The Project Gutenberg EBook of Wilson's Tales of the Borders and of Scotland, Vol. XXIII., by Various

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Title: Wilson's Tales of the Borders and of Scotland, Vol. XXIII.

Author: Various

Release Date: February 11, 2004 [EBook #11032]

Language: English

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TALES OF SCOTLAND ***

Produced by Juliet Sutherland, John Hagerson, Terry Gilliland and PG Distributed Proofreaders

Wilson's

TALES OF THE BORDERS

AND OF SCOTLAND.

HISTORICAL, TRADITIONARY, & IMAGINATIVE.

REVISED BY ALEXANDER LEIGHTON, One of the Original Editors and Contributors.

VOL. XXIII.

CONTENTS.

THE LAWYER'S TALES (Alexander Leighton)—LORD KAMES'S PUZZLE.

THE ORPHAN (John Mackay Wilson).

  THE BURGHER'S TALES (Alexander Leighton)—THE
  BROWNIE OF THE WEST BOW.

  GLEANINGS OF THE COVENANT (Professor Thomas
  Gillespie)—THE LAST SCRAP.

THE STORY OF MARY BROWN (Alexander Leighton).

TIBBY FOWLER (John Mackay Wilson).

THE CRADLE OF LOGIE (Alexander Leighton).

THE DEATH OF THE CHEVALIER DE LA BEAUTÉ (John Mackay Wilson).

THE STORY OF THE PELICAN (Alexander Leighton).

THE WIDOW'S AE SON (John Mackay Wilson).

  THE LAWYER'S TALES (Alexander Leighton)—THE
  STORY OF MYSIE CRAIG.

THE TWIN BROTHERS (John Mackay Wilson).

THE GIRL FORGER (Alexander Leighton).

THE TWO RED SLIPPERS (Alexander Leighton).

THE FAITHFUL WIFE (Alexander Leighton).

WILSON'S TALES OF THE BORDERS, AND OF SCOTLAND.

* * * * *

THE LAWYER'S TALES.

LORD KAMES'S PUZZLE.

On looking over some Session papers which had belonged to Lord Kames, with the object, I confess, of getting hold of some facts—those entities called by Quintilian the bones of truth, the more by token, I fancy, that they so often stick in the throat—which might contribute to my legends, I came to some sheets whereon his lordship had written some hasty remarks, to the effect that the case Napier versus Napier was the most curious puzzle that ever he had witnessed since he had taken his seat on the bench. The papers were fragmentary, consisting of parts of a Reclaiming Petition and some portion of a Proof that had been led in support of a brieve of service; but I got enough to enable me to give the story, which I shall do in such a connected manner as to take the reader along with me, I hope pleasantly, and without any inclination to choke upon the foresaid bones.

Without being very particular about the year, which really I do not know with further precision than that it was within the first five years of Lord Kames's senator-ship, I request the reader to fancy himself in a small domicile in Toddrick's Wynd, in the old city of Edinburgh; and I request this the more readily that, as we all know, Nature does not exclude very humble places from the regions of romance, neither does she deny to very humble personages the characters of heroes and heroines. Not that I have much to say in the first instance either of the place or the persons; the former being no more than a solitary room and a bed-closet, where yet the throb of life was as strong and quick as in the mansions of the great, and the latter composed of two persons—one, a decent, hard-working woman called Mrs. Hislop, whose duty in this world was to keep her employers clean in their clothes, wherein she stood next to the minister, insomuch as cleanliness is next to godliness—in other words, she was a washerwoman; the other being a young girl, verging upon sixteen, called Henrietta, whose qualities, both of mind and body, might be comprised in the homely eulogy, "as blithe as bonnie." So it may be, that if you are alarmed at the humility of the occupation of the one—even with your remembrance that Sir Isaac Newton experimented upon soap-bubbles—as being so intractable in the plastic-work of romance, you may be appeased by the qualities of the other; for has it not been our delight to sing for a thousand years, yea, in a thousand songs, too, the praises of young damsels, whether under the names of Jenny or Peggy, or those of Clarinda or Florabella, or whether engaged in herding flocks by Logan Waters, or dispensing knights' favours under the peacock? But we cannot afford to dispose of our young heroine in this curt way, for her looks formed parts of the lines of a strange history; and so we must be permitted the privilege of narrating that, while Mrs. Hislop's protegée did not come within that charmed circle which contains, according to the poets, so many angels without wings, she was probably as fair every whit as Dowsabell. Yet, after all, we are not here concerned with beauty, which, as a specialty in one to one, and as a universality in all to all, is beyond the power of written description. We have here to do simply with some traits which, being hereditary, not derived from Mrs. Hislop, have a bearing upon our strange legend: the very slightest cast in the eyes, which in its piquancy belied a fine genial nature in the said Henney; and a classic nose, which, partaking of the old Roman type, and indicating pride, was equally untrue to a generosity of feeling which made friends of all who saw her—except one. A strange exception this one; for who, even in this bad world, could be an enemy to a creature who conciliated sympathy as a love, and defied antipathy as an impossibility? Who could he be? or rather, who could she be? for man seems to be excluded by the very instincts of his nature. The question may be answered by the evolution of facts; than which what other have we even amidst the dark gropings into the mystery of our wonderful being?

Mrs. Hislop's head was over the skeil, wherein lay one of the linen sheets of Mr. Dallas, the writer to the signet, which, with her broad hands, she was busy twisting into the form of a serpent; and no doubt there were indications of her efforts in the drops of perspiration which stood upon her good-humoured, gaucy face, so suggestive of dewdrops ('bating the poetry) on the leaves of a big blush peony. In this work she was interrupted by the entrance of Henney, who came rushing in as if under the influence of some emotion which had taken her young heart by surprise.

"What think ye, minny?" she cried, as she held up her hands.

"The deil has risen again from the grave where he was buried in
Kirkcaldy," was the reply, with a laugh.

"No, that's no it," continued the girl.

"Then what is it?" was the question.

"He's dead," replied Henney.

"Who is dead?" again asked Mrs. Hislop.

"The strange man,"