For the imparting of _atmosphere_ to his stories, a talent so
conspicuously lacking not only in his predecessors, but also in many
of his contemporaries, he had a native faculty. The author of _Bonny
Kilmeny_ could scarcely fail in this respect, when he turned his
attention from poetry to prose. He had lived too close to nature to be
able ever to keep the green and silver of woods and rivers far from
his thoughts; they were the mirrors in which his fancy saw itself.
Professor Wilson, who had known him as a friend, writing of him in
_Blackwood's_ after his death, says: "Living for years in solitude,
he unconsciously formed friendships with the springs, the brooks,
the caves, the hills, and with all the more fleeting and faithless
pageantry of the sky, that to him came in place of those human
affections from whose indulgence he was debarred by the necessities
that kept him aloof from the cottage fire and up among the mists of
the mountain-top. The still green beauty of the pastoral hills and
vales where he passed his youth inspired him with ever-brooding
visions of fairyland, till, as he lay musing in his lonely shieling,
the world of fantasy seemed, in the clear depths of his imagination, a
lovelier reflection of that of nature, like the hills and heavens more
softly shining in the water of his native lake."

His taste is often defective, as is that of Burns on occasions. This
is a fault which might be expected in a man of his training; but the
vigor and essential worth of the matters which he relates are beyond
all question. He did not always know where to begin his short-story,
or where to terminate. Some of his tales, if edited with blue-pencil
erasures, would be found to contain a nucleus-technique which, though
far from perfect, is more than equal to that of Washington Irving,
who, like Apuleius, "cared not how he loitered by the way," and very
superior to that of most of his immediate successors in the art. His
story here included, of _The Mysterious Bride_,[15] could scarcely be
bettered in its method. To tell it in fewer words would be to obscure
it; to tell it at greater length would be to rob it of its mystery and
to make it obvious. Moreover, by employing atmosphere he tells it
in such a way as to leave the reader with the impression that this
occurrence, for all its magic, might not only be possible, but even
probable--which achievement is the greatest triumph of the short-story
writer's art.

[Footnote 15: Compare with Kipling's treatment of a similar theme in
_The Brushwood Boy_.]

As this history of the evolution of the English short-story commenced
with a poet, Chaucer,[16] who wrote all save two of his short-stories
in poetry, so it fittingly closes with a poet, the Ettrick Shepherd,
who wrote most of his short-stories in prose. It remained for yet
another poet, Edgar Allan Poe, who may never have heard the name
or have read a line from the writings of James Hogg, to bring to
perfection the task on which he had spent his labor.

[Footnote 16: The _Gesta Romanorum_ was written in Latin.]




THE APPARITION OF MRS. VEAL

_Daniel Defoe_ (1661-1731)


This thing is so rare in all its circumstances, and on so good
authority, that my reading and conversation have not given me anything
like it. It is fit to gratify the most ingenious and serious inquirer.
Mrs. Bargrave is the person to whom Mrs. Veal appeared after her
death; she is my intimate friend, and I can avouch for her reputation
for these fifteen or sixteen years, on my own knowledge; and I can
confirm the good character she had from her youth to the time of my
acquaintance. Though, since this relation, she is calumniated by some
people that are friends to the brother of Mrs. Veal who appeared, who
think the relation of this appearance to be a reflection, and endeavor
what they can to blast Mrs. Bargrave's reputation and to laugh the
story out of countenance. But by the circumstances thereof, and the
cheerful disposition of Mrs. Bargrave, notwithstanding the ill usage
of a very wicked husband, there is not yet the least sign of dejection
in her face; nor did I ever hear her let fall a desponding or
murmuring expression; nay, not when actually under her husband's
barbarity, which I have been a witness to, and several other persons
of undoubted reputation.

Now you must know Mrs. Veal was a maiden gentlewoman of about thirty
years of age, and for some years past had been troubled with fits,
which were perceived coming on her by her going off from her discourse
very abruptly to some impertinence. She was maintained by an only
brother, and kept his house in Dover. She was a very pious woman, and
her brother a very sober man to all appearance; but now he does all he
can to null and quash the story. Mrs. Veal was intimately acquainted
with Mrs. Bargrave from her childhood. Mrs. Veal's circumstances were
then mean; her father did not take care of his children as he ought,
so that they were exposed to hardships. And Mrs. Bargrave in those
days had as unkind a father, though she wanted neither for food nor
clothing; while Mrs. Veal wanted for both, insomuch that she would
often say, "Mrs. Bargrave, you are not only the best, but the only
friend I have in the world; and no circumstance of life shall ever
dissolve my friendship." They would often condole each other's adverse
fortunes, and read together _Drelincourt upon Death_, and other good
books; and so, like two Christian friends, they comforted each other
under their sorrow.

Some time after, Mr. Veal's friends got him a place in the
custom-house at Dover, which occasioned Mrs. Veal, by little and
little, to fall off from her intimacy with Mrs. Bargrave, though there
was never any such thing as a quarrel; but an indifferency came on by
degrees, till at last Mrs. Bargrave had not seen her in two years and
a half, though above a twelvemonth of the time Mrs. Bargrave hath been
absent from Dover, and this last half-year has been in Canterbury
about two months of the time, dwelling in a house of her own.

In this house, on the eighth of September, one thousand seven hundred
and five, she was sitting alone in the forenoon, thinking over her
unfortunate life, and arguing herself into a due resignation to
Providence, though her condition seemed hard: "And," said she, "I have
been provided for hitherto, and doubt not but I shall be still, and am
well satisfied that my afflictions shall end when it is most fit for
me." And then took up her sewing work, which she had no sooner done
but she hears a knocking at the door; she went to see who was there,
and this proved to be Mrs. Veal, her old friend, who was in a
riding-habit. At that moment of time the clock struck twelve at noon.

"Madam," says Mrs. Bargrave, "I am surprised to see you, you have been
so long a stranger"; but told her she was glad to see her, and offered
to salute her, which Mrs. Veal complied with, till their lips almost
touched, and then Mrs. Veal drew her hand across her own eyes, and
said, "I am not very well," and so waived it. She told Mrs. Bargrave
she was going a journey, and had a great mind to see her first. "But,"
says Mrs. Bargrave, "how can you take a journey alone? I am amazed at
it, because I know you have a fond brother." "Oh," says Mrs. Veal,
"I gave my brother the slip, and came away, because I had so great a
desire to see you before I took my journey." So Mrs. Bargrave went in
with her into another room within the first, and Mrs. Veal sat her
down in an elbow-chair, in which Mrs. Bargrave was sitting when she
heard Mrs. Veal knock. "Then," says Mrs. Veal, "my dear friend, I am
come to renew our old friendship again, and beg your pardon for my
breach of it; and if you can forgive me, you are the best of women."
"Oh," says Mrs. Bargrave, "do not mention such a thing; I have not had
an uneasy thought about it." "What did you think of me?" says Mrs.
Veal. Says Mrs. Bargrave, "I thought you were like the rest of the
world, and that prosperity had made you forget yourself and me." Then
Mrs. Veal reminded Mrs. Bargrave of the many friendly offices she did
her in former days, and much of the conversation they had with each
other in the times of their adversity; what books they read, and
what comfort in particular they received from Drelincourt's _Book of
Death_, which was the best, she said, on the subject ever wrote.
She also mentioned Doctor Sherlock, and two Dutch books, which were
translated, wrote upon death, and several others. But Drelincourt, she
said, had the clearest notions of death and of the future state of any
who had handled that subject. Then she asked Mrs. Bargrave whether she
had Drelincourt. She said, "Yes." Says Mrs. Veal, "Fetch it." And so
Mrs. Bargrave goes up-stairs and brings it down. Says Mrs. Veal, "Dear
Mrs. Bargrave, if the eyes of our faith were as open as the eyes of
our body, we should see numbers of angels about us for our guard.
The notions we have of Heaven now are nothing like what it is, as
Drelincourt says; therefore be comforted under your afflictions, and
believe that the Almighty has a particular regard to you, and that
your afflictions are marks of God's favor; and when they have done
the business they are sent for, they shall be removed from you. And
believe me, my dear friend, believe what I say to you, one minute of
future happiness will infinitely reward you for all your sufferings.
For I can never believe" (and claps her hand upon her knee with great
earnestness, which, indeed, ran through most of her discourse) "that
ever God will suffer you to spend all your days in this afflicted
state. But be assured that your afflictions shall leave you, or you
them, in a short time." She spake in that pathetical and heavenly
manner that Mrs. Bargrave wept several times, she was so deeply
affected with it.

Then Mrs. Veal mentioned Doctor Kendrick's _Ascetic_, at the end of
which he gives an account of the lives of the primitive Christians.
Their pattern she recommended to our imitation, and said, "Their
conversation was not like this of our age. For now," says she, "there
is nothing but vain, frothy discourse, which is far different from
theirs. Theirs was to edification, and to build one another up in
faith, so that they were not as we are, nor are we as they were. But,"
said she, "we ought to do as they did; there was a hearty friendship
among them; but where is it now to be found?" Says Mrs. Bargrave, "It
is hard indeed to find a true friend in these days." Says Mrs.
Veal, "Mr. Norris has a fine copy of verses, called _Friendship in
Perfection_, which I wonderfully admire. Have you seen the book?" says
Mrs. Veal. "No," says Mrs. Bargrave, "but I have the verses of my own
writing out." "Have you?" says Mrs. Veal; "then fetch them"; which
she did from above stairs, and offered them to Mrs. Veal to read, who
refused, and waived the thing, saying, "holding down her head would
make it ache"; and then desiring Mrs. Bargrave to read them to her,
which she did. As they were admiring _Friendship_, Mrs. Veal said,
"Dear Mrs. Bargrave, I shall love you forever." In these verses there
is twice used the word "Elysian." "Ah!" says Mrs. Veal, "these poets
have such names for Heaven." She would often draw her hand across her
own eyes, and say, "Mrs. Bargrave, do not you think I am mightily
impaired by my fits?" "No," says Mrs. Bargrave; "I think you look as
well as ever I knew you."

After this discourse, which the apparition put in much finer words
than Mrs. Bargrave said she could pretend to, and as much more than
she can remember--for it cannot be thought that an hour and three
quarters' conversation could all be retained, though the main of it
she thinks she does--she said to Mrs. Bargrave she would have her
write a letter to her brother, and tell him she would have him give
rings to such and such; and that there was a purse of gold in her
cabinet, and that she would have two broad pieces given to her cousin
Watson.

Talking at this rate, Mrs. Bargrave thought that a fit was coming upon
her, and so placed herself on a chair just before her knees, to keep
her from falling to the ground, if her fits should occasion it; for
the elbow-chair, she thought, would keep her from falling on either
side. And to divert Mrs. Veal, as she thought, took hold of her
gown-sleeve several times, and commended it. Mrs. Veal told her it
was a scoured silk, and newly made up. But, for all this, Mrs. Veal
persisted in her request, and told Mrs. Bargrave she must not deny
her. And she would have her tell her brother all their conversation
when she had the opportunity. "Dear Mrs. Veal," says Mrs. Bargrave,
"this seems so impertinent that I cannot tell how to comply with
it; and what a mortifying story will our conversation be to a young
gentleman. Why," says Mrs. Bargrave, "it is much better, methinks, to
do it yourself." "No," says Mrs. Veal; "though it seems impertinent to
you now, you will see more reasons for it hereafter." Mrs. Bargrave,
then, to satisfy her importunity, was going to fetch a pen and ink,
but Mrs. Veal said, "Let it alone now, but do it when I am gone; but
you must be sure to do it"; which was one of the last things she
enjoined her at parting, and so she promised her.

Then Mrs. Veal asked for Mrs. Bargrave's daughter. She said she was
not at home. "But if you have a mind to see her," says Mrs. Bargrave,
"I'll send for her." "Do," says Mrs. Veal; on which she left her, and
went to a neighbor's to see her; and by the time Mrs. Bargrave was
returning, Mrs. Veal was got without the door in the street, in the
face of the beast-market, on a Saturday (which is market-day), and
stood ready to part as soon as Mrs. Bargrave came to her. She asked
her why she was in such haste. She said she must be going, though
perhaps she might not go her journey till Monday; and told Mrs.
Bargrave she hoped she should see her again at her cousin Watson's
before she went whither she was going. Then she said she would take
her leave of her, and walked from Mrs. Bargrave, in her view, till a
turning interrupted the sight of her, which was three-quarters after
one in the afternoon.

Mrs. Veal died the seventh of September, at twelve o'clock at noon, of
her fits, and had not above four hours' senses before her death, in
which time she received the sacrament. The next day after Mrs. Veal's
appearance, being Sunday, Mrs. Bargrave was mightily indisposed with
a cold and sore throat, that she could not go out that day; but on
Monday morning she sends a person to Captain Watson's to know if Mrs.
Veal was there. They wondered at Mrs. Bargrave's inquiry, and sent
her word she was not there, nor was expected. At this answer, Mrs.
Bargrave told the maid she had certainly mistook the name or made some
blunder. And though she was ill, she put on her hood and went herself
to Captain Watson's, though she knew none of the family, to see if
Mrs. Veal was there or not. They said they wondered at her asking, for
that she had not been in town; they were sure, if she had, she would
have been there. Says Mrs. Bargrave, "I am sure she was with me on
Saturday almost two hours." They said it was impossible, for they must
have seen her if she had. In comes Captain Watson, while they were
in dispute, and said that Mrs. Veal was certainly dead, and the
escutcheons were making. This strangely surprised Mrs. Bargrave, when
she sent to the person immediately who had the care of them, and found
it true. Then she related the whole story to Captain Watson's family;
and what gown she had on, and how striped; and that Mrs. Veal told her
that it was scoured. Then Mrs. Watson cried out, "You have seen her
indeed, for none knew but Mrs. Veal and myself that the gown was
scoured." And Mrs. Watson owned that she described the gown exactly;
"for," said she, "I helped her to make it up." This Mrs. Watson blazed
all about the town, and avouched the demonstration of truth of Mrs.
Bargrave's seeing Mrs. Veal's apparition. And Captain Watson carried
two gentlemen immediately to Mrs. Bargrave's house to hear the
relation from her own mouth. And when it spread so fast that gentlemen
and persons of quality, the judicious and sceptical part of the world,
flocked in upon her, it at last became such a task that she was forced
to go out of the way; for they were in general extremely satisfied
of the truth of the thing, and plainly saw that Mrs. Bargrave was no
hypochondriac, for she always appears with such a cheerful air and
pleasing mien that she has gained the favor and esteem of all the
gentry, and it is thought a great favor if they can but get the
relation from her own mouth. I should have told you before that Mrs.
Veal told Mrs. Bargrave that her sister and brother-in-law were just
come down from London to see her. Says Mrs. Bargrave, "How came you to
order matters so strangely?" "It could not be helped," said Mrs. Veal.
And her brother and sister did come to see her, and entered the town
of Dover just as Mrs. Veal was expiring. Mrs. Bargrave asked her
whether she would drink some tea. Says Mrs. Veal, "I do not care if
I do; but I'll warrant you this mad fellow"--meaning Mrs. Bargrave's
husband--"has broke all your trinkets." "But," says Mrs. Bargrave,
"I'll get something to drink in for all that"; but Mrs. Veal waived
it, and said, "It is no matter; let it alone"; and so it passed.

All the time I sat with Mrs. Bargrave, which was some hours, she
recollected fresh sayings of Mrs. Veal. And one material thing more
she told Mrs. Bargrave, that old Mr. Bretton allowed Mrs. Veal ten
pounds a year, which was a secret, and unknown to Mrs. Bargrave till
Mrs. Veal told her.

Mrs. Bargrave never varies in her story, which puzzles those who
doubt of the truth, or are unwilling to believe it. A servant in the
neighbor's yard adjoining to Mrs. Bargrave's house heard her talking
to somebody an hour of the time Mrs. Veal was with her. Mrs. Bargrave
went out to her next neighbor's the very moment she parted with Mrs.
Veal, and told her what ravishing conversation she had had with an old
friend, and told the whole of it. Drelincourt's _Book of Death_ is,
since this happened, bought up strangely. And it is to be observed
that, notwithstanding all the trouble and fatigue Mrs. Bargrave has
undergone upon this account, she never took the value of a farthing,
nor suffered her daughter to take anything of anybody, and therefore
can have no interest in telling the story.

But Mr. Veal does what he can to stifle the matter, and said he would
see Mrs. Bargrave; but yet it is certain matter of fact that he has
been at Captain Watson's since the death of his sister, and yet never
went near Mrs. Bargrave; and some of his friends report her to be a
liar, and that she knew of Mr. Bretton's ten pounds a year. But the
person who pretends to say so has the reputation to be a notorious
liar among persons whom I know to be of undoubted credit. Now, Mr.
Veal is more of a gentleman than to say she lies, but says a bad
husband has crazed her; but she needs only present herself, and it
will effectually confute that pretence. Mr. Veal says he asked his
sister on her death-bed whether she had a mind to dispose of anything.
And she said no. Now the things which Mrs. Veal's apparition would
have disposed of were so trifling, and nothing of justice aimed at in
the disposal, that the design of it appears to me to be only in order
to make Mrs. Bargrave satisfy the world of the reality thereof as to
what she had seen and heard, and to secure her reputation among the
reasonable and understanding part of mankind. And then, again, Mr.
Veal owns that there was a purse of gold; but it was not found in
her cabinet, but in a comb-box. This looks improbable; for that Mrs.
Watson owned that Mrs. Veal was so very careful of the key of her
cabinet that she would trust nobody with it; and if so, no doubt she
would not trust her gold out of it. And Mrs. Veal's often drawing her
hands over her eyes, and asking Mrs. Bargrave whether her fits had not
impaired her, looks to me as if she did it on purpose to remind Mrs.
Bargrave of her fits, to prepare her not to think it strange that she
should put her upon writing to her brother, to dispose of rings and
gold, which look so much like a dying person's request; and it took
accordingly with Mrs. Bargrave as the effect of her fits coming upon
her, and was one of the many instances of her wonderful love to her
and care of her, that she should not be affrighted, which, indeed,
appears in her whole management, particularly in her coming to her in
the daytime, waiving the salutation, and when she was alone; and then
the manner of her parting, to prevent a second attempt to salute her.

Now, why Mr. Veal should think this relation a reflection--as it is
plain he does, by his endeavoring to stifle it--I cannot imagine;
because the generality believe her to be a good spirit, her discourse
was so heavenly. Her two great errands were, to comfort Mrs. Bargrave
in her affliction, and to ask her forgiveness for her breach of
friendship, and with a pious discourse to encourage her. So that,
after all, to suppose that Mrs. Bargrave could hatch such an invention
as this, from Friday noon to Saturday noon--supposing that she knew
of Mrs. Veal's death the very first moment--without jumbling
circumstances, and without any interest, too, she must be more witty,
fortunate, and wicked, too, than any indifferent person, I dare say,
will allow. I asked Mrs. Bargrave several times if she was sure she
felt the gown. She answered, modestly, "If my senses be to be relied
on, I am sure of it." I asked her if she heard a sound when she
clapped her hand upon her knee. She said she did not remember she did,
but said she appeared to be as much a substance as I did who talked
with her. "And I may," said she, "be as soon persuaded that your
apparition is talking to me now as that I did not really see her;
for I was under no manner of fear, and received her as a friend, and
parted with her as such. I would not," says she, "give one farthing to
make any one believe it; I have no interest in it; nothing but trouble
is entailed upon me for a long time, for aught I know; and, had it not
come to light by accident, it would never have been made public." But
now she says she will make her own private use of it, and keep herself
out of the way as much as she can; and so she has done since. She says
she had a gentleman who came thirty miles to her to hear the relation;
and that she had told it to a roomful of people at the time. Several
particular gentlemen have had the story from Mrs. Bargrave's own
mouth.

This thing has very much affected me, and I am as well satisfied as
I am of the best-grounded matter of fact. And why we should dispute
matter of fact, because we cannot solve things of which we can have no
certain or demonstrative notions, seems strange to me; Mrs. Bargrave's
authority and sincerity alone would have been undoubted in any other
case.




THE MYSTERIOUS BRIDE[1]

[Footnote 1: From _Tales and Sketches_, by the Ettrick Shepherd.]

_James Hogg_ (1770-1835)


A great number of people nowadays are beginning broadly to insinuate
that there are no such things as ghosts, or spiritual beings visible
to mortal sight. Even Sir Walter Scott is turned renegade, and, with
his stories made up of half-and-half, like Nathaniel Gow's toddy,
is trying to throw cold water on the most certain, though most
impalpable, phenomena of human nature. The bodies are daft. Heaven
mend their wits! Before they had ventured to assert such things, I
wish they had been where I have often been; or, in particular, where
the Laird of Birkendelly was on St. Lawrence's Eve, in the year 1777,
and sundry times subsequent to that.

Be it known, then, to every reader of this relation of facts that
happened in my own remembrance that the road from Birkendelly to the
great muckle village of Balmawhapple (commonly called the muckle town,
in opposition to the little town that stood on the other side of the
burn)--that road, I say, lay between two thorn-hedges, so well kept
by the Laird's hedger, so close, and so high, that a rabbit could not
have escaped from the highway into any of the adjoining fields. Along
this road was the Laird riding on the Eve of St. Lawrence, in a
careless, indifferent manner, with his hat to one side, and his cane
dancing a hornpipe before him. He was, moreover, chanting a song to
himself, and I have heard people tell what song it was too. There was
once a certain, or rather uncertain, bard, ycleped Robert Burns, who
made a number of good songs; but this that the Laird sang was an
amorous song of great antiquity, which, like all the said bard's best
songs, was sung one hundred and fifty years before he was born. It
began thus:

  "I am the Laird of Windy-wa's,
  I cam nae here without a cause,
  An' I hae gotten forty fa's
    In coming o'er the knowe, joe.
  The night it is baith wind and weet;
  The morn it will be snaw and sleet;
  My shoon are frozen to my feet;
    O, rise an' let me in, joe!
      Let me in this ae night," etc.

This song was the Laird singing, while, at the same time, he was
smudging and laughing at the catastrophe, when, ere ever aware, he
beheld, a short way before him, an uncommonly elegant and beautiful
girl walking in the same direction with him. "Aye," said the Laird to
himself, "here is something very attractive indeed! Where the deuce
can she have sprung from? She must have risen out of the earth, for I
never saw her till this breath. Well, I declare I have not seen such a
female figure--I wish I had such an assignation with her as the Laird
of Windy-wa's had with his sweetheart."

As the Laird was half-thinking, half-speaking this to himself, the
enchanting creature looked back at him with a motion of intelligence
that she knew what he was half-saying, half-thinking, and then
vanished over the summit of the rising ground before him, called the
Birky Brow. "Aye, go your ways!" said the Laird; "I see by you, you'll
not be very hard to overtake. You cannot get off the road, and I'll
have a chat with you before you make the Deer's Den."

The Laird jogged on. He did not sing the _Laird of Windy-wa's_ any
more, for he felt a stifling about his heart; but he often repeated to
himself, "She's a very fine woman!--a very fine woman indeed!--and to
be walking here by herself! I cannot comprehend it."

When he reached the summit of the Birky Brow he did not see her,
although he had a longer view of the road than before. He thought this
very singular, and began to suspect that she wanted to escape him,
although apparently rather lingering on him before. "I shall have
another look at her, however," thought the Laird, and off he set at a
flying trot. No. He came first to one turn, then another. There was
nothing of the young lady to be seen. "Unless she take wings and fly
away, I shall be up with her," quoth the Laird, and off he set at the
full gallop.

In the middle of his career he met with Mr. McMurdie, of Aulton, who
hailed him with, "Hilloa, Birkendelly! Where the deuce are you flying
at that rate?"

"I was riding after a woman," said the Laird, with great simplicity,
reining in his steed.

"Then I am sure no woman on earth can long escape you, unless she be
in an air balloon."

"I don't know that. Is she far gone?"

"In which way do you mean?"

"In this."

"Aha-ha-ha! Hee-hee-hee!" nichered McMurdie, misconstruing the Laird's
meaning.

"What do you laugh at, my dear sir? Do you know her, then?"

"Ho-ho-ho! Hee-hee-hee! How should I, or how can I, know her,
Birkendelly, unless you inform me who she is?"

"Why, that is the very thing I want to know of you. I mean the young
lady whom you met just now."

"You are raving, Birkendelly. I met no young lady, nor is there a
single person on the road I have come by, while you know that for a
mile and a half forward your way she could not get out of it."

"I know that," said the Laird, biting his lip and looking greatly
puzzled; "but confound me if I understand this; for I was within
speech of her just now on the top of the Birky Brow there, and, when I
think of it, she could not have been even thus far as yet. She had on
a pure white gauze frock, a small green bonnet and feathers, and a
green veil, which, flung back over her left shoulder, hung below her
waist, and was altogether such an engaging figure that no man could
have passed her on the road without taking some note of her. Are you
not making game of me? Did you not really meet with her?"

"On my word of truth and honor, I did not. Come, ride back with me,
and we shall meet her still, depend on it. She has given you the go-by
on the road. Let us go; I am only to call at the mill about some
barley for the distillery, and will return with you to the big town."

Birkendelly returned with his friend. The sun was not yet set, yet
M'Murdie could not help observing that the Laird looked thoughtful
and confused, and not a word could he speak about anything save this
lovely apparition with the white frock and the green veil; and lo!
when they reached the top of Birky Brow there was the maiden again
before them, and exactly at the same spot where the Laird first saw
her before, only walking in the contrary direction.

"Well, this is the most extraordinary thing that I ever knew!"
exclaimed the Laird.

"What is it, sir?" said M'Murdie.

"How that young lady could have eluded me," returned the Laird. "See,
here she is still!"

"I beg your pardon, sir, I don't see her. Where is she?"

"There, on the other side of the angle; but you are shortsighted. See,
there she is ascending the other eminence in her white frock and green
veil, as I told you. What a lovely creature!"

"Well, well, we have her fairly before us now, and shall see what she
is like at all events," said McMurdie.

Between the Birky Brow and this other slight eminence there is an
obtuse angle of the road at the part where it is lowest, and, in
passing this, the two friends necessarily lost sight of the object
of their curiosity. They pushed on at a quick pace, cleared the low
angle--the maiden was not there! They rode full speed to the top of
the eminence from whence a long extent of road was visible before
them--there was no human creature in view. McMurdie laughed aloud, but
the Laird turned pale as death and bit his lip. His friend asked him
good-humoredly why he was so much affected. He said, because he could
not comprehend the meaning of this singular apparition or illusion,
and it troubled him the more as he now remembered a dream of the same
nature which he had, and which terminated in a dreadful manner.

"Why, man, you are dreaming still," said McMurdie. "But never mind;
it is quite common for men of your complexion to dream of beautiful
maidens with white frocks, and green veils, bonnets, feathers, and
slender waists. It is a lovely image, the creation of your own
sanguine imagination, and you may worship it without any blame. Were
her shoes black or green? And her stockings--did you note them? The
symmetry of the limbs, I am sure you did! Good-bye; I see you are not
disposed to leave the spot. Perhaps she will appear to you again."

So saying, McMurdie rode on toward the mill, and Birkendelly, after
musing for some time, turned his beast's head slowly round, and began
to move toward the great muckle village.

The Laird's feelings were now in terrible commotion. He was taken
beyond measure with the beauty and elegance of the figure he had seen,
but he remembered, with a mixture of admiration and horror, that a
dream of the same enchanting object had haunted his slumbers all
the days of his life; yet, how singular that he should never have
recollected the circumstance till now! But farther, with the dream
there were connected some painful circumstances which, though terrible
in their issue, he could not recollect so as to form them into any
degree of arrangement.

As he was considering deeply of these things and riding slowly down
the declivity, neither dancing his cane nor singing the _Laird of
Windy-wa's_, he lifted up his eyes, and there was the girl on the same
spot where he saw her first, walking deliberately up the Birky Brow.
The sun was down, but it was the month of August and a fine evening,
and the Laird, seized with an unconquerable desire to see and speak
with that incomparable creature, could restrain himself no longer, but
shouted out to her to stop till he came up. She beckoned acquiescence,
and slackened her pace into a slow movement. The Laird turned the
corner quickly, but when he had rounded it the maiden was still there,
though on the summit of the brow. She turned round, and, with an
ineffable smile and curtsy, saluted him, and again moved slowly on.
She vanished gradually beyond the summit, and while the green feathers
were still nodding in view, and so nigh that the Laird could have
touched them with a fishing-rod, he reached the top of the brow
himself. There was no living soul there, nor onward, as far as his
view reached. He now trembled in every limb, and, without knowing what
he did, rode straight on to the big town, not daring well to return
and see what he had seen for three several times; and certain he would
see it again when the shades of evening were deepening, he deemed
it proper and prudent to decline the pursuit of such a phantom any
farther.

He alighted at the Queen's Head, called for some brandy and water,
quite forgot what was his errand to the great muckle town that
afternoon, there being nothing visible to his mental sight but lovely
images, with white gauze frocks and green veils. His friend M'Murdie
joined him; they drank deep, bantered, reasoned, got angry, reasoned
themselves calm again, and still all would not do. The Laird was
conscious that he had seen the beautiful apparition, and, moreover,
that she was the very maiden, or the resemblance of her, who, in the
irrevocable decrees of Providence, was destined to be his. It was in
vain that M'Murdie reasoned of impressions on the imagination, and

  "Of fancy moulding in the mind,
  Light visions on the passing wind."

Vain also was a story that he told him of a relation of his own, who
was greatly harassed by the apparition of an officer in a red uniform
that haunted him day and night, and had very nigh put him quite
distracted several times, till at length his physician found out the
nature of this illusion so well that he knew, from the state of his
pulse, to an hour when the ghost of the officer would appear, and by
bleeding, low diet, and emollients contrived to keep the apparition
away altogether.

The Laird admitted the singularity of this incident, but not that it
was one in point; for the one, he said, was imaginary, the other
real, and that no conclusions could convince him in opposition to the
authority of his own senses. He accepted of an invitation to spend
a few days with M'Murdie and his family, but they all acknowledged
afterward that the Laird was very much like one bewitched.

As soon as he reached home he went straight to the Birky Brow, certain
of seeing once more the angelic phantom, but she was not there. He
took each of his former positions again and again, but the desired
vision would in no wise make its appearance. He tried every day
and every hour of the day, all with the same effect, till he grew
absolutely desperate, and had the audacity to kneel on the spot and
entreat of Heaven to see her. Yes, he called on Heaven to see her once
more, whatever she was, whether a being of earth, heaven, or hell.

He was now in such a state of excitement that he could not exist; he
grew listless, impatient, and sickly, took to his bed, and sent for
M'Murdie and the doctor; and the issue of the consultation was that
Birkendelly consented to leave the country for a season, on a visit to
his only sister in Ireland, whither we must accompany him for a short
space.

His sister was married to Captain Bryan, younger, of Scoresby, and
they two lived in a cottage on the estate, and the Captain's parents
and sisters at Scoresby Hall. Great was the stir and preparation when
the gallant young Laird of Birkendelly arrived at the cottage,
it never being doubted that he came to forward a second bond of
connection with the family, which still contained seven dashing
sisters, all unmarried, and all alike willing to change that solitary
and helpless state for the envied one of matrimony--a state highly
popular among the young women of Ireland. Some of the Misses Bryan
had now reached the years of womanhood, several of them scarcely, but
these small disqualifications made no difference in the estimation of
the young ladies themselves; each and all of them brushed up for the
competition with high hopes and unflinching resolutions. True,
the elder ones tried to check the younger in their good-natured,
forthright Irish way; but they retorted, and persisted in their
superior pretensions. Then there was such shopping in the county town!
It was so boundless that the credit of the Hall was finally exhausted,
and the old Squire was driven to remark that "Och, and to be sure it
was a dreadful and tirrabell concussion, to be put upon the equipment
of seven daughters all at the same moment, as if the young gentleman
could marry them all! Och, then, poor dear shoul, he would be after
finding that one was sufficient, if not one too many. And therefore
there was no occasion, none at all, at all, and that there was not,
for any of them to rig out more than one."

It was hinted that the Laird had some reason for complaint at this
time, but as the lady sided with her daughters, he had no chance. One
of the items of his account was thirty-seven buckling-combs, then
greatly in vogue. There were black combs, pale combs, yellow combs,
and gilt ones, all to suit or set off various complexions; and if
other articles bore any proportion at all to these, it had been better
for the Laird and all his family that Birkendelly had never set foot
in Ireland.

The plan was all concocted. There was to be a grand dinner at the
Hall, at which the damsels were to appear in all their finery. A ball
to follow, and note be taken which of the young ladies was their
guest's choice, and measures taken accordingly. The dinner and
the ball took place; and what a pity I may not describe that
entertainment, the dresses, and the dancers, for they were all
exquisite in their way, and _outrГ©_ beyond measure. But such details
only serve to derange a winter evening's tale such as this.

Birkendelly having at this time but one model for his choice among
womankind, all that ever he did while in the presence of ladies was to
look out for some resemblance to her, the angel of his fancy; and it
so happened that in one of old Bryan's daughters named Luna, or,
more familiarly, Loony, he perceived, or thought he perceived, some
imaginary similarity in form and air to the lovely apparition. This
was the sole reason why he was incapable of taking his eyes off from
her the whole of that night; and this incident settled the point, not
only with the old people, but even the young ladies were forced, after
every exertion on their own parts, to "yild the p'int to their sister
Loony, who certainly was not the mist genteelest nor mist handsomest
of that guid-lucking fimily."

The next day Lady Luna was dispatched off to the cottage in grand
style, there to live hand in glove with her supposed lover. There was
no standing all this. There were the two parrocked together, like a
ewe and a lamb, early and late; and though the Laird really appeared
to have, and probably had, some delight in her company, it was only in
contemplating that certain indefinable air of resemblance which she
bore to the sole image impressed on his heart. He bought her a white
gauze frock, a green bonnet and feather, with a veil, which she was
obliged to wear thrown over her left shoulder, and every day after,
six times a day, was she obliged to walk over a certain eminence at a
certain distance before her lover. She was delighted to oblige him;
but still, when he came up, he looked disappointed, and never said,
"Luna, I love you; when are we to be married?" No, he never said any
such thing, for all her looks and expressions of fondest love; for,
alas! in all this dalliance he was only feeding a mysterious flame
that preyed upon his vitals, and proved too severe for the powers
either of reason or religion to extinguish. Still, time flew lighter
and lighter by, his health was restored, the bloom of his cheek
returned, and the frank and simple confidence of Luna had a certain
charm with it that reconciled him to his sister's Irish economy. But a
strange incident now happened to him which deranged all his immediate
plans.

He was returning from angling one evening, a little before sunset,
when he saw Lady Luna awaiting him on his way home. But instead of
brushing up to meet him as usual, she turned, and walked up the rising
ground before him. "Poor sweet girl! how condescending she is," said
he to himself, "and how like she is in reality to the angelic being
whose form and features are so deeply impressed on my heart! I now see
it is no fond or fancied resemblance. It is real! real! real! How I
long to clasp her in my arms, and tell her how I love her; for, after
all, that is the girl that is to be mine, and the former a vision to
impress this the more on my heart."

He posted up the ascent to overtake her. When at the top she turned,
smiled, and curtsied. Good heavens! it was the identical lady of his
fondest adoration herself, but lovelier, far lovelier, than ever. He
expected every moment that she would vanish, as was her wont; but she
did not--she awaited him, and received his embraces with open arms.
She was a being of real flesh and blood, courteous, elegant, and
affectionate. He kissed her hand, he kissed her glowing cheek, and
blessed all the powers of love who had thus restored her to him again,
after undergoing pangs of love such as man never suffered.

"But, dearest heart, here we are standing in the middle of the
highway," said he; "suffer me to conduct you to my sister's house,
where you shall have an apartment with a child of nature having some
slight resemblance to yourself." She smiled, and said, "No, I will not
sleep with Lady Luna to-night. Will you please to look round you, and
see where you are." He did so, and behold they were standing on the
Birky Brow, on the only spot where he had ever seen her. She smiled at
his embarrassed look, and asked if he did not remember aught of his
coming over from Ireland. He said he thought he did remember something
of it, but love with him had long absorbed every other sense. He then
asked her to his own house, which she declined, saying she could only
meet him on that spot till after their marriage, which could not be
before St. Lawrence's Eve come three years. "And now," said she, "we
must part. My name is Jane Ogilvie, and you were betrothed to me
before you were born. But I am come to release you this evening, if
you have the slightest objection."

He declared he had none; and kneeling, swore the most solemn oath to
be hers forever, and to meet her there on St. Lawrence's Eve next,
and every St. Lawrence's Eve until that blessed day on which she had
consented to make him happy by becoming his own forever. She then
asked him affectionately to change rings with her, in pledge of their
faith and troth, in which he joyfully acquiesced; for she could not
have then asked any conditions which, in the fulness of his heart's
love, he would not have granted; and after one fond and affectionate
kiss, and repeating all their engagements over again, they parted.

Birkendelly's heart was now melted within him, and all his senses
overpowered by one overwhelming passion. On leaving his fair and kind
one, he got bewildered, and could not find the road to his own house,
believing sometimes that he was going there, and sometimes to his
sister's, till at length he came, as he thought, upon the Liffey, at
its junction with Loch Allan; and there, in attempting to call for a
boat, he awoke from a profound sleep, and found himself lying in his
bed within his sister's house, and the day sky just breaking.

If he was puzzled to account for some things in the course of his
dream, he was much more puzzled to account for them now that he was
wide awake. He was sensible that he had met his love, had embraced,
kissed, and exchanged vows and rings with her, and, in token of the
truth and reality of all these, her emerald ring was on his finger,
and his own away; so there was no doubt that they had met--by what
means it was beyond the power of man to calculate.

There was then living with Mrs. Bryan an old Scotswoman, commonly
styled Lucky Black. She had nursed Birkendelly's mother, and been
dry-nurse to himself and sister; and having more than a mother's
attachment for the latter, when she was married, old Lucky left her
country to spend the last of her days in the house of her beloved
young lady. When the Laird entered the breakfast-parlor that morning
she was sitting in her black velvet hood, as usual, reading _The
Fourfold State of Man_, and, being paralytic and somewhat deaf, she
seldom regarded those who went or came. But chancing to hear him say
something about the 9th of August, she quitted reading, turned round
her head to listen, and then asked, in a hoarse, tremulous voice:
"What's that he's saying? What's the unlucky callant saying about the
9th of August? Aih? To be sure it is St. Lawrence's Eve, although the
10th be his day. It's ower true, ower true, ower true for him an' a'
his kin, poor man! Aih? What was he saying then?"

The men smiled at her incoherent earnestness, but the lady, with true
feminine condescension, informed her, in a loud voice, that Allan had
an engagement in Scotland on St. Lawrence's Eve. She then started up,
extended her shrivelled hands, that shook like the aspen, and panted
out: "Aih, aih? Lord preserve us! Whaten an engagement has he on St.
Lawrence's Eve? Bind him! bind him! Shackle him wi' bands of steel,
and of brass, and of iron! O may He whose blessed will was pleased
to leave him an orphan sae soon, preserve him from the fate which I
tremble to think on!"

She then tottered round the table, as with supernatural energy, and
seizing the Laird's right hand, she drew it close to her unstable
eyes, and then perceiving the emerald ring chased in blood, she threw
up her arms with a jerk, opened her skinny jaws with a fearful gape,
and uttering a shriek that made all the house yell, and every one
within it to tremble, she fell back lifeless and rigid on the floor.
The gentlemen both fled, out of sheer terror; but a woman never
deserts her friends in extremity. The lady called her maids about her,
had her old nurse conveyed to bed, where every means were used to
restore animation. But, alas, life was extinct! The vital spark
had fled forever, which filled all their hearts with grief,
disappointment, and horror, as some dreadful tale of mystery was now
sealed up from their knowledge which, in all likelihood, no other
could reveal. But to say the truth, the Laird did not seem greatly
disposed to probe it to the bottom.

Not all the arguments of Captain Bryan and his lady, nor the simple
entreaties of Lady Luna, could induce Birkendelly to put off his
engagement to meet his love on the Birky Brow on the evening of the
9th of August; but he promised soon to return, pretending that some
business of the utmost importance called him away. Before he went,
however, he asked his sister if ever she had heard of such a lady in
Scotland as Jane Ogilvie. Mrs. Bryan repeated the name many times to
herself, and said that name undoubtedly was once familiar to her,
although she thought not for good, but at that moment she did not
recollect one single individual of the name. He then showed her the
emerald ring that had been the death of Lucky Black; but the moment
the lady looked at it, she made a grasp at it to take it off by force,
which she had very nearly effected. "Oh, burn it! burn it!" cried she;
"it is not a right ring! Burn it!"

"My dear sister, what fault is in the ring?" said he. "It is a very
pretty ring, and one that I set great value by."

"Oh, for Heaven's sake, burn it, and renounce the giver!" cried she.
"If you have any regard for your peace here or your soul's welfare
hereafter, burn that ring! If you saw with your own eyes, you would
easily perceive that that is not a ring befitting a Christian to
wear."

This speech confounded Birkendelly a good deal. He retired by himself
and examined the ring, and could see nothing in it unbecoming a
Christian to wear. It was a chased gold ring, with a bright emerald,
which last had a red foil, in some lights giving it a purple gleam,
and inside was engraven "_Elegit_," much defaced, but that his
sister could not see; therefore he could not comprehend her vehement
injunctions concerning it. But that it might no more give her offence,
or any other, he sewed it within his vest, opposite his heart, judging
that there was something in it which his eyes were withholden from
discerning.

Thus he left Ireland with his mind in great confusion, groping his
way, as it were, in a hole of mystery, yet with the passion that
preyed on his heart and vitals more intense than ever. He seems to
have had an impression all his life that some mysterious fate awaited
him, which the correspondence of his dreams and day visions tended
to confirm. And though he gave himself wholly up to the sway of one
overpowering passion, it was not without some yearnings of soul,
manifestations of terror, and so much earthly shame, that he never
more mentioned his love, or his engagements, to any human being, not
even to his friend M'Murdie, whose company he forthwith shunned.

It is on this account that I am unable to relate what passed between
the lovers thenceforward. It is certain they met at the Birky Brow
that St. Lawrence's Eve, for they were seen in company together; but
of the engagements, vows, or dalliance that passed between them I can
say nothing; nor of all their future meetings, until the beginning of
August, 1781, when the Laird began decidedly to make preparations for
his approaching marriage; yet not as if he and his betrothed had been
to reside at Birkendelly, all his provisions rather bespeaking a
meditated journey.