The Private Memoirs and Confessions of a Justified Sinner / Hogg, James, 1770-1835

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The Private Memoirs and Confessions of A Justified Sinner

By James Hogg

August, 2000  [Etext #2276]


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THE PRIVATE MEMOIRS
AND CONFESSIONS
OF A JUSTIFIED SINNER

WRITTEN BY HIMSELF

WITH A DETAIL OF CURIOUS TRADITIONARY FACTS, AND
OTHER EVIDENCE, BY THE EDITOR

By James Hogg




THE EDITOR'S NARRATIVE


It appears from tradition, as well as some parish registers still 
extant, that the lands of Dalcastle (or Dalchastel, as it is often 
spelled) were possessed by a family of the name of Colwan, 
about one hundred and fifty years ago, and for at least a century 
previous to that period. That family was supposed to have been a 
branch of the ancient family of Colquhoun, and it is certain that 
from it spring the Cowans that spread towards the Border. I find 
that, in the year 1687, George Colwan succeeded his uncle of the 
same name, in the lands of Dalchastel and Balgrennan; and, this 
being all I can gather of the family from history, to tradition I 
must appeal for the remainder of the motley adventures of that 
house. But, of the matter furnished by the latter of these powerful 
monitors, I have no reason to complain: It has been handed down 
to the world in unlimited abundance; and I am certain that, in 
recording the hideous events which follow, I am only relating to 
the greater part of the inhabitants of at least four counties of 
Scotland matters of which they were before perfectly well 
informed.

This George was a rich man, or supposed to be so, and was 
married, when considerably advanced in life, to the sole heiress 
and reputed daughter of a Baillie Orde, of Glasgow. This proved 
a conjunction anything but agreeable to the parties contracting. It 
is well known that the Reformation principles had long before 
that time taken a powerful hold of the hearts and affections of the 
people of Scotland, although the feeling was by no means 
general, or in equal degrees; and it so happened that this married
couple felt completely at variance on the subject. Granting it to 
have been so, one would have thought that the laird, owing to his 
retiring situation, would have been the one that inclined to the 
stern doctrines of the reformers; and that the young and gay dame 
from the city would have adhered to the free principles cherished 
by the court party, and indulged in rather to extremity, in 
opposition to their severe and carping contemporaries.

The contrary, however, happened to be the case. The laird was 
what his country neighbours called "a droll, careless chap", with a 
very limited proportion of the fear of God in his heart, and very 
nearly as little of the fear of man. The laird had not intentionally 
wronged or offended either of the parties, and perceived not the 
necessity of deprecating their vengeance. He had hitherto 
believed that he was living in most cordial terms with the greater 
part of the inhabitants of the earth, and with the powers above in 
particular: but woe be unto him if he was not soon convinced of 
the fallacy of such damning security! for his lady was the most 
severe and gloomy of all bigots to the principles of the 
Reformation. Hers were not the tenets of the great reformers, but 
theirs mightily overstrained and deformed. Theirs was an unguent 
hard to be swallowed; but hers was that unguent embittered and 
overheated until nature could not longer bear it. She had imbibed 
her ideas from the doctrines of one flaming predestinarian divine 
alone; and these were so rigid that they became a stumbling block 
to many of his brethren, and a mighty handle for the enemies of 
his party to turn the machine of the state against them.

The wedding festivities at Dalcastle partook of all the gaiety, not 
of that stern age, but of one previous to it. There was feasting, 
dancing, piping, and singing: the liquors were handed, around in 
great fulness, the ale in large wooden bickers, and the brandy in 
capacious horns of oxen. The laird gave full scope to his homely 
glee. He danced--he snapped his fingers to the music--clapped his 
hands and shouted at the turn of the tune. He saluted every girl in 
the hall whose appearance was anything tolerable, and requested 
of their sweethearts to take the same freedom with his bride, by 
way of retaliation. But there she sat at the head of the hall in still 
and blooming beauty, absolutely refusing to tread a single 
measure with any gentleman there. The only enjoyment in which 
she appeared to partake was in now and then stealing a word of 
sweet conversation with her favourite pastor about divine things; 
for he had accompanied her home after marrying her to her 
husband, to see her fairly settled in her new dwelling. He 
addressed her several times by her new name, Mrs. Colwan; but 
she turned away her head disgusted, and looked with pity and 
contempt towards the old inadvertent sinner, capering away in the 
height of his unregenerated mirth. The minister perceived the 
workings of her pious mind, and thenceforward addressed her by 
the courteous title of Lady Dalcastle, which sounded somewhat 
better, as not coupling her name with one of the wicked: and 
there is too great reason to believe that, for all the solemn vows 
she had come under, and these were of no ordinary binding, 
particularly on the laird's part, she at that time despised, if not 
abhorred him, in her heart.

The good parson again blessed her, and went away. She took 
leave of him with tears in her eyes, entreating him often to visit 
her in that heathen land of the Amorite, the Hittite, and the 
Girgashite: to which he assented, on many solemn and qualifying 
conditions--and then the comely bride retired to her chamber to 
pray.

It was customary, in those days, for the bride's-man and maiden, 
and a few select friends, to visit the new-married couple after 
they had retired to rest, and drink a cup to their healths, their 
happiness, and a numerous posterity. But the laird delighted not 
in this: he wished to have his jewel to himself; and, slipping away 
quietly from his jovial party, he retired to his chamber to his 
beloved, and bolted the door. He found her engaged with the
writings of the Evangelists, and terribly demure. The laird went 
up to caress her; but she turned away her head, and spoke of the 
follies of aged men, and something of the broad way that leadeth 
to destruction. The laird did not thoroughly comprehend this 
allusion; but being considerably flustered by drinking, and 
disposed to take all in good part, he only remarked, as he took off 
his shoes and stockings, that, "whether the way was broad or 
narrow, it was time that they were in their bed."

"Sure, Mr. Colwan, you won't go to bed to-night, at such an 
important period of your life, without first saying prayers for 
yourself and me."

When she said this, the laird had his head down almost to the 
ground, loosing his shoe-buckle; but when he heard of prayers, on 
such a night, he raised his face suddenly up, which was all over 
as flushed and red as a rose, and answered:

"Prayers, Mistress! Lord help your crazed head, is this a night for 
prayers?"

He had better have held his peace. There was such a torrent of 
profound divinity poured out upon him that the laird became 
ashamed, both of himself and his new-made spouse, and wist not 
what to say: but the brandy helped him out.

"It strikes me, my dear, that religious devotion would be 
somewhat out of place to-night," said he. "Allowing that it is ever 
so beautiful, and ever so beneficial, were we to ride on the 
rigging of it at all times, would we not be constantly making a 
farce of it: It would be like reading the Bible and the jestbook, 
verse about, and would render the life of man a medley of 
absurdity and confusion."

But, against the cant of the bigot or the hypocrite, no reasoning 
can aught avail. If you would argue until the end of life, the 
infallible creature must alone be right. So it proved with the laird. 
One Scripture text followed another, not in the least connected, 
and one sentence of the profound Mr. Wringhim's sermons after 
another, proving the duty of family worship, till the laird lost 
patience, and tossing himself into bed, said carelessly that he 
would leave that duty upon her shoulders for one night.

The meek mind of Lady Dalcastle was somewhat disarranged by 
this sudden evolution. She felt that she was left rather in an 
awkward situation. However, to show her unconscionable spouse 
that she was resolved to hold fast her integrity, she kneeled down 
and prayed in terms so potent that she deemed she was sure of 
making an impression on him. She did so; for in a short time the 
laird began to utter a response so fervent that she was utterly 
astounded, and fairly driven from the chain of her orisons. He 
began, in truth, to sound a nasal bugle of no ordinary calibre--the 
notes being little inferior to those of a military trumpet. The lady 
tried to proceed, but every returning note from the bed burst on 
her ear with a louder twang, and a longer peal, till the concord of 
sweet sounds became so truly pathetic that the meek spirit of the 
dame was quite overcome; and, after shedding a flood of tears, 
she arose from her knees, and retired to the chimney-corner with 
her Bible in her lap, there to spend the hours in holy meditation 
till such time as the inebriated trumpeter should awaken to a 
sense of propriety.

The laird did not awake in any reasonable time; for, he being 
overcome with fatigue and wassail, his sleep became sounder, 
and his Morphean measures more intense. These varied a little in 
their structure; but the general run of the bars sounded something 
in this way: "Hic-hoc-wheew!" It was most profoundly ludicrous; 
and could not have missed exciting risibility in anyone save a 
pious, a disappointed, and humbled bride.

The good dame wept bitterly. She could not for her life go and 
awaken the monster, and request him to make room for her: but 
she retired somewhere, for the laird, on awaking next morning, 
found that he was still lying alone. His sleep had been of the 
deepest and most genuine sort; and, all the time that it lasted, he 
had never once thought of either wives, children, or sweethearts, 
save in the way of dreaming about them; but, as his
spirit began again by slow degrees to verge towards the 
boundaries of reason, it became lighter and more buoyant from 
the effects of deep repose, and his dreams partook of that 
buoyancy, yea, to a degree hardly expressible. He dreamed of the 
reel, the jig, the strathspey, and the corant; and the elasticity of 
his frame was such that he was bounding over the heads of 
maidens, and making his feet skimmer against the ceiling, 
enjoying, the while, the most ecstatic emotions. These grew too 
fervent for the shackles of the drowsy god to restrain. The nasal 
bugle ceased its prolonged sounds in one moment, and a sort of 
hectic laugh took its place. "Keep it going--play up, you devils!" 
cried the laird, without changing his position on the pillow. But 
this exertion to hold the fiddlers at their work fairly awakened the 
delighted dreamer, and, though he could not refrain from 
continuing, his laugh, beat length, by tracing out a regular chain 
of facts, came to be sensible of his real situation. "Rabina, where 
are you? What's become of you, my dear?" cried the laird. But 
there was no voice nor anyone that answered or regarded. He 
flung open the curtains, thinking to find her still on her knees, as 
he had seen her, but she was not there, either sleeping or waking. 
"Rabina! Mrs. Colwan!" shouted he, as loud as he could call, and 
then added in the same breath, "God save the king--I have lost my 
wife!"

He sprung up and opened the casement: the day-light was 
beginning to streak the east, for it was spring, and the nights were 
short, and the mornings very long. The laird half dressed himself 
in an instant, and strode through every room in the house, 
opening the windows as he went, and scrutinizing every bed and 
every corner. He came into the hall where the wedding festival 
had been held; and as he opened the various windowboards, 
loving couples flew off like hares surprised too late in the 
morning among the early braird. "Hoo-boo! Fie, be frightened!" 
cried the laird. "Fie, rin like fools, as if ye were caught in an ill-
turn!" His bride was not among them; so he was obliged to betake 
himself to further search. "She will be praying in some corner, 
poor woman," said he to himself. "It is an unlucky thing this 
praying. But, for my part, I fear I have behaved very ill; and I 
must endeavour to make amends."

The laird continued his search, and at length found his beloved in 
the same bed with her Glasgow cousin who had acted as 
bridesmaid. "You sly and malevolent imp," said the laird; "you 
have played me such a trick when I was fast asleep! I have not 
known a frolic so clever, and, at the same time, so severe. Come 
along, you baggage you!"

"Sir, I will let you know that I detest your principles and your 
person alike," said she. "It shall never be said, Sir, that my person 
was at the control of a heathenish man of Belial--a dangler among 
the daughters of women--a promiscuous dancer--and a player of 
unlawful games. Forgo your rudeness, Sir, I say, and depart away 
from my presence and that of my kinswoman.

"Come along, I say, my charming Rab. If you were the pink of all 
puritans, and the saint of all saints, you are my wife, and must do 
as I command you."

"Sir, I will sooner lay down my life than be subjected to your
godless will; therefore I say, desist, and begone with you."

But the laird regarded none of these testy sayings: he rolled her in 
a blanket, and bore her triumphantly away to his chamber, taking 
care to keep a fold or two of the blanket always rather near to her 
mouth, in case of any outrageous forthcoming of noise.

The next day at breakfast the bride was long in making her 
appearance. Her maid asked to see her; but George did not choose 
that anybody should see her but himself. He paid her several 
visits, and always turned the key as he came out. At length 
breakfast was served; and during the time of refreshment the laird 
tried to break several jokes; but it was remarked that they wanted 
their accustomed brilliancy, and that his nose was particularly red 
at the top.

Matters, without all doubt, had been very bad between the new-
married couple; for in the course of the day the lady deserted her 
quarters, and returned to her father's house in Glasgow, after 
having been a night on the road; stage-coaches and steam-boats 
having then no existence in that quarter.

Though Baillie Orde had acquiesced in his wife's asseveration 
regarding the likeness of their only daughter to her father, he 
never loved or admired her greatly; therefore this behaviour 
nothing astounded him. He questioned her strictly as to the 
grievous offence committed against her, and could discover 
nothing that warranted a procedure so fraught with disagreeable 
consequences. So, after mature deliberation, the baillie addressed 
her as follows:

"Aye, aye, Raby! An' sae I find that Dalcastle has actually refused 
to say prayers with you when you ordered him; an' has guidit you 
in a rude indelicate manner, outstepping the respect due to my 
daughter--as my daughter. But, wi' regard to what is due to his 
own wife, of that he's a better judge nor me. However, since he 
has behaved in that manner to MY DAUGHTER, I shall be 
revenged on him for aince; for I shall return the obligation to ane 
nearer to him: that is, I shall take pennyworths of his wife--an' let 
him lick at that."

"What do you mean, Sir?" said the astonished damsel.

"I mean to be revenged on that villain Dalcastle," said he, "for 
what he has done to my daughter. Come hither, Mrs. Colwan, you 
shall pay for this."

So saying, the baillie began to inflict corporal punishment on the 
runaway wife. His strokes were not indeed very deadly, but he 
made a mighty flourish in the infliction, pretending to be in a 
great rage only at the Laird of Dalcastle. "Villain that he is!" 
exclaimed he, 'I shall teach him to behave in such a manner to a 
child of mine, be she as she may; since I cannot get at himself, I 
shall lounder her that is nearest to him in life. Take you that, and 
that, Mrs. Colwan, for your husband's impertinence!"

The poor afflicted woman wept and prayed, but the baillie would 
not abate aught of his severity. After fuming and beating her with 
many stripes, far drawn, and lightly laid down, he took her up. to 
her chamber, five stories high, locked her in, and there he fed her 
on bread and water, all to be revenged on the presumptuous Laird 
of Dalcastle; but ever and anon, as the baillie came down the stair 
from carrying his daughter's meal, he said to himself: "I shall 
make the sight of the laird the blithest she ever saw in her life."

Lady Dalcastle got plenty of time to read, and pray, and meditate; 
but she was at a great loss for one to dispute with about religious 
tenets; for she found that, without this advantage, about which 
there was a perfect rage at that time, the reading and learning of 
Scripture texts, and sentences of intricate doctrine, availed her 
naught; so she was often driven to sit at her casement and look 
out for the approach of the heathenish Laird of Dalcastle.

That hero, after a considerable lapse of time, at length made his 
appearance. Matters were not hard to adjust; for his lady found 
that there was no refuge for her in her father's house; and so, after 
some sighs and tears, she accompanied her husband home. For all 
that had passed, things went on no better. She WOULD convert 
the laird in spite of his teeth: the laird would not be converted. 
She WOULD have the laird to say family prayers, both morning 
and evening: the laird would neither pray morning nor evening. 
He would not even sing psalms, and kneel beside her while she 
performed the exercise; neither would he converse at all times, 
and in all places, about the sacred mysteries of religion, although 
his lady took occasion to contradict flatly every assertion that he 
made, in order that she might spiritualize him by drawing him 
into argument.

The laird kept his temper a long while, but at length his patience 
wore out; he cut her short in all her futile attempts at 
spiritualization, and mocked at her wire-drawn degrees of faith, 
hope, and repentance. He also dared to doubt of the great 
standard doctrine of absolute predestination, which put the crown 
on the lady's Christian resentment. She declared her helpmate to 
be a limb of Antichrist, and one with whom no regenerated 
person could associate. She therefore bespoke a separate 
establishment, and, before the expiry of the first six months, the 
arrangements of the separation were amicably adjusted. The 
upper, or third, story of the old mansion-house was awarded to 
the lady for her residence. She had a separate door, a separate 
stair, a separate garden, and walks that in no instance intersected 
the laird's; so that one would have thought the separation 
complete. They had each their own parties, selected from their 
own sort of people; and, though the laird never once chafed 
himself about the lady's companies, it was not long before she 
began to intermeddle about some of his.

"Who is that fat bouncing dame that visits the laird so often, and 
always by herself?" said she to her maid Martha one day.

"Oh dear, mem, how can I ken? We're banished frae our 
acquaintances here, as weel as frae the sweet gospel ordinances."

"Find me out who that jolly dame is, Martha. You, who hold 
communion with the household of this ungodly man, can be at no 
loss to attain this information. I observe that she always casts her 
eye up toward our windows, both in coming and going; and I 
suspect that she seldom departs from the house emptyhanded."

That same evening Martha came with the information that this 
august visitor was a Miss Logan, an old an intimate acquaintance 
of the laird's, and a very worthy respectable lady, of good 
connections, whose parents had lost their patrimony in the civil 
wars.

"Ha! very well!" said the lady; "very well, Martha! But, 
nevertheless, go thou and watch this respectable lady's motions 
and behaviour the next time she comes to visit the laird--and the 
next after that. You will not, I see, lack opportunities."

Martha's information turned out of that nature that prayers were 
said in the uppermost story of Dalcastle house against the 
Canaanitish woman, every night and every morning; and great 
discontent prevailed there, even to anathemas and tears. Letter 
after letter was dispatched to Glasgow; and at length, to the lady's 
great consolation, the Rev. Mr. Wringhim arrived safely and 
devoutly in her elevated sanctuary. Marvellous was the 
conversation between these gifted people. Wringhim had held in 
his doctrines that there were eight different kinds of FAITH, all 
perfectly distinct in their operations and effects. But the lady, in 
her secluded state, had discovered another five, making twelve 
[sic] in all: the adjusting of the existence or fallacy of these five 
faiths served for a most enlightened discussion of nearly 
seventeen hours; in the course of which the two got warm in their 
arguments, always in proportion as they receded from nature, 
utility, and common sense. Wringhim at length got into unwonted 
fervour about some disputed point between one of these faiths 
and TRUST: when the lady, fearing that zeal was getting beyond 
its wonted barrier, broke in on his vehement asseverations with 
the following abrupt discomfiture: "But, Sir, as long as I 
remember, what is to be done with this case of open and avowed 
iniquity?"

The minister was struck dumb. He leaned him back on his chair, 
stroked his beard, hemmed--considered, and hemmed again, and 
then said. in an altered and softened tone: "Why, that is a 
secondary consideration; you mean the case between your 
husband and Miss Logan?"

"The same, Sir. I am scandalized at such intimacies going on 
under my nose. The sufferance of it is a great and crying evil."

"Evil, madam, may be either operative, or passive. To them it is 
an evil, but to us none. We have no more to do with the sins of 
the wicked and unconverted here than with those of an infidel 
Turk; for all earthly bonds and fellowships are absorbed and
swallowed up in the holy community of the Reformed Church. 
However, if it is your wish, I shall take him to task, and 
reprimand and humble him in such a manner that he shall be 
ashamed of his doings, and renounce such deeds for ever, out of 
mere self-respect, though all unsanctified the heart, as well as the 
deed, may be. To the wicked, all things are wicked; but to the 
just, all things are just and right."

"Ah, that is a sweet and comfortable saying, Mr. Wringhim! How 
delightful to think that a justified person can do no wrong! Who 
would not envy the liberty wherewith we are made free? Go to 
my husband, that poor unfortunate, blindfolded person, and open 
his eyes to his degenerate and sinful state; for well are you fitted 
to the task."

"Yea, I will go in unto him, and confound him. I will lay the 
strong holds of sin and Satan as flat before my face as the dung 
that is spread out to fatten the land."

"Master, there's a gentleman at the fore-door wants a private. 
word o' ye."

"Tell him I'm engaged: I can't see any gentleman to-night. But I 
shall attend on him to-morrow as soon as he pleases."

"'He's coming straight in, Sir. Stop a wee bit, Sir, my master is 
engaged. He cannot see you at present, Sir."

"Stand aside, thou Moabite! My mission admits of no delay. I 
come to save him from the jaws of destruction!"

"An that be the case, Sir, it maks a wide difference; an', as the 
danger may threaten us a', I fancy I may as weel let ye gang by as 
fight wi' ye, sin' ye seem sae intent on 't.--The man says he's 
comin' to save ye, an' canna stop, Sir. Here he is."

The laird was going to break out into a volley of wrath against 
Waters, his servant; but, before he got a word pronounced, the 
Rev. Mr. Wringhim had stepped inside the room, and Waters had 
retired, shutting the door behind him.

No introduction could be more mal-a-propos: it was impossible; 
for at that very moment the laird and Arabella Logan were both 
sitting on one seat, and both looking on one book, when the door 
opened. "What is it, Sir?" said the laird fiercely.

"A message of the greatest importance, Sir," said the divine, 
striding unceremoniously up to the chimney, turning his back to 
the fire, and his face to the culprits. "I think you should know me, 
Sir?" continued he, looking displeasedly at the laird, with his face 
half turned round.

"I think I should," returned the laird. "You are a Mr. How's--tey--
ca'--him, of Glasgow, who did me the worst turn ever I got done 
to me in my life. You gentry are always ready to do a man such a 
turn. Pray, Sir, did you ever do a good job for anyone to 
counterbalance that? For, if you have not, you ought to be--"

"Hold, Sir, I say! None of your profanity before me. If I do evil to 
anyone on such occasions, it is because he will have it so; 
therefore, the evil is not of my doing. I ask you, Sir, before God 
and this witness, I ask you, have you kept solemnly and inviolate 
the vows which I laid upon you that day? Answer me!"

"Has the partner whom you bound me to kept hers inviolate? 
Answer me that, Sir! None can better do so than you, Mr. How's--
tey--ca'--you."

"So, then, you confess your backslidings, and avow the 
profligacy of your life. And this person here is, I suppose, the 
partner of your iniquity--she whose beauty hath caused you to 
err! Stand up, both of you, till I rebuke you, and show you what 
you are in the eyes of God and man."

"In the first place, stand you still there, till I tell you what you are 
in the eyes of God and man. You are, Sir, a presumptuous, self-
conceited pedagogue, a stirrer up of strife and commotion in 
church, in state, in families, and communities. You are one, Sir, 
whose righteousness consists in splitting the doctrines of Calvin 
into thousands of undistinguishable films, and in setting up a 
system of justifying-grace against all breaches of all laws, moral 
or divine. In short, Sir, you are a mildew--a canker-worm
in the bosom of the Reformed Church, generating a disease of 
which she will never be purged, but by the shedding of blood. Go 
thou in peace, and do these abominations no more; but humble 
thyself, lest a worse reproof come upon thee."

Wringhim heard all this without flinching. He now and then 
twisted his mouth in disdain, treasuring up, meantime, his 
vengeance against the two aggressors; for he felt that he had them 
on the hip, and resolved to pour out his vengeance and 
indignation upon them. Sorry am I that the shackles of modern 
decorum restrain me from penning that famous rebuke; fragments 
of which have been attributed to every divine of old notoriety 
throughout Scotland. But 1 have it by heart; and a glorious morsel 
it is to put into the hands of certain incendiaries. The metaphors 
are so strong and so appalling that Miss Logan could only stand 
them a very short time; she was obliged to withdraw in confusion. 
The laird stood his ground with much ado, though his face was 
often crimsoned over with the hues of shame and anger. Several 
times he was on the point of turning the officious sycophant to 
the door; but good manners, and an inherent respect that lie 
entertained for the clergy, as the immediate servants of the 
Supreme Being, restrained him.

Wringhim, perceiving these symptoms of resentment, took them 
for marks of shame and contrition, and pushed his reproaches 
farther than ever divine ventured to do in a similar case. When he 
had finished, to prevent further discussion, he walked slowly and 
majestically out of the apartment, making his robes to swing 
behind him in a most magisterial manner; he being, without 
doubt, elated with his high conquest. He went to the upper story, 
and related to his metaphysical associate his wonderful success; 
how he had driven the dame from the house in tears and deep 
confusion, and left the backsliding laird in such a quandary of 
shame and repentance that he could neither articulate a word nor 
lift up his countenance. The dame thanked him most cordially, 
lauding his friendly zeal and powerful eloquence; and then the 
two again set keenly to the splitting of hairs, and making 
distinctions in religion where none existed.

They being both children of adoption, and secured from falling 
into snares, or anyway under the power of the wicked one, it was 
their custom, on each visit, to sit up a night in the same 
apartment, for the sake of sweet spiritual converse; but that time, 
in the course of the night, they differed so materially on a small 
point somewhere between justification and final election that the 
minister, in the heat of his zeal, sprung from his seat, paced the 
floor, and maintained his point with such ardour that Martha was 
alarmed, and, thinking they were going to fight, and that the 
minister would be a hard match for her mistress, she put on some 
clothes, and twice left her bed and stood listening at the back of 
the door, ready to burst in should need require it. Should anyone 
think this picture over-strained, I can assure him that it is taken 
from nature and from truth; but I will not likewise aver that the 
theologist was neither crazed nor inebriated. If the listener's 
words were to be relied on, there was no love, no accommodating 
principle manifested between the two, but a fiery burning zeal, 
relating to points of such minor importance that a true Christian 
would blush to hear them mentioned, and the infidel and profane 
make a handle of them to turn our religion to scorn.

Great was the dame's exultation at the triumph of her beloved 
pastor over her sinful neighbours in the lower parts of the house; 
and she boasted of it to Martha in high-sounding terms. But it 
was of short duration; for, in five weeks after that, Arabella 
Logan came to reside with the laird as his housekeeper, sitting at 
his table and carrying the keys as mistress-substitute of the 
mansion. The lady's grief and indignation were now raised to a 
higher pitch than ever; and she set every agent to work, with 
whom she had any power, to effect a separation between these 
two suspected ones. Remonstrance was of no avail: George 
laughed at them who tried such a course, and retained his
housekeeper, while the lady gave herself up to utter despair; for, 
though she would not consort with her husband herself, she could 
not endure that any other should do so.

But, to countervail this grievous offence, our saintly and afflicted 
dame, in due time, was safely delivered of a fine boy whom the 
laird acknowledged as his son and heir, and had him christened 
by his own name, and nursed in his own premises. He gave the 
nurse permission to take the boy to his mother's presence if ever 
she should desire to see him; but, strange as it may appear, she 
never once desired to see him from the day that he was born. The 
boy grew up, and was a healthful and happy child; and, in the 
course of another year, the lady presented him with a brother. A 
brother he certainly was, in the eye of the law, and it is more than 
probable that he was his brother in reality. But the laird thought 
otherwise; and, though he knew and acknowledged that he was 
obliged to support and provide for him, he refused to 
acknowledge him in other respects. He neither would 
countenance the banquet nor take the baptismal vows on him in 
the child's name; of course, the poor boy had to live and remain 
an alien from the visible church for a year and a day; at which 
time, Mr. Wringhim out of pity and kindness, took the lady 
herself as sponsor for the boy, and baptized him by the name of 
Robert Wringhim--that being the noted divine's own name.

George was brought up with his father, and educated partly at the 
parish school, and partly at home, by a tutor hired for the 
purpose. He was a generous and kind-hearted youth; always 
ready to oblige, and hardly ever dissatisfied with anybody. Robert 
was brought up with Mr. Wringhim, the laird paying a certain 
allowance for him yearly; and there the boy was early inured to 
all the sternness and severity of his pastor's arbitrary and 
unyielding creed. He was taught to pray twice every day, and 
seven times on Sabbath days; but he was only to pray for the 
elect, and, like Devil of old, doom all that were aliens from God 
to destruction. He had never, in that family into which he had 
been as it were adopted, heard aught but evil spoken of his 
reputed father and brother; consequently he held them in utter 
abhorrence, and prayed against them every day, often "that the 
old hoary sinner might be cut off in the full flush of his iniquity, 
and be carried quick into hell; and that the young stem of the 
corrupt trunk might also be taken from a world that he disgraced, 
but that his sins might be pardoned, because he knew no better."

Such were the tenets in which it would appear young Robert was 
bred. He was an acute boy, an excellent learner, had ardent and 
ungovernable passions, and, withal, a sternness of demeanour 
from which other boys shrunk. He was the best grammarian, the 
best reader, writer, and accountant in the various classes that he 
attended, and was fond of writing essays on controverted points 
of theology, for which he got prizes, and great praise from his 
guardian and mother. George was much behind him in scholastic 
acquirements, but greatly his superior in personal prowess, form, 
feature, and all that constitutes gentility in the deportment and 
appearance. The laird had often manifested to Miss Logan an 
earnest wish that the two young men should never meet, or at all 
events that they should be as little conversant as possible; and 
Miss Logan, who was as much attached to George as if he had 
been her own son, took every precaution, while he was a boy, that 
he should never meet with his brother; but, as they advanced 
towards manhood, this became impracticable. The lady was 
removed from her apartments in her husband's house to Glasgow, 
to her great content; and all to prevent the young laird being 
tainted with the company of her and her second son; for the laird 
had felt the effects of the principles they professed, and dreaded 
them more than persecution, fire, and sword. During all the 
dreadful times that had overpast, though the laird had been a 
moderate man, he had still leaned to the side of kingly 
prerogative, and had escaped confiscation and fines, without ever 
taking any active hand in suppressing the Covenanters. But, after 
experiencing a specimen of their tenets and manner in his wife, 
from a secret favourer of them and their doctrines, he grew 
alarmed at the prevalence of such stern and factious principles, 
now that there was no check or restraint upon them; and from that 
time he began to set himself against them, joining with the 
Cavalier party of that day in all their proceedings.

It so happened that, under the influence of the Earls of Seafield 
and Tullibardine, he was returned for a Member of Parliament in 
the famous session that sat at Edinburgh when the Duke of 
Queensberry was commissioner, and in which party spirit ran to 
such an extremity. The young laird went with his father to the 
court, and remained in town all the time that the session lasted; 
and, as all interested people of both factions flocked to the town 
at that period, so the important Mr. Wringhim was there among 
the rest, during the greater part of the time, blowing the coal of 
revolutionary principles with all his might, in every society to 
which he could obtain admission. He was a great favourite with 
some of the west country gentlemen of that faction, by reason of 
his unbending impudence. No opposition could for a moment 
cause him either to blush, or retract one item that he had 
advanced. Therefore the Duke of Argyle and his friends made 
such use of him as sportsmen often do of terriers, to start the 
game, and make a great yelping noise to let them know whither 
the chase is proceeding. They often did this out of sport, in order 
to tease their opponent; for of all pesterers that ever fastened on 
man he was the most insufferable: knowing that his coat 
protected him from manual chastisement, he spared no acrimony, 
and delighted in the chagrin and anger of those with whom he 
contended. But he was sometimes likewise of real use to the 
heads of the Presbyterian faction, and therefore was admitted to 
their tables, and of course conceived himself a very great man.

His ward accompanied him; and, very shortly after their arrival in 
Edinburgh, Robert, for the first time, met with the young laird his 
brother, in a match at tennis. The prowess and agility of the 
young squire drew forth the loudest plaudits of approval from his 
associates, and his own exertion alone carried the game every 
time on the one side, and that so far as all I along to count three 
for their one. The hero's name soon ran round the circle, and 
when his brother Robert, who was an onlooker, learned who it 
was that was gaining so much applause, he came and stood close 
beside him all the time that the game lasted, always now and then 
putting in a cutting remark by way of mockery.

George could not help perceiving him, not only on account of his 
impertinent remarks, but he, moreover, stood so near him that he 
several times impeded him in his rapid evolutions, and of course 
got himself shoved aside in no very ceremonious way. Instead of 
making him keep his distance, these rude shocks and pushes, 
accompanied sometimes with hasty curses, only made him cling 
the closer to this king of the game. He seemed determined to 
maintain his right to his place as an onlooker, as well as any of 
those engaged in the game, and, if they had tried him at an 
argument, he would have carried his point; or perhaps he wished 
to quarrel with this spark of his jealousy and aversion, and draw 
the attention of the gay crowd to himself by these means; for, like 
his guardian, he knew no other pleasure but what consisted in 
opposition. George took him for some impertinent student of 
divinity, rather set upon a joke than anything else. He perceived a 
lad with black clothes, and a methodistical face, whose 
countenance and eye he disliked exceedingly, several times in his 
way, and that was all the notice he took of him the first time they 
two met. But the next day, and every succeeding one, the same 
devilish-looking youth attended him as constantly as his shadow; 
was always in his way as with intention to impede him and ever 
and anon his deep and malignant eye met those of his elder 
brother with a glance so fierce that it sometimes startled him.

The very next time that George was engaged at tennis, he had
not struck the ball above twice till the same intrusive being was 
again in his way. The party played for considerable stakes that 
day, namely, a dinner and wine at the Black Bull tavern; and 
George, as the hero and head of his party, was much interested in 
its honour; consequently the sight of this moody and 
hellish-looking student affected him in no very pleasant manner. 
"Pray Sir, be so good as keep without the range of the ball", said 
he.

"Is there any law or enactment that can compel me to do so?" said 
the other, biting his lip with scorn.

"If there is not, they are here that shall compel you," returned 
George. "so, friend, I rede you to be on your guard."

As he said this, a flush of anger glowed in his handsome face and 
flashed from his sparkling blue eye; but it was a stranger to both, 
and momently took its departure. The black-coated youth set up 
his cap before, brought his heavy brows over his deep dark eyes, 
put his hands in the pockets of his black plush breeches, and 
stepped a little farther into the semicircle, immediately on his 
brother's right hand, than he had ever ventured to do before. 
There he set himself firm on his legs, and, with a face as demure 
as death, seemed determined to keep his ground. He pretended to 
he following the ball with his eyes; but every moment they were 
glancing aside at George. One of the competitors chanced to say 
rashly, in the moment of exultation, "That's a d--d fine blow, 
George!" On which the intruder took up the word, as 
characteristic of the competitors, and repeated it every stroke that 
was given, making such a ludicrous use of it that several of the 
onlookers were compelled to laugh immoderately; but the players 
were terribly nettled at it, as he really contrived, by dint of sliding 
in some canonical terms, to render the competitors and their game 
ridiculous.

But matters at length came to a crisis that put them beyond sport. 
George, in flying backward to gain the point at which the ball 
was going to light, came inadvertently so rudely in contact with 
this obstreperous interloper that lie not only overthrew him, but 
also got a grievous fall over his legs; and, as he arose, the other 
made a spurn at him with his foot, which, if it had hit to its aim, 
would undoubtedly have finished the course of the young laird of 
Dalcastle and Balgrennan. George, being irritated beyond 
measure, as may well be conceived, especially at the deadly 
stroke aimed at him, struck the assailant with his racket, rather 
slightly, but so that his mouth and nose gushed out blood; and, at 
the same time, he said, turning to his cronies: "Does any of you 
know who the infernal puppy is?"

"Do you know, Sir?" said one of the onlookers, a stranger, "the 
gentleman is your own brother, Sir--Mr. Robert Wringhim 
Colwan!"

"No, not Colwan, Sir," said Robert, putting his hands in his 
pockets, and setting himself still farther forward than before, "not 
a Colwan, Sir; henceforth I disclaim the name."

"No, certainly not," repeated George. "My mother's son you may. 
be--but not a Colwan! There you are right." Then, turning around 
to his informer, he said: "Mercy be about us, Sir! Is this the crazy 
minister's son from Glasgow?"

This question was put in the irritation of the moment, but it was 
too rude, and far too out of place, and no one deigned any answer 
to it. He felt the reproof, and felt it deeply; seeming anxious for 
some opportunity to make an acknowledgment, or some 
reparation.

In the meantime, young Wringhim was an object to all of the
uttermost disgust. The blood flowing from his mouth and nose
he took no pains to stem, neither did he so much as wipe it away;
so that it spread over all his cheeks, and breast, even off at his
toes. In that state did he take up his station in the middle of the
competitors; and he did not now keep his place, but ran about,
impeding everyone who attempted to make at the ball. They
loaded him with execrations, but it availed nothing; he seemed
courting persecution and buffetings, keeping steadfastly to his
old joke of damnation, and marring the game so completely
that, in spite of every effort on the part of the players, he forced 
them to stop their game and give it up. He was such a 
rueful-looking object, covered with blood, that none of them had 
the heart to kick him, although it appeared the only thing he 
wanted; and, as for George, he said not another word to him, 
either in anger or reproof.

When the game was fairly given up, and the party were washing 
their hands in the stone fount, some of them besought Robert 
Wringhim to wash himself; but he mocked at them, and said he 
was much better as he was. George, at length, came forward 
abashedly towards him, and said: "I have been greatly to blame, 
Robert, and am very sorry for what I have done. But, in the first 
instance, I erred through ignorance, not knowing you were my 
brother, which you certainly are; and, in the second, through a 
momentary irritation, for which I am ashamed. I pray you, 
therefore, to pardon me, and give me your hand."

As he said this, he held out his hand towards his polluted brother; 
but the froward predestinarian took not his from his breeches 
pocket, but lifting his foot, he gave his brother's hand a kick. 'I'll 
give you what will suit such a hand better than mine" said he, 
with a sneer. And then, turning lightly about, he added: Are there 
to be no more of these d---d fine blows, gentlemen? For shame, to 
give up such a profitable and edifying game!"

"This is too bad," said George. "But, since it is thus, I have the 
less to regret." And, having made this general remark, he took no 
more note of the uncouth aggressor. But the persecution of the 
latter terminated not on the play-ground: he ranked up among 
them, bloody and disgusting as he was, and, keeping close by his 
brother's side, he marched along with the party all the way to the 
Black Bull. Before they got there, a great number of boys and idle 
people had surrounded them, hooting and incommoding them 
exceedingly, so that they were glad to get into the inn; and the 
unaccountable monster actually tried to get in alongst with them, 
to make one of the party at dinner. But the innkeeper and his 
men, getting the hint, by force prevented him from entering, 
although he attempted it again and again, both by telling lies and 
offering a bribe. Finding he could not prevail, he set to exciting 
the mob at the door to acts of violence; in which he had like to 
have succeeded. The landlord had no other shift, at last, but to 
send privately for two officers, and have him carried to the guard-
house; and the hilarity and joy of the party of young gentlemen, 
for the evening, was quite spoiled by the inauspicious termination 
of their game.

The Rev. Robert Wringhim was now to send for, to release his 
beloved ward. The messenger found him at table, with a number 
of the leaders of the Whig faction, the Marquis of Annandale 
being in the chair; and, the prisoner's note being produced, 
Wringhim read it aloud, accompanying it with some explanatory 
remarks. The circumstances of the case being thus magnified and 
distorted, it excited the utmost abhorrence, both of the deed and 
the perpetrators, among the assembled faction. They declaimed 
against the act as an unnatural attempt on the character, and even 
the life, of an unfortunate brother, who had been expelled from 
his father's house. And, as party spirit was the order of the day, an 
attempt was made to lay the burden of it to that account. In short, 
the young culprit got some of the best blood of the land to enter 
as his securities, and was set at liberty. But, when Wringhim 
perceived the plight that he was in, he took him, as he was, and 
presented him to his honourable patrons. This raised the 
indignation against the young laird and his associates a thousand-
fold, which actually roused the party to temporary madness. They 
were, perhaps, a little excited by the wine and spirits they had 
swallowed; else a casual quarrel between two young men, at 
tennis, could not have driven them to such extremes. But certain 
it is that, from one at first arising to address the party on the 
atrocity of the offence, both in a moral and political point of 
view, on a sudden there were six on their feet, at the same time, 
expatiating on it; and, in a very short time thereafter, everyone in 
the room was up talking with the utmost vociferation, all on the 
same subject, and all taking the same side in the debate.

In the midst of this confusion, someone or other issued from the 
house, which was at the back of the Canongate, calling out: "A 
plot, a plot! Treason, treason! Down with the bloody incendiaries 
at the Black Bull!"

The concourse of people that were assembled in Edinburgh at that 
time was prodigious; and, as they were all actuated by political 
motives, they wanted only a ready-blown coal to set the mountain 
on fire. The evening being fine, and the streets thronged, the cry 
ran from mouth to mouth through the whole city. More than that, 
the mob that had of late been gathered to the door of the Black 
Bull had, by degrees, dispersed; but, they being young men, and 
idle vagrants, they had only spread themselves over the rest of the 
street to lounge in search of further amusement: consequently, a 
word was sufficient to send them back to their late rendezvous, 
where they had previously witnessed something they did not 
much approve of.

The master of the tavern was astonished at seeing the mob again 
assembling; and that with such hurry and noise. But, his inmates 
being all of the highest respectability, he judged himself sure of 
protection, or at least of indemnity. He had two large parties in 
his house at the time; the largest of which was of the 
Revolutionist faction. The other consisted of our young 
Tennis-players, and their associates, who were all of the Jacobite 
order; or, at all events, leaned to the Episcopal side. The largest 
party were in a front room; and the attack of the mob fell first on 
their windows, though rather with fear and caution. Jingle went 
one pane; then a loud hurrah; and that again was followed by a 
number of voices, endeavouring to restrain the indignation from 
venting itself in destroying the windows, and to turn it on the 
inmates. The Whigs, calling the landlord, inquired what the 
assault meant: he cunningly answered that he suspected it was 
some of the youths of the Cavalier, or High-Church party, 
exciting the mob against them. The party consisted mostly of 
young gentlemen, by that time in a key to engage in any row; 
and, at all events, to suffer nothing from the other party, against 
whom their passions were mightily inflamed.

The landlord, therefore, had no sooner given them the spirit-
rousing intelligence than everyone, as by instinct, swore his own
natural oath, and grasped his own natural weapon. A few of those
of the highest rank were armed with swords, which they boldly
drew; those of the subordinate orders immediately flew to such
weapons as the room, kitchen, and scullery afforded--such as
tongs, pokers, spits, racks, and shovels; and breathing vengeance
on the prelatic party, the children of Antichrist and the heirs of
d-n-t-n! the barterers of the liberties of their country, and
betrayers of the most sacred trust--thus elevated, and thus armed,
in the cause of right, justice, and liberty, our heroes rushed to the
street, and attacked the mob with such violence that they broke
the mass in a moment, and dispersed their thousands like chaff
before the wind. The other party of young Jacobites, who sat in
a room farther from the front, and were those against whom the
fury of the mob was meant to have been directed, knew nothing
of this second uproar, till the noise of the sally made by the
Whigs assailed their ears; being then informed that the mob had
attacked the house on account of the treatment they themselves
had given to a young gentleman of the adverse faction, and that
another jovial party had issued from the house in their defence,
and was now engaged in an unequal combat, the sparks likewise
flew, to the field to back their defenders with all their prowess,
without troubling their heads about who they were.

A mob is like a spring tide in an eastern storm, that retires only to 
return with more overwhelming fury. The crowd was taken by 
surprise when such a strong and well-armed party issued from the 
house with so great fury, laying all prostrate that came in their 
way. Those who were next to the door, and were, of course, 
the first whom the imminent danger assailed, rushed backwards 
among the crowd with their whole force. The Black Bull standing 
in a small square half-way between the High Street and the 
Cowgate, and the entrance to it being by two closes, into these the 
pressure outwards was simultaneous, and thousands were moved 
to an involuntary flight, they knew not why.

But the High Street of Edinburgh, which they soon reached, is a 
dangerous place in which to make an open attack upon a mob. 
And it appears that the entrances to the tavern had been 
somewhere near to the Cross, on the south side of the street; for 
the crowd fled with great expedition, both to the cast and west, 
and the conquerors, separating themselves as chance directed, 
pursued impetuously, wounding and maiming as they flew. But 
it so chanced that, before either of the wings had followed the 
flying squadrons of their enemies for the space of a hundred 
yards each way, the devil an enemy they had to pursue! the 
multitude had vanished like so many thousands of phantoms! 
What could our heroes do? Why, they faced about to return 
towards their citadel, the Black Bull. But that feat was not so 
easily, nor so readily accomplished as they divined. The 
unnumbered alleys on each side of the street had swallowed up 
the multitude in a few seconds; but from these they were busy 
reconnoitring; and  perceiving the deficiency in the number of 
their assailants, the rush from both sides of the street was as 
rapid, and as wonderful, as the disappearance of the crowd had 
been a few minutes before. Each close vomited out its levies, and 
these better armed with missiles than when they sought it for a 
temporary retreat. Woe then to our two columns of victorious 
Whigs! The mob actually closed around them as they would have 
swallowed them up; and, in the meanwhile, shower after shower 
of the most abominable weapons of offence were rained in upon 
them. If the gentlemen were irritated before, this inflamed them 
still further; but their danger was now so apparent they could not 
shut their eyes on it; therefore, both parties, as if actuated by the 
same spirit, made a desperate effort to join, and the greater part 
effected it; but some were knocked down, and others were 
separated from their friends, and blithe to become silent members 
of the mob.

The battle now raged immediately in front of the closes leading to 
the Black Bull; the small body of Whig gentlemen was hardly 
bested, and it is likely would have been overcome and trampled 
down every man, had they not been then and there joined by the 
young Cavaliers; who, fresh to arms, broke from the wynd, 
opened the head of the passage, laid about them manfully, and 
thus kept up the spirits of the exasperated Whigs, who were the 
men in fact that wrought the most deray among the populace.

The town-guard was now on the alert; and two companies of the 
Cameronian Regiment, with the Hon. Captain Douglas, rushed 
down from the Castle to the scene of action; but, for all the noise 
and hubbub that these caused in the street, the combat had 
become so close and inveterate that numbers of both sides were 
taken prisoners fighting hand to hand, and could scarcely be 
separated when the guardsmen and soldiers had them by the 
necks.

Great was the alarm and confusion that night in Edinburgh; for 
everyone concluded that it was a party scuffle, and, the two 
parties being so equal in power, the most serious consequences 
were anticipated. The agitation was so prevailing that every party 
in town, great and small, was broken up; and the lord-
commissioner thought proper to go to the Council Chamber 
himself, even at that late hour, accompanied by the sheriffs of 
Edinburgh and Linlithgow, with sundry noblemen besides, in 
order to learn something of the origin of the affray.

For a long time the court was completely puzzled. Every 
gentleman brought in exclaimed against the treatment he had 
received, in most bitter terms, blaming a mob set on him and his
friends by the adverse party, and matters looked extremely ill 
until at length they began to perceive that they were examining 
gentlemen of both parties, and that they had been doing so from 
the beginning, almost alternately, so equally had the prisoners 
been taken from both parties. Finally, it turned out that a few 
gentlemen, two-thirds of whom were strenuous Whigs 
themselves, had joined in mauling the whole Whig population of 
Edinburgh. The investigation disclosed nothing the effect of 
which was not ludicrous; and the Duke of Queensberry, whose 
aim was at that time to conciliate the two factions, tried all that he 
could to turn the whole fracas into a joke--an unlucky frolic, 
where no ill was meant on either side, and which yet had been 
productive of a great deal.

The greater part of the people went home satisfied; but not so
the Rev. Robert Wringhim. He did all that he could to inflame
both judges and populace against the young Cavaliers, especially
against the young Laird of Dalcastle, whom he represented as an
incendiary, set on by an unnatural parent to slander his mother,
and make away with a hapless and only brother; and, in truth,
that declaimer against all human merit had that sort of powerful,
homely, and bitter eloquence which seldom missed affecting his
hearers: the consequence at that time was that he made the 
unfortunate affair between the two brothers appear in extremely
bad colours, and the populace retired to their homes impressed
with no very favourable opinion of either the Laird of Dalcastle
or his son George, neither of whom were there present to speak
for themselves.

As for Wringhim himself, he went home to his lodgings, filled 
with gall and with spite against the young laird, whom he was 
made to believe the aggressor, and that intentionally. But most of 
all he was filled with indignation against the father, whom he 
held in abhorrence at all times, and blamed solely for this 
unmannerly attack made on his favourite ward, namesake, and 
adopted son; and for the public imputation of a crime to his own 
reverence in calling the lad his son, and thus charging him with a 
sin against which he was well known to have levelled all the 
arrows of church censure with unsparing might.

But, filled as his heart was with some portion of these bad 
feelings, to which all flesh is subject, he kept, nevertheless, the 
fear of the Lord always before his eyes so far as never to omit any 
of the external duties of religion, and farther than that man hath 
no power to pry. He lodged with the family of a Mr. Miller, 
whose lady was originally from Glasgow, and had been a hearer 
and, of course. a great admirer of Mr. Wringhim. In that family 
he made public worship every evening; and that night, in his 
petitions at a throne of grace, he prayed for so many vials of 
wrath to be poured on the head of some particular sinner that the 
hearers trembled, and stopped their ears. But that he might not 
proceed with so violent a measure, amounting to 
excommunication, without due scripture warrant, he began the 
exercise of the evening by singing the following verses, which it 
is a pity should ever have been admitted into a Christian 
psalmody, being so adverse to all its mild and benevolent 
principles:


Set thou the wicked over him,
And upon his right hand
Give thou his greatest enemy,
Even Satan, leave to stand.

And, when by thee he shall be judged, 
Let him remembered be;
And let his prayer be turned to sin 
When he shall call on thee.

Few be his days; and in his room 
His charge another take;
His children let be fatherless;
His wife a widow make:

Let God his father's wickedness
Still to remembrance call;
And never let his mother's sin
Be blotted out at all.

As he in cursing pleasure took 
So let it to him fall;
As he delighted not to bless,
So bless him not at all.

As cursing he like clothes put on,
Into his bowels so,
Like water, and into his bones 
Like oil, down let it go.


Young Wringhim only knew the full purport of this spiritual 
song; and went to his bed better satisfied than ever that his father 
and brother were castaways, reprobates, aliens from the Church 
and the true faith, and cursed in time and eternity.

The next day George and his companions met as usual--all who 
were not seriously wounded of them. But, as they strolled about 
the city, the rancorous eye and the finger of scorn was pointed 
against them. None of them was at first aware of the reason; but it 
threw a damp over their spirits and enjoyments, which they could 
not master. They went to take a forenoon game at their old play 
of tennis, not on a match, but by way of improving themselves; 
but they had not well taken their places till young Wringhim 
appeared in his old station, at his brother's right hand, with looks 
more demure and determined than ever. His lips were primmed 
so close that his mouth was hardly discernible, and his dark deep 
eye flashed gleams of holy indignation on the godless set, but 
particularly on his brother. His presence acted as a mildew on all 
social intercourse or enjoyment; the game was marred, and ended 
ere ever it was well begun. There were whisperings apart--the 
party separated, and, in order to shake off the blighting influence 
of this dogged persecutor, they entered sundry houses of their 
acquaintances, with an understanding that they were to meet on 
the Links for a game at cricket.

They did so; and, stripping off part of their clothes, they began 
that violent and spirited game. They had not played five minutes 
till Wringhim was stalking in the midst of them, and totally 
impeding the play. A cry arose from all corners of: "Oh, this will 
never do. Kick him out of the play-ground! Knock down the 
scoundrel; or bind him, and let him lie in peace."

"By no means," cried George. "It is evident he wants nothing 
else. Pray do not humour him so much as to touch him with either 
foot or finger." Then, turning to a friend, he said in a whisper: 
"Speak to him, Gordon; he surely will not refuse to let us have 
the ground to ourselves, if you request it of him."

Gordon went up to him, and requested of him, civilly, but 
ardently, "to retire to a certain distance, else none of them could 
or would be answerable, however sore he might be hurt."

He turned disdainfully on his heel, uttered a kind of pulpit hem! 
and then added, "I will take my chance of that; hurt me, any of 
you, at your peril."

The young gentlemen smiled, through spite and disdain of the 
dogged animal. Gordon followed him up, and tried to remonstrate 
with him; but he let him know that "it was his pleasure to be there 
at that time; and, unless he could demonstrate to him what 
superior right he and his party had to that ground, in preference to 
him, and to the exclusion of all others, he was determined to 
assert his right, and the rights of his fellow-citizens, by keeping 
possession of whatsoever part of that common field he chose."

"You are no gentleman, Sir," said Gordon.

"Are you one, Sir?" said the other.

"Yes, Sir. I will let you know that I am, by G--!"

"Then, thanks be to Him whose name you have profaned, I am 
none, If one of the party be a gentleman, I do hope in God am 
not!"

It was now apparent to them all that he was courting obloquy and 
manual chastisement from their hands, if  by any means he could 
provoke them to the deed; and, apprehensive that he had some 
sinister and deep-laid design in hunting after such a singular 
favour, they wisely restrained one another from inflicting the
punishment that each of them yearned to bestow, personally, and 
which he so well deserved.

But the unpopularity of the younger George Colwan could no 
longer be concealed from his associates. It was manifested 
wherever the populace were assembled; and his young and 
intimate friend, Adam Gordon, was obliged to warn him of the 
circumstance that he might not be surprised at the gentlemen of 
their acquaintance withdrawing themselves from his society, as 
they could not be seen with him without being insulted. George 
thanked him; and it was agreed between them that the former 
should keep himself retired during the daytime while he remained 
in Edinburgh, and that at night they should meet together, along 
with such of their companions as were disengaged.

George found it every day more and more necessary to adhere to 
this system of seclusion; for it was not alone the hisses of the 
boys and populace that pursued him--a fiend of more malignant 
aspect was ever at his elbow, in the form of his brother. To 
whatever place of amusement he betook himself, and however 
well he concealed his intentions of going there from all flesh 
living, there was his brother Wringhim also, and always within a 
few yards of him, generally about the same distance, and ever and 
anon darting looks at him that chilled his very soul. They were 
looks that cannot be described; but they were felt piercing to the 
bosom's deepest core. They affected even the onlookers in a very 
particular manner, for all whose eyes caught a glimpse of these 
hideous glances followed them to the object towards which they 
were darted: the gentlemanly and mild demeanour of that object 
generally calmed their startled apprehensions; for no one ever yet 
noted the glances of the young man's eye, in the black coat, at the 
face of his brother, who did not at first manifest strong symptoms 
of alarm.

George became utterly confounded; not only at the import of this 
persecution, but how in the world it came to pass that this 
unaccountable being knew all his motions, and every intention of 
his heart, as it were intuitively. On consulting his own previous 
feelings. and resolutions, he found that the circumstances of his 
going to such and such a place were often the most casual 
incidents in nature--the caprice of a moment had carried him there, 
and yet he had never sat or stood many minutes till there was the 
selfsame being, always in the same position with regard to 
himself, as regularly as the shadow is cast from the substance, or 
the ray of light from the opposing denser medium.

For instance, he remembered one day of setting out with the 
intention of going to attend divine worship in the High Church, 
and when, within a short space of its door, he was overtaken by 
young Kilpatrick of Closeburn, who was bound to the Grey-Friars 
to see his sweetheart, as he said: "and if you will go with me, 
Colwan," said he, "I will let you see her too, and then you will be 
just as far forward as I am."

George assented at once, and went; and, after taking his seat, he 
leaned his head forwards on the pew to repeat over to himself a 
short ejaculatory prayer, as had always been his custom on 
entering the house of God. When he had done, he lifted his eye 
naturally towards that point on his right hand where the fierce 
apparition of his brother had been wont to meet his view: there he 
was, in the same habit, form, demeanour, and precise point of 
distance, as usual! George again laid down his head, and his mind 
was so astounded that he had nearly fallen into a swoon. He tried 
shortly after to muster up courage to look at the speaker, at the 
congregation, and at Captain Kilpatrick's sweetheart in particular; 
but the fiendish glances of the young man in the black clothes 
were too appalling to be withstood--his eye caught them whether 
he was looking that way or not: at length his courage was fairly 
mastered, and he was obliged to look down during the remainder 
of the service.

By night or by day it was the same. In the gallery of the 
Parliament House, in the boxes of the play-house, in the church, 
in the assembly, in the streets, suburbs, and the fields; and every 
day, and every hour, from the first rencounter of the two, the 
attendance became more and more constant, more inexplicable, 
and altogether more alarming and insufferable, until at last 
George was fairly driven from society, and forced to spend his 
days in his and his father's lodgings with closed doors. Even 
there, he was constantly harassed with the idea that, the next time 
he lifted his eyes, he would to a certainty see that face, the most 
repulsive to all his feelings of aught the earth contained. The 
attendance of that brother was now become like the attendance of 
a demon on some devoted being that had sold himself to 
destruction; his approaches as undiscerned, and his looks as 
fraught with hideous malignity. It was seldom that he saw him 
either following him in the streets, or entering any house or 
church after him; he only appeared in his place, George wist not 
how, or whence; and, having sped so ill in his first friendly 
approaches, he had never spoken to his equivocal attendant a 
second time.

It came at length into George's head, as he was pondering, by 
himself, on the circumstances of this extraordinary attendance, 
that perhaps his brother had relented, and, though of so sullen and 
unaccommodating a temper that he would not acknowledge it, or 
beg a reconciliation, it might be for that very purpose that he 
followed his steps night and day in that extraordinary manner. "I 
cannot for my life see for what other purpose it can be," thought 
he. "He never offers to attempt my life; nor dares he, if he had the 
inclination; therefore, although his manner is peculiarly repulsive 
to me, I shall not have my mind burdened with the reflection that 
my own mother's son yearned for a reconciliation with me and 
was repulsed by my haughty and insolent behaviour. The next 
time he comes to my hand, I am resolved that I will accost him as 
one brother ought to address another, whatever it may cost me; 
and, if I am still flouted with disdain, then shall the blame rest 
with him."

After this generous resolution, it was a good while before his 
gratuitous attendant appeared at his side again; and George began 
to think that his visits were discontinued. The hope was a relief 
that could not be calculated; but still George had a feeling that it 
was too supreme to last. His enemy had been too pertinacious to 
abandon his design, whatever it was. He, however, began to 
indulge in a little more liberty, and for several days he enjoyed it 
with impunity.

George was, from infancy, of a stirring active disposition and 
could not endure confinement; and, having been of late much 
restrained in his youthful exercises by this singular persecutor, he 
grew uneasy under such restraint, and, one morning, chancing to 
awaken very early, he arose to make an excursion to the top of 
Arthur's Seat, to breathe the breeze of the dawning, and see the 
sun arise out of the eastern ocean. The morning was calm and 
serene; and as he walked down the south back of the Canongate, 
towards the Palace, the haze was so close around him that he 
could not see the houses on the opposite side of the way. As he 
passed the Lord-Commissioner's house, the guards were in 
attendance, who cautioned him not to go by the Palace, as all the 
gates would be shut and guarded for an hour to come, on which 
he went by the back of St. Anthony's gardens, and found his way 
into that little romantic glade adjoining to the saint's chapel and 
well. He was still involved in a blue haze, like a dense smoke, 
but yet in the midst of it the respiration was the most refreshing 
and delicious. The grass and the flowers were loaden with dew; 
and, on taking off his hat to wipe his forehead, he perceived that 
the black glossy fur of which his chaperon was wrought was all 
covered with a tissue of the most delicate silver--a fairy web, 
composed of little spheres, so minute that no eye could discern 
any of them; yet there they were shining in lovely millions. 
Afraid of defacing so beautiful and so delicate a garnish, he 
replaced his hat with the greatest caution, and went on his way 
light of heart.

As he approached the swire at the head of the dell--that little 
delightful verge from which in one moment the eastern limits and 
shores of Lothian arise on the view--as he approached it, I say, 
and a little space from the height, he beheld, to his astonishment, 
a bright halo in the cloud of haze, that rose in a semicircle over 
his head like a pale rainbow. He was struck motionless at the 
view of the lovely vision; for it so chanced that he had never seen 
the same appearance before, though common at early morn. But 
he soon perceived the cause of the phenomenon, and that it 
proceeded from the rays of the sun from a pure unclouded 
morning sky striking upon this dense vapour which refracted 
them. But, the better all the works of nature are understood, the 
more they will be ever admired. That was a scene that would 
have entranced the man of science with delight, but which the 
uninitiated and sordid man would have regarded less than the 
mole rearing up his hill in silence and in darkness.

George did admire this halo of glory, which still grew wider, and 
less defined, as he approached the surface, of the cloud. But, to 
his utter amazement and supreme delight, he found, on reaching 
the top of Arthur's Seat, that this sublunary rainbow, this 
terrestrial glory, was spread in its most vivid hues beneath his 
feet. Still he could not perceive the body of the sun, although the 
light behind him was dazzling; but the cloud of haze lying dense 
in that deep dell that separates the hill from the rocks of 
Salisbury, and the dull shadow of the hill mingling with that 
cloud made the dell a pit of darkness. On that shadowy cloud was 
the lovely rainbow formed, spreading itself on a horizontal plain, 
and having a slight and brilliant shade of all the colours of the 
heavenly bow, but all of them paler and less defined. But this 
terrestrial phenomenon of the early morn cannot be better 
delineated than by the name given of it by the shepherd boys, 
"The little wee ghost of the rainbow."

Such was the description of the morning, and the wild shades of 
the hill, that George gave to his father and Mr. Adam Gordon that 
same day on which he had witnessed them; and it is necessary 
that the reader should comprehend something of their nature to 
understand what follows.

He seated himself on the pinnacle of the rocky precipice, a little 
within the top of the hill to the westward, and, with a light and 
buoyant heart, viewed the beauties of the morning, and inhaled its 
salubrious breeze. "Here," thought he, "I can converse with nature 
without disturbance, and without being intruded on by any 
appalling or obnoxious visitor." The idea of his brother's dark and 
malevolent looks coming at that moment across his mind, he 
turned his eyes instinctively to the right, to the point where that 
unwelcome guest was wont to make his appearance. Gracious 
Heaven! What an apparition was there presented to his view! He 
saw, delineated in the cloud, the shoulders, arms, and features of 
a human being of the most dreadful aspect. The face was the face 
of his brother, but dilated to twenty times the natural size. Its dark 
eyes gleamed on him through the mist, while every furrow of its 
hideous brow frowned deep as the ravines on the brow of the hill. 
George started, and his hair stood up in bristles as he gazed on 
this horrible monster. He saw every feature and every line of the 
face distinctly as it gazed on him with an intensity that was hardly 
brookable. Its eyes were fixed on him, in the same manner as 
those of some carnivorous animal fixed on its prey; and yet there 
was fear and trembling in these unearthly features, as plainly 
depicted as murderous malice. The giant apparition seemed 
sometimes to be cowering down as in terror, so that nothing but 
his brow and eyes were seen; still these never turned one moment 
from their object--again it rose imperceptively up, and began to 
approach with great caution; and, as it neared, the dimensions of 
its form lessened, still continuing, however, far above the natural 
size.

George conceived it to be a spirit. He could conceive it to be 
nothing else; and he took it for some horrid demon by which he 
was haunted, that had assumed the features of his brother in
every lineament, but, in taking on itself the human form, had 
miscalculated dreadfully on the size, and presented itself thus to 
him in a blown-up, dilated frame of embodied air, exhaled from 
the caverns of death or the regions of devouring fire. He was 
further confirmed in the belief that it was a malignant spirit on 
perceiving that it approached him across the front of a precipice, 
where there was not footing for thing of mortal frame. still, what 
with terror and astonishment, he continued riveted to the spot, till 
it approached, as he deemed, to within two yards of him; and 
then, perceiving that it was setting itself to make a violent spring 
on him, he started to his feet and fled distractedly in the opposite 
direction, keeping his eye cast behind him lest he had been seized 
in that dangerous place. But the very first bolt that he made in his 
flight he came in contact with a real body of flesh and blood, and 
that with such violence that both went down among some 
scragged rocks, and George rolled over the other. The being 
called out "Murder"; and, rising, fled precipitately. George then 
perceived that it was his brother; and being confounded between 
the shadow and the substance, he knew not what he was doing or 
what he had done; and, there being only one natural way of 
retreat from the brink of the rock, he likewise arose and pursued 
the affrighted culprit with all his speed towards the top of the hill. 
Wringhim was braying out, "Murder! murder!" at which George, 
being disgusted, and his spirits all in a ferment from some hurried 
idea of intended harm, the moment he came up with the craven he 
seized him rudely by the shoulder, and clapped his hand on his 
mouth. "Murder, you beast!" said he; "what do you mean by 
roaring out murder in that way? Who the devil is murdering you, 
or offering to murder you?"

Wringhim forced his mouth from under his brother's hand, and 
roared with redoubled energy: "Eh! Egh! Murder! murder!" etc. 
George had felt resolute to put down this shocking alarm, lest 
someone might hear it and fly to the spot, or draw inferences 
widely different from the truth; and, perceiving the terror of this 
elect youth to be so great that expostulation was vain, he seized 
him by the mouth and nose with his left hand so strenuously that 
he sank his fingers into his cheeks. But, the poltroon still 
attempting to bray out, George gave him such a stunning blow 
with his fist on the left temple that he crumbled, as it were, to the 
ground, but more from the effects of terror than those of the blow. 
His nose, however, again gushed out blood, a system of defence 
which seemed as natural to him as that resorted to by the race of 
stinkards. He then raised himself on his knees and hams, and 
raising up his ghastly face, while the blood streamed over both 
ears, he besought his life of his brother, in the most abject 
whining manner, gaping and blubbering most piteously.

"Tell me then, Sir," said George, resolved to make the most of the 
wretch's terror--"tell me for what purpose it is that you
haunt my steps? Tell me plainly, and instantly, else I will throw
you from the verge of that precipice."

"Oh, I will never do it again! I will never do it again! Spare my 
life, dear, good brother! Spare my life! Sure I never did you any 
hurt."

"Swear to me, then, by the God that made you, that you will 
never henceforth follow after me to torment me with your hellish 
threatening looks; swear that you will never again come into my 
presence without being invited. Will you take an oath to this 
effect?"

"Oh yes! I will, I will!"

"But this is not all: you must tell me for what purpose you sought 
me out here this morning?"

"Oh, brother! For nothing but your good. I had nothing at heart 
but your unspeakable profit, and great and endless good."

"So, then, you indeed knew that I was here?"

"I was told so by a friend, but I did not believe him; a--a--at least 
I did not know that it was true till I saw you."

"Tell me this one thing, then, Robert, and all shall he forgotten 
and forgiven. Who was that friend?"

"You do not know him."

"How then does he know me?"

"I cannot tell."

"Was he here present with you to-day?"

"Yes; he was not far distant. He came to this hill with me."

"Where then is he now?"

"I cannot tell."

"Then, wretch, confess that the devil was that friend who told you 
I was here, and who came here with you. None else could 
possibly know of my being here."

"Ah! how little you know of him! Would you argue that there is 
neither man nor spirit endowed with so much foresight as to 
deduce natural conclusions from previous actions and incidents 
but the devil? Alas, brother! But why should I wonder at such 
abandoned notions and principles? It was fore-ordained that you 
should cherish them, and that they should be the ruin of your soul 
and body, before the world was framed. Be assured of this, 
however, that I had no aim of seeking you but your good!"

"Well, Robert, I will believe it. I am disposed to be hasty and 
passionate: it is a fault in my nature; but I never meant, or wished 
you evil; and God is my witness that I would as soon stretch out 
my hand to my own life, or my father's, as to yours." At these 
words, Wringhim uttered a hollow exulting laugh, put his hands 
in his pockets, and withdrew a space to his accustomed distance. 
George continued: "And now, once for all, I request that we may 
exchange forgiveness, and that we may part and remain friends."

"Would such a thing be expedient, think you? Or consistent with 
the glory of God? I doubt it."

"I can think of nothing that would be more so. Is it not consistent 
with every precept of the Gospel? Come, brother, say that our 
reconciliation is complete."

"Oh yes, certainly!. I tell you, brother, according to the flesh: it is 
just as complete as the lark's is with the adder, no more so, nor 
ever can. Reconciled, forsooth! To what would I be reconciled?"

As he said this, he strode indignantly away. From the moment 
that he heard his life was safe, he assumed his former insolence 
and revengeful looks--and never were they more dreadful than on 
parting with his brother that morning on the top of the hill. "Well, 
go thy way," said George; "some would despise, but I pity thee. If 
thou art not a limb of Satan, I never saw one."

The sun had now dispelled the vapours; and, the morning being 
lovely beyond description, George sat himself down on the top of 
the hill, and pondered deeply on the unaccountable incident that 
had befallen to him that morning. He could in no-wise 
comprehend it; but, taking it with other previous circumstances, 
he could not get quit of a conviction that he was haunted by some 
evil genius in the shape of his brother, as well as by that dark and 
mysterious wretch himself. In no other way could he account for 
the apparition he saw that morning on the face of the rock, nor for 
several sudden appearances of the same being, in places where 
there was no possibility of any foreknowledge that he himself 
was to be there, and as little that the same being, if he were flesh 
and blood like other men, could always start up in the same 
position with regard to him. He determined, therefore, on 
reaching home, to relate all that had happened, from beginning to 
end, to his father, asking his counsel and his assistance, although 
he knew full well that his father was not the fittest man in the 
world to solve such a problem. He was now involved in party 
politics, over head and ears; and, moreover, he could never hear 
the names of either of the Wringhims mentioned without getting 
into a quandary of disgust and anger; and all that he would deign 
to say of them was, to call them by all the opprobrious names he 
could invent.

It turned out as the young man from the first suggested: old 
Dalcastle would listen to nothing concerning them with any
patience. George complained that his brother harassed him with 
his presence at all times, and in all places. Old Dal asked why he 
did not kick the dog out of his presence whenever he felt him 
disagreeable? George said he seemed to have some demon for a 
familiar. Dal answered that he did not wonder a bit at that, for the 
young spark was the third in a direct line who had all been 
children of adultery; and it was well known that all such were 
born half-deils themselves, and nothing was more likely than that 
they should hold intercourse with their fellows. In the same style 
did he sympathize with all his son's late sufferings and 
perplexities.

In Mr. Adam Gordon, however, George found a friend who 
entered into all his feelings, and had seen and known everything 
about the matter. He tried to convince him that at all events there 
could be nothing supernatural in the circumstances; and that the 
vision he had seen on the rock, among the thick mist, was the 
shadow of his brother approaching behind him. George could not 
swallow this, for he had seen his own shadow on the cloud, and, 
instead of approaching to aught like his own figure, he perceived 
nothing but a halo of glory round a point of the cloud that was 
whither and purer than the rest. Gordon said, if he would go with 
him to a mountain of his father's, which he named, in 
Aberdeenshire, he would show him a giant spirit of the same 
dimensions, any morning at the rising of the sun, provided he 
shone on that spot. This statement excited George's curiosity 
exceedingly; and, being disgusted with some things about 
Edinburgh, and glad to get out of the way, he consented to go 
with Gordon to the Highlands for a space. The day was 
accordingly set for their departure, the old laird's assent obtained, 
and the two young sparks parted in a state of great impatience for 
their excursion.

One of them found out another engagement, however, the instant 
after this last was determined on. Young Wringhim went off the 
hill that morning, and home to his upright guardian again without 
washing the blood from his face and neck; and there he told a 
most woeful story indeed: how he had gone out to take a 
morning's walk on the hill, where he had encountered with his 
reprobate brother among the mist, who had knocked him down 
and very near murdered him; threatening dreadfully, and with 
horrid oaths, to throw him from the top of the cliff.

The wrath of the great divine was kindled beyond measure. He 
cursed the aggressor in the name of the Most High; and bound 
himself, by an oath, to cause that wicked one's transgressions 
return upon his own head sevenfold. But, before he engaged 
further in the business of vengeance, he kneeled with his adopted 
son, and committed the whole cause unto the Lord, whom he 
addressed as one coming breathing burning coals of juniper, and 
casting his lightnings before him, to destroy and root out all who 
had moved hand or tongue against the children of the promise. 
Thus did he arise confirmed, and go forth to certain conquest.

We cannot enter into the detail of the events that now occurred 
without forestalling a part of the narrative of one who knew all 
the circumstances--was deeply interested in them, and whose 
relation is of higher value than anything that can be retailed out of 
the stores of tradition and old registers; but, his narrative being 
different from these, it was judged expedient to give the account 
as thus publicly handed down to us. Suffice it that, before 
evening, George was apprehended, and lodged in jail, on a 
criminal charge of an assault and battery, to the shedding of 
blood, with the intent of committing fratricide. Then was the old 
laird in great consternation, and blamed himself for treating the 
thing so lightly, which seemed to have been gone about, from the 
beginning, so systematically, and with an intent which the villains 
were now going to realize, namely, to get the young laird 
disposed of; and then his brother, in spite of the old gentleman's 
teeth, would be laird himself.

Old Dal now set his whole interest to work among the noblemen 
and lawyers of his party. His son's case looked exceedingly ill, 
owing to the former assault before witnesses. and the unbecoming
expressions made use of by him on that occasion, as well as from 
the present assault, which George did not deny, and for which no 
moving cause or motive could be made to appear.

On his first declaration before the sheriff, matters looked no 
better: but then the sheriff was a Whig. It is well known how 
differently the people of the present day, in Scotland, view the 
cases of their own party-men and those of opposite political 
principles. But this day is nothing to that in such matters, 
although, God knows, they are still sometimes barefaced enough. 
It appeared, from all the witnesses in the first case, that the 
complainant was the first aggressor--that he refused to stand out 
of the way, though apprised of his danger; and, when his brother 
came against him inadvertently, he had aimed a blow at him with 
his foot, which, if it had taken effect, would have killed him. But 
as to the story of the apparition in fair day-light--the flying from 
the face of it--the running foul of his brother pursuing him, and 
knocking him down, why the judge smiled at the relation, and 
saying: "It was a very extraordinary story," he remanded George 
to prison, leaving the matter to the High Court of Justiciary.

When the case came before that court, matters took a different 
turn. The constant and sullen attendance of the one brother upon 
the other excited suspicions; and these were in some manner 
confirmed when the guards at Queensberry House deported that 
the prisoner went by them on his way to the hill that morning, 
about twenty minutes before the complainant, and, when the 
latter passed, he asked if such a young man had passed before 
him, describing the prisoner's appearance to them; and that, on 
being answered in the affirmative, he mended his pace and fell a-
running.

The Lord Justice, on hearing this, asked the prisoner if he had any 
suspicions that his brother had a design on his life.

He answered that all along, from the time of their first 
unfortunate meeting, his brother had dogged his steps so 
constantly, and so unaccountably, that he was convinced it was 
with some intent out of the ordinary course of events; and that if, 
as his lordship supposed, it was indeed his shadow that he had 
seen approaching him through the mist, then, from the cowering 
and cautious manner that it advanced, there was no little doubt 
that his brother's design had been to push him headlong from the 
cliff that morning.

A conversation then took place between the judge and the Lord 
Advocate; and, in the meantime, a bustle was seen in the hall; on 
which the doors were ordered to be guarded, and, behold, the 
precious Mr. R. Wringhim was taken into custody, trying to make 
his escape out of court. Finally it turned out that George was 
honourably acquitted, and young Wringhim bound over to keep 
the peace, with heavy penalties and securities.

That was a day of high exultation to George and his youthful 
associates, all of whom abhorred Wringhim; and, the evening 
being spent in great glee, it was agreed between Mr. Adam 
Gordon and George that their visit to the Highlands, though thus 
long delayed, was not to be abandoned; and though they had, 
through the machinations of an incendiary, lost the season of 
delight, they would still find plenty of sport in deer-shooting. 
Accordingly, the day was set a second time for their departure; 
and, on the day preceding that, all the party were invited by 
George to dine with him once more at the sign of the Black Bull 
of Norway. Everyone promised to attend, anticipating nothing but 
festivity and joy. Alas, what short-sighted improvident creatures 
we are, all of us; and how often does the evening cup of joy lead 
to sorrow in the morning!

The day arrived--the party of young noblemen and gentlemen 
met, and were as happy and jovial as men could be. George was 
never seen so brilliant, or so full of spirits; and exulting to see so 
many gallant young chiefs and gentlemen about him, who all 
gloried in the same principles of loyalty (perhaps this word 
should have been written disloyalty), he made speeches, gave 
toasts, and sung songs, all leaning slyly to the same side, until a 
very late hour. By that time he had pushed the bottle so long and 
so freely that its fumes had taken possession of every brain to 
such a degree that they held Dame Reason rather at the staff's 
end, overbearing all her counsels and expostulations; and it was 
imprudently proposed by a wild inebriated spark, and carried by a 
majority of voices, that the whole party should adjourn to a 
bagnio for the remainder of the night.

They did so; and it appears from what follows that the house,
to which they retired must have been somewhere on the opposite
side of the street to the Black Bull Inn, a little farther to the
eastward. They had not been an hour in that house till some
altercation chanced to arise between George Colwan and a Mr.
Drummond, the younger son of a nobleman of distinction. It
was perfectly casual, and no one thenceforward, to this day,
could ever tell what it was about, if it was not about the 
misunderstanding of some word or term that the one had uttered.
However it was, some high words passed between them; these
were followed by threats, and, in less than two minutes from the
commencement of the quarrel, Drummond left the house in
apparent displeasure, hinting to the other that they two should
settle that in a more convenient place.

The company looked at one another, for all was over before any 
of them knew such a thing was begun. "What the devil is the 
matter?" cried one. "What ails Drummond?" cried another. "Who 
has he quarrelled with?" asked a third.

"Don't know."--"Can't tell, on my life."--"He has quarrelled with 
his wine, I suppose, and is going to send it a challenge."

Such were the questions, and such the answers that passed in the 
jovial party, and the matter was no more thought of.

But in the course of a very short space, about the length which the 
ideas of the company were the next day at great variance, a sharp 
rap came to the door. it was opened by a female; but, there being 
a chain inside, she only saw one side of the person at the door. He 
appeared to be a young gentleman, in appearance like him who 
had lately left the house, and asked, in a low whispering voice, "if 
young Dalcastle was still in the house?" The woman did not 
know. "If he is," added he, "pray tell him to speak with me for a 
few minutes." The woman delivered the message before all the 
party, among whom there were then sundry courteous ladies of 
notable distinction, and George, on receiving it, instantly rose 
from the side of one of them, and said, in the hearing of them all, 
'I will bet a hundred merks that is Drummond."--"Don't go to 
quarrel with him, George," said one.--"Bring him in with you," 
said another. George stepped out; the door was again bolted, the 
chain drawn across, and the inadvertent party, left within, thought 
no more of the circumstance till the morning, that the report had 
spread over the city that a young gentleman had been slain, on a 
little washing-green at the side of the North Loch, and at the very 
bottom of the close where this thoughtless party had been 
assembled.

Several of them, on first hearing the report, basted to the dead-
room in the Guard-house, where the corpse had been deposited,
and soon discovered the body to be that of their friend and late
entertainer, George Colwan. Great were the consternation and
grief of all concerned, and, in particular, of his old father and
Miss Logan; for George had always been the sole hope and
darling of both, and the news of the event paralysed them so as
to render them incapable of all thought or exertion. The spirit
of the old laird was broken by the blow, and he descended at
once from a jolly, good-natured and active man to a mere
driveller, weeping over the body of his son, kissing his wound,
his lips, and his cold brow alternately; denouncing vengeance on
his murderers, and lamenting that he himself had not met the
cruel doom, so that the hope of his race might have been 
preserved. In short, finding that all further motive of action and
object of concern or of love, here below, were for ever removed
from him, he abandoned himself to despair, and threatened to go 
down to the grave with his son.

But, although he made no attempt to discover the murderers, the 
arm of justice was not idle; and, it being evident to all that the 
crime must infallibly be brought home to young Drummond, 
some of his friends sought him out, and compelled him, sorely 
against his will, to retire into concealment till the issue of the 
proof that should be led was made known. At the same time, he 
denied all knowledge of the incident with a resolution that 
astonished his intimate friends and relations, who to a man 
suspected him guilty. His father was not in Scotland, for I think it 
was said to me that this young man was second son to a John, 
Duke of Melfort, who lived abroad with the royal family of the 
Stuarts; but this young gentleman lived with the relations of his 
mother, one of whom, an uncle, was a Lord of Session: these, 
having thoroughly effected his concealment, went away, and 
listened to the evidence; and the examination of every new 
witness convinced them that their noble young relative was the 
slayer of his friend.

All the young gentlemen of the party were examined, save 
Drummond, who, when sent for, could not be found, which 
circumstance sorely confirmed the suspicions against him in the 
minds of judges and jurors, friends and enemies; and there is little 
doubt that the care of his relations in concealing him injured his 
character and his cause. The young gentlemen of whom the party 
was composed varied considerably with respect to the quarrel 
between him and the deceased. Some of them had neither heard 
nor noted it; others had, but not one of them could tell how it 
began. Some of them had heard the threat uttered by Drummond 
on leaving the house, and one only had noted him lay his hand on 
his sword. Not one of them could swear that it was Drummond 
who came to the door and desired to speak with the deceased, but 
the general impression on the minds of them all was to that effect; 
and one of the women swore that she heard the voice distinctly at 
the door, and every word that voice pronounced, and at the same 
time heard the deceased say that it was Drummond's.

On the other hand, there were some evidences on Drummond's 
part, which Lord Craigie, his uncle, had taken care to collect. He 
produced the sword which his nephew had worn that night, on 
which there was neither blood nor blemish; and, above all, he 
insisted on the evidence of a number of surgeons, who declared 
that both the wounds which the deceased had received had been 
given behind. One of these was below the left arm, and a slight 
one; the other was quite through the body, and both evidently 
inflicted with the same weapon, a two-edged sword, of the same 
dimensions as that worn by Drummond.

Upon the whole, there was a division in the court, but a
majority decided it. Drummond was pronounced guilty of the
murder; outlawed for not appearing, and a high reward offered
for his apprehension. It was with the greatest difficulty that he
escaped on board of a small trading vessel, which landed him in
Holland, and from thence, flying into Germany, he entered into
the service of the Emperor Charles VI. Many regretted that he
was not taken, and made to suffer the penalty due for such a
crime, and the melancholy incident became a pulpit theme over
a great part of Scotland, being held up as a proper warning to
youth to beware of such haunts of vice and depravity, the nurses
of all that is precipitate, immoral, and base, among mankind.

After the funeral of this promising and excellent young man, his 
father never more held up his head. Miss Logan, with all her art, 
could not get him to attend to any worldly thing, or to make any 
settlement whatsoever of his affairs, save making her over a 
present of what disposable funds he had about him. As to his 
estates, when they were mentioned to him, he wished them all in 
the bottom of the sea, and himself along with them. But, 
whenever she mentioned the circumstance of Thomas Drummond 
having been the murderer of his son, he shook his head, and once 
made the remark that "It was all a mistake, a gross and fatal error; 
but that God, who had permitted such a flagrant deed, would 
bring it to light in his own time and way." In a few weeks he 
followed his son to the grave, and the notorious Robert Wringhim 
took possession of his estates as the lawful son of the late laird, 
born in wedlock, and under his father's roof. The investiture was 
celebrated by prayer, singing of psalms, and religious disputation. 
The late guardian and adopted father, and the mother of the new 
laird, presided on the grand occasion, making a conspicuous 
figure in all the work of the day; and, though the youth himself 
indulged rather more freely in the bottle than he had ever been 
seen to do before, it was agreed by all present that there had never 
been a festivity so sanctified within the great hall of Dalcastle. 
Then, after due thanks returned, they parted rejoicing in spirit; 
which thanks, by the by, consisted wholly in telling the Almighty 
what he was; and informing, with very particular precision, what 
they were who addressed him; for Wringhim's whole system of 
popular declamation consisted, it seems, in this--to denounce all 
men and women to destruction, and then hold out hopes to his 
adherents that they were the chosen few, included in the 
promises, and who could never fall away. It would appear that 
this pharisaical doctrine is a very delicious one, and the most 
grateful of all others to the worst characters.

But the ways of heaven are altogether inscrutable, and soar as far 
above and beyond the works and the comprehensions of man as 
the sun, flaming in majesty, is above the tiny boy's evening 
rocket. It is the controller of Nature alone that can bring light out 
of darkness, and order out of confusion. Who is he that causeth 
the mole, from his secret path of darkness, to throw up the gem, 
the gold, and the precious ore? The same that from the mouths of 
babes and sucklings can extract the perfection of praise, and who 
can make the most abject of his creatures instrumental in bringing 
the most hidden truths to light.

Miss Logan had never lost the thought of her late master's 
prediction that Heaven would bring to light the truth concerning 
the untimely death of his son. She perceived that some strange 
conviction, too horrible for expression, preyed on his mind from 
the moment that the fatal news reached him to the last of his 
existence; and, in his last ravings, he uttered some incoherent 
words about justification by faith alone and absolute and eternal 
predestination having been the ruin of his house. These, to be 
sure, were the words of superannuation, and of the last and 
severest kind of it; but, for all that, they sunk deep into Miss 
Logan's soul, and at last she began to think with herself: "Is it 
possible the Wringhims, and the sophisticating wretch who is in 
conjunction with them, the mother of my late beautiful and 
amiable young master, can have effected his destruction? If so, I 
will spend my days, and my little patrimony, in endeavours to 
rake up and expose the unnatural deed."

In all her outgoings and incomings Mrs. Logan (as she was now 
styled) never lost sight of this one object. Every new 
disappointment only whetted her desire to fish up some 
particulars, concerning it; for she thought so long and so ardently 
upon it that by degrees it became settled in her mind as a sealed 
truth. And, as woman is always most jealous of her own sex in 
such matters, her suspicions were fixed on her greatest enemy, 
Mrs. Colwan, now the Lady Dowager of Dalcastle. All was wrapt 
in a chaos of confusion and darkness; but at last, by dint of a 
thousand sly and secret inquiries, Mrs. Logan found out where 
Lady Dalcastle had been on the night that the murder happened, 
and likewise what company she had kept, as well as some of the 
comers and goers; and she had hopes of having discovered a clue, 
which, if she could keep hold of the thread, would lead her 
through darkness to the light of truth.

Returning very late one evening from a convocation of family 
servants, which she had drawn together in order to fish something 
out of them, her maid having been in attendance on her all the 
evening, they found, on going home, that the house had been 
broken and a number of valuable articles stolen therefrom. Mrs. 
Logan had grown quite heartless before this stroke, having been 
altogether unsuccessful in her inquiries, and now she began to 
entertain some resolutions of giving up the fruitless search.

In a few days thereafter, she received intelligence that her clothes 
and plate were mostly recovered, and that she for one was bound 
over to prosecute the depredator, provided the articles turned out 
to be hers, as libelled in the indictment, and as a king's evidence 
had given out. She was likewise summoned, or requested, I know 
not which, being ignorant of these matters, to go as far as the 
town of Peebles in Tweedside, in order to survey these articles on 
such a day, and make affidavit to their identity before the Sheriff 
She went accordingly; but, on entering the town by the North 
Gate, she was accosted by a poor girl in tattered apparel, who 
with great earnestness inquired if her name was not Mrs. Logan? 
On being answered in the affirmative, she said that the 
unfortunate prisoner in the Tolbooth requested her, as she valued 
all that was dear to her in life, to go and see her before she 
appeared in court at the hour of cause, as she (the prisoner) had 
something of the greatest moment to impart to her. Mrs. Logan's 
curiosity was excited, and she followed the girl straight to the 
Tolbooth, who by the way said to her that she would find in the 
prisoner a woman of superior mind, who had gone through all the 
vicissitudes of life. "She has been very unfortunate, and I fear 
very wicked," added the poor thing, "but she is my mother, and 
God knows, with all her faults and failings, she has never been 
unkind to me. You, madam, have it in your power to save her; but 
she has wronged you, and therefore, if you will not do it for her 
sake, do it for mine, and the God of the fatherless will reward 
you."

Mrs. Logan answered her with a cast of the head, and a hem! and 
only remarked, that "the guilty must not always be suffered to 
escape, or what a world must we be doomed to live in!"

She was admitted to the prison, and found a tall emaciated figure, 
who appeared to have once possessed a sort of masculine beauty 
in no ordinary degree, but was now considerably advanced in 
years. She viewed Mrs. Logan with a stem, steady gaze, as if 
reading her features as a margin to her intellect; and when she 
addressed her it was not with that humility, and agonized fervour, 
which are natural for one in such circumstances to address to 
another who has the power of her life and death in her hands.

"I am deeply indebted to you for this timely visit, Mrs. Logan," 
said she. "It is not that I value life, or because I fear death, that I 
have sent for you so expressly. But the manner of the death that 
awaits me has something peculiarly revolting in it to a female 
mind. Good God! when I think of being hung up, a spectacle to a 
gazing, gaping multitude, with numbers of which I have had 
intimacies and connections, that would render the moment of 
parting so hideous, that, believe me, it rends to flinders a soul 
born for another sphere than that in which it has moved, had not 
the vile selfishness of a lordly fiend ruined all my prospects and 
all my hopes. Hear me then; for I do not ask your pity: I only ask 
of you to look to yourself, and behave with womanly prudence, if 
you deny this day that these goods are yours, there is no other 
evidence whatever against my life, and it is safe for the present. 
For, as for the word of the wretch who has betrayed me, it is of 
no avail; he has prevaricated so notoriously to save himself. If 
you deny them, you shall have them all again to the value of a 
mite, and more to the bargain. If you swear to the identity of 
them, the process will, one way and another, cost you the half of 
what they are worth."

"And what security have I for that?" said Mrs. Logan.

"You have none but my word," said the other proudly, "and that 
never yet was violated. If you cannot take that, 1 know the worst 
you can do. But I had forgot--I have a poor helpless child 
without, waiting and starving about the prison door. Surely it was 
of her that I wished to speak. This shameful death of mine will 
leave her in a deplorable state."

"The girl seems to have candour and strong affections," said Mrs. 
Logan. "I grievously mistake if such a child would not be a 
thousand times better without such a guardian and director."

"Then will you be so kind as to come to the Grass Market and see 
me put down?" said the prisoner. "I thought a woman would 
estimate a woman's and a mother's feelings, when such a dreadful 
throw was at stake, at least in part. But you are callous, and have 
never known any feelings but those of subordination to your old 
unnatural master. Alas, I have no cause of offence! I have 
wronged you; and justice must take its course. Will you forgive 
me before we part?"

Mrs. Logan hesitated, for her mind ran on something else. On 
which the other subjoined: "No, you will not forgive me, I see. 
But you will pray to God to forgive me? I know you will do that."

Mrs. Logan heard not this jeer, but, looking at the prisoner with 
an absent and stupid stare, she said: "Did you know my late 
master?"

"Ay, that I did, and never for any good," said she. "I knew the 
old and the young spark both, and was by when the latter was 
slain."

This careless sentence affected Mrs. Logan in a most peculiar 
manner. A shower of tears burst from her eyes ere it was done, 
and, when it was, she appeared like one bereaved of her mind. 
She first turned one way and then another, as if looking for 
something she had dropped. She seemed to think she had lost her 
eyes, instead of her tears, and at length, as by instinct, she tottered 
close up to the prisoner's face, and, looking wistfully and joyfully 
in it, said, with breathless earnestness: "Pray, mistress, what is 
your name?"

 "My name is Arabella Calvert," said the other. "Miss, mistress, 
or widow, as you choose, for I have been all the three, and that 
not once nor twice only. Ay, and something beyond all these. 
But, as for you, you have never been anything!"

"Ay, ay! and so you are Bell Calvert? Well, I thought so--I 
thought so," said Mrs. Logan; and, helping herself to a seat, she 
came and sat down dose by the prisoner's knee. "So you are 
indeed Bell Calvert, so called once. Well, of all the world you are 
the woman whom I have longed and travailed the most to see. 
But you were invisible; a being to be heard of, not seen."

"There have been days, madam," returned she, "when I was to be 
seen, and when there were few to be seen like me. But since that 
time there have indeed been days on which I was not to be seen. 
My crimes have been great, but my sufferings have been greater. 
So great that neither you nor the world can ever either know or 
conceive them. I hope they will be taken into account by the Most 
High. Mine have been crimes of utter desperation. But whom am 
I speaking to? You had better leave me to myself, mistress."

"Leave you to yourself? That I will be loth to do till you tell me 
where you were that night my young master was murdered."

"Where the devil would, I was! Will that suffice you? Ah, it was 
a vile action! A night to be remembered that was! Won't you be 
going? I want to trust my daughter with a commission."

"No, Mrs. Calvert, you and I part not till you have divulged that 
mystery to me."

"You must accompany me to the other world, then, for you shall 
not have it in this."

"If you refuse to answer me, I can have you before a tribunal, 
where you shall be sifted to the soul."

"Such miserable inanity! What care I for your threatenings of a 
tribunal? I who must soon stand before my last earthly one? What 
could the word of such a culprit avail? Or, if it could, where is the 
judge that could enforce it?"

"Did you not say that there was some mode of accommodating 
matters on that score?"

"Yes, I prayed you to grant me my life, which is in your power. 
The saving of it would not have cost you a plack, yet you refused 
to do it. The taking of it will cost you a great deal, and yet to that 
purpose you adhere. I can have no parley with such a spirit. I 
would not have my life in a present from its motions, nor would I 
exchange courtesies with its possessor."

"Indeed, Mrs. Calvert, since ever we met, I have been so busy 
thinking about who you might be that I know not what you have 
been proposing. I believe I meant to do what I could to save you 
But, once for all, tell me everything that you know concerning 
that amiable young gentleman's death, and here is my band there 
shall be nothing wanting that I can effect for you."

"No I despise all barter with such mean and selfish curiosity; and, 
as I believe that passion is stronger with you, than fear with me, 
we part on equal terms. Do your worst; and my secret shall go to 
the gallows and the grave with me."

Mrs. Logan was now greatly confounded, and after proffering in 
vain to concede everything she could ask in exchange, for the 
particulars relating to the murder, she became the suppliant in her 
turn. But the unaccountable culprit, exulting in her advantage. 
laughed her to scorn; and