Chapter II (4)

These worthies now adjourned to a public-house, which was close by, and set very gravely about settling what was to them the serious business of the evening. Willie had received thirty-one shillings as payment in full for their united labours; and, in consideration of the large and unexpected portion of them which had fallen to the stranger’s share, he generously determined, notwithstanding that he was the principal party, as having been the first engaged, to give him precisely the one-half of the money, or fifteen shillings and sixpence.

“Very fair,” said the stranger, on this being announced to him by his brother in trade—“very fair; but what would ye think of our drinking the odd sixpences?”

“Wi’ a’ my heart,” replied Willie, “wi’ a’ my heart. A very guid notion.”

And a jug of toddy, to the value of one shilling, was accordingly ordered and produced, over which the two got as thick as ben-leather.

“Ye’re a guid fiddler—I’ll say that o’ ye,” quoth Willie, after tossing down the first glass of the warm, exhilarating beverage. “I would never wish to hear a better.”

“I have had some practice,” said the other modestly, and at the same time following his companion’s example with his glass.

“Nae doot, nae doot, sae’s seen on your playin,” replied the latter. “How do you fend wi’ yer fiddle? Do ye mak onything o’ a guid leevin o’t?”

“No that ill ava,” said the stranger. “I play for the auld leddy at the castle—Castle Gowan, ye ken; indeed, I’m sometimes ca’d the leddy’s fiddler, and she’s uncommon guid to me. I neither want bite nor sowp when I gang there.”

“That’s sae far weel,” replied Willie. “She’s a guid judge o’ music that Leddy Gowan, as I hear them say; and I’m tauld her son, Sir John, plays a capital bow.”

“No amiss, I believe,” said the stranger; “but the leddy, as ye say, is an excellent judge o’ music, although whiles, I think, rather ower fond o’t, for she maks me play for hours thegither, when I wad far rather be wi’ Tam Yule, her butler, a sonsy, guid-natured chiel, that’s no sweer o’ the cap. But, speaking o’ that, I’ll tell ye what, frien,” he continued, “if ye’ll come up to Castle Gowan ony day, I’ll be blithe to see you, for I’m there at least ance every day, and I’ll warrant ye—for ye see I can use every liberty there—in a guid het dinner, an’ a jug o’ hetter toddy to wash it ower wi’.”

“A bargain be’t,” quoth Willie; “will the morn do?”

“Perfectly,” said the stranger; “the sooner the better.”

This settled, Willie proceeded to a subject which had been for some time near his heart, but which he felt some delicacy in broaching. This feeling, however, having gradually given way before the influence of the toddy, and of his friend’s frank and jovial manner, he at length ventured, though cautiously, to step on the ice.

“That’s an uncommon guid instrument o’ yours, frien,” he said.

“Very good,” replied his companion, briefly.

“But ye’ll hae mair than that ane, nae doot?” rejoined the other.

“I hae ither twa.”

“In that case,” said Willie, “maybe ye wad hae nae objection to pairt wi’ that ane, an’ the price offered ye wur a’ the mair temptin. I’ll gie ye the fifteen shillins I hae won the nicht, an’ my fiddle, for’t.”

“Thank ye, frien, thank ye for your offer,” replied the stranger; “but I daurna accept o’t, though I war willin. The fiddle was gien to me by Leddy Gowan, and I daurna pairt wi’t. She wad miss’t, and then there would be the deevil to pay.”

“Oh, an’ that’s the case,” said Willie, “I’ll sae nae mair aboot it; but it’s a first-rate fiddle—sae guid a ane, that it micht amaist play the lane o’t.”

It being now very late, or rather early, and the toddy jug emptied, the blind fiddler and his friend parted, on the understanding, however, that the former would visit the latter at the castle (whither he was now going, he said, to seek a night’s quarters) on the following day.

True to his appointment, Willie appeared next day at Gowan House, or Castle Gowan, as it was more generally called, and inquired for “the fiddler.” His inquiry was met with great civility and politeness by the footman who opened the door. He was told “the fiddler” was there, and desired to walk in. Obeying the invitation, Willie, conducted by the footman, entered a spacious apartment, where he was soon afterwards entertained with a sumptuous dinner, in which his friend the fiddler joined him.

“My word, neighbour,” said Willie, after having made a hearty meal of the good things that were set before him, and having drank in proportion, “but ye’re in noble quarters here. This is truly fiddlin to some purpose, an’ treatin the art as it ought to be treated in the persons o’ its professors. But what,” he added, “if Sir John should come in upon us? He wadna like maybe a’ thegither to see a stranger wi’ ye?”

“Deil a bodle I care for Sir John, Willie! He’s but a wild harum-scarum throughither chap at the best, an’ no muckle to be heeded.”

“Ay, he’s fond o’ a frolic, they tell me,” quoth Willie; “an’ there’s a heap o’ gie queer anes laid to his charge, whether they be true or no; but his heart’s in the richt place, I’m thinkin, for a’ that. I’ve heard o’ mony guid turns he has dune.”

“Ou, he’s no a bad chiel, on the whole, I daresay,” replied Willie’s companion. “His bark’s waur than his bite—an’ that’s mair than can be said o’ a rat-trap, at ony rate.”

It was about this period, and then for the first time, that certain strange and vague suspicions suddenly entered Willie’s mind regarding his entertainer. He had remarked that the latter gave his orders with an air of authority which he thought scarcely becoming in one who occupied the humble situation of “the lady’s fiddler;” but, singular as this appeared to him, the alacrity and silence with which these orders were obeyed, was to poor Willie still more unaccountable. He said nothing, however; but much did he marvel at the singular good fortune of his brother-in-trade. He had never known a fiddler so quartered before; and, lost in admiration of his friend’s felicity, he was about again to express his ideas on the subject, when a servant in splendid livery entered the room, and bowing respectfully, said, “The carriage waits you, Sir John.”

“I will be with you presently, Thomas,” replied who? inquires the reader.

Why, Willie’s companion!

What! is he then Sir John Gowan—he, the fiddler at the penny-wedding, Sir John Gowan of Castle Gowan, the most extensive proprietor and the wealthiest man in the county?

The same and no other, good reader, we assure thee.

A great lover of frolic, as he himself said, was Sir John; and this was one of the pranks in which he delighted. He was an enthusiastic fiddler; and, as has been already shown, performed with singular skill on that most difficult, but most delightful, of all musical instruments.

We will not attempt to describe poor Willie’s amazement and confusion when this singular fact became known to him; for they are indescribable, and therefore better left to the reader’s imagination. On recovering a little from his surprise, however, he endeavoured to express his astonishment in such broken sentences as these—“Wha in earth wad hae ever dreamed o’t? Rosit an’ fiddle-strings!—this beats a’. Faith, a’n I’ve been fairly taen in—clean dune for. A knight o’ the shire to play at a penny-waddin wi’ blin Willie Hodge the fiddler! The like was ne’er heard tell o’.”

As it is unnecessary, and would certainly be tedious, to protract the scene at this particular point in our story, we cut it short by saying, that Sir John presented Willie with the fiddle he had so much coveted, and which he had vainly endeavoured to purchase; that he then told down to him the half of the proceeds of the previous night’s labours which he had pocketed, added a handsome _douceur_ from his own purse, and finally dismissed him with a pressing and cordial invitation to visit the castle as often as it suited his inclination and convenience.

Having arrived at this landing-place in our tale, we pause to explain one or two things, which is necessary for the full elucidation of the sequel. With regard to Sir John Gowan himself, there is little to add to what has been already said of him; for, brief though these notices of him are, they contain nearly all that the reader need care to know about him. He was addicted to such pranks as that just recorded; but this, if it was a defect in his character, was the only one. For the rest, he was an excellent young man—kind, generous, and affable; of the strictest honour, and the most upright principles. He was, moreover, an exceedingly handsome man, and highly accomplished. At this period, he was unmarried, and lived with his mother, Lady Gowan, to whom he was most affectionately attached. Sir John had, at one time, mingled a good deal with the fashionable society of the metropolis; but soon became disgusted with the heartlessness of those who composed it, and with the frivolity of their pursuits; and in this frame of mind he came to the resolution of retiring to his estate, and of giving himself up entirely to the quiet enjoyments of a country life, and the pleasing duties which his position as a large landed proprietor entailed upon him.

Simple in all his tastes and habits, Sir John had been unable to discover, in any of the manufactured beauties to whom he had been, from time to time, introduced while he resided in London, one to whom he could think of intrusting his happiness. The wife he desired was one fresh from the hand of nature, not one remodelled by the square and rule of art; and such a one he thought he had found during his adventure of the previous night.

Bringing this digression, which we may liken to an interlude, to a close, we again draw up the curtain, and open the second act of our little drama with an exhibition of the residence of Mr Harrison at Todshaws.

The house or farm-steading of this worthy person was of the very best description of such establishments. The building itself was substantial, nay, even handsome, while the excellent garden which was attached to it, and all the other accessories and appurtenances with which it was surrounded, indicated wealth and comfort. Its situation was on the summit of a gentle eminence that sloped down in front to a noisy little rivulet, that careered along through a narrow rugged glen overhanging with hazel, till it came nearly opposite the house, where it wound through an open plat of green sward, and shortly after again plunged into another little romantic ravine similar to the one it had left.

The approach to Mr Harrison’s house lay along this little rivulet, and was commanded, for a considerable distance, by the view from the former—a circumstance which enabled Jeanie Harrison to descry, one fine summer afternoon, two or three days after the occurrence of the events just related, the approach of the fiddler with whom she had danced at the wedding. On making this discovery, Jeanie ran to announce the joyful intelligence to all the other members of the family, and the prospect of a merry dancing afternoon opened on the delighted eyes of its younger branches.

When the fiddler—with whose identity the reader is now as well acquainted as we are—had reached the bottom of the ascent that led to the house, Jeanie, with excessive joy beaming in her bright and expressive eye, and her cheek glowing with the roseate hues of health, rushed down to meet him, and to welcome him to Todshaws.

“Thank ye, my bonny lassie—thank ye,” replied the disguised baronet, expressing himself in character, and speaking the language of his assumed station. “Are ye ready for anither dance?”

“Oh, a score o’ them—a thousand o’ them,” said the lively girl.

“But will your faither, think ye, hae nae objections to my comin?” inquired the fiddler.

“Nane in the warld. My faither is nane o’ your sour carles that wad deny ither folk the pleasures they canna enjoy themsels. He likes to see a’body happy around him—every ane his ain way.”

“An’ your mother?”

“Jist the same. Ye’ll find her waur to fiddle doun than ony o’ us. She’ll dance as lang’s a string hauds o’t.”

“Then, I may be quite at my ease,” rejoined Sir John.

“Quite so,” replied Jeanie—and she slipped half-a-crown into his hand—“and there’s your arles; but ye’ll be minded better ere ye leave us.”

“My word, no an ill beginnin,” quoth the musician, looking with well-affected delight at the coin, and afterwards putting it carefully into his pocket. “But ye could hae gien me a far mair acceptable arles than half-a-crown,” he added, “and no been a penny the poorer either.”

“What’s that?” said Jeanie, laughing and blushing at the same time, and more than half guessing, from the looks of the _pawky_ fiddler, what was meant.

“Why, my bonny leddie,” he replied, “jist a kiss o’ that pretty little mou o’ yours.”

“Oh, ye gowk!” exclaimed Jeanie, with a roguish glance at her humble gallant; for, disguised as he was, he was not able to conceal a very handsome person, nor the very agreeable expression of a set of remarkably fine features—qualities which did not escape the vigilance of the female eye that was now scanning their possessor. Nor would we say that these qualities were viewed with total indifference, or without producing their effect, even although they did belong to a fiddler.

“Oh, ye gowk!” said Jeanie; “wha ever heard o’ a fiddler preferring a kiss to half-a-crown?”

“But _I_ do, though,” replied the disguised knight; “and I’ll gie ye yours back again for’t.”

“The mair fule you,” exclaimed Jeanie, rushing away towards the house, and leaving the fiddler to make out the remainder of the way by himself.

On reaching the house, the musician was ushered into the kitchen, where a plentiful repast was instantly set before him, by the kind and considerate hospitality of Jeanie, who, not contented with her guest’s making a hearty meal at table, insisted on his pocketing certain pieces of cheese, cold meat, &c., which were left. These the fiddler steadily refused; but Jeanie would take no denial, and with her own hands crammed them into his capacious pockets, which, after the operation, stuck out like a well-filled pair of saddle-bags. But there was no need for any one who might be curious to know what they contained, to look into them for that purpose. Certain projecting bones of mutton and beef, which it was found impossible to get altogether out of sight, sufficiently indicated their contents. Of this particular circumstance, however—we mean the projection of the bones from the pockets—we must observe, the owner of the said pockets was not aware, otherwise, we daresay, he would have been a little more positive in rejecting the provender which Jeanie’s warmheartedness and benevolence had forced upon him.

Be this as it may, however, so soon as the musician had finished his repast, he took fiddle in hand, and opened the evening with a slow pathetic Scottish air, which he played so exquisitely that Jeanie’s eye filled with a tear, as she listened in raptures to the sweet but melancholy turns of the affecting tune.

Twice the musician played over the touching strain, delighted to perceive the effects of the music on the lovely girl who stood before him, and rightly conceiving it to be an unequivocal proof of a susceptible heart and of a generous nature.

A third time he began the beautiful air; but he now accompanied it with a song, and in this accomplishment he was no less perfect than in the others which have been already attributed to him. His voice was at once manly and melodious, and he conducted it with a skill that did it every justice. Having played two or three bars of the tune, his rich and well-regulated voice chimed in with the following words:—

Oh, I hae lived wi’ high-bred dames,
Each state of life to prove,
But never till this hour hae met
The girl that I could love.

It’s no in fashion’s gilded ha’s
That she is to be seen;
Beneath her father’s humble roof
Abides my bonny Jean.

Oh, wad she deign ae thought to wair,
Ae kindly thought on me,
Wi’ pearls I wad deck her hair,
Though low be my degree.

Wi’ pearls I wad deck her hair,
Wi’ gowd her wrists sae sma’;
An’ had I lands and houses, she’d
Be leddy ower them a’.

The sun abune’s no what he seems,
Nor is the night’s fair queen;
Then wha kens wha the minstrel is
That’s wooin bonny Jean?

Jeanie could not help feeling a little strange as the minstrel proceeded with a song which seemed to have so close a reference to herself.

She, of course, did not consider this circumstance otherwise than as merely accidental; but she could not help, nevertheless, being somewhat embarrassed by it; and this was made sufficiently evident by the blush that mantled on her cheek, and by the confusion of her manner under the fixed gaze of the singer, while repeating the verses just quoted.

When he had concluded, “Well, good folks all,” he said, “what think ye of my song?” And without waiting for an answer, about which he seemed very indifferent, he added, “and how do you like it, Jeanie?” directing the question exclusively to the party he named.

“Very weel,” replied Jeanie, again blushing, but still more deeply than before; “the song is pretty, an’ the air delightfu’; but some o’ the verses are riddles to me. I dinna thoroughly understand them.”

“Don’t you?” replied Sir John, laughing; “then I’ll explain them to you by-and-by; but, in the meantime, I must screw my pegs anew, and work for my dinner, for I see the good folk about me here are all impatience to begin.” A fact this which was instantly acknowledged by a dozen voices; and straightway the whole party proceeded, in compliance with a suggestion of Mr Harrison, to the green in front of the house, where Sir John took up his position on the top of an inverted wheelbarrow, and immediately commenced his labours.

For several hours the dance went on with uninterrupted glee, old Mr Harrison and his wife appearing to enjoy the sport as much as the youngest of the party, and both being delighted with the masterly playing of the musician. But although, as on a former occasion, Sir John did not suffer anything to interfere with, or interrupt the charge of the duties expected of him, there was but a very small portion of his mind or thoughts engrossed by the employment in which he was engaged. All, or nearly all, were directed to the contemplation of the object on which his affections had now become irrevocably fixed.

Neither was his visit to Todshaws, on this occasion, by any means dictated solely by the frivolous object of affording its inmates entertainment by his musical talents. His purpose was a much more serious one. It was to ascertain, as far as such an opportunity would afford him the means, the dispositions and temper of his fair enslaver. Of these, his natural shrewdness had enabled him to make a pretty correct estimate on the night of the wedding; but he was desirous of seeing her in other circumstances, and he thought none more suitable for his purpose than those of a domestic nature.

It was, then, to see her in this position that he had now come; and the result of his observations was highly gratifying to him.

He found in Miss Harrison all that he, at any rate, desired in woman. He found her guileless, cheerful, gentle, kind-hearted, and good-tempered, beloved by all around her, and returning the affection bestowed on her with a sincere and ardent love.

Such were the discoveries which the disguised baronet made on this occasion; and never did hidden treasure half so much gladden the heart of the fortunate finder, as these did that of him who made them. It is true that Sir John could not be sure, nor was he, that his addresses would be received by Miss Harrison, even after he should have made himself known; but he could not help entertaining a pretty strong confidence in his own powers of persuasion, nor being, consequently, tolerably sanguine of success. All this, however, was to be the work of another day. In the meantime, the dancers having had their hearts’ content of capering on the green sward, the fiddle was put up, and the fiddler once more invited into the house, where he was entertained with the same hospitality as before, and another half-crown slipped into his hand. This he also put carefully into his pocket; and having partaken lightly of what was set before him, rose up to depart, alleging that he had a good way to go, and was desirous of availing himself of the little daylight that still remained. He was pressed to remain all night, but this he declined; promising, however, in reply to the urgent entreaties with which he was assailed on all sides to stay, that he would very soon repeat his visit. Miss Harrison he took by the hand, and said, “I promised to explain to you the poetical riddle which I read, or rather attempted to sing, this evening. It is now too late to do this, for the explanation is a long one; but I will be here again, without fail, in a day or two, when I shall solve all, and, I trust, to your satisfaction. Till then, do not forget your poor fiddler.”

“No, I winna forget ye,” said Jeanie. “It wadna be easy to forget ane that has contributed so much to our happiness. Neither would it be more than gratefu’ to do so, I think.”

“And you are too kind a creature to be ungrateful to any one, however humble may be their attempts to win your favour; of that I feel assured.” Having said this, and perceiving that he was unobserved, he quickly raised the fair hand he held to his lips, kissed it, and hurried out of the door.

What Jane Harrison thought of this piece of gallantry from a fiddler, we really do not know, and therefore will say nothing about it. Whatever her thoughts were, she kept them to herself. Neither did she mention to any one the circumstance which gave rise to them. Nor did she say, but for what reason we are ignorant, how much she had been pleased with the general manners of the humble musician, with the melodious tones of his voice, and the fine expression of his dark hazel eye. Oh, love, love! thou art a leveller, indeed, else how should it happen that the pretty daughter of a wealthy and respectable yeoman should think for a moment, with certain indescribable feelings, of a poor itinerant fiddler? Mark, good reader, however, we do not say that Miss Harrison was absolutely in love with the musician. By no means. That would certainly be saying too much. But it is as certainly true, that she had perceived something about him that left no disagreeable impression—nay, something which she wished she might meet with in her future husband, whoever he might be.

Leaving Jeanie Harrison to such reflections as these, we will follow the footsteps of the disguised baronet. On leaving the house, he walked at a rapid pace for an hour or so, till he came to a turn in the road, at the distance of about four miles from Todshaws, where his gig and man-servant, with a change of clothes, were waiting him by appointment. Having hastily divested himself of his disguise, and resumed his own dress, he stepped into the vehicle, and about midnight arrived at Castle Gowan.

In this romantic attachment of Sir John Gowan’s, or rather in the romantic project which it suggested to him of offering his heart and hand to the daughter of a humble farmer, there was but one doubtful point on his side of the question, at any rate. This was, whether he could obtain the consent of his mother to such a proceeding. She loved him with the utmost tenderness; and, naturally of a mild, gentle, and affectionate disposition, her sole delight lay in promoting the happiness of her beloved son. To secure this great object of her life, there was scarcely any sacrifice which she would not make, nor any proposal with which she would not willingly comply. This Sir John well knew, and fully appreciated; but he felt that the call which he was now about to make on her maternal love was more than he ought to expect she would answer. He, in short, felt that she might, with good reason, and without the slightest infringement of her regard for him, object to his marrying so far beneath his station. It was not, therefore, without some misgivings that he entered his mother’s private apartment on the day following his adventure at Todshaws, for the purpose of divulging the secret of his attachment, and hinting at the resolution he had formed regarding it.

“Mother,” he said, after a pause which had been preceded by the usual affectionate inquiries of the morning, “you have often expressed a wish that I would marry.”

“I have, John,” replied the good old lady. “Nothing in this world would afford me greater gratification than to see you united to a woman who should be every way deserving of you—one with whom you could live happily.”

“Ay, that last is the great, the important consideration, at least with me. But where, mother, am I to find that woman? I have mingled a good deal with the higher ranks of society, and there, certainly, I have not been able to find her. I am not so uncharitable as to say—nay, God forbid I should—that there are not as good, as virtuous, as amiable women, in the upper classes of society as in the lower. I have no doubt there are. All that I mean to say is, that I have not been fortunate enough to find one in that sphere to suit my fancy, and have no hopes of ever doing so. Besides, the feelings, sentiments, and dispositions of these persons, both male and female, are so completely disguised by a factitious manner, and by conventional rules, that you never can discover what is their real nature and character. They are still strangers to you, however long you may be acquainted with them. You cannot tell who or what they are. The roller of fashion reduces them all to one level; and, being all clapped into the same mould, they become mere repetitions of each other, as like as peas, without exhibiting the slightest point of variety. Now, mother,” continued Sir John, “the wife I should like is one whose heart, whose inmost nature, should be at once open to my view, unwarped and undisguised by the customs and fashions of the world.”

“Upon my word, John, you are more than usually eloquent this morning,” said Lady Gowan, laughing. “But pray now, do tell me, John, shortly and unequivocally, what is the drift of this long, flowery, and very sensible speech of yours? for that there is a drift in it I can clearly perceive. You are aiming at something which you do not like to plump upon me at once.”

Sir John looked a good deal confused on finding that his mother’s shrewdness had detected a latent purpose in his remarks, and endeavoured to evade the acknowledgment of that purpose, until he should have her opinion of the observations he had made; and in this he succeeded. Having pressed her on this point—

“Well, my son,” replied Lady Gowan, “if you think that you cannot find a woman in a station of life corresponding to your own that will suit your taste, look for her in any other you please; and, when found, take her. Consult your own happiness, John, and in doing so you will consult mine. I will not object to your marrying whomsoever you please. All that I bargain for is, that she be a perfectly virtuous woman, and of irreproachable character; and I don’t think this is being unreasonable. But do now, John, tell me at once,” she added, in a graver tone, and taking her son solemnly by the hand, “have you fixed your affections on a woman of humble birth and station? I rather suspect this is the case.”

“I have then, mother,” replied Sir John, returning his mother’s expressive and affectionate pressure of the hand; “the daughter of a humble yeoman, a woman who——” But we will spare the reader the infliction of the high-flown encomiums of all sorts which Sir John lavished on the object of his affections. Suffice it to say, that they included every quality of both mind and person which go to the adornment of the female sex.

When he had concluded, Lady Gowan, who made the necessary abatements from the panegyric her son had passed on the lady of his choice, said that, with regard to his attachment, she could indeed have wished it had fallen on one somewhat nearer his own station in life, but that, nevertheless, she had no objection whatever to accept of Miss Harrison as a daughter-in-law, since she was his choice. “Nay,” she added, smiling, “if she only possesses one-tenth—ay, one-tenth, John—of the good qualities with which you have endowed her, I must say you are a singularly fortunate man to have fallen in with such a treasure. But, John, allow me to say that, old woman as I am, I think that I could very easily show you that your prejudices, vulgar prejudices I must call them, against the higher classes of society, are unreasonable, unjust, and, I would add, illiberal, and therefore wholly unworthy of you. Does the elegance, the refinement, the accomplishments, the propriety of manner and delicacy of sentiment, to be met with in these circles, go for nothing with you? Does——”

“My dear mother,” here burst in Sir John, “if you please, we will not argue the point; for, in truth, I do not feel disposed just now to argue about anything. I presume I am to understand, my ever kind and indulgent parent, that I have your full consent to marry Miss Harrison—that is, of course, if Miss Harrison will marry me?”

“Fully and freely, my child,” said the old lady, now flinging her arms around her son’s neck, while a tear glistened in her eye; “and may God bless your union, and make it happy!”

Sir John with no less emotion returned the embrace of his affectionate parent, and, in the most grateful language he could command, thanked her for her ready compliance with his wishes.

On the day following that on which the preceding conversation between Sir John Gowan and his mother took place, the inmates of Todshaws were surprised at the appearance of a splendid equipage driving up towards the house.

“Wha in a’ the world’s this?” said Jeanie to her father, as they both stood at the door, looking at the glittering vehicle, as it flashed in the sun and rolled on towards them. “Some travellers that hae mistaen their road.”

“Very likely,” replied her father; “yet I canna understand what kind o’ a mistake it could be that should bring them to such an out-o’-the-way place as this. It’s no a regular carriage road—that they micht hae seen; an’ if they hae gane wrang, they’ll find some difficulty in getting richt again. But here they are, sae we’ll sune ken a’ about it.”

As Mr Harrison said this, the carriage, now at the distance of only some twenty or thirty yards from the house, stopped; a gentleman stepped out, and advanced smiling towards Mr Harrison and his daughter. They looked surprised, nay confounded; for they could not at all comprehend who their visitor was.

“How do you do, Mr Harrison?” exclaimed the latter, stretching out his hand to the person he addressed; “and how do you do, Miss Harrison?” he said, taking Jeanie next by the hand.

In the stranger’s tones and manner the acute perceptions of Miss Harrison recognised something she had heard and seen before, and the recognition greatly perplexed her; nor was this perplexity lessened by the discovery which she also made, that the countenance of the stranger recalled one which she had seen on some former occasion. In short, the person now before her she thought presented a most extraordinary likeness to the fiddler—only that he had no fiddle, that he was infinitely better dressed, and that his pockets were not sticking out with lumps of cheese and cold beef. That they were the same person, however, she never dreamed for a moment.

In his daughter’s perplexity on account of the resemblances alluded to, Mr Harrison did not participate, as, having paid little or no attention to the personal appearance of the fiddler, he detected none of them; and it was thus that he replied to the stranger’s courtesies with a gravity and coolness which contrasted strangely with the evident embarrassment and confusion of his daughter, although she herself did not well know how this accidental resemblance, as she deemed it, should have had such an effect upon her.

Immediately after the interchange of the commonplace civilities above mentioned had passed between the stranger and Mr Harrison and his daughter—

“Mr Harrison,” he said, “may I have a private word with you?”

“Certainly, sir,” replied the former. And he led the way into a little back parlour.

“Excuse us for a few minutes, Miss Harrison,” said the stranger, with a smile, ere he followed, and bowing gallantly to her as he spoke.

On entering the parlour, Mr Harrison requested the stranger to take a seat, and placing himself in another, he awaited the communication of his visitor.

“Mr Harrison,” now began the latter, “in the first place, it may be proper to inform you that I am Sir John Gowan of Castle Gowan.”

“Oh!” said Mr Harrison, rising from his seat, approaching Sir John, and extending his hand towards him; “I am very happy indeed to see Sir John Gowan. I never had the pleasure of seeing you before, sir; but I have heard much of you, and not to your discredit, I assure you, Sir John.”

“Well, that is some satisfaction, at any rate, Mr Harrison,” replied the baronet, laughing. “I am glad that my character, since it happens to be a good one, has been before me. It may be of service to me. But to proceed to business. You will hardly recognise in me, my friend, I daresay,” continued Sir John, “a certain fiddler who played to you at a certain wedding lately, and to whose music you and your family danced on the green in front of your own house the other night.”

Mr Harrison’s first reply to this extraordinary observation was a broad stare of amazement and utter non-comprehension. But after a few minutes’ pause thus employed, “No, certainly not, sir,” he said, still greatly perplexed and amazed. “But I do not understand you. What is it you mean, Sir John?”

“Why,” replied the latter, laughing, “I mean very distinctly that _I_ was the musician on both of the occasions alluded to. The personification of such a character has been one of my favourite frolics; and however foolish it may be considered, I trust it will at least be allowed to have been a harmless one.”

“Well, this is most extraordinary,” replied Mr Harrison, in great astonishment. “Can it be possible? Is it really true, Sir John, or are ye jesting?”

“Not a bit of that, I assure you, sir. I am in sober earnest. But all this,” continued Sir John, “is but a prelude to the business I came upon. To be short, then, Mr Harrison: I saw and particularly marked your daughter on the two occasions alluded to, and the result, in few words, is, that I have conceived a very strong attachment to her. Her beauty, her cheerfulness, her good temper, and simplicity, have won my heart, and I have now come to offer her my hand.”

“Why, Sir John, this—this,” stammered out the astonished farmer, “is more extraordinary still. You do my daughter and myself great honour, Sir John—great honour, indeed.”

“Not a word of that,” replied the knight, “not a word of that, Mr Harrison. My motives are selfish. I am studying my own happiness, and therefore am not entitled to any acknowledgments of that kind. You, I hope, sir, have no objection to accept of me as a son-in-law; and I trust your daughter will have no very serious ones either. Her affections, I hope, are not preengaged?”

“Not that I know of, Sir John,” replied Mr Harrison; “indeed, I may venture to say positively that they are not. The girl has never yet, that I am aware of, thought of a husband—at least, not more than young women usually do; and as to my having any objections, Sir John, so far from that, I feel, I assure you, extremely grateful for such a singular mark of your favour and condescension as that you have just mentioned.”

“And you anticipate no very formidable ones on the part of your daughter?”

“Certainly not, Sir John; it is impossible there should.”

“Will you, then, my dear sir,” added Sir John, “be kind enough to go to Miss Harrison and break this matter to her, and I will wait your return?”

With this request the farmer instantly complied; and having found his daughter, opened to her at once the extraordinary commission with which he was charged. We would fain describe, but find ourselves wholly incompetent to the task, the effect which Mr Harrison’s communication had upon his daughter, and on the other female members of the family, to all of whom it was also soon known. There was screaming, shouting, laughing, crying, fear, joy, terror, and amazement, all blended together in one tremendous medley, and so loud that it reached the ears of Sir John himself, who, guessing the cause of it, laughed very heartily at the strange uproar.

“But, oh! the cauld beef an’ the cheese that I crammed into his pockets, father,” exclaimed Jeanie, running about the room in great agitation. “He’ll never forgie me that—never, never,” she said, in great distress of mind. “To fill a knight’s pockets wi’ dauds o’ beef and cheese! Oh! goodness, goodness! I canna marry him. I canna see him after that. It’s impossible, father—impossible, impossible!”

“If that be a’ your objections, Jeanie,” replied her father, smiling, “we’ll soon get the better o’t. I’ll undertake to procure ye Sir John’s forgiveness for the cauld beef and cheese—that’s if ye think it necessary to ask a man’s pardon for filling his pockets wi’ most unexceptionable provender. I wish every honest man’s pouches war as weel lined, lassie, as Sir John’s was that nicht.” Saying this, Mr Harrison returned to Sir John, and informed him of the result of his mission, which was—but this he had rather made out than been told, for Jeanie could not be brought to give any rational answer at all—that his addresses would not, he believed, be disagreeable to his daughter, “which,” he added, “is, I suppose, all that you desire in the meantime, Sir John.”

“Nothing more, nothing more, Mr Harrison; she that’s not worth wooing’s not worth winning. I only desired your consent to my addresses, and a regular and honourable introduction to your daughter. The rest belongs to me. I will now fight my own battle, since you have cleared the way, and only desire that you may wish me success.”

“That I do with all my heart,” replied the farmer; “and, if I can lend you a hand, I will do it with right good will.”

“Thank you, Mr Harrison, thank you,” replied Sir John; “and now, my dear sir,” he continued, “since you have so kindly assisted me thus far, will you be good enough to help me just one step farther? Will you now introduce me in my new character to your daughter? Hitherto she has known me only,” he said, smiling as he spoke, “as an itinerant fiddler, and I long to meet her on a more serious footing—and on one,” he added, again laughing, “I hope, a trifle more respectable.”

“That I’ll very willingly do, Sir John,” replied Mr Harrison, smiling in his turn; “but I must tell you plainly, that I have some doubts of being able to prevail on Jane to meet you at this particular moment. She has one most serious objection to seeing you.”

“Indeed!” replied Sir John, with an earnestness that betokened some alarm. “Pray, what is that objection?”

“Why, sir,” rejoined the latter, “allow me to reply to that question by asking you another. Have you any recollection of carrying away out of my house, on the last night you were here, a pocketful of cheese and cold beef?”

“Oh! perfectly, perfectly,” said Sir John, laughing, yet somewhat perplexed. “Miss Harrison was kind enough to furnish me with the very liberal supply of the articles you allude to; cramming them into my pocket with her own fair hands.”

“Just so,” replied Mr Harrison, now laughing in his turn. “Well, then, to tell you a truth, Sir John, Jane is so dreadfully ashamed of that circumstance, that she positively will not face you.”

“Oh ho! is that the affair?” exclaimed the delighted baronet. “Why, then, if she won’t come to us, we’ll go to her; so lead the way, Mr Harrison, if you please.” Mr Harrison did lead the way, and Jane was caught.

Beyond this point our story need not be prolonged, as here all its interest ceases. We have only now to add, then, that the winning manners, gentle dispositions, and very elegant person of Sir John Gowan, very soon completed the conquest he aimed at; and Jeanie Harrison, in due time, became LADY GOWAN.

PEAT-CASTING TIME.

BY THOMAS GILLESPIE.

In the olden times, there were certain fixed occasions when labour and frolic went hand in hand—when professional duty and kindhearted glee mutually kissed each other. The “rockin’” mentioned by Burns—

On Fasten e’en we had a rockin’—

I still see in the dim and hazy distance of the past. It is only under the refractive medium of vigorous recollection that I can again bring up to view (as the Witch of Endor did Samuel) those images that have been reposing, “’midst the wreck of things that were,” for more than fifty years. Yet my early boyhood was familiar with these social senile and juvenile festivities. _There_ still sits Janet Smith, in her toy-mutch and check-apron, projecting at intervals the well-filled spindle into the distance. Beside her is Isabel Kirk, elongating and twirling the yet unwound thread. Nanny Nivison occupies a _creepy_ on the further side of the fire (making the third Fate!), with her shears. Around, and on bedsides, are seated Lizzy Gibson, with her favoured lad; Tam Kirkpatrick, with his jo Jean on his knee; Rob Paton the stirk-herd; and your humble servant. And “now the crack gaes round, and who so wilful as to put it by?” The story of past times; the report of recent love-matches and miscarriages; the gleeful song, bursting unbid from the young heart, swelling forth in beauty and in brightness like the waters from the rock of Meribah; the occasional female remonstrance against certain _welcome_ impertinences, in shape of, “Come now, Tam—nane o’ yer nonsense.” “Will! I say, be peaceable, and behave yersel afore folk. ’Od, ye’ll squeeze the very breath out o’ a body.”

Till, in a social glass o’ strunt,
They parted off careering
On sic a night.

I’ve heard a lilting at our ewe-milking.

How few of the present generation have ever heard of this “lilting,” except in song. It is the gayest and sunniest season of the year. The young lambs, in their sportive whiteness, are coursing it, and bleating it, responsive to their dams, on the hill above. The old ewes on the plain are marching—

The labour much of man and dog—

to the pen or fold. The response to the clear-toned bleat of their woolly progeny is given, anon and anon, in a short, broken, low bass. It is the raven conversing with the jackdaw! All is bustle, excitement, and badinage.

“Weer up that ewe, Jenny, lass. Wha kens but her woo may yet be a blanket for you and ye ken wha to sleep in!”

“Haud yer tongue, Tammie, and gang hame to yer books and yer schoolin. Troth, it will be twa days ere the craws dirty your kirk riggin!”

Wouf, wouf, wouf!—hee, hee, hee!—hoch, hoch, hoch!—there _in_ they go, and in they are, their horny heads wedged over each other, and a trio of stout, well-made damsels, with petticoats tied up “_à la breeches_,” tugging away at their well-filled dugs.

“Troth, Jenny, that ewe will waur ye; ’od, I think ye hae gotten haud o’ the auld tup himsel. He’s as powerfu, let me tell ye, as auld Francie, wham ye kissed sae snug last nicht ayont the peat-mou.”

“Troth, at weel, Tam, ye’re a fearfu liar. They wad be fonder than I am o’ cock birds wha wad gie tippence for the stite o’ a howlet.”

“Howlet here, howlet there, Jenny, ye ken weel his auld brass will buy you a new pan.”

At this crisis the crack becomes general and inaudible from its universality, mixed as it is with the bleating of ewes, the barking of dogs, together with the singing of herd-laddies and of your humble servant.

Harvest is a blithe time! May all the charms of “Sycorax, toads, beetles, bats, light on him” who shall first invent a reaping-machine! The best of all reaping-machines is “the human _arm_ divine,” whether brawny or muscular, or soft and rounded. The old woman of sixty sits all year long at her domestic occupations—you would deem her incapable of any out-door exertions; but, at the sound of the harvest-horn, she renews her youth, and sallies forth into the harvest-field, with hook over shoulder, and a heart buoyant with the spirit of the season, to take her place and drive her rig with the youngest there. The half-grown boy and girl of fourteen are mingled up in duty and in frolic, in jest and jibe, and jeer and laugh, with the stoutest and the most matured. Mothers and daughters, husbands and wives, and, above and beyond all, “lads and lasses, lovers gay!” mix and mingle in one united band, for honest labour and exquisite enjoyment; and when at last the joyous kirn is won—when the maiden of straw is borne aloft and in triumph, to adorn for twelve months the wall of the farmer’s ben—when the rich and cooling curds-and-cream have been ramhorn-spooned into as many mouths as there are persons in the “toun”—then comes the mighty and long-anticipated festival, the roasted ox, the stewed sheep, the big pot enriched with the cheering and elevating draught, the punch dealt about in ladles and in jugs, the inspiring fiddle, the maddening reel, and the Highland fling.

_We_ cannot but remember such things were,
And were most dear to us!

Hay harvest, too, had its soft and delicate tints, resembling those of the grain harvest. As the upper rainbow curves and glows with fainter colouring around the interior and the brighter, so did the hay harvest of yore anticipate and prefigure, as it were, the other. The hay tedded to the sun; the barefooted lass, her locks floating in the breeze, her cheeks redolent of youth, and her eyes of joy, scattering or collecting, carting or ricking, the sweetly-scented meadow produce, under a June sun and a blue sky!

Oh, to feel as I have felt,
Or be what I have been!—

the favoured lover, namely, of that youthful purity, now in its fourteenth summer—myself as pure and all unthinking of aught but affection the most intense, and feelings the most soft and unaccountable.

Ah, little did thy mother think,
That day she cradled thee,
What lands thou hadst to travel in,
What death thou hadst to dee!

Poor Jeanie Johnston! I have seen her, only a few weeks ago, during the sittings of the General Assembly, sunk in poverty, emaciated by disease, the wife of an old soldier, himself disabled from work, tenanting a dark hovel in Pipe’s Close, Castlehill of Edinburgh.

In the upper district of Dumfriesshire—the land of my birth, and of all those early associations which cling to me as the mistletoe to the oak, and which are equally hallowed with that druidical excrescence—there are no coals, but a superabundance of moss; consequently peat-fires _are_ very _generally_ still, and _were_, at the time of which I speak, _universally_, made use of; and a peat-fire, on a cold, frosty night of winter, when every star is glinting and goggling through the blue, or when the tempest raves, and

There’s no a star in a’ the cary,

is by no means to be despised. To be sure, it is short-lived—but then it kindles soon; it does not, it is true, entertain us with fantastic and playful jets of flame—but then its light is full, united, and steady; the heat which it sends out on all sides is superior to that of coals. Wood is sullen and sulky, whether in its log or faggot form. It eats away into itself, in a cancer ignition. But the blazing peat—

The bleezing ingle, and the clean hearth-stane—

is the very soul of cheerfulness and comfort. But then peats must be prepared. They do not grow in hedges, nor vegetate in meadows. They must be cut from the black and consolidated moss; and a peculiarly-constructed spade, with a sharp edge and crooked ear, must be made use of for that purpose; and into the field of operation must be brought, at casting-time, the spademen, with their spades; and the barrowmen, and women, boys, and girls, with their barrows; and the breakfast sowans, with their creamy milk, cut and crossed into circles and squares; and the dinner stew, with its sappy potatoes and gusty-onioned mutton fragments; and the rest at noon, with its active sports and feats of agility; and, in particular, with its jumps from the moss-brow into the soft, marshy substance beneath—and _thereby hangs my tale_, which shall be as short and simple as possible.

One of the loveliest visions of my boyhood is Nancy Morrison. She was a year or so older than me; but we went and returned from school together. She was the only daughter of a poor widow woman, who supported herself in a romantic glen on the skirts of the Queensberry Hills, by bleaching or whitening webs. In those days, the alkalies and acids had not yet superseded the slower progress of whitening green linen by soap-boiling, trampling, and alternate drying in the sun, and wetting with pure running water. Many is the time and oft that Nanny and I have wielded the watering-pan, in this fairy, sunny glen, all day long. Whilst the humble-bee boomed past us, the mavis occupied the thorn-tree, and the mother of Nanny employed herself in some more laborious department of the same process, Nanny and I have set us down on the greensward—_in tenaci gramine_—played at chucks, “head him and cross him,” or some such amusement. At school, Nanny had ever a faithful defender and avenger in me; and I have even purloined apples and gooseberries from the castle garden—and all for the love I bore “to my Nanny, oh!”

I know not that any one has rightly described a first love. It is not the love of man and woman, though that be fervent and terrible; it is not the love of mere boy and girlhood, though that be disinterested and engrossing; but it is the love of the period of life which unites the two. “Is there a man whose blood is warm within him” who does not recollect it? Is there a woman who has passed through the novitiate of fifteen, who has not still a distinct impression of the feeling of which I speak? It is not sexual, and yet it can only exist betwixt the sexes. It is the sweetest delusion under which the soul of a created being can pass. It is modest, timid, retiring, bashful; yet, in absence of the adored—in seclusion, in meditation, and in dreams—it is bold, resolute, and determined. There is no plan, no design, no right conception of _cause_; yet the _effect_ is sure and the bliss perfect. Oh, for one hour—one little hour—from the thousands which I have idled, sported, dreamed away in the company of my darling school-companion, Nancy!