THE HISTORY OF Du ncan Campbell, AXD HIS DOG, OSCAR. …deriv.nls.uk/dcn23/1086/8019/108680199.23.pdf · THE HISTORY OF Du ncan Campbell, - # ' r AXD HIS DOG, OSCAR. FROM HOGG'S EVENING

THE HISTORY

OF

Du ncan Campbell, - # ' r

AXD HIS

DOG, OSCAR.

FROM HOGG'S EVENING TALES.

GLASGOW:

Pujjlifhed by J. Lumsden & Son.

18^2,

DUNCAN CAMPBELL.

p

Duncan Campbell came from the Highlands, when|j fix years of age, to live with an old maiden aunt in | Edinburgh, and attend the school His mother waa i dead : but his father had supplied he» place, by mar - rying his house keeper. Duncan did not trouble him- felf about these matters, nor' indeed about any other matters, fave a black foal of his fathers’, and a large sagacious colley, named Ofcar, which belonged to one of the shepherds. ' here being' t

no other boy. save Duncan, about the hou e. Oscar and he were constant companions —With h’s garter tied round Oscar’s neck, and a piece of deal tied to his big bushy tail, Duncan would often lead him about the green, pleased with the idea that he was conducting a horse and cart. Oscar submitted to all this with great cheerfulness, but whenever Duncan mounted to ride on him, he found means instantly to unhorse him, either by galloping, or rolling himself on the green. , When Duncan threatened him, he looked submiflivel (i" and licked his face and hands; when he corrected hiraiji^ )yith the whip, he cowered at his fott ; — matters werec soon oiade up Oscar would lodge nowhere duringj the night, but ?t the door of the room wher. his young]: friend slept, and ^oe be to the man or woman who ven-t tured to enter in at untimely hours.

When Duncan left his native home, he thought not: of his father, nor any of the servants. He was fond! ef the ride, and fome fupposed that he even scarcely thought of the black foal s but when he faw Ofcar atanding looking him ruefully in the fr*e, the tears) i immediately blinded both his eyes He caught him : around the neck, hugged and kifsed him.— ‘Good!: b’ye Ofcar,” said he blubbering ; “ Good b’ye, God ;

blefs you, my dear Ofcer Duncan mounted before a fervant, and rode away^-Ofcar ftill followed at a diiiance, until he reached the top of the hill—he then fat down and howled. Duncan cried till his little heart was like to burll—“ What ails you?” said the fer*'.nt, “ 1 will never see my poor honest Oscar, again,” faid Duncan, “an* my heart canna bide it.”

Duncan (laid a year in Edinburgh, but he did not make great progress in learning. He did not approve highly of attending the fchool, and his aunt was too indulgent to compel his attendance. She giew ex- tremely ill one day—the maids kept constantly by her, and never regarded Duncan He was an additional charge to them, and they never loved him, bur ufed him harlhly. ■ It was now with great difficulty that he could obtain either meat or drink. In a few days af- ter his aunt was taken ill fhe died.—All was in con- fufion, and poor Duncan was like to perifh with hun- ger he could find no perfon in the house ; but hear- ing a noife in his aunt's chamber, he went in, and be- held them drtffing the corpse of his kmi relation :— it was enough —Dunoan was horrified beyond what mortal breatt was able to endure;—he hailed down the flair, and ran along the High Street, and South Bridge, as fast as his feet could carry him, crying in- crffentlv all the way. Hec would not have entered that house again, it the wotld had been offered him as a reward Some people Hopped him, in order to *lk what was the roau-r, hut he could only answer them by exclaiming “ Oh, dear! Oh. dear !” and struggling till he got free, held on his course, carelefs whether he went, provided he got far enough from the horrid scene he had fo lately witnefsed. Some have fup- poied, and 1 believe Duncan has been heard to con- fess, that he then imagined he he was running for the Highlands, but miftook the direction. However that was, he continued his course until he came t» a place

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where two ways met, a little (outh of Grange Toll. ' Here he sat down, and his frenzied passion fubfided

into a soft melancholy ;—he cried no more, but fob- bed excessively : fixed his eyes on the ground, and made feme strokes in the dust with his finger.

A sight just then appeared, which somewhat cheer- ed, c: at least interested his heavy and forlorn heart— it was a large drove of Highland cattle- They were the only creatures like acquaintances that Duncan had feen for a twelvemonth, and a tender feeling of joy, mixed with regret, thrilled his heart at the fight of their white horns and broad dew-laps As the van pafsed him, he thought their looks were particularly gruff and sullen ; he soon perceived the cause, they were all in the hands of Englishmen : poor exiles like himself;—going far away to be killed and eaten, and would never see the Highland hills again !

When they were all gone by, Duncan looked after them, and wept anew ; but his attention was suddenly called away to something that foftly touched his feet; —he looked hastily about — it was a poor hungry lame dog,'squatted on the ground, licking his feet, and manifesting the most extravagant joy. Gracious Hea- ven! it was his own byloved and faithful Oscar! starved, emaciated, and so crippled, that he was scarcely able to walk 1 He was now doomed to be the slave of a Yorkshire peasant, {who, it seems, had either bought or stolen him at Falkirk) the generosity and benevo- lence of whole feelings were as interior to thofe of Os- car as Oscar was inferior to him in strength and power. It is impossible to conceive a more tender meeiing than this was; but Duncan soon observed that hunger and misery were painted in his fiiend's looks, which again pierced 'his heart wtih feelings un- felt before “ i have not a crumb to give you, my poor Olcar !” faid be—•* 1 have not a crumb to eat myfelf, but 1 am not so ill as you are." i he peafant

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•whittled aloud. Oscar well knew the sound, and clinging to the boy’s bofom, leaned his head upon hi# thigh, and looked in his face, as if saying, “ O Dun- can, protect me from y on ruffian.” The whittle was repeated, accompanied by a loud and furly call. Os- car trembled, but fearing to difobey, he limped away reluctantly after his unfeeling matter, who obferving him to linger and look back, imagined he wanted to effect his efcape, and came running back to meet him, Oscar cowered to the earth in the moft fubmiffive and imploring manner, but the peafant laid hold of him by the ear. and uttering many imprecations, ftruck him with a thick ftaff till he lay senselefs at his feet.

Eveiy poffible circumttance feemcd combined to wound the feelings of poor Duncan, but this unmerit- ed barbarity ihocked him moft of all. He hatted to the fcene of action, weeping bitterly, and telling the man that he was a cruel brute, and that if ever he himselt grew a big man, he would certainly kill him. He held up his favourite’s head J at he might recover his breath, and the man knowing thathe could do little without his dog, waited patiently to see what would be the iffue The animal recovered, and Hammered away at the heels of his tyrant, without daring to look behind him, Duncan flood ftdlf but kept his eyes eagerly fixed upon Osear, and the farther he went from him, the more ftrong his defire grew to follow him. He looked the other way, but all there was to him a blank —he had no defirs to ftand where he was, fo he follow'ed Oscar and the drove of cattle.

The cattle were weary and went flowly, and Dun- can, getting a little goad in his hand, affifted the men greatly in driving them One of the drivers gave him a penny, and another gave him twopence : and the lad who had the charge of the drove, obferving how active and pliable he was, and how far he had accom- panied him on the way, gave him ttxpence ; this was a treasure to Duncan, who, being extremely hungry,

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bought thrfc penny rolls, as he pasefd through a town: cue of thefe he ate hinaself, another he gave to Ofcar: and the third he carried below his arm, in case of fur- ther neceflity. He drove all the day, and at night the cattle rested upon a height, which, by his descrip- tion, hems to have been that between Gala Water and Middleton. Duncan went off at a fide in com- pany with Oscar, to eat his roll, and taking shelter behind an old earthen w?ll, they shared their dry meal most lovingly between them Ere it was quite finished, Duncan being fatigued, dropped into a pro- found slumber, out of which he did not awake until the next morning was far advanced. Englishmen, cattle, and Oscar all were gone. Duncan fouudhim- fell alone on a wild height, in what country or kingdom he knew not. lie sat for some time in a callous stup- or, rubbing his eyes and scratching his head, hut quite irresolute what was further necessary for him to do, until he was agreeably surprised by the arrival of Oscar, who (though k ■ had gone at his master’s cal! in the morning) had found means to escape and feck the retreat of his young friend and benefactor Dun- can, without rcfi cting-on the confequence, rejoiced in the event, and thought of nothing else than further- ing his escape from the ruthlefs tyrant who now claimed him For this purpofe he thought it would be best to leave the road, and accordingly he crofsed it, in order to go over a waste moor to the westward. He had not got forty paces from. '• e road, until he beheld the enraged Englishman running towards him ^without !iis coat, and having his staff heaved over his shoulder. Duncan’s heart fainted within him, know, ing it was all ovei with Ofcar, and most likely w ith himself. The peafant seemed not to have observed them, as he was running, and rather looking the other way ; and as Duncan quickly lost fight of him ina hollow place that lay between them, he crept into a bush of heath and took Ofcar in his bosom : the

ibe man had observed from whence the dog ftarted ic the morning, and hafted to the place, expecting to find him sleeping beyond the old earthen dike ; he found the nest, but the birds were flown he called aloud ; Oscar trembled and clung to Duncan’s breast; Duncan peeped through his purple covert like a heath- cock on his native waste, and again beheld the ruffian coming straight towards them, with his staff itill heav- ed, and fury in his looks;—when he came within a few yards he bellowed out; “ Ofcar, yho, yho!” Oscar quaked, and (till clung closer to Duncan’s breast: Duncan almoft funk in the earth ; “ D—-r-n him,” faid the Englishman, “if l had a hold of him I should make both him and the little thievifli rafcal dear at a fmall price ; they cannot be far gone—1 think I hear them;” he then ftood liftening, but at thatnnllant a farmer came up on horfeback. and having heard him call, afked him if he had lost his dog ? The peasant anfwered in the affirmative, and added, that a black- guard boy had stolen him. The farmer faid that he met a boy with a dog about a mile forward. During this dialogue, the farmer s dog came up to Duncan’s den,—itnelled upon him, then upon Ofcar —cocked his tail, walked round them gro vling, and then be- haved in a very improper and uncivil manner to Dun- can, who took all patiently, uncertain whether he was yet difcovercd But fo intent was the fellow upon the farmer ’s intelligence, that he took no notice,of the difeovtry made by the dog, but ran off without look- ing over his fhoulder.

Duncan felt this a deliverance fo great, that all h’s other dillrefses vaniihed ; and as foon as the man was

of his fight, he arofe from his covert and ran over the moor, and ere it was long, came to a (hepherd’s house, where he got fome whey and bread for his breakfaft, which he thought the beft meat he had ever taft'-d. yet (hared it with Ofcar.

Though 1 had his hiflory (torn his own mouth, yet

there is a fpace here which it is impoflible to relate with any degree of distinctness or interest. He was a vagabond boy, without any fixed habitation, and wan- dering about Herriot Moor, from one farm-iiouse to another, for the space of a year; flaying from one to twentv ni. hts in each houfe, accordirig as he found the people kind to him, He seldom resented any indignity offered to himself, but whoever insulted Os- car, or off ^ any obfervatipns on the impropriety of their frienc8i..p lofl Duncan’s company next morning, He ftaid feveral months at a place called Dewar, which he faid » as haunted by the ghoft of a piptr ;—that piper had hern murdered there many years before, in a manner fomewhat myfterious, or at lead unaccounta- ble ; and there was fcarcely a night on which he was suppose < either to be feen or beard about the houfe. Duncan flept in the cow houfe, and was terribly ha- rass, d by the } i,nr, he often heard him fcratching about the rafters, and sometimes he would groan like a ir.au dying, or a cow that was choaked in the band ; but at length he faw him at his side one night, which fo dif- composed him that he was obliged to leave the place, after being ill for many days. 1 shall give this (lory in Duncan’s own words, which I have often heard him repeat without any variation.

“ f had been driving some young cattle to the heigts of Willenslie—it grew late before 1 got home.— 1 was thinking, aad thinking, how cruel it was to kill the poor piper ! to cut out his tongue, and flab him in the back 1 thought it was no wonder that his ghoft took it extremely ill; when, all on a hidden, I per- ceived a light before me; — 1 thought the wand in my hand was all on fire, and threw it away, but 1 perceiv- ed the light glide sloiyly by my right foot, and burn behind me;— 1 was nothing afraid, and turned about to look at the light, and there 1 saw the piper, who was standing hard at my back, and when I turned round, be looked me in the face ” “ What was he

like, Duncan ?” “ He was like a dead body ! but 1 got a shoit view of him ; for that moment all around me grew dark as a pit !—1 tried to run, but furdt powerless to the earth, and lay in a kind of dream, I do not know how long: when 1 came to myself, 1 got up, and endeavoured to run, but fell to the ground every two steps. 1 was not a hundred yards from the house, and I am fure I fell upwards of a hundred times. Next day I was in a high fever: the servants made me a little bed in the kitchen, to which 1 was confined by illness many days, during which time I suffered the most dreadful agonies by night, always imagining the piper to be standing over me on the one side or the other. As foon as I was able to walk, I left Dewar, and for a long time durst neither sleep alone during the night, nor stay by myself in the day- time.”

The superstitious ideas impressed upon Duncan’s mind by this unfortunate encounter with the ghost of the piper, feern never to have been eradicated; a strong instance of the power of early impressions, and a warn- ing how much caution is necessary in modelling the conceptions of the young and tender mind, for of all men 1 ever knew, he is the most afraid of meeting with apparitions- So deeply is his imagination tainted with this startling illusion, that even the calm disqui- sitions of reafan have proved quite inadequate to the task of dispelling it. Whenever it wears late, he is , always on the look-out for these ideal beings, keeping a jealous eye upon every bush and brake, in case they should be lurking behind them, ready to fly out and furprife him every moment ; and the approach of a perfon in the dark, or any fudden noise, always de- prives him of the power of fpetch for some time.

After l»aving Dewar, he again wandered about for a few weeks ; and it appears that his youth, beauty, and peculiarly destitute situation, together with his frendship for his faithful Oscar, had interested the

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fnost part of the country people in his behalf, for he was generally treated with kindness He knew his father’s name, and the name of his house; but as none of the people he visited had ever before heard of eitht r the one or the other, they gave themselves no trouble about the matter.

He ftaid nearly two years in a place he called Cow* haur, till a wretch, with whom he flept, (truck and abufed him one day. Duncan, in a rage, flew to the loft, and cut all his Sunday hat, fltoes, and coat, in pieces; and, not daring to abide the ccnfequenccs, decamped that night.

He wandered about for fame time longer, among the farmers of Tweed and Yarrow; but this life was now become exceedingly disagreeable to him. He durst not sleep by himself, and the fervants did not always choose that a vagrant boy and his great dog fhould sleep with them.

It was on a rainy night, at the clofe of harvest that Duncan came to my father’s houfe. 1 remember all the circumstances as well as the transactions of yes- terday The whole of his clothing consisted only of one black coat, which, having been made for a full grown man, hung fairly to his heels; the hair of his head was rouijh, curled, and weather beaten ; but his face was ruddy and beautiful, bespeaking a healthy body, and a fenlible feeling heart. Oscar was flill nearly as large as himself, had the colour of a fox, with a white ftripe down his face, and a ring of the fame colour around his neck, and was the moft beau- tiful colley 1 have ever feen My heart was knit to Duncan at the firft fight, and I wept for joy when I faw my parents fo kind to him. My mother in par. ticular, could scarcely do anything else than conveife witV Duncan for feveral days. 1 was always of the party, and listened with wonder and admiration ; but often havethefe adventures been repeated to me. My parents, who foon feeraed to feel the same concern for

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i h*n as If he had been their e wa fon, clothed him ia blue diugget, and bought him a fmart little Highland

■ bonnet; in which dress he looked so charming, that I ii would not let them have peace, until I got one of the ;; fame, indeed, all that Duncan said or did was to me I a pattern, for I lov-d him as my own life. I was, at

my own request, which he persuaded me to Urge, per- mitted to be his bed-fellow, and many a happy night and day did 1 fpend with Duncan and Oscar.

As far as l remember, we felt no privation of any kind, and would have been completely happy, if it had not been for the fear of.spirits. When the converfa- tion chanced to turn upon the Piper of Dewar, the

i Maid ol Ploia, or the Pedlar of Thiilestane Mill, often ' have we lain with the bed clothes drawn over our heads

until nearly fuffocated. We loved the fairies aud the :ij| brownies, and even felt a little partiality for the wer- li maids, on account of their beauty and charming songs;

i we were a little jealous of the water kelpies, and al- l ways kept abof from the tfightSdfttf^'JOls. We ha ted I the devil most heartily, but w r were not much afraid I of him ; but a ghost ! oh, dreadful ! t!ie names ghost,

spirit, or appsrition, sounded in our ears like the knell of destruct oo, and our hearts sui k within us as if pierced by ti e cold icy shaft of death. Duncan herd- ed my father’s cows all the fummer— fo did I—we

. could not live asunder. We grew fishers so eitperC, :i that the speckled trout, with alfhisart, could not elude :> our machinations ; we fo'ccd him from his watery cove, y admired the beautiful shades and purple drops that i wue painted on his sleeky sides, and forthwith added ti him io our number, without reluctance. We assailed J tlye habitativu of the wild bee, and rifled all her accu- i. mulated Iweets, though not without, encountering the

most determined resistance My father’s meadows abounded with hives; they were almost in every swath — in every hillock When the [warm was large, they would beat at oil’, day after day. la all these despe-

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rate engagements. Ofcar came to our affiftance, andj provided that none of the enemy make a lodgement in his lower defiles, he was always the lafl combatant ol our party on the field 1 do not remember of ever be. ing so much diverted by any scene 1 ever wicnested or laughing as immoderately as 1 have done, at feeing Oscar involved in a moving cloud of wild bees, wheel ing, soaping on all sides, and (baking his ears inces fantly.

The fagacity which this animal pofTefied is almoftj incredible, while his undaunted fpfrit and generofity it would do honour to every fervant of our own speciest to copy. Twice did he fave his maker’s life : at one time when attacked by a furious bull, and at another time when he fell from behind my father, off a horse into a flooded river. Olcar had juft fwiramed acrofs, hut inftantly plunged in a f cond time to !us mafter’s refcue. He firft, got hold of his bonnet, but that ing off, he quitted it, and again catching hifc by the coat, brought ifim to the fide, where my father reach, ed him He waked Duncan at a certain hour every morning, and would frequently turn the cows of his own will, when he observed them wrong. If Duncan dropped his knife, or guy other fmall article, he would feten it along in his mouth; and if sent back for a lost thing, would infallibly find it. When fixteen years of age, after being unwell for fcveral days, he died one night below his mafter’s bed. On the evening before, when Duncan came in from the plough, he came from l.is hiding-place, wagged his tail, licked Duncan’s band, and returned to his death-bed. Duncan end L lamented him with unfeigned forrow, buried him be- low the old rowan tree at the back of ray father’s gar- den, placing a square (lone at his head, which was (till (landing the laft time I was there. With great labour, wc composed an epitaph between us, which was once carved on that (lone; the metre was good, but the stone was sg hard, and the engraving fp faint, that the

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characters, like those of our early joys, are long ago defaced and extinct. Often have I heard my mother relate with enthusiasm,

the manner in which fhe and my father firfl discover- ed the dawnings of gpodness and facility of conception in Duncan’s mind, though, 1 confefs, dearly as 1 loved him, these circumstances escaped my observation It Was my father’s invariable custom to pray with the fa- mily every night before they retired to rest, to thank the Almighty for his kindness to them during the by- gone day, and to beg his protection through the dark and silent watches of the n'ght. I need not inform any of my readers, that that amiable duty, consided in singing a few ftanzas of a psalm, in which all the family joined their voices with my father’s, so that the double octaves of the various ages tad fexes swelled to the simple conce'rt. He then ivad a chapter from the Bible, going draight on from beginning to end of the Bcriptuics. T: c praye.r concluded the devotions of egch evening, in which the downfall of Antichrid was always strenuously urged, the ministers of the Gospel remembered, nor was any friend or neighbour in dis- tiefs forgot.

At one time, the year following, my father, in the course of his evening devotions, had reached the 19th chapter of the hook of Judges; when he began reading it, Duncan was seated on the other side of the house, but ere it was half done, he had ftolen up close to my father’s elbow, “ Consider of it,take ad- vice, speak your mind,” fair! my father, and elofed the bock “Go on, goon if you please, Sir,” faid Duncan — “ go on, and let us hear what they said about it.” My father lacked sternly in Dwncan’s face, but seeing him ahafhed on account of his hady breach of decency, without uttering a word, he again opened the Bible, and read the 20th chapter thioughout, notwithdanding ot its greaf length, Next day Duncan was walking about with the Bible below his arm; begging of every

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body to read it to him a^ain and again. This incident produced a conversation between my parents, on the expences and utility of education : the consequence of which was. that the week following. Lluncan and I were sent to the parish school, and began at the same instant to the study of that most important and funda- mental branch <-f literature, the A, B, C; but my sister Mary, who was older than I, was already au ac- curate and elegant reader

This reminds me of another anecdote of Duncan, with regard to family worship, which f have often heard related, and which f myself may well remember. My father happening to be absent over night at a fair, when the usual time of worship arrived my mother desired a lad, one of the servants, to act as chaplain for that night: the lad declined it, and slunk away to his bed. My mother testified her regret that we should all he obliged to go prayerless to our beds tor that night, observing that she did not remember the time when it had so happened before. Duncan fatdhe. thought we might contrive to manage it amongst us, and instantly proposed to sing the psalm and pray, if Mary would read the chapter. I o tin’s my mother with some hesitation agreed, remarking, that if he pray- ed as he could, with a pure heart, his jj,ruyer had ao good a chance of being accepted as same other that were better worded Duncan cmld not thenrread, but having learned fevtral pmlms from Mary by rote^ he caused her feek out the place, and suarj the 23d Pfalm from end to end, with great sweetness and de- cency. Maty read a chapter in the New Testament, ami then (my mother having a child on her knee^ we three kneeled in a row. while Duncan prayed thus:—“ O Lord, be thou our Goo our guide, and ourguard unto death, & through death’*, that was a sentence my f „her often used in prayer Duncan hed Kid hold of it, and my mother began to think 'hat he had often prayed previous to that time,—‘ O Lord, thou’—continued Duncait but

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fus matter was exhausted ; a long pause ensued, which 1 at length broke, by bursting into a loud fit of laugh- ter Duncan rofc hallily, and without once lifting up his bead, went crying to his bed ; and as 1 continu- ed to indulge in laughter, my mother, for my irreve- rent behaviour, (buck me acrofs the Ihouldcrs with the

I tongs ; o'ur evening devotions terminated exceedingly ill, I went crying to my bed after Duncan, even loud- er than he, and a*■ • sing him for his useless prayer, for which I had been 'Tcatly felled.

By the time that we were recalled from school to herd the cows next summer, we could both read the Bible with considerable facility, but Duncan far excel- led me in perfpicacity ; and fond was he of reading Bible history,‘’that the reading of it was now our con- ftant amusement. Often have Mary, and he, and 1, lain under the firnie phid, by the fide of the corn or

i meadow, and read chapter about on the Bible for hours E together, weeping over the failings and fall of good

iil tiien, ano wondering at tur iftconceiVabU might of the heroes of antiquity. Never was man fo delighted as

i Duncan was when he came to the history of Sampfon, I and afterwards of David and Goliah ; he could not be

satisfied .until he had read it to every individual with whom he was acquainted, judging it to be as new and as interesting to every one as it was to himfelf 1 have seen him standing by the girls as they were milking the cows, reading to them the feats of Samfoo;

8 and, in fhott, harafiing every man and woman, about it the hamlet, for audience. On Sundays, my parents ;a accompanied us to the fields, and joined in out delight- s' ful cxercife

l ime pafstd away, and so aUo did our youthful de- li lights ! but other carts and other pleasures awaited us. i As we advanced in years and llrtngth, wt quirted the i herding, and bore a hand in the labours of the farm, ti Mary, too, was often <-ur affillant. She and Duncan

were nearly of an age—he was tall, comely, and affable;

and if Mary was not the piettiest girl in the parish, at least Duncan and 1 believed her to be so, which, with us, amounted to the fame thing. We often compar- ed the other girls in the parish with one another as to their beauty and accomplishments, but to think of comparing any of them with Mary, was entirely out of the question, She was, indeed, the emblem of truth, simplicity, and innocence, and if there were few more beautiful, there were still fewer so good and amiable; but still as she advanced in years, ihe grew fonder and fonder of being near Duncan ; and by the time (lie was nineteen; was fo deeply in love, that it affected her manner, her spirits, and her health. At one time (he was gay and frifley as a kitten ; (he would dance, sing, and laugh violently at the moft trivial incidents. At other times (he was filent and fad, while a langui(hing foftness overfpread her fea- tures, and added greatly to her charms The passion was undoubtedly mutual between them; butDuncan* either from a fenfe of honour, or feme other cause, never declared himself farther on the subject, than by the moft respe&ful attention, and tender assiduities.

About forty years ago the flocks of southern sheep, which have since that period inundated the Highlands, had not found their way over the Grampian mountains, and the native flocks of that fequeftratid country were so scanty, that it was found necessary to transport small quantities of wool annually to the north, to fur- nish materials for clothing the inhabitants. During two months of each summer, the hilly countries of the Lov. lands were inundated oy hundreds ot women from the Highlands, who bartered fmall articles of dre(s, and of domeftic import, for wool; these were known by the appellation of norlen* netties ; and few nights pr.ffed, eluting the wool season, that some of them were not lodged at my lather’s house. It was from two of thefe that Duncan learned one day who and what he was ; that he was the laird of Glenellich’s

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only son and heir, and that a large fum had been of- fered to any perfon that could difcover him My parents certainly rejoiced in Duncan’s good fortune, yet they were difconsolate at parting with hita : for he had long ago become as a fon of their owr } and 1 feriously believe, that from the day they firft met, ta that on which the two norlan' netties came to our houfe, they never once entertained the idea of parting. For my part, 1 wifhed that the nelties had never been born, or that they had ftaid at their own home ; for the thoughts of being feparated from my dear friend

i made me fick at heart All our feelings, were, how- i ever, nothing, when compared with thofe of my sifter,

!f Mary. One day at dinner, after a long and fallen paufe,

t my father faid, “ 1 hope you do not intend to leave ill uo very soon, Duncan?” “ 1 am thinking of going

H away to morrow, Sir,” said Duncan. The knife fell ill from my mother’s hand; ihe looked him s’eadily in

:l the face for the fpace of a minute. “ Duncan,” said !l fire, her voice faultering, and the tears dropping il from her eye—“ Duncan, 1 never durst afk you .1 before, but 1 hope you will not leave us altogether?” { Duncan thrust the plate from before him into the i middle of the table—took up a book that lay on the i window, and looked over the pages—Mary left the I room. No anfwer was returned, nor any further

inquiry made ! and our little party broke up in ft. lence.

)I When we met again in the evening, we were ftiil all fallen. My father faid, “ You will foon forget us, Duncan ; but there are fome among us who will cot fo foon forget you. Mary again left the room, and silence enfued, until the family were called toge- ther for evening worship.

The next mor.iing, after a rcstlefs night, Duncan •/ rofe early, put on. his best fuit, and packed up fome t little articles to carry with him. 1 lay panting and

18

trembling, but pretended to be fast afleep. When be was ready to depart, he took his bundle below his arm, came up to the fide of the bed, and liftened if 1 was ' sleeping. He then ftood long hesitating, looking wist- fully to the door, and then to me alternately; and 1 faw him three or four times wipe his eyes. At length he firook me gently by the Ihoulder, and asked if 1 was awake. I feigned to ftart, and answered as if half j asleep. “ 1 must bid you farewell,” faid he, groping | to get hold of my hand- “Will you not breakfast with us, Duncan,” faid 1- “No,” faid he, “1 am . thinking that it is best to fteal away, for it will break ray heart to take leave of your parents, and”—•* And who, Duncan ?” faid 1. “ And you,” faid he “ In- deed, but it is best Duncan,” faid J, “ we will all breakfaft together for the last time, and then take a formal and kind leave of each other ” VVe did break- fast together, and as the converfation turned on for- mer days, it became highly infetesting to usall When my father had returned thanks to Heaven lor cur meal, we knew what was coming, and began to look at each other. Duncan rofc, and after we had all loaded him him with our blf fiings and warmest wishes, he embraced 1

my parents and me. He turned abnut, — His eyes said plainly, there is fomebody still wanting, but his heart j v/as D full he could n*»r fpeak. “ What is become of Mary ?” faid my father ;—Mary was gone.—We fearched the house, the garden, and the houses of lei the cottagers, but fhe was no where to be found — Poor level urn forfaken Mary ! She had hid herfeif in the ancient yew that grows in front of the old ruin, that fhe might fee her lover depirt, without herfeif being feen, and might' ndnlge in all the luxury of woe.

J man pufs over Duncan’s journey to the north Highlands, tor want of room ; but on the evening of the sixth day af'er leaving my father’s house, he reach- ed he mansion-house of Glenellich, which stands in a little beautiful woody strath, commanding a view of

19

the Deu.Caledonian Sea, and part of the Hebrides; every avenue, Um, and rock, was yet familiar to Dun- can’s recollection: and the feelings of his fensible heart like his own. He had, without discovering him- self, learned from a peafant that his father was still alive, but that he had never overcome the lofs of his son, for whom he lamented every day ; that his w de and daughter lorded it over him, holding his pleafure at nought, and rendering his age extremely unhappy, that they'had expelled all his old farmers and vaisals; and introduced the lady’s vulgar presumptuous rela- tions, who neither paid him rents; honour, nor obedi- ence.

Old Glenellich was taking his evening walk on the road by whir’’ Duncan descended the strath to his d welling He was pondering on his own miafortunes, and did not even deign to lift his eyes as the stranger approached, but seemed courting the number of maiks which the horfes’ hoofs had made on the way “ Good e en to vou. Sir,” faid Duncan ;—the o’* man stalled and stared him in the face, but with a Icok fo un- steady and harrafsed, that he feemed incapable dis- tinguishing any Hn-eammt or feature oi tt “ Good e’en,' faiu he, wiping hisLrow with his arm, and pass- ing by. — What there was in the voice that struck him so forcibly it is hard to say-^-Nature is powerful.— Duncan could net think of ought to detain him ; and being desirous of feeing how matters went on about the house, thought it best to remain some days incog. He went into the fore kitchen, conversed freely with the fervants, and soon Saw his ftepmother and sitter appear. The former had all th^ insolence and ig- norai * pride of vulgarity raifed to wealth and emi- nence; the other feemed naturaPy ol an amiable disposition, but was entirely ruled by her moiher,. who taught her to disdain her father, ali hi:1 relations, and whomsoever he loved. On ’hat . ame evening he

a me into the kitchen, where she then was chatting

...

20

with Duncan, to whom fhe fcemed attached at first fight “ Lexy, my dear,” faid he, Adid you fee my fpectacles?” “ Yes,” faid flic, “ I think 1 faw them on your nofe to day, at breakfaft ” Well, but I have loft them fince,” faid he, “You may take up the next you find then, Sir, “laid she;—The fervants laughed. “ l might well have known what informa- tion I would get of you,” said he, regretfully. “How can you fpeak in fuch a ftyle to your father, my dear lady ?” faid Duncan —“ If I were he, I would place you where you would learn better manners —• it ill becomes fo pretty a young lady to addrefs an old father thus.” “ He,” faid (he, who minds him? He's a dotard, an old whining, complaining, fupcr- anuated being, worfe than a child-” “ But confider his years,” faid Duncan ; “ and befidet, he may have met with crofses and loises fufficien: to four the temper of a younget man —You (hould at all events pity and reverence, but m ver dcfpife your father.” The old lady now joiid them. “ You have yet heard no- thing, young man,” faid the old laird, “if you faw how my heart is fometimes wrung —“ Yes, 1 have had Ioffes indeed.” “You lofses!”said his spoufe “ No: you never had any Ioffes that did not in the end turn out a vast profit ”—Do you then count the loss of a loving wife and a son, nothing?” said he—“ hut have you not got a loving wife and a daugh- ter in their room,” returned fhe ; “'the one will not wafte your fortune as a prodigal fon would have done, and the other will takecarc of both you and that, when you can no longer do either—the lofs of ycur fon, in- deed ; it was the greatest bleifiiig you could have received;’ “Unfeeling woman ” said he; “but Hea- ven may yet reftore that son to protect the gray hairs of his old father, and lay his head in an honoured grave ” The old man’s fpirits we.v quite gone — he cried like a child; — bis lady mimicked him—and, at this, his daugh-

ter and the fervanta raised a laugh. “ Inhuman i wretches," frid Duncan, starti .g up, and pufhing them

afide, “ thus to mock the feelings of an old man, even i although he were not the lord and master of you

all: but take notice—the individual among you all thatfdares to offer fuch another infult to him, I’ll roast on that fire." The old man clung to him, and looked him ruefully in the face. “ You impudent,

. beggarly vagabond !’’ faid the lady, “ do you know to whom you speak ?—fervants turn that wretch out

; of . the house, and hunt him with all the dogs in the : kennel.” “ Softly, softly, good lady,” said Dun- ' can, “ take care that 1 do not turn you out of the house.” —“ Alas, good youth,” said the old laird; “ you little know what you are about; for mercy’s sake forbear ; you are brewing vengeance both for

i yourfelf and me ” “Fear not,” said Duncan, “1 will protect you with my life” “ Pray, may I ask you what is your name?” faid the old man, still looking

' earnestly at him—“ That you may,” replied Duncan, I “ no man has so good a right to ask any thing of me, tai you have—I am Duncan Campbell, your own fon ’’

M-m-m my son !” exclaimed the old man, and sunk back on a feat with a convulsive moan. Duncan held him in his arms—he soon recovered, and afked many incoherent questions—looking at the two moles

non his right leg—kifsed him, and then wept on his -.bofom for joy. “ O God of heaven,” faid he, “ it is

:;iulong since I could thank thee heartily for any thing ; now I do thank thee indeed, for I have found my fon !

i my dear and only son '” i Contrary to what might have been expected, Dun- ijlcan's pretty only sifter, Altxia, rejoiced most of all \ in his difeovery. She was almost wild with joy at ufinding such a brother.— be old lady, her mother, .iwas faid to have wept bitterly in private, but knowing i that Duncan would be her master, she behaved to 'him with civility aud respect. Every thing was com- i mitted to his management, and he foon discovered,

2>

that befides a good clear estate, his fatherhad perfonal funds to a great amount The halls and cottages of Glen* ellich were filled with feafting, joy, and gladnefs.

It was not fo at my father’s house. Misfortune seldom come fingly. Scarcely had our feelings ever- come the (hock, which they received by the lofs of our beloved Duncan, when a more terrible misfortune overtook us, My father, by the monfttous ingrati- tude of a fritnd whom he trusted, loft at'once the greater part of his hard-earned fortune. I'he blow came unexpectedly, and diftracted hi" personal affairs to fuch a degree, that an arrangement feemed al- moft totally impracticable. He ftruggled on with fecurities for several months ; but perceiving that he was drawing his real friends into danger, by their figning of bonds which he mi^ht never be able to re- deem, he loft heart entirely, and yielded to the tor- rent. Mary’s mind seemed to gain frelh energy every day. The activity and diligence which (he evinced ia managing the affairs of the farm, and even in giv- ing advice with regard to other matters, is quite in- incredible ; — often have 1 thought what a treafure that ineftimable girl would have been to an indufttious man whom (he loved: All our efforts availed nothing; my father received letters of horning on bills to a large amouni, and we expected every day that he would he taken from us and dragged to a pnfon

We were all fitting in our little room one day, con- fulting what was best to be done - we could decide upon nothing, for our cafe was desperate—we were fallen into a kind of ftupnr, but the, window being up, a fight appeared that quickly thrilled every heart with the keenest fenfat.on of anguifh Two men came riding (harply up by t^e back of the old school- house'. “ Yonder are the officers of juftice now,” fatft my mother, “what (hall we do?” We hurried to the window, and all of us fooa dilcerned that they wete no other than some attorney, accompanied

!

by a sheriff’* officer. My mother entreated of my father to escape and hide himself until this first storm wa* overblown, but he would in nowise consent, afstsr* ing us that he had done n >thing of which he was asham- ed, and was determined to meet every one face to face, and let them do their worft : so finding all our entreaties vain, we could do nothing but sit down and weep. At length we h<Srrd the noife of their hprses at the door. “Yon had better take the njen’s horses James,” said my father, “ as there is no other man at hand.” “ We will ftay till they rap, if you please,” said I. The cautious officer did not however rap, but afraid lest his deb:or fhould make his escape, he jumped lightly from his horfe, and hasted into the house. When we heard him open the outer door, and his footiteps approaching along the entry, our hearts fainted within fis—he opened the door and stepped into the room—it was Duncan ! our own dearly beloved Duncan. The women uttered an in- voluntary feream of Surprise, but my father ran and got hold of one hand, and 1 of the other—my mother too, soon had him in her arms, but our embrace was fhort ; for his eyes fixed on Mary, who flood trem- bling with joy and wonder :n a corner «f the room, changing her colour every moment—he snatched her up in his arms and kissed her lips, and ere ever she was aware, her arms had encircled his neck, “ O my dear Mary,” said he, “my heart has been ill at ease since l left you, tut I durst not then tell you a word of my mind, for l l.ttle knew how I was to find affairs in the place where l-was going; but ah ! you little elusive rogue, you owe me another for the one yon cheated me out of then;‘,'fo faying, he preffed his lips again to her cheek, and then led her to a feat. Du. can then recr uited all his adventures to us, with every circumstance of his good fortune —our hearts were uplifted almofl pall bearing—all our cares and fotrows were now forgotten, and we were once more

24

the happiest little group that ever perhaps sat to- gether. Before the cloth was laid tor dinner, Mary ran out to put on her white gown, and comb her yel- low hair, but was furprifed at meeting with a smart young gentleman in the kitchen, with a scarlet neck on his coat, arid a gold-laced hat. Mary, hrving never seen fo fine a gentleman, made him a low courtesy, and offered to conduct him to the room: but he fmiled, and told her he was the squire’s ser- vant. We had i'll of us forgot to afk for the gentle- man that came with Duncan.

Duncan and Mary walked for two hours in t;:e garden that evening ; we did not know what prifed between them, but the next day he afked her in m.-.r- riage of my parents, and never will I forget the iu- preme happiness and gratitude that beamed in every face on that happy occafion. .1 need not tell my readers that my father's affairs were soon retrieved, or that I accompanied my dear Mary a bride to the Highlands, and bad the fatisfaction of faluting her as Mrs. Campbell, and Ludy of Glenelh’ch.

4 ’ ' '

FINIS,

J. Ncilfon, printer.