href="@public@vhost@g@gutenberg@html@files@34153@[email protected]#Footnote_2_2" class="fnanchor pginternal" tag="{http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml}a">[2] and my respect for you, I'm no just clear upon your last remark—when the Scriptures forbade a man to put away his wife, there was nae exception made for king or emperors."

"True," said James—"but——"

James never finished his "but." His conscience told him that his idol had sinned; and when the disastrous campaign to Russia shortly after followed, he imagined that he beheld in its terrible calamities the punishment he had predicted. The sun of Napoleon had reached its meridian, the fires of Moscow raised a cloud before it, behind which it hastened to its setting. In the events of that memorable invasion and retreat, James Nicholson took an eager and mournful interest. Thoughts of it haunted him in his sleep; and he would dream of Russian deserts which presented to the eye an unbounded waste of snow; or start, exclaiming, "The Cossacks!—the Cossacks!" His temper, too, became irritable, and his family found it hard to bear with it.

This, however, was not the only cause which increased the irritability, and provoked the indignation, of James the Leveller; for, as the glory of Napoleon began to wane, and the arms of the British achieved new victories in the Peninsula, he and his brethren in principle became the objects of almost nightly persecution. Never did the mail arrive, bearing tidings of the success of the British or their allies, but as surely was a figure, intended to represent one or other of the Levellers, paraded through the village, and burned before the door of the offender, amidst the shouts, the groans, and laughter, of some two or three hundred boys and young men. The reader may be surprised to hear that one of the principal leaders of these young and mischief-loving loyalists was no other than George Washington, the only son of our friend, James Nicholson. To turn him from conduct, and the manifestation of a principle, so unworthy of his name, James spared neither admonition, reproof, nor the rod of correction. But George was now too old for his father to apply the latter, and his advice and reproof in this matter was like throwing water in the sea. The namesake of the great President never took a part in such exhibitions of his father, and in holding his principles up to execration and contempt; on the contrary, he did all in his power to prevent them, and repeatedly did he prevent them—but he entered, with his whole heart, into every proposal to make a mock spectacle of others. The young tormentors knew little or nothing of the principles of the men they delighted to persecute—it was enough for them to know that they were Levellers, that they wished the French to win; and although James Nicholson was known to be, as I have already said, the very king and oracle of the levelling party in the neighbourhood, yet, for his son's sake, he frequently escaped the persecution intended for him, and it was visited upon the heads of more insignificant characters.

One evening, James beheld his son heading the noisy band in a crusade against the peace of a particular friend; moreover, George bore a long pole over his shoulder, to the top of which an intended resemblance of his father's friend was attached. James further saw his hopeful son and the crowd reach his friend's house, he beheld him scale the walls (which were but a single storey in height), he saw him stand upon the roof—the pole, with the effigy attached to it, was again handed to him, and, amidst the shouts of his companions, he put the pole down the chimney, leaving the figure as a smoke-doctor on its top.

James could endure no more. "Oh, the villain!—the scoundrel!" he cried—"the—the——" But he could add no more, from excess of indignation. He rushed along the street—he dashed through the crowd—he grasped his son by the throat, at the moment of his springing from the roof. He shook with rage. He struck him violently. He raised his feet and kicked him.

"What is a' this for?" said George, sullenly, while he suffered even more from shame than his father's violence.

"What is it for!" cried James, half choked with passion; "ye rascal!—ye disgrace!—ye profligate!—how can ye ask what is it for?" and he struck him again.

"Faither," said George, more sullenly than before, "I wad advise ye to keep yer hands to yersel—at least on the street and before folk."

"Awa wi' ye! ye reprobate!" exclaimed the old man, "and never enter my door again—never while ye breathe—ye thankless——"

"Be it sae," said George.

James returned to his house, in sorrow and in anger. He was out of humour with everything. He found fault with his daughter—he spoke angrily to his wife. Chairs, stools, tables, and crockery, he kicked to the right and left. He flung his supper behind the fire, when it was set before him. He was grieved at his son's conduct; but he was also angry with himself for his violence towards him.

A serjeant of a Highland regiment had been for some time in the village on the recruiting service. He was to leave with his recruits, and proceed to Leith, where they were immediately to embark on the following morning. Amongst the recruits were many of the acquaintances of George and his companions. After the affair of the effigy, they went to have a parting glass with them. George was then about nineteen. He had not yet forgiven his father for the indignity he had openly offered to him—he remembered he had forbidden him his house. One of his companions jestingly alluded to the indignation of the old man—he "wondered how George stood it." The remark made his feelings more bitter. He felt shame upon his face. Another of his companions enlisted; in the excitement of the moment, George followed his example, and, before sunrise on the following morning, was on his road to Leith with the other recruits.

Old James arose and went to his loom, unhappy and troubled in his spirit. He longed for a reconciliation with his son—to tell him he was sorry for the length to which his temper had led him, and also calmly to reason with him on the folly, the unreasonableness, and the wickedness, of his own conduct, in running with a crowd at his heels about the street, persecuting honest men, and endangering both the peace of the town and the safety of property. But he had been an hour at the loom, and George took not his place at his (for he had brought him up to his own trade); another hour passed, and breakfast time arrived, but the shuttle which had been driven by the hand of his son sent forth no sound.

"Where is George?" inquired he, as he entered the house; "wherefore has he no been ben at his wark?"

"Ye ken best," returned Peggy, who thought it her time to be out of humour, "for it lies between ye; but ye'll carry on yer rampaging fits o' passion till ye drive baith the bairns and me frae 'bout the house. Ye may seek for George whar ye saw him last: but there is his bed, untouched, as I made it yesterday morning, and ye see what ye've made o' yer handiwark."

"Oh, haud yer tongue, ye wicked woman, ye," said James, "for it wad clip clouts. Had Job been afflicted wi' yer tongue, he wad needed nae other trial!"

"My tongue!" retorted she; "ay, gude truly! but if ony woman but mysel had to put up wi' yer temper, they wad ken what it is to be tried."

"Puir woman! ye dinna ken ye're born," replied James; and, turning to his daughter, added, "Rin awa out, Katie, and see if yer brother is wi' ony o' his acquaintances—he'll hae been sleeping wi' some o' them. Tell him to come hame to his breakfast."

She left the house, and returned in about ten minutes, weeping, sobbing, wringing her hands, and exclaiming—

"George is listed and awa!—he's listed and awa! Oh, my poor George!"

"Listed!" exclaimed James, and he fell back against the wall, as though a bullet had entered his bosom.

"Listed! my bairn, my darling bairn,