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attainment,—his subsequent conduct would, most likely, not have
been such as to render it a subject for investigation. But Mary must
have been as inaccessible to him as the being of another world. The
devotion which he felt for her was looked upon by the heads of her
court as a species of sacrilege; and he was given to believe, that each
had a plan for undermining his happiness and removing him from
her favour. If this could not be effected, it was a moral certainty that
Mary, in the bloom of her youth and the plentitude of her power,
must become to some one of her numerous suitors all which it was
impossible that she could ever become to him. Of these two cases,
perhaps, the one was as bad as the other, and Chatelar was impelled
to an act of desperation, which, in these matter-of-fact days, can
scarcely be conceived. On the night of the 12th of February, 1563, he
was found concealed in the young queen’s bed-chamber.
It would, I fear, be a difficult undertaking, in the eyes of
dispassionate and reasoning persons, to throw a charitable doubt
upon the motives of this unseasonable intrusion. The fair and
obvious inference is, that he depended upon the impression he had
made upon Mary’s heart, and the impossibility of their lawful union.
In some degree, too, he might have been influenced by the perilous
consequences of a discovery, to which he possibly thought her love
would not permit her to expose him. The propriety of this argument,
if he made use of it, was not put to the test, for his discovery fell to
the lot of Mary’s female attendants before she retired.
There is, however, another class of readers who will give him credit
for other thoughts. I mean those best of all possible judges of love-
affairs, in whom the commonplaces of life have not entirely
destroyed that kindly feeling of romance which Nature thought it
necessary to implant in them, and which the usage of modern days
renders it necessary for them to be ashamed of. The readers of whom
I speak will decide more from the heart than the head; and then what
an interminable field of defence is laid open! What strange feelings
and unaccountable exploits might be furnished from the catalogue of
love vagaries! Were Chatelar to be judged by other examples, the
simple circumstance of his secreting himself for the mere purpose of
being in the hallowed neighbourhood of his mistress, and without
the most distant idea of making her acquainted with it, would appear
a very commonplace and very pardonable occurrence. And if we keep
in mind his poetical character and chivalrous education, this belief is
materially strengthened.
On the following morning the affair was made known to the Queen
by her ladies. Had they been wise enough to hold their peace, it is
odds but the lover’s taste for adventure would have been satisfied by
the first essay. Instead of this, being forbidden all future access to her
presence, he became more desperate than ever. His motives had
been misconstrued; his actions, he thought, had been
misrepresented; he was bent on explanation, and he hoped for
pardon. Thus it was that when Mary, on the same day, quitted
Edinburgh, her disgraced admirer executed his determination of
following her, and, on the night of the 14th, seized the only
opportunity of an interview by committing the very same offence for
which he was then suffering: Mary had no sooner entered her
chamber than Chatelar stood before her.
Whatever her feelings may have been towards him, it is not
surprising that this sudden apparition should have proved somewhat
startling, and have produced an agitation not very favourable to his
cause. It may be presumed that she was not mistress of her actions,
for certain it is, that she did that which, if she possessed one half of
the womanly tenderness for which she has credit, must have been a
blight and a bitterness upon her after life. Chatelar comes, wounded
to the quick, to supplicate a hearing, and the Queen, it is said, “was
fain to cry for help,” and desire Murray, who came at her call, to “put
his dagger into him.”
Thus, by dint of unnecessary terrors and unmeaning words, was
Chatelar given over to an enemy who had always kept a jealous eye
upon him, and to justice, which seemed determined to strain a point
for his sake, and give him something more than his due. In a few
days he was tried, and experienced the usual fate of favourites by
being condemned to death.
Alas! how bitter is the recollection of even trifling injuries towards
those who loved and are lost to us! Yet what had this been in
counterpoise to the reflections of Mary? She had given over a fond
and a fervent heart to death for no fault but too much love, and any
attempt to recall the deed might have afforded a colour to the
aspersions which malignant persons were ever ready to cast upon her
character, but could have availed no further.
 For Chatelar there was little leisure for reflection. The fever of the
first surprise,—the strange, the appalling conviction as to the hand
which hurled him to his fate,—the shame, the humiliation, the
indignation, had scarce time to cool in his forfeit blood, before he
was brought out to die the death of a culprit upon the scaffold.
It has been the fashion for writers upon this subject, in the quiet
and safety of their firesides, to exclaim against his want of
preparation for his transit; but, under such circumstances, I cannot
much wonder that he should rather rebel against the usual
ceremonies of psalm-singing and last speeches. If he chose to nerve
himself for death by reading Ronsard’s hymn upon it, it is no proof
that he looked with irreverence upon what was to follow it. His last
words are extremely touching; for they prove that, though he
considered that Mary had remorselessly sacrificed his life, his sorrow
was greater than his resentment, and his love went with him to the
grave. “Adieu,” he said, turning to the quarter in which he supposed
her to be, “adieu, most beautiful and most cruel princess in the
world!” and then submitting himself to the executioner, he met the
last stroke with a courage consistent with his character.
Of Mary’s behaviour on this event, history, I believe, gives no
account.
My ponderings upon this singular story had detained me long. The
old pictures on the walls glistened and glimmered in the moonshine
like a band of spectres; and, at last, I fairly fancied that I saw one
grisly gentleman pointing at me with his truncheon, in the act of
directing his Furies to “seize on me and take me to their torments.” It
was almost time to be gone, but the thought of Chatelar seemed
holding me by the skirts. I could not depart without taking another
look at the scene of his happiest hours, and I stole, shadow-like, with
as little noise as I could, through the narrow passages and staircases,
till I stood in Mary’s little private apartment. As I passed the
antechamber, the light was shining only on the stain of blood; the
black shadows here and elsewhere made the walls appear as though
they had been hung with mourning. I do not know that ever I felt so
melancholy; and had not the owl just then given a most dismal
whoop, there is no telling but that I might have had courage and
sentiment enough to have stayed until I had been locked up for the
night. I passed by the low bed, under which Chatelar is said to have
hidden himself. It must have cost him some trouble to get there! I
glanced hastily at the faded tambour work, which, it is possible, he
might have witnessed in its progress; and I shook my head with
much satisfaction to think that I had a head to shake. “If,” said I,
“there is more interest attached to the old times of love, it is, after all,
in some degree, counterbalanced by the safety of the present; and I
know not whether it is not better to be born in the age when racks
and torments are used metaphorically, than in those in which it is an
even chance that I might have encountered the reality.”—Literary
Souvenir, 1825.
 A NIGHT IN DUNCAN M‘GOWAN’S.

After traversing a bleak and barren track of moorland country, I

unexpectedly arrived at the village of Warlockheugh, a few hours
before the sun had set upon the cheerless and level horizon of that
desolate region. A scene so bleak and solitary had engendered a
vague and melancholy feeling of individual helplessness and
desertion; the morning buoyancy of my spirits had settled down into
dull and dejected sympathy with the exhausted members of my body;
the sharp, clear air that blew across the moor had whetted my
appetite to an exquisite degree of keenness, so that I was not a little
disposed to mingle once more with human society, to invigorate my
limbs with another night’s repose, and to satisfy the cravings of
hunger with some necessary refreshment. I therefore entered the
village at a quicker pace than I had exerted for the last ten or twelve
miles of my journey.
It is situated in a narrow valley, which slopes away from the
moorland side, and is surrounded by a ridge of rocks that rise around
it like an iron barrier, and frown defiance to the threatened
encroachments of the ocean. A dark brown stream floats along the
moor with a lazy and silent current, bursts with a single leap over a
precipice at the upper end of the village, thunders along a broken,
rocky channel, and spouts a roaring cataract, sheer down through the
rifted chasm that opens towards the coast, and affords the villagers a
view of ocean, which, environed on all sides by tumultuous ranges of
rugged mountains, expands its sheet of blue waters like an inland
lake.
Having entered the village of Warlockheugh, I was attracted by the
Red Lion that blazes on the sign of Duncan M‘Gowan, who kept then,
and, as I understand, still keeps, “excellent entertainment for men
and horses.” I was shown into Duncan’s best apartment, but had
little leisure and no inclination to make an inventory of its contents.
Hunger is an urgent creditor, and not to be reasoned with, so I
ordered the landlord to fetch me some refreshment. My order was
immediately succeeded by a most delightful concert of culinary
implements, whose risp and clank, and clatter, and jingle, mingling
harmoniously with the squirt and buzz of a frying-pan, engendered a
hearty and haggis-like hodge-podge of substantial and delectable
associations. The table was soon covered with that plain and solid
sort of food which is generally to be found in the temporary halting
places of such wayfaring men as coach-drivers and carriers, who are
no mean connoisseurs in the more rational part of good living.
Having done ample justice to the landlord’s good cheer, I laid myself
back in my chair, in that state of agreeable languor which generally
succeeds sudden rest after violent exertion, and abundant
refreshment after long fasting. My imagination, struggling between
the benumbing influence of sated appetite, and the exhilarating
novelty of my present situation, floated dimly and drowsily over the
various occurrences of life, till the iris-coloured texture of existence
saddened into a gray heaviness of eye, whose twilight vision grew
darker and darker, till the ill-defined line of connexion, with which
consciousness divided the waking from the slumbering world, was
swallowed up in the blackness of a profound sleep. And there, as we
may suppose, I sat twanging, through the trumpet of my nose, my
own lullaby, and rivalling the sonorous drone of M‘Glashan the
piper’s bagpipe, who, when I came in, was sitting on a stone at the
door, piping his diabolical music to the happy villagers.
I had not long remained in this “pleasing land of drowsyhead,”
when my slumbers were violently broken by a tumultuous uproar
coming down from the upper end of the village. I started from my
seat in that state of giddiness and stupor which one generally feels
when roused from sleep by violent and alarming sounds. My whole
frame was benumbed by the uneasiness of my dozing position, and it
was with the utmost pain and difficulty I could prevail upon my
limbs to carry me to the window, to ascertain the cause of the
uproarious din, which every moment grew louder and louder. The
first objects that caught my attention were some straggling villagers,
sweeping down the lane with desperate speed of foot, and dismal
looks of consternation. I made towards the door, but the passage was
choked full of alarmed and breathless fugitives, whose
apprehensions had driven them to the first asylum which
opportunity presented. Ejaculations and exclamations of all sorts
were gasped forth by the multitude in the passage. Some swore in
wrath, some laughed in self-congratulation, while others clamorously
bewailed those of their kindred who might yet be exposed to the
approaching danger. I inquired at a composed-looking middle-aged
personage who stood beside me, the cause of this uncommon and
alarming occurrence. “Ou,” said he, coolly, “M‘Harrigle’s bull’s run
wud, and he’s gaun to take the command o’ the town till we get a new
magistrate; for, as ye maun understand, sir, Bailie Brodie died
yesterday.” The inhabitants rushed by in greater numbers, the
sounds grew numerous, louder and more intelligible, as the huddling
multitude approached; and I distinctly heard several voices bawling
out, “Rin, ye deevil, or ye’ll be torn to ’coupins!—Lord preserve us!
he’ll be ower the brae face—there he goes—confound ye! rin—mercy
on us! sic a race!” The uproar and clamour, already run into utter
confusion, turned fiercer and more riotous as a knot of people flew
suddenly past the window, and left a space behind them that was
immediately occupied by the bull, tumbling his huge unwieldy
carcass down the lane, followed by an immense crowd of men,
women, and children, and curs of every denomination. The hoarse
bawling of the men, the screams of the women, and the clear treble
of the children, the barking of curs, from the gruff big bow-wow of
the mastiff down to the nyiff-nyaff and yelp-yelp of the terrier, along
with the boo-baloo and bellow of the bull, formed a wild and savage
uproar that was truly deafening. I dashed up the window and looked
out. The enraged animal lumbered along, and heaved his ponderous
bulk into fantastical attitudes, with his posterior appendage
projecting straight out like a pole and tassel, his back raised, and his
head ploughing on between his fore-feet. He hobbled, and hurled,
and tumbled along with as blind an impulse as if he had been a mass
of destructive machinery driven headlong by the mad impetus of
some terrible and ungovernable energy. Away he went. The last sight
I saw of him was as he entangled his horns in a thick stunted bush
that grew on the top of a bank at some distance. The bush withstood
the violence of his shock, and he tumbled with his feet uppermost.
He struggled for a few moments; at length succeeded in tearing it out
by the roots, vanished over the precipice, and went bellowing down
the waterfall, amidst the shouts of the multitude who pursued him.
 A group of people, very closely wedged together, moved slowly up
the village. They were carrying some individual who had suffered
from the fury of the enraged animal. They shouldered on towards
M‘Gowan’s in mournful procession. All seemed extremely anxious to
obtain a look of the unhappy sufferer. Those who were near pressed
more closely towards the centre of the crowd, while those on the
outside, excited by sympathetic curiosity, were leaping up round
about, asking all the while the name of the person, and inquiring
what injury he had sustained. “He’s no sair hurt, I hope,” said one.
“Is he dead?” said another of livelier apprehensions and quicker
sensibility. “It’s auld Simon Gray,” said a young man, who came
running up out of breath to M‘Gowan’s door. “Simon Gray’s dead!”
“Simon Gray dead!” cried M‘Gowan; “God forbid!” So saying, out at
the door he rushed to ascertain the truth of the mournful
intelligence. “Wae’s me,” said Dame M‘Gowan, “but this is a sair
heart to us a’,” as she sank down in a chair, and cried for water to her
only daughter, who stood sorrowfully beside her mother, alternately
wringing her hands and plaiting the hem of her white muslin apron
over her finger in mute affliction.
Simon Gray the dominie was brought into M‘Gowan’s. He was
bleeding at the nose and mouth, but did not appear to have received
any very serious injury. Cold water was dashed on his face, his
temples were bathed with vinegar, and the occasional opening and
shutting of the eye, accompanied with a laboured heaving of the
breast, gave evidence that the dominie was not yet destined to be
gathered to his fathers. The inquiries of the multitude round the door
were numerous, frequent, and affectionate. The children were loud
and clamorous in their grief, all except one little white-headed,
heavy-browed, sun-burned vagabond, who, looking over the
shoulder of a neighbour urchin, asked if there would be “ony schulin’
the morn;” and upon an answer being sobbed out in the negative, the
roguish truant sought the nearest passage out of the crowd, and ran
up the lane whistling “Ower the water to Charlie,” till his career of
unseasonable mirth was checked by a stout lad, an old student of
Simon’s, who was running without hat and coat to inquire the fate of
his beloved preceptor, and who, when he witnessed the boy’s
heartlessness, could not help lending him a box on the ear, which
effectually converted his shrill whistle of delight into a monotonous
grumble, accompanied by the common exclamation of wonderment,
“What’s that for, ye muckle brute?” and a half hesitating stooping for
a stone, which the lad who bowled on towards M‘Gowan’s took no
notice of till the messenger of the boy’s indignation lighted at his
heels, and bounded on the road before him.
By the affectionate attention of his friends Simon was soon able to
speak to those around him, but still felt so weak that he requested to
be put to bed. His revival was no sooner announced at the door of the
inn than a loud and tumultuous burst of enthusiastic feeling ran
through the crowd, which immediately dispersed amidst clapping of
hands, loud laughs, and hearty jokes.
The landlord, after ministering to the necessities of the dominie,
came into the apartment where I was sitting. “Surely, landlord,” said
I, “this old man Simon Gray is a great favourite among you.”
“Troth, sir, it’s nae wonder,” was the reply to my observation. “He
has gien the villagers of Warlockheugh their lear, and keepit them
lauchin’, for five-and-twenty years back. He’s a gude-hearted carle
too; he downa see a puir body in want, and rather than let the bairns
grow up in idleness and ignorance, he’ll gie them their lear for
naething. A’body’s fond o’ Simon, and the lasses especially, though
he ne’er maks love to ane o’ them. They say some flirt o’ a lady
disappointed him when he was at the college, and he vowed ne’er to
mak love to anither. But I daur say there’s some o’ our lasses vain
eneugh to think they’ll be able to gar him brak his promise. It’ll no
do,—he’s ower auld a cat to draw a strae afore.
“He’s a real auld bachelor in his way of leevin’. He maks and
mends his ain claes too, clouts his ain shoon, darns his ain stockings,
and keeps a lot o’ tools for a’ crafts. His kitchen’s a no-that-ill-red-up
place; but if ye saw his study, sir, as he ca’s’t, it’s the queerest,
higgledy-piggledy, odds-and-ends sort o’ place ye ever saw in your
life. It’s eneugh to turn your brain just to look intil’t. His pianoforte
and his tables a’ covered wi’ a confused heap o’ books, writings,
musical instruments, colours, oil-paintings, and loose fragments o’
rough designs, made wi’ black and white caulk on a nankeen-
coloured kind o’ paper. The wa’ is stuck fu’ o’ brass-headed nails that
he hings his follies and his nonsense on. He has a muckle ill-faured
image yonder, that he ca’s an Indian god, standing on his
mantelpiece, wi’ lang teeth made o’ fish-banes, and twa round bits o’
white airn, with big black-headed tackets driven through the middle
o’ them for een, and a queer crown on its head, made o’ split quills,
plait strae, and peacocks’ feathers. It’s eneugh to gar a body a’ grue
just to look at it. He has bears’ and teegers’ heads girnin’ on the wa’,
and slouched hats, swords, dirks, and rusty rapiers o’ every kind. He
has twa or three things yonder that he ca’s Roman helmets (though
the maist o’ folk would reckon them nae ither than barbers’ basins),
forby some imitations o’ auld coats o’ mail, made o’ painted
pasteboard. Na, faith, the deil hae me,” continued Duncan, laughing
at the whimsical character of the place he was describing, “if I dinna
whiles think the body’s out o’ his wits. But he canna be that, either,
for they’re great folks ca’ing upon him, baith far and near, and he
cracks to them whiles in strange tongues, that nane in the kintra-side
kens but himsel and the minister. Na, troth, sir, they say that our
Mess John, wha’s no a lame hand himsel, is just a bairn to him. ’Od
he’s a droll, ready-handed body. He maks a’thing himsel. He has
some orra time on his hand, ye see; and he’s either crooning ower
some auld Scotch songs, or fiddling some outlandish tunes; and, my
faith! he can twine them out frae the grist o’ a common strae-rape to
the fineness o’ a windle-strae. He shakes and dirls sae wonderfully
too, that ye wad think his fiddle’s no a thing o’ timmer and catgut at
a’, but some droll musical creature o’ flesh and blood. Eh, my certie!
it gars a body’s bowels a’ tremble wi’ gladness whiles to hear him.
He’ll come in here at an antrin time, ca’ for his gill o’ gin, and no a
living creature wi’ him, and sit ower’t for twa or three hours, crackin’
to himsel, and laughin’ as loudly and heartily at his ain queer stories,
as if he had a dizzen o’ merry cronies at his elbow. He ne’er forgets
when he’s takin’ his drams to wish himsel weel; for at every sip, he
says, ‘Here’s to ye, Simon—thanks to ye, Mr Gray;’ and so on he goes
the whole night, as if he were a kind of a twafauld body. Ae night
when he sat in my back-room and loosed his budget of jokes, and
laughed and roared wi’ himsel for twa hours, I laid my lug to the key-
hole o’ the door, and owerheard the following dialogue.”
At this part of mine host’s narrative the rattling of a wheeled
vehicle was heard, and ceased immediately upon reaching the door
of the inn. Mr Cleekum, the village lawyer, had come in a few
minutes before, and was sitting beside us, laughing at M‘Gowan’s
narrative, of the latter part of which he also had been an auditory
witness. M‘Gowan’s loquacity ceased when he heard the vehicle at
the door; he looked out at the window, turned round to me, and said
hastily, “Maister Cleekum ’ll tell ye a’ about it, sir,—he heard it as
weel as me.—Excuse me, there’s a gig at the door. We maun mind our
ain shop, ye ken, and a rider’s penny’s worth a gangrel’s groat ony
day.”
So saying, he hurried out, leaving the lawyer to gratify my curiosity
by the sequel of the dominie’s solitary dialogue.
“M‘Gowan’s description, sir, of this eccentric being is by no means
exaggerated,” said Mr Cleekum; “and if it can afford you any
amusement, I shall relate the remainder of Mr Gray’s dialogue,
which I am the better enabled to do, from having put myself to the
trouble of noting down the particulars, at the recital of which old
Simon and myself have since laughed very heartily. You need not be
surprised at his broad Scotch accent; he has such a decided partiality
for it, that he is commonly averse to using any other tongue, though
no man speaks more politely than himself when he is so disposed,
and when the persons he converses with render it necessary.—After
having finished his first measure of indulgence, Mr Gray proceeded
thus:—
“‘Come now, Sir Simon, and I’ll help ye hame, ye auld rogue.—I am
much obliged to you, Mr Gray, but I’ll try to gar my ain shanks serve
my ain turn, and ye may e’en put your ain hand to your ain hasp, my
friend.—If ye like, we’ll have anither gill, and then toddle thegither.—
Beware o’ dram-drinking, Sir Simon; ye’ll get an evil name in the
clachan.—I beg your pardon, Mr Gray; I have been a riddle to the
folks ower lang already, and as I ne’er do aucht in a corner, but what
I may do on the causey, everybody kens he’ll no mak onything mair
or less o’ me by being inquisitive. Na, na, Mr Gray, ye’re a’ out there;
there is no ane in the parish would hear an ill word o’ Simon.—But
ye’re an auld man, sir, and set an evil example to others.—Ne’er a ane
do I set an evil example to but yoursel, Mr Gray; and for a’ your cant
about sobriety, ye take your drams as regularly as I do; and I defy
you—I defy you or ony other man to say ye e’er saw me the waur o’
liquor in your life. Besides, Mr Gray, the progress of human life is
like a journey from the equator to the north pole. We commence our
career with the heat of passion and the light of hope, and travel on,
till passion is quenched by indulgence, and hope, flying round the
ball of life which is blackening before us, seems to come up behind
us, mingled with dim and regretted reminiscences of things hoped
for, obtained, enjoyed, and lost for ever but to memory:
Oh! age has weary days,
And nights of sleepless pain.

Youth needs no stimulus, it is too hot already; but when a man is

shuffling forward into the Arctic circle of old age, he requires a warm
potation to thaw the icicles that crust around his heart, and freeze up
the streams of his affections. There’s for you, Mr Gray; what do you
think of that?—Why, I think, Sir Simon, we’ll tell Duncan to fill’t
again.—That now, that now, is friendly;’ and so saying, he rung for
the landlord to fetch him the means of prolonging his solitary
conviviality.
“This is that portion of Mr Gray’s dialogue with himself which
M‘Gowan and myself, perhaps officiously, listened to; but as we are
upon the subject of our venerable friend’s peculiarities, it may not be
out of place to recite a little poetical work, which he composed some
time ago.” Having signified the pleasure I should derive from being
favoured with the recital of a work from the pen of so eccentric a
humorist as the dominie, Mr Cleekum proceeded to draw forth from
his pocket and to read:—
 The Minister’s Mare.
The minister’s mare was as gude a gray mare
As ever was saddled, or bridled, or shod;
Be’t foul or be’t fair, be’t late or be’t air,
She nichered aye gladly when takin’ the road.

The minister late in the e’ening cam hame,

And stabled his marie, and heapit her heck,
And gae her a forpit o’ oats to her wame,
And theekit her cozily wi’ an auld sack.

And the minister’s wife wi’ a bowet cam out,

For a tenty and mensefu’ wife was she;
Glowered round her for gangrels that might be about,
And syne in the stable-door thrawed round the key.

And she oxtered the minister up the stair

To his room, where his supper and slippers were het,
Whaur a wee creepie-stool and an elbow chair
At the blithe ingle-neuk were right cozily set.

As the reverend carle gaed ben the house laughin’,

And clappin’ his wife, an’ rubbin’ his hands,
She helpit him aff wi’ his green tartan raughen,
And frae ’neath his round chin loosed his lily-white bands.

When supper was ower, the minister birsled

His shins on the creepie upon the hearth-stane;
Worn out wi’ fatigue, to his roostin-place hirsled,
And laid himsel down wi’ a wearied-man’s grane.

His canny wee wife saw him cozily happit,

Syne drew back the chairs frae the warm ingle-side;
Put creesh in the ee o’ the candle, and clappit
Right kindly and couthily down by his side.

The cracks o’ the twasome were kindly but few:

The minister wi’ a “hech-ho,” turned him roun’,
O’er his cauld shouther-head the warm blanket he drew,
Syne pu’d down his night-cap and snored snug and soun’.
The morning’s bright bonfire, that bleezed in the east,
Had meltit in heaven ilk wee siller stern,
When the cock crawed reveillè to man, bird, and beast,
As he sat on an auld knotty rung in the barn.

The dog in the watch-house yowled eerie and lang,

And struggled right fiercely to break frae his chain;
The auld chapel bell like a burial knell rang,
And groanings were heard as frae bodies in pain.

A loud rap cam rap to the minister’s yett,

The minister’s wife wondered wha might be there;
While the reverend carle, glammering, graipit to get
His drawers and bauchels, to slip down the stair.

But he warily first frae the stair-winnock keekit,

To ken wha this early disturber might be;
When he saw the dog loose, and the barn-door unsteekit,
And his mare at the yett, cap’ring wild to be free

Frae a blackavised rider, wha spurred her and banned her,

Wi’ mony wild curses to tak to the road:
And he stuck like a burr, though campsterie he fand her,
While the minister cried, “There’s been thieves here, gude ——!”

“Fie, Tibby rise,” roared Mess John, loud as thunder,

“The mischief’s come o’er us, we’re herriet, undone;
The barn’s broke, the dog’s loose, the mare’s aff, and yonder
She’s rinnin’—fie! bring me my hat, coat, and shoon!”

His claes huddled on, wi’ his staff in his han’,

He out at the yett wi’ a belly-flaught flew;
While the stour that his mare raised in clouds o’er the lan’,
Turned into a glaur-drop ilk clear blob o’ dew.

The stour, borne alang wi’ the wind strong and gusty,
Gar’d the minister look like a miller sae gray;
And the sweat on his face, mixed wi’ dust, grew as crusty
As if he were modelled in common brick-clay.

And sometimes he haltit, and sometimes he ran,

And sometime he sat himsel down in despair;
And sometimes he grew angry, and sometimes began
To lighten his sair-burdened heart wi’ a prayer.

But madly the rider o’er hill and o’er dale,

 Wi’ the minister’s mare like a fire-flaught he flew;
Whiles seen on a hill-top, whiles lost in a vale,
Till they baith looked like motes on the welkin sae blue.

The minister by the road-side sat him down,

As vexed and as wearied as man weel could be;
Syne pu’d aff his wig, rubbed the sweat frae his crown,
And puffed, steghed, and graned like a man gaun to dee.

When an auld farmer carle, on his yaud trotting by,

Accosted Mess John as he sat in despair;
Made a bow like a corn-sack, and as he drew nigh,
Raised his twa waukit loofs, cryin’ “What brought ye there?

“I’m sure it’s nae mair than an hour since I saw ye

At Bourtree Brae-head, and that’s eight miles awa!”
And he rubbit his een as he cried out, “Foul fa’ me!
For glammery’s come o’er me, or else you’re grown twa.

“And where is your mare, for she stood at the door,

Wi’ her bridle-reins drawn through a ring in the wa’,
At Dawson’s door-cheek, where I saw her before
I had drunk deoch-an-dorus wi’ Donald M‘Craw.”

“Ye saw me!” said the minister; “how could that be,
When I’ve only proceeded thus far on my road?
And that this is mysel, by a glance ye may see.”
“Why, then,” cried the farmer, “the thing’s vastly odd.

“But twa hours ago, sir, your double was sitting

At Dawson’s fire-side,—faith! as I thoucht, half fou,—
And ilk ane at hand thoucht it time to be flitting,
When ye cursed and blasphemed till the candle burned blue.”

“Why, Saunders, it’s surely been Sawtan ye’ve seen,

The foul thief himsel, I could wad a gray groat;
He staw my gray mare;—just turn back, my auld friend,
Till I strip the foul thief of his sanctified coat.

“I’ve warsled wi’ Sawtan for many a year;

I’ve cloured him and loundered him aft times right sair;
But the foul fiend has played me a pliskie, I fear;
Lord save’s, man, I ne’er heard the like, I declare.

“Fie, Saunders, let’s mount, and to Dawson’s let’s hurry,

And chase the loon back to his ain lowin’ hame;
The tod’s in the fauld, God’s ain lambs he may worry;
Come, Saunders, let’s hunt him, Auld Clootie’s fair game.”

And they rode till they came to John Dawson’s fore-door,

Whaur the minister lighted, but wadna step in,
When he heard how the deil in his ain likeness swore,
As he dirled at the door, for the third tappit hen.

And the folk were confounded,—amazed,—when they saw

The auld carle himsel they had aft seen before;
Some darted into corners, and some ran awa,
And ithers ran out, and glowered in at the door.

But the minister beckoned them a’ to come back

To the room aff-and-on where the devil sat fou;
In the wooden partition there gaped a wide crack,
That ilk ane, by turns, wi’ amazement looked through.

And there they heard Cloots, in a big elbow-chair,

Snore like thunder far-aff, and now sleeping right sound,
And some thought his feet didna look like a pair,
For the tae o’ the ae boot to the heel was turned round.

And they saw, when the ither foot once or twice moved,
That the boot on that foot just turned round the same way;
Which, to the onlookers, sufficiently proved,
They were baith cloven feet,—ay, as clear as the day.

They saw a bit kitlin, that friskit and pattit

A muckle black tossel below the big chair;
And it swung like a pend’lum, as wee baudrons clawtit
The end that hung down like a bunch o’ horse-hair.

When Dawson’s bull-terrier, streeked on the hearth-stane,

Saw Clootie’s tail wagging, he barkit like mad:
Sprung till’t like a fury, and tugged might and main,
And the deevil himsel couldna lowsen his haud.

But the deil started up wi’ big chair, dog, an’ a’,
And staggered, and stampit, and ance or twice fell;
Mess John cried, “Lord save us!”—Like lightning, awa
Flew deevil, and big chair, and terrier, to——!

“There’s a strange production for you,” said Mr Cleekum, as he

folded the paper and replaced it in his pocket.
 “A strange production, indeed,” said I; “what could be Mr Gray’s
object in writing such a poem?”
“Merely to please himself, sir, I suppose,” was the lawyer’s answer.
“But,” continued I, “has it any reference to any particular character
or occurrence; or is it merely an extravagant fiction of the dominie’s
own brain?”
“It refers to an old popular tradition,” answered Mr Cleekum,
“concerning a pious predecessor of our worthy minister, Mr
Singleheart; and, though the currency of its belief is now somewhat
crossed and obstructed by an adverse current of growing intelligence,
it still floats in the memories and imaginations of those venerable
annalists, the old women of the village, with whom the idle story was
likely to perish for ever, if the dominie’s metrical version had not
contributed to prolong it.”
Various remarks were made upon the merits of the production; but
as they were all blended with statements and allusions relative to
local characters and incidents not connected with my present object,
I resume my interrupted narrative.
The children still continued round the door, shouting, halooing,
and acting a thousand extravagances, nor could they be prevailed
upon to depart till they saw the “maister.” Simon, who had so far
collected his scattered senses, and renewed his exhausted strength,
as to be able to give them that gratification, had no sooner opened
the door for the purpose of receiving the congratulations of his
scholars, than those who were nearest leaped up and embraced him
with unfeigned affection. They pulled and lugged him, crying,
“Maister, maister!” while the beloved instructor stood hugging his
chubby associates, and embracing them with all the warmth of an
affectionate parent. These kind-hearted little beings, after receiving
another token of the old man’s goodness, in the shape of pieces of
biscuit and gingerbread, ran off, huzzaing, to inform their parents of
the marvellous escape of their venerable preceptor.
Simon, being disengaged from the warm embraces of his pupils,
came into the room where the landlord, Cleekum the lawyer, and
myself were sitting. I had now full leisure and opportunity to
examine the appearance of this singular and eccentric character. It
was completely at variance with every characteristic of modern
gentility. His dress betokened the hand of the cunning craftsman of
the last century, or his own whimsical taste had dictated to some
modern son of the goose and thimble the antique shape of his
habiliments; but, as we were before informed by the landlord, they
were entirely the fabrication of his own taste and ingenuity. His
single-breasted, rusty-black coat tapered away from the shoulders
towards his lower extremities in the pyramidal shape, and when
unbuttoned, or unclasped, rather, swung its copious folds round his
jolly form with cumbrous and fantastical elegance. Two mother-of-
pearl buttons, of uncommon circumference, and encircled with brass
rings, were stuck as ornaments upon the haunches, and the breast
was decorated with grotesque circles of the same fantastical
description, with the addition of a handsome row of bright silver
clasps. The vest, with its massy superfluity of cloth, parted in the
middle, and its ample pockets descended half-way down his thigh,
leaving a space between their separation and the head of his breeches
for his bright linen shirt to shine through, in the shape of an isosceles
triangle. His blue plush breeches had three chequered or diced brass
buttons to preserve their connexion, and terminated at the knee with
the genuine old Cameronian cut. His stockings were light blue,
sprinkled with little oblong dots of white; and his shoes, cut square
across the toes to save his corns, were held upon his feet by two
antiquated silver buckles of uncommon magnitude and curious
workmanship. His personal appearance was that of a substantial old
bachelor, on whom nature had generously bestowed a sound
constitution, and it was evident from his looks that he by no means
despised that invaluable inheritance. His face inclined to the square,
but the features were all curvilinear, rather prominent, and flushed
with that rosy hue of health which so often beams from the
countenances of the sons and daughters of rustic labour. His
forehead was highly expressive of intellect, but the nether part of the
face indicated that lubberly sort of feeling which glories in a life of
good humoured ease and fat contentment. His eyes were small, of a
bright blue, but not a pair, for the one squinted outward through the
interstices of his gray, bristly eyebrows; which, along with a nether
lip somewhat pendulous, a mouth turned up at the corners, and a
long flat chin, gave the whole face a comical and risible expression.
During the time that Cleekum was reading his notes of the
dominie’s solitary dialogue, Mr Singleheart, the village minister,
M‘Glashan the piper, and some others belonging to the village, came
into the room, which seemed to be as much public property as the
village smithy. On the dominie’s entrance all rose to salute and
congratulate him upon his fortunate escape; and I could see, from
the cordial manner in which each in his turn grasped the old man’s
hand, that each had his heart at his finger-ends. It was not that
puppyish forefinger-and-thumb sort of salutation which clips
another frosty forefinger-and-thumb as if dreading contagion, but a
hearty, honest grappling of fist with fist, which drew the blood from
its fountain with a thrilling impulse, and sent its current warm and
glowing into the clenched extremities, which were shaken so
violently, and for such a length of time, that an imaginative and hasty
person might suppose, in the rapidity of his decision, that each
individual was disposed to graft himself upon the dominie, whose
right arm, at length, seemed as feeble as that of a poor gut-scraper,
who has jigged at a country wedding for a whole night.
When Simon entered, I was introduced to him by Cleekum, whom
I had by this time discovered to be an old school-fellow of my own.
He saluted me with a frank and pleasant smile, and squeezed my
hand so cordially, that I immediately felt that spontaneous and
indefinable feeling of attachment towards him which, though the
electric emotion of a moment, is often the forerunner of a long
course of friendly intimacy. Upon my father’s name being
mentioned, Simon recognised him as a playmate of his earlier days,
and gave me a kindly invitation to spend a few days with him, which
circumstances obliged me to refuse. Simon then took the opportunity
of introducing me more particularly to the rest of the company, on
account of “the old man,” as he said, meaning my father, for whom
he seemed to entertain a deep sentiment of regard. He last of all
recommended me with an air of serious solemnity to the notice of
M‘Gowan.
“This gentleman,” said he, pointing to the last-mentioned
individual, who appeared to be a singular compound of officiousness,
selfishness, and benevolence, and who seemed to be at all times a
standing joke with my venerable friend, “has some pretensions to
honesty. He’ll do ye a good turn sometimes when ye’re no thinking
o’t; and, unlike the most of other men, he likes his friends the better
the longer they sit beside him. Familiarity does not breed contempt
with him, but poverty does; and yet he’s no the hindmost to help
misery to an awmous when he’s in a right mood for being
goodhearted, and that happens aye ance or twice in a twalmonth.”
“Come, come, now,” said M‘Gowan, gravely, “we’ll hae nae mair o’
that, Mr Gray. Ye’re an unco wag. It was only yestreen ye got me into
a foul scrape wi’ our friend Cleekum there, and he flang out o’ the
house, swearing like a very heathen that he wad tak the law o’ me for
defamation o’ character.”
“For the sake of peace and good fellowship,” said Mr Singleheart,
“it will be meet and advisable for us to refrain, as much as in us lies,
from profane joking and oonseasonable raillery; because joking has
small yedification in it, and raillery is a sort of salt-and-pepper
compound, whilk burneth up the inward man with a fervent heat,
and profiteth not, neither is meet for bodily nourishment.”
“I would be o’ your thocht, Mr Sinklart,” said Donald M‘Glashlan
the piper; “I would be making peace wi’ peast and pody”—
The piper was thus proceeding with his Highland exhortations to
harmony, when Cleekum, who was sitting looking out at the window,
started suddenly from his seat and hurried out of the house.
M‘Gowan’s curiosity being roused by Cleekum’s abrupt departure, he
followed him to the door, and beheld him and M‘Harrigle the cattle-
dealer at some distance, earnestly engaged in conversation. All that
M‘Gowan’s ear could catch of their discourse was concerning the
mad bull, M‘Harrigle’s property, and the occasional mention of the
dominie’s name.
“There’s mischief a-brewing down the lane there,” said M‘Gowan,
when he came in. “Cleekum and that foolish passionate body
M‘Harrigle are standing yonder, an’ I could hear they were sayin’
something o’ you, Mr Gray, but what it was I couldna weel mak out.
He’s a doited, credulous body, that M‘Harrigle; an’ I could wager a
saxpence Cleekum’s makin’ a deevil o’ him some way or anither.”
M‘Gowan’s surmises were suddenly interrupted by vociferous and
clamorous exclamations at the door, and their cause did not remain
long unexplained. The door of the apartment flew open, and, rattling
against the wall with violence, admitted the author of this fresh
disturbance. It was M‘Harrigle. He was a short, square-shouldered
man, of fierce aspect, whose naturally harsh features were much