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now got clear of the crowd, and no longer fearing to see the gallows,
she ventured to lift up her eyes and look around. The tallness and
massiveness of the buildings, some of which bore the cross of the
Knights Templar on their pinnacles, while others seemed to be
surmounted or overtopped by still taller edifices beyond, impressed
her imagination; and the effect was rendered still more striking by
the countless human figures which crowded the windows, and even
the roofs of the houses, all alike bending their attention, as she
thought, towards herself. The scene before her looked like an
amphitheatre filled with spectators, while she and Richard seemed as
the objects upon the arena. The thought caused her to hurry on, and
she soon found herself in a great measure screened from observation
by the overhanging projections of the narrower part of the West Bow,
which she now entered.
With slow and difficult, but stately and graceful steps, she then
proceeded, till she reached the upper angle of the street, where a
novel and unexpected scene awaited her. A sound like that of rushing
waters seemed first to proceed from the part of the street still
concealed from her view, and presently appeared round the angle,
the first rank of an impetuous crowd, which, rushing downward with
prodigious force, would certainly have overwhelmed her delicate
form, had she not dexterously avoided them, by stepping aside upon
a projecting stair, to which Richard also sprung just in time to save
himself from a similar fate. From this place of safety, which was not
without its own crowd of children, women, and sage-looking elderly
mechanics, with Kilmarnock cowls, they in the next moment saw the
massive mob rush past, like the first wave of a flood, bearing either
along or down everything that came in their way. Immediately after,
but at a more deliberate pace, followed a procession of figures, which
struck the heart of Lady Jean with as heavy a sense of sorrow as the
crowd had just impressed with terror and surprise. First came a
small company of the veterans of the city-guard, some of whom had
perhaps figured in the campaigns of Middleton and Montrose, and
whose bronzed, inflexible faces bore on this melancholy occasion
precisely the same expression which they ordinarily exhibited on the
joyful one of attending the magistrates at the drinking of the King’s
health on the 29th of May.
 Behind these, and encircled by some other soldiers of the same
band, appeared two figures of a different sort. One of them was a
young-looking, but pale and woe-worn man, the impressive
wretchedness of whose appearance was strikingly increased by the
ghastly dress which he wore. He was attired from head to foot in a
white shroud, such as was sometimes worn in Scotland by criminals
at the gallows, but which was, in the present instance, partly
assumed as a badge of innocence. The excessive whiteness and
emaciation of his countenance suited well with this dismal apparel,
and, with the wild enthusiasm that kindled in his eyes, gave an
almost supernatural effect to the whole scene, which rather
resembled a pageant of the dead than a procession of earthly men.
He was the only criminal: the person who walked by his side, and
occasionally supported his steps, being, as the crowd whispered
around, with many a varied expression of sympathy—his father. The
old man had the air of a devout Presbyterian, with harsh, intelligent
features, and a dress which bespoke his being a countryman of the
lower rank. According to the report of the bystanders, he had
educated this, his only son, for the unfortunate Church of Scotland,
and now attended him to the fate which his talents and violent
temperament had conspired to draw down upon his head. If ever he
felt any pride in the popular admiration with which his son was
honoured, no traces of such a sentiment now appeared. On the
contrary, he seemed humbled to the very earth with sorrow; and
though he had perhaps contemplated the issue, now about to take
place, with no small portion of satisfaction, so long as it was at a
distance and uncertain, the feelings of a father had evidently proved
too much for his fortitude, when the event approached in all its
dreadful reality. The emotions perceptible in that rough and rigid
countenance were the more striking, as being so much at variance
with its natural and characteristic expression; and the tear which
gathered in his eye excited the greater commiseration, in so far as it
seemed a stranger there. But the hero and heroine of our tale had
little time to make observations on this piteous scene, for the
procession passed quickly on, and was soon beyond their sight.
When it was gone, the people of the Bow, who seemed accustomed to
such sights, uttered various expressions of pity, indignation, and
horror, according to their respective feelings, and then slowly retired
to their dens in the stairs and booths which lined the whole of this
ancient and singular street.
Lady Jean, whose beautiful eyes were suffused with tears at
beholding so melancholy a spectacle, was then admonished by her
attendant to proceed. With a heart deadened to all sensations of
wonder and delight, she moved forward, and was soon ushered into
the place called the Lawnmarket, then perhaps the most fashionable
district in Edinburgh, but the grandeur and spaciousness of which
she beheld almost without admiration. The scene here was, however,
much gayer, and approached more nearly to her splendid
preconceptions of the capital than any she had yet seen. The shops
were, in her estimation, very fine, and some of the people on the
street were of that noble description of which she had believed all
inhabitants of cities to be. There was no crowd on the street, which,
therefore, afforded room for the better display of her stately and
beautiful person; and as she walked steadily onwards, still “ushed”
(for such was then the phrase) by her handsome and noble-looking
attendant, a greater degree of admiration was excited amongst the
gay idlers whom she passed, than even that which marked her
progress through the humbler crowd of the Grassmarket. Various
noblemen, in passing towards their homes in the Castle Hill, lifted
their feathered hats and bowed profoundly to the lovely vision; and
one or two magnificent dames, sweeping along with their long silk
trains borne up by liverymen, stared at or eyed askance the charms
which threw their own so completely into shade. By the time Lady
Jean arrived at the bottom of the Lawnmarket, that is to say, where it
was partially closed up by the Tolbooth, she had in a great measure
recovered her spirits, and found herself prepared to enjoy the sight of
the public buildings, which were so thickly clustered together at this
central part of the city.
She was directed by Richard to pass along the narrow road which
then led between the houses and the Tolbooth on the south, and
which, being continued by a still narrower passage skirting the west
end of St Giles’ Church, formed the western approach to the
Parliament Close. Obeying his guidance in this tortuous passage, she
soon found herself at the opening, or the square space—so styled on
account of its being closed on more than one side by the meeting-
place of the legislative assembly of Scotland. Here a splendid scene
awaited her. The whole square was filled with the members of the
Scottish Parliament, Barons and Commons, who had just left the
House in which they sat together,—with ladies, who on days of
unusual ceremony were allowed to attend the House, and with
horses richly caparisoned, and covered with gold-embroidered foot-
cloths, some of which were mounted by their owners, while others
were held in readiness by footmen. All was bustle and magnificence.
Noblemen and gentlemen in splendid attire threaded the crowd in
search of their horses; ladies tripped after them with timid and
careful steps, endeavouring, by all in their power, to avoid contact
with such objects as were calculated to injure their fineries; grooms
strode heavily about, and more nimble lackeys jumped everywhere,
here and there, some of them as drunk as the Parliament Close claret
could make them, but all intent on doing the duties of attendance
and respect to their masters. Some smart and well-dressed young
gentlemen were arranging their cloaks and swords, and preparing to
leave the square on foot, by the passage which had given entry to
Master Richard and Lady Jean.
At sight of our heroine, most of these gallants stood still in
admiration, and one of them, with the trained assurance of a rake,
observing her to be beautiful, a stranger, and not too well protected,
accosted her in a strain of language which caused her at once to
blush and tremble. Richard’s brow reddened with anger as he
hesitated not a moment in stepping up and telling the offender to
leave the lady alone, on pain of certain consequences which might
not prove agreeable.
“And who are you, my brave fellow?” said the youth, with bold
assurance.
“Sirrah!” exclaimed Richard, so indignant as to forget himself, “I
am that lady’s husband—her servant, I mean,” and here he stopped
short in some confusion.
“Admirable!” exclaimed the other. “Ha! ha! ha! ha! Here, sirs, is a
lady’s lacquey, who does not know whether he is his mistress’ servant
or her husband. Let us give him up to the town-guard, to see whether
the black hole will make him remember the real state of the case.”
So saying, he attempted to push Richard aside, and take hold of
the lady. But he had not time to touch her garments with so much as
a finger, before her protector had a rapier flourishing in his eyes, and
threatened him with instant death, unless he desisted from his
profane purpose. At sight of the bright steel he stepped back one or
two paces, drew his own sword, and was preparing to fight, when one
of his more grave associates called out—
“For shame, Rollo!—with a lady’s lacquey, too, and in the presence
of the duke and duchess! I see their royal highnesses, already
alarmed, are inquiring the cause of the disturbance.”
It was even as this gentleman said, and presently came up to the
scene of contention some of the most distinguished personages in the
crowd, one of whom demanded from the parties an explanation of so
disgraceful an occurrence.
“Why, here is a fellow, my lord,” answered Rollo, “who says he is
the husband of a lady whom he attends as a liveryman, and a lady,
too, the bonniest, I daresay, that has been seen in Scotland since the
days of Queen Magdalen!”
“And what matters it to you,” said the inquirer, who seemed to be a
judge of the Session, “in what relation this man stands to his lady?
Let the parties both come forward, and tell their ain tale. May it
please your royal highness,” he continued, addressing a very grave
dignitary, who sat on horseback behind him, as stiff and formal as a
sign-post, “to hear the declarator of thir twa strange incomers. But
see—see—what is the matter wi’ Lord Wigton?” he added, pointing to
an aged personage on horseback, who had just pushed forward, and
seemed about to faint and fall from his horse. The person alluded to,
at sight of his daughter in this unexpected place, was, in reality,
confounded, and it was some time before he mastered voice enough
to ejaculate—
“Oh, Jean, Jean! what is this ye’ve been about? or what has brocht
you to Edinburgh?”
“Lord have a care of us!” exclaimed at this juncture another
venerable peer, who had just come up, “what has brocht my sonsie
son, Richie Livingstone, to Edinburgh, when he should have been
fechtin’ the Dutch by this time in Transylvania?”
The two lovers, thus recognised by their respective parents, stood
with downcast looks, and perfectly silent, while all was buzz and
confusion in the brilliant circle around them; for the parties
concerned were not more surprised at the aspect of their affairs, than
were all the rest at the beauty of the far-famed but hitherto unseen
Lady Jean Fleming. The Earl of Linlithgow, Richard’s father, was the
first to speak aloud, after the general astonishment had for some
time subsided; and this he did in a laconic though important query,
which he couched in the simple words,—
“Are ye married, bairns?”
“Yes, dearest father,” said his son, gathering courage, and coming
close up to his saddle-bow; “and I beseech you to extricate Lady Jean
and me from this crowd, and I shall tell you all when we are alone.”
“A pretty man ye are, truly,” said the old man, who never took
anything very seriously to heart, “to be staying at hame, and getting
yoursel married, all this time you should have been abroad, winning
honour and wealth, as your gallant granduncle did wi’ Gustavus i’ the
thretties! Hooever, since better mayna be, I maun try and console my
Lord Wigton, who, I doot, has the worst o’ the bargain, ye ne’er-do-
weel!”
He then went up to Lady Jean’s father, shook him by the hand, and
said, that “though they had been made relations against their wills,
he hoped they would continue good friends. The young people,” he
observed, “are no that ill-matched; and it is not the first time that the
Flemings and the Livingstones have melled together, as witness the
blithe marriage of the Queen’s Marie to Lord Fleming in the fifteen-
saxty-five. At ony rate, my lord, let us put a good face on the matter,
afore thae glowerin’ gentles, and whipper-snapper duchesses. I’ll get
horses for the two, and they’ll join the riding’ down the street; and
de’il hae me, if Lady Jean doesna outshine the hale o’ them!”
“My Lord Linlithgow,” responded the graver and more implacable
Earl of Wigton, “it may set you to take this matter blithely, but let me
tell you, its a muckle mair serious affair for me. What think ye am I
to do wi’ Frances and Grizzy noo?”
“Hoot toot, my lord,” said Linlithgow with a sly smile, “their
chance is as gude as ever it was, I assure you, and sae will everybody
think that kens them. I maun ca’ horses though, or the young folk
will be ridden ower afore ever they do more gude, by thae
rampaugin’ young men.” So saying, and taking Lord Wigton’s moody
silence for assent, he proceeded to cry to his servants for the best
pair of horses they could get, and these being speedily procured,
Lord Richard and his bride were requested to mount; after which
they were formally introduced to the gracious notice of the Duke and
Duchess of York, and the Princess Anne, who happened to attend
Parliament on this the last day of its session, when it was customary
for all the members to ride both to and from the House in an orderly
cavalcade.
The order was given to proceed, and the lovers were soon relieved
in a great measure from the embarrassing notice of the crowd, by
assuming a particular place in the procession, and finding
themselves confounded with more than three hundred equally
splendid figures. As the pageant, however, moved down the High
Street in a continuous and open line, it was impossible not to
distinguish the singular loveliness of Lady Jean, and the gallant
carriage of her husband, from all the rest. Accordingly, the trained
bands and city guard, who lined the street, and who were in general
quite as insensible to the splendours of “the Riding” as are the
musicians in a modern orchestra to the wonders of a melodrama in
its fortieth night,—even they perceived and admired the graces of the
young couple, whom they could not help gazing after with a stupid
and lingering delight. From the windows, too, and the “stair-heads,”
their beauty was well observed, and amply conjectured and
commented on; while many a young cavalier endeavoured, by all
sorts of pretences, to find occasion to break the order of the
cavalcade, and get himself haply placed nearer to the exquisite
figure, of which he had got just one killing glance in the square.
Slowly and majestically the brilliant train paced down the great
street of Edinburgh—the acclamations of the multitude ceaselessly
expressing the delight which the people of Scotland felt in this
sensible type and emblem of their ancient independence.
At length they reached the courtyard of Holyrood-house, where the
duke and duchess invited the whole assemblage to a ball, which they
designed to give that evening in the hall of the palace; after which all
departed to their respective residences throughout the town, Lords
Wigton and Linlithgow taking their young friends under their
immediate protection, and seeking the residence of the former
nobleman, a little way up the Canongate. In riding thither, the lovers
had leisure to explain to their parents the singular circumstances of
their union, and address enough to obtain unqualified forgiveness
for their imprudence.
On alighting at Lord Wigton’s house, Lady Jean found her sisters
confined to their rooms with headache, or some such serious
indisposition, and in the utmost dejection on account of having been
thereby withheld from the Riding of the Parliament. Their spirits, as
may be supposed, were not much elevated, when, on coming forth in
dishabille to welcome their sister, they learned that she had had the
good fortune to be married before them. Their ill-luck was, however,
irremediable, and so, making a merit of submitting to it, they
condescended to be rather agreeable during the dinner and the
afternoon. It was not long before all parties were perfectly reconciled
to what had taken place; and by the time it was necessary to dress for
the ball, the elder young ladies declared themselves so much
recovered as to be able to accompany their happy sister.
The Earl of Linlithgow and his son then sent a servant for proper
dresses, and prepared themselves for the occasion without leaving
the house. When all were ready, a number of chairs were called to
transport their dainty persons down the street. The news of Lady
Jean’s arrival, and of her marriage, having now spread abroad, the
court in front of the house, the alley, and even the open street, were
crowded with people of all ranks, anxious to catch a passing glimpse
of the heroine of so strange a tale. As her chair was carried along, a
buzz of admiration from all who were so happy as to be near it,
marked its progress. Happy, too, was the gentleman who had the
good luck to be near her chair as it was set down at the palace-gate,
and assist her in stepping from it upon the lighted pavement. From
the outer gate, along the piazza of the inner court, and all the way up
the broad staircase to the illuminated hall, two rows of noblemen and
gentlemen formed a brilliant avenue, as she passed along, while a
hundred plumed caps were doffed in honour of so much beauty, and
as many youthful eyes glanced bright with satisfaction at beholding
it. The object of all this attention tripped modestly along in the hand
of the Earl of Linlithgow, acknowledging, with many a graceful
flexure and undulation of person, the compliments of the spectators.
At length the company entered the spacious and splendid room in
which the ball was to be held. At the extremity, opposite to the entry,
upon an elevated platform, sat the three royal personages, all of
whom, on Lady Jean’s introduction, rose and came forward to
welcome her and her husband to the entertainments of Holyrood,
and to hope that her ladyship would often adorn their circle. In a
short time the dancing commenced; and, amidst all the ladies who
exhibited their charms and their magnificent attire in that
captivating exercise, who was, either in person or dress, half so
brilliant as Lady Jean?—Chambers’s Edin. Journal.
 THE MONKEY:
A SECOND PASSAGE IN THE LIFE OF
WILLIAM M‘GEE, WEAVER IN HAMILTON.

By Robert Macnish, LL.D.

I dinna think that in a’ nature there’s a mair curiouser cratur than

a monkey. I mak this observe frae being witness to an extraordinar’
event that took place in Hamilton, three or four days after my never-
to-be-forgotten Battle of the Breeks.[6] Some even gaed the length to
say that it was to the full mair curiouser than that affair, in sae far as
the principal performer in the ae case was a rational man, whereas in
the ither he was only a bit ape. But folk may talk as they like about
monkeys, and cry them down for being stupid and mischievous, I for
ane will no gang that length. Whatever they may be on the score of
mischief, there can be nae doubt, that, sae far as gumption is
concerned, they are just uncommon; and for wit and fun they would
beat ony man black and blue. In fact, I dinna think that monkeys are
beasts ava. I hae a half notion that they are just wee hairy men, that
canna or rather winna speak, in case they may be made to work like
ither folk, instead of leading a life of idleness.
6. See ante, p. 223.
But to the point. I ance had a monkey, ane of the drollest looking
deevils ye ever saw. He was gayan big for a monkey, and was hairy a’
ower, except his face and his bit hurdies, which had a degree of
bareness about them, and were nearly as saft as a lady’s loof. Weel,
what think ye that I did wi’ the beastie? ’Od, man, I dressed him up
like a Heelandman, and put a kilt upon him, and a lang-tailed red
coat, and a blue bannet, which for security’s sake I tied, womanlike,
below his chin, wi’ twa bits of yellow ribbon. I not only did this, but I
learnt him to walk upon his twa hinder legs, and to carry a stick in
his right hand when he gaed out, the better to support him in his
peregrinations. He was for a’ the world like a wee man in kilts—sae
much sae, that when Glengarry, the great Heeland chieftain, wha
happened to be at Hamilton on a visit to the Duke, saw him by
chance, he swore by the powers that he was like ane o’ the Celtic
Society, and that if I likit he would endeavour to get him admitted a
member of that body. I thocht at the time that Glengarry was jokin’,
but I hae since had gude reason for thinking that he was in real
earnest, as Andrew Brand says that he and the Celts hae been like to
cut ane anither’s throats, and that he micht mean this as an affront
upon them. Hoosomever I maun do Glengarry the justice to say, that
had he got my Nosey (that was his name) made a member, he wadna
hae pruved the least witty or courageous o’ the society, and would
hae dune nae disgrace to the chief’s recommendation.
But I am fleeing awa like a shuttle frae the subject on hand. Weel,
it turned out in this manner, as ye shall hear. Ae afternoon towards
the gloamin’, I was obligated to tak a stap down to the cross wi’ a web
under my arm, which I had finished for Mr Weft, the muslin
manufacturer. By way of frolic—a gayan foolish ane I allow—I brocht
Nosey alang wi’ me. He had on, as for ordinar, his Heeland dress,
and walkit behind me, wi’ the bit stick in his hand and his tail
sticking out frae below his kilt, as if he had been my flunkey. It was,
after a’, a queer sicht, and, as may be supposed, I drew a hale crowd
o’ bairns after me, bawling out, “Here’s Willie M‘Gee’s monkey,” and
giein’ him nits and gingerbread, and makin’ as muckle o’ the cratur
as could be; for Nosey was a great favourite in the town, and
everybody likit him for his droll tricks, and the way he used to girn,
and dance, and tumble ower his head, to amuse them.
On entering Mr Weft’s shop, I faund it empty; there wasna leiving
soul within. I supposed he had gane out for a licht; and being gayan
familiar wi’ him, I took a stap ben to the back shop, leaving Nosey in
the fore ane. I sat for twa or three minutes, but naebody made his
appearance. At last the front door, which I had ta’en care to shut
after me, opened, and I look’t to see what it could be, thinking that,
nae doubt, it was Mr Weft, or his apprentice. It was neither the ane
nor the ither, but a strong middle-aged, redfaced Heelandman, wi’
specks on, and wi’ a kilt and a bannet, by a’ the world like my
monkey’s. Now, what think ye Nosey was about a’ this time? He was
sittin’ behind the counter upon the lang three-leggit stool that stood
forenent Mr Weft’s desk, and was turning ower the leaves of his
ledger wi’ a look which, for auld-fashioned sagaciousness, was
wonderfu’ to behold. I was sae tickled at the sight that I paid nae sort
of attention to the Heelandman, but continued looking frae the
backshop at Nosey, lauching a’ the time in my sleeve—for I jaloused
that some queer scene would tak place between the twa. And I wasna
far wrang, for the stranger, takin’ out a pound frae his spleuchan,
handed it ower to the monkey, and speered at him, in his droll
norland deealect, if he could change a note. When I heard this, I
thought I would hae lauched outright; and naething but sheer
curiosity to see how the thing would end made me keep my gravity. It
was plain that Donald had ta’en Nosey for ane of his ain countrymen
—and the thing after a’ wasna greatly to be wondered at, and that for
three reasons.
Firstly, the shop was rather darkish.
Secondly, the Heelandman had on specks, as I hae just said; and it
was likely on this account that he was rather short-sighted; and
Thirdly, Nosey, wi’ his kilt, and bannet, and red coat, was to a’
intents and purposes as like a human creature as a monkey could
weel be.
Nae sooner, then, had he got the note than he opened it out, and
lookit at it wi’ his wee, glowrin’, restless een, as if to see that it wasna
a forgery. He then shook his head like a doctor when he’s no very
sure what’s wrang wi’ a person, but wants to mak it appear that he
kens a’ about it—and continued in this style till the Heelandman’s
patience began to get exhausted.
“Can ye no shange the note, old shentleman?” quo’ Donald. Nosey
gied his head anither shake, and lookit uncommon wise.
“Is the note no goot, sir?” spake the Heelandman, a second time;
but the cratur, instead of answering him, only gied anither of his wise
shakes, as much as to say, “I’m no very sure about it.” At this Donald
lost his temper. “If the note doesna please ye, sir,” quo’ he, “I’ll thank
ye to gie me it back again, and I’ll gang to some ither place.” And he
stretchit out his hand to tak haud o’t, when my frien’ wi’ the tail,
lifting up his stick, lent him sic a whack ower the fingers as made him
pu’ back in the twinkling of an ee.
“Cot tamn ye, ye auld scoundrel,” said the man; “de ye mean to tak
my money frae me?” And he lifted up a rung big eneugh to fell a stot,
and let flee at the monkey; but Nosey was ower quick for him, and,
jumping aside, he lichted on a shelf before ane could say Jock
Robinson. Here he rowed up the note like a ba’ in his hand, and put
it into his coat pouch like ony rational cratur. Not only this, but he
mockit the Heelandman by a’ manner of means, shooting out his
tongue at him, spitting at him, and girning at him wi’ his queer
outlandish physiognomy. Then he would tak haud o’ his tail in his
twa hands, and wag it at Donald, and steeking his nieves, he would
seem to threaten him with a leatherin’! A’thegither he was desperate
impudent, and eneugh to try the patience of a saunt, no to speak o’ a
het-bluided Heelandman. It was gude for sair een to see how Donald
behavit on this occasion. He raged like ane demented, misca’ing the
monkey beyond measure, and swearing as mony Gaelic aiths as
micht hae saired an ordinar man for a twalmonth. During this time, I
never steered a foot, but keepit keekin’ frae the back shop upon a’
that was ganging on. I was highly delighted; and jalousing that Nosey
was ower supple to be easily catched, I had nae apprehension for the
event, and remained snug in my berth to see the upshot.
In a short time, in comes Mr Weft, wi’ a piece of lowing paper in
his hand, that he had got from the next door to licht the shop; and
nae sooner did Donald see him than he axed him for his note.
“What note, honest man?” said Mr Weft.
“Cot tamn,” quo’ Donald; “the note the auld scoundrel, your
grandfater, stole frae me.”
“My grandfaither!” answered the ither wi’ amazement. “I am
thinking, honest man, ye hae had a glass ower muckle. My
grandfaither has been dead for saxteen years, and I ne’er heard tell
till now that he was a fief.”
“Weel, weel, then,” quo’ the Heelandman, “I don’t care naething
about it. If he’s no your grandfaither, he’ll be your faither, or your
brither, or your cousin.”
“My faither or my brither, or my cousin!” repeated Mr Weft. “I
maun tell ye plainly, frien’, that I hae neither faither, nor brither, nor
cousin of ony description, on this side of the grave. I dinna
understand ye, honest man, but I reckon that ye hae sat ower lang at
the whisky, and my advice to ye is to stap awa hame and sleep it aff.”
At this speech the Heelandman lost a’ patience, and lookit sae
awfully fairce, that ance or twice I was on the nick of coming forrit,
and explaining how matters really stood; but curiosity keepit me
chained to the back shop, and I just thoucht I would bide a wee, and
see how the affair was like to end.
“Pray, wha are you, sir?” said Donald, putting his hands in his
sides, and looking through his specks upon Mr Weft, like a deevil
incarnit. “Wha are you, sir, that daur to speak to me in this manner?”
“Wha am I?” said the ither, drapping the remnant of the paper,
which was burnin’ close to his fingers, “I am Saunders Weft,
manufacturer in Hamilton—that’s what I am.”
“And I am Tonald Campbell, piper’s sister’s son to his grace the
great, grand Tuke of Argyll,” thundered out the Heelandman, wi’ a
voice that was fearsome to hear.
“And what about that?” quo’ Mr Weft, rather snappishly, as I
thocht. “If ye were the great, grand Duke of Argyll himsel, as ye ca’
him, I’ll no permit you to kick up a dust in my shop.”
“Ye scounrel,” said Donald, seizing Mr Weft by the throat, and
shaking him till he tottered like an aspen leaf, “div ye mean to speak
ill of his grace the Tuke of Argyll?” And he gied him anither shake—
then, laying haud of his nose, he swore that he would pu’t as lang as a
cow’s tail, if he didna that instant restore him his lost property. At
this sicht I began to grue a’ ower, and now saw the needcessity of
stapping ben, and saving my employer frae farther damage, bodily
and itherwise. Nae sooner had I made my appearance than Donald
let go his grip of Mr Weft’s nose, and the latter, in a great passion,
cried out—
“William M‘Gee, I tak ye to witness what I hae sufferit frae this
bluidthirsty Heelandman! It’s no to be endured in a Christian
country. I’ll hae the law of him, that I will. I’ll be whuppit but I’ll hae
amends, although it costs me twenty pounds!”
“What’s the matter?” quo’ I, pretending ignorance of the hale
concern. “What, in the name of Nebuchadnezzar, has set ye thegither
by the lugs?”
 Then Mr Weft began his tale, how he had been collared and weel
nigh thrappled in his ain shop;—then the ither tauld how, in the first
place, Mr Weft’s grandfaither, as he ca’d Nosey, had stolen his note,
and how, in the second place, Mr Weft himself had insulted the
great, grand Duke of Argyll. In a word, there was a desperate kick-up
between them, the ane threeping that he would tak the law of the
ither immediately. Na, in this respect Donald gaed the greatest
length, for he swore that, rather than be defeated, he wad carry his
cause to the House of Lords, although it cost him thretty pounds
sterling. I now saw it was time to put in a word.
“Hout-tout, gentlemen,” quo’ I, “what’s the use of a’ this
clishmaclaver? Ye’ve baith gotten the wrang sow by the lug, or my
name’s no William M‘Gee. I’ll wager ye a penny-piece, that my
monkey Nosey is at the bottom of the business.”
Nae sooner had I spoken the word, than the twa, looking round the
shop, spied the beastie sitting upon the shelf, girning at them, and
putting out his tongue, and wiggle-waggling his walking stick ower
his left elbow, as if he had been playing upon the fiddle. Mr Weft at
this apparition set up a loud laugh; his passion left him in a moment,
when he saw the ridiculous mistake that the Heelandman had fa’en
into, and I thocht he would hae bursted his sides wi’ evendown
merriment. At first, Donald lookit desperate angry, and, judging frae
the way he was twisting about his mouth and rowing his een, I
opined that he intended some deadly skaith to the monkey. But his
gude sense, of which Heelandmen are no a’thegither destitute, got
the better of his anger, and he roared and lauched like the very
mischief. Nor was this a’, for nae sooner had he began to lauch, than
the monkey did the same thing, and held its sides in preceesely the
same manner, imitating his actions, in the maist amusin’ way
imaginable. This only set Donald a-lauching mair than ever, and
when he lifted up his nieve, and shook it at Nosey in a gude-
humoured way, what think ye that the cratur did? ’Od, man, he took
the note frae his pouch, whaur it lay rowed up like a ba’, and papping
it at Donald, hit him as fairly upon the nose as if it had been shot out
of a weel-aimed musket. There was nae resisting this. The haill three,
or rather the haill four, for Nosey joined us, set up a loud lauch; and
the Heelandman’s was the loudest of a’, showing that he was really a
man of sense, and could tak a joke as weel as his neighbours.
 When the lauchin’ had a wee subsided, Mr Campbell, in order to
show that he had nae ill will to Mr Weft, axed his pardon for the
rough way he had treated him, but the worthy manufacturer wadna
hear o’t. “Houts, man,” quo’ he, “dinna say a word about it. It’s a
mistak a’thegither, and Solomon himsel, ye ken, whiles gaed wrang.”
Whereupon the Heelandman bought a Kilmarnock nicht-cap, price
elevenpence ha’penny, frae Mr Weft, and paid him wi’ part of the
very note that brocht on the ferlie I hae just been relating. But his
gude wull didna end here, for he insisted on takin’ us a’—Nosey
amang the lave—to the nearest public, where he gied us a frien’ly
glass, and we keepit talking about monkeys, and what not, in a
manner at ance edifying and amusing to hear.
 THE LADDER DANCER.

Men should know why

They write, and for what end; but note or text,
I never know the word which will come next;
So on I ramble, now and then narrating,
Now pondering.—Byron.

It was a lovely evening in summer, when a crowd hallooing and

shouting in the street of L——, a village of the north of Scotland, at
once disturbed my reveries, and left me little leisure again to yield
myself to their wayward dominion. In sooth, I had no pretence for
indifference to a very singular spectacle of a something-like human
being moving in mid-air; and although its saltatory gambols in this
unusual situation could scarcely be called dancing, it was certainly
intended to be like it, however little the resemblance might be
approved. A something between a male and female in point of dress
—a perfect hermaphrodite in regard to costume—had mounted
herself on gigantic stilts, on which she hopped about, defying the
secrecy even of the middle floors of the surrounding houses, and in
some cases giving her a peep into the attic regions of less lofty
domiciles. In this manner, stalking about from side to side, like a
crane among the reeds, the very Diable Boiteux himself was never
more inquisitive after the domestic concerns of his neighbours, or
better fitted to explore them by his invisibility, than she was by her
altitude. Her presence in mid-air, in more than one instance, was the
subject of alarm to the sober inmates of the street, who, little
suspicious of such intrusion, might perhaps be engaged in household
cares which did not court observation, or had sunk into the
relaxations of an undress, after the fatigues and heat of the day.
Everywhere the windows might be heard thrown up with impatient
haste,—the sash skirling and creaking in its ascent with the violence
of the effort, and immediately after, a head might be seen poked
forward to explore the “whence” and “wherefore,”—in short, to ask in
one word, if it could be so condensed, the meaning and purpose of
this aërial visitor.
The more desultory occupations of a little village hold but loosely
together the different classes of it. Master and servant approach
more nearly,—the one is less elevated, and the other less depressed,
than in great towns,—a show is at least as great a treat to the one as
to the other, and there is nothing in their respective notions of
decorum to repress their joyous feelings, while under the irresistible
impulse of the inimitable Mr Punch, or of the demure and clumsy
bear, treading a measure with the graces of a Mercandotti. In short,
the more simple elements of a villager’s mind are, like their own
more robust frames, more easily inflamed;—there is more excitable
stuff about them, because they are less frequently subjected to the
tear and wear of novelty, which towns constantly afford. The
schoolmaster and the schoolboy alike pour out from the lowly straw-
roofed “academy,” with the same eager and breathless haste, to catch
a first glance, or secure a favourable post. Syntax and arithmetic—
blessed oblivion!—are for the moment forgotten. Think of the
ecstacies of the little culprit, who was perhaps under the rod, if at
that awful moment a troop of dancing dogs, with their full
accompaniment of pipe and tabor, came under the school window,
and was at once gladdened with a respite and a show. One moment
watching the grim smile of the pedagogue; next lost in wonder at the
accomplished puppets—nothing to disturb his bliss but the trammels
of Concordance, or the intricacies of the Rule of Three.
But if mere novelty has such delights for the younger portion, to
escape from the monotony of village life has not less charms for the
graver class of its inhabitants. An old gentleman, evidently
unmindful of his dishabille, popped his head forth of his casement,
heedless of the red Kilmarnock in which it was bedight, and gazed
with eager curiosity on the ambitious female who had now passed his
lattice. He seemed to have caught a hint of the dereglement of his
own costume, by remarking that of his female neighbour at the
adjoining window, who exposed courageously the snowy ringlets
which begirt the region of bumps and qualities, in place of the brown
and glossy curls, which, till that ill-fated moment, were supposed to
have belonged to it.[7] He withdrew from sight with some
precipitation, but whether in horror of his own recklessness, or in
deference to the heedlessness of his neighbour, must for ever remain
in doubt. Is it then strange if there was quite a revel-rout in the
streets of the little village, when old and young alike responded to the
wonder of the scene? To whatever quarter she passed, not a window
was down; labour was suspended to witness feats which no labour of
theirs could accomplish. Women, bearing with them the marks of the
household toils in which they had been last engaged, stood at their
doors, some with sarcastic, but all with curious gaze; while the
sunburnt Piedmontoise at times danced on her stilts a kind of mock
waltz, or hobbled from side to side, in ridicule, as it would seem, of
the livelier measure and footing of the quadrille. When, mounted on
the highest point of her stilts, she strided across the way, to collect or
to solicit pence, the little urchins hanging about their mothers, clung
more closely to them as she approached, and looked up to her,
doubting and fearful, as fish are said to be scared by a passing cloud.
She was most successful among the male spectators of the village.
Her feats with them excited no feelings of rivalry, and their notions
of decorum were not so easily disturbed as those of their helpmates,
who, in refusing their contribution, never withhold their reprobation
of such anti-Christian gambols.
7. I love to luxuriate in a note: it is like hunting in an unenclosed country. One
word about the affectations of Graybeards. Among all the ten thousand reasons for
their gray hairs, no one ever thought of years as being at least a probable cause. It
is one of the very few hereditary peculiarities of physical constitution, which are
loudly proclaimed and gladly seized, to apologise for the sin of hoary locks. Acute
sorrow, or sudden surprise;—indigestion—that talismanic thing, the nerves—love,
speculation—or anything, in short, are all approved theories to explain their first
intrusion among the legitimate ringlets of male and female persons of “no
particular age.” Even it is said that people have awoke gray who lay down under
very different colours; of course, they had had a bad dream, or lain on the wrong
side, but no conscientious perruquier could have sworn to their identity under such
a metamorphosis. In short, gray hairs are purely accidental; they have nothing to
do with years; and being deemed a misfortune, have from time immemorial been
always spoken of with reverence, but nowhere that I can recollect are they spoken
of with affection, save in the beautiful song, “John Anderson, my Jo,” where the
kind-hearted wife invokes blessings on the frosty pow of her aged partner.
“Gae awa wi’ you, ye idle randie! Weel sets the like o’ sic misleard
queans to gang about the country playing antics like a fule, to fules
like yoursel,” was the answer given by a middle-aged woman, who
stood near me, to the boy who carried round a wooden platter for the
halfpence, and who instantly retired, to save herself from the latter
part of her own reproach, dragging with her a ragged little rogue,
who begged hard to remain till the end of the exhibition. By this time
the procession had reached the end of the street, where some of the
better class of the inhabitants resided, and some preparations were
made for a more elaborate spectacle. The swarthy Savoyard, who
accompanied the ladder-dancer, after surveying the field, seemed to
fix his station opposite to a respectable-looking house, whose
liberality he evidently measured by its outward pretensions.
There is no state of helplessness equal to that of ignorance of the
language in which a favour is to be craved, and you may estimate the
proficiency of the foreigner in the intricacies of our own dialect by
the obsequiousness of his smile, which he at once adapts to the
purposes of solicitation, and of defence against insult and ridicule.
While with a look of preparation he bustled about, to gain attention,
he grinned and nodded to the windows which were occupied, while
he held a ladder upright, and placing his hat at the bottom of it to
receive the niggard bounty of the spectators, he stood at the back of
it, supporting it with both his hands. The lady of the stilts now
advanced, and resting on one of them, with considerable address
lifted up the other and pushed it forward, with an action that seemed
to denote something like a salutation, or obeisance,—a kind of aërial
salaam. At this moment the hall-door was opened, and a portly-
looking woman of middle-age, evidently the mistress of the
household, came forward and planted herself on the broad landing-
place of the stair. There was about this personage the round, full look
which betokens ease and affluence; and the firm, steady step which
argues satisfaction with our condition. She fixed herself on the door-
step with the solid perpendicularity of Pompey’s Pillar, and now and
then turned round to some young girls who attended her, as if to
chide them for mixing her up with so silly an exhibition.
I had supposed that the Piedmontoise would have laid aside her
stilts when she ascended the ladder, but far from it, for in this
consisted the singularity of the exhibition. She climbed the ladder,
still mounted on them, then descended like a cat on the other side of
it; she hopped down as she had hopped up, with equal steadiness