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your-name, to despatch your pharisaical letter sealed with black
wax.”
“Young wrathful,” meekly rejoined Mr Samuel, “it was dark green
wax, most emblematic, as I said to your aunt, my dear spouse, of the
unfading verdure of our harmonious affections.”
“Black and green fiends dog you to Satan,” roared I. “What an ass
you have made of me! Farewell, a long farewell, to all my greatness.
Oh! Broadcroft, Lilliesacre, Kittleford, Cozieholm, and Oxgang,
perished in the clap of a hand, and for ever! The churchman’s paw is
upon you, and a poor fellow has no chance now of a single rood!”
With some more stuff of this kind, I parted with my venerable aunt
and her smooth-tongued spouse. These petrifactions of humanity
had the charity, I suppose, to consider me moon-struck. I heard Mr
Samuel sweetly observe, that verily the young lad’s scholarship had
driven him mad. I wished the rogue at the bottom of the Red Sea, or
in the farthest bog of Connaught, paring turf and cultivating potatoes
—anywhere but where I now saw him. I could have eaten him up raw
and unsodden, without salt or pepper, where he stood—ground his
bones to dust, or spit upon him till he was drowned in the flood of
my spite. I did neither; but throwing myself again on the back of
Kate, off I scampered home, more like a fury than a man.
In my way there was not a rascal I met but seemed to my heated
imagination to know my misfortunes, and enjoy, with sly
satisfaction, their fearful consummation. Two fellows I cut smartly
across the cheek; they were standing coolly by the wayside, with their
hands in their pockets, interchanging winks, and thrusting their
tongues provokingly out like hounds on a hot day. They did not relish
the taste of my thong, and one of them made an awkward squelsh
into a ditch on receipt, head over heels, immensely to my heart’s
content.
It was evening when I reached the little village where my head-
quarters for some weeks had been established. To add to my
miseries, I found that Tom had, in my absence, with his usual
volatility of temperament, been entertaining a numerous party in the
Cross Keys, on the faith of my accession of property. When I rode
past the tavern, my ears were assailed with most extraordinary
sounds of festivity, and my head endangered by a shower of bottles
and glasses that his reckless boon companions were discharging
from the windows. Some of these windows, too, were illuminated
with multitudes of dips—the extravagant dog!—three to the pound.
And some coarse transparencies were flaunting in my face pithy
sentences, such as—“A Glorious Revolution,” “Splendid Victory,”
“Jubilee to Hopeless Creditors,” “Intelligence Extraordinary!!” &c.
Then, at every pause of the maddening din, the explosion of another
bottle of champagne smote my ear like a death-knell. Cork after cork
popped against the ceiling—crack, crack, they went like a running
fire along a line of infantry, while loud above the storm rose the
vociferations of my jolly friend, as he cheered them on to another
bumper, with all the honours, or volunteered his own song. Poor
Tom, he had only one song, which he wrote himself, and never failed
to sing to the deafening of every one when he was drunk. It was
never printed, and here you have as much of it as I remember, to
vary the melancholy texture of my story:—
SONG.
Fill a can, let us drink,
For ’tis nonsense to think
Of the cares that may come with to-morrow;
And ’tis folly as big
As the Chancellor’s wig,
To dash present joy with dull sorrow.
Hip! hip! hip! fill away;
Our life’s but a day,
And ’twere pity that it proved a sad one;
’Twas in a merry pin
Our life did begin,
And we’ll close it, brave boys, in a mad one!
Hip! hip! hip! &c.
This was followed with what Tom emphatically styled a grand crash
of melody; that is, overturning the table, and burying in one
indiscriminate ruin, bowls, bottles, glasses, and all things brittle.
My heart sickened at the riot, and, broken in spirit and penniless, I
retreated to my lodgings.
Here I had at least peace to ruminate over my prostrate fortunes;
but as meditation would not mend them, and next morning would
assuredly bring the dire intelligence of my aunt’s marriage, I, that
same night, made a forced march, anxious to secure a convenient
spot for rustication and retirement, till fortune should again smile, or
the ferocity of my creditors be somewhat tamed. Poor Tom! I had the
savage satisfaction of breaking up his carousal by a few cabalistic
words written in a strong half-text hand: “Stole away! Done up.—
Fooled and finished.—Run, if you love freedom, and hate stone walls.
You will find me earthed in the old hole.”
Next evening I was joined by my luckless shadow. He had a hard
run for it; the scent lay strong, and the pack were sure-nosed and
keen as razors. But he threw them out from his superior knowledge
of localities. After this we both became exceedingly recluse and
philosophical in our habits. We had the world to begin anew, and we
had each our own very particular reasons for not making a noise
about it.—Paisley Magazine.
THE COURT CAVE:
A LEGENDARY TALE OF FIFESHIRE.
By Drummond Bruce.
Chapter I.
The stranger set out on his voluntary mission at a rapid pace, and
soon arrived at the house. The door stood open, and he entered with
the careless sauntering air of one entirely indifferent as to the
welcome he might be greeted with. He found Colville seated
apparently in no very pleasant humour, and his daughter, bustling
about among the servant-maidens, wearing on her flushed cheek and
suffused eye undoubted symptoms of the sorrow with which the
morning’s adventure had afflicted her.
“Give you good-e’en, gudeman of Balmeny,” said the stranger,
seating himself, without waiting an invitation, on the bench opposite
Colville.
“The same to you, neebour,” said the landlord, in a tone that had
little of welcome in it.
A few moments’ silence now ensued, Colville evidently waiting
with some impatience for the tidings which the other seemed in no
haste to communicate to him. But this could not last.
“Have you anything to tell, ask, or deliver, friend?” at last said
Colville.
“This bright-e’ed maiden is the bonny lass of Balmeny, I’m
thinking,” was the unreplying answer.
“That is my daughter, truly,” said the landlord, becoming more
and more impatient; “does your coming concern her?”
“That it does,” replied the stranger. “There’s an auld bye word, that
‘foul fish and fair daughters are nae keeping ware.’ This fair May is
the object of my visit; in short, gudeman, I come awooing.”
At the sound of this magnetic word, a universal commotion arose
in the dwelling of Colville. The maiden, who was its object, surveyed
the stranger with indignation and surprise; the servants whispered
and tittered among each other; and Colville seemed for a moment
about to give vent to the feelings of his anger, when the current of his
feelings suddenly changed, and, directing a look of malicious joy to
his daughter, he addressed the stranger—
“Welcome, wooer—welcome. Come, lasses, set meat and drink
before this gentle here; as the auld Earl of Douglas said, ‘It’s ill
arguing between a fu’ man and a fasting.’”
The order was obeyed with great readiness by the serving maidens,
who set before the stranger the household bread and cheese, and a
bicker of no scanty dimensions, containing the reaming ale for which
Scotland has been so long famous. There was a malicious merriment
twinkling from every eye as the scene went on; for all knew well that
the over-strained kindness of the host was soon to be converted into
outrageous and overwhelming abuse of the guest. The stranger,
however, seemed either not to notice or to slight these indications.
He partook heartily of the good cheer set before him, and amused
himself by returning with good-humoured smiles the stolen looks of
the simpering maidens. He looked in vain, however, for Edith, who
had retired from the place.
“And now,” said Colville, who began to think the stranger
somewhat more at ease than he could have wished, “Your name,
wooer?”
“My name?” said the stranger, somewhat embarrassed.
“Ay, your name—all men have a name. Knaves [laying an
emphasis on the word] many.”
“True, gudeman, true. My name, then, is Stuart—James Stuart. I
hope it pleases you?”
“The name is the best in the land,” said the old man, touching his
bonnet. “As to the wearer—hem!—‘a Stuarts are no sib to the king’, ye
ken. What countryman are you?”
“I was born at Stirling,” said the stranger.
“Ay, ay, it may be, it may be,” replied Walter Colville; “but, to bring
the matter to a point, what lands and living hae ye, friend?”
“Sometimes less, sometimes more,” replied the stranger, “as I
happen to be in the giving or the taking humour. At the lowest ebb,
however, I think they are at least worth all that ever called a Colville
master.”
“Faith, and that’s a bauld word, neebour,” cried Colville, bitterly
—“and one that, I’m jalousing, you’ll find it difficult to make gude.”
“At your own time it shall be proved, gudeman; but it is not for
myself I come to woo the bonny lass of Balmeny. I am, thanks to a
wise old man who sits in Windsor, wived already.”
“And who, in Beelzebub’s name, may you be blackfit for?”
demanded Colville, rising in wrath.
“Give your daughter to the youth I shall name, and I will, on her
wedding-day, fill you up one lippie with the red gold, and five
running o’er with silver.”
“Give her! To whom?”
“To one who loves her dearly; and, what is more, is dearly loved in
return, old man.”
“Who is he?” reiterated Colville.
“One who is worthy already of the hand of the best ae daughter of
any laird in Fife; and who, ere to-morrow’s sun sets, will be wealthier
than yourself.”
“Who—who—who is he?” cried the old man, stamping in a
paroxysm of rage.
“Arthur Winton!” said the stranger.
The anger of Colville, when this unpleasing name was uttered,
almost overwhelmed him.
“Out of my doors, you rascally impostor,” at length he was able to
exclaim; “out of my doors! Swith away to the minion who sent you
here, an you would wish not to taste the discipline of the whip, or to
escape being worried by the tykes.”
To the stranger, the anger of the old man, instead of fear, seemed
only to occasion merriment. He laughed so heartily at the violence
into which the rage of his host seduced him, that the tears actually
stood in his eyes—conduct that naturally increased the passion which
it fed on. The servants stood looking on in silent wonder; and Edith,
startled by the noise of the discordant sounds, returned to the place
in wonder and alarm.
An unexpected termination was suddenly put to the scene by the
entrance of Arthur Winton. His cheek was flushed with haste; and he
was so breathless that he could hardly exclaim,—
“Save yourself, sir stranger, by instant flight; the Egyptians have
tracked our path hither, and are pursuing us here with numbers ten
times exceeding those we encountered in the cave.”
“Let them come,” said the stranger, with a smile; “Egyptians
though they be, they cannot eat through stone walls or oaken doors.
We will carouse within while they howl without, and drink the dirige
of their chief.”
Arthur said nothing, but looked doubtingly at Colville.
“And do you really imagine, worthy youth, and no less worthy
blackfit, that I am to have my house sieged, my cattle stolen, and my
corn carried off, to shield you from the consequences of your
drunken brawls? Not I, by the cat of the blessed Bride. Out of my
doors, ye caitiffs,—they can but slay you, and the whittle has crossed
the craig of mony a better fellow than any of ye twasome is likely to
prove. Begone, I say.”
“Nay, my dear father,” said Edith, imploringly, “do not drive them
forth now; the Egyptians are approaching the house—they cannot
escape.”
“And they shall not stay here,” replied the old man, harshly, the
tone of agony in which Edith’s entreaties were uttered recalling all
the bitterness of his feelings against Arthur.
“At least, Walter Colville,” said Arthur, “save this stranger. He
cannot have offended you. It was on my errand he came hither. I will
go forth alone. Perhaps one victim may suffice.”
“Nay, brave youth,” said the stranger, “we go together. Farewell,
old man. You are a Scot, and yet have betrayed your guest. You are a
Colville, and the first of the line that ever turned his back upon a
Stuart at his utmost need.”
The tone and sentiment of these words had a powerful effect on
Walter Colville. A momentary confusion rested on his countenance,
and then, with a smile ill put on, he said,—
“Come, come, sirs; I but joked wi’ ye. Did you really think that
Walter Colville would abandon to his enemy any who have bitten his
bannock, and kissed his cup as you have done? Na, na; here you are
safe while the auld wa’s stand. Sit down. I’ll go above and look out for
the landloupers.”