Wilson's Tales of the Borders and of Scotland
Chapter 93 : In the meantime, however, Macpherson, though fighting desperately, was compelled to yie

In the meantime, however, Macpherson, though fighting desperately, was compelled to yield ground, to avoid being closed upon and surrounded; for the pressure of the crowd was now greatly increased by an accession of town's people, who, having heard the din of the conflict, hastened to the scene to witness it, and to a.s.sist in the capture of the freebooters. Finding himself in danger of being a.s.sailed from behind, he rushed to one side of the street, and, placing his back to the wall of a house, flourished his sword, and defied the whole host of enemies who pressed upon him; and out of that whole host there was not one who would come within reach of the courageous outlaw thus desperately at bay. For fully a quarter of an hour he kept a circle of several yards clear around him, and having in this interval gained breath, it seemed extremely doubtful that he should be captured at all; for it was possible that, by a desperate effort, he might cut his way through his a.s.sailants and effect his escape. In truth, seeing the timidity of his enemies from the circ.u.mstance of none of them daring to approach him, some such proceeding he now actually contemplated. But a counter measure was at this moment in operation, which prevented its execution, and placed the outlaw in the hands of his enemies.

A person from the crowd entered the house, against the wall of which Macpherson was standing, by a back door, and proceeded to an apartment, one of whose windows was immediately above and within a few feet of him.

Opening this window cautiously, this person having previously provided himself with a large heavy Scotch blanket, threw it, as broadly extended as possible, over the outlaw, thus blinding him and disabling him from using his weapon. The crowd beneath--marking the proceeding which Macpherson, from his position, could not--watching the moment when the blanket descended, rushed in upon him, threw him to the ground, disarmed, and secured him; his friend, Eneas, who had been early separated from him in the melee, and who had not attracted, during any period of the conflict, so much of the attention of their common enemies, having contrived, previous to this, to effect his escape.

On being captured, he was bound, conveyed to prison, and a strong guard placed over him. On the following day, an elderly woman, dressed in the antique garb of her country--the Highlands--was seen walking up and down in front of the jail in which Macpherson was confined, and ever and anon casting a look of anxious inquiry towards the building. A nearer view of this person discovered that her eyes were red with weeping; but all her tears had been already shed, and the first excess of grief had pa.s.sed away; for both her look and manner, though still expressive of deep sorrow, were grave, staid, and composed--nay, even stern. Occasionally, however, she might be seen, as she stood gazing on the prison-house of the unfortunate outlaw, rocking to and fro with that slow and silent motion so expressive of the intensity of mental suffering.

Occasionally, too, a low murmuring of heart-rending anguish might be heard issuing from her thin parched lips. But she held communion with no one, and seemed heedless of the pa.s.sers by. At length she crossed the street, and having knocked at the ma.s.sive and well-studded outer-door of the prison, inquired if she might see the princ.i.p.al jailor. He was brought to her. On his appearing--

"The deer of the mountain," said his strange visiter, "is in the toils of the hunter. Oh! black and dismal day that that proud and gallant spirit that was wont to roam so wild and so free should be cooped up within the four stone walls of a loathsome dungeon--that those swift and manly limbs should be fettered with iron--and that the sword should be denied to that strong arm which was once so ready to defend the defenceless!"

"What mean ye, honest woman?" said the jailor, who was a good deal puzzled to discover a meaning in this address.

"What mean I?" exclaimed his visitor, sternly. "Do not I mean that the brave is the captive of the coward--that the strong has fallen before the weak--that the daring and fearless has been circ.u.mvented by the timid and the cunning? Do not I mean this?--and is it not true? Is not James Macpherson a prisoner within these walls, and are not you his keeper?"

"It is so," replied the astonished functionary.

"I know it," said his visitor. "Then will you convey this to him?" she said, bringing out a violin from beneath her plaid.

The jailor looked in amazement, first at the woman, and then at the instrument.

"What!" he at length said, "take a fiddle to a man who's going to be hanged! That is ridiculous."

"It is his wish," said the former, briefly. "The wish of a dying man.

Will you convey it to him?"

"Oh, if it be his wish, he shall surely have it," said the jailor; "but it is the oddest wish I ever heard."

"You _will_ convey it to him, then?" replied the stranger, with the same sententious brevity as before.

"I will," was the rejoinder.

The woman curtsied and withdrew in the same cold, stern, and formal manner she had maintained throughout the interview. On her departure, the jailor proceeded to Macpherson's dungeon with the extraordinary commission with which he had been charged. The latter, on seeing the well-known instrument, s.n.a.t.c.hed it eagerly and delightedly from its bearer, exclaiming--"Welcome, welcome! thou dear companion of better days! thou solacer of many a heavy care! thou delight of many a happy hour! Faithful Eneas!" And with the wild, strange, and romantic recklessness of his nature, he immediately began to play in the sweetest tones imaginable--tones which seemed to have acquired additional pathos from the circ.u.mstances of the performer--some of the melancholy airs of his native land; and from that hour till the hour of the minstrel's doom, these strains were almost constantly heard pouring through the small grated window of his dungeon. But they were soon to cease for ever. Macpherson was, in a few days afterwards, brought to trial, and condemned to be hanged at the cross of Banff.

On the day on which he suffered the last penalty of the law, he requested the jailor to send some one with his violin to him to the place of execution. The request was complied with. The instrument was put into his hands as he stood at the foot of the gallows, when he played over the melancholy air known by the name of "Macpherson's Lament." It had been composed by himself while in prison. On concluding the pathetic strain, he grasped his violin by the neck, dashed it to pieces against the gallows, and flung the fragments into the grave prepared for himself at the foot of the gibbet. In a few minutes after, that grave was occupied by all that remained of Macpherson the Freebooter.

We have now, we conceive, to gratify the reader's curiosity on one point only--and this is accomplished by adverting to Ellen Martin. The unhappy girl ultimately ascertained, though not till long after his execution, who her mysterious lover was; but neither the history of her attachment to him, nor her intimacy with him, was ever known to any one besides his friend Eneas; for to none other had he ever named her. Nor, during his confinement, or at any period after his capture, had he ever made the slightest allusion to her. This, indeed, from motives of delicacy towards her, he had studiously and carefully avoided.

On Ellen, the effect of a grief--for the discovery of her lover's real character had not been able to efface the impressions which his handsome person and gentle manners had made upon her young heart--the effect, we say, of a grief which she durst not avow, was that of inspiring a settled melancholy, and determining her on a life of celibacy. In the grave of Macpherson was buried the object of her first love, and she never knew another.

THE MONKS OF DRYBURGH.

These worthies were celebrated for "guid kail;" but they were no less remarkable for their ingenuity in directing the wealth of their neighbours and dependents into their own coffers. In common with others of their profession, they a.s.sailed the deathbeds of the wealthy, and persuaded the dying sinner that he had no chance of heaven unless he came handsomely down for their holy brotherhood before his departure.

It was for such a purpose as this that two of the brethren of Dryburgh set out, one day, in great haste, to visit the old Laird of Meldrum, who, they had been informed, was suddenly brought to the point of death; and the information was but too true--for the old man had not only arrived at the point of death, but had pa.s.sed it, and that ere they came. In other words, the laird was dead when they arrived, and their services, of course, no longer required.

This was a dreadful disappointment to the holy men; for they had reckoned on making an excellent thing of the job, as the laird had been long in their eye, and had been carefully trained up for the _finale_ of a handsome bequest.

It was with long faces, therefore, and woful looks, that the monks returned to their monastery, and reported the unlucky accident of the laird's having slipped away before they had had time to make anything of him in his last moments. The disappointment was felt by all to be a grievous one, for the laird had been confidently reckoned upon as sure game. While in this state of mortification, a bright idea occurred to one of the brethren, and he mentioned it to the rest, by whom it was highly approved of.

This idea was to conceal the laird's death for a time; to remove his body out of the way, and to procure some one to occupy his bed, and pa.s.s for the laird in a dying state: then to procure a notary and witnesses, having previously instructed the laird's representative how to conduct himself--that is, to bequeath all his property to the monastery: this done, the living man to be secretly conveyed away, the dead one restored to his place again, and his death publicly announced.

This ingenious scheme of the monk met with universal approbation, and it was determined that it should be instantly acted upon.

Fortunately, so far, for the monks, there was a poor man, a small farmer in the neighbourhood, of the name of Thomas d.i.c.kson, who bore a singularly strong personal resemblance to the deceased--a circ.u.mstance which at once pointed him out as the fittest person to act the required part. This person was, accordingly, immediately waited upon, the matter explained to him, and a handsome gratuity offered him for his services.

"A bargain be't," said Thomas, when the terms were proposed to him; "never ye fear me. If I dinna mak a guid job o't, blame me. I kent the laird weel, and can come as near him in speech as I'm said to do in person."

The monks, satisfied with Thomas's a.s.surances of fidelity, proceeded with their design; and, when everything was prepared--the laird's body removed out of the way, Thomas extended on his bed, and the curtains closely drawn round him--they introduced the notary, to take down the old man's testament (having previously intimated to the former that he was required by the latter for that purpose), and four witnesses to attest the facts that were about to be exhibited. Everything being in readiness--the lawyer with pen in hand, and the witnesses in the att.i.tude of profound attention--one of the monks intimated to the dying man that he might now proceed to dictate his will.

"Very well," replied the latter, in a feeble, tremulous tone. "Hear me, then, good folks a'. I bequeath to honest Tammas d.i.c.kson, wham I hae lang respeckit for his worth, and pitied for his straits, the hail o' my movable guids and lyin' money. Put doon that." And down _that_ accordingly went. But if the house had flown into the air with them, or the ghosts of their great-grandfathers had appeared before them, the monks could not have expressed more amazement or consternation than they did, at finding themselves thus so fairly outwitted by the superior genius of the canny farmer. They dared not, however, breathe a word of remonstrance, nor take the smallest notice of the trick that was about being played them; for their own character was at stake in the transaction, and the least intimation of their design on the laird's property would have exposed them to public infamy--and this Thomas well knew. It was in vain, therefore, that they edged round towards the bed--concealing, however, their movements from those present--and squeezed and pinched the dying laird. He was not to be so driven from his purpose. On he went, bequeathing first one thing and then another to his honest friend Thomas d.i.c.kson, till Thomas was fairly put in possession of everything the laird had worth bequeathing. Some trifles, indeed, he had the prudence and discretion to bestow upon the monks of Dryburgh; but trifles they were, truly, when compared to the valuable legacy he left to himself.

When the dying laird had disposed of everything he had, the scene closed. The discomfited monks returned to their monastery--the notary and the witnesses departed--and Thomas d.i.c.kson, in due time, stepped into a comfortable living, and defied the monks of Dryburgh, on the peril of their good name, even to dare to hint how he had come by it.

END OF VOL. IV