Chapter II (6)

Upon the 10th of April 1722, coming from Old Cambus, upon the post-road, I met with Cool on the head of the heath called the Pees. He asked me, if I had considered the matter he had recommended? I told him I had, and was in the same opinion I was in when we parted; that I would not possibly undertake his commissions, unless he could give me them in writing under his hand. I told him that the list of his grievances were so great that I could not possibly remember them without being put in writing; and that I wanted nothing but reason to determine me in that, and all other affairs of my life.

“I know,” says he, “this is a mere evasion: but tell me if the Laird of Thurston will do it?”

“I am sure,” said I, “he will not; and if he should, I would do all that I could to hinder him; for I think he has as little to do in these matters as myself. But tell me, Cool, is it not as easy to write your story as tell it, or ride on what-do-ye-call-him? for I have forgot your horse’s name.”

_Cool._ No, sir, it is not; and perhaps I may convince you of the reasonableness of it afterwards.

_Ogil._ I would be glad to hear a reason that is solid for not speaking to your wife yourself; but, however, any rational creature may see what a fool I would make of myself, if I would go to Dumfries, and tell your wife you had appeared to me, and told so many forgeries and villanies that you had committed, and that she behoved to make reparation; the consequence might perhaps be, that she would scold me; for she would be loath to part with any money she possesses, and therefore tell me I was mad, or possibly pursue me for calumny. How would I vindicate myself; how could I prove that you ever spoke with me? Mr Paton and other ministers in Dumfries would tell me the devil had spoken with me; and why should I repeat these things for truth which he, that was a liar from the beginning, had told me? C—p—l and B—r— H—rie would be upon me, and pursue me before the commissary; everybody would look upon me as brain-sick or mad: therefore, I entreat you, do not insist upon sending me so ridiculous an errand. The reasonableness of my demands I leave to your own consideration, as you did your former to mine. But dropping the matter till our next interview, give me leave to enter upon some more diverting subject. I do not know, Cool, but the information you have given may do as much service to mankind, as the redress of all these grievances I would amount to. Mr Ogilvie died very soon after.—_Old Chap Book._

ALLAN-A-SOP.

BY SIR WALTER SCOTT.

The MacLeans, a bold and hardy race, who, originally followers of the Lords of the Isles, had assumed independence, seized upon great part both of the Isle of Mull and the still more valuable island of Islay, and made war on the MacDonalds with various success. There is a story belonging to this clan, which I may tell you, as giving another striking picture of the manners of the Hebrideans.

The chief of the clan, MacLean of Duart, in the Isle of Mull, had an intrigue with a beautiful young woman of his own clan, who bore a son to him. In consequence of the child’s being, by some accident, born on a heap of straw, he received the name of Allan-a-Sop, or Allan of the Straw, by which he was distinguished from others of his clan. As his father and mother were not married, Allan was, of course, a bastard, or natural son, and had no inheritance to look for, save that which he might win for himself.

But the beauty of the boy’s mother having captivated a man of rank in the clan, called MacLean of Torloisk, he married her, and took her to reside with him at his castle of Torloisk, situated on the shores of the sound, or small strait of the sea, which divides the smaller island of Ulva from that of Mull. Allan-a-Sop paid his mother frequent visits at her new residence, and she was naturally glad to see the poor boy, both from affection, and on account of his personal strength and beauty, which distinguished him above other youths of his age. But she was obliged to confer marks of her attachment on him as privately as she could, for Allan’s visits were by no means so acceptable to her husband as to herself. Indeed, Torloisk liked so little to see the lad, that he determined to put some affront on him, which should prevent his returning to the castle for some time. An opportunity for executing his purpose soon occurred.

The lady one morning, looking from the window, saw her son coming wandering down the hill, and hastened to put a girdle cake upon the fire, that he might have hot bread for breakfast. Something called her out of the apartment after making this preparation, and her husband, entering at the same time, saw at once what she had been about, and determined to give the boy such a reception as should disgust him for the future. He snatched the cake from the girdle, thrust it into his stepson’s hands, which he forcibly closed on the scalding bread, saying, “Here, Allan, here is a cake which your mother has got ready for your breakfast.” Allan’s hands were severely burnt; and, being a sharp-witted and proud boy, he resented this mark of his step-father’s ill-will, and came not again to Torloisk.

At this time the western seas were covered with the vessels of pirates, who, not unlike the sea-kings of Denmark at an early period, sometimes settled and made conquests on the islands. Allan-a-Sop was young, strong, and brave to desperation. He entered as a mariner on board of one of these ships, and in process of time obtained the command, first of one galley, then of a small flotilla, with which he sailed round the seas and collected considerable plunder, until his name became both feared and famous. At length he proposed to himself to pay a visit to his mother, whom he had not seen for many years; and setting sail for this purpose, he anchored one morning in the sound of Ulva, and in front of the house of Torloisk. His mother was dead, but his step-father, to whom he was now as much an object of fear as he had been formerly of aversion, hastened to the shore to receive his formidable stepson, with great affectation of kindness and interest in his prosperity; while Allan-a-Sop, who, though very rough and hasty, does not appear to have been sullen or vindictive, seemed to take his kind reception in good part.

The crafty old man succeeded so well, as he thought, in securing Allan’s friendship, and obliterating all recollections of the former affront put on him, that he began to think it possible to employ his stepson in executing his own private revenge upon MacQuarrie of Ulva, with whom, as was usual between such neighbours, he had some feud. With this purpose, he offered what he called the following good advice to his stepson:—“My dear Allan, you have now wandered over the seas long enough: it is time you should have some footing upon land—a castle to protect yourself in winter, a village and cattle for your men, and a harbour to lay up your galleys. Now, here is the island of Ulva, near at hand, which lies ready for your occupation, and it will cost you no trouble, save that of putting to death the present proprietor, the Laird of MacQuarrie, a useless old carle, who has cumbered the world long enough.”

Allan-a-Sop thanked his step-father for so happy a suggestion, which he declared he would put in execution forthwith. Accordingly, setting sail the next morning, he appeared before MacQuarrie’s house an hour before noon. The old chief of Ulva was much alarmed at the menacing apparition of so many galleys, and his anxiety was not lessened by the news that they were commanded by the redoubted Allan-a-Sop. Having no effectual means of resistance, MacQuarrie, who was a man of shrewd sense, saw no alternative save that of receiving the invaders, whatever might be their purpose, with all outward demonstrations of joy and satisfaction; the more especially as he recollected having taken some occasional notice of Allan during his early youth, which he now resolved to make the most of. Accordingly, MacQuarrie caused immediate preparations to be made for a banquet, as splendid as circumstances admitted, hastened down to the shore to meet the rover, and welcomed him to Ulva with such an appearance of sincerity, that the pirate found it impossible to pick any quarrel, which might afford a pretence for executing the violent purpose which he had been led to meditate.

They feasted together the whole day; and, in the evening, as Allan-a-Sop was about to retire to his ships, he thanked the laird for his hospitality, but remarked, with a sigh, that it had cost him very dear.

“How can that be,” said MacQuarrie, “when I bestowed this entertainment upon you in free goodwill?”

“It is true, my friend,” replied the pirate, “but then it has quite disconcerted the purpose for which I came hither; which was to put you to death, my good friend, and seize upon your house and island, and so settle myself in the world. It would have been very convenient for me, this island of Ulva; but your friendly reception has rendered it impossible for me to execute my purpose, so that I must be a wanderer on the seas for some time longer.”

Whatever MacQuarrie felt at learning he had been so near to destruction, he took care to show no emotion save surprise, and replied to his visitor: “My dear Allan, who was it that put into your mind so unkind a purpose towards your old friend; for I am sure it never arose from your own generous nature? It must have been old Torloisk, who made such an indifferent husband to your mother, and such an unfriendly step-father to you when you were a helpless boy; but now, when he sees you a bold and powerful leader, he desires to make a quarrel betwixt you and those who were the friends of your youth. If you consider this matter rightly, Allan, you will see that the estate and harbour of Torloisk lie to the full as conveniently for you as those of Ulva, and that, if you are disposed (as is very natural) to make a settlement by force, it is much better it should be at the expense of the old churl, who never showed you kindness or countenance, than at that of a friend like me, who always loved and honoured you.”

Allan-a-Sop was struck with the justice of this reasoning; and the old offence of his scalded fingers was suddenly recalled to his mind. “It is very true what you say, MacQuarrie,” he replied, “and, besides, I have not forgotten what a hot breakfast my step-father treated me to one morning. Farewell for the present; you shall soon hear news of me from the other side of the Sound.” Having said thus much, the pirate got on board, and commanding his men to unmoor the galleys, sailed back to Torloisk, and prepared to land in arms. MacLean hastened to meet him, in expectation to hear of the death of his enemy, MacQuarrie. But Allan greeted him in a very different manner from what he expected.

“You hoary old traitor,” he said, “you instigated my simple good-nature to murder a better man than yourself! But have you forgotten how you scorched my fingers twenty years ago with a burning cake? The day is come that that breakfast must be paid for.”

So saying, he dashed out the old man’s brains with a battle-axe, took possession of his castle and property, and established there a distinguished branch of the clan of MacLean.—_From Tales of a Grandfather._

JOHN HETHERINGTON’S DREAM.

In a certain small town in the south of Scotland, there lived, about three years ago, a very respectable tailor, of the name of John Hetherington—that is to say, John wore well with the world; but, like too many of his craft, he was sorely addicted to cabbaging. Not a coat could he make, not a pair of trousers could he cut out, not a waistcoat could he stitch up, but he must have a patch of this, that, and t’other, were it for no other purpose but just to serve as a bit of a memorial. One very warm evening towards the end of August 1826, John had gone to bed rather earlier than usual, but not without having laid in a very good share of a very tasty Welsh rabbit; which said rabbit, being composed of about a pound of tough cheese, of course furnished the poor tailor, after he had fairly tumbled over into the land of Nod, with something of a very curious Welsh-rabbit vision. It suddenly struck him that this life, with all its cares and anxieties, was over with him; that the finishing stitch had been put to the great work of life, and the thread of his existence cut through. In the other world, to his misfortune, he found things not moving so comfortably as he would have wished; and the old gentleman with the short horns and the long tail, rigged out in his best suit of black, was the first friend he forgathered with after passing the border.

“There’s a fine morning,” said the wily old dog; “how do you find yourself after long travel?”

“No that weel,” stammered out the half-dead son of a goose; “no that weel; and I dinna think, all things considered, it would benefit me much to be found in such company, no offence to your reverence,” as he saw his new friend’s choler rise; “no offence to your reverence, I trust; but if I may be so bold, I would thank you to tell me the reason of my being here; and, above all, who’s to be thankit for the honour of an introduction to your reverence?”

“That you will know shortly, friend; nay, John Hetherington, for you see I know you;” and taking a large parcel from below his left arm, he commenced to unroll it, and to the astonishment of poor John, unfolded a long sheet of patchwork, in which were found scraps of every hue, a web of many colours, all neatly stitched together; and in the middle, by way of a set off, a large bit of most excellent blue cloth, which had been cabbaged that very morning from a prime piece which he had got into his hands for the purpose of making a marriage coat for his neighbour the blacksmith.

“Was all this stuff got fairly and honestly, good man?” said the old gentleman, with a sneer quite worthy of Beelzebub. “I suppose you will be able to recognise some of these old bits. What think you now of that piece in the middle which your eyes are fixed on—cabbaged no farther back than this morning? Come along, my old boy, come along; you are a true son of your old father, I see, and I will furnish you with as warm winter quarters as you ever enjoyed when you was half-stewed with your old maiden aunt, at the top of fifteen pair of stairs in the High Street of Edinburgh, when serving your apprenticeship with Dick Mouleypouches.”

A cold sweat broke over the poor tailor, and he felt as if he could have sunk snugly into the earth, if it had only had the goodness to open at that moment for his especial accommodation, when he saw the long bony arm stretched out, with its sharp eagle claws, to clutch him: he made a sharp bolt back, and giving vent to his feelings in a loud and long howl, which rung horribly in his ears long after opening his eyes, he found himself sprawling in the middle of his wooden floor, with all the bed-clothes tumbled above him. It was the first breaking out of a fine morning: the sun was rising, and all nature looked fresh and fair; but poor John was at the point of death with sheer bodily fear and trembling, so that to get to bed again, and to sleep, would have been martyrdom; therefore he huddled on his clothes, and walked out “to snuff the caller air,” and muse over his wonderful dream. The more he thought of it, the more he saw the necessity of reforming his mode of life; and, before finishing his stroll, he was an altered man, and had made up his mind never more to cabbage an inch of cloth; and, by walking circumspect and just, he trusted that his past offences might be wiped out, and that the wonderful web of many colours should no more be brought up as evidence against him. To make him the more secure in the event of forgetfulness in the hour of temptation, his foreman was let into the great secret, and had orders at all times to rub up his remembrance when there was any thing good going, which he used to do by the laconic phrase of, “Master, mind the sheet!”

A year passed over, and the terror of the dream being yet fresh in his memory, John’s transactions were strictly honest. He could cut out with somewhat more considerable ease, and had lost a good deal the knack of cutting out the sly piece at the corner. But, alas! for the stability of all human resolutions, our friend was sorely tempted, and how he stood we shall soon see. He had got to hand a beautiful piece of red cloth, for what purpose I know not, whether for the coat of a field officer, or the back of a fox hunter, but a prime piece of cloth that was; he turned it over to this side, and back to that, viewed it in all lights and shades, rubbed it against the grain, and found it faultless. He had never seen such a fine piece of cloth before—scissors had never before cut such immaculate stuff. He fixed his eye wistfully on a tempting corner, looked up, and his foreman John was staring firmly in his face: he had read his thoughts.

“Master, mind the sheet!” solemnly ejaculated John.

“I’m just swithering, John; I’m just swithering: now when I mind, there wasna a piece of red cloth in all the sheet; and mair by token, there was a bit gap at one of the corners. Now, I’m just thinking, since it maun be that all these bit odds and ends are to be evidence against me when I come to the lang count, it would be better to snick a bit aff the corner here; and that you see, John, will fill all deficiencies, and mak the sheet, since it maun appear against me, evidence, John, without a flaw!”

BLACK JOE O’ THE BOW.

BY JAMES SMITH.

In the days no sae very lang syne, when the auld West Bow o’ Edinburgh was in the deadthraw o’ its glory, there lived an auld blackymore named Joe Johnson. He was weel kent through a’ the toun for his great ingenuity in makin’ ships an’ automaton figures—something like the “Punch and Judy” o’ present times, but mair exquisitely finished an’—what d’ye ca’ that fine word?—_artistic_?—that’s it. Aweel, this man, commonly ca’d Black Joe, lived up a lang stair in the Bow, on the richt-hand side gaun doun. He made his livin’ in simmer by the bonnie bits o’ ships he made, displaying them for sale at the front gate o’ Heriot’s Wark, in Lauriston; an’ whiles he took a change at the drum an’ pan-pipes, wi’ a wee doggie ca’d Pincher, that stood on its hint-legs when Joe was playin’, wi’ a tin saucer in its mouth to haud the coppers. Sometimes, when Joe was playin’, and naething was comin’ in, the dog wad bite somebody’s leg by mistake to vary the entertainment, to Joe’s unspeakable delight. But this was often followed by somebody roaring oot—“Horselip! Horselip!” an’ then the drumstick flew through the crowd at somebody’s head, an’ Joe was generally marched to the office between twa policemen. But for a’ his fiery temper when roused, he had a kind, canny way wi’ him when civilly treated, an’ wadna hae wranged a livin’ cratur.

When the lang winter nichts set in, Joe had a show at the fit o’ his stair; an’ aften the Bow rang wi’ his drum an’ pan-pipes, as he stood at the outside o’ the show, wi’ a lichtit paper lantern stuck up in front, whereon was painted a rough sketch o’ Billy Button on the road to Brentford, the Babes in the Wood, Tam o’ Shanter on his mare Meg, pursued by the witches, wi’ Cutty Sark makin’ a catch at Maggie’s tail, or some ither scenic representation. Whiles, when Joe was burstin’ his black face in the middle o’ a fine tune, some ragged imp wad roar—

Hey cocky dawdy, hey cocky dow—
Horselip, Horselip’s comin doun the Bow,
Wi’ his drum an’ his pipe, an’ his pipe, pipe, pipe!

Doun went the drum, an’ aff ran Joe after the malicious urchin, the doggie first and foremost in the chase. For whether the beast had been trained, or acted through the force o’ instinct, certain it is, that nae sooner was its maister ca’d “Horselip,” than aff it sprang, an’ fixed its teeth in the shins o’ the first ane that cam in its way.

There was ae New Year’s nicht that an unco mess took place wi’ Joe’s show. There was a wee funny dancin’ figure o’ a man that the laddies aye ca’d “Tooral”—ane o’ the best figures in the show. This figure was on the stage singin’ “Tooraladdy,” an’ he was at the last verse—

Tak the pan an’ break his head—
Tooraladdy, tooraladdy;
That’s a’ as fac’ as death—

when a wild loon, that had been lookin’ on wi’ a greedy e’e an’ a watery mouth at the figures a’ nicht, unable ony langer to resist temptation, made a dart at “Tooral,” and vanished wi’ him oot o’ the show. This created an unco commotion, for when the folk begoud to rise up in the gallery—it was a’ gallery thegither—as Joe rushed out after the thief, cryin’ “Polish! polish! polish!—catch a thief! catch a thief!” the whole rickety concern cam doun wi’ a great crash. But they didna fa’ far; for it wasna muckle mair than five or six inches frae the ground a’thegither. But the thief was never gotten that nicht, tho’ it’s a consolation to ken that he was banished shortly afterwards for stealin’ a broon tammy an’ a quarter o’ saut butter frae a puir widdy woman, as she was comin’ out o’ a provision shop in the Canongate.

But Joe was thrown into sic a state wi’ rinnin’ through the toun after the thief, that next day he was delirious wi’ a ragin’ fever. My mither lived but an’ ben wi’ Joe; an’ it was while gaun in noo an’ then to see how the puir body was doing, that a strange interest in Joe’s history was awakened in her breast. For he had cam oot wi’ some very strange expressions when lyin’ in the delirious state. Ance or twice he cried, “Me nebber shoot massa—me nebber shoot massa. Major murder him broder—me see ’im do it. Got pistol yet—me tell truth—me no tell lie;” an’ sae he wad gang ravin’ on at this gait for hours. When at last the fever had abated, an’ Joe was able to come ben an’ sit doun by my mither’s fireside, she asked him, in her ain canny way, if he wadna like to gang back again to his native country. But the black fell a tremblin’, an’ shook his head, sayin’ “Nebber—nebber—nebber more!” This roused my mither’s curiosity to the highest pitch, for she was convinced noo, mair than ever, that some dark history was locked up in the African’s breast. Ae day, a while after this, Joe cam ben an’ sat doun by the fireside, as usual; for though the day was scorching hot, being in the heat o’ simmer, the cratur was aye shiverin’ and cowerin’ wi’ the cauld. Takin oot his cutty pipe, as usual, he began to fill’t, sayin’—“Missy, me no lib long; me no strength—me weak as water—me no happy—wish ’im was dead.”

“What way that?” asked my mither; “by my faith, ye’ll live mony a lang day yet. Deein’! deil the fear o’ ye!”

But Joe aye shook his head.

“Joe,” says my mither, takin’ his puir wasted hand in her ain, “there’s something mair than weakness the matter wi’ ye. I ken that, whatever ye may say; and the best thing for ye to do’s to mak a clean breast o’t. Whatever ye may say to me, I promise shall be as secret as the grave. Ye ken me ower weel to doot that.”

Joe lookit earnestly in her face, an’ syne at the door. My mither cannily closed the door, an’ sat doun beside him. Then the nigger, cautioning her to mind her promise, telt her a story that sent her to her bed that nicht wi’ a gey quaking heart. But as this story wadna be richtly understood to gie’t in the nigger’s strange broken English, I’ll tell’t in my ain way.

Ten years before Joe cam to Edinburgh, baith him an’ his wife were slaves on Zedekiah Gilroy’s plantation in Jamaica. This Zedekiah Gilroy was the second son o’ Colonel Gilroy, o’ Hawkesneb Hoose. I mind o’ the place mysel’ as weel as if it were yesterday; for mony a time I’ve passed it on the road to my aunty’s at Cockleburgh. It’s a gude fourteen hours’ journey frae Edinburgh—try’t ony day ye like. Aweel, the eldest son o’ this Colonel Gilroy had gotten a commission in the East India Company, an’ had risen to the rank o’ major in ane o’ the native regiments; but brocht himsel’ into disgrace there by causing the death o’ ane o’ his servants wi’ his merciless cruelty, an’ was obliged to sell oot, an’ come hame in disgrace. He hadna been lang hame, when a letter cam frae his brither, requesting him to come oot an’ look after his estate, for he had been twice attacked by yellow fever, an’ was utterly incompetent to look after’t. His overseers, he said, were rivin’ him oot o’ hoose an’ ha’, an’ a’thing was gaun wrang thegither. His wife had been struck doun by the same fell disease, an’ a lowness o’ spirits had ta’en possession o’ him, that a’ the luxuries o’ high life an’ plenty o’ siller couldna diminish. His only wish was to see his brither oot beside him, an’ tak for a while the oversicht o’ his affairs, till health an’ strength blessed him ance mair. Aweel, under a’ thae circumstances, the auld colonel advised his son to gang oot an’ do his best to help his brither in his sair extremity. Sae the major, wi’ an unco show o’ reluctance, at last consented, an’ aff he gaed to Jamaica, to play the deevil there, as he had done before in the East Indies.

Major Gilroy wasna lang at Jamaica when an unco change for the waur took place. There was naething but orderin’, cursin’, swearin’, an’ lashin’ o’ slaves frae mornin’ till nicht. Joe’s wife was amang the first that succumbed to the murderous whip, an’ Joe himsel’ cam in for mair than his share. Rumours soon began to spread that the maister himsel’ was tyrannised ower by his brither. He was ane o’ the very kindest o’ maisters to his slaves, until his brither cam like a frosty blicht, and filled the whole estate wi’ lamentation. Sae this state o’ things gaed on for nearly six months, when ae day Joe, exasperated at the inhuman treatment he was receivin’ at the major’s instigation, took leg-bail to the sea-shore, an’ hid himsel’ amang the cliffs. There he lurked, day after day, crawlin’ oot at nicht to gather shell-fish an’ dulse frae the rocks, an’ castin’ his e’e ower the wide watery waste for the welcome sicht o’ a sail to bear him frae the accursed spot. Mair than ance he had heard the shouts o’ the manhunters on his track, intermingling wi’ the terrible bay o’ the bluidhound. But a’ their vigilance was eluded by the impregnable nature o’ his position, high up amang the rocks.

On the morning o’ the thirteenth day after his escape, he cautiously emerged frae his high den, an’ looked around him as usual. The air was intensely hot, an’ dark-red masses o’ cloud were fast drivin’ through a black, lowering sky, the certain presage o’ a fearfu’ storm. The sea lay calm and still, for there wasna a breath o’ wind stirring, an’ flocks o’ sea-birds were filling the sultry air wi’ their harsh, discordant cries. Suddenly a flash o’ forked lichtnin’ illumined the black, murky sky, an’ a loud clap o’ thunder reverberated amang the mountains. Then the lichtnin’ an’ thunder became incessant, the sea lashed itsel’ into foam an’ fury, an’ the rain poured doun in torrents. As the slave surveyed the elements thus ragin’ in a’ their terrific grandeur, the distant sound o’ carriage-wheels caught his ear. Nearer an’ nearer they cam, till he recognised a gig driven by the major comin’ on at a rattlin’ pace. His brither sat beside him, propped up wi’ shawls and cushions, an’ appeared to be at that moment in an attitude o’ earnest entreaty; while every noo and then the faint sound o’ voices in noisy altercation was borne on the gale that noo roared ower land an’ sea, though what they said it was utterly impossible to distinguish. The slave looked on, first in astonishment, an’ syne in horror; for, instead o’ turnin’ the horse’s head hamewards as the storm cam on, the major persisted in drivin’ richt on through the sands as the spring-tide was fast cornin’ in, in spite o’ the agonised entreaties o’ his brither to turn. At last the gig was stopped, as the horse, plunging and restive, went up to the middle in water. Then a deadly struggle took place that lasted scarcely a minute, when the report o’ a pistol reverberated amid the thunder, an’ the next instant the body o’ the invalid was hurled into the roaring surge. Then, indeed, the horse’s head was turned hameward, an’ aff went the gig in richt earnest, but no before a wild yell o’ execration frae the cliff warned the murderer that the deed had been witnessed by mair than the e’e o’ God abune. Scarcely had the sound o’ the wheels died away, when the slave descended the lofty precipitous rocks wi’ the agility o’ a wild cat, an’ plunged into the sea to save, if it were yet possible, his puir maister. But the dark purple streaks on the surface o’ the water where the deed was accomplished telt, ower fearfully, that the sharks were already thrang at their horrid wark, an’ that a’ hope o’ saving him, if he werena clean deid after the pistol-shot was fired, was for ever gane. Therefore he reluctantly swam back to the shore, wi’ barely enough o’ time to save himsel’. Before scaling the cliff, he lifted the pistol that the murderer, in the hurry an’ confusion o’ the moment, had left behind him on the beach. This incident filled the slave wi’ fresh alarm, for it was certain the major wad come back for’t before lang. Sae a’ that nicht he wearied sair for the mornin’ to come in. Slowly at last the storm subsided, as the first pale streaks o’ dawn were visible in the horizon; an’ as the daylicht lengthened mair an’ mair, he saw a dark speck floating on the waves, that on a nearer approach proved to be a boat that had burst frae its moorings frae some ship in the distant harbour. Fervently thanking God for this providential means o’ deliverance, he descended frae his friendly shelter for the last time, an’ boldly struck out for the boat, which he reached in safety. Seizing the oars, he steered oot to the open sea, wi’ a fervent prayer that the dark drizzly fog that enveloped the ocean wad continue to shield him, for a time, frae his merciless enemy, till some friendly ship wad tak him up. It was high time; for he hadna gi’en half-a-dozen strokes, when the sound o’ angry voices, among which was the major’s, was borne on the breeze, an’ again the deep-toned bay o’ the bluidhound nerved his arms wi’ a’ the energy o’ desperation. Farther an’ farther oot he gaed, battling wi’ the heavily swelling rollers that threatened every moment to engulph the boat he steered sae bravely. For mony a lang and weary hour he struggled wi’ the giant waves, enveloped in fog, till the darkness o’ nicht had nearly set in; an’ he was fast gi’en up a’ hopes o’ succour, when the tout o’ a horn near at hand warned him that a ship was bearing doun upon him. He had barely time to steer oot o’ her way, when he was hailed by the captain, an’ asked where he cam frae. Joe made answer that he was the sole survivor o’ the _Nancy_, bound for England, that had sprung a leak, an’ foundered in last nicht’s gale. At that moment a terrible wave capsized the boat, and Joe was struggling in the water. But a rope was flung oot to him, an’ he speedily drew himsel’ on board. This circumstance o’ the boat’s being swamped was a mercy for Joe; for had the name o’ the ship she belanged to met the captain’s e’e, the lee wad hae been fand oot, an’ it micht hae fared waur wi’ him. But the captain treated Joe wi’ great kindness, and telt him he micht work his passage to Leith, which was the port o’ their destination. The vessel was a Leith trader named the _William and Mary_, an’ was on her passage hame frae the Island o’ Cuba.

Here, let it be remembered, Joe wasna to be blamed a’thegither for the doonricht lee he telt the captain. He was a rinaway slave in the first place, an’ had the captain kent the truth, it’s mair than likely he wad hae delivered him up at the first port he touched at on the voyage hame. In the second place, there was nae ither witness o’ the fearfu’ crime binna himsel’; an’ he had the tact to see that evidence resting on the sole testimony o’ a rinaway slave, mair especially when that slave micht be reasonably suspected o’ vindictive feelings against the murderer, wad be treated wi’ scorn an’ indignation, an’ even add to the horrors o’ his ain death. Therefore Joe kept his ain coonsel, and when the vessel arrived at Leith, he wandered up to Edinburgh, and resided for mony a lang year in the West Bow, makin’ his livin’ in the manner already related, and wi’ the secret carefully locked up in his breast until now.

“Aweel, Joe,” said my mither, when she had heard him oot, “that’s an unco story, man. But are ye aware that the auld colonel’s aye livin’ yet, an’ that it wad be a duty to let him ken the truth?” Here Joe lookit in her face sae pitifu’ an’ imploring like, that she didna find it in her heart to press the question ony mair at that time. But when the body gaed awa’ ben, my mither sat thinkin’ and thinkin’ till the day was far spent; an’ for mony a lang day after that she hadna muckle peace o’ mind.

Ae mornin’ she put on her bannit and shawl, and said she wadna be hame till late. Although I was a bit lassie at the time, I jaloused where she was gaun, but I never let on. It wasna till late, late at nicht that she cam hame, an’ then she telt me she had been at Hawkesneb Hoose on a pretence to see if an auld servant she had kent mony a year sin’ was aye bidin’ there. As she rang the gate-bell, she said a fearfu’ sense o’ shame an’ disgrace comin’ ower an auld man made her swither; but there was the lodgekeeper’s wife comin’ to the gate, an’ it was ower late noo to gang back. She then inquired for ane Jess Tamson, that had been a servant up at the big hoose three years sin’; but the woman said she didna ken o’ onybody o’ that name servin’ there noo. My mither said that was an unco pity, as she had cam a lang way to see her, an’ her feet were sair blistered wi’ the roads. The woman then opened the gate, an’ asked my mither into the lodge, an’ offered her a cup o’ tea, for which my mither was very thankfu’. Then, when the twa fell on the crack, my mither said the laird wad be gey far doon the brae noo, for he was an auld man in Jess’s time. My mither came oot wi’ this in her ain pawky way, to hear for certain whether the colonel were dead or livin’.

“The auld colonel’s dead an’ gane a year sin’,” said the woman, “but his son the major’s expected hame in a month; an’ I’m sure there has been sic a scrubbin’ an’ cleanin’ an’ hammerin’, that what wi’ masons, joiners, plasterers, painters, and glaziers, there hasna been muckle rest for the servants this last fortnicht.”

“An’ is the major married?” asked my mither.

“Married! no as yet,” said the woman. “They say he’s turned unco silent and cantankerous since his brither’s death, sees naebody, an’ never gangs to sleep without wax candles burnin’ a’ nicht by his bedside.”

“The major never gangs to sleep without wax candles burnin’ a’ nicht by his bedside!” said my mither, slowly comin’ ower the words after her. “Deary me, that’s strange!” tryin’ sair to keep in her breath. “What kind o’ death was’t his brither dee’d o’, hae ye heard?”

“What kind o’ death was’t? It was murder, dounricht murder!” said the woman; “an’ done too by ane o’ his ain slaves through revenge. But it was a grand day for the major when his brither dee’d; for he wasna a month gane when the plantation was selt aff, an’ the major left Jamaica wi’ mony a braw thousand pound in his pouch.”

My mither then asked if the major cam hame at that time. The woman said, “No, he had gane to Italy, and aye kept sendin’ letters to his faither every noo and then, makin’ apologies about his health being in a delicate state, and declaring his resolution to abide by the advice o’ his doctors to remain in a warmer climate, in spite o’ the auld laird’s anxious entreaties for him to come hame. I often used to wonder at the major’s continued absence; an’ it lookit strange that he didna come to lay his faither’s head in the grave, though he’s comin’ hame noo. As for the slave that did the deed, they raised a hue an’ cry after him for a while; but the murderer was never gotten, an’ it’s not likely he ever will be noo. It seems the major had been gi’en his brither an airing in a gig, when they were attacked by the slave frae behind, wha fired a pistol at his brither oot o’ revenge, and then fled, wounding him mortally. The major pursued, but when he had gane a lang distance and fand he couldna mak up to him, he cam back to the spot where the murder had been committed, expecting to see the body; but, astonishing to relate, the body had disappeared. And the man that did the deed, as I said before, was never gotten; nor is it very likely he ever will be, after sic a lang lapse o’ time. It seems he fled awa to the mountains among the Maroons, as they ca’ them.”

“That’s hard, hard to say,” said my mither; “but God has his ain ways o’ workin’, lass, an’ maybe the deed’ll be brocht to licht in a way that you an’ me little dream o’.” Then she rose up, an’ spoke o’ gaun hame; but the woman wadna hear o’t, sayin’ the nicht was ower far gane, an’ she wad mak her very welcome to a bed beside the bairns. At that moment the gudeman himsel’ cam in, an’ seeing her anxiety to gang awa, he said the mail-coach wad be gaun by in half an hour, an’ he had nae doot the guard wad gie her a lift into the toun. Sae she waited till the coach cam by, an’ fortunately got a ride in.

Aweel, when my mither had composed hersel’ a bit, after she had telt this, she filled her cutty-pipe, an’ begoud to blaw. “Lassie,” says she to me, after a wee, “fetch doun yer faither’s Bible frae the shelf.” It aye got the name o’ my faither’s Bible, though he had been deid an’ gane mony a year. Sae I gied her the Bible; an’ then I heard her slowly readin’ ower thae verses frae the Book o’ Proverbs—“Be not afraid of sudden fear, neither of the desolation of the wicked when it cometh; for the Lord shall be thy confidence, and shall keep thy foot from being taken.” This she read ower twa-three times to hersel’, an’ syne put a mark at the place, and gaed awa to her bed. And lang after that, as the puir body lay half doverin’, I heard her comin’ ower and ower thae bonnie verses, till she was fast asleep. The first thing she did, when the mornin’ cam in, was to tell Joe o’ her journey an’ its result. The puir African lifted up his hands in astonishment when she telt him the murder had been laid to his charge. But she took doun the Bible again, an’ read ower the verses that had sae powerfully arrested her attention the nicht before; and as she read them, a gleam o’ triumphant exultation shone in the e’e o’ the puir nigger—a look o’ conscious innocence, that dispelled every vestige o’ doot in my mither’s mind, if she ever had ony, an’ made her sympathise a’ the mair wi’ the lingerin’ agony he had endured since the murder was committed. He noo declared his readiness to lodge an accusation against Major Gilroy; for the fear o’ his word being misdooted vanished as if by magic frae his mind, mair especially when my mither led him to understand that, being in a free country, nae slave-owner could touch him, and that his word would be ta’en wi’ the best white man among them a’. Hooever, my mither advised him no to be rash, but to bide a wee till the major’s arrival, as an accusation preferred against him in his absence micht be construed into an evidence o’ guilt on the part o’ the accuser; for the wily, lang-headit bodies o’ lawyers were fit for onything, an’ siller could do an awfu’ lot, an’ mak black look white ony day. Besides, Great Britain was at this time deeply engaged in the Slave Trade, and micht be ower glad to tak the major’s part. Sae Joe took her advice, an’ prayed that Job wad teach him patience.

Three weeks had passed away, when Joe, unable ony langer to control the wild tumult that reigned in his breast, gaed awa oot to Hawkesneb Hoose, carryin’ his drum an’ pan-pipes wi’ him as usual. It had been a drizzly sma’ rain a’ day; an’ when he reached his journey’s end, as nicht set in, he was wet through an’ through. The place was a’ in darkness, and as he stood at the gate, an’ looked up the lang dusky avenue, he half resolved to gang back, an’ trust to time an’ the retributive justice o’ Heaven to prove his innocence. But an impulse he couldna resist chained him to the spot, an’ he rang the gate-bell. Nae answer was returned; a second time’ he rang, but still wi’ the same result. Then he pushed the gate forward, and to his surprise it swung heavily back on its hinges. Wi’ an unsteady, tremblin’ step, he advanced up the dark avenue till he reached the mansion. The hoose seemed silent an’ deserted, binna a sma’ licht that twinkled in ane o’ the lower windows, an’ as he drew nearer, the sound o’ voices reached his ear. Then the resolve to gang back again took possession o’ him; but the strange impulse to advance gained the mastery, an’ he lifted the kitchen knocker. A lass wasna lang in makin’ her appearance at the door wi’ a lichtit candle in her hand; an’ nae sooner did she see the black man stannin’ oot in the dark than she gied a roar as if Joe had been the very deevil himsel’. This brocht ben a’ the rest o’ the servants; an’ a bonnie hurly-burly was set up as this ane an’ the ither ane wondered hoo he had got in.

“That’s your negligence, Willie Johnston,” said an auld leddy dressed in black, that appeared to be the hoosekeeper; “I’m sure ye needna hae been sae thochtless as that, particularly at a time when the major’s lookit for every minute.”

This was addressed to the keeper o’ the lodge, that had come up to the big hoose wi’ his wife at the hoosekeeper’s invitation, to while awa the nicht wi’ a cup o’ tea an’ a dram. Willie Johnston fell a swearin’, an’ was aboot to lay violent hands on Joe, when the butler, a wee fat birsy body, but no bad-hearted, ordered him to desist; and seeing the nicht was sae cauld an’ wat, he brocht Joe into the kitchen, and thinkin’ him a cadger, he set doun baith bread, meat, an’ beer before him, tellin’ him to look alive, for it wadna do to stay lang there. The hoosekeeper didna offer ony objection to this, as mony a ane wad hae dune; but to tell the truth, it seems that the twa were unco gracious, for when the tane took whisky, the tither took yill—sae that settles that. When Joe had sat for a while preein’ the mercies set before him, ane o’ them—the laundry-maid—gi’en a wistfu’ look at Joe’s drum an’ pan-pipes, said she hadna haen a dance since gude kens the time, an’ the cook, an’ the kitchen-maid, an’ a young crater o’ a flunkey, expressed themsel’s in a similar manner.

“A dance!” cried the hoosekeeper, makin’ a pretence o’ being angry. “A bonnie daft-like thing it wad be to welcome hame the laird wi’ a drum an’ pan-pipes, as if he were the keeper o’ a wild-beast show. A fiddle michtna be sae bad.”

Joe saw what was wanted. It was only a quiet invitation to play for naething; sae he took a lang heavy pull at the beer-jug, an’ syne struck up a lilt that set them a’ up on their feet thegither. An’ sae on he played, tune after tune, until a breathin’ time was ca’ed; an’ the whisky an’ beer in plenty were again gaun round, when the gate-bell was rung wi’ great violence.

“Flee for yer life to the gate, Willie Johnston,” cried the hoosekeeper, “an’ stop that skirlin’. I’m sure I never expected him the nicht noo, when it’s sae late. What’s to be dune? Haste ye, Sally, to the major’s room, an’ on wi’ a fire like winkin’!” and in an instant a’ was confusion, an’ every ane stannin’ in each ither’s road.

The soond o’ carriage wheels was heard comin’ up the avenue, and the lood gruff voice o’ Major Gilroy cursing the carelessness o’ the lodge-keeper startled every ane there, but nane mair sae than Joe; for that voice brocht back the past in a’ its terrible reality, an’ he kent the crisis was comin’ wi’ a crash either for him or his auld relentless oppressor. But him and his pan-pipes were then as completely forgotten by the servants as if they had never been there. But as quietness was at last restored, an’ the major had shut himsel’ up in his room, wi’ a stern injunction to the butler that he wasna to be disturbed wi’ supper or onything else that nicht, an’ threatenin’ instant dismissal to the first that gied him ony cause o’ annoyance, Joe asked the hoosekeeper, wi’ a palpitatin’ heart, if he micht gang noo.

“No, for a thoosand pound I wadna open that door,” said the hoosekeeper; “ye had better bide awhile yet till he’s asleep. I never saw sic a savage-lookin’ man in my life, as he cam in at the front door. He’s completely changed since I mind o’ him, when he wasna muckle mair than a laddie. An’ sic a restless, suspicious e’e as he’s got! I dinna like it—I positively dinna like it. But I’ll never pit up wi’ sic a man—I’ll tak to drink, as sure’s I’m a livin’ woman. An’ what the deil brocht _you_ here?—makin’ things fifty times waur! Ye’ll never get oot o’ here this nicht—I’m certain o’ that. An’ yet there’s that brute,” pointing to Pincher, that a’ this time had been keepin’ quiet under the table, thrang worryin’ at a big bane—“what’s to be dune if it barks?”

But Joe gied her to understand there was nae fear o’ that, for he had him ower weel trained to mak ony disturbance; but oh! he was anxious—anxious to be off. The woman, hooever, remained inexorable. There was therefore nae help for’t but to sit doun on a chair by the kitchen fireside, an’ be slippit oot cannily in the mornin’ before the major was up. Sae they a’ gaed awa to their beds, an’ Joe was left alane in the kitchen, wi’ Pincher snockerin’ at his side. But Joe couldna close an e’e, wi’ the intensity o’ his thocht; for here, at last, had the providence o’ God brocht the murderer and his accuser beneath the same roof. Joe lay doverin’ an’ waitin’ wearily for the mornin’ comin’ in. The weather had cleared up, an’ the moon was streamin’ in through the kitchen windows. The fire had gane oot, an’ the air felt cauld an’ chill; an’ gradually a feeling o’ horror took possession o’ Joe that he couldna shake off. At last Pincher gaed a low growl, as if he had heard somebody comin’. Joe could hear naething at first, but by degrees he became sensible that a step was advancin’, saft, an’ almost noiseless, doun the kitchen stair; an’ slowly the door opened as a figure dressed in a lang dressin’-goun, an’ a lichtit wax candle in its hand, entered the kitchen. Speechless and unable to move, Joe saw his mortal enemy, the major, starin’ him in the face; but as he silently returned the gaze, he became sensible that it was void o’ consciousness. The major was walkin’ in his sleep, that was evident, for he kept movin’ up an’ doun the kitchen, mutterin’ to himsel’. He laid doun the candle on the floor in ane o’ his rounds, an’ said in a tone sae distinct that Joe could hear every word—

“Will the sea give up its dead?—No, no. Why does his face always turn up amid the roaring waves, as if to taunt me with the crime, and drag me to eternal perdition? Pshaw! it’s but a fancy after all. But the slave who eluded my vengeance—curses on him!—where is _he_? Wandering over the face of the earth, to confront me at last, perhaps, and accuse me as my brother’s murderer. But will they believe _him_? They will not—nay, they dare not—they dare not. Yet oh! the black countenance of that infernal fiend dogs me wherever I go, and will not give me peace—peace—peace!”

Then he took up the candle an’ made for the door, drew back, an’ again cam into the kitchen; then left the kitchen a second time, an’ opened the door. The sudden rush o’ the nicht air put oot the candle, an’ he again entered the kitchen. At that moment he stumbled ower a chair, an’ Pincher gaed a loud bark, as the major started to his feet, restored to consciousness. And as the moon’s rays revealed every surrounding object wi’ a ghastly distinctness, the first sicht that met his e’e was Joe—Joe stannin’ before him, rigid and motionless—an auld rusty pistol in his richt hand presented at him, an’ a wild glare o’ rage an’ defiance flashin’ in his unearthly-lookin’ e’en. The suddenness o’ the appearance o’ this apparition—for apparition he thocht Joe to be—completely paralysed him for the moment. His knees gaed knock, knockin’ thegither, as Joe cried—

“Murderer! murderer! murderer! Me tell truth—me no tell lie. You dam rascal—you villain—me hear to speak truth, and truth me speak spite of eberyting. Ha! what you say now?”