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 Soon after sunrise the mist began to dissipate, and the surface of
the water to appear for miles around roughened as if by a smart
breeze, though there was not the slightest breath of wind at the time.
“How do you account for that appearance?” said I to one of the
fishermen. “Ah, lad, that is by no means so favourable a token as the
one you asked me to explain last night. I had as lief see the Bhodry-
more.” “Why, what does it betoken? and what is the Bhodry-more?”
“It betokens that the shoal have spawned, and will shortly leave the
frith; for when the fish are sick and weighty they never rise to the
surface in that way. But have you never heard of the Bhodry-more?”
I replied in the negative. “Well, but you shall.” “Nay,” said another of
the crew, “leave that for our return; do you not see the herrings
playing by thousands round our nets, and not one of the buoys
sinking in the water? There is not a single fish swimming so low as
the upper baulks of our drift. Shall we not shorten the buoy-ropes,
and take off the sinkers?” This did not meet the approbation of the
others, one of whom took up a stone, and flung it in the middle of the
shoal. The fish immediately disappeared from the surface for several
fathoms round. “Ah, there they go!” he exclaimed; “if they go but low
enough; four years ago I startled thirty barrels of light fish into my
drift just by throwing a stone among them.”
The whole frith at this time, so far as the eye could reach, appeared
crowded with herrings; and its surface was so broken by them as to
remind one of the pool of a waterfall. They leaped by millions a few
inches into the air, and sunk with a hollow plumping noise,
somewhat resembling the dull rippling sound of a sudden breeze;
while to the eye there was a continual twinkling, which, while it
mocked every effort that attempted to examine in detail, showed to
the less curious glance like a blue robe sprinkled with silver. But it is
not by such comparisons that so singular a scene is to be described
so as to be felt. It was one of those which, through the living myriads
of creation, testify of the infinite Creator.
About noon we hauled for the third and last time, and found nearly
eight barrels of fish. I observed when hauling that the natural heat of
the herring is scarcely less than that of quadrupeds or birds; that
when alive its sides are shaded by a beautiful crimson colour which it
loses when dead; and that when newly brought out of the water, it
utters a sharp faint cry somewhat resembling that of a mouse. We
had now twenty barrels on board. The easterly har, a sea-breeze so
called by fishermen, which in the Moray Frith, during the summer
months, and first month of autumn, commonly comes on after ten
o’clock A.M., and fails at four o’clock P.M., had now set in. We hoisted
our mast and sail, and were soon scudding right before it.
The story of the Bhodry-more, which I demanded of the skipper as
soon as we had trimmed our sail, proved interesting in no common
degree, and was linked with a great many others. The Bhodry-
more[24] is an active, mischievous fish of the whale species, which has
been known to attack and even founder boats. About eight years ago,
a very large one passed the town of Cromarty through the middle of
the bay, and was seen by many of the townsfolks leaping out of the
water in the manner of a salmon, fully to the height of a boat’s mast.
It appeared about thirty feet in length. This animal may almost be
regarded as the mermaid of modern times: for the fishermen deem it
to have fully as much of the demon as of the fish. There have been
instances of its pursuing a boat under sail for many miles, and even
of its leaping over it from side to side. It appears, however, that its
habits and appetites are unlike those of the shark; and that the
annoyance which it gives the fisherman is out of no desire of making
him its prey, but from its predilection for amusement. It seldom
meddles with a boat when at anchor, but pursues one under sail, as a
kitten would a rolling ball of yarn. The large physalus whale is
comparatively a dull, sluggish animal; occasionally, however, it
evinces a partiality for the amusements of the Bhodry-more. Our
skipper said, that when on the Caithness coast, a few years before, an
enormous fish of the species kept direct in the wake of his boat for
more than a mile, frequently rising so near the stern as to be within
reach of the boat-hook. He described the expression of its large
goggle eyes as at once frightful and amusing; and so graphic was his
narrative that I could almost paint the animal stretching out for
more than sixty feet behind the boat, with his black marble-looking
skin and cliff-like fins. He at length grew tired of its gambols, and
with a sharp fragment of rock struck it between the eyes. It sunk with
a sudden plunge, and did not rise for ten minutes after, when it
appeared a full mile a-stern. This narrative was but the first of I no
not know how many, of a similar cast, which presented to my
imagination the Bhodry-more whale and hun-fish in every possible
point of view. The latter, a voracious formidable animal of the shark
species, frequently makes great havoc among the tackle with which
cod and haddock are caught. Like the shark, it throws itself on its
back when in the act of seizing its prey. The fishermen frequently see
it lying motionless, its white belly glittering through the water, a few
fathoms from the boat’s side, employed in stripping off every fish
from their hooks as the line is drawn over it. This formidable animal
is from six to ten feet in length, and formed like the common shark.
24. Properly, perhaps, the musculous whale.
One of the boatmen’s stories, though somewhat in the
Munchausen style, I shall take the liberty of relating. Two Cromarty
men, many years ago, were employed on a fine calm day in angling
for coal-fish and rock-cod, with rods and hand-lines. Their little skiff
rode to a large oblong stone, which served for an anchor, nearly
opposite a rocky spire termed the chapel, three miles south of
Shandwick. Suddenly the stone was raised from the bottom with a
jerk, and the boat began to move. “What can this mean!” exclaimed
the elder of the men, pulling in his rod, “we have surely broken loose;
but who could have thought that there ran such a current here!” The
other, a young daring fellow, John Clark by name, remarked in reply,
that the apparent course of the skiff was directly contrary to that of
the current. The motion, which was at first gentle, increased to a
frightful velocity; the rope a-head was straitened until the very stem
cracked; and the sea rose upon either bows into a furrow that nearly
overtopped the gunwale. “Old man,” said the young fellow, “didst
thou ever see the like o’ that!” “Guid save us, boy,” said the other;
“cut, cut the swing.” “Na, na, bide a wee first, I manna skaith the
rape: didst thou ever see the like o’ that!”
In a few minutes, according to the story, they were dragged in this
manner nearly two miles, when the motion ceased as suddenly as it
had begun, and the skiff rode to the swing as before.
 THE TWIN SISTERS.

By Alexander Balfour.
One of these men is genius to the other;
And so, of these which is the natural man,
And which the spirit? Who decyphers them?
Shakspeare.

Emma and Emily Graham were twin daughters of a respectable

farmer and cattle-dealer in Perthshire. The girls bore such a striking
resemblance to each other, that their mother found it necessary to
clothe them in different colours, as the only method by which they
could be distinguished. As they grew up, their similarity became, if
possible, more perfect; the colour of their eyes and hair had no shade
of difference; and, indeed, every feature of their faces, their form and
stature, were so exactly alike, that the same distinction of different
dresses continued necessary. They had a brother, Edward, about
fifteen months younger, who bore as great a likeness to both as they
did to each other. When the girls arrived at nine or ten years of age,
they gave promise of being rather above the ordinary stature of their
sex, with a very considerable share of personal beauty. But it was
only in externals that the resemblance was complete; for, although
both had excellent dispositions, with a large share of good nature,
their minds were in most respects dissimilar.
Emma was sedate and modest, even to bashfulness; while Emily
was so free and lively, that many thought her forward, and her
lightheartedness akin to levity. Edward’s mind resembled that of his
younger sister as closely as his personal appearance. She was all
mirth and frolic, and, by changing clothes with her sister, amused,
perplexed, and sometimes fretted her parents; in all which Edward
delighted to bear a part. At school there was an ample field for these
sportive tricks; and the teacher himself was often sadly teased by
their playful metamorphoses.
When the sisters completed their seventeenth year, they had more
the appearance of grown women than is common at that age; and
their resemblance still continued perfect. Their voices, although
slightly masculine, were pleasant and musical; and both had the
same tone and sound, pitched to the same key. The dispositions
which they had exhibited in childhood still seemed to “grow with
their growth, and strengthen with their strength.” In one thing they,
however, agreed, which was, that whenever they appeared in public,
they dressed perfectly alike, and were frequently amused and
delighted with the mistakes produced by the uniformity. To
distinguish their clothes, every article belonging to Emma was
marked Em. G., and those of Emily with E. G. only.
As Edward grew up, his striking likeness to his sisters continued;
even their difference of voice could be distinguished only by a fine
and delicate ear; and with this close resemblance he was so highly
pleased, that he used every means by which it could be preserved. To
add to the perplexity of their friends, Emma would assume more
than her usual vivacity, while Emily would put herself under some
restraint; although the one was apt to become suddenly grave, and
the other relax into lightheartedness. But they were now divided; for
Emma went to reside with an aunt, at fifty miles’ distance, and there
she continued for a considerable time.
Both the girls had been courted occasionally by the young men of
their acquaintance; but their hearts had never felt a reciprocal
passion. There was, in particular, an old widower, Francis Meldrum,
who had become enamoured of Emily; and, as he was rich, her
parents anxiously wished to promote the match. But their daughter
shrunk from it with the most decided aversion: no repulse, however,
could release her from the importunity of his addresses, as he was
countenanced and encouraged by her parents.
During the summer, their father was in the practice of going into
England with a drove of cattle, sometimes not returning till the
approach of harvest. He now departed on his usual excursion; and,
soon after, the mother was called away to visit her sick grandmother,
from whom the family had considerable expectations. The farm and
house were thus left under the charge of Edward and Emily, both
willing to do their duty, but both thoughtless, and delighting in
frolic; which, now that they were relieved from the surveillance and
remonstrances of the sedate Emma, they had a better opportunity of
indulging.
There was a fair in Perth, only a few miles distant, and Emily
requested her brother to accompany her thither, that they might
have at least one day of pleasure. Her proposal was most readily
acceded to by Edward; and they departed together. A company of
military, part of the —— regiment, were quartered in Perth, under
the command of Captain Munro, who had received orders to recruit
during his stay. The fair was a good opportunity for that purpose,
and the Captain, with his troop, paraded the streets in their best
array. From a window in the inn where they were dining, Edward
and his sister saw them pass along the street. Emily had never known
what it was to love; but she had a susceptible heart. Her hour was
now come, and her lively fancy was enraptured with the fine, martial
appearance of the gallant Captain. Little accustomed to reflection,
she fell in love at first sight; and unpractised in disguising her
feelings, although she did not express her thoughts to her brother,
she was at little pains to conceal the impression made on her heart.
This he soon perceived, and began to rally her on the subject, when
she frankly acknowledged that she thought the officer the most
handsome-looking man she had ever seen, expressing an anxious
wish to know his rank and name. That information was easily
obtained by Edward, in a casual conversation with the waiter, who
said he was from the same quarter with Captain Munro, who was the
son and heir of a landed gentleman in Aberdeenshire, was
unmarried, and a great favourite with the ladies in town. When the
couple reached home, Emily’s head and heart both full of the
handsome Captain, they had a message from her mother, intimating
that the old woman was dying, and that she could not return till she
saw the result. There was also a letter from their father, requesting
Edward to follow him into England with a supply of cattle, as
speedily as possible.
Captain Munro had occupied Emily’s sleeping and waking
thoughts; and she began to wish that an opportunity might occur for
her becoming acquainted with him. With her characteristic love of
frolic, she formed a plan which promised to facilitate her wishes; and
circumstances seemed favourable for its execution, but it required
the assistance of her brother for carrying it into effect. It was
communicated to Edward; and he, equally rash and imprudent as
herself, was prevailed upon to play his part, which was no less than
to enlist himself with Captain Munro as a recruit, and trust to his
sister relieving him, according to a scheme pointed out by her, and
which appeared feasible to Edward. In compliance with the plan
which they had concerted, Edward, with a servant, left the farm for
the cattle. Having put them on the way, and arranged to rejoin the
servant, he rode into Perth, and enlisted with the Captain, receiving a
shilling of earnest. Promising to come back next morning to receive
his bounty, and be attested, Edward mounted his horse, and pushed
forward to England, leaving Emily to settle the business as best she
could.
The day when he had promised to return passed away without any
appearance of the recruit. Being a fine-looking fellow, the officer was
reluctant to loose him; therefore, next morning, he despatched a
serjeant, with a party, to inquire after him. On their arrival at the
farm, they found only Emily and the servants. The serjeant had seen
Edward when he enlisted, and now believed that he saw, in Emily,
the same person in disguise; in consequence of which he threatened
to carry her before his commanding officer; but, preserving her good
humour, she held his threats in defiance, and, for his own sake,
requested him to take care what he did. Some of the party had
remained in the kitchen, and there learned from the servants, that
Emily sometimes assumed her brother’s dress; and, they had no
doubt, had personated her brother, as a joke on the Captain. Emily
now regaled the party with hospitable cheer, and, dismissing them in
excellent humour, requested the serjeant to make her compliments
to Captain Munro, trusting that he would take better care of his next
recruit. The serjeant imparted all this to his superior, together with
what the soldiers had heard in the kitchen, from which the officer
was persuaded, that either himself or the serjeant had been
completely hoaxed, and, determined to investigate the matter fully,
both in discharge of his duty, and for the gratification of his curiosity,
which had been highly excited, he next morning visited the farm,
intending to judge for himself. This was just what Emily wished and
expected. She had therefore taken care to inform herself, in a short
interview with her brother, of almost every circumstance which had
passed between him and the Captain, the relation of which, she
trusted, would convince him of her being the recruit. The moment
Captain Munro looked at her, he was convinced of her being the
identical person he had enlisted, although he still had doubts about
her sex; while, at the same time, he felt that he had never seen one of
his own with features so fine and delicate. Although Captain Munro
was in every respect a gentleman, yet the extraordinary
circumstances which had produced this interview, warranted a
freedom of manner which, in other cases, he could not have
employed, where he was so much a stranger. He therefore now
informed Emily, that he was fully convinced of her being the person
who had enlisted with him, and also quite satisfied that she now
appeared in the habit which belonged to her sex; still, he presumed
he had some right to inquire her motive for a step so uncommon, and
which she appeared so early to relinquish.
This question, although she had anticipated it, brought deep
blushes into Emily’s face; and her heart palpitated as she replied,
that, although she now regretted having adopted a measure so
incompatible with female delicacy, she felt it a duty which she owed
to herself, to inform him of her inducement, lest it might be
attributed to something still more unbecoming. She then went on to
state that she had, for a long time past, been persecuted with the
odious addresses of a widower, old enough to be her father, and
whom her parents wished her to marry because he was rich; but,
although he had been her equal in age, their dispositions were so
opposite, that she must have despised him, for he was a miserly,
stingy, jealous, and contemptible wretch; and she had availed herself
of the absence of her parents to adopt a measure which, she was
sure, would, on its coming to his knowledge, have the effect of
relieving her from his offensive importunities; and, although she now
saw the imprudent folly she had committed, her regret would be
diminished, if it produced the consequences she so anxiously wished.
The part she was now acting, and the situation in which she had
placed herself, in spite of all Emily’s natural forwardness, called forth
that modest timidity which still adds to the loveliness of a young and
beautiful woman, suffusing her cheeks with crimson, and softening
the brightness of her sparkling eye. Altogether, her appearance and
behaviour made a powerful impression on the heart of the gallant
soldier; and he contrived to protract the interview till the latest
period that good breeding permitted. When Emily offered to return
the shilling which her brother had received, the Captain refused it,
saying, with a smile, that he had not yet renounced his claim on her,
but reserved it for further investigation, for the discussion of which
he proposed repeating his visit.
With self-possession, but becoming modesty, Emily replied, that
although she had already overstepped the bounds of female
decorum, she was neither ignorant of, nor indifferent to, that
propriety of conduct which her situation required; and would
therefore request, that if he was again inclined to visit the farm of
Greenbraes, it might be after the return of her parents. The Captain
now left Emily, nearly as much fascinated with her as she had been
with his first appearance; while the respectful propriety of his
behaviour, in a case where some freedom of speech might have been
excusable, raised him in her estimation; and she flattered herself that
he had not seen her with indifference.
The Captain was now impatient for the return of her parents; as,
afraid of incurring the displeasure of Emily, he could not venture to
visit Greenbraes till that time; but he, oftener than once, threw
himself in the way by walking in the vicinity, hoping to meet her
whom he now found it impossible to forget. Emily had seen him
sauntering in the fields, and rightly conjectured his purpose; but she,
actuated, no doubt, partly by a little coquetry, had uniformly
disappointed him.
Her father now returned from England; and Emily, who had never
before disguised her actions, convinced that her parent must soon
hear, from some officious friend, what had already made much noise
in the place, resolved to tell as much of the truth as suited her
purpose. She therefore informed her father that Edward, in a frolic,
had enlisted; but that she had sent him out of the way, and
represented him when the Captain came to claim his recruit, and
that officer had laughed heartily at the joke.
“Ah, Emily! you are a light-hearted, and lighter-headed lassie,”
said the fond father. “You carry things ower far; and I’m fleyed ye’ll
tine your ain character, or render it no worth the keeping. What will
Francie Meldrum say to that business? I’ll think shame to see him.”
 “My dear father, if naebody’s angry but Francie, I’ll never rue
doing that for my brother. Say that you’re no angry, father, and set
my heart at ease.” And, looking in her father’s face with a timid, but
affectionate smile, she laid her arm around his neck, pressing her
glowing lip to his bronzed cheek.
“I am angry, you little flattering gipsey; but promise to gie ower
thae light-headed pranks, and I’ll forgive you for this.”
Emily had reason to congratulate herself on this speedy
reconciliation with her father, who she saw was in good humour; for,
looking from the window, she saw Francis, the object of her
detestation, approaching, although he had never tormented her
during the absence of her parents. Leaving her father to receive the
unwelcome visitor, Emily secreted herself in an adjoining closet,
where she could hear every word of the conversation, which soon
became more agreeable to her than she had expected; for Francis
began to speak of her frolic with an asperity which her father did not
think it merited. They came to high words, the result of which was,
that the farmer conducted his guest to the door, requesting him
never to enter it again till Emily bade him welcome. This was so far
beyond Emily’s expectations, that her heart bounded with delight;
and, had it not been that she must have betrayed her being a listener,
she would have rushed in, and, kneeling to her father, thanked him
for the deliverance.
The fact was, that her father, on his return from England, had
stayed in Perth to deposit some money with his banker, who insisted
on his dining with him, as he was to see a few friends that day.
Captain Munro happened to be of the party, and, hearing the
farmer’s name and residence, endeavoured to make himself as
agreeable as possible, in which he succeeded admirably. Before
parting, he took an opportunity of having a private conversation with
the farmer, relating circumstantially what the reader is already
acquainted with, as far as consisted with his own knowledge. He
concluded by confessing the impression which Emily had made on
him, which all that he had since heard concerning her had
contributed to deepen; and that her motive for the frolic which had
given him the pleasure of knowing her was a sufficient apology; and,
as it was obvious she would never consent to marry the widower, he
begged the farmer to sanction his addresses, instead of a man whose
age certainly rendered the match very unsuitable. For his own
character and family he referred him to the banker, under whose roof
they were, requesting the pleasure of another interview before he left
town.
The honest farmer was rather vexed at the first part of this
relation, but the conclusion put him in good humour; and, in a
conversation with the banker, he learned that Captain Munro was
the son and heir of a landed gentleman in Aberdeenshire, and that
the young officer bore a highly respectable character, both as a man
and a soldier. The farmer and Captain again met, when the former
gave the officer his hearty permission to address his daughter,
adding, that as she had several times perplexed him with her
harmless tricks, of which the Captain had seen and felt a specimen,
he wished this interview to be kept secret, and, when they met at
Greenbraes, that they might appear strangers to each other. The
Captain approved of the suggestion, esteeming it a good joke; and
they parted, both in high spirits.
Emily was highly delighted with the dismissal of the importunate
widower; and, just as she was wondering whether the Captain knew
that her father had returned, she, one morning, saw him approaching
the house.
Although this was by no means a disagreeable discovery, yet, when
commanded by her father to join them in the parlour, she entered
with a palpitating heart, and her cheeks blushing like a half-blown
rose.
The Captain met her with the respectful ease of a gentleman and
an old acquaintance, when her father, in rather a severe tone, said,
“Emily, you informed me of a joke which you played off upon this
gentleman, and gave me to understand it was all settled and
forgotten; but I find that is not the case. Captain Munro insists that
you received earnest money from him, which you still retain; and,
therefore, he is entitled either to your services, or satisfaction for the
insult offered to him. What do you say?”
“When Captain Munro explains what he wants, I shall then know
how to answer,” replied Emily.
“That is easily done, Miss Graham,” replied the Captain. “You
engaged to be a soldier for life, and I claim the fulfilment of your
agreement—wish you to follow the drum. In a word, dear Emily, I
love you, and wish to make you a soldier’s wife. When I last had the
pleasure of seeing you, I informed you that I reserved my claim for
further discussion, and requested permission to visit you, which you
very prudently declined till your father’s return. He is now present,
and I wait your reply. A soldier hates trifling.”
“My first engagement with you, Captain, was rash, and I repented,”
replied Emily. “I am afraid you have imitated my folly, in the present
declaration, which you would probably regret on reflection. I shall
take time to deliberate; and, when we both know each other better, if
you continue in the same mind, I shall then be prepared to reply.”
This response, while it did credit to Emily’s prudence, was such as
gave the suitor every reasonable hope of success; as the expression,
“when we know each other better,” was sufficiently encouraging to
induce him to continue his visits. Love had already done his work
with both hearts, and in a short time they perfectly understood each
other.
Emily’s mother now returned; and, after the necessary
preparations, the wedding-day was appointed, when the Captain was
called to Edinburgh, as member of a court-martial, to be held in the
Castle. They had known each other but a short time, and both had
been so much engrossed with their own affairs, that, although the
Captain had heard Emma’s name mentioned, he was ignorant of the
striking resemblance which she bore to her sister. Emily had also
continued unacquainted with the Captain’s first interview with her
father, till she happened to overhear the latter relating it to her
mother, and chuckling over it as a good joke which he and the
Captain had played off on Emily. Although not displeased at the
imposition practised on her, she resolved, sooner or later, to pay
both her father and lover in their own coin; and her fertile invention
soon contrived a scheme, in which, if she could engage her sister as a
confederate, she trusted to enjoy the pleasure of full retaliation.
A letter had been despatched to Emma, announcing the intended
nuptials, and requesting her presence, to officiate as bride’s maid on
the occasion. This message had, however, been crossed on the road
by another from Emma, to the same tune; informing her parents of
her intended marriage, two days before that fixed for Emily’s
wedding, and requesting the same service of her sister which had
been expected from her.
This contretemps was a disappointment to both; however, a
second letter arrived from Emma, congratulating Emily on the
approaching event, and intimating that she and her husband
intended doing themselves the pleasure of being with them in time to
witness the ceremony.
The absence of some important witnesses in the case before the
court-martial had prevented its sitting; and a letter arrived from
Captain Munro, intimating, that, however much it vexed him, he
found it would be impossible for him to be at Greenbraes sooner
than the day appointed for their union; and, even then, the hour of
his arrival was uncertain, but he hoped to be in time for dinner.
Edward arrived from England on the eve of the wedding-day; and
Emma, with her husband, in the morning. After the mutual
congratulations among so many friends, Emily took an early
opportunity of communicating her intentions, and requesting their
assistance; especially as it was the last opportunity she would have of
indulging in frolic; as, in a few hours, she should be sworn to love,
honour, and obey her husband. Edward was highly delighted with
the scheme; and Emma’s husband, who loved a joke, prevailed on
her to comply with her sister’s request, and perform her share in the
plot, as explained by Emily; and the striking likeness of the two
sisters being still as strong as ever, rendered success almost certain.
As a necessary preliminary, it was agreed that the sisters should be
dressed exactly alike, in every, the minutest article, except that
Emma should wear a bandeau of artificial rosebuds, by which she
could be at once distinguished from her sister. All this was carried
into effect; and, when dressed, the distinction was pointed out to
their parents, to prevent, as they said, any ridiculous mistake at the
approaching ceremony.
The farmhouse of Greenbraes had, in former times, been the
mansion-house of the estate, and still had attached to it an extensive
and old-fashioned garden. The house stood on a rising ground, and
had a commanding view of the road by which the bridegroom must
approach. Emily had every thing ready; and, when she saw him at
some distance, she joined her brother, with Emma and her husband,
in the garden, where they had been for some time; but, as she passed
out, requested her mother to conduct Captain Munro to the garden,
on his arrival, contriving some excuse for leaving him as he entered,
as she wished to she him privately.
The party had disposed themselves in order, waiting his approach;
and, when they heard the garden-door open, Edward and Emily
withdrew, secreting themselves in a thicket of evergreens; and the
Captain entering, beheld Emma and her husband sauntering most
lovingly, at a little distance before him. They did not seem to observe
the bridegroom; but, on turning the corner of a new-clipped yew-
hedge, Emma, as if by accident, dropped her handkerchief, and the
next moment they were out of sight. Captain Munro believed at first
glance that it was Emily he had seen, but still was reluctant to
suppose it possible that she would permit any other man to use the
freedom he had just witnessed; and endeavoured to persuade himself
that the lady must be a stranger, invited to the wedding. However,
the handkerchief seemed a probable clue to solve his doubts; he
approached, took it up, and found it marked Em. G. In no very
pleasant mood, he stepped forward a little farther, when he heard a
soft whisper, which he knew proceeded from a rustic bower; and he
was aware that, by a slight circuit, he could discover the occupants
without being seen. He now saw, as he believed, Emily seated in the
bower, her head leaning on the shoulder of a handsome-looking
young man, whose arm encircled her waist. Rage and jealousy now
took possession of the bridegroom’s soul, and he was at first
disposed to leave the farm, without speaking to any one, but,
standing for a few minutes in a stupor, he determined to see the face
of him for whom he had been so cruelly deceived. He therefore
walked up in front of the bower, and, with all the calm respect which
he could assume, said, “Madam, permit me to present your
handkerchief, which you dropped in the walk.”
“I thank you, Sir,” replied Emma; “may I inquire to whom I am
indebted for restoring it to its owner?”
The cool composure with which this question was put, raised the
indignation of the maddened bridegroom to its highest pitch; and,
with a glance of the most sovereign contempt which he could
assume, he replied, “To one, madam, who despises you from his soul,
and thanks God for his timely discovery of your infamy!”
 Her husband now started to his feet, and said, “Sir, you bear the
insignia, although you want the manners of a gentleman. But were
you of the blood-royal, you should not insult my wife with impunity.”
Captain Munro started at the word, and repeated, “Wife! did you
say, Sir? Permit me to ask one question, to which your candid reply
will oblige me. How long has that woman been your wife?”
“For these two days.”
“Enough. Farewell for ever! infamous woman!”
Edward now sprung from the thicket, and standing right before
the Captain, in the exact costume in which he had enlisted, said, with
an arch and good-humoured smile, “My honoured Captain, excuse
the freedom of your recruit. I cannot patiently hear those
opprobrious epithets applied to my sister; perhaps she could explain
all this if you had patience.”
The Captain was now fairly bewildered, and stood staring, first at
the one, and then the other, in half-frantic amazement, when, to his
relief, the farmer approached; and, seeing the four looking in gloomy
silence on each other, exclaimed, “Why, what is the matter with all of
you, that you stare as if bewitched?”
Captain Munro, recovering himself a little, replied, “It is even so,
Sir; and you are come in time to remove the spell. Say, who are these
before you?”
The farmer surveyed the group, and observing that Emma had not
the bandeau of rose-buds by which she was to be distinguished from
her sister, replied: “Captain, what do you mean? The young man is
my son Edward; the other is Dr Malcolm, my son-in-law: you surely
do not require to be told that the female is my daughter, and your
bride.”
“She is no bride of mine—I renounce her for ever!” said the angry
soldier, in a most indignant tone.
While the farmer stood, as much amazed as the Captain had been,
Emily came forward from the thicket, and, standing close beside her
sister, said, “Dear father, let not the gentlemen quarrel; you have
certainly a daughter for each of them; and as both of us are quite
willing to have husbands, have the goodness to give our hands to
those for whom you intend us;” and both sisters stood with the
stillness, gravity, and silence of statues. The astonished father found
the distinguishing badge wanting in both, and replied, “I must
confess I am fairly bewildered; gentlemen, choose for yourselves, for
I cannot!”
Edward now put on Emily’s playful smile, and looked at the
Captain in a manner which made him at once clasp the youth in his
arms, crying, “My dear Emily! I know you now.”
The loud laughter of the party again renewed the confusion of the
bridegroom and farmer, which was enjoyed for a considerable time
before they condescended to give any explanation. It was, however,
at last made; all was set right, and the evening passed at Greenbraes
in hilarity and unclouded happiness.
 ALBERT BANE:
AN INCIDENT OF THE BATTLE OF
CULLODEN.

By Henry Mackenzie.

When I was, last autumn, at my friend Colonel Caustic’s in the

country, I saw there, on a visit to Miss Caustic, a young gentleman
and his sister, children of a neighbour of the Colonel’s, with whose
appearance and manner I was particularly pleased.
The history of their parents, said my friend, is somewhat
particular, and I love to tell it, as I do everything that is to the honour
of our nature. Man is so poor a thing, taken in the gross, that when I
meet with an instance of nobleness in detail, I am fain to rest upon it
long, and to recall it often, as in coming thither over our barren hills
you would look with double delight on a spot of cultivation or of
beauty.
The father of those young folks, whose looks you were struck with,
was a gentleman of considerable domains and extensive influence on
the northern frontier of our country. In his youth he lived, as it was
then more the fashion than it is now, at the seat of his ancestors,
surrounded with Gothic grandeur, and compassed with feudal
followers and dependants, all of whom could trace their connection
at a period more or less remote with the family of their chief. Every
domestic in his house bore the family-name, and looked on himself
as in a certain degree partaking its dignity, and sharing its fortunes.
Of these, one was in a particular manner the favourite of his master.
Albert Bane (the surname, you know, is generally lost in a name
descriptive of the individual) had been his companion from his
infancy. Of an age so much more advanced as to enable him to be a
sort of tutor to his youthful lord, Albert had early taught him the
rural exercises and rural amusements, in which himself was
eminently skilful; he had attended him in the course of his education
at home, of his travels abroad, and was still the constant companion
of his excursions, and the associate of his sports.
On one of those latter occasions, a favourite dog of Albert’s, whom
he had trained himself, and of whose qualities he was proud,
happened to mar the sport which his master expected, who, irritated
at the disappointment, and having his gun ready cocked in his hand,
fired at the animal, which, however, in the hurry of his resentment,
he missed. Albert, to whom Oscar was a child, remonstrated against
the rashness of the deed in a manner rather too warm for his master,
ruffled as he was with the accident, and conscious of being in the
wrong, to bear. In his passion he struck his faithful attendant, who
suffered the indignity in silence: and retiring, rather in grief than in
anger, left his native country that very night; and when he reached
the nearest town, enlisted with a recruiting party of a regiment then
on foreign service. It was in the beginning of the war with France,
which broke out in 1744, rendered remarkable for the rebellion
which the policy of the French court excited, in which some of the
first families of the Highlands were unfortunately engaged. Among
those who joined the standard of Charles, was the master of Albert.
After the battle of Culloden, so fatal to that party, this gentleman,
along with others who had escaped the slaughter of the field,
sheltered themselves from the rage of the unsparing soldiery among
the distant recesses of their country. To him his native mountains
offered an asylum; and thither he naturally fled for protection.
Acquainted, in the pursuits of the chase, with every secret path and
unworn track, he lived for a considerable time, like the deer of his
forest, close hid all day, and only venturing down at the fall of
evening, to obtain from some of his cottagers, whose fidelity he could
trust, a scanty and precarious support. I have often heard him (for he
is one of my oldest acquaintances) describe the scene of his hiding-
place, at a later period, when he could recollect it in its sublimity,
without its horror. “At times,” said he, “when I ventured to the edge
of the wood, among some of those inaccessible crags which you
remember a few miles from my house, I have heard, in the pauses of
the breeze which rolled solemn through the pines beneath me, the
distant voices of the soldiers, shouting in answer to one another
amidst their inhuman search. I have heard their shouts re-echoed
from cliff to cliff, and seen reflected from the deep still lake below the
gleam of those fires which consumed the cottages of my people.
Sometimes shame and indignation wellnigh overcame my fear, and I
have prepared to rush down the steep, unarmed as I was, and to die
at once by the swords of my enemies; but the instinctive love of life
prevailed, and starting, as the roe bounded by me, I have again
shrunk back to the shelter I had left.
“One day,” continued he, “the noise was nearer than usual; and at
last, from the cave in which I lay, I heard the parties immediately
below so close upon me, that I could distinguish the words they
spoke. After some time of horrible suspense, the voices grew weaker
and more distant; and at last I heard them die away at the further
end of the wood. I rose and stole to the mouth of the cave, when
suddenly a dog met me, and gave that short quick bark by which they
indicate their prey. Amidst the terror of the circumstance, I was yet
master enough of myself to discover that the dog was Oscar; and I
own to you I felt his appearance like the retribution of justice and of
heaven. ‘Stand!’ cried a threatening voice, and a soldier pressed
through the thicket, with his bayonet charged. It was Albert! Shame,
confusion, and remorse stopped my utterance, and I stood
motionless before him. ‘My master!’ said he, with the stifled voice of
wonder and of fear, and threw himself at my feet. I had recovered my
recollection. You are revenged, said I, and I am your prisoner.
‘Revenged! Alas! you have judged too harshly of me; I have not had
one happy day since that fatal one on which I left my master; but I
have lived, I hope, to save him. The party to which I belong are
passed; for I lingered behind them among those woods and rocks,
which I remember so well in happier days. There is, however, no
time to be lost. In a few hours this wood will blaze, though they do
not suspect that it shelters you. Take my dress, which may help your
escape, and I will endeavour to dispose of yours. On the coast, to the
westward, we have learned there is a small party of your friends,
which, by following the river’s track till dusk, and then striking over
the shoulder of the hill, you may join without much danger of
discovery.’ I felt the disgrace of owing so much to him I had injured,
and remonstrated against exposing him to such imminent danger of
its being known that he favoured my escape, which, from the temper
of his commander, I knew would be instant death. Albert, in an
agony of fear and distress, besought me to think only of my own
safety. ‘Save us both,’ said he, ‘for if you die, I cannot live. Perhaps
we may meet again; but whatever comes of Albert, may the blessing
of God be with his master!’”
Albert’s prayer was heard. His master, by the exercise of talents
which, though he had always possessed, adversity only taught him to
use, acquired abroad a station of equal honour and emolument; and
when the proscriptions of party had ceased, returned home to his
own country, where he found Albert advanced to the rank of a
lieutenant in the army, to which his valour and merit had raised him,
married to a lady, by whom he had got some little fortune, and the
father of an only daughter, for whom nature had done much, and to
whose native endowments it was the chief study and delight of her
parents to add everything that art could bestow. The gratitude of the
chief was only equalled by the happiness of his follower, whose
honest pride was not long after gratified by his daughter becoming
the wife of that master whom his generous fidelity had saved. That
master, by the clemency of more indulgent and liberal times, was
again restored to the domains of his ancestors, and had the
satisfaction of seeing the grandson of Albert enjoy the hereditary
birthright of his race. I accompanied Colonel Caustic on a visit to this
gentleman’s house, and was delighted to observe his grateful
attention to his father-in-law, as well as the unassuming happiness of
the good old man, conscious of the perfect reward which his former
fidelity had met with. Nor did it escape my notice, that the sweet boy
and girl, who had been our guests at the Colonel’s, had a favourite
brown and white spaniel, whom they caressed much after dinner,
whose name was Oscar.