Alexander Clerk, supervisor of excise at Cupar-Fife, being solemnly sworn, and depones time and place libelled, the deponent was lodged in the room next to Collector Stark, and went to bed about ten, and was wakened about twelve by persons rapping either at his door or that of the collector's; and heard a cry of "Murder the dogs and burn the house!" upon which the deponent swore that the first man that came in he would put a pair of balls in him. The deponent then put on some of his clothes and got out at a window at the backside of the house,[D] and walked to Anstruther, about a mile, and awakened the serjeant who commanded a small party of soldiers there, and with the serjeant and two of the soldiers set out for Pittenweem, and left orders for the rest of the party to follow as soon as possible. As they passed the entry to Sir John Anstruther's house in Easter-Anstruther,[E] they met with some men who having challenged the deponent, "Who comes there?" the deponent desired them to give an account of themselves, and upon their running off, the deponent ordered the soldiers to seize them, upon which the serjeant with his halbert hooked one of them, the rest escaping, which afterwards proved to be William Hall, one of the panels, and whom the deponent carried along with him to the excise office at Pittenweem, and having brought him into the house of Mrs Fowler, Jean Finlay, servant to Mrs Fowler, upon seeing the said Hall, said, "This is the villain that broke my head a little while ago;" and Thomas Durkie, another servant in the house, said, "This is one of the persons who robbed the collector the night;" and the soldiers who brought Hall produced a bag of linen and a bible which they said they had taken up as Hall had dropped them by the way; and William Geddes, clerk to the collector, did then say, "This is the collector's bible, and there are his linens," whereupon Hall confessed that he had been guilty of robbing the collector; and the deponent thereupon telling Hall that he was now in for it, and that the best way for him was to discover the rest, which, if he would do, the deponent would do his endeavours to get him made an evidence, and having then asked if he promised to get him a pardon? depones that he understood it so, but does not remember that he used the word pardon; upon which Hall told deponent he would get these other persons whom he named; remembers particularly that he named Andrew Wilson, panel, to have been one of them. That they had come upon four horses that morning from Kinghorn, and that he would find them all in the house of James Wilson in Anstruther-Easter, or in a house twenty yards on this side of it, which the deponent understood to be Bailie Andrew Johnston's.[F] By this time the rest of the party having come up from Anstruther, the deponent made some search for the collector, but could not find him, and thereafter the deponent carried up Hall to the room where the collector had lodged, the door of which he saw broken in the under part, and left Hall prisoner there in custody of some of the soldiers and the rest of the party, and Thomas Durkie and William Geddes. The deponent then went east to Anstruther in search of the rest of the robbers, and having surrounded the house of James Wilson there, he found three men in a room there, viz., Andrew Wilson and George Robertson, panels, and one John Friar, and having shown them to the above Thomas Durkie, he declared that they were two of the persons who had robbed the collector; upon which the deponent having applied to Bailies Robert Brown and Philip Millar, both in Anstruther-Easter, he got the accused committed to prison; and further depones that as the panels were being carried prisoners to Edinburgh, and while they were halting at Kirkcaldy, the deponent asked George Robertson, panel, what was become of the collector's purse of gold, George answered that Andrew Wilson, the other panel, told him that William Hall got the purse; upon which the deponent inquired at Hall about it, and added that unless he confessed and discovered where the purse was, he could not expect that the promises made would be kept to him; when after some entreaty Hall told deponent that he had dropped it upon being seized in a wet furr near a dung-hill, and accordingly the deponent went back to Pittenweem, and upon application to Bailie Andrew Fowler, of Pittenweem, and in his presence the purse was found near to a dung-hill between Anstruther-Wester and Pittenweem, in the spot described by Hall, with fifty-two guineas and a-half in it, which purse and gold was given to the deponent, and the purse exhibited in court being shown to him, he thinks it is the very same purse. And all this is truth, as he shall answer to God. (Signed) Alexander Clerk; Andrew Fletcher.

John Galloway, servant to Patrick Galloway, horse-hirer in Kinghorn, aged twenty-six, depones that at the time libelled, William Hall came to the deponent's master's house in Kinghorn, and desired him to get two horses, one for himself and one for the deponent, telling him that they were going to Anstruther to get some brandy; and that George Robertson and Andrew Wilson were to be their masters and pay their expenses; and desired him to go to the houses where they then were. The deponent having gone accordingly, and spoken to the said persons, George Robertson desired to get their horses ready, and Hall and the deponent to go before and they would overtake them; that about six o'clock at night they came to Anstruther-Easter, and set up their horses in James Wilson's house, where he found Andrew Wilson before him; and after they put up their horses they went to Andrew Johnston's there, where they found Robertson and Wilson drinking punch. Depones that the three panels and the deponent went from Anstruther to Pittenweem on foot, between ten and eleven o'clock at night. Depones that when they came to Pittenweem, he (the deponent), Hall, and Wilson went into a house, but does not know the name of the landlord, where they drank a bottle of ale, and it was agreed while they were there that Robertson and the other panel should walk on the street; that when they came out of that house, the three panels and the deponent went to Widow Fowler's house, where they drank some ale and brandy. Andrew Wilson having asked the landlady if she could lodge any casks of brandy for him, she desired him to speak low, because the collector was in the house; upon which Wilson said, Is he here? She answered, he was. Robertson, the panel, called for a reckoning, and all four went down stairs, at least went to the stair-head. Robertson, Hall, and the deponent went out to the street, and as the maid was going to shut the outer door, Andrew Wilson pushed it open and went in, upon which the deponent and William Hall went in also; and George Robertson drew his cutlass and stood at the outer door, saying that no person should go out or in of that house but upon the point of that weapon. Depones when they went in to the house they saw Andrew Wilson standing at the door of the room where the collector was lodged, and the lower part of the door broken; that upon seeing the door broken, he, the deponent, asked Wilson what it meant? or what he would be at? to which Wilson answered, that he had lost a great deal of money, and understood that there was some of it there, and was resolved to have it back again; upon which the deponent said to him, that he would have nothing to do in the matter. Depones that after the door of the collector's room was broken open as aforesaid, Andrew Wilson went into the room, and brought out a pair of breeches, and shewing them to the deponent, said, "Here is a good deal of money;" the deponent telling him that he would have nothing to do with it, the said Andrew took out several handfuls of money, and put it into the deponent's pocket; which money, except a few shillings, the deponent delivered back to the said Andrew Wilson in the house of James Wilson in Anstruther. Depones that Andrew Wilson went again into the room, and brought out a cloak-bag, which he desired the deponent to carry, which he refused to do. The said Andrew then carried the cloak-bag himself, till they came to the end of the town, together with a pair of pistols, which he then delivered to William Hall, who carried it half way to Anstruther, and then Andrew Wilson desired Hall to set it down, that they might see if there was any bank-notes in it; and Hall, having opened the cloak-bag, took out some linens and a bible, which he stowed about himself. That at the same time he saw Andrew Wilson take out of his pocket the pocket-book, out of which he took several bank-notes and put in his pocket, and then threw the pocket-book on the floor. Depones that Andrew Wilson and the deponent went out of Wilson's house, and threw one of the pistols and some linens which they had brought from Pittenweem in among some straw in a barn-yard; thereafter the deponent, Bailie Thomas Brown, Anstruther-Easter, and some soldiers, went to the place where the cloak-bag was left, and to the barn-yard where the pistols and linen were thrown, where they were all found. Being further examined, depones that as Wilson and Hall and the deponent were on the road from Pittenweem to Anstruther, a little to the west of Sir John Anstruther's house, they met Mr Clerk, the supervisor, and some soldiers, who, having challenged him who they were, one of the soldiers seized Hall with his halbert, upon which Andrew Wilson and the deponent made their escape. Depones that the cutlass now produced is the same that George Robertson had in his hand at Widow Fowler's house. Causa scienticae patet. And this is truth, as he shall answer to God, and depones he cannot write. (Signed) James Mackenzie.

Upon the indictment against the panels being read in court, they all pled "Not guilty," and certain defences were offered for them.

And first, in opposition to what the indictment alleged with regard to Andrew Wilson having formed a design to rob Collector Stark, and having taken Hall and Robertson, his associates, from Edinburgh that morning, it was stated that they did not set out from Edinburgh in company, but met upon the water in the passage between Leith and Kinghorn, where two of them, Wilson and Hall, were passing in a yawl, and Robertson was crossing in a passage boat; that instead of leaving Edinburgh and going to the East Neuk on the criminal design libelled, they had each of them lawful business in that part of the country, viz., for buying goods in which they ordinarily dealt, and which it was neither criminal nor capital to buy and sell; and particularly George Robertson, who kept an inn near Bristo Port in Edinburgh, where the Newcastle carriers commonly put up; that having occasion to buy liquors in the east of Fife, he agreed to take share of a cargo with Andrew Wilson, and with that view got a letter of credit from Francis Russell, druggist addressed to Bailie Andrew Waddell, Cellardyke, for the value of L50 sterling; and further, he carried with him an accepted bill of John Fullerton in Causeyside, to the like extent, as a fund of credit for the goods he might buy; and William Hall, the third panel, was a poor workman in Edinburgh, commonly attending the weigh-house, who was carried along to take care of and fetch home the goods; that accordingly, as soon as they came to Anstruther, and put up their horses at James Wilson's, they went to a respectable man, Bailie Johnston, and bought goods to the value of L46 10s., and whilst making the bargain they drank some quantity of liquor; that after this, not finding at Anstruther all the sorts of liquor they wanted to purchase, they went on foot to Pittenweem, when they first went to the house of —— Drummond, another respectable merchant, and drank some time with him, desiring to buy some brandy of him, but he told them he could not furnish them at that time; that after this the panels went into the house of Widow Fowler, where, calling for a room, they were shown into the kitchen, and inquired at the landlady if she could furnish them any place for lodging the goods they had bought, and there they drank both ale and punch, till, with what they had got before at different places, they became all very drunk; that at this place it was told by the landlady or servants, in conversation, that there was money to a considerable value in the next room, and if any part of the facts libelled were committed by the panels, Wilson and Hall, it must have been done upon occasion of this purely accidental information, when they were insane from strong drink: it was more like a drunken frolic than a preconcerted robbery. As a further evidence of this fact, it appeared by the libel itself that they acted like persons in such a condition; for they, as well as the other panel Robertson, were all seized in an hour or two thereafter, before the effects of the liquor had worn off, and before they had time to come to themselves, and without any of them taking the most rational and obvious measures to make their escape.

As to the case of George Robertson, it is not said that the inhabitants gathered together upon the streets, came there to save or rescue what was contained in the room; on the contrary, it was admitted on debate that the inhabitants of small coast towns are not very ready on these occasions to lend their assistance to the officers of justice; and if George Robertson had truly said to the persons whom he met on the street that he was by fear obliged to leave the house, it might very possibly have been true, and an argument of his innocence, and therefore ought not to be turned into a circumstance of his guilt.

Our space will not admit of further argument. Suffice it to say that the jury unanimously found Andrew Wilson and William Hall guilty, and George Robertson art and part on the crimes libelled; and the Lords of Justiciary passed sentence of death on all three, which sentence they appointed to be executed on Wednesday the 14th of April 1736.

Leaving the criminals in the condemned cells, where they are to remain five weeks before being executed, let us, in the meanwhile, in order to the better understanding the case, and forming a clearer opinion in reference to the nature and origin of the Porteous mob—one of the most extraordinary events recorded in history, and which arose out of the trial and sentence against Andrew Wilson and the others before narrated—let us endeavour to give a brief sketch of Mr Porteous' history, from his birth till the time of which we write, namely, the recording of the sentence of death against Wilson and his associates.

John Porteous, one of the captains of the Edinburgh City Guard, was son of Stephen Porteous, a tailor in Canongate. The father held a fair character, and was esteemed a good honest man in the whole conduct of his life, his greatest misfortune was his having such a son as John.

The father early discovered in his son a perverseness of nature, and a proneness to commit mischievous and more than childish tricks. The mother, out of a blind affection for her child, took them all for growing proofs of spirit and manliness, and as marks of an extraordinary and sprightly genius.

Thus the family were divided upon the education of the son, and from being often thwarted in his measures about him, the father lost his authority, and for the peace of his family winked at the faults which the good man saw it his duty to correct. The loss of parental authority begot want of filial regard, so that the boy, shooting up with these vicious habits and disregard of the father, advanced from reproaches and curses to blows, whenever the unfortunate old man ventured to remonstrate against the folly and madness of his son's conduct.

The mother saw, when it was too late, what her misguided affection had produced, and how to her fond love in childhood the man made the base return of threatening language and the utmost disregard; for he proved too hard for both father and mother at last.

The father having a good business, wanted John to learn his trade of a tailor, both because it was easiest and cheapest for the old man, and a sure source of good living for the son, whether he began business for himself or waited to succeed the father after his death; but as he grew up his evil habits increased, and at last when checked by his father in his mad career, he almost put the good old man to death by maltreatment.

At last, provoked beyond all endurance, the father resolved to rid himself of him by sending him out of the country, and managed to get him engaged to serve in the army under the command of Brigadier Newton.

While in Flanders, he saw, in passing along with one of his brother soldiers, a hen at a little distance covering her chickens under her wings, and out of pure wanton and malicious mischief he fired his musket and shot the hen. The poor woman to whom it belonged, startled by the shot, went out and saw her hen dead; and following the young soldier, asked him to pay the price of the hen and chickens, for both were lost to her, and they formed a great part of her means of subsistence; but the unfeeling youth would not give her a farthing—threatening if she annoyed him he would send her after her hen; upon which the injured old woman predicted, "that as many people would one day gaze in wonder on his lifeless body as that hen had feathers on hers."

Young Porteous afterwards left the army and returned to London, where he wrought for some time as a journeyman tailor; but his evil habits brought him to poverty, and he was found in rags by a friend of his father's, who wrote to the old man to remit L10 to clothe him and defray his travelling charges to Edinburgh, which, moved by the compassion of a father, he did, and when John appeared, the kind-hearted old man received him with tears of joy, and embraced him with all the warmth of paternal affection. Vainly hoping that his son was a reformed man, he gave up his business to him, and agreed that he should only have a room in the house and his maintenance and clothes.

Young Porteous, thus possessed of the house and trade of his father, and of all his other goods and effects, began by degrees to neglect and maltreat the old man, first, by refusing him a fire in his room in the middle of winter, and even grudging him the benefit of the fire in the kitchen. In addition to this, he disallowed him a sufficiency of victuals, so that he was in danger of being starved to death with cold and hunger. In this unhappy condition he applied for admission into the Trinity Hospital.

John Porteous having been for some time in the army, and being known to be possessed of no small courage and daring, was selected by John Campbell, lord provost of Edinburgh, in the memorable year 1715, to be drill-sergeant of the city-guard, as it became necessary to have the guard well disciplined and made as effective as possible in that eventful period, for the support of the government and the protection of Edinburgh. In this office he discharged his duty remarkably well, and was often sent for by the lord provost to report what progress his men made in military discipline. This gave him an opportunity of meeting sometimes with a gentlewoman who had the charge of the lord provost's house and family, with whom he fell deeply in love; after paying his addresses for some time, and proposing to her, he was accepted, and they were married. From a grateful sense of her services, as well as from a conviction of Porteous's ability for the office, the lord provost proposed that John Porteous should be elected one of the captains of the city-guard, and it was agreed to.

This was a situation of trust and respectability, and would have enabled the young couple to live in comfort and ease if the husband had conducted himself properly. The gentlewoman was a person of virtue and merit, but was unlucky in her choice of a husband—Porteous was no better a husband than he had been a son. They were not long married when he began to ill-use her. He dragged her out of bed by the hair of the head, and beat her to the effusion of blood. The whole neighbourhood were alarmed sometimes at midnight by her shrieks and cries; so much so, indeed, that a lady living above them was obliged, between terms, to take a lodging elsewhere for her own quiet. Mrs Porteous was obliged to separate from her husband, and this was her requital for having been the occasion of his advancement.

His command of the city-guard gave him great opportunities of displaying his evil temper, and manifesting his ungovernable passions. Seldom a day passed but some of his men experienced his severity. The mob on all public occasions excited his naturally bad temper; and on all days of rejoicing, when there was a multitude from the country as well as from the town, the people were sure to experience offensive and tyrannical treatment from him. The hatred and terror of him increased every year, and his character as an immoral man was known to everybody, so that he was universally hated and feared by the lower orders both in town and country.

This was the position in which Captain Porteous stood with the people when he was called upon to take charge of the execution of the law in reference to Andrew Wilson, whose case it has been thought proper to detail before proceeding to narrate the extraordinary events that followed, and which, indeed, partly serves to explain the cause of these events.

We have stated that Andrew Wilson, George Robertson, and William Hall, were condemned by the High Court of Justiciary to die on Wednesday the 14th of April 1736. Hall was reprieved, but Wilson and Robertson were left to suffer the extreme penalty of the law. A plan was concocted to enable them to escape out of the Tolbooth, by sawing the iron bars of the window; but Wilson, who is described as a "round, squat man," stuck fast, and before he could be disentangled the guard were alarmed. It is said that Robertson wished to attempt first the escape, and there is little doubt he would have succeeded, but he was prevented by Wilson, who obstinately resolved that he himself should hazard the experiment. This circumstance seems to have operated powerfully on the mind of the criminal, who now accused himself as the more immediate cause of his companion's fate. The Tolbooth stood near to St Giles' Church; it was customary at that time for criminals to be conducted on the last Sunday they had to live to church to hear their last sermon preached, and, in accordance with this practice, Wilson and Robertson were, upon Sunday the 11th of April, carried from prison to the place of worship. They were not well settled there, when Wilson boldly attempted to break out, by wrenching himself out of the hands of the four armed soldiers. Finding himself disappointed in this, his next care was to employ the soldiers till Robertson should escape; this he effected by securing two of them in his arms, and after calling out, "Run, Geordie, run for your life!" snatched hold of a third with his teeth. Thereupon Robertson, after tripping up the heels of the fourth soldier, jumped out of the pew, and ran over the tops of the seats with incredible agility, the audience opening a way for him sufficient to receive them both; in hurrying out at the south gate of the church, he stumbled over the collection money. Thence he reeled and staggered through the Parliament Close, and got down the back stairs, which have now disappeared, often stumbling by the way, and thus got into the Cowgate, some of the town-guard being close after him. He crossed the Cowgate, ran up the Horse Wynd, and proceeded along the Potterrow, the crowd all the way covering his retreat, and by this time become so numerous, that it was dangerous for the guard to look after him. In the Horse Wynd there was a horse saddled, which he would have mounted, but was prevented by the owner. Passing the Crosscauseway, he got into the King's Park, and took the Duddingstone road, but seeing two soldiers walking that way, he jumped the dyke and made for Clear Burn. On coming there, hearing a noise about the house, he stopt short, and, repassing the dyke, he retook the route for Duddingstone, under the rocks. When he crossed the dyke at Duddingstone, he fainted away; but, after receiving some refreshment, the first he had tasted for three days, he passed out of town, and, soon after getting a horse, he rode off, and was not afterwards heard of, notwithstanding a diligent search.

Upon Robertson's getting out of the church door, Wilson was immediately carried out without hearing sermon, and put in close confinement to prevent his escape, which the audience seemed much inclined to favour.

Notwithstanding his surprising escape, Robertson came back about a fortnight afterwards, and called at a certain house in the neighbourhood of Edinburgh. Being talked to by the landlord touching the risk he ran by his imprudence, and told that, if caught, he would suffer unpitied as a madman, he answered, that as he thought himself indispensably bound to pay the last duties to his beloved friend, Andrew Wilson, he had been hitherto detained in the country, but that he was determined to steer another course soon. He was resolved, however, not to be hanged, pointing to some weapons he had about him.

It was strongly surmised that plots were laid for favouring Wilson's escape. It was well known that no blood had been shed at the robbery; that all the money and effects had been recovered, except a mere trifle; that Wilson had suffered severely in the seizure of his goods on several occasions by the revenue officers; and that, however erroneous the idea, he thought himself justified in making reprisals. Besides, Wilson's conduct had excited a very great sympathy in his favour; and the crime for which he was condemned was considered very venial at that time by the populace, who hated the malt-tax, and saw no more harm in smuggling, or in robbing a collector of excise, than in any matter of trifling importance. The magistrates of Edinburgh, in order to defeat all attempts at a rescue, lodged the executioner the day previous in the Tolbooth, to prevent his being carried off; the sentinels were doubled outside the prison; the officers of the trained bands were ordered to attend the execution, likewise the city constables with their batons; the whole city-guard, having ammunition distributed to them, were marched to the place of execution with screwed bayonets, and, to make all sure, at desire of the lord provost, a battalion of the Welch Fusiliers, commanded by commissioned officers, marched up the streets of the city, and took up a position on each side of the Lawnmarket; whilst another body of that corps was placed under arms at the Canongate guard. A little before two o'clock, Porteous came to receive Wilson, the prisoner, from the captain of the city prison. He was in a terrible rage, first against Wilson, who had affronted his soldiers, and next against the mob, who were charmed with Wilson's generous action in the church, and had favoured Robertson's escape. They are always on the side of humanity and mercy, unless they are engaged themselves. Porteous was also infuriated because the Welch Fusiliers had been brought to the Canongate, as if he and his guard had not been sufficient to keep down any riot within the city. The manacles were too little for Wilson's wrists, who was a strong, powerful man; when the hangman could not make them meet, Porteous flew furiously to them, and squeezed the poor man, who cried piteously during the operation, till he got them to meet, to the exquisite torture of the miserable prisoner, who told him he could not entertain one serious thought, so necessary to one in his condition, under such intolerable pain. "No matter," said Porteous, "your torment will soon be at an end." "Well," said Wilson, "you know not how soon you may be placed in my condition; God Almighty forgive you as I do."

This cruel conduct of Porteous' still more embittered the minds of the populace, who were sufficiently exasperated against him before, and the report of it was soon spread over town and country.

Porteous conducted Wilson to the gallows, where he died very penitent, but expressing more sorrow on account of the common frailties of life, than the crime for which he suffered. His body was given to his friends, who carried it over to Pathhead in Fife, where it was interred; George Robertson having, as we have seen, rashly attended the funeral before going abroad.

During the melancholy procession of the criminal and his guard, accompanied by the magistrates, ministers, and others from the Old Tolbooth, which stood in the Lawnmarket, to the scaffold, which was placed in the Grassmarket, there was not the slightest appearance of a riot, nor after Wilson had been suspended, until life was extinct, did the least manifestation of disturbance occur on the part of a vast crowd of people collected from town and country to witness the execution. The magistrates of Edinburgh had retired from the scaffold to a house close by—concluding, with reason, that as all was over with poor Wilson, no disturbance could then happen, and the executioner was actually on the top of the ladder, cutting Wilson down, when a few idle men and boys began to throw pebbles, stones, or garbage at him (a common practice at that time,) thinking he was treating the affair rather ludicrously; whereupon Captain Porteous, who was in very bad humour, became highly incensed, and instantly resented, by commanding the city-guard, without the slightest authority from the magistrates, and without reading the riot act or proclamation according to law, to fire their muskets, loaded with ball, and by firing his own fuzee among the crowd, by which four persons were killed on the spot, and eleven wounded, many of them dangerously, who afterwards died. The magistrates, ministers, and constables, who had retired to the first storey of a house fronting the street, were themselves in danger of being killed, a ball, as was discovered afterwards, having grazed the side of the window where they stood. The lord provost and magistrates immediately convened, and ordered Captain Porteous to be apprehended and brought before them for examination; after taking a precognition, his lordship committed Porteous to close imprisonment for trial for the crime of murder; and, next day, fifteen sentinels of the guard were also committed to prison, it clearly appearing, after a careful examination of the firelocks of the party, that they were the persons who had discharged their pieces among the crowd.

On the 25th of March 1736, Captain Porteous was put on trial, at the instance of the lord-advocate of Scotland, before the High Court of Justiciary, for the murder of Charles Husband, and twelve other persons, on the 14th of April preceding, being the day of the execution of Andrew Wilson; and after sundry steps of procedure, having been found, by the unanimous voice of the jury, guilty, he was, on the 20th of July following, sentenced to suffer death in the Grassmarket of Edinburgh, on Wednesday the 8th of September in the same year—that was, about five months after Wilson's execution.

On the 26th of August, the Duke of Newcastle, one of the secretaries of state, wrote a letter to the right honourable the lord justice-general, justice-clerk, and other lords of justiciary, of which the following is a copy:—"My lords, application having been made to her Majesty[G] in the behalf of John Porteous, late captain-lieutenant of the city-guard of Edinburgh, a prisoner under sentence of death in the gaol of that city, I am commanded to signify to your lordships her Majesty's pleasure, that the execution of the sentence pronounced against the said John Porteous be respited for six weeks from the time appointed for his execution. I am, my lords, your lordships' most obedient, humble servant, (Signed) Holles, Newcastle."

On receipt of this letter, the lords of justiciary granted warrant to the magistrates of Edinburgh for stopping the execution of Porteous till the 20th day of October following.

The effect of this respite on the minds of the people of Scotland was to induce the belief that the government did not intend to carry out the sentence of death against Porteous at all—that it was merely a preliminary step to his pardon and liberation—and that, so far from condemning him, the government had rather taken up a prejudice against the town of Edinburgh, on account of the proceedings, and in some measure against all Scotland. A number of persons, therefore, who were never discovered, resolved to take the matter into their own hands, and on the 7th of September 1736, a body of strangers, supposed to be from the counties of Fife, Stirling, Perth, and Dumfries, many of them landed gentlemen, entered the West Port of Edinburgh between nine and ten o'clock at night, and having seized the Portsburgh drummer by the way, brought along his drum with them, and his son. Some of them advancing up into the Grassmarket, commanded the drummer's son to beat to arms. They then called out, "Here! all those who dare to avenge innocent blood!" This probably was a signal for their associates to fall in. It was followed by instantly shutting up the gates of the city, posting guards at each, and flying sentinels at all places where a surprise might be expected, while a separate detachment threw themselves upon and disarmed the city-guard; and seizing the drum, beat about the High Street to notify their success so far at least. At that instant, a body of them proceeded to the Tolbooth, called for the keeper, and finding he was gone, fell a-breaking the door with fore-hammers; but making no great progress in that way, they got together a parcel of dried broom, whins, with other combustibles, and heaps of timber, and a barrel of pitch, all previously provided for the purpose, and taking the flambeaux or torches from the city officers, they set fire to the pile. When the magistrates appeared, they repulsed them with showers of stones, and threatened, if they continued in the streets and offered resistance, they would discharge platoons of fire-arms among them; and it is even reported they placed sentinels on the magistrates to watch their motions.

Upon the prison door taking fire, two gentlemen made up to the rioters, and remonstrated with them on the imminent danger of setting the whole neighbourhood on fire, insinuating that this outrage was likely to be deeply resented, and might bring them to trouble; to which it was answered that they should take care no damage should be done to the city, and that as to the rest, they knew their business, and that they (the gentlemen) might go about theirs.

Before the prison door was burnt down, several persons rushed through the flames, ran up stairs, demanded the keys from the keepers; and though they could scarcely see one another for the smoke, got into Captain Porteous' apartment, calling, "Where is the murdering villain?" He is said to have answered, "Gentlemen, I am here; but what are you going to do with me?" When they answered, "We are to carry you to the place where you shed so much innocent blood, and hang you." He begged for mercy, but they instantly seized and pulled him to the door in his bed-gown and cap; and as he struggled, they caught him by the legs and dragged him to the foot of the stair, while others set all the rest of the prisoners in the Tolbooth at liberty. As soon as Porteous was brought to the street, he was set on his feet, and some seized him by the breast, while others pushed behind. He was thus conducted to the Bow-head, where they stopped a moment, at the pressing solicitation of some of the citizens, on the pretence that he might die peaceably, but really that time might be gained, as they expected the Welch Fusiliers every moment from the Canongate, or that the garrison of the Castle would come to Porteous' relief. By this time some who appeared to be the leaders in the enterprise ordered him to march, and he was hurried down the Bow and to the gallows stone, where he was to kneel,—to confess his manifold sins and wickedness, particularly the destruction of human life he had committed in that place, and to offer up his petitions to Almighty God for mercy on his soul. After which, in a very few minutes, he was led to the fatal tree. A halter being wanting, they broke open a shop in the Grassmarket, and took out a coil of ropes, for which they left a guinea on the counter,[H] and threw the one end over a dyer's cross-trees close by the place of execution. On seeing the rope, Porteous made remonstrances, and caught hold of the tree, but being disengaged they set him down, and as the noose was about to be put over his head, he appeared to gather fresh spirit, struggling and wrenching his head and body. Here again some citizens appeared for him, telling that the troops being now in full march, they must all expect to be sacrificed, and that the artillery of the Castle would doubtless be discharged among them. They answered, "No man will die till his time come."

About a quarter of an hour before twelve they put the rope about his neck, and ordered him to be pulled up; which being done, observing his hands loose, he was let down again; after tying his hands he was hauled up a second time, but after a short space, having wrought one of his arms loose, he was let down once more, in order to tie it up and cover his face. Stripping him of one of the shirts he had on, they wrapped it about his head, and got him up a third time with loud huzzas and a ruff of the drum. After he had hung a long time, they nailed the rope to the tree; then formally saluting one another, grounding their arms, and another ruff of the drum, they separated, retired out of town, and numbers of them were seen riding off in bodies well mounted to different quarters, leaving the body hanging till near five next morning.

Neither the two gentlemen who conversed with the rioters at the Tolbooth, nor those who were sent out by the magistrates to see if they knew any of them, could say they had ever seen any one of them before, though the flames of the fire at the Tolbooth door rendered it as light as noonday; so that it was generally believed no citizen acted any principal part in the tragedy; though, indeed, it is certain that many of the burgesses and inhabitants of Edinburgh, led by curiosity, went to the streets to behold the surprising boldness and incredible extravagance of the scene.

Upon the whole, it would seem that the rioters were a body of gentlemen and others in disguise, some having masons' aprons, others joiners', fleshers', shoemakers', dyers', and those of other trades, who had concerted their plot with judgment, conducted it with secresy, executed it with resolution and manly daring, and completed the whole in the short space of two hours with unparalleled success.

FOOTNOTES:

[C] The inn or house here referred to is now demolished. It was a back house which stood behind Mr Thomas Foggo's shop, through which there was a passage or entry to it; and from its concealed and backlying situation, it would seem to have been a very likely place for smugglers to resort to with their contraband goods. And here it may be remarked, that less than 100 years ago, smuggling was very prevalent in the east of Fife; almost every merchant and trader in the east coast burghs, and farmers from St Andrews all along the southeast coast, were less or more concerned in the importation of brandy, gin, teas, silks, and tobacco, &c. The penalties at one time were only the forfeiture of the goods seized, and if one vessel's cargo escaped out of two or three, it was a profitable trade. The measures of Government were then thought to be so stringent and despotic, that men of principle, of probity, and integrity in all other respects, manifested great obliquity of vision in viewing the traffic in smuggled goods, and felt no compunctious visitings in embarking in that trade. In the better class of houses in the district, hiding holes and places of concealment were always to be found, and some of these places are only now being discovered. It is not many years since, that an honest man in Pittenweem, while employed in his cellar, fell down into a large concealment capable of holding a great many ankers of spirits and boxes of tea, of which he previously knew nothing.

[D] The window referred to is still pointed out. It is that at the back of the house on the second storey, and is near the north-east corner of the tenement.

[E] Anstruther House, which stood a little west, on the opposite side of the road, to Mr Russell's printing office, was demolished in 1811. According to Miss Strickland, Queen Mary passed a night in it; and it is a well established fact that King Charles II. lodged a night there in 1651.

[F] Bailie Johnston's house was that now occupied by Mr William Russell, with the brewery behind the same. It was formerly a house of one storey, and was rebuilt and heightened on the walls by the late Mr James Rodger, or Mr David Rodger his son.

[G] This was Queen Caroline, who was regent of the kingdom during the absence of her husband, George the First, at Hanover.

[H] The person who did this was a man of the name of Bruce, belonging to Anstruther, who returned some time after to the town, and was well known to the late Mrs Black, the mother of the late Admiral Black.

THE STORY OF CHARLES GORDON AND CHRISTINA CUNNINGHAM.

On the 21st of March, 1743, Captain Richard Dundas, commander of the frigate Arethusa, carrying forty-four guns and 250 men, sailed from Deptford with that vessel in perfect order and condition, and bound for Leith. The ship was one of the finest in the service, and the commander a man of great energy and intelligence. Mr Charles Gordon, superintendent of his Majesty's dockyard at Deptford, a young officer of distinguished ability and exemplary character, was one of the passengers. No incident worthy of notice occurred until they reached St Abb's Head, when they were overtaken with a strong adverse gale of wind and heavy snow storm, which unfortunately drove them from their course, and prevented sight of land for a considerable time. The wind continued to increase in violence, but the snow ceased falling for a little, when it was discovered that they had been driven past the mouth of the Firth of Forth and were now in St Andrews Bay.

They then close-reefed their sails, and made all snug; and Captain Dundas, declaring that they should have to encounter a strong south-easter, all their efforts were directed to double the headland of Fifeness and the dreaded Carr Rock, and get into the Forth; but their utmost endeavours were unavailing, so that the best part of a day was spent in tacking and veering to, close in with the land, to no purpose.

The sun set angrily, and the wind veering more adversely, to their utter dismay, brought them on a lee shore. The storm increased with the night. The snow began again to fall, and neither the stars nor the lights of Tay or of the Firth could be seen. The sea was lashed into tremendous fury. There was a fearful sullen sound of rushing waves and broken surges—"Deep called unto deep." At times the black volume of clouds overhead seemed rent asunder by flashes of lightning that quivered along the foaming billows, and made the succeeding darkness doubly terrible. The thunders bellowed over the wild waste of waters, and were echoed and prolonged by the mountain-like waves. As the ship was seen staggering and plunging among these roaring caverns, it seemed miraculous that she regained her balance, or preserved her buoyancy. Her yards dipped into the water—her bow was buried almost beneath the waves. Sometimes an impending surge appeared ready to overwhelm her, and nothing but a dexterous movement of the helm preserved her from the shock.

"The impervious horrors of a leeward shore" they were doomed to experience during a moonless and starless night. They reduced their sails to a few yards of canvass, and lowered their yards on deck. The waves, that rolled the vessel with irresistible force, threatened to swallow them up; a tremendous sea carried away the boat which was hoisted up at the stern, and broke in all the bulkheads of the quarters. For safety of lives and property, all hands, after being revived with a glass of rum, began to throw overboard the guns. The long-boat was then released from her lashings; and, as they wished, the waves soon swept her from the deck. The two large anchors were cut from the bows, and the vessel, thus eased of a heavy top-load, danced more lightly over the tremendous billows, and inspired them with fresh hopes. The crew were all ordered to the after part of the deck, and again refreshed with another glass of rum and water.

A little before daylight, the captain, who had been anxiously looking out, acquainted the officers, so as not to be heard by the crew, that he saw breakers nearly ahead, and had no thought of being able to weather them. Mr Gordon coincided in this opinion, to which some one said, "Well, we are all born to die; I shall go with regret, but certainly not with fear."

The breakers were soon visible to all the crew, being not more than a quarter of a mile distant on the lee bow, when Captain Dundas remarked, "Our only chance is to put away a point before the wind, or we are sure to go broadside into the surf and perish at once."

A heavy sea now struck the vessel, swept the deck fore and aft, and carried overboard five of the crew, who instantly sank to rise no more.

The captain seeing a mighty billow approaching, and viewing nothing but death before them, exclaimed, "Lord have mercy upon us," and at that moment the vessel rose upon a mountain wave to a tremendous height, from whose summit she descended with the velocity of lightning, as if she were going to bury herself in the remorseless deep. By this rapid movement she was precipitated beyond the reach of the breakers, which now rolled behind her stern, and burst in impotence, as if incensed at the loss of their destined prey. "We are safe!" exclaimed Captain Dundas; "jump, men, from the yards, and make sail." This they did with tumultuous joy, which Mr Gordon checked, and said to them, "Whilst you are working silently, thank God for your miraculous preservation." The sea upon which the vessel rose was the means of her preservation and that of her crew. Probably there was not, if the sea had been calm, a depth of two feet water on the Carr Rock, for it was that dangerous reef she had passed; but the mighty wave carried her safe over at a moment when every hope but that of immortality was gone from the minds of the ship's company.[I]

The tempest having somewhat abated, and the wind veered round to a more favourable quarter, the vessel rode more smoothly, and the hour of eight being arrived, all hands were enabled to sit up and take coffee for breakfast.

For about three hours the ship had been working up the Firth, and had come off Anstruther, into which port she entered shortly afterwards, in order to undergo a survey, and get all necessary repairs completed in hull and rigging; and as the vessel had been seen from the Windmill Tower and the Brae all the morning to be in great distress, the eastern pier (for the west pier had not then been built) was crowded with spectators to witness her arrival.

Amongst others who had gone down the pier was Captain John Cunningham, the provost or chief magistrate of the burgh, who, being a sea captain himself, deeply sympathised both as a sailor and a man with the officers and crew of the Arethusa, on seeing them in such a miserable plight, and proffered to afford them all the aid and assistance in his power. He got into conversation with Mr Gordon, and found him so intelligent and gentlemanly in his manners, that he invited him to his house (which stood in the Shore Street, and on the east side of the Pend Wynd, and was that which formerly belonged to the late Mr Willis, collector of customs, and is presently possessed by Mrs Rodger, Mr Imrie, and others), until the vessel was repaired and made ready for sea. Mr Gordon thanked him for his kindness, and cordially accepted his hospitable invitation.

Anstruther is a small country town, pleasantly situated on the banks of the Forth. It is a favourable specimen of a good old Scottish town. There is an old town-hall, and an old burgh school, (lately rebuilt,) an old jail, and an old bridge, besides an old church, now completely renewed and repaired, and forming, with the steeple, a handsome edifice, situated on the ridge or high ground above the town. The manse, a fine old building, placed on the summit of the same ridge near the church, was built by James Melville, minister of the place in the reign of James VI. It afterwards became the property of the Anstruther family, who, it is supposed, presented it to the town, or exchanged it for a house in the Pend Wynd, now belonging to Mr John Darsie, which was occupied for some time as the manse. At the time of which we write, there was a fine old baronial mansion, called "Anstruther Place," which stood near the present junction of the Crail and St Andrews roads. It belonged to the above-mentioned ancient family, the Anstruthers of Anstruther, whose progenitor was a Norman warrior that came to Britain with William the Conqueror. It was a mansion as large as Balcaskie, surmounted by a tower, and surrounded by fine old ancestral trees. A magnificent hall graced its interior, large enough to contain a company of volunteers, or local militiamen at drill, within its four corners. In addition to these old buildings, which gave a peculiar character to the place, there were a good many handsome new houses in the town of Anstruther, for it was far from being in a state of decay. Many wealthy and intelligent families chose it for their residence. It was the seat of a custom-house and excise-office. There was a branch of the Paisley Bank established in the town, under the management of a Mr Henry Russell, of the customs, and the bank office was kept in that shop now belonging to Mr James Reddie, ironmonger.[J] There was also a Greenland Whale Fishing Company connected with the town, of which a Bailie Johnston was manager. The company's place of business was situated in the East Green, and is now the property of Mr Robert Todd, and it is still known to old people by the name of the Greenland Close. There is, or was lately, an old stone placed over the door at the southern entrance into the yard, indicating the nature of the manufacture formerly carried on therein.[K] And before the Reform Bill was passed, Anstruther-Easter joined with the other four burghs of the district in sending a member to Parliament. Many thriving and respectable trades-people, whose forefathers had resided there for generations, and who looked upon the old buildings of their native town with something of the same sort of feeling as the landowner surveys the oaks which encircle his paternal hall, regarded it with pride and veneration. Perhaps no town of its size in Scotland could be named where so much good feeling prevailed among all classes. An eminent physician, who came to settle in the place, expressed his astonishment at the amount of private charity distributed. If a poor man met with any accident, every kind assistance was given him by his wealthier neighbours. If a small tradesman suffered a loss, or a carter his horse, or a widow's cow died, a subscription was set on foot, and the accident often turned out a gain, rather than a loss.

The old Castle of Dreel, another ancient seat of the Anstruther family, stood on the east side of the Dreel Burn, at its entrance into the sea. Several curious traditions are in circulation respecting this old baronial residence and its proprietors. The castle has entirely disappeared, and its site is now partly occupied by fish-curing premises, and partly by a large antiquated tenement called Wightman's house. Some eminent men have been born in Anstruther, among whom may be mentioned Drs Chalmers and Tennant, and Professor Goodsir.

Such is a brief description of Anstruther at the time of which we write. It is unnecessary to give a particular account of it at the present day, because its trade and commerce, its fishing, farming, and shipping interests—its new buildings and projected undertakings—its Sunday schools and provident societies, and savings' banks and subscription libraries, are familiar to the most of my readers.

Captain Cunningham, the chief magistrate of Anstruther, was a wealthy and respectable shipowner, and his family consisted of a son about twenty, and a daughter about seventeen years of age, besides some younger children. Mr Gordon, their guest, then in his twenty-fifth year, was a light-hearted and rising young officer. He was, at first, a little impatient of the delay occasioned by the repairs of the vessel, the superintendence of which fell to be his duty; but circumstances soon occurred which checked this impatience, and more than reconciled him to his present quarters.

As Christina Cunningham is destined to occupy no unimportant position in this narrative, some description of her will therefore be necessary.

Let us endeavour to draw her portrait.

She was not only beautiful, but full of life and animation, her smiling face being the true index of a cheerful, happy disposition. Gentle, amiable, affectionate, good-natured, she was beloved by all who knew her; although, from a maidenly modesty and a natural reserve, she was really known by few. With the figure of a sylph, and the face of a Hebe, she had luxuriant hair of the darkest possible chestnut, wreathed generally in thick cable plaits round her beautifully-shaped head, which, owing to the fashion of that day, as well as of the present, of wearing the bonnets on the shoulders, enabled her well-formed head to be seen to the greatest advantage. In the delicate outline of her faultless features, there was a harmony that made of her whole face a concerted loveliness of form, colour, and expression, that was irresistible. Hackneyed as the simile is, her skin was literally like snow, upon which blush rose-leaves seemed to have fallen. Her long-cut oriental-looking eyes, were "deeply, darkly, beautifully blue," while their heavy, snowy lids were fringed with long black silken lashes, that seemed to be continually trying to salute her cheeks, for which no one could possibly blame them. Her nose was, to say the least, irreproachable. Then came the rich red pouting under, and the short chisselled upper lip; the beautiful pearly arched teeth within them; the little round velvety chin, and the perfectly oval peach-like cheeks. In short, so pretty a creature was seldom to be seen.

But Miss Cunningham was something more than beautiful, she was amiable, and gentle, and affectionate; and besides, she was a Christian in the full and true sense of the word; and, young as she was, she had learned to look upon herself as a sinner, however innocent and pure she might appear in the eyes of men. While enjoying the blessings of health, peace, and competence, that providence had poured upon her, she looked upon them all as undeserved mercies, marks and tokens of her heavenly Father's love—a love manifested in man's redemption, in a way surpassing all understanding. Where on earth can there be found a more lovely character than that in which are blended true religion and natural amiability, rectitude of conduct, and tenderness of disposition?

Residing under the same roof with Miss Cunningham, who can wonder that, before many weeks had elapsed, Mr Gordon was as devoted to Captain Cunningham's daughter as any young and ardent lover could be. Miss Cunningham was not conscious of any deeper feeling than that of affectionate friendship, nor was it till some time after that her heart told her, that Charles Gordon occupied a place in her affections, which could be held by one, and by one only.

Several weeks had passed away, the repairs of the Arethusa had been nearly completed, and the time was fast approaching when Charles Gordon would be obliged to depart from Anstruther. It happened, however, that a day or two previously to his leaving, a party of pleasure was planned for visiting Kellie Law, near Carnbee, and Macduff's Cave, near Earlsferry. The party consisted of Mr John Cunningham, junior, and his sister, and Mr Gordon and Miss Anderson, the daughter of an opulent merchant in the town. A vehicle having been hired for the occasion, a drive of about an hour brought the excursionists to Kellie Law. Having put up the horse and equipage at Gillingshill, and partaken of the hospitality of the occupants, they ascended this beautiful conical eminence, which is 800 feet above the level of the sea, and about four miles distant from it, and rises from the ridge running eastward from Largo Law. From the summit of Kellie Law, on which there is a large cairn of stones, one of the most magnificent views in Scotland is obtained. Immediately below, to the south, is a rich and beautiful stretch of country, all enclosed and highly cultivated; an extensive range of sea-coast, studded with numerous little towns and villages; the ample bosom of the Firth of Forth, enlivened with shipping and fishing-boats; and in the extreme distance, the coast of the Lothians, from St Abb's Head to Edinburgh. Near the south base of this hill stands Kellie Castle, a fine baronial seat of the Earls of Kellie, surrounded by old trees, and containing some princely apartments. Sir Thomas Erskine of Gogar was one of those who rescued James VI. from the attempt of the Earl of Gowrie to assassinate him at Perth in 1600, and killed the earl's brother with his own hand. He was created Viscount Fenton in 1606, and Earl of Kellie in 1619. The earldom merged into that of Marr on the death of Methven, tenth Earl of Kellie, who was great-grand-uncle to Sir Thomas Erskine of Cambo, the present baronet. It is said these earldoms may, and probably will, be again disjoined, and the titles and honours of Marr and Kellie inherited by two distinct noblemen.

After enjoying the splendid prospect from Kellie Law, the party set off for Elie, on their way to view the caves in Kincraig Hill. The drive between Gillingshill and Elie is delightful. The turnpike road passes in some places through a long line of tall trees, arching high overhead, and showing, at the termination, picturesque vistas. It skirts Kilconquhar Loch, and affords not very distant views of Charlton and Balcarres, Colinsburgh and Cairnie House; and passing through Kilconquhar, the beautiful church of the parish and manse (which do credit to the heritors) are close by. The noble mansions of Elie and Kilconquhar, in the immediate neighbourhood, are also seen, surrounded with fine old trees, and standing in a rich and fertile district.

On arriving at Elie, the party gave the horse and vehicle in charge of the hostler, and set out on foot for Kincraig. Immediately from the beach, at the south-west end of the parish, Kincraig Hill rises to the height of about two hundred feet above the level of the sea. Its southern front presents a nearly perpendicular rugged wall of trap rock, of the most picturesque appearance, and in these rocks are several caves, called Macduff's Cave, the Hall Cave, and the Devil's Cave. There is a tradition that Macduff, the Maormar or Earl of Fife, in his flight from the vengeance of Macbeth, was concealed in the cave which still bears his name, and was afterwards ferried across the Firth to Dunbar by the fishermen of the place, from which circumstance it was called "Earlsferry;" and, besides being constituted a royal burgh by Malcolm III, about 1057, it obtained the privilege, that the persons of all, in flight, who should cross the Firth from thence, should be for a time inviolable—no boat being allowed to leave the shore in pursuit, till those who were pursued were half-seas over.

The party now resolved that they should partake of luncheon on the greensward, to fortify themselves for their proposed expedition among the cliffs. While the viands were being produced, Mr Gordon set forth of himself in quest of a very rare plant, which he was informed grew in this locality.

On observing a group of persons gazing anxiously upwards at the overhanging cliffs, he joined them, inquiring on what their attention was so earnestly fixed. The persons addressed spoke not, but pointed to a spot about half-way up the face of the rock. Mr Gordon looked in the direction indicated, when, to his horror, he beheld a boy, apparently of about fifteen years of age, climbing along a stony ledge, which was so narrow as to be hardly visible from the spot where the group of terrified beholders was stationed. Scarcely had there been time for Mr Gordon to fix his eye on the human form that had reached so perilous a position, when a portion of the ledge of rock on which the unhappy boy was standing gave way—a loud scream rent the air, echoing through the cliffs—and in another instant all that remained of him was a lifeless, mangled corpse. The poor fellow's story is soon told. He was an idiot, and having wandered from his mother's side, had reached the fatal spot, no one knew how, and thus met a fearful death.

His poor mother witnessed the dreadful catastrophe, and agonizing was her grief as she followed the body of her child, which was borne on the shoulders of the awe-struck villagers to her home. Mr Gordon also followed the body to the house, and, feeling that at such a time any attempt at comforting the childless widow would be of no avail, he merely placed a sum of money in the hands of a respectable-looking person, a bystander, for her use, and slowly and sick at heart he was in the act of returning to his friends, when he met Christina Cunningham, who was in search of him, for the purpose of bringing him back to luncheon. She saw that he was deadly pale, and hurriedly asked if he felt ill. He told her all that had happened.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, "if it had been you!"

"Well, Miss Cunningham," he replied, carelessly, "and if it had, few would have missed me. I should probably have had fewer mourners than that poor idiot boy."

"Oh, how can you say so?" she returned, and bending down her head, became visibly agitated. And yet poor Christina knew not, even now, that she loved Charles Gordon: she understood not the true cause of the beatings of her disturbed heart. He looked at her. As he looked, a momentary smile passed over his features, which was soon exchanged for an expression of deep sorrow, as he thought of the lonely widow, bending over the lifeless form of her lost son. The sad story was related to the rest of the party, and all cheerfulness for the time was at an end.

This was destined to be an eventful day. Another calamity—and one that, although it was not attended with fatal results, affected Charles more than that which had occurred—was yet to take place. We have said that there were some remarkable caves at this place, which had long been objects of interest to the traveller and excursionist. One there is in particular, called the Devil's Cave, which penetrates far into the heart of the rock, on the face of which lies its entrance. From the steepness of the path which leads into this cavern, it is rarely visited by tourists. The party, however, with perhaps more curiosity than prudence, determined to explore and visit this cave. A female guide was procured, and a candle supplied to each person. All being ready, in single file they entered the mouth of the cavern, carefully groping their way, not without difficulty. Miss Anderson soon lost courage, and turned back, stating that she and Mr Cunningham would return to the inn at Elie, and prepare tea; the other two resolved to proceed along with the guide. The aperture through which they had to pass became at length so low, and so narrow, that a consultation was held, and it was agreed that it would be prudent to return. Charles now led the way as they retraced their steps. He had not proceeded far when he heard a heavy fall, and turning quickly round, beheld, to his horror, Christina stretched upon the humid soil of the cavern; her eyes were closed, and her candle had fallen from her hand. Whether bad air had struck her down or not, he could not tell. For an instant he believed her to be dead, but, bending over her, he perceived that she breathed. What was now to be done? Only one plan lay before him which he could adopt. Giving his candle to the guide, and directing her to keep in front of him, holding the light so as he could see, he raised Miss Cunningham in his arms, and with all the strength he was master of, bore her along in the direction of the entrance. The roof of the cave was so low, that it was impossible to maintain an upright position, and his strength so entirely failed him that he was obliged to stop and take a rest before he could proceed with his precious burden. On reaching the mouth or entrance of the now detested cave, signs of returning consciousness began to appear in the poor sufferer. On breathing the fresh air of heaven, she opened her eyes for a moment, then closed them again, drawing several long and apparently painful respirations. Charles placed her on a grassy bank, and seating himself beside her, supported her by placing his arm round her waist. The guide was despatched for water. By and by, Christina, looking round, said with her own sweet smile, "I am better now." Charles pressed the form of her whom he already loved so well, to himself, and then assisting her to rise, with slow and measured steps they returned to Elie.

"You are very tired, I fear, and I am the cause," said Christina, as she leaned on Charles's arm, turning her face to his.

For a moment their eyes met, those of Christina fell, while a shade of colour tinged her still pallid face. She had met a look in Charles's face that she had never seen there before. She again relapsed into silence.

Charles, in reply to her remark, uttered something that was inaudible; the name of "Christina," however, was substituted for that of "Miss Cunningham."

Any endeavour to conceal what had occurred would have been useless. The pale face of the sufferer plainly told that she had been ill, and general was the consternation of all on hearing what had happened. Charles resigned her to the care of Miss Anderson and the hostess, and, passing to the little parlour of the village inn, flung himself on the sofa in a state of complete exhaustion.

Long he remained buried in thought. At length his good nature and compassion prompted him to visit once more the poor, childless widow, while preparations were being made for their return to Anstruther. She was alone with the body of her idiot son. Carefully had she cleansed away the blood and dust from his face, which now appeared to exhibit more intelligence in death than it had done in life.

As Charles entered, the poor Irish widow exclaimed,—"May the blessing of the Great God, who is above us this day, be about ye, and wid ye for ever and ever, my jewel young gentleman!" She held in her hand the money that he had left for her, and added, "Sure isn't there enough here for the poor lone widow, to buy her darlint son a dacent coffin for to lay him in the could earth, in the land of the stranger, before she goes far, far away, to a land beyant the rowling say (referring to America). You've given me money when I wanted it sore, an' the blessin' of the lone widow woman will be wid you wherever ye go; but none can give me back my boy! Oh, Patrick, jewel! why did ye die? Och, my poor boy! my poor boy! my poor boy!"

The tears came into Charles's eyes as he listened to this pathetic lamentation, but longer he could not remain. He succeeded, however, in learning that she had resolved to accede to a proposal of her sister's, to join her in America, which his gift had provided her with the means of accomplishing.

The drive to Anstruther was speedily made out, and in few days Miss Cunningham was quite restored to her usual state of health and enjoyment.

Time rolled on. The Arethusa has sailed. Mr Gordon has returned to Deptford, and resumed his ordinary duties. Has all intercourse ceased between him and Miss Cunningham? Assuredly not. Many a kind letter has passed between them. She has been to England visiting his sister, at that sister's kind invitation, and is come back to Anstruther. Charles has proposed to her, and been accepted, and has obtained a special licence for their marriage. He comes back to Anstruther to claim his bride.

If you, my reader, were at this moment greedily perusing a modern novel, you would here be gratified by a very romantic and touching account, three or four pages long at least, of the meeting of the two ardent lovers after a long separation; smiles and tears, sighs and sobs, broken accents, protestations of eternal love and fidelity, and all that sort of thing. Here you will find nothing of the kind. I very much doubt myself as to whether anything of the kind took place in this instance at all; I rather imagine the meeting was a calm and quietly happy one, without anything strikingly romantic or stage-like about it. But even suppose there had been, and that I had been present to see, (which, by the by, would have been an awkward enough situation for me, or any other third party, to have found himself in) ought we to have disclosed it? Certainly not; such a scene, every one knows, ought to be strictly private and confidential Suffice it then to say, that doubtless both, parties found themselves extremely comfortable and happy.

Let me now convey you, in thought, backwards one hundred and fourteen years, and place you in the street of Pittenweem, opposite the Scottish Episcopal Chapel. We see a crowd; let us inquire what is the occasion of it.

"What is this crowd collecting for, so early this morning?"

"There's going to be a wedding, ma'am."

"Do you know whose wedding it is?"

"No ma'am, I don't; I'm only here to keep order—nothing else to do with it."

It is some time since we have seen a wedding, suppose we go into church. Here we are. We shall have a nice view of them from that front pew in the gallery. How tastefully the chapel is decorated with foliage and flowers! Make haste! I hear the carriages coming, that will do. Wait! here they come, only fancy, it's Christina Cunningham, and—Who? Charles Gordon, I declare. How nicely he looks in his naval uniform. Then the reports were all true. Poor Christina! she's very much agitated. I suppose being married must be rather nervous work. The clergyman who is marrying them is a relation of the bridegroom's—he's rector of a large parish near Deptford—how beautifully he reads. And there is our dear old clergyman, Mr Spence, assisting him, how happy he looks. They say he has known the bride since she was an infant, and the bridegroom for some time. There!—she's no longer Christina Cunningham! I wonder where they are going to after breakfast? Blessings on them both!

FOOTNOTES:

[I] On account of the many accidents which happen almost yearly at the Carr Rock, some plan for marking its dangerous locality has long been an object of deep solicitude. The writer recollects of a round tower of some height having been built on the rock, on the same principle as that on the Bell Rock, but it was soon overthrown by the first winter's storm, because there was not a sufficient surface of rock at the base to admit of a strong enough building being placed upon it. But might not an erection be made of strong bars of iron, and a large bell placed on its summit, with an iron cylinder in the centre, perforated with holes to admit the sea water? Within the cylinder let a powerful floater be placed, which by the perpetual action of the tides' ebb and flow, would cause the bell to ring, and so give timeous warning of danger near. Or, another method might be adopted, viz., Let a steady officer be stationed at Fifeness, whose duty it should be to fire a gun, say a six or eight-pounder, at short intervals in snow storms, or in thick and foggy weather, when neither the land during the day, nor the stars or lights at night, can be seen. In either way the expense would be trifling, and the benefit might be great. Captains of steamers and of other vessels enveloped in the fog would then, on hearing the sound of the bell or gun, know where they were, and would take their bearings from Fifeness accordingly.

[J] The principles of banking seem to have been imperfectly understood in our fathers' days, for it appears that, at the Anstruther branch, there was a certain fixed sum per month allotted for bills to be discounted. When that sum was exhausted, it mattered not what further sum was wanted, there were no more discounts allowed that month. It followed, that the most needy were always, at the beginning of the month, the earliest customers, and, consequently, post-due bills became the rule, retired bills the exception. Under these circumstances, it is not difficult to foresee what would be the result. The bank was closed at no distant period, and the agent, it is said, lost L1500 of his own money. No other banking company attempted to establish a bank in Anstruther till May 1832, when the National Bank of Scotland opened a branch under the management of Mr F. Conolly, town-clerk, which he conducted successfully for twenty-five years. A handsome new building has lately been erected for the use of this bank. Two other branch banks have been opened in the town.

[K] There were two vessels belonging to the company, one named the Hawk, and the other the Rising Sun. The Hawk was lost on her first voyage, and Bailie Meldrum—some time chief magistrate of Anstruther-Wester—one of the crew, lost the toes of both his feet by frost-bite. The undertaking did not prove a successful one; the company was dissolved; and the premises, which were sold to the late John Miller, senior, shipowner in Anstruther, afterwards became, as I said, the property of Mr Todd.



A LEGEND OF CALDER MOOR.

It was a beautiful evening in the month of September—the air still and serene, forming a delightful change from the sultry heat of the day, which had been oppressive in the extreme. Nature seemed to have redoubled her energies; the swallows twittered cheerfully over the small pond; the bees returned laden with the rich fruits of their industry, humming their satisfaction; the heath sent its fragrance around; and the few sheep that Simon Wallace attended were nibbling earnestly the stunted grass, having spent the greater part of the day in the shade of a small knoll, listless from the heat which oppressed them. In the midst stood Simon, enjoying the scene around him, which, barren and desolate as it might be in the eyes of a stranger, was to him the loveliest spot in the universe; nor would he have bade it farewell to dwell in the most fertile vale in the Lothians. Here he had been born sixty summers before, and here he had enjoyed as much of happiness as falls to the lot of man. Humble and content, his wishes were bounded by the few acres of moss land that his fathers had reclaimed from the waste, and his knowledge of the busy world that lay beyond the hills that bounded the horizon around his humble cottage, was derived from a few books. Farther than the next market-town, Mid-Calder, he had never been, save upon one occasion—an important epoch in his life—when, upon some business of importance, concerning his lease, he had visited the capital, the wonders of which had been a never-failing subject of discourse at his humble hearth; yet, Simon was not ignorant, for he made good profit of the few books he could procure; and there was one—the fountain of all knowledge—he knew so well, that even Esdras, the holy scribe, could scarcely have found him at fault, in pointing out all the most beautiful of the inspired passages. His constant companion, he had been reading it on the hill for the last hour, and now, before retiring to his home for the night, he stood there in mental prayer, his face turned to the setting sun, which sunk beyond a sea of clouds, tinged with the most gorgeous colours, and his mind away among the bright realms of eternal felicity. A faint breeze had arisen, and the heavy clouds began to sail along, denoting rain, when he gave his orders to his faithful dog, to gather his sheep for the night, and urged him to be active, to enable him to proceed home before the shower came on. Looking along in the direction of the road that led through the moor, he thought he could perceive, at a considerable distance, three objects, urging their way forward; and, through the gloom, he with difficulty made them out to be a man and two females upon horseback. A feeling of surprise crossed his mind, as he saw travellers journeying over the moor, at a period when it was not usual, except upon urgent business, to leave Mid-Calder at a late hour, and proceed along roads almost impassable, with no other prospect than a night journey, in dangerous and troubled times. Musing on the circumstance, he had just reached the road on his way to his cottage, when the travellers came up and accosted him with an inquiry if they could find shelter for the night, as they had been overtaken by the storm, and one of the females had been taken suddenly ill since they had left the last town. With an apology for the poorness of his accommodation, Simon made them welcome to his home, and led the way homewards. Neither of the females spoke; but he thought he heard one of them utter, at intervals, a stifled groan, while the other supported her on her saddle, and the male led her horse over the rough path to prevent its stumbling. A few minutes brought them to the house, and they were soon seated by the blazing hearth, while Helen Wallace was busy preparing for them some humble refreshments; but the lady continued to become worse—she had been taken in labour, prematurely, as the female said, from the fatigue of travelling. She appeared to be of a rank far above her companions, who treated her with lowly attentions; but there was something harsh and forbidding in the manner and appearance of the man, which made Helen quail, and feel uneasy in his presence; and the female, who was above the middle age, and of a masculine appearance, had a harshness of voice and manner, that was disagreeable, even to the rustic wife of the moorland farmer. The young and beautiful female they attended—apparently not above eighteen, pale and dejected, her eyes red and swollen with weeping—had not, as yet, uttered a single word; but, apparently fearful of her attendants, especially the female, who sat close by her at the fire, had cast several stolen and imploring glances at Helen, and seemed anxious to speak, but afraid to give utterance to her thoughts.

The lady rapidly grew worse, and was put into their only spare bed, while Helen requested her husband to take one of the horses and ride to the town for assistance. This the man promptly forbade—saying, that the other attendant, a skilful woman, was capable of doing all that was required at such a time, with the assistance of the farmer's wife; that they were on their way to the residence of his master when the present unfortunate illness had occurred much sooner than was expected; that he had in the valise with him everything requisite; and that for any trouble the farmer or his wife might be put to, they should be amply rewarded. The cottage consisted of only one apartment, divided by a hallen or thin partition, which did not extend beyond the centre of the floor, to protect the fire-place from the blasts of winter; and Simon and the stranger retired to a small distance from the door, where they stood and saw the full moon rising in grandeur in the east. In vain the farmer endeavoured to gain any information from his companion of who the strangers were, and whither they were going. He got only an evasive answer. His position was extraordinary and uncomfortable. Three hours had passed: no person appeared from the house; his unsocial acquaintance scarcely spoke; a scowl in his eye, and a shade of ferocity in his countenance, alarmed him; his whole soul, sometimes intent upon some signal from the cottage, at other periods became absent; and he clutched at the sword that hung by his side, as if he meant to draw it and attack the farmer, endeavouring again, in a husky voice, to make an apology for the inconvenience they had put him to. At length Helen came to the door, and requested them to come into the house, for the lady was now better.

"What has she got?" inquired Simon.

"Two beautiful boys as ever I saw," answered the wife; "—but one of them is dead, and the mother is very weak."

While this and some other conversation passed between the farmer and his wife, the man and the woman were busy whispering at the other end of the house; but they at length approached the hearth and partook of some refreshment which had been prepared for them. The farmer offered the female, for the remainder of the night, the use of their only other bed; but both the man and the woman objected to this proposition—saying, that they preferred to sit by the hearth and attend to their mistress, and requesting that their hosts should retire to it themselves. This they did, and soon both fell into a sound sleep. Helen awoke about two hours afterwards, and, to her astonishment, found that neither of the two attendants was in the cottage. She arose and went to the bed of the sick lady, who lay apparently in a deep and troubled sleep, with the babe in her bosom. She looked for the body of its brother; but it was gone. She felt alarmed, and gently awaking Simon, in a whisper told him to arise. He was soon dressed, and, on going out, found that the strangers were gone, the horses were away, and with them everything that had been brought, even to the dress the lady had worn upon her arrival. In great anxiety they approached the bed: the lady still appeared in a deep sleep; her breathing was heavy and laborious, every attempt to awaken her was in vain; her eyes were opened and closed unconsciously, and without a word of utterance.

"Surely," said Helen, with clasped hands, "that woman hasna poisoned the puir young creature wi' that mixture she requested me to gie her just before I ca'ed you into the house. She said it was to compose her to sleep. She had offered it to the lady hersel, who, being afraid o' her, wadna taste it. Then she gave me the cup, and I offered it. O Simon! what a piteous look she threw upon me, as she said, 'From you I will take anything; you, I know, will not do me harm'—and she drank it from my hands. Surely, surely, I am not guilty of her blood, if death was in that cup!"

Here the poor woman sank upon the side of the bed in a passion of tears, while Simon stood the image of horror, gazing alternately upon his wife and the unconscious lady in the bed. Sinking upon his knees, he prayed for counsel in this hour of distress, and his mind became more calm and collected.

"Helen," said he, "you will not be afraid to stay by the poor young creature, while I go and catch Mally, and ride as fast as she can carry me to the manse, and bring the minister, who is a skilful man, and who, perhaps, may be able to do something for the sufferer; at least, he will advise us what is best for us to do in this hour of need."

"I will, indeed, be eerie," answered Helen—"very eerie; but do mak all the haste ye can, and I will tent baith mother and bairn until ye return."

In a very short time, the farmer was on his way to the manse, and soon, along with the minister, on his return to his cottage; but, before they arrived, the victim had breathed her last sigh.

Helen was at the door, weeping and wringing her hands. She blamed herself as being the cause of the young mother's death; nor was it until after the minister had prayed, and assured her that no guilt could attach to her, that she became composed. On his way to the cottage, the farmer had informed him of every circumstance, as far as it had happened under his own eye:—That the young lady had been very ill; that the female appeared expert at her duty, and kept Helen as much at a distance from her patient as she could; that the young creature wished her much to be near her, as if she had something to communicate; but the attendant always told her, in a harsh manner, that it was improper for her to speak, and found always some excuse to send her from the bedside; that the lady appeared to be in great awe of her; and that the first boy, the one that was alive, Helen kept at the hearth until the other came; that she heard it cry once, and inquired what it was, when the assistant said it was also a boy, but dead, and she threw it from her upon the bed; that, after a time, she took a vial from her pocket, and poured it into a cup, requesting the lady to drink it, as it was a composing draught, but she put it away from her; and that the poor murdered creature was persuaded by Helen to accept it at her hands.

The minister having drawn up a circumstantial detail of all the circumstances narrated, bade the sorrowing couple adieu, and departed, to send one of his maids to assist Helen, and to stay with her through the day. He vowed to make the horrid transaction as public as possible, in hopes of discovering the two wretches and their employer, and promised to call in the evening, and direct what was further to be done. He rode direct to Mid-Calder; and, on inquiry at the hostelry, if any such travellers had been there the day before, found that they had passed through the town, only stopping to bait their horses, and no particular attention had been paid to them by the landlord of the house. Here his inquiries necessarily terminated. In the meantime, Helen and her assistant had been employed laying out the corpse of the murdered woman, and tending the orphan boy. Tied by a silken cord, a curious gold ring, of massive workmanship, was suspended from her neck, and lay resting upon her bosom.

"A true love-gift," ejaculated Helen, "an exchange o' plighted faiths. Dearly had you loved the giver, for, even in sore distress and death it lay upon thy bosom. Cruelly has your love been requited; but rest in peace—your sorrows are past. I will keep this for your babe, and, as soon as he can speak, I will tell him where I found it. I fear it will be a' I will ever be able to inform him of either father or mother." She then placed the ring in her own bosom, until she could shew it to her husband; renewed her offices to the dead; took the babe in her lap, and, weeping over it, resolved, as she thought of its desolate state, without a relation in the world, that, so long as she had life, she would be a parent to it—for death had been a spoiler in her own family of three sons, all of whom it had been her misfortune to bury.

The minister arrived again in the evening. They shewed him the ring, and told where it had been found. He examined it closely; but there were neither armorial bearings nor cypher upon it, to lead even to a guess of the person to whom it had belonged—yet the make and chasing were peculiar, and might lead a person who had once examined it to remember it. The mother was interred; the babe baptized by the name of William, put out to nurse; and the usual routine of the cottage once more restored. The boy grew up under the roof of his kind protectors. To his education the minister paid particular attention, and was proud of his pupil—for William Wallace, as he was called, did honour to the labour bestowed upon him. He was quick to learn, yet his mind was not given to literary pursuits—for he delighted in feats of strife, and dwelt with rapture on the feats of the warrior. Sir William Wallace was the hero of his youthful imagination—and he longed to be of man's stature, only that he might be a soldier. Thus years rolled on. William was now eighteen years of age; the labour of the farm, in which he engaged, was irksome to him; yet he restrained his inclinations, and toiled on for his benefactors, who had both become so frail that they required his aid. By the time he arrived at his twentieth year, his foster parents died within a few months of each other, and left him possessor of their little wealth. When spring returned, he made known to his benefactor, the minister, his resolution of leaving the moor and going into the busy world. The stock was turned into cash, and William, bidding a long adieu to the scenes of his youth, set off for the capital, accompanied by the prayers of the good man for his success. Since the death of his protectors he had worn his mother's ring, and he had a vague hope that it might, by some way or other, lead to a discovery of his parents, and enable him to avenge her murder. All the mild lessons of his teacher upon this point had been vain. His mind dwelt with a gloomy satisfaction upon a just retribution. At times his feelings rose to agony—the idea that the guilty individual might be his own parent, often flashed across his mind and made him love his ignorance; but, nature prevailing, his wonted desire recurred again, and, musing thus, he rode on towards Edinburgh, now with the reins resting upon his horse's neck; and then, when urged by his troubled mind, urging forward his steed. He stopped at the borders of the moor, and turned towards the scenes so dear to him, where he had passed what of his life had gone by in innocence and peace. For the first time, he felt alone in the world; and a few involuntary tears fell from his eyes—a token of regret due to the memory of departed worth, and a pleasing recollection of scenes endeared to him by many tender associations. Thus in pensive meditation he rode on, undetermined as to his future mode of life. Prior to his setting out, everything had appeared to his imagination of easy execution; but now he began to encounter difficulties he had never dreamed of before; and the sight of Edinburgh, which he reached before nightfall, did not diminish them. The vastness of the city overpowered him; the stateliness of the buildings appeared to him the work of giants; and he almost shrank from entering it, through a feeling of his own littleness. In his approach, his eyes had been constantly fixed upon the buildings of the Castle, perched high above the town, and crowning the almost circular, bold, and craggy rocks on which it stands. Along the line of houses to the east, that stretched farther than his eye could trace, the setting sun threw his departing rays, and innumerable windows glanced like burnished gold; while the diadem-shaped spire of St Giles', towering above all, in the centre, seemed to proclaim her the queen of cities. With all the impatience of youth, he urged on his horse, expecting to see all the inhabitants of so fair a place themselves fair. But scarce had he entered the West-Port gate, when his feelings were shocked to witness, on every side, squalid misery and wretchedness, and every token of poverty and vice. He put up for the night at one of the many inns of the Grassmarket; and, revolving in his mind what he had already seen, retired to bed.