Familiarity with fearful objects kills the terror and sometimes raises in its place a morbid affection — a fact established in France at the end of the last century by an empirical test of a horrific character ; but which no knowledge of meta- physics could have dreamed of a priori Why had I forgotten this matter of history, and allowed myself to be led astray by vain theories and partial experiments ? What was I now to do ? The man's appetite for the bloody narra- tives was so strong that, even while I was thus cogitating, his greedy eye had again sought the page. It was necessary that I should conceal from him my apprehensions, and take up his words on a feigned construction.
'This kind of reading," said I, « interests you, I pre- sume, because it fills your mind with a salutary disgust and terror, makes you loathe the act of the suicide, and mans your soul against the hateful purpose you entertained against your own life."
TALES OF THE BORDERS.
lie looked to the door, and beckoned to me to see if it was shut. I went and satisfied him that it was, while 1 was myself assured that she whom lie was so anxious to deceive was again at her post behind it.
" You ask me," lie continued, " if this book has disgusted or terrified me against my purpose o' deein. Are we dis- gusted an' terrified at what we love ? I liae seen the day when thae stones had sma' attraction for me. But, alas! alas ! I am a changed — a fearfully changed ^man. My soul now gloats owre tales o' crime an' scenes o' blood. To me there is an interest, an indescribable, mysterious interest in
and eyeing me sorrowfully — " do you mean it to kill or cure?"
" To save you from self-destruction," said I — " the most fearful and the most cowardly of all the terminations of human life."
" If you could keep me readin this for ever," he said, " yer object would be served."
•' I can give you no more of it," said I, conscious that, by indulging his morbid appetite for blood, I had been lead- ing him to his ruin.
" Then I must read thao volumes owre, an' owre, an' owre, again," said he ; " an' when I hae dune, I hae nacthing mair to interest me in this dark, bleak warld."
He fell now into one of his fits of dejection, assuming his accustomed attitude of folding his hands over his breast, and fixing his eyes on the bed, while deep sighs and groans were thrown from his heaving breast. It was necessary, I now saw, to take from . him the book which had produced an effect the very opposite of what I had intended and expected. I took it up and placed it beside the other volume that was lying on a side table, with a view to take them away with me — blaming myself sorely and deservedly for the injury I had done by experimenting so rashly on the life and eternal interests of a human being. As I moved away the volume, he observed me, and followed it wistfully and sorrowfully with his eye.
" Ye hae dune weel," he said — " ye hae whetted my appetite for my ain life ; an' it matters nacthing that the whetter an' the whct-stane arc taen awa when they're nae mair needed !"
I felt keenly the reproach, for it was just. I might have taken credit for a good intention ; but my sympathy for the wretched being restrained any wish I had to defend myself. I endeavoured to change the subject of our conversation, and turn his mind to a subject which I knew engaged his interests and feelings more than anything else on earth.
" Your daughter," said I, " is unwell. She seems to be miserable. I know a change upon her both in mind and body, since I called here only a few days ago. Her body is thin and emaciated, her cheek is blanched, and her eye dimmed. These signs do not visit the young frame for nothing. I fear she has heard of the deadly intention you still persist in entertaining — to take away your own life. It is clear to me that her sickly constitution cannot long stand against a terror and an apprehension which even the aged and the strong cannot endure without grievous injury to all the faculties of the body and mind. Sir, take heed" — paus- ing and looking at him seriously and impressively — "you may become a daughter's murderer before your cowardly courage enables you to become your otvn !"
" Hold, sir! — hold !" cried the roused man. " Vou now •peak daggers to me ! I could hae borne this when you were here last; but ye hae unmanned me — ye hae made me familiar \\i' him, the king o' terrors, wha waits for me. ] know him in his worst shapes. He is nae langer hideous to me; and, being his friend, 1 o;viiiia he my dochter's faithcr an guardian ! Why cam you here to revive a struggle that
was owre ? My mind was made up. Owre the pages o: that )ook, my resolution was fixed ; now you wad re-resolve me aack to my doubt, my pain, my insufferable agony, bybringin up into my mind the tender image o' a sufferin, sorrowin, starvin dochtcr. My Margaret — my Margaret ! — her mother's image — the pledge o' a love dearer than life"
The door opened, and the young woman, who had been istening at the back of it, rushed in and flung herself on the bosom of the agonized man.
" 0 father !" she cried, " I ken everything. Yer dread- fu' purpose has been revealed to me. Ye intend to talc awa yer ain life, which my mother, yer beloved Agnes, on her death-bed, bade ye preserve for my sake. But ye canna do ;hat without takin also mine. Yer death will be my death. [ hae already seen yer blecdin body in my dreams — the image liaunts me like a spirit, an' leaves me nae rest. The doctor says true — ye will kill me before yer dreadfu' purpose is fulfilled ; but if, in God's will, I should be left when ye are awa, wha is to guard me, wha is to comfort me — with- out friends, without means, and without health ?"
The scene noAV presented to me transcended anything I liad ever seen during my long intercourse with suffering liumanity. The excited girl clung with a firm grasp to the neck of her parent, and sobbed intensely ; while he, strug- _ling to be liberated, and holding away his face to the baek of the bed, groaned and appealed for relief in broken, guttu- ral, half-choked aspirations to heaven. I saw his eyes turned to the throne of mercy, and big tears rolled down his rugged cheeks. In my anxiety to aid his struggle, and assist him to the return to his natural love of life, and duty to his God, I was afraid to interfere with the sacred service of a bursting heart, turned in its agony to the only source of consolation and healing virtue ; while, if I allowed this opportunity to escape, I might not have another for adding a mortal's means and energies (sometimes God's instru- ments) to the workings of nature, and the silent but power- ful voice of religion speaking from the innermost recesses of his moral constitution.
" This is nature and truth," said I, after a pause — " powers a thousand times stronger than the brain-sick fancies of a diseased mind. It is the voice of God himself, sounding through the heart, and, like the electric energy, heaving it with convulsive throes, as if to cast forth from it the impious, daring, and unnatural purpose you have cherished in it so long that no lesser power will expel it. I rejoice in these throes ; cherish them and aid them, for they are the expul- sors of a poison that, having got into your blood, and reached the heart, the seat of life, madly stimulates it to self- destruction. This is the time — here is the vantage ground of a return to all that is right, true, and good, from cowardice, cruelty, irreligion, and even rebellion against God !"
" Listen to him — listen to him !" cried the young woman, still sobbing. " Hear thae words o' truth, for they arc sent from heaven. Receive them into your heart, and it will be changed, and I will live to see my father enjoy life and be happy."
" When ?" groaned the miserable man satirically, as if roused by the sound of the distasteful word "happy," " WhenI am sittin at the window o' a prison, thinkin o' my dead Agnes, and lookin atthe red settino' my sixty-fifth sun?"
These words shewed that the struggle had been ineffectual. Released from the grasp of his daughter, who sat at the side of the bed, he doggedly and sternly folded his arms and relapsed into a silent fit of dejection. No effort would make him open his lips. There seemed to be no principle of reaction in his moral constitution ; all was penetrated by a fatal lethargy, which closed up every issue, bioke every spring of living thought, feeling, or motion. My profes- sional knowledge was entirely useless, my personal services unavailing. I called to him loudly to answer me, and got
TALES OF THE BORDERS.
no roply but deep grormg. I even shook him roughly, and tried to bend his nead to his weeping daughter. My efforts were quickened by a sense that bore in xipon me with fear- ful strength and importunity, that I had, by experimenting on his mind, and filling it with images of horror, increasea the disease I intended to cure. Pained beyond measure, I was anxious to redeem my fault and correct my error by getting him again engaged in conversation, whereby I might have a last opportunity of drawing him into a train of thought which might lead to a sense of his awful condition, mid u prospect of escaping from its present misery, and its horrible consequences. But my medicine had operated too powerfully. There he sat, unmoved, immovable — a sad and melancholy victim of the worst species of hypochondria — that which exhibits as one of its pathognomonic symp- toms, the desire, the determination, persevered in through all difficulties, all oppositions, all wiles and schemes, to commit self-murder.
I waited for a considerable period, standing at the side of his bed, to see if he would exhibit any signs of returning moral vitality; but in vain. My other pressing avocations demanded imperiously my presence in quarters where I could be of more service. The daughter was herself buried in despondency, her face being hid in her hands, and broken ejaculations escaping from her lips. I took up the book which had produced so much harm, and whispered
lowly in her car, to request James II to call for mo
next day. At the sound of this name she started and looked up wildly. I was afraid I might have to encounter another scene like that I had witnessed on the occasion of my last departure. I therefore hurried away, giving her no time to reply, where conversation was apparently useless. My intention was to try and devise some means of intro- ducing a person into the house — though against the de- termined will of the father — to guard him and assist the daughter ; but that could only be done through the medium of the messenger who went between me and the young woman.
When I had got some distance from the house, I could not resist the feeling that on the occasion of my prior visit compelled me to look back upon this miserable dwelling. I had seen diseases of all kinds grinding the feelings of unhappy man ; but in the worst of them there is some principle, either of resistance or resignation, that comes to the aid of the sufferer, and enables him to pass the ordeal, whether for life or death. The duty he is called ^upon to perform is to bear ; for no man I ever yet saw in a sick bed can get quit of the thought — however much he may try to philosophize about physical causes, or to conceal his sense of a divine influence — that he is placed there by a superior hand^/or the very purpose yf suffering, with a view to some end that is veiled from his eye. Every pang, therefore, that is borne carries with it, or leaves after it, some feeling of necessity to bear, and a satisfaction of having endured, and, to a certain extent, obeyed the behest of Him that sent it. In many, this feeling is strong and decided, yielding comfort and consolation when no other power could have any effect ; and though in others it may be less discernible — being often denied by the patients themselves, and attempted to be laughed at and scorned — it is, I assert, still there, silently working its progress in the heart, and spreading its balm even against the sufferer's own rebellious will. But the case of the suicide is left purposely by Him against whose law and authority the unholy purpose is directed, in a solitary condition of unmitigated horror ; for the desire to get quit of pain — the inheritance of mortals — is itself the very exclusion of that resignation which is its legitimate antidote, while the devoted victim, obeying a necessity that forces him to eschew a misery he is not noble-minded enough to bear, not only has no good in view, but is conscious that he is flying from evil,
through evil, to evil ; ?o that from behind, around him, within him, before him — wherever he casts his eye — there is nothing hut darkness, pain, and utter desolation. To com- plete the scene — there is, perhaps, no living natural evil more peculiar and acute, and less capable of generating resistance or resignation, than the rack of apprehension and terror of an only daughter watching, alone and unaided, the issues of a purpose that is, in all likelihood, to force her through the energies of the strongest instinct— filial affection — to stop, with her trembling hands, the flow of a father's life's blood. Yet all this evil, this misery, was to be found in that house, standing alone in the midst of these bleak hills, like a temple dedicated to sorrow.
Next day, James II called upon me, having seen the
young woman, unknown to the father, on the previous night, and received from her the instructions I left for him. 1 1 <: saw himself the necessity of something being done towards the amelioration of the condition of the two unhappy indi- viduals ; but he acknowledged the difficulty of effecting it. He perceived, what was true, that, if any watch were set over hisuncle, it might onlymake certain that which at presentwas doubtful ; that the watchman could only proceed on the principle that he was mad, and bind him, or confine him, or otherwise treat him as insane; and that, besides, he knew no one who, without pay, (and there was no money,) would undertake so unpleasant a duty, which might last for weeks, or months, or even years. No concealed surveillance could be kept over him ; for he suspected, in an instant, the object of any one visiting him, and had ordered one or two individuals, who had come from a distance to call for him, out of the house — suspecting (such is the way of all big unhappy tribe) that they came for the purpose of observing his motions. The difficulty was greatly owing to the lonely position of the house: the cloak of friendly intercourse might have covered the frequent visits of near neighbours ; but there were none such, for the nearest house was two miles off; and as for relations, they were in another part of the country, distant in locality as well as blood.
The case was hedged with difficulties. Violent diseases require strong remedies. I recollected that James II said, on a former occasion, that he was the suitor of the young woman, and wished to wed her. I came to a resolu- tion, on the instant, firm, decided, and sound. I told him that, if he wished to save the father and the daughter, he must accelerate his intended marriage with the latter, even in the midst of the unfortunate circumstances in which she was placed, and under the unfavourable auspices of an event of joy being shadowed with a cloud of sorrow. This would give him u claim on the daughter; and if the old man would not permit his son-in-law to remain in the house and assist him as formerly with the labours of his farm, he could threaten to take her from him altogether — a threat that would not, in all likelihood, fail to make him consent to his becoming an inmate in the house. The young man was pleased with an advice that quadrated with his wishes, and left me, to consult with some other friends on the propriety of instantly following it.
I heard the banns proclaimed next Sunday in the parish church, and was somewhat surprised at the rapidity with which my advice had been adopted and the plan put into execution. The intelligence was promptly communicated to me by the bridegroom himself, who informed me also that the fact of the proclamation of the banns had been com- municated to his uncle, who had expressed himself srrongi) against the match. He had, in fact, taken up a strong prejudice against his nephew, in consequence of the lattcr's interference with his purpose of self-immolation. lie had never allowed the young man to come near him since the day on which l;e had taken the razor out of his hands by force ; and the intelligence that he was to marry his daugh- ter, and deprive him of her society, roused him to Jury
8
TALES OF THE BORDERS.
He denounce d the union, and said that it added another drop of bitterness to the cup of his misery, which was already overflowing. I told the young man that the anger into which his uncle had been thrown would, in all likeli- hood, do him more good than harm : it might stimulate a mind, dead or dormant, from the effects of brooding over imaginary evils, which produced ten times more self-mur- ders than the real misfortunes of life. He told me the marriage would not, on account of his uncle's anger, be put off; that it was fixed for the 15th of the month, and would be celebrated in private. I informed him that I required to go to a distant part of the country, and could not, for some time, see his uncle, and that he must endeavour, by all means, to support and comfort the unhappy bride in her watchful care over her unfortunate father, who, according to his account, was still under the cloud from which he threatened, every instant, to draw down the lightning that was to strike him to death.
"When I returned from my journey, I called again upon the unfortunate man, in the hope of finding some ameliora- tion in his condition as well as that of his daughter. I found him still in bed, though he had been up and out on several occasions since I visited him. I saw no signs of improvement. I endeavoured to get him engaged in a con- versation about his own condition ; but I saw that, in place of being fond of dwelling on the state of his mind, talking of his sorrows, and contemplating the purpose he enter- tained against his existence, he shewed an utter repugnance to the subject, having become perfectly taciturn, sullen, and morose, giving me monosyllables for answers, and sometimes not deigning even to shew that he attended to me or under- stood me. The only thing that seemed to interest him, was his daughter's marriage — looking dark and gloomy when the subject was broached, and muttering indistinct words of reproach and anger. The condition of his daughter was changed ; but it was only a new form of anguish. Some days previous, she had observed him with another razor in his hand ; but he had secreted it somewhere, and all her efforts had, as yet, been ineffectual to get it. Her watch had, therefore, been more unremitting — her apprehensions were increased, while her strength was greatly diminished. She was reduced to a shadow ; the pale skin that covered her face seemed to be in contact with the bones ; while her eyes burned with fever and excitement. Yet her marriage was fixed to take place two or three days after ! She could not avoid it ; she had pledged her word, and her father's safety depended in a great degree upon it. She could bear her condition no longer — all her powers of suffering were worn out ; and if her father would not allow her husband to remain in the house, she would, she said, allow the latter to exercise what authority he pleased, in endeavouring, by force, to save his father-in-law and his wife from the ruin that seemed to await them. The gloom that enveloped her mind was deepened by the contrast of the light of a happi- ness she had long sighed for, now changed into a refinement of peculiar pain. She shuddered when she thought of her marriage with the man she loved, and feared that the power of heaven would fall on her for presuming to bring joy into the chamber of mourning, if not death. As she epoke, tears moistened her burning eye, and ran down her thin, pallid cheeks. She wished the ceremony over, as an evil to be endured, and then fate must take its course, though she feared the termination would be miserable, as well for her father as for her. His life was hanging by a thread ; hers wai worn out by watching, fainting, and suffering, till it was on the very eve of leaving the body, which was no longer able to support or contain it. These were the misfortunes in the inside of the house ; but there were others without doors. The landlord had sequestrated the stock belonging to her father — a circumstance that had plunged him deeper in his despondency and misery, and explained the very
altered state in which I had found him. The landlord, a lard man, laughed at the device of threatened self-murder, esorted to for the purpose of exciting his sympathy and robbing his pocket.
" Yes," she concluded, "he laughed" — and she repeated he word " laughed" with an hysterical action of the throat, as if it choked her, and next moment burst into tears.
Two days afterwards, a man on horseback, arrived at my door, and rapped with great violence ; his horse was heated ind foaming at the mouth, as if it had been hard pressed, and ic himself was flushed and excited. He told me, in a hurried
manner, that I was wanted instantly at George B 's ;
e had been sent to me. by another man, and could tell m« othing beyond the fact that something very alarming had taken place, and that if I did not hasten thither, on the nstant, and with my very greatest speed, I could be of no use. I took with me what I conceived might be wanted, for my suspicions were more communicative than the messenger, and proceeded, with all the expedition in my power, to the aouse where I had lately seen so much suffering.
On my entering the house, a most extraordinary spectacle presented itself. On the small truckle bed that stood oppo- site to the door in the kitchen, lay a female figure, dressed in white, with both her hands rolled up in cloth, from which issues of blood rolled on the bed ; and her face, not less pale than her dress, was spotted and besmeared with the same
element. It was Margaret B in her marriage dress.
A young woman, her bride's-maid, was beside her, looking in her face as if to see whether life was still in her body. A young man, also dressed as if for the marriage, hurried
me to the apartment of George B , where a scene
not less awful was presented to me. The unhappy man was lying in the middle of the floor, on his back, with his
throat cut, and James H , in his bridegroom's clothes,
was bending over him, with his hands busily occupied in stanching a wound that would have let out ten lives, if he had had as many to destroy ; the floor was literally swim- ming in blood, and on a chair, in the corner of the room, lay the fatal instrument, still open. My services were useless : — the man was dead ; his attendants were engaged in stopping blood already curdled with death. I hurried to the patient that was still living. She had lost almost the whole blood of her body, and it was difficult to detect in her any symptoms of life. I unloosed the cloths from her hands ; they were cut in a fearful manner — the blade of the razor, which she had, in her struggles with her parent, endea- voured to wrest from him, having been whisked through them when hard clenched. No one had been in the house ; her marriage dress was still incomplete — her bosom bare, and her head uncovered ; a proof that she had been called from the mirror wherein she saw a half, dressed bride, to see a father kill himself by his own hand against her efforts to save him. Her screams were heard by the bride's-maid and the bridegroom, as they approached the house ; but, before they entered, the struggle was nearly over ; they found her bending over the body of her father, which lay on the floor, grasping the open wound with her hands. So spoke the attendants as I dressed the wounds. I took up several arteries ; but there was one in the left wrist which, for a long period, defied my efforts, unassisted as I was with professional aid, to stem its torrent. I succeeded at last — so, at least, I thought — in my endeavours to stop all the issues. Vain thought ! Death had stopped them This was the first time I had seen a dead bride.
TALES
WILSON'S
r, flTrafct'ttonarg, ant» 3£mastnatt&*
OF THE BORDERS
AND OF SCOTLAND
THE RIVAL SHERIFFS OF TEVIOTDALE.
IN the early history of Scotland, it is curious to contemplate the means which Providence seems to have used in the pre- servation of the independence of a country whose people were destined to hold a high rank among mankind, for strong mental powers, and a strict adherence to those moral rules and duties which are of such importance to the social state of nations. The appearance of Wallace, at a time when Hope had turned down her eyes on a scorched and devastated land, was almost miraculous ; and many unlooked-for and wonderfully opportune occurrences of the same kind might be selected from the history of this country, which never was subdued.
The circumstances to which we are inclined to look at present, however, are those connected with what may be called a curious copartnership of fame, which existed among the military leaders who figured in the days of Scotland's triumph over the insidious and cruel designs of the Edwards and Henrys of England. Wallace and Bruce were the first pair of worthies ; and who is there who has not, in imagina- tion, aided by the efforts of genius, lived and fought with these favourites of romantic history ? Scarcely inferior to either of them, came another pair — Douglas and Randolph— who, though to a certain extent contemporary with The Bruce, may be said to have been consecutive, seeing that they con- tinued their glorious energies after the cares of state had cooled the martial ardour of their great leader. After ,hese, came another pair — Sir William Douglas, the Knight cf Liddesdale, and Sir Alexander Ramsay of Dalhousie — < two of the keenest and most daring spirits that ever threw the lustre of their valour over the dark period of Scotland's oppression. The fates of these two noble warriors are familiar to Scotsmen ; but the general outlines of history have left to be filled. up by the chronicler of circumstances many incidents regarding them which cannot fail to be interesting to all lovers of their country.
Sir William Douglas, commonly called the Knight of Liddesdale, was the natural son of the famous companion in arms of King Robert the Bruce, Sir James Douglas, com- monly called " The Good Sir James." The large estates in. Galloway belonging to the family, went, on the death of Sir James, to his brother Archibald, who was afterwards Regent of Scotland, during the minority of King David II. Sir William, in this way, got nothing from his father, who died in carrying into effect the will of another, but made no settlement himself — an act, indeed, not very common in feudal times, when the right of the heir in the fee could not be defeated by the will of the person in possession. The spirited son, however, inherited the military ardour and chivalric feelings of his father, as well as those corporeal qualities without which the other, especially in times when so much depends on individual personal prowess, have often been found of no great avail. All the early Douglases were remarkable for their tall figures, and somewhat gaunt-like appearance — their bones being large, and the fiesh very sparingly distributed over them ; the muscles strong, well marked, and sinewy, and strung with nerves which did not
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shame the high office of supplying the energy which the burning spirit sent forth to the limbs. Their complexions were dark — so much so that some of them, and one in par- ticular, were distinguished by the appellative " black," as a designative ; and more than one member of the family had a peculiar lisp, which contrasted strangely with their strong manly bearing, and the high tone of command which their superiority in warlike exercises and their great fame gave them a title to assume.
Several of these qualities were possessed by Sir William, the Knight of Liddesdale. He was taller than his father, " The Good Sir James," and greatly more muscular and gaunt ; and, in place of the suave expression which the latter made so much use of among his soldiers, and by which he earned his appellative of " good," he might have been accounted grim, in consequence of the size of the under part of his face, and the protuberance of the lower jaw, forming the peculiarity now known by the word " gashed." Yet he was considered to possess a handsome face, and the ladies of his age were too good judges of what ought to be called beauty in a warrior to have guaranteed to him the appellation of " The Flower of Chivalry," if he had not deser vea it as well by his physical qualities as by his genius for war. A clear dark eye, burning and restless, relieved the some- what heavy aspect of the lower portion of the face ; black curly hair, for which his father was remarkable, covered his head and cheeks with great exuberance, and disdained, in its strength, to follow the example of the times in falling down the back after the manner exhibited in the old pictures. A dark swarthy complexion suited well with these attributes ; and his extreme height and breadth, with a peculiar rect- angularity of form, gave him altogether the appearance of a man chiseled out of some of the hard dusky marbles found in the northern parts of Scotland.
The internal man was in perfect accordance with these physical attributes. Bred in the camp with his father— with the example of his military prowess before his eyes, and the acclamations with which a grateful people received, wherever he was met, the companion of Bruce and one of the saviours of their country, ringing in his ears — the young knight was from his infancy trained to the art of war, and incited to its triumphs by the spirit of an emulation which no youthful heart could have resisted. The military enthusiasm of that period centred in the desire for revenge against the English — a feeling well justified by the conduct of that nation, in making a neighbouring kingdom, for many successive years, a scene of devastation and blood. The spirit of battle in the young Scottish nobles was, therefore, not only a virtue, but a duty ; and one of the earliest which was instilled into the young heart. In Douglas, the virtue and the duty were happily the results of natural bias ; all the qualities of his heart and mind were calculated for the triumphs of war, which seemed so natural to him that he was never happy when en- gaged in the tame avocations of peace. The din of battle was to him what the music of the grove is to the lazy hind who, j with his tuneful pipe, produces to himself, in imitation ' of the songsters, a world of sound, beyond which he con- ceives nothing to exist worthy of interesting the feelings of man. Viewing war as a trade, and a duty he owed to Jll5
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country lying prostrate under the feet of an invader, his natural feelings received such an accession of force from these laudable considerations, that every other thought or feeling was looked upon as mean or unbecoming. His country lay bleeding at the feet of one of a race of kings who had sent down to their descendants a hereditary hatred towards it as an independent kingdom ; and an early patriot- ism (obscured; however, for a time) quadrated in his bosom with a love of distinction so strong, that life was, as compared to it, a thing of trifling importance. These sentiments could not fail to produce, in a man naturally daring and unsettled, an enthusiastic love of the military character ; and, viewing the high idea which Sir William entertained of the elevation to which it might be carried, it is painful to contemplate the change which at one time came over him, when he sacrificed his patriotism for the gifts of his country's hereditary enemy.
What contributed, however, most to the elevation of Sir William Douglas' character as a warrior, was the strong fec4ing with which he was imbued of the nature and import- ance of that strange creation of the fancy of man, the genius of chivalry. Absurd as many of the behests of that great power undoubtedly were, it is not for a Scotsman to find fault with what contributed to the saving of his country. No nation derived so important benefits from the institution of chivalry, as Scotland : for it was when she was lying like a dying giant, panting for breath and freedom, that the enthusiasm of the spirit of knighthood filled the breasts of her sons, and nerved their arms for the work of liberation and revenge. Of all the men that Scotland ever produced, not excepting Bruce himself, no one ever realized in his person and mind the attributes of a " true knight" with so much fidelity to the ideal prototype as the Knight of Liddesdale. His superiority of strength over almost every warrior of his time, made him consider himself as one pointed out by nature to head the various orders of knights ; and a creative fancy enabled him to invest his conduct, bearing, dress, speech, and manners, with all the gay and gaudy attributes which were deemed essential to the formation of an accomplished " lady's warrior I" The elegance which he was capable of infusing into his motions, especially when engaged in feats of personal contest, was deemed surpris- ing in one whose formation of body, according to a gigantic scale, might be supposed unfavourable to the reception of the rules of grace. His high bearing within the palisades — amount- ing to royal demeanour, and derived from his conscious superi- ority of strength, as well as from the ideal type he had been able to form of the appearance and behaviour of one dedicated atonce to Mars and Venus — caught every attention, and pro- duced general respect and submission. Whenever the Knight of Liddesdale appeared, the ladies' tokens of favour were unfurled on every side, andcries of "The Flower of Chivalry," brought a pleasant corroboration to the ears of the warrior of what his own thoughts had so often told him — that he excelled his compeers in that character which he thought the highest that human nature could assume.
That these noble qualities should have been, to a certain extent, dimmed in their lustre by others of a dark and un- favourable kind, is to be lamented by those who cannot justify cruelty and unsteadiness to pledged faith, though found in the breast of the brave and the graceful. Even patriotism, which was the origin of the better qualities of his nature, suffered in the conflict of the feelings of an im- moderate and ill-regulated ambition. The gold of the English Edwards had alienated the loyalty of many Scots- men, and the repeated apostasy of March and others came to be looked upon at least without wonder ; but that a Douglas should have listened, for however short a time, to the corruptive whispers of Scotland's destroyer, and the natural enemy of all that bore that charmed name, was indeed a circumstance of an extraordinary character, am:
oused his country to impute to his illegitimacy what they :ould not bear to think should belong to the uncontaminated )lood of so noble a family.
It was well for Sir William uouglas that he had earned and acquired his title of " The Flower of Chivalry" before another bright star of knighthood attained its perihelium. Sir Alexander Ramsay of Dalhousie, when still a young
n, shewed a wonderful aptitude for war — combining great intrepidity with almost unexampled address in sug- esting and executing schemes for bringing it into action. [n person, this distinguished captain was very unlike his contemporary and friend, the Knight of Liddesdale. He was of middle stature, but exceedingly well knit ; of firm ibre ; tough and hardy ; capable of enduring any fatigue ; quick in his motions; and always ready for devising a plan or carrying it into execution. He could boast, too, a superb grace of his own, which, disdaining established forms, rejoiced n the expression of high sentiment and conscious ability and rectitude ; in a handsome countenance, shadowed with
g light auburn hair; the most correct proportion of limbs, and an erect determined bearing — all set off by a gay, hilarious, rapid, and affable manner, which seldom failed in winning lie hearts of his countrymen.
But what distinguished Ramsay most from his brother captain, the Knight of Liddesdale, was his strict integrity, which would have shone as bright in the counting-house of the merchant, if fate had destined him for that grade, as it did within the beauty-encircled theatre of the tournay. Douglas was deemed a perfect knight, and knew and kept the precepts of honour Avhich chivalry promulgated ; but once beyond the palisades, and his factitious sentiments were stripped of their imposing aspect, and the impulse of private passion, unrestrained by an inherent sense of truth and honour, drove him into courses which even his own friends could not justify. Ramsay, on the other hand, ruperinduced the sanctions of the code of a knight's honour on those eternal and immutable principles which had been early impressed on his heart by pious instructors, and had received the approbation of his judgment, when he was able to appreciate their excellence. In private life, his honour was as lustrous as in the field of battle or the jousting-place : his domestic morals were taken up as a theme of applaus" to add to the brilliancy of his public fame; and, even in early life, when strong passions often darken or elface the traces of moral feeling, he acquired the title of a good man — a glorious substratum for the erection of those honours with which mankind repay the services of the patriotic warrior.
Such were the two great captains, who, in the minority of David II., were called forth, by the united voice of the nation, to save Scotland from the sword and the brand of the third Edward ; yet, long before their fame had pointed them out to the hopes or confidence of their country, they had been occupied in working out their revenge against its hereditary enemies ; and, with the exception of that period when Wallace sprang, phoenix-like, from the ashes of his country's liberties, it would be difficult to point out an era when Scotland's sufferings spoke more eloquently to the hearts of her sons, than when those brave men obeyed her call. Edward Baliol had dismembered the kingdom, sur- rendered its liberties, and basely sworn fealty and homage to Edward. With the armies of the English King he had twice swept over the whole country, spreading death and desolation wherever he came : the face of the land was a scorched waste ; the palace had been left by the princes of the blood ; the castle had resigned its lord; and the cot- tage pointed out its locality by the smoke of its embers. It was a period when, according to an old historian, none but children dared to call David Bruce their king. But, fortu- nately for Scotland, Edward made, about this time, a public claim to the crown of France, declared war against Philip of Valois, and left Scotland to a deouted oersecution, under
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the charge of the Earl of Salisbury. From that period, the sword of the liberator was not sheathed till liberty was again achieved for a country destined to suffer more than any other in the world by invasion, and yet to be able to boast that it was never conquered.
Acting in concert, as became the two greatest knights of their time, Douglas and Ramsay fought with the English many battles, and harassed them incessantly with that kind of warfare recommended by King Robert in his testament. The fame of the two leaders being nearly equal, and their talents for war in like manner on a level, it might have been expected that some rivalship would exist between them, especially where the honours of a battle came to be apportioned among the victors. No such feeling ever entered the breast of the generous Ramsay, who was one of those single- hearted individuals whom nature has made great and good, without feeling the pride of the possession of such exquisite gifts ; but so much could not he said for the Knight of Liddesdale, who was unwilling to allow that any knight or any noble in the land had any title to com- pete with him in that field where he had earned and acquired the proud appellation hy which he was generally known both at home and abroad. He felt secretly annoyed by the fame of his companion in arms ; and the cool dis- regard with which Ramsay contemplated those honours which he considered of an importance paramount to any- thing on earth, filled him with envy which degenerated into dislike. He construed the noble generosity of his friend, even when he was the object of it, into a piece of ostentation of qualities which he did not himself possess, and which he knew that his friend did not think he pos- sessed. Acts of liberality were taken as insults, on the principle of those who reject presents because they are often marks of officious patronage, and the links of the chain of gratitude, which poor spirits cannot bear without being galled. This feeling on the part of the Knight of Liddes- dale was, unfortunately, increased by a curious train of circumstances, not in any degree attributable to Ramsay, but involving consequences of a character melancholy and disastrous.
The brave conduct of the two itnights having contributed, to a great extent, to the expulsion of the English army from Scotland, a strong effort was made by them to reclaim Teviotdale, which had been for a considerable time occupied not only by English soldiers, but English residenters, who had quietly set themselves down in the warm lairs of the Scottish lairds, whom they had expelled from their heredi- tary habitations. In this they succeeded to the utmost extent of their wishes. Their attacks were not in this instance combined; but they were not, on that account, the less efficacious. In Douglas' onset, he overpowered and took prisoners several knights of distinction ; and Ramsay was not behind him in the march of victory. The Castle of Hermitage fell intothe hands of Douglas; and Lady Winton, the wife of Sir John Winton, an English knight, was taken by Ramsay, after he had, with his own hand, slain her hus- band. These captures, it was said at the time, ought to have been, as regarded the captors, reversed ; for Douglas regretted that he had not secured the English beauty, and Ramsay would rather have had the castle.
" I have made but a poor capture in this expedition," said Ramsay to his friend, " and I would be inclined to try if we could manage an excambion — that is, as our merchants say, a barter or exchange — so as to equalize our mutual satisfaction. If a lady was in ancient times deemed suffi- cient to equiponderate the old castle of Priam, I do not see why I should be so unknightly as to depreciate this lady, whom I have against my own wishes entoiled, to such an extent as to say that no modern dame, though not produced like Helen from an egg, is equal in value to an old castle. Sure I am, at least, that the gallant Knight of Liddesdale,
whom our dames have botanized into ' The Flower of Chi- valry,' would not recommend me to attenuate the preten- sions of modem beauty by so bold a statement."
" A right good trafficker, by my honour !" cried Douglas, laughing. " It is the custom of the Flemings, and such men who devote themselves to the vulgar occupations of trade, to enhance the value of their commodities and manu- factures, by vouching for their qualities in words of much praise; but I must confess that I never did hear of a traffick- er, who, in operating an exchange, did endeavour to get his goods bepraised by his brother merchant, while he did his best to depreciate his wares. I have not seen this fail captive, and as I am utterly ignorant of the art by which exchangers compare equipollents in the two articles, ] cannot tell whether Dame Winton be equal in value to an old castle or not. Observe the difficulty : my capture hath four wings, thine hath only two ; and, while I can boast ol mine possessing both head and heart, I question if thou canst arrogate to thine the latter possession. But, above all, mine is steadfast, and thine has the property of being locomotive and automatons — a quality which may, perchance, make her mine without the trouble or cost of a base barter.'
"Thy comparison is too quaint for the purposes of trade," replied Ramsay, smiling. " Thou mightst have resorted to another mode, if thy subtle love of the equivoke and quillet did not run away with thy wits. The Lord Salis- bury, who is not yet out of Scotland, knoweth that a lady can save a castle, by the experience lie has had of the love darts (the cloth-yard shafts) of Black Agnes of Dunbar; but if a lady can save a castle, thou must know that she may also betray it ; for Tarpeia, the daughter of the governor o'f the capitol, delivered it over to the Albans, for a pair of bracelets. This, I do opine, is the true way to compare. If a lady can save or betray a castle, she assuredly may well be deemed worth one."
" Thy conclusion is at least worth the meed of praise," rejoined Douglas ; " for thou hast arrived at it by some of that ingenuity whereby thou didst so cunningly surprise the English at Hawthornden ; but the English were igno- rant of the caves in the ravine of the Esk, and I have had some forecast of the depth of thy art. Yet, after all, thy argument only proves that Dame Winton may possibly be worth my Castle of Hermitage — a proposition which no true knight can deny, seeing he is bound to acknowledge obe- dience to the law of the order, that a knight's life is the full price and value of a lady's smile. I have a hundred times put my life in a venture for a glance, and I may surely risk an old castle for both the beam and the beautv who throws it. Yet, true knight as I consider myself to be, I do not subscribe to the formula that a beauty, unseen and unknown, hath as great a claim upon the prowess or affec- tions of a knight, as one who is mistress of his heart arid the arbiter of his destiny. But I am oblivious. Are we not, at present, merchants, sordid slaves, traffickers, huck- sters ? Why, then, this parlance about knighthood ? Let us see the lady, that we may not, as our townsmen say, make a blind bargain, and be only wise behind the hand."
This conversation, though intended by Ramsay as mere sport, had something in it which Douglas considered serious. He, of course, had no intention of giving up the Castle of Hermitage, which he had wrung from the hands of the English ; and Ramsay had as little intention of putting his fair captive into the hands of Douglas, on whose honour he could not have relied for proper treatment. His object in detaining the lady was to force out of the hands of Ed\viird a kinsman who had been taken prisoner by the English . But, while his duty to his country and his kinsman rendered it imperative on him to detain, as prisoner, Lady Winton, the duty he owed to his own feelings required that he should treat one whom he had, by the obligations^ war; deprived of her protector, and reduced <o captivity and
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widowhood, with all the attention and kindness which such a condition required at the hands of a man of honour. Everything which a person in her situation required, was got to contribute to her comfort and assuage her grief. Female servants were procured to attend her, and to supply the desires and wants which she might express, or which might, by anticipating sympathy, be supposed to be incident to her sex and condition. She was invited to take exercise on horseback, to attend tournaments and other shows, to read and amuse herself in such way as her fancy suggested or her heart inclined. She was introduced to Ramsay's friends, who, taking pity on her sorrows, spared no pains in assuaging them : sports were got up for her sake alone, and many honours and attentions paid her, which her rank, unaided by the peculiar circumstances of her fate, would not have commanded or procured ; communications were de- livered to her relations in England, and answers and gifts, received in return, carefully put into her possession; while the most unremitting solicitude was evinced by Ramsay, to make every amends, by personal attentions, for the sad change he had been the cause of bringing on the fortunes of her and her house.
But all these efforts on the part of the generous captor •were unable to eradicate from the mind of the lady the one engrossing implacable feeling with which it was occupied — that he had, by his own hand, taken from her the partner of her fortunes, her natural protector, and the object of her love. The slayer of her husband could, in her estimation, do nothing that was sufficient to wash from his hands that blood, each drop of which, she cherished more than streams of her own. The kindness with which she was treated by the generous warrior was construed, by the perverse work- ings of a judgment placed in subjection to morbid feelings, as an intended aggravation of the injury, and an amplifica- tion of the cause of her grief and insult. Her desire of self- preservation, and a natural cunning, induced her to conceal this state of her feelings ; and she received the genuine and heart-felt attentions of Ramsay with as much apparent gratitude as she could assume ; but this effort only tended to aggravate the anger and revenge with which she was actuated ; and she sighed for liberation more for the sake of getting them gratified, than of any personal advantages that might result from a return to her country, and the enjoyment of liberty.
The introduction of the Knight of Liddesdale to Lady Winton, took place at the residence of Ramsay, Dalhousie Castle. She received the illustrious guest with greater indications of respect than she had shewn to any others of the nobility who had been introduced to her ; arising as well from his fame and imposing appearance, as from a hint she had got in some quarter, that he was not the stead- fast and genuine friend of her captor he appeared to be. The sentiments of the three parties who thus met were of the most heterogeneous character. Ramsay thought of making his captive as happy as the circumstances of her situation would permit, occasionally relaxing his mind with the recol- lection of the playful conversation he had with his companion, of which the lady formed the subject ; she, on the other hand, saw in Douglas a person who might serve the purpose of her revenge against Ramsay ; while the knight was in deep contemplation of her beauty, and anxious to displace his friend from the office of her protector. A message from one of the governors, the Earl of Moray, having called Ramsay out, the knight and the lady had an opportunity of comparing their thoughts ; and, however delicate the subjects lying nearest to their hearts, the desire of revenge on the one side, and love'on the other, were 'oo strong to be overcome by ordinary scruples.
" The fortune of war, madam," said Uouglas, " hath wofully^ changed thy condition ; and we knights, whose occupation it is to protect the injured and comfort the
sorrowful of thy sex, may not deem it unbecoming or dero- gatory of our martial character, to offer a tear as a tribute to the pity which thy sorrows demand from every sympathis- ing heart ; but, when misfortune is in union with beauty, the feelings of the knight have arrived at their consummation, and I would wish thee, sweet lady, to believe that, while I am thy most abject slave, I am willing to be thy protector and comforter. What pity it was, that thy husband was de- prived of life by the hand of my friend !" — looking sorrowful.
" That, good Sir Knight," replied the lady, who saw the intention of the unnecessary and unfriendly allusion to Ramsay, " is, in my humble apprehension, no pity. If my husband was to fall, his fate came as well from the hands of Sir Alexander Ramsay, as from that of a meaner soldier i yet, if thou dost indicate that, if another hand had done the deed, I might have been saved the additional grief of having a fulsome and affected generosity and kindness applied, like a soft, poisonous, lying cataplasm, to my irremediable sores, thou sayest well ; I approve thy speech, and admire the delicacy of the allusion."
" Thou givest me more credit for a good intention than my words convey," replied Douglas, well pleased at the hint he had elicited unfavourable to Ramsay ; " but I am glad that chance hath, in one instance, acted the part of my better genius, in making me strike the spring which hath exhibited to me the sorrows of a fair dame, that I may bring her succour and relief, save her from the cruel dis- play of unreal feeling, and bind up her wounded spirit with genuine sympathy. By St Duthos, madam, thou hast done what in Scotland is deemed no trivial act — thou hast touched the heart of a Douglas, and enlisted his feelings of chivalry in the cause of injured virtue. I understand the nature of thy complaint ; for I, even I, have been forced to bear the display of an affected patronage — a conservative friendship — a bland, unctuous, healing care of my interests, on the part of thy generous keeper. If a lady cannot brook this, what is to be expected from the proudest of Scotland's knights — the flower of chivalry — the Knight of Liddesdale ?"
At this moment Ramsay entered with a benignant face, as if he had had some intelligence of a pleasing nature to communicate to Douglas.
" Good news is always welcome," he cried, with a joyful manner, " and I do not see why the presence of this fair lady — whose smiles, softened by tears, may gild the gift of the gods — should prevent me, as Douglas' friend, from at once informing him that the governor, the Earl of Moray, hath been pleased to award to thee the sheriffship of Teviot- dale, in consideration of thy services in expelling from that arena of contention our English foes."
" And why," interrupted the proud knight, whom the presence of the lady, as a witness of Ramsay's apparent patronage, inflamed beyond his usual manner — "why did not the Earl of Moray, who is in these parts, as doth appear from thy interview with him, communicate this intelligence to myself, in place of insulting me by this vicarious com- munication ?"
" This answer, my good Sir William, I did not expect," replied Ramsay, with benignity ; " but, since thou has allowed thyself to be carried so far by thy feelings as to impugn the conduct of thy benefactor the governor, as well as of me thy friend, I conceive myself called upon to state, what my delicacy had otherwise forced me to withhold, that this office, with its valuable emoluments, was offered to my- self, as a reward for my small services in that quarter in behalf of my country ; but, aware of thy superior claim to the honour, I waved my privilege of the governor's favours recommended thee, and my nomination received the neces- sary approbation. The Earl, being obliged to ride off for Perth on the instant, requested me to carry to thee the intelligence. I with the most sincere feelings wish thee joy of thy jurisdiction, with its concomitants — I mean tLft fee*
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and do hereby forestall the tenderest part of thy first seisin ox as my guerdon."
" The gift I receive/' said Douglas, doggedly ; " but I admire neither the mode in which it has been conferred, nor the manner in which it has been communicated. The sanction of thy repetition was not needed to what has been stated by every man and woman between Duunet Head and the Mull of Galloway — that I expelled the English from Teviotdale, and had the only right to the sheriffship of the county I had thus brought back to the kingdom."
" But art thou not bound in gratitude to thy benefactor," said Lady Winton, with a peculiar expression of face which Douglas at once understood, " who hath not only communi- cated this intelligence to thee, but added the gift itself, all of his own freewill ? Such disinterested friendship — such generosity — such' an unctuous healing care of thy fortunes' — thou wilt not find in broad Scotland, if thou shouldst wander from the point of Ardnamurchan to Buchanness, which, though an Englishwoman, I know to be the most eastern and western points of thy rich and beautiful country !"
'' Hold, good madam," said the unsuspicious Ramsay, who took her extravagant eulogium for a serious expression of her sentiments. " If my friend hath underrated my services, thou hast overshot them as much as does the rain- bow the apparent earthly extremities of its arch ; but I am bound to attribute thy goodwill to some overweening grati- tude for services which I was bound, by the laws of war and the precepts of humanity, to render to any one in thy situation. I hope we shall now have done with this matter, which thus forceth me to speak of myself — a subject cer- tainly not fitted either for the epopee or the apologue. We had better refer to Derby's tournay, which is fixed to take place on Wednesday at Berwick, where thou, Sir William, art expected to bring under thy corslet a forgiving heart, and under thy glaive a merciful hand, for both will be required."
" I shall grant Derby his three courses/' replied Douglas, with a sneer ; " but, if fortune shall place him under my spear, I shall make no parade of my generosity in giving him his legs and his life."
" By my crest, I believe thee !" replied Ramsay, unobserv- ant of the force of the satire, which was appreciated by the lady ; " and I hope Lady Winton shall be present to witness thy triumph. Thou must doff thy weeds, my fair prisoner, and array thyself in grogram and taffeta. A damsel in mourning never inspired the heart of a knight."
The tournay alluded to by Ramsay, was held at Berwick, and is reported by the historian Fordun. Henry de Lan- caster, Earl of Derby, who was considered, in England, to be one of the best knights in that kingdom, could not with patience listen to the praises which were daily rung in his ears, of the accomplishments and prowess of the Scottish warriors, Douglas and Ramsay; and, with a view to test his supposed superiority, invited these rivals to joust with him at Berwick. The invitation was specific, and contained the precise terms of the combat. Three courses were to be run between him and Douglas, in the first instance ; and then twenty English, with himat their head, were to compete with twenty Scottish knights, with Ramsay at their head. The circumstance of a trial of skill formally appointed, and which was to involve the character not only of the most famous individuals of the day, but also of two rival nations, pro- duced throughout Scotland a great sensation ; and people from all quarters flocked to witness the scene. Preparations on a great scale were made, and it was even expected that knights and spectators from the continent would grace with their presence so brilliant an exhibition.
The scene did not shame the anticipations of the people. It was on the grandest scale of these magnificent displays. An immense space of level ground was enclosed with pali- sades, and around the enclosure were placed, in the form of
an amphitheatre, the seats for the spectators, among whom the ladies formed the most important personages — their prerogatives being those of judges, juries, and spectators, aa well as possessing in their approbation the incitement to victory. One of these was Lady Winton, who, notwith- standing the request of Ramsay, had come arrayed in her weeds._ By these she was rendered remarkable ; and the attraction which her dress commanded, was riveted by the beauty she exhibited in her still pale face and dark eyes. The Knight of Liddesdale kept his eyes upon her, while she regarded him with a smile, and replied to the indications of respect of Ramsay with an involuntary shudder, as she saw displayed those ensigns of war which reminded her of the death of her husband, who had fallen by his hand. Possessed of powers of self-control and dissimulation, she succeeded in restraining further indications of her feelings ; while tho spectators, who knew the unhappy circumstances of her fate, awarded her a pity, in which the amiable Ramsay shared to an extent suitable to his merits, and the peculiar situation in which he was placed, as the irreproachable destroyer of her happiness, and her kind but ineffectual comforter.
The forms and ceremonies of the tournay were gone through with the most minute precision. Derby appeared first in the area, and his heralds set forth the peal of de- fiance, calling upon Sir William Douglas to appear and answer the challenge of Henry de Lancaster, upon the pain of losing his character and honour of a true knight. In an instant, the Knight of Liddesdale was at his post of honour, mounted on a white charger, and arrayed in a costly suit of plate-armour, a new species that had superseded the old mailed coat, and appeared to great advantage when exposed to the rays of the sun. Both knights were dressed in nearly the same style— the only difference of any moment con- sisting of the want of a chamfeynor iron frontlet for the black horse rode by the Earl. This supposed want was noticed by Douglas, who put Derby on his guard against exposing the head of his steed; but Derby, bowing gracefully, replied, that, while he was grateful for the intimation he had received, he would adhere to his custom of allowing his horse the pleasure of seeing the discomfiture of his enemy.
This sally roused the blood of Douglas ; losing temper and presence of mind, he rushed upon his antagonist, and in a few seconds was wounded severely by a splinter of his own lance, the pain of which adding to his fury, un- settled his steady powers of defence, and left him to the mercy of Derby, who unhorsed him at the first onset. At that critical moment, Ramsay ran forward, and assisting Douglas to rise, examined his wound, and declared to the umpires that it was of such a nature, being in the palm of the hand, that he could not hold the lance, and therefore must resign the fight. Douglas, struggling in pain and anger, opposed this friendly suggestion on the part of Ram- say ; but, in the meantime, his hand had swollen to such a size that it would not enter the glaive. On every effort he made to seize the lance, it fell from his feeble grasp, and the united testimony of the spectators declared that he could not continue the contest.
The discomfited knight, having got his hand rolled up in cloth and swung from his neck, took his seat beside Lady Winton, to witness the contest between Derby's knights and the party headed by Ramsay, who were making pre- parations for the rencounter. A
" Thou hast experienced again the tender mercies of thy friend," said Lady Winton. « His eye, quick to the dis- covery of thy misfortune, saw in thy wound what was not by thee felt. Thou wouldst have recovered thy power, but the pitchpipe of our good friend's sympathy had raised the feeling of the assembly to his required key, and thou hast been groaned and wept out of thy victory. If thy friend now conquers, he will have achieved the contrast he hath no doubt sighed for, from the last feast of St John, when
TALES OF THE BORDERS.
Derby's challenge reached Scotland, up to this moment of his expected triumph."
" That man is, indeed, my evil genius," groaned Douglas, still under the influence of his pain. " His forte is con- trast— he adroitly makes the evil or the misfortune of others the foil of his superiority in arms, or his benevolence of heart. By the heart of King Robert, I would rather bear the gibes and contumely of declared arrogance and bare-faced impudence, than this soft chrism of whining, affected sympathy — this egotistic benevolence and care — this insulting patronage. But my discomposure is his vic- tory ; and the peace I may acquire from the bland influence of thy soft smiles, shall shew that Douglas is above the power of Ramsay to put him out of humour."
The tournay proceeded amidst the deafening shouts of the spectators. The twenty knights met, and coursed against each other with dreadful violence. The conflict became a sanguinary pastime : two English knights fell dead on the first shock; and Sir William Ramsay, the kinsman of Sir Alexander, was struck, through the bars of his aventaile, by a spear, which penetrated so deep that no one could suppose that he would survive an instant after it was extracted. He was confessed immediately in his armour, with the spear still sticking in the wound, as if to keep his soul in the body until the unhappy man was shrieved.
" So help me, Heaven !" said Derby, '" I would desire to see no fairer sight than this brave man thus shrieved, with his helmet on his head, and a lance in his body. Happy man should I be could I ensure myself such an ending."
The moment the victim was confessed, Sir Alexander Ramsay placed his foot on his kinsman's helmet, and pulled out the broken lance ; the shrieved warrior started to his feet, and cried out that he " ailed nothing ;" and, in an instant, dropped on the ground, a corpse. His body was im- mediately removed, and the fight proceeded with greater fury. The English Earl, meeting Ramsay, adroitly fixed his spear between the clasps of his breastplate, with a view to throw him back and unhorse him ; but his effort recoiled on himself — the point of his spear slipped, and the forward impulse of the warrior, deprived of its resistance, threw him over the peak of his saddle, and exposed him to Ramsay's side blow, which was laid on with so much force, that the conqueror of Douglas fell senseless to the ground, amidst the shouts of thousands. The stated number of courses terminated with this triumphant advantage on the part of Ramsay ; and the umpires awarded the palm to the Scottish knights.
"Now," said Lady "Winton, "the contrast for which Ramsay sighed is complete, and he will be present with us instantly, to enjoy his triumph."
" He will not find his foil then, my good lady," said Douglas, hastily. " I am for the Castle of Hermitage, and if my suit hath been successful, as thy smiles have led me to think it hath, I adjure thee, by our common sentiments of the proud victor, who will presently be here to insult us, to trust thyself to my keeping, and journey with me to the old castle, which, in one of our interviews, he wished me to yield to him in exchange for thy fair person."
" Heavens !" cried the lady, " did the destroyer of my husband offer to sell me for an old house ?"
" He did, by the faith of a Douglas !" replied the knight.
" And, by the honour of England, the Scotsman cozens well," cried the lady. " His kindness was that of the horse-trader, who proportions his food to his expectations of price. I would have been well sold, and thou wouldst have been jockeyed."
When Ramsay came up to the place where his prisoner and Sir William had sat, he was surprised to find that they had disappeared ; and when he was told that they had rode off together for the Castle of Hermitage, his surprise
was increased ; the ingratitude of the lady, joined to the breach of faith and friendship on the part of his brother i» arms, stung him with an acutencss proportioned to his own sense and feeling of those virtues ; and, with his true nobility of nature, he resolved upon leaving them to the reaction of such thoughts as a returning consciousness of his justice and friendship, contrasted with their reprehensi- ble conduct, would ultimately suggest.
On arriving at the castle, Douglas set apart for the lady a splendid suite of apartments, giving her out, with some inconsistency, as his prisoner, whom he was bound to treat with respect and attention. He soon found that he had a very peculiar personage to deal with ; the high expectation he had, from her readiness to accompany him, cherished of getting the love he bore to her requited as became its strength, decreased on every effort he made to secure her affections ; and latterly he became satisfied that she had consented to accompany him to his residence, principally, if not solely, from a strong desire to get out of the hands of Ramsay. There was, however, a motive in the bosom of Lady Winton stronger than that suspected by Douglas, but which she had too much cunning to declare. She sighed secretly for revenge against Ramsay, and fixed upon the choleric and haughty Knight of Liddesdale to be the executor of her purpose. She had soon discovered that he entertained feelings towards his friend the very reverse of those which the latter entertained towards him ; and she had already taken care, as far as she could, to add an asperity to these by the arts already detailed. Her Avork was only yet begun ; but she augured favourably of the result from the moment she discovered that she had caught the affections of the amorous knight, and resolved to use the power she had thus acquired in furthering her wicked purpose. The affair of the sheriffship and the tournay formed a good foundation for her operations ; and she trusted to the wit of woman to supply the means of raising the super- structure and attaining her object.
Resistance to Sir William was the first and most effectual part of her scheme. His affection, true to the nature of love, burned with an ardour proportioned to the difficulty that was opposed to its gratification ; and the lady, while she pretended to be inclined to extinguish it, with the tact of her sex adroitly trimmed the lamp. Alternating her modes of action, she softened her manner into an apparent incipient affection, or preliminary melting and yielding to the influence of the tender passion ; and, when she had dis- covered the effect produced on her admirer, she confirmed and riveted it by a transition to the severity, hardness, and cruelty of the unwilling dame — thus performing the various arts of the coquette, and gently and slowly winding around her victim the chain by which she intended to lead him to ruin. She felt no affection, and wished to feel none for any Scotsman. If she intended ever to love again, her choice would be made in her own country ; but, an adept in the arts of her sex, she resolved on making them available for the purposes of her revenge. Douglas, blind to the practises thus resorted to by an accomplished dissembler, construed her conduct into natural modesty, sometimes tinged with a little asperity, produced by his importunate pressure of his suit; and thus became an easy victim in the meshes of female cunning. His love increased, and the lady's manners vacillated between the stern and the soft, until she thought she had got him safely beyond the chance of a retrogression.
Arrived at this stage, slie conceived she might safely begin to make stipulations for the purpose of carrying her object. Hitherto she had never lost an opportunity of keeping floating before the mind of her lover those mis- construed acts of the generous Ramsay which Douglas considered as insults ; and, in particular, she handled, with the most consummate skill, the affairs of the sheriffship and
TALES OF THE BORDERS.
15
that of the tournay, whenever she found she had a good opportunity. Unhappily, there existed in Douglas' mind a predisposition to inflammation, on the approach of the subject of Ramsay's well-earned fame for the possession of nohle qualities ; and a ready ear and a flashing eye were guarantees to the artful woman of the effect of her insinuations. He was satisfied, and had been so for a long time, that, although he excelled his rival in daring dashing enterprises of Border Avarfare, he was inferior to him in military art, in generosity, nobility of thought, conversation, beauty of sentiment; and in the general fame and estimation of the world for the possession of these. But what galled him most was, that Ramsay presented always the appear- ance of one stooping to notice him, or do him a good service ; the quick intelligence of the eye of one invidious of another's better parts had attributed to a supposed assumption of supe- riority what ought to have been imputed to the consciousness of inferiority, which produced the feeling — a circumstance soon seen by the actress, who adroitly elevated Ramsay, in proportion as she wished to make his eleemosynary insults fall heavier on the mind of Douglas. Carrying forward in this way her two grand objects — an increase of affection towards herself, and of hatred towards Ramsay — she looked forward to the perfection of her scheme, in seeing a junction of these guarantee a stipulation that she would give up her heart, (whether really or apparently, was a different thing,) on condition of her lover taking away the life of the man who had killed her husband and insulted her avenger.
The first approach to a stipulation of such a nature, quad- rating, though it did, with Douglas' strongest inclinations, was, as the lady knew, the most difficult and dangerous part of the progress. She relied on her knowledge of man- kind, crediting the apophthegm, that what the heart wisheth the judgment will not tarry to confirm, or the hand to execute ; and, deriving confidence from small indications, progressed with the noiseless and gradual, yet certain advancement of the serpent, which is formed to pass through the smallest apertures, and to cheat both the eye and the ear of animals of the quickest sensation. Unwilling to risk all on a last throw, which, contrary to her expectations, might turn out unsuccessful, she felt inclined to be con- tented at first with a lesser chance, and hugged with joy her achievement, when she heard Douglas say, as he hung round her neck, alternately burning with love and revenge, the results of her powers of excitement, that, on the next occasion of an insult on the part of Ramsay, he would punish him with death on the spot.
" When that shall happen," she exclaimed, with fervour, " the heart of Dame Winton is no longer her own."
" And with such a guerdon in view," exclaimed Douglas, clasping her eagerly to his bosom, " it would not be like a true lover to be dainty in his relish of the insult which is to produce so important an effect."
It now remained for this female schemer to bring about such a train of circumstances as would produce an occasion for Douglas redeeming the fatal pledge he had made in the conversation, now detailed — and this she felt the easiest part of her task. It happened at that time that an Eng- lish lady, occupying the high office of one of the maids of honour to the Scottish Queen, was at the Castle on her way to Scone. This lady's name was Clarissa Sofley ; and, being an old friend of Lady Winton's, she was entirely devoted to her service. Her power over the Eng- lish Joanna was known to be great, arising from a com- munity of English ideas and feelings, strengthened by long habits of intimacy and endless conversations about national objects of cherished attachment Many of the Queen's secrets were confided by the maid of honour to her English friend ; and, among the rest, it was communicated that, of all the knights and nobles of Scotland, Sir Alexander Ram-
say was the greatest favourite of the Queen. This fact was in a short time stated by Lady Winton to Douglas, with a view to keep alive the feeling which she was shortly to inflame to an extent suited to her purpose.
Douglas, attached to his new love, remained in a state of inactivity at the castle, while his rival, Ramsay, was " up and doing," with all the usual energy of his character, burning to free his country from the thraldom of the Eng- lish, and to procure for himself a high degree of favour in the estimation of King David, who, having arrived only shortly before from France, was in a manner new to his country and to its inhabitants. The daring exploits of Ramsay, which were attended with general success, filled the mouths of the people, and found their way, loaded with acclamations, to the throne ; but, above all, his triumph in reducing Roxburgh Castle, a fortress of great strength and importance, by a daring night escalade, was universally deemed the most illustrious achievement of those times, and formed the prevailing theme of conversation in Scotland for many a day. As soon as the intelligence reached the Her- mitage, it was communicated by Lady Winton to Douglas, with such circumstantial details as would add to the flame of envy it could not fail to produce in the mind of the knight. But Clarissa Sofley was the person whom she wished to interest, to the greatest degree, in this affair. She represented to her that Ramsay's conduct deserved not only praise but reward from his sovereign, and that} in consequence of the kindness he had shewn to her while she remained his prisoner, she herself felt so much interest in his advancement that she could not but press upon the maid of honour the justice and expediency of prevailing upon Queen Joanna, already his friend, to get the King to award to him some mark of favour more substantial than empty words of praise. Douglas, she continued, was sick of the details of the sheriffship of Teviotdale, and she knew for certain that Ramsay sighed for nothing more fervently than that jurisdiction. It seemed, therefore, a favourite op- portunity for pleasing all parties. The King would do an act of justice in awarding to so good a soldier this honour. Ramsay would be pleased and filled with gratitude, which would nerve his arm for greater enterprises ; and Douglas would be relieved from a duty the discharge of which was not suited to his habits of life. She concluded by extorting from the maid of honour a promise to use every energy in her power, when she arrived at Scone, to gratify her friend by getting this scheme of gratitude accomplished. Next day, Clarissa Sofley departed for the royal residence.
In a very short time afterwards, Lady Winton received a letter from her friend, informing her that David had, with the aid of very little solicitation, conferred on Sir Alexander Ramsay, for his conduct in reducing Roxburgh Castle, the sheriffship of Teviotdale. Repairing with alacrity to Dou- glas, she told him the extraordinary news, garnishing her communication with such commentaries as would bring out, in the strongest light, the injustice to Douglas of the grant, the dishonour and disgrace it entailed upon him, and the necessity of resorting to some mode of revenge. It was clear, she stated, that the King must have previously known that Ramsay wished for, if he did not solicit the honour, and been informed that Douglas wished to resign it ; for it was impossible otherwise to account for so extraordinary an act on the part of a monarch who could not afford to lose any of his knights by so gratuitous an inversion of the rules of justice. But all this was supererogation. The mind of Douglas was too fervent, and his sense of dishonour t< acute, to require anything more to inflame it to the highest degree than the simple announcement of this unexpec intelligence.
"Behold," cried he, "the last, the greatest of Ramsay s triumphs ! The boon I received kneeling from his gen
16
TALES OF THE BORDERS.
sity is snatched back by the lying devices of another hand. My sovereign hath been imposed upon ; his royal signet used for private purposes of aggrandisement ; and Douglas attempted to be tricked by the hiccius doccius who hath juggled him for years. "What more is required to rouse me to the vindication of my honour, the punishment of the criminal devices of low villany cloaked with generosity, the gratification of my revenge, and the consummation of my love ?"
" One other thing," answered Lady Winton — " and that, too, is forthcoming. That Eamsay shall wait on thee, and make offer generously to resign the royal grant into hands which he knoweth are convulsively clutching the dagger of revenge, and therefore must be rejected."
" Right, good lady," answered Douglas, energetically ; " that is awanting, and will be supplied. Thou knowest the murderer of thy husband better than I do the destroyer »f my honour, and the intruder upon my rights and pri- vileges. By the sword of the Good Sir James, he shall have his response — his reward ! Is there need of more words from a Douglas ?"
The remark of Lady Winton was verified sooner than could have been expected. Ramsay had himself been sur- prised at the gift of the King, and had resolved not to accept it unless he ascertained that Douglas truly wished to resign his office. His sense of honour was too fine to allow him to hesitate an instant on the step he should follow ; and, telling the King's messenger that he required time to delibe- rate about receiving the honour intended to be conferred on him, he threw himself upon a horse, and journeyed with all speed to the Castle of Hermitage.
" My King," he said, on meeting Douglas, " hath taken it into his royal head that I am possessed of an especial desire for thy office of sheriffship. God mend the times ! Why is it that my thoughts are thus travestied by royal ingenuity, and my honour and friendship put into jeopardy by officious favour ? I fear, also, that thy ideas have expe- rienced the menstruum of the royal will, and undergone some metamorphosis, for which thou art not answerable ; for it doth appear that it hath been represented that thou dost wish to resign thy post of honour and emolument, which, with thy good sword, thou didst fight for, when the sheriffdom over which thy jurisdiction extends was, by thy prowess, cleared of our national enemies. I judge of the truth of thy imputed sentiments by that of my own ; and I do, upon the honour of a Ramsay, declare that the authority of David Bruce shall not invest me with those honours which thy arm hath achieved."
'' By my faith, Ramsay," replied Douglas, " thou art a right generous knight; and do, moreover, possess a most potent, I should say a most miraculous power of producing opportunities of shewing forth thy noble sentiments; for thou dost not hesitate to imitate some of the old kings, who robbed their subjects, and then generously handed to them their own in the form of a royal donation. I received this sheriffship at thy hands before — God bless the bounty ! — and I cannot pre- vail upon myself to tax thy generosity with a repetition of the same gift. He who bore the heart of good King Robert, and who, as a penance for the sins of his master, resolved to fight and beg his way to the Holy Land, did not bequeath the badge of the ' blue-gown' or any other beggar to his son. I got only his sword, and, God pity me! I once was foolish enough to think I could fight my way, with that good Damascus, through the necessities of illegitimacy, without being obliged to have recourse to mendicancy. I cannot yet resign that thought; for my sword, believe me, is neither blunt nor rusty, though, peradventure, thou dost believe, if I may trust my sense of injury and insult, that it is both. Go, sir, and take possession of thy sheriffdom ; and may the prayer of a Douglas be answered, when it expresseth his desire that the first precept directed from
chancery may be to infeft thy son and heir in the land of thy family in Teviotdale."
" These taunts, Sir William," said Ramsay, " but ill become our friendship or my errand. I forgive thee, because"
"Dost thou, most generous youth?" interrupted Sir William. " How much do I owe thee for all the gratuitous awards of thy beneficence ? Honour demands an account, and I cannot stoop to acceptilation. I shall appear in thy court-room at Hawick, and pay thee over the bar of justice — though that may be the sacred desk of the prelate. The Church loves justice. No more."
As Douglas uttered these words, he rushed abruptly out of the room. Ramsay, unconscious of having done anything to produce anger, felt sorry for the effects of some mis- understanding, which he would have been glad to explain. There was, however, something due to his own dignity He returned to Dalhousie, fully resolved not to accept the sheriffship, and sent an intimation to that effect to Scone. After some time, he received intimation that Douglas had refused to officiate [as sheriff; and the King called upon him, as a faithful subject, to stand forth and prevent the impeding of the course of justice in one of the most troubled of his counties. This appeal it was impossible to resist ; and Ramsay allowed himself to be invested with his new honours.
The hints which Douglas had thrown out in his convers- ation with Ramsay, might have led the latter to suspect that the proud baron whom he had thus, against his own will, superseded in a high office, would resort to some mode of revenge ; and it is asserted by historians, that notice was absolutely given to the new sheriff that his enemy resolved to punish him in the very scene of his judicial labours. Ramsay, however, trusted to Douglas having, in a manner, resigned the office, by refusing to fulfil its duties; and it has been also asserted that Douglas subsequently pretended to be reconciled to him. It is certain, at all events, that Ramsay feared nothing, and made no prepar- ations, by having a guard about him, to resist any inter- ference with his person or judicial avocations — a fatal security, destined to be lamented by Scotland, so long as the fate of one of her best men and most accomplished warriors continued to be remembered. In the meantime, Douglas was deeply intent upon the execution of his pur- pose. He led a band of armed retainers to Hawick, where he knew that the new sheriff held his court in the open church. On entering, Ramsay invited him, with an easy and friendly manner, to take his seat alongside of him ; on which Douglas drew his sword, seized his victim, who was wounded in attempting a vain resistance, and, throwing him, while the blood flowed from his wounds, across a horse, hurried him off to the Castle of Hermitage,, where he thrust him into a dungeon. There he was left to die of hunger. No one was allowed, by the proud and implacable baron, to approach him ; and it is asserted that the dastardly executioner and Lady Winton sat at a low casement, in front of the castle, for the purpose of being regaled by the cries of the dying man. A circumstance occurred which contributed to the extension of his agonies, and the pleasure of his enemies. It happened that there was a granary above his prison, from which some particles of corn fell through the chinks and crevices of the floor. On these the miserable man protracted a wretched existence for the space of seventeen days. The cessation of his groans apprised his implacable foes that hunger had wrung from their victim the last spark of life.
WILSON'S
, anti
TALES OF THE BORDERS,
AND OF SCOTLAND.
CHATELARD.
SOME time after the unfortunate Queen Mary had esta- blished her court at Holyrood, on her return from France, to ascend the throne of her ancestors, a stranger arrived at a certain tavern or hostelry, kept by one Goodal, at the foot of the Canongate of Edinburgh. The former had /ast come from Leith, where he had been landed from a French vessel some two or three hours previously. He was a young man, probably about three or four and twenty, tall and handsome in person, of a singularly pleasing coun- tenance, and of mild and exceedingly gentleman-like demeanour. His lofty forehead and expressive eye bespoke the presence of genius, or, at least, of an intellect of a very high order ; while his general manners indicated a refined and cultivated mind. There was marked, however, on the brow of the interesting stranger, very palpable traces of saddening thoughts — his whole countenance, indeed, exhibit- ing the characteristics of a deep and rooted melancholy; but it was of a gentle kind, and bore no likeness to the stern gloominess of disappointed ambition. His sadness was evidently a sadness of the heart — the result of some grievous pressure on its best and tenderest feelings and affections.
After having partaken of some refreshment, the stranger desired a small measure of wine to be brought him. This order was executed by mine host in person ; and, indeed, from what afterwards followed, it seemed to have been given with an express view to that result ; for, on the land- lord's placing the wine before his guest, the latter re- quested him, with great politeness of manner, to sit down and share it with him ; saying, that he wanted a little information on two or three particular points. Mine host, seating himself as desired, expressed his readiness to afford him any information of which he himself was possessed. Having thanked the former for his civility, and pressed him, not in vain, to taste of his own wine, the stranger said— " Is the Queen, my friend, just now at Holyrood?" He was answered in the affirmative. The querist paused, sighed, and next inquired if she walked much abroad — what were the hours she devoted to that recrea- tion— whether she was accompanied by many attendants on these occasions — and whether her ordinary promenade was a place easy of access." Having been informed on all these points, he again relapsed into thought, and again sighed profoundly. After a short time, however, he once more recovered himself, and suddenly exclaimed, but more by way of soliloquy than inquiry —
" Is she not beautiful — transcendantly beautiful ?" Mine host, who was not a little surprised by the abrupt- ness of the question, and the enthusiasm of manner in which it was expressed, replied, that she surely was " Just as bonny a creature as he had ever clapt ee on — a plump, sonsy, nice-lookin lass."
A slight expression of disgust, or rather of horror, at the homely terms employed by mine host in speaking of the beauty of the Queen, passed over the countenance of his guest. It was, however, but momentary, and was not observed, or at any rate not understood, by him whose language had called it forth. 107. VOL. III.
" Ay, beautiful is she," went on the enthusiastic stranger, leaning back in his chair, and gazing on the roof, in a fit of ecstasy, and in seeming unconsciousness of the presence of a third party — " beautiful is she to look upon, as is the rising sun emerging from the purpled east ; beautiful as hi* setting amidst the burnished clouds of the west ; lovely as the full moon hanging midway in her field of azure • grateful to the sight as the green fields of spring, or the flowers of the garden ; and pleasant to the ear are the tones of her voice, as the song of the nightingale in the grove, or the sound of the distant waterfall."
Here the speaker paused in his rhapsody, continued silent for some moments, then suddenly returning, as it were, to a sense of the circumstances in which he was placed, he brought his hands over his forehead and eyes, as one recovering from an agony of painful and melancholy thoughts. Surprised by this extraordinary conduct of his guest, the landlord of the house began to conceive that he had got into the company of a madman ; yet he marvelled much what description of madness it could be, since it was made evident only when the Queen was spoken of — the stranger speaking on all other subjects rationally and com- posedly.
" She walks not much abroad, you say, my friend ?" said the latter, resuming the conversation which he had broken off to give utterance to the rhapsody which has just been quoted.
" Very seldom, sir," replied mine host ; " for, ye see, she doesna fin' hersel quite at hame yet amang us ; but she'll come to, by and by, I've nae doot."
" And she is not easy of access, you say : no chance of one being able to throw himself in her way ?"
" Unco little, I should think," replied mine host, " unless she could be fa'n in wi' gaun to the chapel to mass ; for she still abides by thae abominations, for a' John Knox can say till her." A flush of resentment and indignation crossed the pale countenance of the stranger, at the last expressions of the innkeeper, and he threw a glance at him, strongly expressive of these feelings, but suddenly checked himself, paused for a moment, and then resumed his queries in the calm and gentle tones which seemed natural to him —
" How likes she the country, know ye ?"
" Indeed, I canna weel say," replied mine host ; " but 1 rather doot, frae what I hear, she's no a'thegither reconciled till't yet. She thinks, I dare say, we're rather a rough-spun set o' folk — a wee thing coorse i' the grain or sae."
"Ay, that ye are, that ye are," said the stranger, with more candour than courtesy, again throwing himself back in his chair, and again beginning to rhapsodise as before. " She is among ye — the beautiful, the gentle, the accomplished, the refined — as a fawn amongst a herd of bears. She is in your wild and savage land, like a lovely and tender flower growing in the cleft of a rock — a sweet and gentle thing, blooming alone in the midst of rudeness and barrenness. O uncongenial soil! O discordant association! Dearest, crudest, loveliest of thy sex!"
If mine host was amazed at the first outpouring of Jus guest's excited mind, it will readily be believed that it was not lessened by this second ebullition of fervour and passion.
TALES OF THE BORDERS.
He, in truth, now became convinced that he was'distracted ; and, under this impression, felt a strong desire to he quit of him as soon as possible. With this view, he took an early opportunity of stealing unobserved out of the apartment — a feat which he found no difficulty in performing, as his guest seemed ultimately so wholly wrapt up in his own thoughts as to be quite unconscious of what was either said or done in his presence. Soon after mine host had retired, the stranger ordered paper, pen, and ink, to be brought him. They were placed upon his table, he himself the while •walking up and down the apartment with measured stride and downcast look, as if again lost in profound and per- plexing thought ; and, at intervals, the sound of his foot- steps, thus traversing his chamber, was heard throughout the whole of the night. The stranger had slept none ; he had not even retired to seek repose ; but those periods during the night — and they were of considerable length — in which all was silent in his apartment, were employed in writing ; and, when morning came, the result of his labours was exhibited in a letter, curiously or rather fancifully folded, tied with a green silk thread, and highly perfumed. This letter was addressed on the back — " To the Most Illustrious Princess, Mary, Queen of Scotland."
Having brought the proceedings of the stranger to this point, we will shift the scene to the sitting apartment^ of the Queen in Holyrood. Here, surrounded with her maids, the young and lovely Princess was, at the moment of which we speak, engaged in working embroidery, and laughing and chatting with her attendants, amongst whom were two or three young French ladies, who had accompanied her from France. The Queen and her maids were thus employed, then, when the gentleman usher, who stood at the door of the apartment, entered, and, with a low obeisance, presented a letter to the Queen. It was the same as that addressed to her by the stranger, and above referred to. The Queen took the letter, Avith a gracious smile, from the person presenting it, and, contemplating it for a moment, before she opened it, with a look of pleased surprise—
" This, sure," she said, " is from none of our Scottish subjects : the fold is French." And she sighed. " It has the cut and fashion of the billet doux of St Germains ; and," she added, laughing, " the precise flavour, too, I declare, But I should know this handwriting," she went on — •' I have seen it before. This, however, will solve the mystery." And she tore the letter open, and was instantly employed in reading it, blushing and smiling by turns, as she proceeded with the perusal. When she had done — " Maria," she said, raising her eyes from the paper, and addressing one of her French ladies, " who think you is this letter from ?"
" I cannot guess, madam," replied the young lady ap- pealed to.
" Do try," rejoined Mary.
" Nay, indeed, I cannot," said the former, now pausing in her work, and looking laughingly at her mistress. " Perhaps from the Count Desmartine, or from Dufour, or Dubois."
" No, no, no," replied the Queen, laughing — " neither of these, Maria; but I will have compassion on your curiosity and tell you. \\rould you believe it ? — it is from Chatelard, the poet."
" Chatelard !" repeated the maiden, in amazement. " What, in all the earth, can have brought him here ?"
' ' Nay, I know not," said the Queen, blushing ; for she guessed, or rather feared the cause. " But read and judge for yourself," she added, handing her attendant the letter, which contained a very beautiful laudatory poem, full of passion and feeling, addressed ;o herself, and which the writer concluded by requesting that he might be permitted to form part of her court ; declaring that it would be joy inexpressible to him to be near her person — he cared not in how mean a capacity. The having opportunities of seeing
and serving her, he said, would reconcile him to any degrad- ation of rank — to any loss, save that of honour.
" In truth, very pretty verses," said the waiting maid, returning the poem to the Queen ; " but, mcthinks, some what over-bold."
" Why, I do think so too, Maria," replied Mary. " Chate- lard rather forgets himself; but poets, you know, have a license, and I cannot be harsh to the poor young man. It would be cruel, ungenerous, and unworthy of me."
" But what say you, madam, to his request to be attached to your court?"
" Really, as to that, I know not well what to say, indeed," rejoined the Queen. " Chatelard, you know, Maria, is a gentleman, both by birth and education. He is accomplished in a very high degree, and of a graceful person and pleasing manners, and would thus do no discredit to our court ; but, I fear me, he might be guilty of some indiscretions — for he is a child of passion as well as song — that might lead him- self into danger, and bring some blame on me. Still, I can- not think of rejecting altogether his humble suit, so prettily preferred ; and, if he would promise to conduct himself with becoming gravity and reserve in all matters and at all times, I should have no objection that he was attached to our court. I will, at all events, make trial of him for a short space."
Having said this, the Queen, now addressing the ladies present, generally, went on—
"Ladies, I will shortly introduce to you a new gallant ; but I pray ye take care of your hearts ; for he is, I warrant ye, one especially given to purloining these little commodi- ties. He is handsome, accomplished, and a poet ; so mind ye ladies, I have warned you — be on your guard. Kerr"— she now called out to a page in waiting — " go to the hostelry, whence this letter came, and say to the gentleman by whom it has been sent, that we desire to see him forthwith. Let him accompany you, Kerr."
The page instantly departed ; and we will avail ourselves of his short absence on this mission, to say briefly who Chatelard was — what was his object in coming to the Scottish court — and of what nature were the fears which the Queen expressed regarding him.
Chatelard, then, was a young French gentleman of rank, of rare accomplishments, and a poet of very considerable excellence. His seeking to attach himself to Mary's court, was the result of a violent and unhappy attachment to her person; and her fears for him, proceeding from a suspicion of this attachment, were, that he would commit himself by some rash expression of his feelings. She was displeased with his presumptuous love, yet found she could not. as a woman, but look on it with pity and compassion ; and hence her disposition to treat with kindness and affability its un- happy victim. Prudence, indeed, would certainly have dictated another course than that Mary pursued with Chate- lard, in thus admitting him to her presence ; but Mary's error here was an error of the heart, and more to be regretted than blamed.
In a short while after the messenger had been dispatched with the invitation to Chatelard, the door of the Queen's apartment was thrown wide open, and that person entered. His bow to the Queen was exceedingly graceful ; and not less so, though measured with scrupulous exactness in their expression of deference, were those he directed to her ladies. Chatelard's countenance was at this instant suffused with a blush, and it was evident he was under the excite- ment of highly agitated feelings ; but he lost not, for a moment, nor in the slightest degree, his presence of mind ; neither did these feelings prevent him conducting himself at this interview with the most perfect propriety.
" Chatelard," said the Queen, after the ceremonies of a first salutation were over, " I perceive you have lost none of your cunning in the gentle craft. These were really
TALES OF THE BORDERS.
19
pretty lines you sent me — choice in expression, and melo diously arranged. I assure thee it is a very happy piece." " How could it he otherwise, madam/' replied Chatelard bowing low, "with such a subject?"
" Nay, nay," said Mary, laughing and blushing at thi same time — " I am no subject, Chatelard, but an anointec Queen. Thou canst not make a subject of me."
Chatelard now in turn blushed, and said, smiling, " You wit, madam, has thrown me out ; but, avoiding this pla^ on words, my position is good, undeniable. All men acknowledge it."
" Go to — go to, Chatelard — thou wert ever a flatterer But 'tis a poet's trade. Thou art a dangerous flatterer however ; for thou dost praise so prettily that one canno suspect thy sincerity, nor be angry with thee, even when thou deservest that they should. But enough of this in the meantime. Ye may now retire ; and I think the soonei the better, for the safety of these fair maidens' hearts, ane your own peace of mind, which a longer stay might endanger Our chamberlain will provide thee with suitable apartments and see to thy wants. Mark," she added, laughingly, " we retain thee in our service in the capacity of our poet — o court poet — a high and honourable appointment ; and thy reward shall be the smiles and approbation of these fair ladies — the beauty of all and each of whom I expect thou wilt forthwith embalm in immortal verse."
Chatelard, bowing, was now about to retire, when the Queen, again addressing him, said — " We will send for thee again in the afternoon, to bear us company for a while, when thou wilt please bring with thee some of thy newesl and choicest madrigals."
Expressing a deep sense of the honour proposed to be conferred on him, of the Queen's kind condescension, and avowing his devotedness to her service, Chatelard with- drew, and was provided with the promised apartments by the express orders of Mary herself. To these apartments xve shall follow the enthusiastic but audacious lover. On being left alone, Chatelard again fell into one of those reveries which we have already described, and again launched into that strain of extravagant adulation which, on another occasion, we represented him as indulging in. Again he compared Mary, in his incoherent ravings, to everything that is beautiful in earth, sea, and sky ; but comparing her to these only that he might assert how far she surpassed them. There were mingled, too, with his eulogiums, on this occasion, expressions of that imprudent passion which subsequently at once urged him to commit the most daring offences, and blinded him to their consequences. Poor Chatelard's ravings, in the instance of which we are just speaking, were unconsciously uttered ; but they were unfortunately loud enough to arrest the attention of the domestics, who were passing to and fro in the lobby into which the door of his apartment opened. These, attracted by his rapturous exclamations, listened, from time to time, at his door, and were highly amused with the rhapsodies of the imprudent poet. The latter, becoming more and more vehement, and, in proportion, more entertaining, the domestics finally gathered in a cluster around the door, to the number of six or eight, and, with suppressed laughter, overheard all that the excited and unguarded inmate chose to utter. That, however, was so incoherent, or at least of BO high-flown a character, that the listeners could make nothing of it ; and, as they could not, they immediately concluded it to be nonsense, and the speaker a madman. But there came one to the spot, at this unfortunate moment, who, with sharper intellect and more apt comprehension, at once discovered the meaning that lurked under the florid language of the poet's ill-timed soliloquies.
While the servants were crowded around the door of Chatelard's apartment, too intent on their amusement to notice the approach of any one, another party had advanced
unseen to within a few paces of where they stood. Here with his arms folded across his breast, he had remained unobserved for several seconds, gazing with a look of sur- prise and displeasure on the merry group assembled around the poet's door. He was, however, at length discovered, when the knot of listeners instantly broke up in the greatest hurry and alarm.
" How now," exclaimed the unexpected intruder — a person of about thirty years of age, of rather slender form, of cold and haughty demeanour, and austere countenance- How now ?" he exclaimed, in a voice whose tones were naturally severe— < what means this idling ?— what do ye all here, knaves, in place of attending to your duties?"
Instead of answering this question, the terrified domestics were now endeavouring to make off in all directions ; but the querist's curiosity, or, perhaps, suspicion, having been excited by what he had seen, he instantly arrested their progress, by calling on them, in a voice of increased severity and vehemence, to stop.
" Come^hither, Johnstone," he exclaimed, addressing one of the fugitives — " I must know what ye have been all about." And, without waiting for an answer, "Who occupies this apartment ?" he inquired, pointing to that in which was Chatelard.
"An' please ye, my Lord," replied Johnstone, bowing with the most profound respect — " ane that we tbink's no very wise. He's been bletherin aAva there to himsel, saving yer Honour's presence, like a bubbly-jock, for this half hour back, and we can neither mak tap tail, nor mane o' what he's sayin."
" What ! a madman, Johnstone ?" said the Earl of Murray, the Queen's half-brother, for it was no less a per- sonage; then hurriedly added — "Who is he ? — what is he — where is he from? — when came he hither?" The man answered categorically —
" I dinna ken, my Lord, wha he is ; but, frae the thinness o' his chafts, I tak him to be ane o' your French laun- loupers. He cam to the palace aboot twa hours syne."
The Earl's curiosity was now still further excited, and, without saying a word more, he drew near to the door of Chatelard's apartment, and became also an auditor of the poor poet's unguarded language ; but not such as it was in the case of the listeners who had preceded him ; to him that language was perfectly intelligible — at least, to the extent of informing him of Chatelard's ambitious love. To Murray this was a secret worth knowing ; and, in the hope that he might discover this attachment to be reciprocal, and thus acquire an additional influence over the Queen, his sister, at the expense of her reputation, he considered it a singularly fortunate incident. Perhaps he expected that it would do even more for him than this :. that it would eventually help him to the accomplishment of certain daring views towards the crown itself, of which he was not unsuspected. AVhether, however, he was able to trace, in distinct and definite lines, any consequences favourable to himself from the fact which had just come to his know- ledge, it is certain he was pleased with the discovery, and considered it as an important acquisition. That he viewed it in this light, indeed, was evident even by his countenance, cautiously guarded as its expressions ever
were.
On being satisfied of the fact of Chatelard's attachment to the Queen, he withdrew from the door with a look and brief expression of satisfaction, and went directly in quest of the chamberlain. On finding whom —
" So, Mr Chamberlain," he sakl, " we have got, I find, another animal added to our herd of fawning, drivelling courtiers. Pray, who or what is he, this person who has taken up his quarters in the northern gallery, and by whose authority has he been installed there?"
" Bv the Queen's, my Lord," replied the Chamberlain.
'20
TALES OF THE BORDERS.
" I have had express and direct orders from the Queen her- self, to provide the gentleman with apartments in the palace, and to see to his suitable entertainment."
" Ah, indeed," said the Earl, biting his lip, and musing for a moment. " By her own express orders !" he repeated. " It is very well." Then, after a pause — " Know ye this favoured person's name, Mr Chamberlain ?"
" Chatelard," replied the latter.
" Chatelard ! Chatelard !" repeated the Earl, mechani- cally, and again musing ; " why, I think I have heard of that gallant before. He is one of those triflers called poets, methinks — a versifier, a scribbler of jingling rhymes. Is it not so ?"
" I have heard the Queen say so, my Lord," replied the Chamberlain. " She has spoken of him in my hearing as a poet."
" Ah ! the same, the same," said the Earl ; " but how obtained he access to the Queen, know ye ?"
" Through his own direct application, my Lord. He addressed a poetical epistle to her Majesty, I understand, from Goodal's hostelry, where he had taken up his quarters in the first place, requesting permission to wait upon her."
" And it was granted ?" interrupted the Earl.
' ' It was, my Lord ; and he has already had an audience."
" Ah ! so !" said the Earl, without yet betraying or hav- ing, during any part of this conversation, betrayed the slightest emotion or symptom of the deep interest he took in the communications which were being made to him. " Know ye," he went on, '' if that favour is to be soon again conferred on him ? When will he again be admitted to the presence "
" That, my Lord, rests on the Queen's pleasure ; rt but I hear say that he is to attend her again this evening in her sitting apartment."
" So, so," said the Earl, nodding his head, as he uttered the words. And, turning on his heel, he walked away with- out further remark.
From the officer with whom he had just been speaking, the Earl of Murray carefully concealed the motives which had prompted his inquiries, but determined, henceforth, to watch with the utmost vigilance the proceedings of the Queen and Chatelard, until some circumstance should occur that might put them both fairly within his power. Unaware of the dangerous surveillance under which he was already placed, it was with a delight which only he him- self perhaps could feel, that Chatelard received, in the evening, the promised invitation from the Queen to attend her and her ladies in their sitting chamber. The invitation was conveyed in some playful verses — an art in which Mary excelled — written on embossed paper. The enthusiastic poet read the delightful lines a thousand times over, dwelt with rapture on each word and phrase, and finally kissed the precious document with all the eagerness and fervour of a highly excited and uncontrollable passion. Having indulged in these tender sensibilities for seme time, Chate- lard at length folded up the unconscious object of his adora- tion, thrust it into his bosom, took up a small porlfeuille, covered with red Morocco leather, gilt and embossed, the depository of his poetical effusions — and hurried to the apartment of the Queen, where he was speedily set to the task of reading his compositions, for the entertainment oi the assembled fair ones ; and it is certain that on more than one of them, the tender and impassioned manner of the bard, as he recited his really beautiful verses, added to his highly prepossessing appearance and graceful delivery, made an impression by no means favourable to their night's repose It would, however, perhaps, be more tedious than interest- ing to the reader, were we to detail all that passed on the night in question in the Queen's apartment ; to record al the witty and pleasant thiriStf that were said and done b
the Queen, her ladies, and her poet. Be it enough to say that the latter retired at a pretty late hour ; his imprudent passion, we cannot say increased — for of that it would not admit — but strengthened in its wild and ambitious hopes.
From that fatal night, poor Chatelard firmly believed that his love was returned — that he had inspired in the bosom of Mary a passion as ardent as his own. Into this unhappy error the poet's own heated and disturbed imagina- tion had betrayed him, by representing in the light of special marks of favour, occurrences that were merely the emanations of a kind and gentle nature — thus fatally misled by a passion which, if notorious for occasioning groundless fears, is no less so for inspiring unfounded hopes. Such, at any rate, was its effect in the case of Chatelard on the night in question. On gaining his own chamber, he flung himself into a chair, and spent nearly the whole of the remainder of the night in the indulgence of the wildest and most extravagant dreams of future bliss ; for, in the blindness of his passion and tumult of his hopes, he saw no dangers and feared no difficulties.
From this time forward, Chatelard's conduct to the Queen became so marked and unguarded in various particulars, as to excite her alarm, and even to draw down upon the offender some occasional rebukes, although these were at first sufficiently gentle and remote. Nor did the impru- dencies of the infatuated poet escape the cold, keen eye of Murray. He saw them, and noted them ; but took care to wear the semblance of unconsciousness. It was not his business to interupt, by hinting suspicions, the progress of an affair which he hoped would, on some occasion or other, lead to consequences that he might turn to account. Feel- ing this, it was not for him to help Chatelard and the Queen to elude his vigilance and defeat his views, by discovering what he observed, and thus putting them on their guard. This was not his business ; but it was his business to lie concealed, and to spring out on his quarry the instant that its position invited to the effort. Coldly and sternly, there- fore, he watched the motions of Chatelard and his sister ; but was little satisfied to perceive nothing in the conduct of the latter regarding the former which at all spoke of the feelings he secretly desired to find. As it was impossible, however, for the Earl personally to watch all the movements of Chatelard, he looked around him for some individual of the Queen's household whom he might bribe to perform the duties of a spy ; and such a one he found amongst the attendants whom Mary had brought with her from France, of which country he was also a native. The name of this ungrateful and despicable wretch, who undertook to betray a kind and generous mistress, whenever he should discover anything in her conduct to betray, was Choisseul — a man of pleasing manners and address, but of low and vicious habits. Without any certain knowledge of his character, or any previous information regarding him, the Earl of Murray's singular tact and penetration at once singled him out as a likely person for his purposes. On this presumption, he sent for him, and cautiously and gradually opening him up, found that he had judged correctly of his man.
" Choisseul," he said, on that person's being ushered into his presence, " I have good reason to think that you are one in whom I may put trust ; and, in this assurance, I have selected you for an especial mark of my confidence. Do you knoAv anything of this Chatelard who has lately come to court ?"
" I do, my Lor*, tie is countryman of my own." ' So I understand. Well, then, I'll tell you what it is, Choisseul : — I believe the fellow has come here for no good ; I believe, in short, that he has designs upon the Queen. Now, my good fellow, will you undertake to ascertain this for me. Will you watch their proceedings, watch them narrowly, and give me instant information of anything sus
TALES OF THE BORDERS.
21
picious that may come to your knowledge — and ye shall not miss of your reward ?" added the Ear], now opening a little desk which stood before him, and taking from it a well- filled purse.
Choisseul, with many bows and grimaces, readily under- took to play the knave, and, with still more, took the price of his knavery, the purse already alluded to, which the Earl now handed him.
" Now, Choisseul," said Murray, just before dismissing the miscreant, " I may depend on you ?"
" Mine honneur," replied the Frenchman, placing his hand on his breast, with a theatrical air, and bowing to the ground as he pronounced the words — " Je suis votre serviteur till die."
" Enough," said the Earl, waving his hand as a signal to him to retire ; <f be vigilant and prompt in communicating with me when you have anything of consequence to say."
Choisseul again bowed low, and left the apartment. In the meantime, the gallant, accomplished, but imprudent Chatelard, hurried blindly along by the impetuosity of his passion, and altogether unsettled by the intoxicating belief that his love was returned — a belief which had now taken so fast a hold of his understanding that nothing could loosen it — proceeded from one impropriety to another, till he at length committed one which all but brought matters to a crisis ; and this was avoided only by its having escaped the vigilance of Choisseul, and having been compassionately concealed by the Queen herself.
On retiring one night, early in February 1563, to her sleeping apartment, Mary and her attendants were suddenly alarmed by an extraordinary movement in a small closet or wardrobe, in which was kept the clothes the Queen was in the habit of daily using. The maids would have screamed out and fled from the apartment, but were checked in both of these feminine resorts by observing the calm and collected manner of their mistress, in which there was not the slightest appearance of perturbation.
" Ladies, ladies," she exclaimed, laughingly, as her attendants were about to rush out of the room, " what a pretty pair of heroines ye are ! Shame, shame ! — ye surely would not leave your mistress alone, in the midst of such a perilous adventure as this. Come hither," she added, at the same time stepping towards her toilet, and taking up a small silver lamp that burned on it, " and let us see who this intruder is — whether ghost or gallant."
Saying this — her maids having returned, reassured by her intrepidity — she proceeded, with steady step, towards the suspected closet, seized the door by the handle, flung it boldly open, and discovered, to the astonished eyes of her attendants and to her own inexpressible amazement, the poet, Chatelard, armed with sword and dagger. For some seconds, the Queen uttered not a syllable ; but a flush of indignation and of insulted pride suffused her exquisitely lovely countenance.
" Chatelard," she at length said, in a tone of calm severity, and with a dignity of manner becoming her high state and lineage, " come forth and answer for this daring and atrocious conduct, this unheard of insolence and presump- tion." Chatelard obeyed, and was about to throw himself at her feet, when she sternly forbade him.
" I want no apologies, presumptuous man," she said — " no craving of forgiveness. I want explanation of this infamous proceeding, and that I demand of you in the presence of my attendants here. Know ye not, sir," she went on, " that your head is forfeited by this offence, and that I have but to give the word and the forfeit will be exacted ?"
" I know it, I know it," exclaimed Chatelard, persisting in throwing himself on his knees ; "but the threat has no terrors for me. It is your displeasure alone — fairest, brightest of God's creatures — that I fear. It is"'
" Peace, Chatelard/' interrupted Mary, peremptorily.
" What mean ye by this language, sir ? Would ye cut your- self off from all hope of pardon, by adding offence upon offence ? Rise, sir, and leave this apartment instantly, I command you ; I will now hear neither explanation noi apology."
« Then, will you forgive me ?" said Chatelard ; " will you
forgive a presumption of which"
f " I will hear no more, sir," again interrupted the Queen, indignantly. " Begone, sir ! Remain another instant, and I give the alarm. Your life depends on your obedience." And Mary placed her hand on a small silver bell, from which, had she drawn the slightest sound, the poet's doom was sealed, and she would have rung his funeral knell.
Chatelard _now slowly rose from his knees, folded his arms across his breast, and, with downcast look, but without uttering another word, strode out of the apartment. Wheu he had gone, the Queen, no longer supported by the excite- ment occasioned by the presence of the intruder, flung herself into a chair, greatly agitated and deadly pale, Here she sat in silence for several minutes, evidently employed in endeavouring to obtain a view of the late sin- gular occurrence in all its bearings, and in determining on the course which she herself ought to pursue regarding it.
Having seemingly satisfied herself on these points — " Ladies," she, at length, said — these ladies were two of her Maries, Mary Livingstone, and Mary Fleeming — " this is a most extraordinary circumstance. Rash, thoughtless, pre- sumptuous man, how could he have been so utterly lost to every sense of propriety and of his own peril, as to think of an act of such daring insolence ?"
" Poor man, I pity him," here simply, but naturally enough, perhaps, interrupted Mary Fleeming. " Doubtless, madam, you will report the matter instantly to the Earl."
" Nay, Mary, I know not if I will, after all," replied the Queen. " I, perhaps, ought to do so; but methinks it would be hardly creditable to me, as a woman, to bring this poor thoughtless young man to the scaffold, whither, you know, my stern brother would have him instantly dragged, if he knew of his offence; and besides, ladies," went on the Queen, in whose gentle bosom the kindly feelings of her nature had now completely triumphed over those of insulted dignity and pride, " I know not how far I am myself to blame in this matter. I fear me, I ought to have been more guarded in my conduct towards this infatuated young man. I should have kept him at a greater distance, and been more cautious of admitting him to familiar converse, since he has evidently misconstrued our affability and condescension. There may have been error there, you see, ladies."
" Yet," said Mary Livingstone, " methinks the daring insolence of the man ought not to go altogether unpunished, madam. If he has cho°en to misconstrue, it can be no fault of.yours."
" Perhaps not," replied Mary. 'As a Queen, I certainly ought to give him up to the laws ; but, as a woman, I cannot. Yet shall he not go unpunished. He shall be forthwith banished from our court and kingdom. To-morrow I shall cause it to be intimated to him, that he leave our court instantly, and Scotland within four-and-twenty hours there- after, on pain of our highest displeasure, and peril of dis- closure of his crime."
Having thus spoken, and having obtained a promise of secrecy regarding Chatelard's offence, from her two attend- ants, Mary retired for the night, not, however, quite assured that she was pursuing the right course for her own repu- tation, in thus screening the guilt of the poet ; but, never- theless, determined, at all risks, to save him, in this instance at least, from the consequences of his indiscretion. On the following morning, the Queen dispatched a note to Chate- lard, to the purpose which we have represented her as ex- pressing on the preceding night ; and, in obedience to the command it contained, he instantly left the palace, but m
22
TALES OF THE BORDERS.
a state of indescribable mental agitation and distraction ; for, in the determination expressed by the Queen, he saw at once an end to all his wild hopes, and, more unendurable still, an assurance that he had wholly mistaken the feelings with which Mary regarded him. We have said that Chatelard obeyed one of the injunctions of the Queen — that was, to leave the palace instantly. He did so ; but whether he conformed to the other, the sequel will shew.
Two days after the occurrences just related, Mary set out for St Andrew's ; taking the route of the Queensferry, and sleeping the first night at Dunfermline, and the second at Bunitisland. On the evening of her arrival at the latter place, the Queen, fatigued by her journey, which had been prolonged by hunting and hawking, retired early to her apartment. Here she had not been many minutes, when the door was suddenly thrown open, and Chatelard entered.
" What ! again, Chatelard !" exclaimed Mary, with the utmost indignation and astonishment. " What means this, sir ? How have you dared to intrude yourself again into my apartment ?"
Without making any reply to this salutation, Chatelard threw himself on his knees before the Queen, and, seizing the skirt of her robe, implored her pardon for his presump- tion; adding, that he had been impelled to this second intrusion solely by a desire to explain to her the motives of his former conduct, which, he said, had been wrongly interpreted, and to bid her farewell, before he went into the banishment to which she had doomed him.
" Rise, sir, rise," said Mary : " I will listen to no explan- at ons forced on me in this extraordinary manner. I desire that you instantly quit this apartment. This repetition of your offence, sir, I will neither bear with nor overlook. Rise, I command you, and begone."
Instead of obeying, the infatuated poet iiot only persisted in remaining in the position he was in, but, still keeping hold of the Queen's robe, began to speak the language of passion and love. The Queen endeavoured to release her- self from his hold, and Avas in the act of attempting to do so, when the door of the apartment, which Chatelard had closed behind him, was violently thrown open, and the Earl of Murray entered. Having advanced two or three steps, he stood still, and, folding his arms across his breast, looked sternly, but in silence, first at the Queen, and then at Chate- lard ; keeping, at the same time, sufficiently near the door to prevent the escape of the latter, in case he should make such an attempt. Having gazed on them for some time without opening his lips, but with an ominous expression of countenance —
'• Well, Sir Poet," he, at length, said, addressing Chate- lard, with cold deliberation, " pray do me the favour to enlighten me as to the meaning of your having thus intruded yourself into the Queen's apartment. Why do I find you here, sir, and wherefore have I found you in the position from which you have just 30V risen. Pray, sir, explain."
" I came here, my Lord," replied Chatelard, with firmness and dignity, " to take leave of her Majesty before returning to France, for which I set out to-morrow."
An ironical and incredulous smile played on the stern countenance of Murray. " A strange place this, methinks, lind a strange season for leave-taking; and yet stranger than all, the language in which I just now heard you speak. You are aware, I presume, sir," he added, " that you are just now in the Queen's sleeping apartment, where none dare intrude but on peril of their lives. But pro- bably, madam," he said, now turning to the Queen, with- out waiting any reply to his last remark, " you can explain the meaning of this extraordinary scene."
" You had better, my Lord/' replied Maiy, evasively — for
she was still reluctant to commit the unfortunate poet — " obtain what explanations you desire from Chatelard him- self. He, surely, is the fittest person to explain his own conduct."
" True, madam," said Murray, sneeringly, " but I thought it not by any means improbable that you might be as well informed on the point in question as the gentleman him- self."
" Your insinuation is rude, my Lord," replied the Queen, haughtily ; and, without vouchsafing any other remark, walked away to the further end of the apartment, leaving the Earl and Chatelard together.
Murray now saw, from the perfectly composed and inde- pendent manner of the Queen, that he could make out nothing to her prejudice from the case before him, nor elicit the slightest evidence of anything like connivance, on the part of Mary, at Chatelard's intrusion. Seeing this, he determined on proceeding against the unfortunate poet with the utmost rigour to which his imprudence had exposed him, in the hope that severity might wring from him such confessions as would implicate the Queen.
Having come to this resolution — " Sir," he said, address- ing Chatelard, "prepare to abide the consequences of your presumption." And he proceeded to the door, called an attendant, and desired him to send the captain of the guard and a party to him instantly.
In a few minutes, they appeared, when the Earl, address- ing the officer just named, and pointing to Chatelard, desired him to put that gentleman in ward ; and the latter was immediately hurried out of the apartment. When, the guard, with their prisoner, had left the Queen's chamber, the Earl walked up to Mary, who, with her head lean- ing pensively on her hand, had been silently contem- plating the proceedings that were going forward in hei apartment.
" Madam," said Murray, on approaching her, " I think you may consider yourself in safety for this night, at any rate, from any further intrusion from this itinerant versifier; and it shall be my fault if he ever again annoys you or any one else."
" What, brother !" exclaimed Mary, in evident alarm at this ambiguous, but ominous hint — " you will not surely proceed to extremities against the unfortunate young man ?'
"By St Bride, but I will though," replied Murray, angrily. "Why, madam, has not your reputation as a woman, and your dignity as a Queen, both been assailed by this inso- lent foreigner, in the daring act he has done ?"
"Nay, my Lord," replied the Queen, haughtily, "mcthinks it will take much more than this to affect my reputation. I, indeed, marvel much to hear you speak thus, my Lord. My dignity, again, can be debased only by mine own acts, and cannot be affected by the act of another."
" Nevertheless, madam," rejoined her brother, " ye cannot stop slanderous tongues ; and I know not how the world may construe this circumstance. Both your honour and station require that this presumptuous knave suffer the penalty of his crime in its utmost rigour. What would the world say else ? Why, it would have suspicions that ought not for an instant to be associated with the name of Mary Stuart."
" But you will not have his life taken, brother ?" said Mary, in a gentle tone — subdued by the thoughts of the severe doom that threatened the unfortunate gentleman, and placing her hand affectionately on the Earl's arm as she spoke. "• Can ye not banish him forth of the realm, or imprison him ? — anything short of death, which, methinks, would be, after all, hard measure for the ofience." -
" You have reasons, doubtless, madam," said the Earl, coldly and bluntly, " for this tenderness."
" I have," said Mary, indignantly ; " but riot, my Lord, such as you would seem to insinuate. My reasons are
TALKS OF THE BORDERS.
23
humanity, and a feeling of compassion for the misguided >nd unhappy youth."
"Chatelard shall have such mercy, madam, as your Majesty's privy council may deem him deserving of," replied the Earl, turning round on his heel, and quitting the apart- ment.
On leaving the presence of the Queen, the Earl of Murray retired to his own chamber, where he was, shortly after, waited upon by Choisseul, who had been for some time watching his return.
" Ha, Choisseul ! art there ?" said the Earl, with an unusual expression of satisfaction on his countenance, on the former's entrance. " Thou hast done well, friend ; I found matters exactly as you stated, and am obliged by the promptness and accuracy of your information."
" Vere happy, my Lor', I am serve to your satisfaction," replied Choisseul, bowing low. " I vas vatch Monsieur Chatelard as vone cat shall vatch vone leetle mice, and did caught him at las."
" You did well, Choisseul, and shall be suitably recom- pensed. Dost know how the fellow came here and when ?"
" He did come in vone leetle barque, my Lor', from over de riviere, on de todder side opposite."
" Ah, so !" said the Earl. " Well, you may now retire, Choisseul. To-morrow I shall see to your reward."
Choisseul bowed and withdrew.
When he had retired, the Earl sat down to a small writing table, and, late as the hour was, began writing with great assiduity — an employment at which he continued until he had written eight or ten different letters, each of con- siderable length. These were addressed to various members of the Queen's Privy Council in Edinburgh, and to some of the law officers of the crown. They were all nearly copies of each other, and contained an account of Chate- lard's conduct, with a charge to the several parties ad- dressed to repair to St Andrew's on the second day following, for the purpose of holding a court on the offender, and awarding him such punishment as the case might seem to demand.
On the day succeeding that on which the occurrence just related took place, the Queen and her retinue pro- ceeded to St Andrew's, whither the prisoner, Chatelard, was also earned ; and, on the next again, the unfortunate gentleman was brought to trial, the scene of which was an apartment in the Castle of St Andrew's, which had been hastily prepared for the occasion. In tlie centre of this apartment was placed a large oblong oaken table, covered with crimson velvet, and surrounded by a circle of high- backed chairs, with cushions covered by the same material. These were subsequently occupied by eight or ten persons of the Privy Council ; including Mary's Secretary of State, Maitland of Lethington, who sat at one end of the table. At the opposite end, sat the Earl of Murray ; the prisoner occupying a place in the centre at one of the sides. During the investigation which followed into the offence of Chate- lard, the Earl of Murray made repeated indirect attempts to lead him to make statements prejudicial to the Queen ; urging him, with a show of candour and pretended regard for justice, to inform the court of anything and everything which he thought might be available in his defence, without regard to the rank or condition of those whom such statements might implicate. This language was too plain to be misunderstood. Every one present perceived that it conveyed a pointed allusion to the Queen. Chatelard, amongst the rest, felt that it did so, and indig- nantly repelled the insinuation,
" I have none," he said, "to accuSD but myself; nothing to blame but my own folly. Folly, did I say !" went on the fearless enthusiast ; " it was no folly — it was love, love, love — all-powerful love — love for her, the noblest, the loveliest of created beings, for whom I could die ten
thousand deaths. It was love for her who has been to me the breath of life, the light of mine eyes, the idol of my heart ; around which were entwined all the feelings and susceptibilities of my nature, even as the ivy entwines the tree. The constant theme of my dreams by night ; the sole subject of my thoughts by day. It has been hinted to me that I may blame freely where to blame may serve me. But Avhom shall I blame ? Not her, surely, who is the object of my idolatry — my sun, moon, and stars — my heaven, my soul, my existence. Not her, surely ; for she is fault- less as the unborn babe, pure and spotless as the snow wreath in the hollow of the mountain. Who shall main- tain the contrary lies in his throat, and is a foul-mouthed villanous slanderer."
Here the enthusiastic and somewhat incoherent speaker, was abruptly interrupted by Maitland of Lethington, who, rising to his feet, and resting his hands on the low table around which Chatelard's judges were seated, said, looking at the prisoner —
"Friend, ye must speak to your defence, if ye would speak at all. This that ye have said is nothing to the purpose, and ye cannot be permitted to take up the time of this court with such rhapsodies as these, that make not for any point of your accusation. — Think ye not so, my Lords ?" he added, glancing around the table. Several nods of assent spoke acquiescence. When Maitland had concluded —
" I have done, then, my Lords," said Chatelard, bowing and seating himself. " I have no more to say."
A short conversation now took place amongst the prisoner's judges, when sentence of death was unanimously agreed to, and he was ordered to be beheaded on the follow- ing day, the 22d of February 1503.
On the rising of the court, the Earl of Murray repaired to the Queen, and informed her of the doom awarded against Chatelard. Mary was greatly affected by the in- telligence. She burst into tears, exclaiming —
" 0 unhappy, thrice unhappy countenance ! — thou hast been given me for a curse instead of a blessing — the ruin of those who love me best — that, by inspiring a silly passion, at once dangerous and worthless, will not permit one to remain near me in the character of friend ! My Lord, my Lord," she continued, in great agitation ; " can you not, will you not save the unhappy young man ? I beseech thee, I implore thee, by the ties of consanguinity that con- nect us, by the duty ye owe to me as thy sovereign, to spare his life."
" Ye know not what ye ask, madam," replied Murray, stalking up and down the apartment. " How can his life be spared consistently with your honour ? Save him and you will set a thousand slanderous tongues a-wagging. It may not — must not be."
Mary herself could not deny the force of this remark, and, finding she had nothing to oppose to it, she flung her- self into a chair and again burst into tears. In this con- dition the Earl left her to give orders respecting the exe- cution of Chatelard on the following day, and to put another proceeding in train for obtaining that result which he had aimed at on the trial of the unfortunate young man. Sending again for Choisseul —
" Friend," he said, on that person's entering the apart- ment, " I wish another small piece of service at your hands."
Choisseul bowed, and expressed his readiness to do any- thing he might be required to do.
" I vas proud to discharge all de drops of my blood in your service, my Lor'," said the knave, with a profound obeisance.
The Earl carelessly nodded approbation.
To-night, then, Choisseul," he went on, " you will repair to the dungeon in which Chatelard is confined. You will see him as a friend. You understand me ?"
el Ah ! well, my Lor' — vere well."
TALES OF THE BORDERS.
" Just so ; \vell, then, you will hint to him that you have reason to believe he might yet save his life by confessing a participation in his guilt on the part of the Queen. You may add, though not as from me, of course, that I have no doubt of his having been encouraged to those liberties for •which bis life is forfeited; and you may say that you know I feel for him, and would readily procure his pardon if he would only give me a reasonable ground or pretext for doing so, by shewing that there were others equally in fault with him. Do you entirely understand me, Choisseul ?"
" Entirely, my Lor'," replied the latter ; " bright, clear, as noonday at the sun."
" So, then, return to mo when you have seen Chatelard, and let me know the result," said the Earl.
Choisseul once more withdrew, to perform the treacherous and knavish part assigned him. About midnight he sought the dungeon of the unhappy gentleman, and, having been admitted by the guards, found him busily employed in writing; the indulgence of a lamp, with pen, ink, and paper, having, at his most earnest request, been afforded him. Indeed, these were more readily and willingly given than he was aware of. They were given in the hope that he would commit something to writing which, without his intending it, might compromise the character of the Queen. But in this her enemies were disappointed.
On Choisseul's entering Chatelard's dungeon, the latter, as we have already said, was busily engaged in writing. He was inditing a last farewell to the Queen in verse. On this employment he was so intent that he did not ob- serve, or, at least, pay any attention to the entrance of Choisseul, but continued writing on till he had completed his task, which now, however, occupied only a very few minutes. On finishing —
"Tis done," he said, and threw down his pen with violence on the table. "These are the last notes of the harp of Chate- lard. Ha! Choisseul !" he immediately added, and only now for the first time seeming conscious of that person's presence. " I am glad to see you, my countryman. This is kind. I thought there were none in this strange land to care for me. But they shall see, Choisseul," he added, proudly, " how a Frenchman and a poet can die. That is boldly and bravely. He were no true poet whose soul was not elevated above the fear of death. I said, my friend," he went on, after a momentary pause, and sighing deeply as he spoke, " that I thought there were none in this land to care for me, or to sorrow for me — and perhaps it is so ; but there is one, Choisseul, whom I would not willingly believe indiffer- ent to my fate. She, surely, much as I have offended her, will say ' Poor Chatelard !' Nay, methinks I see a tear standing in that peerless eye, when she recalls the memory of her departed poet. That, that, Choisseul," said the unhappy captive, with an enthusiasm which even the near approach of death had not been able to abate — " that would be something worth dying for !"
Choisseul smiled. " You hold your life lightly, indeed, Chatelard," he said, speaking in his native language, " if you think its loss compensated by a woman's tear."
" Ah, Choisseul, but such a woman !" exclaimed Chate- lard.
" Well, well," replied the former, again smiling; f(but you can have no doubt that she, at least, will regret your death. She loved you too well not to deplore your fate."
" Did she ?" exclaimed Chatelard, eagerly, and with such a look of inquiry and doubt as greatly disappointed the assertor. " You know who I mean, then ; but how know ye that which you have just row said ? Assure me that ye speak true, Choisseul, and I shall die happy."
" Ah ! bah ! you know it yourself, my friend, better than I," replied the latter. " No use in concealing it now," he added, with arx intelligent look.
" Concealing what, sir ?" said Chatelard, in a tone of mingled surprise and displeasure.
" Why, the affection the Queen entertained for you," replied Choisseul. " We all know, my friend, you would not have done what you did, had she not encouraged your addresses. And I'll tell you what, Chatelard," he went on — " I have reason to believe that your life would be yet spared, if you would only shew that this was so."
" Ah, I understand you/' said Chatelard, with suppressed passion. " If I will accuse the Queen — if I will put her in the power of her enemies — her enemies will be obliged to me. In other words, I may save my life by sacrificing her reputation ; and it would be little matter whether what I said should be true or not. Is it not so, Choisseul ?" Then, without waiting for an answer — " Villain, devil that thou art," he exclaimed, now suddenly giving full swing to the passion that had been raised within him, " how hast thou dared to come to me with such an infamous proposal as this ? Didst think, most dastardly knave, that my soul was as mean as thine own ? Begone, begone, ruffian ! Thy presence, thy breath, pollutes my dungeon more than the fetid damps that exhale from its walls — more than the noxious reptiles that crawl on its floor. Begone ! begone, I say !" And he seized the now trembling caitiff by the throat, and dashed him against the door of the cell, with a violence that instantly brought in the guards who were staioned on the outside. These, seeing how matters stood, hurried Choisseul out of the dungeon, and again secured the door on its unfortunate inmate.
On leaving Chatelard, Choisseul repaired to the Earl of Murray, but with infinitely less confidence in his looks and manner than on the former occasion when his villany had been successful. To the Earl he detailed the particulars of his interview with Chatelard ; not forgetting to mention the rough treatment he had received from the infuriated poet.
"Then he'll confess nothing, Choisseul?" said Murray, when the former had done speaking.
" Not anyting at all, my Lor'. Dere is no hope ; for he make no more of dying than I do of taking vone leetle pinch of snuff."
"Obstinate fool!" exclaimed the Earl, evidently chagrined and disappointed. " Let him die, then ! You may retire, Choisseul," he abruptly added.
Choisseul obeyed.
" His execution, at any rate, shall be public," said the Earl to himself, when the latter had left him. " Perhaps he may make some confession on the scaffold, and it will be well to have it amply testified."
On the following day, Chatelard was led out to exe- cution, when his gentlemanlike appearance and noble bearing excited the utmost sympathy of the crowd. On ascending the scaffold, he pulled a small volume from his pocket, opened it, and read aloud, with great dignity. and composure, Ronsard's Hymn on Death. When he had done, he turned towards that part of the Castle of St Andrew's where he supposed the Queen to be, and, kissing his hand, waved a graceful adieu, exclaiming — " Farewell, loveliest and most cruel Princess whom the world con- tains !"
Having uttered these words, he laid his head, with the utmost composure, on the block. The axe of the exe- cutioner fell, and the high-souled, accomplished, but en- thusiastic Chatelard was no more.
WILSON'S
'cal, arram'ttonavg, anH
TALES OF THE BORDERS
AND OF SCOTLAND.
MAY DARLING, THE VILLAGE PRIDE.
" Lay her i' the earth ; And, from her pure and unpolluted flesh, May violets spring !"
Hamlet.
IT is a lovely spot, Grassyvale — " beautiful exceedingly." But its beauty is of a quiet, unimposing description ; the characteristic feature of the landscape which would strike the eye of a spectator who surveyed it from the highest neighbouring eminence, is simply — repose. There are no mountains, properly so called, within a circuit of many miles — none of those natural pyramids which, in various parts of our beloved land of mountain and of flood, of battle and of song, rise in majestic grandeur, like columns of ada- mant to support the vault of heaven. The nearest are situ- ated at such a distance that they appear like clouds, and might readily be mistaken for such, but for their death-like stillness, and the everlasting monotony of their outline. No waterfalls hurl their bolts of liquid crystal into dark, frown- ing, wave-worn chasms, which had echoed to the thunder of iheir fall since the birth of time. There is no far-spreading rorest — no yawning ravine, with " ebon shades and low- browed rocks" — no beetling cliff or precipice, " shagged" with brushwood, as Milton hath it. There is nothing of the grand, the sublime, the terrible, or the magnificent — there is only quiet; or, if the terms do not sound dissonant to "ears polite," modest, unassuming beauty, such as a rainbow, were it per- petually present in the zenith, might form a characteristic and appropriate symbol of. Nature has not here wrought her miracles of beauty on a Titanic scale. What, then, is so 'attractive about Grassyvale? it will be asked. We are not sure but we may be as much stultified with this ques- tion, as was the child in Wordsworth's sweet little poem, " We are seven," (which the reader may turn up at leisure, when the propriety of the comparison will be seen,) and may be forced, after an unsuccessful attempt to justify ourselves for holding such an opinion, to maintain, with the same dogmatic obstinacy — it is beautiful. But the length of our story compels us to exclude a description of the landscape, we had prepared.
The village of Grassyvale, which is situated on the mar- gin of a small stream, consists of about one hundred scattered cottages, all neatly whitewashed, and most of them adorned in front with some flowering shrub — wild brier, honeysuckle, or the like — whilst a " kail-yard" in the rear constitutes no inappropriate appendage. There is one of those dwellings conspicuous from the rest by its standing apart from them, and by an additional air of comfort and neatness which it wears, and which seems to hallow it like a radiant atmo- sphere. It is literally covered with a net-work of ivy, honey- suckle, and jasmine, the deep green of whose unvarnished leaf renders more conspicuous " the bright profusion of its scattered stars." The windows are literally darkened by a multitude of roses, which seem clustering and crowding together to gain an entrance, and scatter their " perfumed sweets" around the apartment. Near the cottage, there is also a holly planted — that evergreen tree which seems pro- Tidentially designed by nature to cheer the dreariness of 108. VOL. III.
winter, and, when all is withered and desolate around, to remain a perpetual promise of spring. But we have more to do with this beautiful little dwelling than merely to describe its exterior.
Behind Grassyvale, the ground begins to swell, undulat- ing into elevations of mild acclivity, on the highest of which stands the parish church, like the ark resting on Ararat — faith's triumph, and mercy's symbol. Numerous grassy hillocks scattered around indicate the cemetery where " the rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep." Amongst those memorials which are designed to perpetuate the recollection of virtue for a few generations — and which, with their appropriate emblems and inscriptions, preach so eloquently to the heart, and realize to the letter Shakspeare's memorable words, " sermons in stones" — there is one which always attracts attention. It is not a " storied urn, an animated bust" — one of those profusely decorated marble hatchments with which worldly grandeur mourns, in pompous but vain magnifi- cence, over departed pride. No ; it is only a small, un- adorned slab, of rather dingy-coloured freestone ; and the inscription is simply — " To the memory of May Darling, who was removed from this world to a better, at the early age of nineteen. She was an affectionate daughter, a loving sister, and a sincere Christian.
" Weep not for her whose mortal race is o'er ;
She is not lost, but only gone before."
Ah! there are few, few indeed, for many miles round, who would pass that humble grave without heaving a sigh or shedding a tear for her who sleeps beneath — her who was so beloved, so admired by every one, as well as being the idol and pride of her own family, and whose romantic and untimely fate (cut off " i' the morn and liquid dew of youth") was the village talk for many a day.
John Darling, the father of our heroine, was, what is no great phenomenon amongst the peasantry of Scotland, a sober, industrious, honest man. In early life, he espoused the daughter of an opulent farmer, whose marriage portion enabled him to commence life under very favourable aus pices. But, in spite of obedience to the natural laws, the mildew of misfortune will blight our dearest hopes, how- ever wisely our plans for the future may be laid, and how- ever assiduously and judiciously they may be pursued. Untoward circumstances, which it would unnecessarily protract our narrative to relate, had reduced him, at the period to which our tale refers, to the condition of a field labourer. Death had, likewise, been busy singling out vic- tims from amongst those who surrounded his humble, but cheerful fireside; and, of a large family, there only remained three, and he was a widower besides. May was the oldest and, accordingly, the superintendence of the household devolved upon her. The deceased parent was of a some- what haughty and reserved turn of mind, for the recollection of former affluence never forsook her ; and this circumstance kept her much aloof from the less polished and sophisticated matrons of the village, and also rendered her a strict family disciplinarian. She concentrated her mind almost entirely upon the affairs of her own household ; and her childre were accordingly watched with a more vigilant eye, and brought up with more scrupulous care than was usual wit those around her. It was her pride, and « let it be her
26
TALES OF THE BORDERS.
praise," to see them arrayed in more showy habiliments than those worn by their associates ; and, to accomplish this dar- ling object, what serious transmutation did her finery of former days undergo, as the mutilated robes descended from child to child, turned upside down, inside out, and otherwise suffering a metamorphosis at every remove ! The dress of May, in particular — her first-born bud of bliss, the doted on of her bosom — was always attended to with spe- cial care ; nor was the cultivation of her mind in any way overlooked. She very early inspired her with a love of reading, which increased with the developement of her facul- ties, and many a day survived her by whom the passion had been awakened.
In person, May was slender ; but her light, airy, sylph- like form, was eminently handsome. Hair and eyes of intense depth of black contrasted admirably witk a counte- nance which may be designated as transparent — it was nearly colourless ; and only on occasions of unusual bodily exertion, or when some mental emotion suffused the cheek with a damask blush, would a tint of rosy red fluctuate oyer her pure skin. It can scarcely be called pale, how- ever— it had nothing about it of that death-in-life hue which indicates the presence of disease.
« Oh, call it fair, not pale I"
The expression was at once amiable and intellectual — mellowed or blended, however, with a pensiveness which is usually, but most erroneously called melancholy. Melancholy had nothing to do with a " mind at peace with all below — a heart, whose love was innocent." The countenance, in general, affords an index of the mental character — it takes its " form and pressure," as it were, from the predominant workings of that inward principle which is the source of thought and feeling. It is there that thought and feeling, those subtle essences, are made visible to the eye — it is there that mind may be seen. The most casual observer could not fail to perceive that the soul which spoke elo- quently in the eye, " and sweetly lightened o'er the face" of May Darling, was a worshipper of nature, of poetry, and of virtue ; for they are often combined — they have a natural relation to one another; and, when they exist simultaneously in one individual, a mind so constituted has a capacity for enjoying the most exalted pleasure of which humanity is susceptible. May Darling was indeed imaginative and san- guine in a very high degree ; and books of a romantic or dramatic character were mines of " untold wealth" to her. " Many are poets who have never penned Their inspirations."
And, although the name of this rural beauty, this humble village-maiden, will be looked for in vain in the rolls of fame, she enjoyed hours of intense poetical inspiration. In short, both in her mental character, and in the style of her personal attractions, she rose far above her companions of the village. Need it be told that often, of a fine evening, she would steal away from her gay, romping, laughing associates, and, with a favourite author in her hand, and wrapt in a vision of " tn-eet coming fancies," follow the course of the stream which intersected her native vale, flow- ing along, pure and noiseless, like the current of her own existence ?
The favourite haunt in which she loved to spend her leisure hours, was a beautiful dell, distant about half a mile from the village. It was a place so lonely, so lovely, so undisturbed, that there— (but then all these fine old rural deities, those idols shrinedfor ages in Nature's own hallowed pantheon, have been expelled their temples, or broken by science — why should this be?) — there, if anywhere, the genius of solitude might be supposed to have fixed his abode. It was a broken piece of ground, intersected by several irregular banks, here projecting in hoar and sterile grandeur, (not on an Alpine scale, however,) and there, clothed with tufts of the feathery willow or old gnarled thorn. The
earth was carpeted with its usual covering of emerald turf; and interwoven with it, in beautiful irregularity, were numerous wild flowers — the arum, Avith its speckled leaves and lilac blossoms; the hyacinth, whose enameled blue looks so charmingly in the light of the setting sun ; and oxlips, cowslips, and the like — throwing up their variegated tufts, like nosegays presented by nature for some gentle creature, like May Darling, to gather up and lay upon her bosom. The air, of course, was permanently impregnated with the perfume which they breathed out — the everlasting incense of the flowers rising from the altars of Nature to her God. Such was the sanctuary in which May gleaned from books the golden thoughts of others, or held communion with her own ; and well was it adapted for nursing a romantic taste, and giving a tenderer tone to every tender feeling.
The personal attractions of this sweet and lovely creature increased with her years, and she became the reigning belle of Grassyvale and all the country round. It followed, as a matter of course, that her admirers outnumbered her years ; and that the possession of her affections was, with many a rustic Adonis, a subject which troubled the little kingdom of the soul, like the Babylonish garment. At every village fete — a wedding, a harvest home, or other rural festival — hers was the step most buoyant in the dance, hers the hand most frequently solicited, hers the form and face that riveted all eyes, and thrilled the heart of the ardent admirer " too much adoring." Amongst the other accomplishments of our heroine, skill in music was not the least prominent. Not that she excelled in those intricate graces which are often had recourse to by vocalists to con- ceal a bad voice, and atone for want of feeling and expres- sion ; but her " wood-note wild" was eminently character- ised by the latter qualities of singing ; and the effect which she produced, was, accordingly, calculated to be lasting.
It must not be supposed, however, that the flattering unction of adulation, at best like the love of Kaled to Lara, "but half-concealed/' had any pernicious influence over her mind. She was neither puffed up with vain conceit, nor display of haughty reserve and distance towards those who numbered fewer worshippers than herself; still humi- lity of heart, which was " native there and to the manner born," characterised her deportment — nor was there any relaxation in the discharge of the household duties which devolved upon her ; and the comfort of her father, and the proper care and culture of the younger branches of the family, were as faithfully attended to as if her deformity, instead of her beauty, had been proverbial. She folded the little flutterers under her wing, like a mother bird ; and, if there was one thing more than another that she took delight in, it was the training of their young minds to the love and practice of virtue and religion, the only fountains whence happiness, pure and uncomtaminated, can be drawn in this life.
" So passed their life — a clear united stream,
By care unruflled ; till, in evil hour"——
But we anticipate.
It was on a fine summer morning that May, with one of her little sisters, set out to visit the annual fair of the county town. Such an event naturally excites considerable interest over all the country round ; and old and young, blind and cripple, male and female, pour along the public ways — not in " weary," but in light-hearted " droves" — full of eagerness and expectation, like the Jews to the pool of Bethesda, when the angel was expected to make his annual descent, and impart a healing virtue to its waters ; for there there is to be found variety of amusement for every mind — from the Katerfelto wonderer, " wondering for his bread," down to the more humble establishment of the half- penny showman, with his " glorious victory of Waterloo," his "golden beetle," or "ashes from the burning moun-
TALES OF THE BORDERS.
tains." But, on the occasion to which we refer, there was an exhibition in the shape of a theatrical booth, which presented extraordinary attractions for May Darling ; and, accordingly, after deliberately balancing the gratification which she anticipated, with the expense which it would cost, (her exchequer was, of course, not very rich,) she at length found herself comfortably seated near the front of the stage. The tragedy of " George Barnwell" was going off with prodigious eclat ; and the performers had arrived at that scene where the hero is about to assassinate his uncle, when the insecure props that supported the gallery began to indicate a disposition to disencumber themselves of their burden, and, at last, finally gave way. The confusion which now ensued, not to mention the shrieks and other vocal notes of terror and dismay, it is needless to describe — these have nothing to do with our tale. Barnwell, instead of imbruing his hands in innocent blood, even " in jest," became the most active agent in rescuing his