THE LEGEND OF SERJEANT JOHN SMITH’S ADVENTURES.

To understand my story the better, gentlemen, you must yemaygine to yourselves a snug well-doing Nairnshire farmer’s onstead,1 situated in the parish of Auldearn, with a comfortable dwelling-house, of two low stories, accurately put down, so as mathematically to face the twelve o’clock line,—with its crow-steppit gables, small windows, little out-shot low addition behind, tall chimneys, and grey-slated roof—just such a house, to wit, as a man of his condition required [2]in the middle of the last century—with two lines of strange-looking thatched or sod-covered stables, byres, barns, and other out-houses, projecting from its sides at right angles to its front, with divers out-riders, and isolated straggling edifices, of similar architecture and materials, dropped down here and there, as the hand of chance might have sown them—the smoke coming furth from some of their lumm-heads, and partly also from their low door-ways, proving to you, almost against your conviction, that they actually are the dwelling-places of human beings.—Fancy the whole grouped (as Mr.

Grant, the long painter lad of Grantown, would have said) with sundry goodly rows of peat and turf stacks, a number of corn ricks wonderfully formed, and bulging and hanging out of the centre of gravity, each in a different direction, like a parcel of drunken Dutch dancers;—in the midst of all a large midden—(query whether the word midden may not be a mere corruption of the words middle-in,—the midden being always in the middle of all rural premises in Scotland? so that unlucky visitors not unfrequently walk [3]up to the middle into the middle of it.)—Then picture to yourselves, behind the biggins, sundry kail-yards, with a few very ancient ash trees, sycamores, and rowan trees, rising from among their bourtree fences, or from the sides of their dilapidated dry-stone dikes. At a little distance below, a bog, with its attendant pools of dark moss-water, which shine amidst the black chaotic mass around them, and look blue by their reflection of the sky—with a half-ruined and roofless killogie, or kiln for drying corn and malt, standing on

a sloping bank at no great distance from them. Then people all this with the farmer himself, a stout, hale, healthy-looking man, going bustling about from door to door among his folk, his muck-carts, and his horses, with a hodden-grey coat upon his back, a broad blue bonnet on his head, a hazle staff in his hand, and a colley and one or two rough terriers and greyhounds at his heels, shouting every now and then in Gaelic to his man, John Smith, a tall, handsome, strong-built Highlander, whilst the gudeman’s wife, a very good-looking, round-formed, trigly-dressed Englishwoman, is [4]seen appearing and disappearing from under the wooden porch, over which some attempts have been made to trail a plant or two of rose and honeysuckle, but which attempts have been rendered abortive by the epicurean taste of the browsing animals of the farm—her south country tongue sounding quick and sharp in the ears of Morag, or Mary, a clever, well-made, bare-footed, and short-gowned Highland lass, with pleasing countenance,

largish cheek bones, black snooded hair, sparkling eyes, arched eyebrows, and rosy cheeks, busied in washing out her milk cogues, with her coats kilted up to her knees. To which add the herd of cows, oxen, queys, stirks, and calves of all sorts and sizes, with a due mixture of sheep and lambs, and pownys, sprinkled all about, feeding among the whinny pasture-hillocks and baulks, dividing the queer-shaped patches of the surrounding arable land.—Above all, I would have you particularly to remark a vurra large sow-beast, with a numerous litter of pigs, grubbing up the ground about the old killogie, amid the ruins of which her progeny first saw [5]the light. In addition thereto, fancy, in the words of our own Scottish pastoral poet, Allan Ramsay, that

“Hens on the midden, ducks in dubbs are seen,”

and you will be in full possession of the first scene of my tale, as well as acquainted with some of its more important dramatis personæ.

Mr. MacArthur, the farmer, though a Highlander, was a stanch Whig, which made him, as you may well suppose, gentlemen, rather a

“Rara avis in terris, nigroque simillima cygno”

among his brother Celts. He had acquired his principles during his residence in England, where he had fallen in with and married his wife, who was a woman of good condition for her rank of life, and of superior yeddication. She was attached to the Hanoverian royal family, both by principle and interest. Her brother was an officer in the Royal Regiment; and as everything connected with England was dear to her, because it was her country, so every thing connected with the English army was [6]especially dear to her on her brother’s account.

During the year 1745, when the recruiting for the army of the Prince of the Stuarts was going on, many of Mr. MacArthur’s servants, and John Smith in particular, manifested a strong disposition to enlist under his banners. But so powerful were the influence and eloquence of this English lady, that she succeeded in dissuading them, one by one, from following out the bent of their inclinations. This her zealous and active opposition to the Prince’s cause, soon began to attract public attention, in a district where it was so generally favoured. She became a marked object of dislike to the Jacobites, and this all the more so, perhaps, that she was an Englishwoman. Oftener than once it happened, that, whilst they spared some of her neighbours, whose politics were dubious, and therefore obnoxious in their eyes, they plundered her goodman’s farm on her especial account. But these depredations were comparatively trifling, and protected as she was by her husband’s fortitude, she bore these little [7]evils with the magnanimity of a martyr; nay, she even ventured to talk of them with

contempt, and there were many people who believed that she actually gloried in them. As Mr. MacArthur was a Highlander, and spoke the Gaelic language fluently, he might perhaps have been able, by modest behaviour, kind treatment, and smooth words, in some degree to have mitigated the prejudice which his countrymen had against his wife as a Pensassenach, or English wife, as she was uniformly called by way of reproach. But husbands cannot always restrain the political enthusiasm of their ladies—and so it was with Mr. MacArthur. With or without his approbation she scrupled not, at times, when a good opportunity offered, to set the Jacobites at defiance, to give them all manner of opprobrious epithets, and, with all a woman’s rashness, but with more than feminine intrepidity, she dared them to do their worst.

It was after sunset on the evening of the 13th of April, 1745, that the Pensassenach was seated in her elbow chair, by the fire in her little [8]parlour. She was alone, for her husband had been called away from home, for some days, on very urgent business, and as she felt herself slightly indisposed, she was prepared to take particular care of herself for that night. A small tall-shaped chased silver vessel of mulled elderberry wine, with a close top to it to keep its contents warm, together with a very tiny silver cup, were placed beside her on a little round walnut-tree table, supported on a single spiral pillar with three claws. She was about to pour out a little of this medicinal fluid, to be taken preparatory to retiring to bed for the night, when she was startled by a noise in the kitchen, and immediately afterwards she was alarmed by the abrupt entrance of her maid Morag.

“Mem!—Mem!” cried the girl, breathless with the importance of her intelligence, “tare’s Wully Tallas, ta packman in ta kitchen!—He’s come a’ ta way frae Speymouth sin yesterday. Ta Englishers are a’ comin’ upon us horse and futs!—horse and futs an’ mockell cannons, an’ we’ll be a’ mordered, an’ waur!—fat wull we do?” [9]

“What say you, girl?” exclaimed the Pensassenach, starting from her chair, and overturning all her meditated comforts in her hurry. “But get out of my way, you senseless fool, I’ll speak to the man myself. Dallas! Will Dallas!” cried she, throwing her voice shrilly along the passage, towards the kitchen. “Come this way, Will Dallas, and let me hear your news from your own mouth!”

“Comin’ mem!” cried the travelling merchant, as he appeared limping along the passage, by no means sorry to be thus called on to unbuckle his budget of news, which he was always ready to dispose of at a much cheaper rate than he generally sold his goods.

“Where have you come from, Will Dallas?” cried the Pensassenach; “and what news have ye got?”

“Weel, ye see, mem, I hae come straught frae Speymooth, as fast as my heavy pack and this happity lamiter leg o’ mine wad let me,” replied Dallas. “And my pack’s very heavy yee noo, for I’ve got a grand new stock o’ gudes in’t.”

“Well, well! never mind your goods at [10]present!” cried the impatient Pensassenach; “quick! quick! what news have you?”

“Od, mem, it wad at no rate do for me no to mind my goods at a’ times and at a’ saisins,” said Dallas. “But touching the news, mem,—the Duke, mem—that is, the Duke o’ Cummerland, I mean, crossed the Spey yesterday wi’ a’ his airmy.”

“Is it possible?” cried the Pensassenach, her eyes sparkling with delight.

“It’s quite true, mem, for I seed the whole tott o’ them yefeck the passage wi’ my ain een,” said Dallas.

“Ha! tell me, good Dallas, how did they cross?” demanded the lady.

“They just fuirded through the Spey, mem, in three grand deveesions, at three different pairts, just for a’ the warld as gin ye had been rollin’ aff three different pieces o’ red ribban, like, at yae time,” replied Dallas.

“A glorious sight!” cried the Pensassenach.

“Aye, truly, ye wad hae said sae had ye seen’t, mem,” said Dallas; “gin ye had seen them wi’ the sun glancin’ on their airms, and on the [11]flashin’ faem o’ the Spey! Every bone o’ them got safe across, exceppin yae dragoon that had taen a wee thoughty ower muckle liquor, and fell fae his horse,—and four weemen fouk, wha were whamled out o’ a bit cairty, and wha were a’ carried down, and a’ drooned outright.”

“Poor wretches!” said the Pensassenach. “But it was well they were not men: their lives were comparatively but little worth.”

“I daur swear that you’re right there, mem,” said Dallas; “little worth followers of the camp they were, nae doot;—and yet the hizzies were weel pit on. I followed the bodies as they soomed down the water, and cleekit ane o’ them ashore, and although her mutch was gane, she had a gude goon and a daycent rocklay on, and ither things forbye; but they ware a’ sae spiled wi’ the water, that I selt them till a woman in Elgin for an auld sang. But I’ll tell ye what it is, mem, weemen—that is, daycent weemen—have nae business——”

“You have no business with the women, Mr. Dallas,” interrupted the Pensassenach impatiently—“it is of the men—of the troops, and [12]of their noble and gallant leader that I would hear. All across, said you? and what became of the other Duke?” continued she, in a contemptuous tone. “I mean the rebel Duke—the Duke of Perth, I mean? Where was he, and where were his heroes, that they did not arrest the progress of the Royal army?”

“Troth, mem, the Duke o’ Perth and his men just came on their ways wast the country, and left the English airmy to cross at their ain wull,” replied Willy.

“Bravo! bravo!” shouted the lady, waving her hand around her head. “The false knaves dared not to face them! Well, any more news, Dallas?”

“I ken nae mair that I hae to tell ye,” said Dallas, “exceppin’ that I was in the English camp yestreen mysel’, and that I selled a wheen caumrick pocket-napkins, and three yairds o’ black ribban, till yere brither, Captain John, and I promised to ca’ in by this way aince eerant to tell ye that he was weel, and to drink his health.”

“Thank ye, thank ye, good Bill Dallas!” cried the lady, clapping her hands in an ecstasy [13]of joy; “you shall not fail to do that; but why did you not tell me this joyful news before? Stay, my good man—here is for your happy tidings!” and, running to a corner cupboard, she brought out a bottle of brandy, and filled him a tasse, that made his eyes dance in his head after he had tossed it off.

“My certy, that’s prime stuff indeed,” said Dallas, panting with the very strength of it. “And noo, mem, will ye look at my pack.—I hae some o’ the grandest jewels, rings, chains, watches, and brooches—the gayest ribbans—and, aboon a’, the bonniest lace,—ye never saw siccan lace. The captain said he was quite sure it wad tak your ee, for that you had siccan a fine taste. Troth, says I till him, you’re no far wrang there, captain; Mistress MacArthur has the best taste and joodgement in lace o’ a’ my customers, north or sooth—north or sooth, said I. It’s quite beautifou lace, mem, as ye’ll say when ye see’t; and sae cheap, too! Od, I’m sellin’ it for half nothin’. Shall I bring the pack ben here, mem?—ye’ll hae mair light here.”

“No—no—no!—not at present, Will,” cried [14]the Pensassenach, her patience quite exhausted with his prolixity. “Another time Will—but I have other fish to fry at present. Morag!—Morag, girl! run! call out all the men! My stars, how unfortunate it is that MacArthur is from home! How he would rejoice! Call all the men, I say!”

“Fat vas she cryin’ aboot?” said Morag, hurrying to answer her call.

“Run and call all the men, I tell you, girl!” cried the Pensassenach, bustling about, all life and activity, and her indisposition entirely forgotten. “Call all the men I say; and John Smith in particular. I want John Smith here immediately. What glorious news! There wont be a rascally rebel knave of them left in the whole country. And my brother John coming too! Who knows but we may have the honour of being presented to his Royal Highness the Duke of Cumberland in person! How provoking it is that MacArthur is from home!”

“Fat wad ta leddy be wantin’ wi’ her?” said John Smith, at that moment putting his head into the room, his Kilmarnock cowl, and the [15]disordered state of the covering of so much of the upper part of his person as was visible, sufficiently indicating that he had been roused from his bed. “Fat wad ta leddy be wantin’? We wus a’ beddit.”

“Run, John!” cried the impatient lady, “run and make all the people get out of their beds directly! collect every one, man and woman, about the farm. Make them yoke all the carts, and drive a whole peat-stack to the head of the knoll, and build up a large bonfire, and see that you mix your layers of peats with layers of moss-fir, and dry furze-bushes. I’ll have a blaze that shall be seen from Forres to Inverness. Have we any tar-barrels left?”

“Ou aye!” replied John; “a tar barrels tat was ower mockell fan we last tar ta sheeps.”

“Then put the whole tar-barrel in the midst of all,” cried the Pensassenach. “Come, John, why do you stand staring so? run, man, and do as I bid you, without a moment’s delay.”

“Ou aye, aye, she’s runnin’ fast,” replied John, slowly moving away. “Fod, but she’s thinks tat ta Pensassenach be gaen taft awtagedder.” [16]

“Morag! bring a basket here directly,” cried the Pensassenach, as she hurried down stairs with the large key of the cellar in her hand. “Now,” said she, putting a number of bottles into the basket, “take care of these; and make haste, and bring a cheese, and some loaves of bread, and follow me quickly out to the knoll with the basket.”

In a very little time, an enormous pile of fuel was built up on the summit of the knoll, with the tar-barrel in the centre of it, to which an opening was at first left from the external air, which was afterwards partially filled with dry furze-bushes dipped in tar, so as to afford the flame a ready communication inwards. When every thing was prepared, the Pensassenach seized a lighted candle from a lantern, and, as Dryden hath it, she

“Like another Helen, fired another Troy!”

that is to say, she set fire, not to a city, indeed, but to the whin-bushes, and the flame running inwards, to the tar-barrel, the whole mighty fabric of fuel was instantaneously in such a [17]blaze, that any one might have thought that it was Troy itself that was burning.

“Now,” said the Pensassenach, “draw me one of those stone bottles of brandy, and fill me a tasse of it. I drink to those to whom I have dedicated this bonfire—I drink, in the first place, to the health of my brother John, captain in the Royal Regiment, whom I hope soon to see here!” and, putting the cuach to her lips, she sipped a modest lady’s share of the contents.

“Come, Bill Dallas,” continued she, addressing the travelling merchant, who, tired as he was with his long tramp, had yet sneaked out to secure his share of the liquor, as well as of the fun. “Come, Bill, you must drink next; you have the best right to do so, as the bearer of the good news.”

“Weel, here’s to Captain John, and wussin’ him health, and muckle happiness, and a gude wife till him, wi’ plenty o’ siller,” said the packman, tossing off the full contents of the tasse. “I’m sure there’s no a bonnier man, nor a better man, nor a gallanter sodger—eh, [18]beg his honor’s pardon, I meant offisher—in the hail land o’ the British Isles, be the ither wha he may.”

“Well spoken, Bill,” cried the lady. “Now, John Smith, come it is your turn next.”

“Here’s helss, an’ mokel o’t, to her broder Captain Shon, and mokel gude wifes and gude sillers!” cried John Smith, draining the cuach to the last drop.—“Oich, but she’s goot trinks!” added he.

The cup and the toast went round a large and encreasing party; for the bonfire, sending up sharp pointed flames, as if it meditated piercing the very clouds, spread wonder and speculation all over the country far and wide, and brought all manner of idlers, like flies and moths, about it. A considerable space of time, as well as a tolerable quantity of brandy, was expended, before the health had been drank by every one.

“Now,” said the Pensassenach, filling the cuach again to the brim, “I drink health and success to his Royal Highness the Duke of [19]Cumberland, and confusion to all his enemies!”—and, kissing the cup merely, she handed it to the packman.

“Weel, mem, here’s wussin’ that same wi’ a’ my heart!” cried Mr. Dallas, and off went every drop of his brimmer.

“Now, John,” said the Pensassenach, filling the cuach again to the lip, “now, John Smith, it is your turn. Come, man, drink the toast—health and success to the Duke and his brave fellows.”

“Na!” said John, turning away as if the cup had contained vinegar or verjuice—“na!—Teel be on her an she do!”

“What do you mean, John?” demanded the Pensassenach in a mingled tone of surprise and displeasure. “Will you refuse to drink my toast?”

“Hoot, man, dinna refuse to drink the leddy’s toast,” said the packman. “That gude brandy wad wash down ony toast ava, let alane siccan’ a grand man, and a hero, like the Duke o’ Cummerland.—Od, man, an ye had seen him as I hae seen him, ridin’ at the head o’ his men, wi’ [20]as muckle gold lace and reyal Genowa velvet aboot him as might serve to cover a papish pupit wi’, ye wad say he was the grandest man that ever ye seed.—Come, man, drink success till him, and confusion till a’ his yennemies!”