"Here, my good old tosspot, Will Pearson!" said he, as he handed to him one of the flasks. "I love thee, man, and have called on thee the first of all the inhabitants of Christ's Kirk. Ha! by the holy rude, what a jolly cruise I shall have!—I have looked forward for it since the last time thou and I reduced the consistency of our corporations to the texture of souls, through which the moon might have shone, by the power of this inimitable liquor. Ho, man, had not we a jolly time of it last time we met? Drink, man!"

And he emptied his flask, and flung it down upon the table, with a bold and reckless air, as if he did not care whether its continuity might be maintained against the force of the bang with which he disposed of it.

Will Pearson was unable to speak a single syllable; and the flask that had been filled for him stood upon the table untouched. He sat with his eyes fixed upon the stranger, and his skin as pale as a corpse. Betty was in the same state of immovable terror. Every word that fell from his lips was a death-knell—every drop of his red drink was as much liquid fire—and every look was a flame.

"Why won't drink, Will Pearson, mine good old crony?" said he again, with the same boisterous manner. "What grieves thee, man? and Betty too?—what loss hast thou sustained? Cuffed by fortune? Broken on her wheel? Ha! ha! I despise the old gammer, and will laugh out my furlough, though my lungs should crack in throwing off the burden.

"'This warld does ever flight and wary, Fortune sae fast her wheel does cary, Na time but turn can ever rest; For nae false charge suld ane be sary, And to be merry, I think it best.'

Pull up thy jaws, Will Pearson, and pull into them this flask, and thou shalt be again my merry tosspot."

Will and his wife were still under the influence of their fear, and stared at him in amazement.

"Well, and thou wilt not," he cried, rising hastily, "may the Devil take on for't! My time is counted, and I must stuff as much fun into the compass of an hour as may serve me for the coming year. Will Pearson, thou and I might have had a right jolly time of it. I warrant the gallant Rob Paterson will welcome me in a different manner. The sight of this is enough for Rob," (taking up the bottle;) "and as for this—ha! ha! what goodness getteth not the fire claims."

And throwing the liquor into the ingle, which blazed up a large and fearful flame by the strength of the spirit, he sallied out, and at the same moment a loud scream—coming from some bolder investigators, who had ventured near the house, and seen the sudden conflagration, followed by the exit of the stranger—rung in echoes all around. But the stranger heeded not these trifling indications of the effect of his visit. Resuming his long strides and pushing-on activity of manner, he soon arrived at the house of Rob Paterson, who was at the very moment addressing a figure of the Virgin.

"A good new year to thee, Rob Paterson!" cried the stranger, as he sat down upon a kind of chair by the side of the table, and, taking out his strange-fashioned bottle of red spirits, banged it down with a noise that made Rob start and shake all over.

"Here again, thou seest, Rob Paterson," continued he. "We must have another jolly bout. Thou knowest my time is short. Let us begin, for my body feels the weight of its own clay. Before the Virgin, Rob? Ha! ha! man, art going to die? Come, man—

"When grim Death is looking for us, We are toping at our bowls; Bacchus joins us in the chorus— Death, begone!—here's none but souls."

Drink, Rob Paterson, and thou'lt pray the better to the Virgin."

And he held out the bottle to Rob, after having put it bodily to his mouth, and taking a long draught as an example to the latter, who was known to despise flasks. Rob turned up his eyes to the Virgin, and got from her some confidence, if not courage. He looked at the tempting bottle, beautiful in its fulness and total freedom from the contaminating society of flasks or tankards; then he turned a fearful eye on its laughing, rioting possessor, and anon sought again the face of the saint.

"Hast lost thine ancient spirit, Rob Paterson?" said the stranger. What hath that spare figure, made of dry wood, to do with the mellow fuddling of our noses? Come, man—Time flies; let us wet his wings, and keep him fluttering a while over our heads.

"'With an O and an I, Now are we furder found, Drink thou to me, and I to thee, And let the cup go round.'"

"But wha, in the Devil's name, are ye?" now said Rob Paterson, after many an ineffectual effort to put the question.

"Ha! ha!" answered the stranger, "does Rob Paterson ask a man who is introduced by this friend of noble red-blood, who he is? Why, man, I am Rob Paterson's tosspot. Isn't that enough?"

"No quite," answered Rob, drawing nearer the Virgin. "Satan himself might use the same words; and I crave the liberty to say in your presence, that I hae nae wish to be on drinking terms wi' his Majesty."

And Rob eyed him fearfully as he thus alluded to the subject of the town's fears, and again sought the face of the saint.

"Ah, Rob Paterson, my once cherished toper," replied the stranger, "I sorrow for thy change. Thine ancient spirit has left thee, and thou hast taken up with wooden idols, in place of the well-filled jolly bottle of thy and my former love. Well, may the Devil take on for't!—I care not. Thou mayst repent of thy folly when I am gone.

"'Robene thou has hard soung and say, In gesties and stories auld— The man that will not quhen he may, Sall haif nocht quhen he wald.'"

Never mair, Rob Paterson, shalt thou have offer of spirit of wine. It shall go there first!"

And, taking a mouthful of the red liquor, the stranger squirted it in the fire, and raised a mighty flame that flared out into the very middle of the street, and produced another echoing cry or scream from the terrified inhabitants. He departed in an instant, and left Rob in a state of agitation he had never felt before at the departure of a guest with a well-filled bottle of good liquor.

The stranger passed out at the door with his usual bold precipitude, and again plied his long limbs in making huge strides along the street, for the house of another crony. He took no notice of the extraordinary demeanour of the inhabitants, who were seen flying away from corners and angles where they had nestled, for the purpose of seeing him come out in a flame of fire from Rob Paterson's, as he had done from Will Pearson's. He strode on, neither looking to the right nor to the left, till he came to Widow Lindsay's.

"A good new year to thee, Dame Lindsay!" said he, as he entered the house by opening the door, which the widow thought she had barred when she shoved the bolt beyond the staple, and found her sitting by the fire counting her rosary, and muttering prayers, with eyes upturned to heaven.

"Holy Mary, save me!" she muttered, as she heard him enter by the supposed locked door. "He's come at last." And she retreated to a corner of the room, and prayed fervently for deliverance.

"Thy throat has doubtless good memory of me and mine," continued the stranger, as he placed on the table the same extraordinary bottle, the shape and dimensions of which were as vivid in the mind of Dame Lindsay as was the colour of the red cravat. "My male tosspots have forgot the taste of my red liquor," he continued; "but what wet gossip's throat ever forgot what nipped it. Come, dame, and let us have a right hearty jorum of this inimitable drink." And, for want of better measure, he seized lustily a bicker that lay near him, and dashed a quantity of the liquor into it. "Ha! I forgot. Get thee for Meg Johnston thy gossip, dame, and let us be merry together. Meg is a woman of a thousand. What a lusty hold she takes of a brimming bicker, and how her eye lightens and brightens as she surveys the swimming heaven under her nose! Come, dame—what ails?"

The only reply he got was a groan, and the rustle of Dame Lindsay's quivering habiliments.

"By my own saint, this town of Christ's Kirk has a change upon it!" he continued. "Last time I was here, it was as merry as King James when he sang of it. The young and the old hailed me as the prince of good fellows, and the wenches and wives—ha! ha!

"'To dans thir damysells them dight, Thir lasses light of laits; They were sae skych when I them nicht, They squeild like ony gaits.'"

Dame Lindsay, I perceive what thou wantest, to melt thee into thy former jollity. Thou'rt coquetting in the corner there for a kiss; and, by the holy rude, thou shalt not want it for the space of the twinkling of thine eye."

He rose for the purpose of applying the emollient he had threatened; but a loud scream evinced that a woman, however much she may worship his Satanic Majesty, cares not for his familiarities. The widow fainted; and what may be supposed her feelings, when she found, on coming to herself, that that identical and terrific red liquor had had a share in her recovery! Again she screamed; but no kindly neighbour came to rescue her from her perilous situation. Those who heard her cries, had many strange thoughts as to what species of punishment she was undergoing, for her sins. The conjectures were endless. "What could he be doing to Widow Lindsay?" was the universal question. Some supposed that she was in the act of being carried off, and was struggling to get out of his talons; some looked for the passing flame, in the midst of which, the poor widow, clasped in his arms, would be seen on her luminous journey to the lower world; and there were not few who pretended to find, in the past life of the wretched victim, a very good legitimate cause for the visit of the stranger, and the severity he was clearly exercising towards her.

"Thou'lt be the better for thy faint, Widow Lindsay," said the stranger, as she recovered, "seeing that what blood it has sent from thy heart, will be returned with the addition of that liquor which is truly the water of life. Dost forget, good widow, that, when I was last here, thou and Meg Johnston would have fought for a can of it, if I had not made the can two? Come now, and let us fuddle our noses till they be as red as the liquor itself, and thy spectacles shew thee two noses, before they melt with the heat of their ruby supporter.

"'However this world do change and vary, Oh, let us in heart never more be sary.'"

"Avaunt ye! in the name o' the five holy wounds!" muttered the widow, as she held up the Sathanifuge crow in his face.

"Well, and if thou wilt not, here goes!" replied he, as he threw the contents of the bicker in the fire, which blazed up till the house seemed, to those waiting fearfully in the distance, to be in flames.

Many an eye was now directed to the door and windows, to see Widow Lindsay take her pyromantic flight through the flaming fields of ether; and they continued their gaze till they saw him of the red cravat sally forth, when fear closed up the vision, and they saw no more. Meanwhile he strode on, singing all the way—

"Full oft I muse, and be's in thocht; How this false world is aye on flocht,"

till he came to the door of Meg Johnston's cottage. He found it deserted; and then stalked on to honest John Simson's, which was in like manner empty.

"What can this mean?" he said to himself, as he bent his long steps to Wat Webster's, where fearful messengers, as we have seen, had already preceded him. "My person has lost its charm, my converse its interest, and my drink its spirit-stirring power. But we shall see what Wat Webster and his Dame Kitty, and the fair Marion, say to the residue of my authority. Ah, Marion, as I think of thee—

"'How heises and bleizes My heart wi' sic a fyre, As raises these praises That do to heaven aspire.'"

"Ha! ha! I will there outdevil all my devilries. My fire-chariots have as yet flown off without a passenger; but this night I shall not go home alone."

And he continued striding onwards in the deserted and silent passage, till he came to Wat Webster's, where the collected inmates were all huddled together round the fire, in that state of alarm produced by the intelligence of Christy Lowry and Widow Lindsay, and already partly set forth by us heretofore. Bang up went the door.

"A good new year to ye all!" said he, as he stalked into the middle of the apartment.

There was a dead silence throughout the company. Marion was the only individual that dared to look him in the face; and there was an expression in her eye that seemed to have the effect of increasing the boisterous glee of his mysterious manner.

"Here we are once more, again," he continued, as he took out the eternal imp-shaped bottle, and clanged it on the table.

Every eye was fixed upon him as if watching his motions and evolutions. Meg Johnston was busy in a corner, defending herself, by drawing a circle round her; Widow Lindsay was clinging close to the figure of the Virgin that was placed against the wall by her side; Jenny Wilson sought refuge in the arms of honest John; Wat Webster himself got his hand placed upon an old Latin Bible, not one word of which he could read; and some followed one mode of self-defence, and some another, against the expected efforts of the stranger, whose proceedings at his other places of call had been all related at Wat Webster's, with an exaggeration they perhaps stood little in need of. The stranger cared nothing for these indications, not a cinder; and took no notice of them.

"I'll e'en begin our potations myself," said he, filling out a flaskful of his liquor, and drinking it off. "By him that brewed it, it tastes well after my long walk! Wat Webster, wilt thou pledge me, man—

"'And let us all, my friends, be merry, And set nocht by this world a cherry; Now while there is good wyne to sell, He that does on dry bread worry, I gif him to the devil of hell.'"

And he trowled the flask upon the table while he sung, as a kind of bass chorus to his song.

"There's for thee, Wat!" continued he, filling out a flask.

Wat kept his hand upon the holy book.

"Wilt thou, honest John Wilson, pledge thy old friend in this red liquor, which formerly claimed so strong an acquaintanceship with the secret power of the topers' hearts of merry Christ's Kirk?"

"For the luve o' heaven," whispered Jenny, as she clung closer to him, "touch it not!—it will scald yer liver like brimstone, and may, besides, be the price o' yer soul's purchase."

John looked at the liquor, and would have spoken; but his heart failed him.

"Wilt thou, Meg Johnston, empty this flask to the health of thy old friend?"

"Guid faith, I, lad," muttered Meg, safe as she thought within the walls of her necromantic circumvallation—"I ken ye owre weel. Ye needna think to cheat me. I'm no a spunk to be dipped in brimstone, and then set lowe to. But [aside] how can he stand the look o' the haly rude! and the haly book? The deevil o' sic a deevil I ever heard, saw, or read o'. Avaunt ye, avaunt ye, in the name o the seven churches! The deil a bane ye'll get here—yere owre weel kenned. Set aff in a flash o' yer ain fire to Falkland."

"Wilt thou, Christy Lowry, pledge thine old friend?" continued the stranger, without noticing Meg's recommendation.

"In guid troth na," replied Christy, to whom the cross afforded some confidence. "It's a' out, man—it's owre the hail town. There's nae use in concealin't langer. Just put a spunk to the neck o't and set aff. Wae! wae! [aside] but it's an awfu thing to look the enemy i' the very face, and hauld converse wi' lips that mak nae gobs at cinders! Ave Maria! help Christy Lowry in this her trial and temptation?"

"Come from thy langsettle, jolly Kate Webster," continued he of the red cravat, "and let us, as thou wert wont to say, have a little laughing and drinking deray in this last night of the old year. I see, by the very mouths thou makest, thy throat is as dry as a dander, and, by and by, may set fire to my red liquor. Ha! I love a jolly gossip for a tosspot; for she gives more speech, and takes more liquor, than your 'breeked' steers that drink down the words, and drown them in the throat. Nothing drowns a woman's speech. It strengthens and improves in ale or whisky as if it were its natural element. Come open thy word-mill, Kate, and pour in the red grist, lass."

"The soopleness o' his tongue has been long kent," whispered Kitty to Meg Johnston.

"Ay, an' lang felt," replied Meg, in a suppressed tone. "Our sins are naething but a coil o't. When, in God's name, will he tak flight? I canna stand this muckle langer."

"Three times have I warded off a swarf," said Kitty. "The gouch o' his breath comes owre me like the reek o' a snuffed-out candle. Will the men no interfere?"

"Marion Webster," said the stranger, as if unconscious of the fear he was producing, "did I not, sweet queen, dance a jolly fandango with thee, last Halloween, to the rondeau of love—

"'Return the hamewart airt agane, And byde quhair thou wast wont to be— Thou art ane fule to suffer paine, For love of her that loves not thee.'

And wilt thou not pledge thy old friend in a half flask—the maiden's bumper?"

"I hae nae objections," replied the sprightly Marion, and took up the flask.

The company looked on in amazement and terror. The flame would rise on the application of the liquor to her lips, and doubtless little more of Marion Webster would be seen on the face of this lower world. While Marion still held the flask in her hand, the sound of carriage wheels was heard. The vehicle seemed to halt at Wat Webster's door. The door opened with a bang. Marion had not time to drink off her "spark," and, still holding the flask, went to the door to see who had so unceremoniously opened it; he of the red cravat, taking up his bottle, followed with a long stride. A sudden exclamation was heard from Marion; the sound of the shutting of the door of a carriage followed; then came Jehu's "hap-away," with three loud cracks of a whip, and all was ended by the rolling of rapid wheels, lost in a moment in the distance.

Wat Webster, who had hitherto been chained to his seat, now started up; and, clasping his hands in his agony, ejaculated, that "Marion was off in a flame o' fire." The fact scarcely required mention—alas! too evident to all the company—that the greatest beauty of Christ's Kirk was away in the talons of the great Enemy of all good; and the evidence within the walls of the house was not greater than what was afforded by the watching crowd without. The carriage, which was entirely black, and not unlike a hearse, was seen to come in by the east end of the town, driving with a furious career, the driver (dressed also in black) impelling, with a long whip, the black horses, from whose hoofs sparks of fire were seen to fly; and neither house nor man seeming to claim his attention, until he arrived at the house of Wat Webster, where he of the red cravat was known to be. Many followed the carriage, and many remained at a distance to see who the victim was that was destined to be carried off in the strangers' vehicle; for, that the coach was brought there for no other purpose than to carry off one who could command in an instant a chariot of fire, seemed reasonably to be entirely out of the question. Marion Webster, the beloved of the village, was seen to enter, followed by the stranger; and, as the coach flew off, a loud wail burst from the stricken hearts of the villagers, expressive at once of their fear and of the intense pity they felt for the fate of one so much beloved, and whose crimes, much less than theirs, merited so dreadful a punishment as that she should be carried off to the regions of sorrow. The evidence, within and without the house, met, and, by the force of sympathetic similarity, mixed in an instant, carrying away in their course, like floating straws, the strongest doubts that remained in the mind of the most sceptical man in Christ's Kirk, of the hapless daughter of Wat Webster having been carried off by the Devil. The town was in the greatest commotion; terror and pity were painted on every face; but the feelings of the public held small proportion, indeed, to the agony which overtook Wat Webster and his wife, whose only child she was, as well as their pride, and that of every one in the whole town. Wat, who saw no use in flying after Sathan—an individual of known locomotive powers—lay extended on the floor of his cottage, cursing his fate, and bewailing the condition of his lovely daughter, whose entry into Pandemonium, and first scream produced by the burning lake, were as distinct in his eye and ear as ever was his morning porridge, when they boiled and bubbled by the heat of the fire. But Kitty was up and out, with a mighty crowd or tail in attendance, flying up and down in every direction, to see if any burning trace could be had of her beloved Marion; for she declared that, if she only got "the dander o' her body to bury in Christ's Kirk," she would be thankful to heaven for the gift, and try to moderate her grief. But no "dander" was to be seen. It was by much too evident that Marion Webster would never more be seen on earth; and, what might naturally add to the grief of her friends, they had no chance of seeing her again in the world to come, unless at the expense of a condemnation—a dear passport to see an old friend. Such a night was never seen in Christ's Kirk as that on which Marion Webster was carried off by his Sathanic Majesty.

We have said quite enough to make it to be understood that Marion Webster did in reality go off in a coach with the stranger who has occupied so much of our attention; but we have (being of Scottish origin) prudently abstained from giving any opinion of our own upon the question of the true character of him of the red cravat. The two drove off together, apparently with much affection, and, after they had got entirely beyond the reach of any supposed followers, they became comparatively easy, and very soon commenced a conversation—an amusement never awanting when there is a woman within reach of a person's articulated breath.

"What is the meaning o' a' this, Geordie, man?" said Marion, looking lovingly into the face of the stranger. "Could I no have met ye this night at the Three Sisters—the trees in the wood o' Ballochgray—without your coming to Christ's Kirk, and spreading the fear o' the deil frae town's-end to town's-end? But whar are we journeying to? and what means the carriage?"

The stranger thus accosted by the familiar name by which he was known to the young woman, smiled, and told her to hold her tongue, and resign herself to the pleasure of being carried through the air at the rate of ten miles an hour. The moon was now shining beautifully "owre tower and tree;" and ever and anon the maiden glanced her blue eye on the "siller-smolt" scenes through which she passed, and then turned to the face of her companion, who seemed to enjoy silently the wonder expressed by her fair face. After rolling on for some time, they came to a road or avenue of tall beech trees, at the end of which appeared an old castle, on which the moonbeams were glancing, and exhibiting in strange forms the turrets with which it was fancifully decorated. The grey owl's scream was borne along on the breeze that met them, and struck on Marion's ear in wild and fitful sounds—inspiring a dread which the presence of her mute lover did little to remove or assuage.

"Is not that Ballochgray Castle?" said Marion, at last—"that fearfu place whar the Baron of Ballochgray haulds his court with the Evil One, on every Halloween night, when the bleak muirs are rife with the bad spirits o' the earth and air. Whar drives the man, Geordie? Oh, tell him to turn awa frae thae auld turrets and skreeching owls. I canna bear the sight o' the ane, or the eerie sound o' the ither."

A smile was again the answer of her companion, and the carriage still drove on to the well-known residence of the young Baron of Ballochgray—a man who, knowing the weakness of his King, James the Third of Scotland, in his love of astrology and divination, and their sister black arts, had, with much address, endeavoured to recommend himself to his sovereign, by a character pre-established in his own castle, for a successful cultivation of the occult sciences. He had long withdrawn himself from the eyes of the world, and even of his own tenants, and shut himself up in his castle, with a due assortment of death's heads, charts, owls, globes, bones, astrolobes, and vellum chronicles, with a view to the perfection of his hidden knowledge; or, as some thought, with a view to produce such a fame of his character and pursuits as might reach the ears of James, and acquire for him that sway at court for which he sighed more than for real knowledge. Some alleged that he was a cunning diplomatist, who cared no more for the nostrums of astrology than he did for the dry bones that, while they terrified his servants, had no more virtue in them than sap, and were, with the other furniture of his dark study, collected for the mere purpose of forwarding his ambitious designs upon the weak prince. His true character was supposed to be—what he possessed before he took to his new calling—that of a wild, eccentric, devil-daring man, who loved adventures for their own sake, and worshipped the fair face of the "theekit and tenanted skull" of a bouncing damsel, with far greater enthusiasm and sincerity than he ever did his mortal osteological relics that lay in so much profusion in the recesses of his old castle. But he had, doubtless, so far succeeded in his plans; for he possessed a most unenviable fame for all sort of cantrips and sorceries; and the wandering beggar would rather have solicited a bit of bread from the iron hand of misery itself, than ventured near Ballochgray to ask his awmous.

"I winna gang near that fearfu place, Geordie!" again cried Marion. "What hae ye, a puir hind, to do wi' the Baron o' Ballochgray? Turn, for the sake o' heaven!—turn frae that living grave o' dry banes, an' the weary goul that sits jabbering owre them, by their ain light!"

Her companion again smiled; and the man dashed up the avenue, and never stopped till he came to the gate of the castle—over which there were placed two human shank-bones of great length, that were said to have sustained the body of the Baron of Balwearie—that prince of the black art, and the most cunning necromancer that ever drew a circle. The carriage stopped; and two servants, dressed in red doublets, (like garments of fire,) slashed with black, waited at the carriage door, with flambeaux in their hands, to shew the couple into the hall. Out sprang the male first, and then Marion Webster was handed, with great state, and led into the interior of the old castle. She was led direct into the hall, which was lighted up in a very fanciful manner, by means of many skulls arranged round the room, and through the eyes and jaws of which lurid lights streamed all around. Marion was filled with terror as she cast her eyes on these shining monuments of mortality; and had, in her fear, scarcely noticed a man in black, sitting at the end of the room, poring over a black-lettered manuscript.

"Marion Webster," now said her travelling companion, "behold in your old lover of the Ballochgray Wood the Baron of Ballochgray!"

A scream burst from the choking throat of the terrified damsel, and rung through the old hall.

"Come, love," he continued, "abate thy terrors. My fame is worse than my real character. I have wooed thee for reasons known to myself, and to be known soon to thee. Thou didst love Geordie Dempster; and thy love was weak indeed, if it is to be scared by brainless tongues or tongueless skulls. Wilt thou consent to be the lady of the Baron of Ballochgray?"

"Geordie! Geordie!" cried the wondering, and yet loving maiden, "if I would willingly wed thee in the grave, wi' death himsel for oor priest, shall I refuse to be yours in a castle o' the livin, filled though it be wi' thae signs o' mortality?"

"Come forth, Father Anthony!" cried the Baron, "and join us by the rules and bands of holy kirk!"

The man in black lifted up his head from the black-letter page; and, having called his witnesses, went through the requisite ceremonies; and Marion Webster became, within a short space, the lady of Ballochgray.

Next day the Baron took her forth to the green woods, where, as they sauntered among elms many centuries old, and as high as castles, he told her that he had more reasons than other men for having a wife who could keep a secret. When he first met her, he was struck with her beauty, but had no more intention than ordinary love adventurers for making her his wife; frequent intercourse had revealed to him a jewel he had never seen in such brightness in the head gear of the nobles of the land—a stern and unflinching regard to the sanction of her word. He quickly resolved to test this in such a manner as would leave no doubt in his mind that a secret-keeping wife he might find in his humble maiden of Ballochgray woods. He had three times visited Christ's Kirk in such a manner as would raise an intense curiosity in the inhabitants as to who he was. Marion had the secret only of his being plain Geordie Dempster; but so firmly and determinedly had she kept it, that, in the very midst of a general belief that he was the Prince of Darkness, she had never even let it be known that she had once seen his face before. So far Marion was enlightened; and it is not improbable that, afterwards, she knew why a secret-keeping wife was so much prized by the Baron of Ballochgray, and why he could serve two purposes—that of love, and fame of supernatural powers—in personating, as he had done, the Prince of Darkness in his visits to Christ's Kirk on the Green. So far, at least, it is certain that Marion never revealed the secret of his pretended astrological acquirements.

For weeks after the marriage, inquiries were made in every quarter for the lost damsel; but, at last, all search and inquiry was given up, and the belief that she was in the place appointed for the wicked had settled down on the minds of the people. One evening a number of cronies were assembled at the house of the disconsolate parents, and among these were Meg Johnston, Christy Lowrie, Widow Lindsay, and others of the Leslians.

"The will o' the Lord maun be done," said Meg; "but wae's me! there was mony an auld gimmer in Leslie, whose horns are weel marked wi' the lines o' her evil days, that Clootie might hae taen, afore he cam to the bonnie ewe that had only tasted the first leaves o' her simmer girse. What did Marion Webster ever do in this warld to bring upon her this warst and last o' the evils o' mortals?"

"It's just the like o' her the auld villain likes best," rejoined Christy. "He doesna gie a doit for a gizzened sinner, wha will fa' into his hands at the lang run without trouble. But the young, the blooming, and the bonny are aye sair beset by temptations; and, heard ye never, Mrs Webster, o' Marion's meetings at the Three Sisters, sometimes, they say, at the dead hour, wi' some lover that naebody ever kenned."

"Ay, ay, dame," said Widow Lindsay; "that's just his way. He comes in the shape o' a young lover, and beguiles the hearts o' young maidens. Ye mind o' bonny Peggy Lorimer o' the town's end, wha never did mair guid after she met a stranger in the woods o' Ballochgray. Ae glance o' his ee, she said, took awa her heart; and, every day after, she pined and pined, and wandered amang the woods till she grew like a wraith, but nae mair o' him did she ever see. I stricked her wi' my ain hands, and sic a corpse I never handled. There wasna a pound o' flesh on her bones; and the carriers at the burial aye said, that there wasna a corpse ava in the coffin. But puir Marion has dreed a waur weird."

"My puir bairn! my puir bairn!" cried the mother. "The folk o' Leslie aye said she wad ride in her carriage, for she was the bonniest lass that ever was seen in Christ's Kirk. But, wear-awins! little kenned they what kind o' a carriage she wad ride awa in on her marriage night."

"Some folks say, the monks will pray her back again," rejoined Meg; "but, my faith, they'll hae hard work o't. He'll no let her awa without a fearfu tuilzie, Christy."

"She'll never mair be seen on earth, woman," answered Christy. "And, even if she were to be prayed back again, she wad never be the creature she was again. A coal black lire, and singit ee-brees, wadna set her auld lovers in Christ's Kirk in a bleeze again."

"They should watch the smoking field o' Dysart," cried Widow Lindsay. "If she come again ava, it will be through that deil's porch. But what noise is that, Kitty? Didna ye hear the sound o' carriage wheels?"

The party listened attentively; and, to be sure, there was a carriage coming rattling along the street.

"Get out the Latin Bible, Wat!" cried Kitty. "He's maybe coming to tak us awa next."

The listening continued; and when the sounds ceased, as the carriage stopped at the door, and the postilion's whip cracked over the restless horses, a cry of terror rang through the room. Every one shrank into a corner, and muttered prayers mixed with the cries of fear. The door opened. Every eye was fixed upon it, for no one doubted that their old friend had returned. The Baron of Ballochgray and his lady, dressed in the most gorgeous style, entered the house of the old couple. The sight of the gay visiters made Wat and Kitty's eyes reel; and they screamed again from the fear that the Prince had come back, only in a new doublet, to exhibit to them their sold daughter.

"I beg to introduce thee," said the Baron, "to the lady of Ballochgray—my wedded wife."

Marion, without waiting for an answer, fell upon the neck of her father; and then, in the same manner, she embraced her mother; but it was a long time before the fears of Wat and Kitty were removed. At last, they were persuaded to accompany them on a visit to Ballochgray Castle; and, when they rode off in the chariot, they left behind them the belief that they too were carried off by the "Old One." We cannot pretend to describe the feelings of Wat and his wife when they were introduced into the old castle; but they soon came to see that the Baron of Ballochgray was just "as guid a chiel in his ain castle as ever he was when he acted the Deevil in Christ's Kirk on the Green."



GLEANINGS OF THE COVENANT.

X.—SERGEANT WILSON.

It was early on Monday morning, in the cold month of March, Anno Domini 1683, that the farm-house of Barjarg, in the parish of Keir and county of Dumfries, was surrounded by dragoons. They were in quest of a sergeant of the name of Wilson—a Sergeant Wilson—who had all unexpectedly (for he was a steady man and a good soldier) deserted his colours, and was nowhere to be found. The reason why they had come to Barjarg, was the report which one of Sergeant Wilson's companions in arms had made, that he knew the deserter was in love with Catherine Chalmers, the farmer's fair and only child. Catherine Chalmers was indeed forthcoming in all her innocence and bloom—but William was nowhere to be found, though they searched most minutely into every hole and corner. Being compelled, at last, to retire without their object—though not without threatening Catherine with the thumbikins, if she persevered in refusing to discover her lover's retreat—the family of Barjarg was once more left to enjoy its wonted quietude and peace. Adjoining to the farm-house of Barjarg, and occupying the ground where the mansion-house now stands, there stood an old tower, containing one habitable apartment; but only occupied as a sleeping room by one of the ploughmen, and the herd boy. There were one or two lumber-garrets besides; but these were seldom entered, as they were understood to contain nothing of any value, besides being dark, and swarming with vermin. Reports of odd noises and fearful apparitions had begun to prevail about the place, and both ploughman and herd were unwilling to continue any longer in a lodgment into which it was their firm persuasion that something "no canny" had entered. Holding this exceedingly cheap, Adam Chalmers, the veteran guidman of Barjarg, agreed to take a night of the old tower, and to set the devil and all his imps at defiance; but it was observed, that he came home next morning thoughtful and out of spirits, agreeing, at once, that nobody should, in future, be compelled to sleep in the old tower. He said little of what he had seen or heard, but he shook his head, and seemed to intimate that he knew more than he was at liberty to divulge. Things went on in this manner for some time—reports of noises at unseasonable hours still prevailing, and every one shunning the place after dark—till, one morning before daylight, the whole building was observed to be on fire, surrounded at the same time, as the flames were, by a troop of Grierson's men, with their leader at their head. The scream which Catherine Chalmers uttered when she beheld the flames, but too plainly intimated the state of her mind; nor was her father less composed, but went about, wringing his hands and exclaiming—"Oh! poor Sergeant Wilson! poor Sergeant Wilson!" At this instant, the fire had made its way to the upper apartment, and had thrown light upon a human head and shoulders, which leaned over the decayed battlement. Every one was horror-struck except the inhuman soldiery, who collected around the burning pile, and shouted up their profane and insulting jests, in the face of the poor perishing being, who, from his footing immediately giving way, was precipitated into the flames, and disappeared.

"There, let him go," said Grierson, "dog and traitor as he is, let him sink to the lowest pit, there to wait the arrival of his canting and Covenanting spouse, whom we shall now take the liberty of carrying to head-quarters, there to await her sentence, for decoying a king's sworn servant and a sergeant, from his duty and allegiance."

No sooner said than done, was the order of these dreadful times. Catherine Chalmers was placed in one of her father's carts; and, notwithstanding every remonstrance, and an assurance that poor Catherine was now a widow, she was placed betwixt two soldiers, who rode alongside the cart on horseback, and conveyed her to Dumfries, there to stand her trial before the Sheriff, Clavers, and the inhuman Laird of Lag. When arrived at her destination, she was put under lock and key, but allowed more personal liberty than many others who were accused of crimes more heinous in the eyes of the persecutors, than those of which she was merely suspected to be guilty. It so happened, that the quarterly meeting of the court was held in a few days, and the chief witness produced against Catherine Wilson, was a servant maid of her father, who was compelled, very much against her will, to bear evidence to her having seen Sergeant Wilson and her mistress (for Catherine kept her father's house) several times together in the old tower, as well as under a particular tree at the end of the old avenue, and that her mistress had told her that Sergeant Wilson was heartily tired of the service in which he was engaged. Her own father, too, was compelled to confess, that he had had an interview with the sergeant, in the tower, who had confessed to him the marriage, had asked and with difficulty obtained his forgiveness, and that he meditated a departure along with his wife, to some distant place, beyond the reach of his enemies. There was no direct evidence, however, that Catherine had persuaded him to desert, or to vilify the service which he had left; and the court were about to dismiss her simpliciter from the bar, when, to the amazement of all, Catherine rose in her place, and addressed the court to the following purpose:—"And now ye have done your utmost, and I am innocent, in as far as your evidence has gone; but I am NOT INNOCENT—I am deeply guilty, if guilt ye deem it, in this matter. 'Twas I that first awakened poor William's conscience to a sense of his danger, in serving an emissary of Satan; 'twas I that spoke to him of the blood that cries day and night under the Altar; 'twas I that made him tremble—ay, as an aspen leaf, and as some here will yet shake before the Judge of all—when I brought to his recollection the brutal scenes which he had witnessed, and in which he had taken a part; 'twas I that agreed to marry him privately, without my dear father's consent, (whose pardon I have sought on my knees, and whose blessing I have already obtained,) [hereupon her father nodded assent] provided he would desert, and retire with me, at least for a time, beyond the reach of ye all—ye messengers of evil, sent to scourge a guilty and backsliding race; 'twas I that visited him night after night in that old tower, which you inhumanly set on fire, and in which—O my God!"——Hereupon she laid hold of the desk before her, and would have dropped to the earth, had not an officer in attendance supported her, and borne her, under the authority of the court, into the open air. She was now, notwithstanding her self-accusation, declared to be at liberty: and immediately, so soon as strength was given her, retired into the house of an acquaintance and relative, where suitable restoratives and refreshments were administered. The house where her friend lived was close upon what is called the Sands of Dumfries, adjoining to the river, which up to this point is navigable, and where boats are generally to be seen. During the night, she disappeared, and, though all search was made at home and everywhere else, she was not heard of. Her father at first took her disappearance sadly to heart; but time seemed to have a remedial effect upon his spirits, and he at length rallied, even into cheerfulness. Things went on for years and years, very much in the old way at Barjarg. The old man's hairs gradually whitened and became more scanty, whilst this loss was made up for by an increase of wrinkles. The only change in his habits were not unfrequent visits which he payed to an old friend, he said, in Whitehaven, and from which he always returned in high spirits. It might have been stated formerly that, when the ashes of the old tower were searched, after they had cooled, for the body of poor Wilson, no such body was found—but the inference was made by the neighbours, that the remains had been early removed by his wife's orders, who would naturally wish to possess herself of so valued a deposit. In fact, the whole transaction melted away in the stream of time, like the snow-flake on the surface of the water; and things went on very much us usual. Six long years revolved, and still no word of Catherine Wilson. Many conjectured that she had missed her foot in the dark, and fallen into the river, and been carried out to sea by the reflux of the tide. Others again hinted at suicide, from extreme grief; and some very charitable females nodded and winked something meant to be significant, about some people's not being easily known—and that some people, provided that they got a grip of a man, would not be very nice about the object or the manner!

Oh, what a blessed thing it was when King William came in!—and with him came amnesty, and peace, and restoration! It was upon a fine summer evening, in the year 1689, just six years after the mysterious disappearance of Catherine Wilson, that the old guidman of Barjarg was sitting enjoying the setting sun at his own door, on the root of an old tree, which had been converted into a dais, or out-of-doors seat. It was about the latter end of July, that most exuberantly lovely of all months, when Adam Chalmers, with Rutherford's Letters on his knee, sat gazing upon one of the most beautiful landscapes which our own romantic country can boast of. Before him flowed the Nith, over its blue pebbles, and through a thousand windings; beyond it were the woods and hills of Closeburn, all blooming and blushing in the setting beams of the sun, and rising up, tier above tier, till they terminated in the blue sky of the east. To the left were the Louther Hills, with their smooth-green magnificence, bearing away into the distance, and placed, as it were, to shelter this happy valley from the stormy north and its wintry blasts. At present, however, all idea of storm and blast was incongruous, for they seemed to sleep in the sun's effulgence, as if cradled into repose by the hand of God. To the south, and hard at hand, were the woods and the fields of Collestown, with the echoing Linn, and the rush of many waters. O land of our nativity!—how deeply art thou impressed upon this poor brain!—go where we will—see what we may—thou art still unique to us—thou art still superior to all other lands.

It was eight o'clock of the evening above referred to, when a chaise entered the old avenue, passed the ruins of the Tower and the old mansion-house, and drew up immediately opposite old Adam Chalmers. The steps were immediately let down, and out sprung, with a bound, the long lost child, the blooming and matronly looking Mrs Wilson. Behind her followed one whom the reader, I trust, has long ago considered as dead, and perhaps buried, her manly and rejoicing husband William Wilson, handing out a fine girl of five years of age, a boy about three, and an infant still at the breast! It was indeed a joyous meeting; and the old man bustled about, embracing and pressing his child, and then surveying, with silent and intense interest, his grandchildren; taking the oldest on his knee, and permitting him all manner of intercourse with his wrinkles and his grey hairs.

One of Lag's troop, the intimate and attached friend of the sergeant, had conveyed to him, by means of a letter, the fact, that his haunt was discovered; and that Lag had sworn he would search him out like a fox,—in short, that he would burn the old tower about his ears. A thought struck Wilson, that even though he should now escape, the pursuit would still be continued; but that, if he could by any means persuade his enemies that he had perished in the flames, the search of course would cease. As he was occupied with these thoughts, it occurred to him, that, by placing a couple of pillows, dressed in some old clothes, which were lying about, and which belonged to the former tenant, in the topmost turret of the tower, he might impose the belief upon Lag and his party, that he had actually perished in the flames. Having communicated this plan to his friend in the troop by a secret messenger, he immediately, and without waiting even to advertise his wife of the deception, departed, and hastened on to a brother's house in the neighbourhood of Dumfries, where he lay concealed. By the management of his friend, the deception was accomplished; for he even swore to the captain, that he heard Wilson scream, and jump upwards, and then sink down into the devouring flames. The trial was not unknown to Wilson, and he had prevailed upon his brother, with a few friends sworn to secrecy, to assist him in possessing himself of the person of his wife, in going to or coming from the court-house. Matters, however, succeeded beyond his utmost hopes. His spouse was liberated, and, by means of a boat well manned, he reached Douglas in the Isle of Man in safety, in the course of eight-and-forty hours. There, at last, he was safe, being beyond immediate pursuit, and indeed being supposed to be dead; and there, by a successful speculation or two, with money which had been left him by an uncle, after whom he was named, and who had prospered in the Virginia trade, he soon became prosperous, and even wealthy. His wife having a natural desire to see her father, took means to have him apprised of the secret of their retreat. His visits, nominally to England, were in fact made to Douglas; and the Revolution now put it in the power of Sergeant Wilson to return with his young and interesting family to the farm of Barjarg, and to purchase the property on which the old house stood, it being now in the market; to refit the old burnt tower; to rebuild the old castle, and to live there along with old Adam for several years, not only in comfort, but in splendour. When engaged over a bottle, of which he became ultimately rather more fond than was good for his health, he used to amuse his friends with the above narrative, adding always at the end—"The burning o' me has been the making o' me." The property has long passed into other hands, and is now in the family of Hunter; but such was its destination for at least fifty years, during the life of the sergeant, and the greater part of the life of the son, who, being a spendthrift, spent and sold it.

XI.—HELEN PALMER.

Helen Palmer was originally from Cumberland; her parents were English, but her father had removed with Helen, an only daughter, whilst yet a child, to the neighbourhood of Closeburn Castle, to a small village which still goes by the name of Croalchapel. There the husband and father had been employed originally as forester on the estate of Closeburn, belonging to Sir Roger Kirkpatrick, and had afterwards become chamberlain or factor on the same property. Peter Palmer was a superior man. He had been well educated for the time in which he lived, and had been employed in Cumberland in keeping accounts for a mining establishment. The death, however, in child-birth, of his beloved and well-born wife, (she had married below her station,) had, for some time, disgusted him with life, and his intellects had nearly given way. Having committed several acts of insanity, so as to make himself spoken of in the neighbourhood, he took a moonlight flitting, with his child and a faithful nurse, and, wandering north and north, at last fixed his residence in the locality already mentioned, where he was soon noticed as a superior person by the Laird of Closeburn, and advanced as has been stated.

Helen Palmer was the apple of her father's eye; he would permit no one but the nurse to approach her person, and he himself was her only instructor; he taught her to read, to write, and to calculate accounts; in short, every spare hour he had was spent with little Helen. There you might see him, after dinner, with Helen on his knee, his forest dog sleeping before him, and a tumbler of negus on a small table by his side, conversing with his child, as he would have done with her mother; holding her out at arm's length, to mark her opening features; and then again straining her to his bosom in a paroxysm of tears.

"Just my Helen—my own dear Helen anew!" he would say; "oh, my child—my child!—dear, dear art thou to thy poor heart-broken father! but I will live for thee!—I will live with thee!—and when thou diest, child, thou shalt sleep on this breast—thou shalt be buried, child, in thy father's dust; and thy mother and we shall meet, and I will tell her of her babe; of that babe which cost her so much, and we will rejoin in divine love for ever and ever!"

Oh, how beautiful is paternal affection!—the love of an only surviving parent for an only child—and she a female. It is beautiful as the smile of Providence on benevolence—it is strong as the bond which binds the world to a common centre—it is enduring as the affections which, being cherished on earth, are matured above!

As Helen grew up, her eye kindled, her brow expanded, her cheeks freshened into the most delicious bloom, and she walked on fairy footsteps of the most delicate impression. Her feet, her hands, her arms, her bust, her whole person, spoke her at once the lady of a thousand descents—ages had modelled her into aristocratic symmetry. But with all this, there was a rustic simplicity about her, an open, frank, unaffected manner, which seemed to say, as plain as any manner could, "I am not ashamed of being my father's daughter." When Helen Palmer had attained her sixteenth year, she was quite a woman—not one of your thread-paper bulrushes, which shoot upwards merely into unfleshed gentility; but a round, firm, well-spread, and formed woman—a bonny lass, invested with all the delicacy and softness of a complete lady. Her bodily accomplishments, however, were not her only recommendation; her mind was unusually acute, and her memory was stored with much and varied information. She knew, for example, that the age in which she lived was one of cruelty and bloodshed; that the second Charles, who, at that time, filled the throne, was a sensual tyrant; that Lag, Clavers, Douglas, Johnstone, and others, were bloody persecutors; and that even Sir Roger Kirkpatrick himself, the humane and amiable in many respects, was "a friend of the castle"—of the court—and would not permit any of the poor persecuted remnant to take refuge in the linns of Creehope, or in any of the fastnesses on his estate of Closeburn. All this grieved Helen's heart; but her father had taught her that it was her duty, as well as his own, to be silent on such subjects, and not to give offence to one whose bread he was eating, and whose patronage he had enjoyed to so great an extent.

There were frequent visiters, in those days, at Closeburn Castle. In fact, with all the chivalric hospitality of ancient times and of an ancient family, Sir Roger kept, in a manner, open house. During dinner, the drawbridge was regularly elevated, and, for a couple of hours at least, none might enter. This state ceremony had cost the family of Kirkpatrick many broad acres; for, when the old and heirless proprietor of the fine estate of Carlaverock called at the castle of Closeburn, with the view of bequeathing his whole property to the then laird, the drawbridge was up—he was refused immediate entrance, because Sir Thomas was at dinner. "Tell Sir Thomas," said the enraged visitor, "tell your master to take his dinner, and with zest; but tell him, at the same time, that I will put a better dinner by his table this day than ever was on it." So he went on to Drumlanrig, and left the whole property to Douglas of Queensberry. Such, however, was not the reception of some young gentlemen who arrived about this time at the castle of Closeburn, on a sporting expedition, with dogs and guns, and a suitable accompaniment of gamekeepers and other servants. These strangers were manifestly Englishmen, but from what quarter of England nobody knew, and, indeed, nobody inquired. They were only birds of passage, and would, in a month or so, give place to another arrival, about to disappear, in its turn, from a similar cause. As Helen Palmer was one day walking, according to her wont, amongst the Barmoor-woods, in her immediate neighbourhood, a hare crossed her path, followed closely by a greyhound, by which it was immediately killed. Poor Helen started, screamed, and dropped her book in an agony of pity. She had not been accustomed to such barbarities; and the poor dying animal cried like a child, too, as it expired! At this instant, a horseman brought up his steed in her presence, and, immediately alighting, proceeded, in the most polite and delicate manner imaginable, to administer such relief as was in his power. He begged her to be composed, for the animal was now dead, and its suffering over; and her feelings should never be lascerated again in this manner, as they would pursue their sport somewhere else, at a greater distance from her abode. Upon recovering herself, Helen felt ashamed at her position, and even at her weakness in betraying her feelings, and, begging the stranger's pardon for the interruption to his sport which she had occasioned, with a most graceful courtesy she withdrew from his sight. The stranger was exceedingly struck with her appearance. It was not that she was beautiful, for with beautiful women he had long been familiar; but there was something in the expression of her countenance which made him tremble all over—she was the very picture of his father; nay, his own features and hers bore a close resemblance. The same indefinite terror which had seized this young and exceedingly handsome sportsman had penetrated the breast of Helen. The resemblance of the stranger to herself, was what struck her with amazement. There was the same arched eyebrow—the same hazel eye—and the same dimple in the chin. Besides, there was an all-over sameness in the air, manner, and even step, which she could not, with all her efforts, drive from her recollection. She did not, however, think proper to inform her father of this little foolish incident; but, ere she went to bed that night, she surveyed herself in the glass with more than wonted attention. Still, still, she was left in surprise, by comparing what she saw with what she recollected—the image in her bosom with that in the glass.

Next day, as might have been anticipated, the stranger called to see if she had recovered from her fright, and spent a considerable time in very pleasing conversation. Her father happened to be in the writing office at the time, and did not see him. These calls were repeated from time to time, till at last it became evident to all about the castle, that the young heir of Middlefield, in Cumberland, was deeply in love. He had almost entirely given up his former amusements, and even railed against the cruelty of such sports. Mr Graham, a near connection of him of Netherby, was a young person of an excellent heart, and of a large property, to which, from his father's death, by an accident, he had just succeeded. He was besides, one of the handsomest men in Cumberland; and it was reported that Sir James Graham's oldest daughter had expressed herself very favourably respecting her kinsman's pretensions to her hand, should he presume so high! However, his heart was not in the match, and he had made this visit to his father's intimate friend, in order to avoid all importunity on a subject which was irksome to him. It is useless to mince the matter. Helen, in spite of her father's remonstrances and representations, was deeply and irrecoverably in love with the gallant Graham, and he, in his turn, was at least equally enamoured of the face, person, manners, mind, and soul, of the lovely and fascinating Miss Palmer.

There was only one subject on which there was any division of opinion betwixt the lovers—Helen was every inch a Covenanter; whilst Mr William was rather, if anything, inclined to view their opposition to government as factious and inexcusable. He did not, indeed, approve of the atrocities which were practising every day around him, and in the parish of Closeburn in particular; but he ventured to hope that a few instances of severity would put an end to the delusion of the people, and that they would again return to their allegiance and their parish churches. Helen was mighty and magnificent in the cause of non-conformity and humanity. She talked of freedom, conscience, religion, on the one hand—of tyranny, treachery, oppression, and cruelty, on the other—till Mr William, either convinced, or appearing to be so, fairly gave in, promising most willingly, and in perfect good faith, that he would never assist the Laird of Closeburn, or of Lag, in any of their unhallowed proceedings.

One day when Helen and her lover (for it was now no secret) were on a walk into the Barmoor-wood, they were naturally attracted to the spot where their intercourse had begun; and, sitting down opposite to each other on the trunks of some felled trees, they gradually began a somewhat confidential conversation respecting their birth and parentage. Helen disguised nothing; she was born in Cumberland, and brought here whilst a child; her mother, whose name was Helen Graham, had died at her birth. At the mention of this name, the stranger and lover started convulsively to his feet, and running up to and embracing Helen, he exclaimed—"O God! O God! you are my own cousin!" Helen fainted, and was with difficulty recovered, by an application of water from the adjoining brook. It was indeed so. Out of delicacy, Mr William had made no particular inquiries at Helen respecting her mother; and Helen, on the other hand, knew that Graham is an almost universal name, in Cumberland in particular. This, therefore, excited no suspicion; but true it is, and of verity, these two similar and affianced beings were cousins-german. Helen Graham, the sister of the Lord of Middlefield having married beneath her rank, was abandoned by her brother and family, and her name was never mentioned in Middlefield House. An old servant, however, of the family had made the young heir master of the fact of the marriage, and of the death of his old aunt; but he could not tell what had become of the father or the child; he supposed that they had either died or gone to the plantations abroad; and there the matter rested till this sudden and unexpected discovery. Peter Palmer, the father of Helen, was altogether unacquainted with William Graham, as he was a mere child when Peter left Cumberland; and his father had used him so cruelly as to make him avoid his residence and presence as carefully as possible.

Would to heaven we could stop here, and gratify the reader with a wedding, and as much matrimonial happiness as poor mortality can possibly inherit!—But it may not be. As Lockhart says beautifully of Sir Walter, we hear "the sound of the muffled drum."

Sir Roger and all the friends of Mr William Graham were opposed to his union with Miss Palmer, as Graham always called her. Her own father, too, was opposed to her forming a connection with the son of one who had treated him so cruelly, and, as he thought, unjustly—and it became manifest to William, as he was in every sense of the word his own master, that had he his fair betrothed in the leas of Middlefield, he might set them all at defiance, and effect their union peaceably, according to the rules of the church. In an evil hour, Helen consented to leave her father's house by night, along with her William, and on horseback, to take their way across the Border for Cumberland. They had reached the parish of Kirkconnel about two o'clock in the morning, and were giving their horses a mouthful of water in the little stream called Kirtle, when a shot was heard in the immediate neighbourhood—it was heard, alas! by two only, for the third was dying, and in the act of falling from her seat in the saddle. She was caught by a servant, and by her lover; but she could only say—"I am gone—I am gone!" before breathing her last. Oh, curse upon the hand that fired the shot? It was, indeed, an accursed hand, but a fatal mistake. It was one of the bloody persecutors of Lag's troop, who, having been appointed to watch at this spot for some Covenanters who were expected to be passing on horseback into England, in order to escape from the savage cruelty of their persecutors, had immediately, and in drunken blindness, fired upon this inoffensive group. The ball, alas! took too fatal effect in the heart of Helen Palmer; and it was on her, and not as Allan Cunningham represents it, "on Helen Irving, the daughter of the laird of Kirkconnel," that the following most pathetic verses were written—

"I wish I were where Helen lies; Night and day on me she cries: Oh, that I were where Helen lies, On fair Kirkconnel lea!

"Oh, Helen fair beyond compare, I'll make a garland of thy hair; Shall bind my heart for ever mair, Until the day I dee.

"Curst be the heart that thought the thought, And curst the hand that fired the shot, When in my arms burd Helen dropped On fair Kirkconnel lea!"

XII.—THE CAIRNY CAVE OF GAVIN MUIR.

There is a wild, uninhabited district, which separates Nithsdale from Annandale, in Dumfriesshire. It is called Gavin Muir; and, though lonely, and covered with spret and heather, exhibits some objects which merit the attention of the traveller in the wilderness. There is the King's Loch, the King's Burn, and the King's Chair, all records of King James V.'s celebrated raid to subdue the thieves of Annandale. Tradition says, what seems extremely likely, that he spent a night in the midst of this muir; and hence the appellations of royalty which adhere to the objects which witnessed his bivouac. But, although the localities referred to possess an interest, they are exceeded, in this respect, by a number of "cairns," by which the summits of several hills, or rising grounds, are topped. These cairns, which amount to five or six, are all within sight of each other, all on eminences, and all composed of an immense mass of loose, water-worn stones. And yet the neighbourhood is free from stones, being bare, and fit for sheep-pasturage only. Tradition says nothing of these cairns in particular; or, indeed, very little of any similar collections, frequent as they are in Scotland and throughout all Scandinavia. Stone coffins, no doubt, have been discovered in them, and human bones; but, beyond this, all is surmise and uncertainty. Often, when yet a boy, and engaged in fishing in the King's Burn, have we mounted these pyramids, and felt that we were standing on holy ground. "Oh," thought we, "that some courteous cairn would blab it out what 'tis they are!" But the cairns were silent; and hence the necessity we are under of professing our ignorance of what they refused to divulge. But there is a large opening in the side of one of these cairns, respecting which tradition has preserved a pretty distinct narrative, which we shall now venture, for the first time, to put under types, for the instruction of our readers.

The whole hill country, in Dumfriesshire and Galloway in particular, is riddled, as it were, with caves and hiding-places. These, no doubt, afforded refuge, during the eight-and-twenty years of inhuman persecution, to the poor Covenanter; but they were not, in general, constructed for or by him. They existed from time immemorial, and were the work of that son of night and darkness—the smuggler, who, in passing from the Brow at the mouth of the Nith, from Bombay, near Kirkcudbright, or from the estuary of the Cree, with untaxed goods from the Isle of Man—then a separate and independent kingdom—found it convenient to conceal both his goods and himself from the observation of the officers of excise. So frequent are these concealed caves in the locality to which we refer, that, in passing through the long, rank heather, we have more than once disappeared in an instant, and found ourselves several feet below the level of the upper world, and in the midst of a damp, but roomy subterraneous apartment of considerable extent. We believe that they are now, in these piping times of peace and preventive service, generally filled up and closed by the shepherds, as they were dangerous pitfalls in the way of their flocks. In the time, however, to which we refer—namely, in the year 1683—they were not only open, but kept, as it were, in a state of repair, being tenanted by the poor, persecuted remnant (as they expressed it) of God's people. That the reader may fully understand the incidents of this narrative, it will be necessary that he and we travel back some hundred and fifty years, and some miles from the farm-house of Auchincairn, that we may have ocular demonstration of the curious contrivances to which the love of life, of liberty, and of a good conscience, had compelled our forefathers to have recourse. That cairn which appears so entire and complete, of which the stones seem to have been huddled together without any reference to arrangement whatever, is, nevertheless, hollow underneath, and on occasions you may see—but only if you examine it narrowly—the blue smoke seeking its way in tiny jets through a thousand apertures. There is, in fact, room for four or five individuals. Beneath, there are a few plaids and bed-covers, with an old chair, a stool, and seats of stone. There is likewise a fire-place and some peats, extracted from the adjoining moss. But there is, in fact, no entrance in this direction. You must bend your course round by the brow of that hollow, over which the heather hangs profusely; and there, by dividing and gently lifting up the heathy cover, you will be able to insert your person into a small orifice, from which you will escape into a dark but a roomy dungeon, which will, in its turn, conduct you through a narrow passage, into the very heart or centre of this seemingly solid accumulation of stones. When there, you will have light such as Milton gives to Pandemonium—just as much as to make darkness visible, through the small, and, on the outside, invisible crevices betwixt the stones. Should you be surprised in your lighted and fire apartment—should any accident or search bring a considerable weight above you, so as to break through your slightly supported roofing—you can retreat to your ante-room or dungeon, and from thence, if necessary, make your way into the adjoining linn, along the bottom of which, you may ultimately find skulking-shelter, or a pathway into a more inhabited district. Now that you have surveyed this arrangement, as it existed a hundred and fifty years ago, we may proceed to give you the narrative which is connected with it.

In the year above referred to, the persecution of the saints was at its height—Clavers, in particular, went about the country with his dragoons, whom he designated (like the infamous Kirk) his Lambs, literally seeking to hurt and destroy in all the hill country, in particular of Dumfriesshire and Galloway. Auchincairn was a marked spot; it had often been a city of refuge to the shelterless and the famishing; but it had so frequently been searched, that every hole and corner was as well known to Clavers and his troop as to the inhabitants themselves. There was now, therefore, no longer any refuge to the faithful at Auchincairn; in fact, to come there was to meet the enemy half-way—to rush as it were into the jaws of the lion. In these circumstances, old Walter Gibson, a man upwards of seventy years of age, who, by his prayers and his attending conventicles, had rendered himself particularly obnoxious, was obliged to prolong a green old age by taking up his abode in the cave and under the cairn which has already been described. With him were associated, in his cold and comfortless retreat, the Rev. Robert Lawson, formerly minister of the parish of Closeburn; but who, rather than conform to the English prayer-book and formula, had taken to the mountain, to preach, to baptize, and even to dispense the Sacrament of the Supper, in glens, and linns, and coverts, far from the residence of man. Their retreat was known to the shepherds of the district, and indeed to the whole family of Auchincairn; but no one ever was suspected of imitating the conduct of the infamous Baxter, who had proved false, and discovered a cave in Glencairn, where four Covenanters were immediately shot, and two left hanging upon a tree. On one occasion, a little innocent girl, a grand-daughter of old Walter, was surprised whilst carrying some provisions towards the hill-retreat, by a party of Clavers' dragoons, who devoured the provisions, and used every brutal method to make the girl disclose the secret of the retreat; but she was neither to be intimidated nor cajoled, and told them plainly that she would rather die, as her granduncle had done before her, than betray her trust. They threw her into a peat-hag filled with water, and left her to sink or swim. She did not swim, however, but sank never to rise again. Her spirit had been broken, and life had been rendered a burden to her. She expressed to her murderers, again and again, a wish that they would send her to meet her uncle (as she termed it) William. Her body was only discovered some time after, when the process of decomposition had deformed one of the most pleasing countenances which ever beamed with innocence and piety.

"The old hound will not be far off, when the young whelp was so near," exclaimed Clavers, upon a recital of the inhuman murder. "We must watch the muirs by night; for it is then that these creatures congregate and fatten. We must continue to spoil their feasting, and leave them to feed on cranberries and moss-water." In consequence of this resolution, a strict watch was set all along Gavin Muir; and it became almost impossible to convey any sustenance to the famishing pair; yet the thing was done, and wonderfully managed, not in the night-time, but in the open day. One shepherd would call to another, in the note of the curlew or the miresnipe, and without exciting suspicion, convey from the corner of his plaid the necessary refreshments, even down to a bottle of Nantz. The cave was never entered on such occasions; but the provisions were dropped amidst the rank heather; and a particular whistle immediately secured their disappearance. Night after night, therefore, were these prowlers disappointed of their object, till at last, despairing of success, or thinking, probably, that the birds had escaped, they betook themselves, for the time, elsewhere, and the cairn was relieved from siege. Clavers, in fact, had retired to Galloway, along with Grierson and Johnstone, and the coast was clear, at least for the present.

It was about the latter end of October, when Mr Lawson was preaching and dispensing the Sacrament to upwards of a hundred followers, in the hollow where stood the King's Chair. This locality was wonderfully well suited for the purpose—it was, in fact, a kind of amphitheatre, surrounded on all sides by rising ground, and in the centre of which three large stones constituted a chair, and several seats of the same material were ranged in a circular form around. The stones remain to this hour, and the truth of this description can be verified by any one who crosses Gavin Muir. It was a moonlight night—a harvest moon—and Mr Lawson, having handed the Sacramental cup around, was in the act of concluding with prayer, when the note of a bird, seemingly a plover, was heard at a great distance. It was responded to by a similar call, somewhat nearer; and, in an instant, a messenger rushed in upon their retreat, out of breath, and exclaiming, "You are lost!—you are all dead men!—Clavers is within sight, and at full gallop, with all his troop at his back."

One advantage which the poor persecuted had over their persecutors, was a superior knowledge of localities. In an instant the hollow was tenantless; for the inmates had fled in all directions, and to various coverts and outlets into the vale of Annan. The minister alone remained at his post continuing in ejaculatory prayer, and resisting all persuasion even to take advantage of the adjoining cairny cave. In vain did Walter Gibson delay till the last moment, and talk of his farther usefulness. Mr Lawson's only answer was—"I am in the hands of a merciful Master, and, if he has more service for me, he himself will provide a way for my escape. I have neither wife nor child, nor, I may say, relation, alive. I am, as it were, a stranger in the land of duty. If the Lord so will it that the man of blood shall prevail over me, he will raise up others in my stead, fitter to serve him effectually than ever I have been; but, Walter, you have a bonny family of grandchildren around you, and your ain daughter the mother of them a', to bless you, and hear you speak the words of counselling and wisdom; so, make you for the cave and the cairn out by yonder—I will e'en remain where I am, and the Lord's will be done!" Seeing that all persuasion was unavailable, and that, by delaying his flight, he would only sacrifice his own life, without saving that of his friend, Walter appeared to take his departure for his place of refuge. It was neither Clavers, however, nor Lag, nor Johnstone, nor Winram, who was upon them; but only Captain Douglas, from Drumlanrig, to which place secret information of the night's wark, as it was termed, had been conveyed. Captain Douglas' hands were red with blood; he had shot poor Daniel M'Michan in Dalveen Glen, and had given word of command to blow out his brother's brains, as has been already recorded in the notices of these times. One of his troop had been wounded in the affair at Dalveen, and he was literally furious with rage and the thirst of blood. Down, therefore, Douglas came with about half-a-dozen men, (the rest being on duty in Galloway,) determined to kill or be killed—to put an end to these nightly conventicles, or perish in the attempt.

Mr Lawson had taken his position in the King's Chair, which, as was formerly described, consisted of three large stones set on end, around one in the centre, which served as a seat; and when Douglas came in sight, nothing appeared visible in the moonshine but these solitary stones.

"They are off, by G——d!" exclaimed Douglas; "the fox has broken cover—we must continue the chase; and Rob," added he, to one who rode near him, "blaw that bugle till it crack again. When you start the old fox, I should like mightily to be at the death. But—so ho!—what have we here?—why, here are bottles and a cup, by Jove! These friends of the Covenant are no enemies, I perceive, to good cheer"—putting the bottle to his mouth, and making a long pull—"by the living Jingo! most excellent wine. Here, Rob," emptying what remained into the silver goblet or cup, "here, line your weasan with a drop of the red, and then for the red heart's blood of these psalm-singing, cup-kissing gentry. So ho—so ho!—hilloa—one and all—the fox is under cover still," (advancing towards the stone chair,) "and we thought him afield, too. Stand forth, old Canticles, 5 and 8th, and let us see whether you have got one or five bottles under your belt. What! you won't, or you can't stand! Grunt again!—you are made of stone, are you?—why, then, we will try your qualities with a little burnt powder and lead. Gentlemen of the horse-brigade, do you alight, and be d——d to you, and, just by way of experiment, rattle me half-a-dozen bullets in the face of that there image of stone, which looks so mighty like the parson of Closeburn that one might easily mistake the one for the other."

The men had alighted with their holster pistols, and had arranged themselves, as directed, in the front of the stone chair, and with a full view of the figure which occupied the seat, when, at this very critical juncture, a band of upwards of fifty horses, with panniers on their backs, came up at a smart trot.

"Stop your hellish speed!" said a voice from the front of the band; "or, by this broadsword, and these long six-footers, you are all dead men, ere you can say, Present, fire!" Instantly, Douglas saw and comprehended his position—"To horse!" was his short exhortation, and, in an instant, his five followers and himself had cleared the brow of the glen, and were out of sight at full speed. "Shed not their blood!—shed not their blood!" continued to exclaim a well-known voice amongst the band of smugglers—for such the reader may have guessed they were. It was the voice of Walter Gibson, well known to many of the smugglers; for again and again they had supplied Auchincairn with Hollands and Nantz. "Shed not one drop of blood, I say; but leave them to Him who has said, 'Vengeance is mine, and I will repay it;'—He will find His own time of revenging the death of my poor murdered bairn, whom they drowned in the King's Moss, owre by there. But, dear me, Mr Lawson, are ye dead or living, that ye tak nae tent o' what's going on?" In fact, Mr Lawson, having given himself up as lost, had committed himself, with shut eyes, so intently to prayer, that he had but a very confused notion of what had happened.

"The Lord's will be done!" he exclaimed at last; "and is this you, Walter Gibson?—fearful! fearful!—are these the Philistines around you?—and are you and I to travel, hand in hand, into Immanuel's land?—or, but do my poor eyes deceive me, and are these only our good friends, the fair traders, come to the rescue, under God and his mercy, in the time of our need?"

"Indeed," responded a known voice—that, namely, at whose bidding the work of death had been staid—"indeed, Mr Lawson, we are friends and not foes; and, whilst our cattle, which are a little blawn, with the haste into which they were hurried by old Walter here—until the beasts bite, I say, and eat their corn, we will e'en thank God, and take a little whet of the creature. You know, such comforts are not forbidden in the laws of Moses, or, indeed, in any laws but those of this persecuted and oppressed land."

So saying, he disengaged from a hamper a flagon of Nantz, and was about to make use of the Sacramental cup, which Douglas had dropped, to convey it around, when his arm was arrested by the still strong hand of Walter.

"For the sake of God and his church—of Him who shed his blood for poor sinners—profane not, I beseech you, the consecrated, the hallowed vessel which I have so lately held in these vile hands as the emblem of my purification through the blood of sprinkling—profane not, I say, that vessel which, when all worldly goods were forfeited and relinquished as things of no value, our worthy pastor has borne along with him—being the gift of his parishioners—to the mountain and the glen—to the desert and the wilderness!"

There needed no further admonition; the cup was deposited in the hands of its owner, and the whole posse comitatus spread themselves out on the grass—for, though all around was heath, this little spot was green and lovely—and, by applying the vessel directly to their lips, each one took a draught so long and hearty that the captain or leader had again and again to replenish the measure. Nor were Lawson and old Walter Gibson behind in this work of refreshment. Many a day they had laid themselves down to rest in the damp and cold cave, with little of food and with nothing to cheer and support them but a mouthful, from time to time, of the Solway waters—viz., smuggled brandy. We are all the children, to a great amount, of circumstances; and the very men who, but a little ago, were engaged in the most solemn act of religion, and counted themselves as at the point of death—these very men were now so much cheered, and even exhilarated, by the reviving cordial, that they forgot, for the time, their dangers and their privations, and were not displeased to hear the smugglers sing the old song, "We are merry men all," when a figure approached, out of breath, exclaiming—

"The gaugers! the gaugers!—the excisemen from Dumfries!"

In an instant the whole troop stood to arms. They had been well-disciplined; and the horses, along with the parson and Walter, were stowed away, as they called it, behind. They spoke not; but there was the click of gunlocks, and a powerful recover, on the ground, of heavy muskets, with barrels fully six feet long, which had been used by their forefathers in the times of the first Charles and the civil commotion. The enemy came up at the gallop; but they had plainly miscalculated the forces of their opponents—they were only about fifteen strong; so, wheeling suddenly round, they took their departure with as much dispatch as they had advanced.

"We must off instantly!" exclaimed the leader of this trading band. "We must gain the pass of Enterkin ere day-dawn; for these good neighbours will make common cause with the King's troops, whenever they meet them, and there will be bloody work, I trow, ere these kegs and good steeds change masters."

So saying, the march immediately proceeded up Gavin Muir, and the minister and Walter took possession of their usual retreat—the Cairny Cave I have so often referred to.

Douglas was not thus, by accident, to be foiled in his object; for having, in the course of a few days, obtained additional forces from Galloway, he returned to the search in Gavin Muir, where he had, again and again, been told meetings still continued to be held, and some caves of concealment existed. Old Lauderdale in council had one day said—"Why, run down the devils, like the natives of Jamaica, with blood-hounds." And the hint was not lost on bloody Clavers—he had actually a pair of hounds of this description with him in Galloway at this time; and, at his earnest request, Douglas was favoured with one of them. Down, therefore, this monster came upon Gavin Muir, not to shoot blackcocks or muirfowl, in which it abounded, but to track, and start and pistol, if necessary, poor, shivering, half-starved human beings, who had dared to think the laws of their God more binding than the empire and despotism of sinful men. The game was a merry one, and it was played by "merry men all:" forward went the hound through muirs and mosses; onward came the troop, hallooing and encouraging the animal in pursuit of its horrid instincts. As they passed the moss-hole in which the poor grand-daughter of Walter had been suffocated, the jest, and the oath, and the merriment were at their utmost.

"Had we but a slice of the young pup," said one, "to flesh our hound with, he would soon scent out the old one—they are kindred blood, you know. But what do I see?—old Bloody, is it, on the top of the cairn yonder?—and scooping, nosing, and giving tongue most determinedly. By the holy poker!—and that's a sanctified oath—I will on and see what's agoing here." Thus saying, he put spurs to his horse, and, waving his sword round his head, "Here goes for old Watty!—and may the devil burn me if I do not unearth the fox at last!" Onwards they all advanced at the gallop; but Jack Johnston was greatly in front, and had dashed his horse half-way up the steep cairn, when, in an instant, horse and man rushed down, and immediately disappeared.

"Why," said Douglas, "what has become of Jack?—has old Sooty smelt him, and sent for him, on a short warning, to help in roasting Covenanters?—or have the fairies, those fair dames of the green knowe and the grey cairn, seen and admired his proportions, and made a young 'Tam Lean' of poor Jack Johnston? Let us on and see."

And see to be sure they did; for there was Jack, lying in the last agonies of death, under his horse, which itself was lamed and lying with feet uppermost. The horrid hound was lapping, with a growl, the blood which oozed from the nose and lips of the dying man, and with a dreadful curse, the terrible being expired, just as the party came within view. He had tumbled headlong, owing to the pressure from the horse's feet, through the slight rafter-work beneath, and had pitched head-foremost against a stone seat, in consequence of which his skull was fractured, and his immediate death ensued. Douglas looked like one bewildered, he would scarcely credit his eyes; but his companion in arms did the needful; and Jack Johnston's body was removed, his horse shot through the brain, and the whole band returned, drooping and crestfallen, to Drumlanrig. Throwing his sword down on the hall table when he arrived, he was heard to say, looking wildly and fearfully all the while, "The hand of God is in this thing, and I knew it not." It is a curious fact, but one of which my informant had no doubt, that this very Douglas became, after this, quite an altered man. Mr Lawson, who lived some years after his death, attended upon him in his last illness. "God only knows the heart," would he say; "but, to all outward appearance, William Douglas was a cleansed and a sanctified vessel: the mercy of God is infinite—it even extended to the thief on the cross."

XIII.—PORTER'S HOLE.

In the west corner of the churchyard of Dalgarno—now a section of the parish of Closeburn—there is a small, but neat headstone, with two figures joining hands, as if in the attitude of marrying. Beneath is written, and still legible—"John Porter and Augnas Milligan. They were lovely in their lives, and in their deaths they were not divided." There is neither date nor narrative; but, as this part of the churchyard has not been used as a burial-ground since the union of the parishes, in the reign of Charles the Second, the date must have been some time betwixt 1660 and 1684. This beautiful and sequestered churchyard, all silent and cheerless as it is, lies upon the banks of the Nith, immediately upon its union with the ocean; and near to the most famous salmon-fishing pool in the whole river, called Porter's Hole. Whilst yet a boy, and attending Closeburn school, our attention was, one sunny afternoon, (when the trouts were unwilling to visit the dry land,) drawn to the little stone in the corner, of which we have just made mention, and recollecting, at the same time, that Porter was the name of the pool, as well as of the person buried, we began to speculate upon the possibility of there being some connection betwixt the two circumstances—the name of the individual, and the well-known designation of the blackest and deepest pool in the Closeburn part of the river. Near to this solitary restingplace of the ashes of our forefathers—the Harknesses, the Gibsons, and the Watsons of Closeburn from time immemorial—there stood, at that time, an old cottage, straw or rather grass-thatched, (for it was covered with green chicken-weed,) where dwelt, in single solitude, Janet M'Guffoch—whether any relation of the celebrated individual of that name mentioned by Sir Walter Scott, we know not—but there dwelt Janet, a discontented, old waspish body of one hundred years of age, according to general belief; and, being accompanied by a black cat and a broom besom, was marked by us boys as a decided witch. We never had any doubt about it, and the thing was confirmed by the Laird of Closeburn's gamekeeper, who swore that he had often hunted hares to Janet's door; but never could start them again. Under all these circumstances, it required no common impulse to induce us to enter the den of this emissary of Satan; but our curiosity was excited by the similarity of the names "Porter's Grave" and "Porter's Hole," (as the pool was familiarly named,) and we at length mustered faith, and strength, and courage to thrust ourselves past a bundle of withered twigs, which served Janet as a door in summer, and as a door-protector in the blasts of winter. Janet was as usual at her wheel, and crooning some old Covenanting ditty, about—