"Moods that speak their softened woes;"

and time soon wrought its accustomed amelioration. I never saw one who seemed more certainly doomed to the fate of the heart-stricken; and, however fanciful it may seem, I attribute to the mistake of his son the restoration of the father.

THE CONDEMNED.

I believe it was Fontenelle who said that, if he were to have been permitted to pass his life over again, he would have done everything he did in the world, and, of course, consented to suffer what he had suffered, in consideration of what he had enjoyed. I have heard the same statement from others. A very learned and ingenious professor in the north, whose lucubrations have often cast the effulgence of his rare genius over the pages of the Border Tales, has no hesitation in declaring that he would gladly consent to receive another tack of existence in this strange world, with all its pains and penalties, were it for nothing but to be allowed to witness the curious scenes, the startling occurrences, the humorous bizarrerie of cross-purposes, the conceits, the foibles, the triumphs of the creature man. Moore the poet has somewhere said, that he would not consent to live his life over again, except upon the condition that he were to be gifted with less love and more judgment—probably forgetting that in that case he would not have been the author of "Lallah Rookh;" though, mayhap, of a still drier life of Sheridan than that which came from his pen. I have often put the question to patients, and have found the answer to be regulated by the state of their disease. Upon the whole, it requires a very sharp, bitter pang, indeed, to extort the confession, that they would not accept another lease of life. If men were not Christians, they would choose, I think, to be Pythagoreans, were it for nothing but the slight chance they would enjoy of passing into some state of existence not in a remote degree different from that which they have declared themselves sick of a thousand times before they died. Sick of it as many, however, say they are, they would all live "a little and a little longer still," when the dread hour comes that calls them home. These remarks have been suggested by the following passage in my note-book:—"17th August, ——, case of Eugene D——, in the jail of ——. Extraordinary example of the amor vitae." I find I had jotted a number of the details; but such was the impression the scene of that tragedy of life produced in me, that even now, though many years have passed, I recollect the minutiae of the drama as distinctly as if I had witnessed it yesterday. I was indeed interested in the case more than professionally; for the subject of it was an early companion of my own, and was, besides, calculated, from his acquirements, and a free, open generosity of spirit, to produce a deep interest in the fate which, in an unhappy hour, he brought upon himself. It was on the forenoon of the day I have mentioned, that the under turnkey of the prison of —— came in breathless haste, and called me to a prisoner. It was Eugene D——. I was at the moment occupied in thinking of the youth. He had forged a bill upon his father, Mr. D——, a wealthy merchant; and it was very clearly brought out, in evidence that he applied the money to extricate a friend from pecuniary embarrassments. The father had paid the bill; but the legal authorities had prosecuted the case; and he, at that moment, lay in jail a criminal, condemned to die. The gallows was standing ready to exact its victim within two hours; the post from London would arrive in an hour with or without a reprieve. His father and mother, what were they then doing, thinking, suffering? On them and him I was meditating when the words of the turnkey fell upon my ear.

"What has occurred?" was my question to the messenger.

"Eugene D——, the condemned criminal, has taken some poisonous drug," said he, "and the provost has sent me for you to come to his relief."

I meditated a moment. It might have been as well, I thought, for all parties, that I had not been called, and that the drug, whatever it was, might be allowed to anticipate the law, but I had no alternative; I was called in my official capacity; and then a messenger might still arrive from London. I provided myself with the necessary counteracting agents, and followed the man. I passed the house of his father. The blinds were drawn, and all seemed wrapped in dead silence, as if there had been a corpse in the house. Several people were passing the door, and cast, as they went, a melancholy look at the windows. They had, in all likelihood, seen the gallows; at least, they knew the precise posture of affairs within the house. I was inclined to have entered; but I could see no benefit to be derived from my visit, and hurried forwards to the jail, from the window of which the black apparatus projected in ghastly array. The post-office in —— Street was in the neighbourhood, and an assembly of people was beginning to collect, to wait for the incoming of the mail. There was sympathy in every face; for the fate of the youth, who had been well esteemed over the town, for a handsome, generous-minded young man, and the situation of his parents—wealthy and respectable citizens—had called forth an extraordinary feeling in his favour. Indeed, thousands had signed the petition to the King, but forgery was, at that time, a crime of frequent occurrence, and the doubts that were entertained as to the success of the application were apparently justified by the arrival of the eleventh hour. On passing through the jail, I saw the various preparations in progress for the execution; the chaplain was in attendance; and, in a small cell, at the end of the apartment from which the fatal erection projected, there sat, guarded by an officer, from a fear that he would escape, the executioner himself—

"Grim as the mighty Polypheme."

My guide led me forward, and, in a few minutes, I stood beside Eugene, who, dressed in a suit of black, lay twisting his body in a chair, making the chains by which he was bound clank in a fearful manner. A small phial was on the floor. I took it up, and ascertained, in an instant, that he had betaken himself to the drug most commonly resorted to by suicides.

"Laudanum!" I exclaimed.

"Yes, yes—as much as would kill two men!" he cried wildly.

The poison had not had time to operate; or rather, its narcotic power had been suspended by the terrors of an awakened love and hope of life, that had followed close upon the prospect of death caused by his own act.

"You had a chance for life, Eugene," said I, hurriedly. "A courier may yet arrive, independently of the mail, which has not yet come."

"Chance or no chance," he cried, as I proceeded with my assistant, who now entered, to apply the remedies; "I would yet live the two hours! I had no sooner swallowed the drug, than I thought I had intercepted the mercy of heaven; life seemed—and, oh, it even now seems—sweeter than ever, and death still more dreadful! Quick—quick—quick! The poison is busy with my heart. I would give a world for even these two hours of life and hope—small, small as that is!"

I proceeded with the application of the usual remedies. A portion, but only a portion of the laudanum, had been taken off; and the next efficient remedy was motion, to keep off the sleepy lethargy that drinks up the fountain of life. Two men were got to drag him as violently as possible along the floor, leaving him enough of his own weight to force him to use his limbs. I noticed that he struggled with terrible energy against the onset of the subtle agent; exhibiting the most signal instance I ever beheld of the power of that hope which seems to be consistent with life itself. Already an eighth part of the apparent period of his sojourn upon earth had passed. Seven quarters more would, in all likelihood, bring him to the scaffold, and, by resisting my energies to counteract the effects of the poison, he might have eluded the grim arm of the law, by a death a thousand times less dreadful. Every now and then, as the men dragged him along, he turned his eyes to me, and asked the hour. Sometimes he repeated the question within two minutes of my answer. As often was his ear directed to the street, to try to catch the sounds of a coach, or the feet of a horse; and then he redoubled his energies to keep off the onset of the lethargy, which I told him was most to be feared. The operation was persevered in; but the men informed me they thought he was gradually getting heavier on their hands, and I noticed his eye, at times, get so dull that he seemed to be on the eve of falling asleep and sinking. Another quarter of an hour soon passed; and in a little further time, the bailies and chaplain would find it their duty to come and prepare him for his fate—alas! now indeed so certain, that no reasonable thought could suggest even the shadow of a hope; a reprieve, so near the time of execution, would not have been trusted to the mail, and a messenger would have arrived, by quick stages, long before; unless there had, indeed, been any fault in the government authorities, in tampering with a man's life within an hour of his execution. If I had not been under the strict law of professional discipline, I would certainly have allowed him to lie down and pass into death or oblivion. I had, however, my duty to perform; and, strange as it may appear, that duty quadrated with the wishes of the young man himself; who, as he struggled with the demon that threatened to overpower him, seemed to rise in hope as every minute diminished the chance of his salvation. By the increased energies of the men, he was again roused into a less dull perception of sounds, and I could perceive him start as the rattle of the wheels of a carriage was heard at the jail door. He fixed his half-dead, staring eye in my face, and muttered, with a difficult effort of his sinking jaws—

"Is that it—is that it?—I hear a carriage wheels, and they have stopped at the door."

As he uttered the words, it appeared as if he again exerted himself to keep the enemy, who still threatened him, at bay. I replied nothing; for I suspected that the carriage brought only some official, or, probably, some mourner, to see him, previous to the fatal scene—that scene which, in all likelihood, I was endeavouring to render more heart-rending to his friends and spectators, by keeping alive the vital spark, that might only serve to make him conscious of pain. It appeared to be too evident that he had increased tenfold the misery of his situation; for the stern law would admit of no excuse, and if he was not able to walk to the scaffold he would be carried; yet, if I remitted my endeavours to keep in life, I might, in the event of the looked-for reprieve still arriving, be liable to be accused, by my own conscience, of having been as cruel as the law itself. The door of the jail now opened, and a turnkey told me that the usual time had arrived when the officials began their preparatory duties. I replied that it was in vain to attempt, at present, the performance of these sacred rites; the prisoner was wrestling with death; and, if the exertions of the men, who kept still dragging him backwards and forwards, were remitted, he would sink, in a few minutes, into insensibility. I noticed the eye of poor Eugene turned imploringly upon me, as if he wished to know who it was that had arrived in the carriage. I merely shook my head; and the sign was no sooner made than his chin fell down on his breast; his limbs became weaker, his knees bent, and if the supporters had not exerted themselves still farther, he would have sunk. But the men still performed their duty, and dragged him hurriedly along, scarcely now with any aid from his feet, which, obeying no impulse of the loose and flaccid muscles, were thrown about in every direction, with, a shuffling, lumbering noise, and a clanking of the chain, that must have produced an extraordinary effect on those who waited in the adjoining cells. The noise thus produced was indeed all that was heard; for the effect of the poison was such as to take away all power of groaning. I was now doubtful if all the working of the men would be able to keep off much longer the sleepy incubus, for he seemed to have lost almost all power of seconding their efforts; but the door of the jail again opened, and the sound of the grating hinges made him again lift his head. His eye seemed to indicate that he had lost all sense of the passing of the moments, and I could not discover whether he looked for the entry of one bearing his letter of salvation, or of the jailor with his hammer, to knock the chain from his feet, and lead him forth to the scaffold. He again muttered some words as the turnkey was proceeding forward to where I was. I could not make them out, so faint had his voice now become; but one of the men said he wished to know the hour. I told him it was one o'clock—that was just one hour from the appointed termination of his life. The turnkey, meanwhile, whispered in my ear that his father, mother, and sister had arrived. It was the sound of their carriage wheels that we had heard. I enjoined upon the men the necessity of continuing their labours, and went out to prevent the entry of his parents to the witnessing of a scene transcending all their powers of bearing. I found the three standing in the recess where the executioner was sitting in gloomy silence. I took the father and mother by the arms, and hurried them away to the empty cell, where the chaplain and several officials were collected. The turnkey saw his error, and excused himself, on the ground that he was confused by the extraordinary state of affairs within the prison. I ascertained that no notice had been made to his parents of his having taken the drug. They had come to take farewell of him. The mail had arrived, but had brought no intelligence—not even of the petition having been disposed of; and, having given up all hope, their intention was that the mother and daughter should, after the last act of parting, fly to the country, to be as far as possible from the scene of the impending tragedy. I was the first who communicated the tidings of the condition of their son; and the noise in the prisoner's cell, as the men still continued their operations, was a sad commentary on my words. The sister, who was veiled, uttered a shrill scream, and fell back on the floor. The father stood like

"Wo's bleak, voiceless petrifaction,"

moving neither limb nor countenance; his eye was fixed steadfastly on the ground, and a deadly paleness was over his face. The mother, who was also veiled, staggered to a bench—recovering herself suddenly, as some thought, rising wildly, stung her to a broken utterance of some words. I approached her, while Mr H——, the chaplain, was assisting in getting Miss D—— to a chair.

"Let him die!—let him die!" she exclaimed. "Is not his doom inevitable? You will torture my Eugene by keeping in his life till the law demands its victim, and he may be carried—carried! O God!—to a second death, ten times more cruel than that which he is now suffering."

"No rejection of the petition has been intimated," I replied; "and there is hope to the last grain in life's ebbing glass. It is not yet two years since a reprieve came to a prisoner, in this very jail, within three hours of the appointed term of his life. You have spoken from the impulse of an agony which has overcome the truer feelings of a mother and the better dictates of prudence."

"Small, small, indeed, is that hope which a mother may not see through the gloom of a despair such as mine," she replied. "But what means that dreadful noise in Eugene's cell?"

"Only the efforts of the men to keep him awake," replied I. "My duty requires my efforts in behalf of a fellow-creature to the last moment. Reflect for an instant, and the proper feeling will again vindicate its place in the heart of a parent."

"Dreadful alternative!" she replied. "But, sir, hear me. I am his mother, and I tell you, from the divination of a mother's heart, that there will now be no respite. I say it again; it would be a relief to me if I heard, at this moment, that he had escaped by death that tragedy which will now be rendered a thousand times more painful to him and dreadful to me."

The father moved his eyes, and fixed them on the face of the mother of his boy, who, in her agony, thus called for his death in a form which bore even a shade of relief from the horror of what awaited the victim. It was, indeed, an extraordinary request; and told, as no words spoken by mortal had ever told, the pregnancy of an anguish that could seek for alleviation (if I may use so inadequate a phrase) from so fearful an alternative. All were, for a time, now silent, and there was no sound to be heard but the deep sobs of the daughter, as she recovered from her swoon; the struggle in the throat of the mother; and the shuffling and tramping in the cell of the prisoner.

"There is still hope," I whispered in the ear of the mother.

"None—none!" she ejaculated again. "My Eugene! my Eugene!"

She reclined back, with her hands over her face, still sobbing out the name of her son. I pointed to the father to assist her, while I should go again to ascertain the state of the son; but he did not seem to understand me—retaining still his rigid position, and looking with the calmness of despair on the scene around him. Her silence continued but a few moments; and when she opened her eyes again, it was to fix them on me.

"What are you doing?" she exclaimed again. "What, in the name of heaven, are you doing to my Eugene?—Saving him for second, and still more cruel death. It might have been all over. Let me see him—let me see him!"

And she rose to proceed to the cell where her son was confined; but her strength failed her, and she again reclined helplessly back in her seat. The clergyman's ministrations were called for by these uttered sentiments, which seemed so little in accordance with the precepts of Holy Writ, however natural to the bursting heart of the mother, to whom the reported death of her son, in his unparalleled situation might almost have been termed a boon. Retreating from a scene so fraught with misery, I hastened back to Eugene, who was still in the arms of the men. One of them whispered to me that he had spoken when he heard the shrill cry of his sister; but, immediately after, he relapsed again into stupor. The men complained of being exhausted by their efforts to keep him moving. His weight was now almost that of a dead body; and it was only at intervals that he made any struggles to move himself by the aid of his paralysed limbs. Two other individuals were got to relieve them; and the compulsory motions were continued. The lethargy had not altogether mastered the sentient powers; and, the operation having been stopped that I might examine his condition, he lifted his head slowly, looked round him with a vacant stare, and, after a few moments, muttered again the word "hour." I pulled out my watch, and told him that it was twenty minutes past one, he understood me, as I thought; and pronouncing indistinctly "mother," he again sank into apparent listlessness. The men again resumed their work.

Meanwhile, a buzz from without intimated too distinctly that the mob was collecting to witness the fate of their townsman. There was no distinct sound, save that which a mass of people, under the depressing feelings of sorrow, seem to send forth involuntarily—making the air, as it were, thick, and yet with no articulation or distinct noise which can be caught by the ear of one at a distance, or within the walls of a house. Eugene, I am satisfied, was unable to recognise the faint indication. It was well for him. I learned, from the turnkey, that the sound of the hammer in the erection of the gallows had put him almost distracted, and precipitated the execution of the purpose, which he had wished to delay till after the arrival of the mail. I had little doubt that he might now be kept from the grasp of the death-stupor for the remaining three quarters of an hour; but, alas! what would be my triumph? Every minute added to the certainty that I was only preparing for him and his relations greater pain; for, in any view, he could not walk to the fatal spot without as much aid as might have sufficed to carry him; and it was even more than probable that he would be so overcome that that latter operation would require to be resorted to, under the stern sanction of a law that behoved to be put in force within a given time, or not at all. The case I am now describing might suggest some consideration worthy of the attention of our legislators, who, arrogating to themselves a license as wide as the limits of the human mind, deny all manner of discretion to the superintendents of the last execution of the law. We profess to be abhorrent from scenes of torture, as well as, on grounds of policy, hostile to a species of punishment which, indeed, defeats its own ends; and yet I could give more than one case where the substance has been retained in all its atrocity, while the form was veiled by flimsy excuses of a false necessity. My situation was now a very painful one indeed. I was training and supporting the victim for the altar; rescuing from death only to sacrifice him with more bloody rites and a crueller spirit of immolation. The words of his mother, wrung from the agony of a parent's love, rang in my ears; the look of the father—that of imbecile despair—was imprinted on my mind; the hour was fast on the wing; all hope had perished; and before me was the unfortunate youth, handsome, elegant, and interesting, even in the writhings of the master-fiend, suffering a death which was to be, in effect, repeated in another and a crueller form. I had seen him under circumstances of friendship, and the ebullitions of his generous spirit; and I was become, as I pictured to myself, his enemy, who would not allow him to die, to escape from shame and an increased agony of dissolving nature. Will I admit it? For a moment or two I hesitated; and, indeed, had half-resolved to tell the men to stop—the time might yet have sufficed for finishing what he had begun. If he was not dead before two, he would, at least be beyond feeling; and, if the officials chose to take the last step of getting him carried to the gallows, they would in effect be immolating a corpse.

My better and calmer thoughts of duty, however, prevailed; and, in the meantime, I saw the prudence of preventing any meeting between Eugene and his parents, which could tend to nothing but an increase of pain on the side of those who were still able to feel—for, as regarded the young man himself, he was beyond the impulse of the feelings that might otherwise have been called up, even by such a scene. I was not even ill pleased to hear from the under turnkey, that the magistrates had given orders for the departure of the friends; though, for my own satisfaction, I wished that the father, who had still some command of himself, might visit his son for a few minutes, and sanction my proceedings with his approbation. I was informed also by the turnkey, that the father was resisting to the utmost of his power the efforts of the mother to get into the cell. He probably saw too clearly that in the excited condition in which she still remained, the scene might prove disastrous, as affecting either life or reason; and, if I could judge from what I myself felt in spite of the blunting effects of a long acquaintanceship with misery in its various phases, there was good reason for his fears. The scene presented features

"Direr than incubus's haggard train."

I had just looked my watch—it wanted now only twenty minutes of the last hour. The order for the friends to quit the jail was about to be obeyed. The father sent a messenger for me. I repaired to the cell; but to avoid the appeals of the mother and daughter, I beckoned him forth to the lobby. He asked me whether he should see his son now that he was all but insensible, and could not probably recognise him. He feared that he could not stand the scene, for that the calmness he assumed was false! I replied that it certainly required no ordinary firmness; and yet the pain might in some degree be even lessened by the state of stupor and insensibility in which the youth still continued. He fixed his eyes on my face with an expression of forced and unnatural calmness, that pained me more than the death-like inanity of the still beautiful countenance of his son, or the hysterical excitement of the mother. He at last seized my hand and proceeded along to the cell hurriedly, as the turnkey was crying loudly for the friends to depart. We entered and stood for a moment. He stood and gazed at his son, as the latter was still kept moving by the men; but Eugene was apparently unconscious of the presence of his parents. A loud cry from the dense crowd who had assembled to witness the execution, struck my ear. I ran to the window, and saw a man in the act of coming off a horse, whose sides were covered with foam and blood. The cries of the crowd continued, and I could distinctly hear the word "reprieve" mixed with the shouts. Mr. D—— was at my back, and I felt his hands press me like a vice. The two men who were supporting Eugene, had also heard the sound, and, paralysed by the extraordinary announcement, they actually let the prisoner sink on the floor. The sound of his fall made me turn; the father had vanished, doubtless to meet the messenger, and communicate the tidings to his wife and daughter. A great bustle in the neighbouring cells succeeded. The two men stood and looked at me in silence. Eugene still lay on the floor, to all appearance insensible. By my orders he was immediately again lifted up, and dragged more violently than ever, backwards and forwards. In a few seconds, the turnkey came in, and struck off the irons, by which his ancle had been so severely torn that the blood flowed from it on the floor. He informed me that he was indeed reprieved, and that the fault of the delay was attributable to the authorities in London. I shouted in the ear of the young man the electric word; he lifted his head, looked wildly around him for a few seconds, and uttered a strange gurgling sound unlike any expression of the human voice I ever heard. I was indeed uncertain whether he understood me or not. In a few minutes more, the cell was crowded—the father, mother, and daughter, the chaplain, the messenger, and several of the officials, all bursting in, to see the condition of the criminal. To this I was not averse; because the more excitement that could be produced in the mind of the youth, the greater chance remained of our being able to keep off the deadly effects of the drug. A thousand times did the parent and mother sound into his dull ear the vocable pregnant with so much relief to him and his friends; but it was not until two hours afterwards that he was so far recovered as to understand perfectly the narrow escape he had made from death. In the evening he was conveyed home in a carriage; and, as they were leaving the jail, he looked out at the grim apparatus which had been erected for him, and which the workmen were removing in the midst of a dense crowd of citizens.

Some days afterwards, Eugene D—— had almost entirely recovered from the effects of the poison. One day when I called, I found him lying on a sofa, with his mother sitting by his side. She took her eyes off her son, and bent them on me till tears filled them.

"Before you entered," she said, "I was talking to Eugene about the request I made to you in the jail on that dreadful day, to let my son die. Repeatedly since, have I thought of my wild words; but they know little of human nature, at least little of the feelings of a mother in my situation, who could brand them as unnatural, or doubt the sanity that recognised fully their effect."

"I am too well apprised, madam," I replied, "of the workings of that organ, whose changes often startle ourselves, to be surprised at the words you then made use of. I knew not, after all, if you did not exhibit as much heroism as Brutus, who condemned his son to death; certainly more than Zaleucus, who condemned his to the loss of an eye, having first submitted to the loss of his own, to make the love of a father quadrate with the justice of the law-giver."

"And what say you to yourself, to whom I owe the safety of my Eugene?" she added.

"An Acesias might have accomplished all that I accomplished, madam—for all I did was to keep off sleep; but, if the secret must needs be told, I had some doubts at least of the humanity of my proceedings, whatever I might have thought of my duty."

Eugene afterwards went to the East Indies, where he made a fortune. Some pecuniary embarrassments afterwards overtook the family, on which occasion he sent them home the one half of the money he had made, whereby they were again placed in a condition of affluence. A present was also sent to me. It is not yet very many years ago since I saw Eugene. He had assumed another name in India, where he had married a very beautiful woman, and to whom he again returned.



THE UNBIDDEN GUEST,

OR, JEDBURGH'S REGAL FESTIVAL.

"In the mid revels, the first ominous night Of their espousals, when the room shone bright With lighted tapers—the king and the queen leading The curious measures, lords and ladies treading The self-same strains—the king looks back by chance, And spies a strange intruder fill the dance; Namely, a mere anatomy, quite bare, His naked limbs both without flesh and hair, (As we decipher Death,) who stalks about Keeping true measure till the dance be out."

Heywood's Hierarchie of the Blessed Angels.

There is no river in this country which presents in its course, scenes more beautifully romantic than the little Jed. Though it exhibits not the dizzy cliffs where the eagles build their nests, the mass of waters, the magnitude and the boldness, which give the character of sublimity to a scene; yet, as it winds its course through undulating hills where the forest trees entwine their broad branches, or steals along by the foot of the red, rocky precipices, where the wild flowers and the broom blossom from every crevice of their perpendicular sides, and from whose summits the woods bend down, beautiful as rainbows, it presenteth pictures of surpassing loveliness, which the eye delights to dwell upon. It is a fair sight to look down from the tree-clad hills upon the ancient burgh, with the river half circling it, and gardens, orchards, woods, in the beauty of summer blossoming, or the magnificence of their autumnal hues, encompassing it, while the venerable Abbey riseth stately in the midst of all, as a temple in paradise. Such is the character of the scenery around Jedburgh now; and, in former ages, its beauty rendered it a favourite resort of the Scottish Kings.

About the year 1270, an orphan boy, named Patrick Douglas, herded a few sheep upon the hills, which were the property of the monks of Melrose. Some of the brotherhood, discovering him to be a boy of excellent parts, instructed him to read and to write; and perceiving the readiness with which he acquired these arts, they sought also to initiate him into all the learning of the age, and to bring him up for their order. To facilitate and complete his instructions, they had him admitted amongst them, as a convert or lay-brother. But, though the talents of the shepherd boy caused him to be regarded as a prodigy by all within the monastery, from the Lord Abbot down to the kitchener and his assistants; yet, with Patrick, as with many others even now, gifts were not graces. He had no desire to wear the white cassock, narrow scapulary, and plain linen hood of the Cistertian brethren; neither did he possess the devoutness necessary for performing his devotions seven times a-day; and when the bell roused him at two in the morning, to what was called the nocturnal service, Patrick arose reluctantly; for, though compelled to wedge himself into a narrow bed at eight o'clock in the evening, it was his wont to lie awake, musing on what he had read or learned, until past midnight; and, when the nocturnal was over, he again retired to sleep, until he was aroused at six for matins; but, after these came other devotions, called tierce, the sexte, the none, vespers, and the compline, at nine in the morning, at noon, at three in the afternoon, at six in the evening and before eight. These services broke in on his favourite studies; and, possessing more talent than devotion, while engaged in them he thought more of his studies than of them. Patrick, therefore, refused to take the monastic vow. He

"had heard of war, And longed to follow to the field some warlike lord."

He, however, was beloved by all; and when he left the monastery, the Abbot and the brethren gave him their benediction, and bestowed gifts upon him. He also carried with him letters from the Lord Abbot and Prior, to men who were mighty in power at the court of King Philip of France.

From the testimonials which he brought with him, Patrick Douglas, the Scottish orphan, speedily obtained favour in the eyes of King Philip and his nobles, and became as distinguished on the field for his prowess and the feats of his arms, as he had been in the Abbey of Melrose for his attainments in learning. But a period of peace came; and he who was but a few years before a shepherd boy by Tweedside, now bearing honours conferred on him by a foreign monarch, was invited as a guest to the palace of the illustrious Count of Dreux. A hundred nobles were there, each exhibiting all the pageantry of the age; and there, too, were a hundred ladies, vying with each other in beauty, and in the splendour of their array. But chief of all was Jolande, the daughter of their host, the Count of Dreux, and the fame of whose charms had spread throughout Christendom. Troubadours sang of her beauty, and princes bent the knee before her. Patrick Douglas beheld her charms. He gazed on them with a mixed feeling of awe, of regret, and of admiration. His eyes followed her, and his soul followed them. He beheld the devoirs which the great and the noble paid to her, and his heart was heavy; for she was the fairest and the proudest flower among the French nobility —he an exotic weed of desert birth. And, while princes strove for her hand, he remembered, he felt, that he was an orphan of foreign and of obscure parentage—a scholar by accident, (but to be a scholar was no recommendation in those days, and it is but seldom that it is one even now.) and a soldier of fortune, to whose name royal honours were not attached, while his purse was light, and who, because his feet covered more ground than he could call his own, his heels were denied the insignia of knighthood. Yet, while he ventured not to breathe his thoughts or wishes before her, he imagined that she looked on him more kindly, and that she smiled on him more frequently than on his lordly rivals; and his heart deceived itself, and rejoiced in secret.

Now, it was early in the year 1283, the evening was balmy for the season, the first spring flowers were budding forth, and the moon, as a silver crescent, was seen among the stars. The young scholar and soldier of unknown birth walked in the gardens of the Count of Dreux, and the lovely Jolande leaned upon his arm. His heart throbbed as he listened to the silver tones of her sweet voice, and felt the gentle pressure of her soft hand in his. He forgot that she was the daughter of a prince—he the son of a dead peasant. In the delirium of a moment, he had thrown himself on his knee before her, he had pressed her hand on his bosom, and gazed eagerly in her face.

She was startled by his manner, and had only said—"Sir! what means?"—though in a tone neither of reproach nor of pride, when what she would have said was cut short by the sudden approach of a page, who, bowing before her, stated that four commissioners having arrived from the King of Scotland, the presence of the Princess Jolande was required at the palace. Patrick Douglas started to his feet as he heard the page approach, and as he listened to his words he trembled.

The princess blushed, and turning from Patrick, proceeded in confusion towards the palace; while he followed at a distance, repenting of what he had said, and of what he had done, or, rather, wishing that he had said more, or said less.

"Yet," thought he, "she did not look on me as if I had spoken presumptuously! I will hope, though it be against hope—even though it be but the shadow of despair."

But an hour had not passed, although he sought to hide himself with his thoughts in his chamber, when he heard that the commissioners who had arrived from his native land, were Thomas Charteris, the High Chancellor; Patrick de Graham, William de St Clair, and John de Soulis; and that their errand was to demand the beautiful Jolande as the bride and queen of their liege sovereign, Alexander the Third, yet called good.

Now, the praise of Alexander was echoed in every land. He was as a father to his people, and as a husband to his kingdom. He was wise, just, resolute, merciful. Scotland loved him—all nations honoured him. But Death, that spareth not the prince more than the peasant, and which, to short-sighted mortals, seemeth to strike alike at the righteous and the wicked, had made desolate the hearths of his palaces, and rendered their chambers solitary. Tribulation had fallen heavily on the head of a virtuous King. A granddaughter, the infant child of a foreign prince, was all that was left of his race; and his people desired that he should leave behind him, as inheritor of the crown, one who might inherit also his name and virtues. He was still in the full vigour of his manhood, and the autumn of years was invisible on his brow. No "single silverings" yet marked the raven ringlets which waved down his temples; and, though his years were forty and three, his appearance did not betoken him to be above thirty.

His people, therefore, wished, and his courtiers urged, that he should marry again; and fame pointed out the lovely Jolande, the daughter of the Count of Dreux, as his bride.

When Patrick Douglas, the learned and honoured, but fortuneless soldier, found that his new competitor for the hand of the gentle Jolande was none other than his sovereign, he was dumb with despair, and the last, the miserable hope which it imparts, and which maketh wretched, began to leave him. He now accused himself for having been made the sacrifice of a wild and presumptuous dream, and again he thought of the kindly smile and the look of sorrow which met together on her countenance, when, in a rash, impassioned moment, he fell on his knee before her, and made known what his heart felt.

But, before another sun rose, Patrick Douglas, the honoured military adventurer of King Philip, was not to be found in the palace of the Count de Dreux. Many were the conjectures concerning his sudden departure; and, amongst those conjectures, as regarding the cause, many were right. But Jolande stole to her chamber, and in secret wept for the brave stranger.

More than two years passed away, and the negotiations between the Courts of Scotland and of France, respecting the marriage of King Alexander and Fair Jolande, were continued; but, during that period, even the name of Patrick Douglas, the Scottish soldier, began to be forgotten—his learning became a dead letter, and his feats of arms continued no longer the theme of tongues. It is seldom that kings are such tardy wooers; but between the union of the good Alexander and the beautiful Jolande many obstacles were thrown. When, however, their nuptials were finally agreed to, it was resolved that they should be celebrated on a scale of magnificence such as the world had not seen. Now, the loveliest spot in broad Scotland, where the Scottish King could celebrate the gay festivities, was the good town of Jedworth, or, as it is now called, Jedburgh. For it was situated, like an Eden, in the depth of an impenetrable forest; gardens circled it; wooded hills surrounded it; precipices threw their shadows over flowery glens; wooded hills embraced it, as the union of many arms; waters murmured amidst it; and it was a scene on which man could not gaze without forgetting, or regretting his fallen nature. Yea, the beholder might have said—"If the earth be yet so lovely, how glorious must it have been ere it was cursed because of man's transgression!"

Thither, then, did the Scottish monarch, attended by all the well-affected nobles of his realm, repair to meet his bride. He took up his residence in the castle of his ancestors, which was situated near the Abbey, and his nobles occupied their own, or other houses, in other parts of the town; for Jedburgh was then a great and populous place, and, from the loveliness of its situation, the chosen residence of royalty. (It is a pity but that our princes and princesses saw it now, and they would hardly be again charmed with the cold, dead, and bare beach of Brighton.) An old writer (I forget whom) has stated, in describing the magnitude of Jedburgh in those days, that it was six times larger than Berwick. This, however, is a mistake, for Berwick, at that period, was the greatest maritime town in the kingdom, and surpassed London, which strove to rival it.

On the same day that King Alexander and his splendid retinue reached Jedburgh, his bride, escorted by the nobles of France and their attendants, also arrived. The dresses of the congregated thousands were gorgeous as summer flowers, and variegated as gorgeous. The people looked with wonder on the glittering throng. The trees had lost the hues of their fresh and living green—for brown October threw its deep shadows o'er the landscape—but the leaves yet trembled on the boughs from which they were loath to part; and, as a rainbow that had died upon the trees, and left its hues and impression there, the embrowning forest appeared.

The marriage ceremony was performed in the Abbey, before Morel, the Lord Abbot, and glad assembled thousands. The town and the surrounding hills became a scene of joy. The bale-fires blazed from every hill; music echoed in the streets; and from every house, while the light of tapers gleamed, was heard the sounds of dance and song. The Scottish maiden and the French courtier danced by the side of the Jed together. But chief of all the festive scene was the assembly in the hall of the royal castle. At the farther end of the apartment, elevated on a purpled covered dais, sat King Alexander, with the hand of his bridal queen locked in his. On each side were ranged, promiscuously, the Scottish and the French nobility, with their wives, daughters, and sisters. Music lent its influence to the scene, and the strains of a hundred instruments blended in a swell of melody.

Thrice a hundred tapers burned suspended from the roof, and on each side of the hall stood twenty men with branches of blazing pine. Now came the morris dance, with the antique dress and strange attitudes of the performers, which was succeeded by a dance of warriors in their coats of mail, and with their swords drawn. After these a masque, prepared by Thomas the Rymer, who sat on the right hand of the King, followed; and the company laughed, wept, and wondered, as the actors performed their parts before them.

But now came the royal dance; the music burst into a bolder strain, and lord and lady rose, treading the strange measure down the hall, after the King and his fair Queen. Louder, and yet more loud the music pealed; and, though it was midnight, the multitude without shouted at its enlivening strains. Blithely the dance went on, and the King well nigh forgot the measure as he looked enraptured in the fair face of his beauteous bride.

He turned to take her hand in the dance, and in its stead the bony fingers of a skeleton were extended to him. He shrank back aghast; for royalty shuddereth at the sight of Death as doth a beggar, and, in its presence, feeleth his power to be as the power of him who vainly commanded the waves of the sea to go back. Still the skeleton kept true measure before him—still it extended to him its bony hand. He fell back, in horror, against a pillar where a torch-bearer stood. The lovely Queen shrieked aloud, and fell as dead upon the ground. The music ceased—silence fell on the multitude—they stood still—they gazed on each other. Dismay caused the cold damp of terror to burst from every brow, and timid maidens sought refuge and hid their faces on the bosom of strangers. But still, visible to all, the spectre stood before the king, its bare ribs rattling as it moved, and its finger pointed towards him. The music, the dancers, became noiseless, as if Death had whispered—"Hush!—be still!" For the figure of death stood in the midst of them, as though it mocked them, and no sound was heard save the rattling of the bones, the moving of its teeth, and the motion of its fingers before the king.

The lord abbot gathered courage, he raised his crucifix from his breast, he was about to exorcise the strange spectre, when it bent its grim head before him, and vanished as it came—no man knew whither.

"Let the revels cease!" gasped the terror-stricken king; and they did cease. The day had begun in joy, it was ended in terror. Fear spread over the land, and while the strange tale of the marriage spectre was yet in the mouths of all men, yea before six months had passed, the tidings spread that the good King Alexander, at whom the figure of Death had pointed its finger, was with the dead, and his young queen a widow in a strange land.

The appearance of the spectre became a tale of wonder amongst all men, descending from generation to generation, and unto this day it remains a mystery. But, on the day after the royal festival at Jedburgh, Patrick Douglas, the learned soldier, took the vows, and became a monastic brother at Melrose; and, though he spoke of Jolande in his dreams, he smiled, as if in secret triumph, when the spectre that had appeared to King Alexander was mentioned in his hearing.



THE SIMPLE MAN IS THE BEGGAR'S BROTHER.

"Many a time," said Nicholas Middlemiss, as he turned round the skirts and the sleeve of his threadbare coat to examine them, "many a time have I heard my mother say to my faither—'Roger, Roger (for that was my faither's name,) the simple man is the beggar's brother.' But, notwithstanding my mother's admonitions, my faither certainly was a very simple man. He allowed people to take him in, even while they were laughing in his face at his simplicity. I dinna think that ever there was a week but that somebody or other owrereached him, in some transaction or other; for every knave, kennin' him to be a simpleton, (a nosey-wax, as my mother said,) always laid their snares to entrap Roger Middlemiss—and his family were the sufferers. He had been a manufacturer in Langholm for many a long year, and at his death he left four brothers, a sister and mysel', four hundred pounds each. Be it remembered, however, that his faither before him left him near to three thousand, and that was an uncommon fortune in those days, a fortune I may say that my faither might have made his bairns dukes by. Had he no been a simple man, his family might have said that they wouldna ca' the Duke o' Buccleuch their cousin. But he was simple—simplicity's sel'—(as my mother told him weel about it)—and he didna leave his bairns sae meikle to divide among them, as he had inherited from their grandfaither. Yet, if, notwithstanding his opportunities to make a fortune, he did not even leave us even what he had got, he at least left us his simpleness unimpaired. My brothers were honest men—owre honest, I am sorry to say, for the every-day transactions of this world—but they always followed the obliging path, and kept their face in a direction, which, if they had had foresight enough to see it, was sure to land them in, or on,(just as ye like to take the expression,) their native parish. Now, this is a longing after the place o' one's birth for which I have no ambition; but on the parish it did land my brothers. My sister, too, was a poor simple thing, that married a man who had a wife living when he married her; and, after he had got every shilling that she had into his possession, he decamped and left her.

"But it is not the history of my brothers and sisters that I would tell you about, but my own. With the four hundred pounds which my faither left me, I began business as a linen manufacturer—that is, as a maister weaver, on what might be called a respectable scale. The year after I had commenced business upon my own account, and before I was two and twenty, I was taking a walk one Sunday afternoon on the Hawick road, along by Sorbie, and there I met the bonniest lassie, I think, that I had ever seen. I was so struck wi' her appearance, that I actually turned round and followed her. She was dressed in a duffel coat or pelisse, which I think country folk call a Joseph; but I followed her at a distance, through fields and owre stiles, till I saw her enter a sma' farm-house. There were some bits o' bairns, apparently hinds' bairns, sitting round a sort o' duck-dub near the stackyard.

"'Wha lives there, dearies?' says I to them, pointing wi' my finger to the farm-house.

"'Ned Thomson,' says they.

"'And wha was that bonny lassie,' asked I, 'that gaed in just the now?'

"'He! he! he!' the bairns laughed, and gaed me nae answer. So I put my question to them again, and ane o' the auldest o' them, a lassie about thirteen, said—'It was the maister's daughter, sir, the laird's bonny Jenny—if ye like, I'll gang in and tell her that a gentleman wishes to speak to her.'

"I certainly was very proud o' the bairn taking me to be a gentleman; but I couldna think o' meeting Miss Thompson, even if she should come out to see me, wi' such an introduction, for I was sure I would make a fool o' mysel'; and I said to the bit lassie—'No I thank ye, hinny; I'm obliged to ye'" and a' her little companions 'he! he! he'd!' and laughed the louder at my expense; which, had I not been a simple man, I never would have placed it in their power to do.

"So I went away, thinking on her face as if I had been looking at it in a glass a' the time; and to make a long story short, within three months, Miss Jenny Thompson and me became particularly weel acquaint. But my mother, who had none o' the simpleness that came by my faither's side o' the house, was then living; and when Jenny and I were on the eve o' being publicly cried in the kirk, she clapped her affidavit against it.

"'Nicol,' said she, 'son as ye are o' mine, ye're a poor simple goniel. There isna a bairn that I have among ye to mend another. Ye are your faither owre again, every one o' ye—each one more simple than another. Will ye marry a taupie that has nae recommendation but a doll's face, and bring shame and sorrow to your door?'

"I flew into a rampaging passion wi' my mother, for levelling Jenny to either shame or sorrow: but she maintained that married we should not be, if she could prevent it; and she certainly said and did everything that lay in her power to render me jealous. She might as weel have lectured to a whinstane rock. I believed Jenny to be as pure as the dew that falleth upon a lily before sunrise in May. But on the very night before we were to be married, and when I went to fit on the gloves and the ring—to my horror and inexpressible surprise, who should I see in the farm-yard, (for it was a fine star-light night,) but my Jenny—my thrice cried bride—wi' her hand upon the shouther o' the auldest son o' her faither's laird, and his arm round her waist. My first impulse was to run into the stackyard where they were, and to knock him down; but he was a strong lad, and, thinks I, 'second thoughts are best.' I was resolved, however, that my mother should find I wasna such a simpleton as she gied me out to be—so I turned round upon my heel and went home saying to mysel, as the song says—

'If this be the way of courting a wife, I'll never look after another; But I'll away hame and live single my lane, And I'll away hame to my mother.'

When I went hame, and informed her o' what I had seen, and o' what I had dune, the auld woman clapped me upon the shouther, and says she—'Nicholas, my man, I am glad that yer ain een have been made a witness in the matter of which your mother forewarned ye. Ye was about to bring disgrace upon your family; but I trust ye have seen enough to be a warning to ye. O Nicholas! they that marry a wife merely for the sake o' a bonny face, or for being a smart dancer, or onything o' that kind, never repent it but once, and that is for ever. Marriage lad, lifts the veil from the face o' beauty, and causes it to be looked upon as an every-day thing; and even if ye were short-sighted before, marriage will make ye see through spectacles that will suit your sight, whither ye will or no. Dinna think that I am against ye taking a wife; for I ken it is the best thing that a young man can do. Had your faither not married me when he did, he would hae died a beggar, instead o' leaving ye what he did. And especially a simple creature like you, Nicholas, needs one to take care o' him. But you must not expect to meet wi' such a one in every bonny face, handsome waist, or smart ancle that ye meet wi'. Na, na, lad; ye maun look to the heart, and the disposition or temper, and the affection for you. They are the grand points that ye are to study; and not the beauty o' the face, the shape o' the waist, (which a mantua-maker has a principal hand in making,) the colour o' the een, or the texture o' the hair. Thae are things that are forgotten before ye hae been married a twalmonth; but the feelings o' the heart, and the sentiments o' the soul, aye rin pure, Nicholas, and grow stronger and stronger, just like a bit burn oozing frae a hill, and wimpling down its side, waxing larger and larger, and gathering strength on strength as it runs, until it meets the sea, like a great river; and even so it is wi' the affections o' the heart between man and wife, where they really love and understand each other; for they begin wi' the bit spring o' courtship, following the same course, gathering strength, and flowing side by side, until they fall into the ocean o' eternity, as a united river that cannot be divided! Na, son, if ye will take a wife, I hope ye hae seen enough to convince ye that she ought never to be the bonny Miss Thompson. But if I might advise ye in the matter, there is our own servant, Nancy Bowmaker, a young lass, a weel-faured lass, and as weel behaved as she is good-looking. She has lived wi' us, now, for four years, and from term to term I never have had to quarrel her. I never saw her encouraging lads about the house—I never missed the value o' a prin since she came to it—I never even saw her light a candle at the fire, or keep the cruisy burning when she had naething to do but to spin, or to knit. Now, Nicholas, if ye will be looking after a wife, I say that ye canna do better than just draw up wi' Nancy Bowmaker.'

"So my mother ended her long-winded harangue; which I had hardly patience to listen to. In the course o' the week, the faither and brothers o' Miss Jenny Thompson called upon me, to see why I had not fulfilled my engagement, by taking her before the minister, and declaring her to be my wife. I stood before them like a man touched wi' a flash o' lightning—pale as death and trembling like a leaf. But, when they began to talk big owre me, and to threaten me wi' bringing the terrors o' the law upon my head—(and be it remembered I have an exceeding horror o' the law, and would rather lose a pound ony day, than spend six and eightpence, which is the least ye can spend on it)—as good luck would have it, while they were stamping their feet, and shaking their nieves in my face, my mother came forward to where we were standing, and says she to me—'Nicholas, what is a' this about? What does Mr Thompson and his sons want?'

"The very sound o' her voice inspired me; I regained my strength and my courage, as the eagle renews its age. And, simple man as I was—'Sir,' said I, 'what is it that ye mean? Gae ask your daughter wha it was that had his arm round her waist on Thursday night last, and her hand upon his shouther! Go to him to marry her!—but dinna hae the audacity to look me in the face.'

"'Weel said, Nicol,' whispered my mother, coming behint me, and clapping me on the back; 'aye act in that manner, my man.'

"And both her faithers and her brothers stood looking one to another for an answer, and slunk away without saying another word either about the law or our marriage. I found I had gotten the whip hand o' them most completely. So, there never was another word between me and bonny Jenny Thompson, who, within a month, ran away wi' the son o' her faither's laird—and, poor hizzy, I am sorry to say, her end wasna a good one.

"My mother, however, always kept teasing me about Nancy Bowmaker, and saying what a notable wife she would make. Now, some folk are foolish enough to say that they couldna like onybody that was in a manner forced upon them. And, nae doubt, if either a faither or a mother, or onybody else that has power owre ye, says—'Like such a one,' it is not in your power to comply, and actually love the person in obedience to a command. Yet this I will say, that my mother's sermons to me about Nancy Bowmaker, and my being always evened to her upon that account, caused me to think more about her than I did concerning ony other woman under the sun. And ye canna think lang about ony lass in particular, without beginning to have a sort o' regard for her, as it were. In short, I began to find that I liked Nancy just as weel as I had done Jenny; we, therefore, were married, and a most excellent and affectionate wife she has been to me, even to this day.

"It was now that I began the world in good earnest. But though my wife was an active woman, I was still the same simple, easy-imposed-upon sort o' being that I had always been. Every rogue in the country-side very soon became acquainted wi' my disposition. I had no reason to complain of my business; for orders poured in upon me faster than I was able to supply them. Only, somehow or other—and I thought it very strange—money didna come in so fast as the orders. My wife said to me—'This trade will never do, Nicholas—ye will gang on trust, trusting, until ye trust yoursel' to the door. Therefore, do as I advise ye, and look after the siller.'

"'O my dear,' said I, 'they are good customers, and I canna offend them for the sake o' a few pounds. I have no doubt but they are safe enough.

"'Safe or no safe,' quoth she, 'get ye your accounts settled. Their siller will do as meikle for ye as their custom. Take a woman's advice for once, and remember, that, 'short accounts make long friends.' Look ye after your money.'

"I couldna but confess that there was a great deal o' truth in what Mrs Middlemiss (that is my wife) said to me. But I had not her turn for doing things. I could not be so sharp wi' folk, had it been to save my life. I never could affront onybody in my days. Yet I often wished that I could take her advice; for I saw people getting deeper and deeper into my books, without the prospect o' payment being made more manifest. Under such circumstances I began to think wi' her, that their siller would be as good as their custom—the one was not much worth without the other.

"But, just to give ye a few instances o' my simplicity:—I was walking, on a summer evening, as my custom was, about a mile out o' the town, when I overtook a Mr Swanston, a very respectable sort o' man, a neighbour, and an auld acquaintance, who appeared to be in very great tribulation. I think, indeed, that I never saw a fellow-creature in such visible distress. His countenance was perfectly wofu', and he was wringing his hands like a body dementit.

"'Preserve us, Mr Swanston!' says I, 'what's the matter wi' ye?—has onything happened?'

"'Oh! happened!' said he; 'I'm a ruined man!—I wish that I had never been born!—that I had never drawn breath in this world o' villany! I believe I'll do some ill to mysel'.'

"'Dear me, Mr Swanston!' quoth I, 'I'm sorry to hear ye talk so. It is very unchristian-like to hear a body talking o' doing harm to theirsels. There is a poet, (Dr Young, if I mistake not,) that says—

'Self-murder! name it not, our island's shame!'

Now, I dinna like to hear ye talking in such a way; and though I have no wish to be inquisitive, I would just beg to ask what it is upon your mind that is making ye unhappy?'

"'Oh, Mr Middlemiss,' said he, 'it is o' no use telling ye o't, for I believe that sympathy has left this world, as weel as honesty.'

"'Ye're no very sure o' that, neighbour,' says I; 'and I dinna think that ye do mysel' and other people justice.'

"'Maybe not, sir,' said he; 'but is it not a hard case, that, after I have carried on business for more than twenty years, honestly and in credit wi' all the world, that I should have to stop my business to-morrow, for the want o' three hundred pounds?'

"'It certainly is,' said I, 'a very hard case; but, dear me, Mr Swanston, I always thought that ye would be worth twenty shillings in the pound.'

"'So I am,' said he; 'I am worth twice twenty, if my things should be put up at their real value; but at present I canna command the ready money—and there is where the rock lies that I am to be wrecked upon.'

"'Assuredly,' returned I, 'three hundred pounds are no bauble. It requires a person to turn owre a number o' shillings to make them up. But I would think that, you having been so long in business, and always having borne an irreproachable character, it would be quite a possible thing for you to raise the money amongst your friends.'

"'Sir,' said he, 'I wouldna require them to raise the money, nor ever to advance or pay a farthing upon my account; all that I require is, that some sponsible person, such as yourself, would put their name to a bill for six months. There would be nothing but the signing o' the name required o' them; and if you, sir, would so far oblige me, ye will save a neighbour from ruin.'

"I thought there was something very reasonable in what he said, and that it would be a grand thing if by the mere signing o' my name, I could save a fellow-creature and auld acquaintance from ruin, or from raising his hand against his own life. Indeed, I always felt a particular pleasure in doing a good turn to onybody. I therefore said to him—

'Weel, Mr Swanston, I have no objections to sign my name, if, as you say, that be all that is in it, and if my doing so will be of service to you.'

"He grasped hold o' my hand wi' both o' his, and he squeezed it until I thought he would have caused the blood to start from my finger ends.

"'Mr Middlemiss,' said he, 'I shall never be able to repay you for this act o' kindness. I will feel it in my heart the longest day I have to live.'

"I was struck with his agitation; in fact, I was very much put about. For even a tear upon the face o' a woman distresses me beyond the power o' words to describe; but to see the salt water on the cheeks of a man indicates that there is something dreadfully ill at ease about the heart. And really the tears ran down his face as if he had been a truant school-laddie that had been chastised by his master.

"'There is no occasion for thanks, Mr Swanston,' said I—'none in the world; for the man would be worse than a heathen, that wouldna be ready to do ten times more.'

"Weel, he grasped my hand the harder, and he shook it more fervently, saying—'O, sir! sir!—a friend in need is a friend indeed; and such ye have proved to be—and I shall remember it.'

"That very night we went to a public-house, and we had two half-mutchkins together; in the course of drinking which, he got out a stamped paper, and after writing something on it, which I was hardly in a condition to read, (for my head can stand very little,) he handed it to me, and pointed with his finger where I was to put my name upon the back o't. So I took the pen and wrote my name—after which, we had a parting gill, and were both very comfortable.

"When I went home, Nancy perceiving me to be rather sprung, and my een no as they ought to be, said to me—'Where have you been, Nicholas, until this time o' nicht?'

"'Touts!' said, I, 'what need ye mind? It is a hard maiter that a body canna stir out owre the door but ye maun ask—'where hae ye been?' I'm my own maister, I suppose—at least after business hours.'

"'No doubt o' that, Nicholas,' said she; 'but while ye are your own maister, ye are also my husband, and the faither o' my family, and it behoves me to look after ye.'

"'Look after yoursel'!' said I, quite pettedly—'for I am always very high and independent when I take a glass extra—ye wouldna tak me to be a simple man then.'

"'There is no use in throwing yoursel' into a rage, added she; 'for ye ken as weel as me, Nicholas, that ye never take a glass more than ye ought to do, but ye invariably make a fool o' yoursel' by what ye say or do, and somebody or ither imposes on ye. And ye are so vexed with yoursel' the next day, that there is nae living in the house wi' ye. Ye wreak a' the shame and ill-nature that ye feel on account o' your conduct upon us.'

"'Nancy!' cried I, striking my hand upon the table, as though I had been an emperor, 'what in the name o' wonder do ye mean? Who imposes upon me?—who dare?—tell me that!—I say tell me that?' And I struck my hand upon the table again.

"'Owre mony impose upon ye, my man,' quoth she; 'and I hope naebody has been doing it the night, for I never saw ye come hame in this key, but that somebody had got ye to do something that ye was to repent afterwards.'

"'Confound ye, Nancy!' cried I, very importantly whipping up the tails o' my coat in a passion, and turning my back to the fire, while I gied a sort o' stagger, and my head knocked against the chimley piece—'confound ye, Nancy, I say, what do ye mean? Simple man as ye ca' me, and as ye tak me to be, do ye think that I am to come home to get naething but a dish o' tongues from you! Bring me my supper.'

"'Oh, certainly, ye shall have your supper,' said she, 'if ye can eat it—only I think that your bed is the fittest place for ye. O man,' added she in a lower tone, half speaking to hersel, 'but ye'll be sorry for this the morn.'

"'What the mischief are ye muttering at?' cried I—'get me my supper.'

"'Oh, ye shall have that,' said she very calmly, for she was, and is, a quiet woman, and one that would put up with a great deal, rather than allow her voice to be heard by her neighbours.

"My head was in a queer state the next day; for ye see I had as good as five glasses, and I never could properly stand above two. I was quite ashamed to look my wife in the face, and I was so certain that I had been guilty o' some absurdity or other, that my cheeks burned just under the dread o' its being mentioned to me. Neither could I drive the idea of having put my name upon the back of the bill from my mind. I was conscious that I had done wrong. Yet, thought I, Mr Swanston is a very decent man; he is a very respectable man; he has always borne an excellent character; and is considered a good man, both amongst men o' business and in society—therefore, I have nothing to apprehend. I, according to his own confession, did him a good turn, and I could in no way implicate myself in his transactions by merely putting my name upon the back o' a bit o' paper, to oblige him. So I thought within myself, and I became perfectly satisfied that I had done a good action, without in the slightest degree injuring my family.

"But just exactly six months and three days afterwards, a clerk belonging to a branch o' the Commercial Bank called upon me, and, after making his bow, said he—'Mr Middlemiss, I have a bill to present to you.'

"'A bill!' said I, 'what sort o' a bill, sir? Is it an auctioneer's, for a roup o' furniture or a sale o' stock?'

"He laughed quite good-natured like in my face, and pulling out the bit stamped paper that I had been madman enough to sign my name upon the back o'—'It is that, sir,' said he.

"'That!' cried I; 'what in the earthly globe have I to do wi' that? It is Mr Swanston's business—not mine. I only put my name upon the back o't to oblige him. Why do ye bring it to me?'

"'You are responsible, sir,' said the clerk.

"'Responsible! the meikle mischief!' I exclaimed; 'what am I responsible for, sir?—I only put my name doun to oblige him, I tell ye! For what am I responsible?'

"'For three hundred pounds, and legal interest for six months,' said my unwelcome visiter, wi' a face that shewed as little concern for the calamity in which, through mere simplicity and goodness of heart, I was involved, as if he had ordered me to take a pipe, and blow three hundred soap-bubbles!

"'Oh! lack-o'-me!' cried I, 'is that possible? Is Mr Swanston sic a villain? I am ruined—I am clean ruined. Who in all the world will tell Nancy?'

"But that I found was a question that I did not need to ask; for she kenned almost as soon as I did mysel'.

"I need not say that I had the three hundred pounds, ineerest and all, plack and farthing, to pay; though, by my folly and simplicity, I had brought my wife and family to the verge o' ruin, she never was the woman to fling my silly conduct in my teeth; and all that she ever did say to me upon the subject, was—'Weel, Nicholas, this is the first o' your bill transactions, or o' your being caution for onybody, and I trust it has proved such a lesson as I hope ye will never need another.'

"'O Nancy, woman!' cried I, 'dinna speak to me! for I could knock my brains oot! I am the greatest simpleton upon the face o' the earth.'

"Now, that was one instance o' my simple conduct and its consequences, and I will just relate to you another or two. I had bought some ninety pounds worth o' flax from a merchant in Glasgow, for which I was to receive six months' credit. Weel, he came round for his money at the appointed time, and I paid him accordingly, and got a line off his hand in acknowledgment. On that very day, and just about an hour after he had left, Nancy says to me—'Nicholas, I dinna owre and aboon like that man that ye hae been dealing wi' the day. He has owre muckle gab, and scraping, and bowing for me. I wish he may be honest. Have ye got a receipt from him?'

"'Certainly,' says I; 'do ye think I would pay onybody money without one?'

"'And I hope it is on a stamp,' said she.

"'A stamp!' quoth I—'a stamp!—hoots, woman! I wonder to see ye so suspicious. Ye dinna tak a' the world to be rogues?'

"'No,' said she, 'I do not, and I should be sorry if I did; but if ye hae taken a receipt from him without a stamp, ye are a simple man—that is all that I say.'

'A simple man!' cried I; 'gracious! what does the woman mean? Ye are for ever saying that I am simple this, and simple that! I wish that ye would explain yoursel, and say what ye wish to be after! Where, or how am I simple?'

"'It's not been one lesson that you've had, Nicholas,' said she, 'nor ten, nor twenty either, but it is every week, I may say every day, wi' ye. There is perpetually some person or another showing ye that the 'simple man is the beggar's brother,' and ye canna see it, or ye winna regard it. But ye will, perhaps, be brought to think on't, when neither your bairns nor me have a stool to sit upon.'

"'Woman!' exclaimed I, 'flesh and blood cannot stand your tongue! Ye would exasperate the patience o' Job! What is it that ye wish to be after?—what would ye have me to do?'

"'Oh, it is o' nae use getting into a passion about it,' said she, 'for that winna mend the matter. But there is only this in it, Nicholas: I would have ye to be as sharp in your dealings in the world, as ye are wi' me when I happen to speak a word to ye for your good.'

"There was so much truth in what she said, and she always spoke in such a calm, good-natured manner that it was impossible to continue to be in a passion wi' her. So I said no more about the subject; but I thought to mysel', that, as I knew very little about the man I had dealt with, it would hae been quite as safe to have had the receipt upon a stamp.

"A few months afterwards, I saw his name amongst the list o' bankrupts; and to my very great astonishment, I received a letter from a writer, demanding payment from me o' the ninety pounds for the flax which I had already paid.

"'The thing is unreasonable a'thegither,' said I; 'here is a man that hasna paid once himself, and he would come upon me to pay twice! But I'll see him far enough first!'

"I paid no attention to the letter, and I was summoned to appear before the writer, and three men that were called the trustees to the bankrupt's estate. (Dear kens where the estate lay.)

"'Sir,' said they to me, as haughtily as if I had been a criminal before them; 'wherefore do ye refuse to pay the ninety pounds?'

"'For the best o' a' reasons, gentlemen,' said I, very civilly; 'and that simply is, because I have paid it already.'

"'What proof can you show for that!' asked the writer.

"'Proof, sir,' said I—'here is a line off the man's own hand, acknowledging the payment o' every farthing o' the money.'

"'Let me look at it,' says he.

"So, as honesty never needs to be feared for what it does, I handed him the bit paper. But after looking at it for a moment, he held it up between his finger and thumb, and wi' a kind o' sarcastic laugh, inquired—'Where is the stamp?'

"The sweat broke ower me from head to foot. 'Sir, my wife, Nancy! Is that document, in the handwriting o' the man himsel', not proof positive that I have paid the money?'

"The writer shook his head; and a gentleman that was standing near me, and who was very probably in a similar predicament to myself, said—'Unstamped receipts, sir, may do very well, where ye find a world o' purely honest men—but they winna do where ye arena sure but ye may be dealing wi' a rogue.'

"'Gentlemen!' cried I, 'have ye really the cruelty and injustice to say that I am to pay that money owre again?'

"'Owre again or not owre again,' said the writer, 'ye must pay it, otherwise summary proceedings will be entered against ye. If ye have already paid it in the way ye say, it is only making good the proverb, that the 'simple man is the beggar's brother.'"

"'Oh, confound ye!' cried I, 'for a parcel o' unprincipled knaves—that is exactly what my wife says; and had I followed her advice, I would ne'er hae seen ane o' yer faces.'

"However, the ninety pounds I had to pay again, doun upon the nail; and that was another o' the beautiful effects o' my simplicity. I didna ken how, in the universal globe, I was to muster courage to look my wife in the face again. Yet all that she said was—'O Nicholas! Nicholas!—would ye only be less simple!'

"'Heigho!' said I, 'dinna talk about it, Nancy—I'm owre grieved as it is—I can stand no more!'

"The loss o' the three hundred pounds, wi' the bill business, and the ninety just mentioned, made me to stagger, and those that knew about the circumstances wondered how I stood them. But I had just begun a new concern, which was the manufacture o' table-cloths upon a new principle, and with exceedingly splendid patterns. I got an extraordinary sale for them, and orders came pouring in upon me. But I had to employ more men to fulfil them, and their wages were to pay every Saturday, while the remittances did not come in by half so regular as the orders, and I found it was not easy to pay men without receiving money for their work. Had I been a man o' a great capital, the case might have been different. There was one day, however, that a gentleman that had dealt wi' me very extensively called upon me, and he gied me a very excellent order. But, although he had seen a great deal o' my goods, I never had seen the shadow o' his cash. I canna say that I exactly liked his manner o' doing business; yet I couldna, for the breath that was in my body, have the face to say an impertinent thing to ony one, and I was just telling him that his order should be attended to, when my wife, who was sitting in a room off the parlour, gave a tap upon the door, and, asking the gentleman to excuse me for a minute, I stepped ben, and I half whispered to her—'What is it, dear?'

"'Has that man spoken about paying ye?' said she.

"'No,' said I.

"'But I think it is time he was,' quoth she, 'before ye trust him ony farther. Remember that ye have men's wages to pay, and accounts to pay, and a wife and family to support, and those things canna be done upon nothing.'

"'Very true, dearie,' said I; 'but ye wouldna have me to speak abruptly to the gentleman, or to affront him?'

"'It will affront no gentleman,' replied she—'at least, no honest man—to ask him for what is your own. Therefore, ask him for your money. Remember, Nicholas, that the simple man is the beggar's brother.'

"'O dear, woman!' says I, 'ye ken I dinna like to hear thae words. I'll ask the gentleman to pay me—to be sure I will; and what is the use o' your keeping tease, teasing at a body, just as if I were a simpleton.'

"So I slipped back to the customer, and, after a few words about his order, I said to him—'Sir, ye understand I have men's wages to pay, and accounts to pay, and a wife and family to support, and it's no little that does it; therefore, if ye could just oblige me wi' the settlement o' your account, it would be a favour.'

"'My dear Mr Middlemiss,' said he, 'I am extremely sorry that you did not inform me that you were in want of cash sooner, as I have just, before I saw you, parted with all I can spare. But, if you be very much in want of it, I can give you a note, that is, a bill for the money, at three or six months. You can get it cashed, you know, and it is only minus the discount, and that is not much upon your profits, eh?'

"'Begging your pardon, sir,' says I, 'but I take I would have my name to write on the back o't.'

"'Certainly, sir,' said he, 'you know that follows as a matter of course.'

"'Yes, sir,' continued I, 'and I have found that it sometimes follows also as a matter o' coercion! I never had to do wi' what ye call a bill in my life but once, which was merely writing my name upon the back o't, and that cost me three hundred pounds—exactly sixteen pounds, two shillings and threepence, and a fraction, for every letter in the name of Nicholas Middlemiss, as my wife has often told me. Therefore, sir, I would never wish to see the face o' a bill again; or, I should say, the back o' one.'

"'But, my good sir,' said the gentleman, 'I have told you that it is not convenient for me to give you the cash just now; and, if you won't take my bill, why, what do you wish me to do? Do you intend to affront me? Do you suppose I have nothing to attend to but your account?'

"'Oh, by no means, sir,' said I; 'and it would be the last thing in my thoughts either to offend you or ony man. If ye have not the money at command, I suppose I must take the bill; for I know that cash down is a sort o' curiosity, as I sometimes say, and is very difficult to be met wi'.'

"While we were conversing thegither, I heard my wife gie a tap, tap, tap, twice or thrice upon the parlour door, and I was convinced that she owreheard us; but I didna take the least notice o' it, for I felt conscious that it would only be to ring the auld sang in my ears, about the simple man. So I took the gentleman's bill at six months; and immediately after he left me, Nancy came into the parlour.

"'Weel,' said she, 'ye've gotten your money.' But she said it wi' a scornful air, such as I had never seen her use before, and which caused me to feel excessively uncomfortable.

"'Yes, I've got my money,' says I, 'but, dear me, Nancy, what business is it o' yours whether I have got my money or no?'

"'If it isna my business, Nicholas,' said she, 'I would like to ken whase business it is? I am the wife o' your bosom—the mother o' your family—am I not? Guidman, ye may take ill what I say to ye, but it is meant for your good. Now, ye hae ta'en the bill o' the man that has just left ye, for four hundred and odd pounds! What do ye ken aboot him? Naething!—naething in the blessed world! Ye are a simple man, Nicholas!'

"'Dinna say that,' said I; 'I am not simple. I told him to his face that I didna like his bills. But ye are like a' women—ye would do wonders if ye were men! But his bill prevents a' disputes about his account—do ye not see that—and I can cash it if I wish.'

"'Very true,' said she, 'ye can cash it, Nicholas, but upon your own credit, and at your own risk.'

"'Risk!' said I, 'the woman's a fool to talk in such a manner about an every-day transaction.'

"'Weel,' answered she, 'not to say that there is the slightest risk in the matter, have ye considered, that, if ye do cash this bill, there will be a heavy discount to pay, and if ye pay it, what is to become o' your profits? Did ye tell him, that if ye took his bill ye would carry the discount to his next account?'

"'O Nancy! Nancy!' cried I, 'ye would skin the wind! Just take yoursel' away, if ye please; for really ye're tormenting me—making a perfect gowk o' me, for neither end nor purpose.'

"'Oh, if that be the way,' said she, 'I can leave ye—but I have seen the day when ye thought otherwise o' my company. Yet, the more I see o' your transactions, Nicholas, the more I am convinced in the truth o' the saying, that the simple man is the beggar's brother.'

"'Sorrow take ye, wife!' cried I, 'will ye really come owre thae words again. Are ye not aware that I detest and abhor them? Have I not said that to ye again and again?—and yet ye will repeat them in my hearing? Do ye wish to drive me mad?'

"'I would wish to see ye act,' answered she, 'so that I would ne'er need to use them again.' And, on saying that, she went out o' the room, which to me was a great deliverance.

"I got the bill cashed, and, to tell ye the plain truth, I also had it to pay. This was a dreadfu' loss to me; and I found there was naething left for me but so sit down,(if ye understand what that means,) as mony a guid man has been compelled to do. Hooever, I paid every body seventeen shillings and sixpence half-penny in the pound. Some of my creditors said it was owre meikle—that I had been simple and wronged mysel'.

"'I would wish to the utmost o' my power to be honest,' said I; 'and if I hae wronged mysel', I hae saved my conscience. If there be naething else left for me noo, as Burns says—

'Heaven be thankit! I can beg.'

"My business, hooever, had been entirely at a stand for the space o' sax weeks. I had neither journeyman nor apprentice left. My looms, and the hale apparatus connected wi' the concern, had been sold off, and I had naething in the world but a few articles o' furniture, which a freend bought back for me at the sale. I got the loan o' a loom, and in order to support my wife and family, I had to sit down to drive the shuttle again. I had wrought nane to speak o' for ten years before, and my hands were quite oot o' use. I made but a puir job o' it. The first week I didna mak aboon half-a-crown; and that was but a sma' sum for the support o' a wife and half-a-dozen hungry bairns. Hooever, I was still as simple as ever; and there wasna a wife in the countryside that was a bad payer, but brought her web to Nicholas Middlemiss. I wrought late and early; but though I did my utmost, I couldna keep my bairns' teeth gaun. Many a time it has wrung my heart, when I hae heard them crying to their mother, clinging round her, and pulling at her apron, saying—'Mother, gie's a piece!—Oh just a wee bite, mother!'

"'O my darlings,' she used to say to them, 'dinna ask me for bread the noo. I haena a morsel in the house, and hae na siller to buy meal. But yer faither is aboot finished wi' the web, and ye shall hae plenty the nicht.'

"Then the bits o' dear creatures would hae come runnin' ben to me, and asked—'Faither, when will the web be ready?'

"'Soon, soon, hinnies!' said I, half choked wi' grief and blind wi' tears; 'haud awa' oot and play yoursels!'

"For I couldna stand to see them yearning afore me, and to behold want, like a gnawing worm, eating the flesh from their lovely cheeks. Then, when I had went out wi' the web, Nancy would say to me—'Noo, Nicholas, remember the situation we're in. There's neither food o' ae description nor anither in the house, and ye see the last o' oor coals upon the fire. Therefore, afore ye leave the web, see that ye get the money for the working o't.'

"Yet, scores o' times, even after such admonitions, hae I come hame without a penny in my pocket. Ane put me aff with ae excuse, and anither wi' anither. Some were to ca' and pay me on the Saturday, and others when they killed their pig. But those Saturdays seldom came; and, in my belief, the pigs are living yet. It used to put me in terror to meet my poor starving family. The consequence generally was, that Nancy had to go to where I had come frae and request payment hersel'; and, at last, she wadna trust me wi' the taking hame o' the webs.

"We suffered more than I'm willing to tell aboot, at the period I mention, and a' arose oot o' my simpleness. But I was confined to my bed for ten weeks, wi' a dreadfu' attack o' rheumatism—it was what was ca'ed a rheumatic fever—it reduced me to a perfect anatomy. I was as feckless as a half-burned thread. Through fatigue, anxiety, and want o' support thegither, Nancy also took very ill; and there did we lie to a' appearance hastening to the grave. What we suffered, and what our family suffered upon this occasion, no person in a Christian country could believe. But for the kindness o' the minister, and some o' oor neebors, we must a' hae perished. As a matter of course we fell sadly back; and when the house rent became due, we had not wherewith to pay it. The landlord distrained us for it. A second time the few things I had left were put under the hammer o' the auctioneer. 'Oh!' said I, 'surely misery and I were born thegither!' For we had twa dochters, the auldest only gaun six, baith lying ill o' the scarlet fever in the same bed, and I had to suffer the agony o' beholding the bed sold out from under them. It was more than human nature could endure. The poor, dear lammies cried—'Faither! mither! dinna let them touch us!' I took the auldest up in my arms, and begged that I micht be allowed a blanket to row her in. Nancy took up the youngest one, and while the sale went on, with our dying bairns in our arms, we sat down in the street before the door, as twa beggars—but we were not begging.

"Our case excited universal commiseration. A number o' respectable people began to take an interest in our weelfare; and business came so thick upon me that I had to get twa other looms, and found constant employment, not only for my auldest laddie, whom I was bringing up to the business, but also for a journeyman.

"Just as I was beginning to prosper, hooever, and to get my head aboon the water, there was ane o' my auld creditors to whom I had paid the composition of seventeen and sixpence halfpenny in the pound, wha was a hard-hearted, avaricious sort o' man, and to whom I had promised, and not only promised, but given a written pledge, to pay him the remaining two and fivepence halfpenny in the pound, together with interest, in the course of six years. The time was just expiring, when he came to me, and presenting the bit paper, which was in my own handwriting, demanded payment.

"'Really, sir,' said I, 'I acknowledge that I must pay ye, though everybody said at the time that I was a very simple man for entering into ony such agreement wi' ye; but it is not in my power to pay ye just now. In the course o' a twalmonth I hope to be able to do it.'

"'Mr Middlemiss,' said he, as slowly as if he were spelling my name, 'my money I want, and my money I will have; and have it immediately, too.'

"'Sir,' said I, 'the thing is impossible; I canna gie ye what I haena got.'

"'I dinna care for that,' said he; 'if I dinna get it, I shall get you.'

"He had the cruelty to throw me into jail, just as I was beginning to gather my feet. It knocked all my prospects in the head again. I began to say it was o' nae use for me to strive, for the stream o' fate was against me.'

"'Dinna say so, Nicholas,' said Nancy, who came on foot twice every week, a' the way from Langholm, to see me—'dinna say sae. Yer ain simplicity is against ye—naething else.'

"Weel, the debt was paid, and I got my liberty. But, come weel, come woe, I was still simple Nicol Middlemiss. Ne'er hae I been able to get the better o' my easy disposition. It has made me acquainted wi' misery—it has kept me constantly in the company o' poverty; and, when I'm dead, if onybody erect a gravestane for me, they may inscribe owre it—

"THE SIMPLE MAN IS THE BEGGAR'S BROTHER."



TALES OF THE EAST NEUK OF FIFE.

THE ROBBERY AT PITTENWEEM AND THE PORTEOUS MOB.

On the 2nd of March 1736, Andrew Wilson in Pathhead, William Hall in Edinburgh, and George Robertson, stabler at Bristo Port there, were indicted and accused, at the instance of Duncan Forbes of Culloden, then Lord Advocate, before the high court of justiciary at Edinburgh, of the crimes of stouthrief housebreaking and robbery, in so far as James Stark, collector of excise in Kirkcaldy, being upon his circuit in collecting that revenue, and having along with him a considerable sum of money collected by him by virtue of his office, upon Friday the 9th day of January then last, was at the house of Margaret Ramsay, relict of Andrew Fowler, excise-office keeper at Pittenweem; and Andrew Wilson having formed a design to rob Collector Stark of the money and other effects he had along with him, and having taken William Hall and George Robertson as associates, they came together from Edinburgh that morning, and towards evening put up their horses in Anstruther-Easter, in the inn kept by James Wilson, brewer there;[C] and after having had some deliberations upon their intended robbery, leaving their horses there, they went privately on foot to Pittenweem, and about eleven o'clock that night called at the house of Widow Fowler, and under the pretence of drinking, remained there until they were informed, or might reasonably presume Collector Stark was gone to bed; and about twelve that night, or one next morning, Andrew Wilson and William Hall, or one or other of them, did impudently and in defiance of law forcibly and with violence break the door of the room where Collector Stark was lying in bed, and having knocked out the under pannel, Collector Stark suspecting an attack upon his life, for his safety jumped out at a window in his shirt; whereupon Andrew Wilson and William Hall, or one or other of them, entered the room, and did feloniously carry off bank-notes in a pocket-book belonging to Collector Stark, and gold and money in his possession to the value of L.200, less or more, and did rob and take away a pair of pistols, a seal, a penknife, a cloak bag, a pair of silver buckles, a bible, several suits of linens and other goods belonging to Collector Stark and in his possession; and when they went out of that room, did divide, disperse of, and distribute the gold, money, and other goods so robbed and taken away at their pleasure. And while the said Andrew Wilson and William Hall were committing the foresaid crimes, the said George Robertson was standing, sometimes at the door and sometimes at the foot of the stair of said house, as a sentinel and guard, with a drawn cutlass in his hand, to prevent any person from interfering and stopping the said violence and robbery, and did threaten to kill or otherwise intimidate the servants of the house when going towards the door of the collector's room; and when several of the inhabitants, alarmed by the noise, gathered together upon the street, and coming towards the door, inquired what was going on there; he, George Robertson, did treacherously endeavour to persuade them not to attempt to enter the house, falsely affirming that he had tried to go up stairs, but being in danger of being shot, he was by fear obliged to leave the house. And in order to keep them still amused with his false suggestion of danger by entering the house, having gone along with them into the house of John Hyslop in Pittenweem, he detained them there for some time, until he judged that his associates might have made their escape with their spoil; and soon afterwards William Hall was seized in the street of Anstruther-Easter, between twelve and one next morning, being Saturday the 10th January, having several of the goods and a purse of gold so robbed in his possession, which he dropped and endeavoured to conceal. And they, Andrew Wilson, and George Robertson, having met some short time afterwards in the house of said James Wilson in Anstruther-Easter, where they were informed that the house was beset, conscious of their own guilt, they, one or other of them, did deliver to said James Wilson the seal, the penknife, the pair of buckles, some money, and other things robbed, telling that if they were found in their possession they would be hanged or undone, or words to that purpose, expressing an apprehension of the utmost danger; and immediately thereafter got into bed, as if they had lain all night asleep, where both were apprehended, and upon the top of which bed were found the bank notes robbed from Collector Stark, and his pocket-book above another bed in another room of the house, &c. Wherefore, on these crimes being confessed or proven, the parties ought to be most severely and exemplarily punished with the pains of law, in terror of others committing the like in time coming.

The indictment to the foregoing effect was read—the case debated, and the Lords ordered both parties to give in informations.

On the 19th March 1736, the Lords found the libel relevant—but allowed George Robertson a proof, with respect to his behaviour at the time stated, for taking off the circumstances tending to infer his being accessory, or art and part of the crimes libelled.

A jury was empannelled, and the trial proceeded. To give even notes of the depositions on both sides would exceed our limits. We shall therefore merely select the evidence of two or three witnesses, whose statements will serve to form a continuation of our narrative, and pass over the remainder as unnecessary for our purpose.

The first we shall adduce is the collector, the individual robbed.

James Stark, collector of excise, Kirkcaldy, aged forty-nine years or thereby, married, solemnly sworn, purged of malice partial, counsel examined and interrogated, depones time and place libelled—the deponent being then upon his collection as collector of excise. He went to bed about ten o'clock, and about an hour and a-half thereafter, he was waked out of sleep by a noise and some chapping at the door of the room where he lay—which door he had secured before he went to bed by screwing down the sneck of the door—which noise the deponent at first imagined was occasioned by some drunken people in the house; but afterwards, upon the strokes on the door being repeated with violence, the deponent jumped out of his bed, and heard the under part of the door of the bed-room giving way, upon which the deponent laid hold upon two bags of money, which, with the deponent's breeches, in which were about L.100 in gold, and bank notes and silver, the deponent had put below his head when he went to bed; and the deponent did then, in the confusion in which he was, put the table and some chairs to the back of the door to stap the gap, and thereafter opened the window, and returning to find the bags of money and his breeches, he could only find one of the bags of money, and being in fear of his life, he jumped out at the window with one of the bags of money, and fell at the foot of the stair, the said window being just above the entry to the house, and recovering himself a little, he went towards the corn-yard, and hearing a person call out "Hold him," the deponent apprehending the voice to be before him, he returned a few paces, and then perceiving a man standing or walking at the foot of the stair, the deponent returned again to the yard, where he hid the bag of money, and thereafter coming back towards the house to hear what was a-doing, the deponent heard a knocking in the room where he had been lodged, and thereupon retired to the yard again—lay covered with some straw till about four in the morning—and then returning to the house saw the panel, William Hall, in custody of some soldiers; and the deponent having said to him that he had given him a cold bath that night, William Hall answered that he was not to blame, being only hired, and had no hand in it, but that Andrew Wilson and George Robertson had come there of a design to rob the deponent that night, and that this design had been formed several months before by Andrew Wilson, and particularly at the preceding collection at Elie; and further depones that soon after the deponent got out of the window as aforesaid, he heard the clock strike twelve; that when the deponent was first awakened out of his sleep as aforesaid, he heard Mrs Fowler, the landlady, call to the persons who were breaking open the deponent's bed-room, "What are ye doing?" or "Why do ye this?" and the deponent heard them at the same time cursing and swearing and making a great noise; and the deponent having only carried one bag of money along with him as aforesaid, he left in said bed-room the money and goods following, viz., the deponent's breeches, in which was a purse with fifty-two and a-half guineas, betwixt six and seven pounds in silver, and a pocket-book with one and forty pounds in bank notes, which purse and pocket-book the deponent exhibits in court; that besides the bank notes, there were several bills and other papers in the pocket-book, and that there was likewise in the deponent's breeches, a seal, a pair of silver shoe-buckles, and a penknife, which the deponent likewise exhibits; the deponent likewise left in his room a cloak-bag with some linens in it, which cloak-bag the deponent likewise exhibits in court; as also a bible, a pair of pistols, which the deponent likewise exhibits; that upon the deponent returning to his room as aforesaid, he found the door of the room broken up, and saw a press in the room which had been broken up, and found his breeches empty and all the several particulars above enumerated amissing; and thereafter, about seven o'clock in the morning, the deponent having gone to Anstruther-Easter, he soon thereafter saw the three panels in custody; and the deponent did then see in the hands of the magistrates of Anstruther, the seal, the buckles, and penknife above mentioned; depones that upon Monday following, being the 12th of January last, William Hall, panel, told the deponent that he had informed Alexander Clerk, supervisor of excise, where the purse of gold was to be found, whereupon the deponent desired the supervisor to go in quest of it, which he did, and having found it, he restored it to the deponent with the whole gold in it; and that the bible was returned to the deponent by one of the soldiers who apprehended Hall; that on Saturday night the 10th of January, the deponent got back his pocket-book and bank notes, with the other papers in the said pocket-book, from Bailie Robert Brown in Anstruther-Easter. Causa scientiae patet. And this is truth, as he shall answer to God. (Signed) James Stark; Andrew Fletcher.