



Produced by David Clarke, Woodie4 and the Online Distributed
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  Wilson's

  Tales of the Borders

  AND OF SCOTLAND.


  HISTORICAL, TRADITIONARY, & IMAGINATIVE.

  WITH A GLOSSARY.

  REVISED BY
  ALEXANDER LEIGHTON,
  ONE OF THE ORIGINAL EDITORS AND CONTRIBUTORS.


  VOL. XI.


  LONDON:
  WALTER SCOTT, 14 PATERNOSTER SQUARE,
  AND NEWCASTLE-UPON-TYNE.
  1884.




                               CONTENTS.


                                                                Page

  THE DOMINIE'S CLASS            (_John Mackay Wilson_)            1

  THE CONTRAST OF WIVES          (_Alexander Leighton_)           33

  THE PROFESSOR'S TALES          (_Professor Thomas Gillespie_)
      THE SOCIAL MAN                                              65

  THE TWO COMRADES               (_Alexander Campbell_)           90

  THE SURTOUT                    (_Alexander Campbell_)          106

  THE SURGEON'S TALES
      THE SUICIDE                (_Alexander Leighton_)          121

  THE GHOST OF HOWDYCRAIGS       (_Alexander Bethune_)           153

  THE GHOST OF GAIRYBURN         (_Alexander Bethune_)           185

  THE SMUGGLER                   (_John Mackay Wilson_)          217

  THE SCHOOLFELLOWS              (_Oliver Richardson_)           250

  THE RED HALL; OR,
      BERWICK IN 1296            (_John Mackay Wilson_)          281




WILSON'S

TALES OF THE BORDERS,

AND OF SCOTLAND.

THE DOMINIE'S CLASS.[A]

    "Their ends as various as the roads they take
    In journeying through life."


There is no class of men to whom the memory turns with more
complacency, or more frequently, than to those who "taught the young
idea how to shoot." There may be a few tyrants of the birch, who never
inspired a feeling save fear or hatred; yet their number is but few,
and I would say that the schoolmaster _is abroad_ in more senses than
that in which it is popularly applied. He is abroad in the memory and
in the affections of his pupils; and his remembrance is cherished
wheresoever they may be. For my own part, I never met with a teacher
whom I did not love when a boy, and reverence when a man; from him
before whom I used to stand and endeavour to read my task in his eyes,
as he held the book before his face, and the page was reflected in his
spectacles--and from his spectacles I spelled my _qu_--to him who, as
an elder friend, bestowed on me my last lesson. When a man has been
absent from the place of his nativity for years, and when he returns
and grasps the hands of his surviving kindred, one of his first
questions to them (after family questions are settled) is--"Is Mr ----,
my old schoolmaster, yet alive?" And if the answer be in the
affirmative, one of the first on whom he calls is the dominie of his
boyhood; and he enters the well-remembered school--and his first
glance is to the seat he last occupied--as an urchin opens the door
and admits him, as he gently taps at it, and cries to the master (who
is engaged with a class), when the stranger enters--

"Sir, here's one wants you."

Then steps forward the man of letters, looking anxiously--gazing as
though he had a right to gaze in the stranger's face; and, throwing
out his head, and particularly his chin, while he utters the
hesitating interrogative--"Sir?" And the stranger replies--"You don't
know me, I suppose? I am such-an-one, who was at your school at such a
time." The instiller of knowledge starts--

"What!" cries he, shifting his spectacles, "you Johnnie (Thomas, or
Peter, as the case may be) So-and-so?--it's not possible! O man, I'm
glad to see ye! Ye'll mak me an auld man, whether I will or no. And
how hae ye been, and where hae ye been?"--And, as he speaks, he flings
his tawse over to the corner where his desk stands. The young stranger
still cordially shakes his hand, a few kindly words pass between them,
and the teacher, turning to his scholars, says--"You may put by your
books and slates, and go for the day;" when an instantaneous movement
takes place through the school; there is a closing of books, a
clanking of slates, a pocketing of pencils, a clutching for hats,
caps, and bonnets, a springing over seats, and a falling off seats, a
rushing to the door, and a shouting when at the door a "_hurra for
play!_"--and the stranger seems to have made a hundred happy, while
the teacher and he retire, to

    "Drink a cup o' kindness,
    For auld langsyne."

But to proceed with our story of stories. There was a Dr Montgomery, a
native of Annan, who, after he had been for more than twenty years a
physician in India, where he had become rich, visited his early home,
which was also the grave of his fathers. There were but few of his
relatives in life when he returned (for death makes sad havoc in
families in twenty years); but, after he had seen them, he inquired if
his old teacher, Mr Grierson, yet lived; and being answered in the
affirmative, the doctor proceeded to the residence of his first
instructor. He found him occupying the same apartments in which he
resided thirty years before, and which were situated on the south side
of the main street, near the bridge.

When the first congratulations--the shaking of hands and the
expressions of surprise--had been got over, the doctor invited the
dominie to dinner; and, after the cloth was withdrawn, and the better
part of a bottle of port had vanished between them, the man of
medicine thus addressed his ancient preceptor:--

"Can you inform me, sir, what has become of my old class-fellows?--who
of them are yet in the land of the living?--who have caught the face
of fortune as she smiled, or been rendered the'sport o' her slippery
ba'?' Of the fate of one of them I know something, and to me their
history would be more interesting than a romance."

"Do ye remember the names that ye used to gie ane anither?" inquired
the man of letters, with a look of importance, which showed that the
history of the whole class was forthcoming.

"I remember them well," replied the doctor; "there were seven of us:
Solitary Sandy--Glaikit Willie--Venturesome Jamie--Cautious
Watty--Leein' Peter--Jock the dunce--and myself."

"And hae ye forgot the lounderings that I used to gie ye, for ca'in
ane anither such names?" inquired Mr Grierson, with a smile.

"I remember you were displeased at it," replied the other.

"Weel, doctor," continued the teacher, "I believe I can gratify your
curiosity, and I am not sure but you'll find that the history of your
class-fellows is not without interest. The career of some of them has
been to me as a recompense for a' the pains I bestowed on them, and
that o' others has been a source o' grief. Wi' some I hae been
disappointed, wi' ithers, surprised; but you'll allow that I did my
utmost to fleech and to thrash your besetting sins out o' ye a'. I
will first inform ye what I know respecting the history of Alexander
Rutherford, whom all o' ye used to ca' Solitary Sandy, because he
wasna a hempy like yoursels. Now, sir, harken to the history of


SOLITARY SANDY.

I remarked that Sandy was an extraordinary callant, and that he would
turn out a character that would be heard tell o' in the world; though
that he would ever rise in it, as some term it, or become rich in it I
did not believe. I dinna think that e'er I had to raise the tawse to
Sandy in my life. He had always his task as ready by heart as he could
count his fingers. Ye ne'er saw Sandy looking over his book, or
nodding wi' it before his face. He and his lessons were like twa
acquaintances--fond o' each other's company. I hae observed fra the
window, when the rest o' ye would hae been driving at the hand-ba',
cleeshin your peerie-taps, or endangerin' your legs wi' the
duck-stane, Sandy wad been sitting on his hunkers in the garden,
looking as earnestly on a daisy or ony bit flower, as if the twa
creatures could hae held a crack wi' ane anither, and the bonny leaves
o' the wee silent things whispered to Sandy how they got their
colours, how they peeped forth to meet the kiss o' spring, and how the
same power that created the lowly daisy called man into existence, and
fashioned the bright sun and the glorious firmament. He was ance dux
and aye dux. From the first moment he got to the head o' the class,
there he remained as immoveable as a mountain. There was nae trapping
him; for his memory was like clockwark. I canna say that he had a
great turn for mathematics; but ye will remember, as weel as me, that
he was a great Grecian; and he had screeds o' Virgil as ready aff by
heart as the twenty-third psalm. Mony a time hae I said concerning
him, in the words o' Butler--

    "Latin to him's no more difficil,
    Than for a blackbird 'tis to whistle."

The classics, indeed, were his particular hobby; and, though I was
proud o' Sandy, I often wished that I could direct his bent to studies
o' greater practical utility. His exercises showed that he had an
evident genius for poetry, and that o' a very high order; but his
parents were poor, and I didna see what poetry was to put in his
pocket. I therefore by no means encouraged him to follow out what I
conceived to be a profitless, though a pleasing, propensity; but, on
the contrary, when I had an opportunity o' speakin' to him by himsel,
I used to say to him--

"Alexander, ye have a happy turn for versification, and there is both
boldness and originality about your ideas--though no doubt they would
require a great deal of pruning before they could appear in a
respectable shape before the world. But you must not indulge in
verse-writing. When you do it, let it only be for an exercise, or for
amusement, when you have nothing better to do. It may make rhyme
jingle in your ears, but it will never make sterling coin jink in your
pockets. Even the immortal Homer had to sing his own verses about the
streets; and ye have heard the epigram--

    'Seven cities now contend for _Homer dead_,
    Through which the _living Homer_ begg'd his bread.'

Boethius, like Savage in our own days, died in a prison; Terence was a
slave, and Plautus did the work of a horse. Cervantes perished for
lack of food, on the same day that our great Shakspere died; but
Shakspere had worldly wisdom as well as heavenly genius. Camoens died
in an almshouse. The magical Spenser was a supplicant at court for
years, for a paltry pension, till hope deferred made his heart sick,
and he vented his disappointment in these words--

    'I was promised, on a time,
    To have reason for my rhyme:
    From that time unto this season,
    I received not rhyme nor reason.'

Butler asked for bread, and they gave him a stone. Dryden lived
between the hand and the mouth. Poor Otway perished through penury;
and Chatterton, the inspired boy, terminated his wretchedness with a
pennyworth of poison. But there is a more striking example than these,
Sandy. It was but the other day that our immortal countryman, Robbie
Burns--the glory o' our age--sank, at our very door, neglected and in
poverty, wi' a broken heart, into the grave. Sandy,' added I, 'never
think o' being a poet. If ye attempt it, ye will embark upon an ocean
where, for every one that reaches their desired haven, ninety-and-nine
become a wreck.'

On such occasions, Sandy used to listen most attentively, and crack to
me very auld-farrantly. Well, sir, it was just after ye went to learn
to be a doctor, that I resolved to try and do something to push him
forward mysel, as his parents were not in ability; and I had made
application to a gentleman on his behalf, to use his influence to
procure him a bursary in ane o' the universities, when Sandy's faither
died, and, puir man, left hardly as muckle behind him as would pay the
expenses o' the funeral. This was a death-blow to Sandy's prospects
and my hopes. He wasna seventeen at the time, and his widowed mother
had five bairns younger. He was the only ane in the family that she
could look up to as a bread-winner. It was about harvest; and, when
the shearing commenced, he went out wi' ithers and took his place on
the rig. As it was his first year, and he was but a learner, his wages
were but sma'; but, sma' as they were, at the end o' the season he
brought them hame, and my puir blighted scholar laddie thought himsel
a man, when he placed his earnings, to a farthing, in his mother's
hand.

I was sorry for Sandy. It pained me to see one by whom I had had so
much credit, and who, I was conscious, would make ane o' the brightest
ornaments o' the pu'pit that ever entered it, throwing his learning
and his talents awa', and doomed to be a labouring man. I lost mony a
night's sleep on his account; but I was determined to serve him if I
could, and I at last succeeded in getting him appointed tutor in a
gentleman's family o' the name o' Crompton, owre in Cumberland. He was
to teach twa bits o' laddies English and arithmetic, Latin and Greek.
He wasna out eighteen when he entered upon the duties o' his office;
and great cause had I to be proud o' my scholar, and satisfied wi' my
recommendation; for, before he had been six months in his situation, I
received a letter from the gentleman himsel, intimating his esteem for
Sandy, the great progress his sons had made under his tuition, and
expressing his gratitude to me for recommending such a tutor. He was,
in consequence, kind and generous to my auld scholar, and he doubled
his wages, and made him presents beside; so that Sandy was enabled to
assist his mother and his brethren.

But we ne'er hae a sunny day, though it be the langest day in summer,
but sooner or later, a rainy ane follows it. Now, Mr Crompton had a
daughter about a year younger than Sandy. She wasna what people would
ca' a pretty girl, for I hae seen her; but she had a sonsy face and
intelligent een. She also, forsooth, wrote sonnets to the moon, and
hymns to the rising sun. She, of a' women, was the maist likely to
bewitch puir Sandy; and she did bewitch him. A strong liking sprang up
between them. They couldna conceal their partiality for ane anither.
He was everything that was perfect in her een, and she was an angel in
his. Her name was Ann; and he had celebrated it in every measure, from
the hop-and-step line of four syllables to that o' fourteen, which
rolleth like the echoing o' the trumpet.

Now her faither, though a ceevil and a kind man, was also a shrewd,
sharp-sighted, and determined man; and he saw the flutter that had
risen up in the breasts o' his daughter and the young tutor. So he
sent for Sandy, and without seeming to be angry wi' him, or even
hinting at the cause--

"Mr Rutherford," said he, "you are aware that I am highly gratified
with the manner in which you have discharged the duties of tutor to my
boys; but I have been thinking that it will be more to their advantage
that their education, for the future, be a public one, and to-morrow I
intend sending them to a boarding-school in Yorkshire."

"To-morrow!" said Sandy, mechanically, scarce knowing what he said, or
where he stood.

"To-morrow," added Mr. Crompton; "and I have sent for you, sir, in
order to settle with you respecting your salary."

This was bringing the matter home to the business and the bosom o' the
scholar somewhat suddenly. Little as he was versed in the ways o' the
world, something like the real cause for the hasty removal o' his
pupils to Yorkshire began to dawn upon his mind. He was stricken with
dismay and with great agony, and he longed to pour out his soul upon
the gentle bosom o' Ann. But she had gone on a visit with her mother
to a friend in a different part of the country, and Mr Crompton was to
set out with his sons for Yorkshire on the following day. Then, also,
would Sandy have to return to the humble roof o' his