41 10 639 https://scottishchapbooks.lib.uoguelph.ca/files/original/e42e533da12d46f8993a00f9a0fb3d71.jpg b5191f6d07b28c81cccd8a0e691456ab Omeka Image File The metadata element set that was included in the `files_images` table in previous versions of Omeka. These elements are common to all image files. Bit Depth 8 Channels 3 Height 3426 Width 2056 https://scottishchapbooks.lib.uoguelph.ca/files/original/7bb2d064bb02fea7ea59521d5e1477e5.pdf eeaa59724a1972c399b5139f6246b275 Document A resource containing textual data. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre text. Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource The History of Charles Jones, the Footman. Shewing how he raised himself from the humble station of a foot-boy, to a place of great eminence and trust, by his strict honesty and integrity. Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context <a href="https://ocul-gue.primo.exlibrisgroup.com/permalink/01OCUL_GUE/mrqn4e/alma9953134493505154">s0231b06</a> <a href="https://ocul-gue.primo.exlibrisgroup.com/permalink/01OCUL_GUE/mrqn4e/alma9923331913505154">s0384b12</a> Alternative Title An alternative name for the resource. The distinction between titles and alternative titles is application-specific. History of Charles Jones The Country Clergyman Big Jack Joyce Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1840-1850 per National Library of Scotland 16 cm Extent The size or duration of the resource. 24 pages Is Part Of A related resource in which the described resource is physically or logically included. Chapbook #3 in a bound collection of 20 chapbooks (s0231b06) Description An account of the resource 45 is printed at the bottom of the title-page. Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Somersetshire, England Is Referenced By A related resource that references, cites, or otherwise points to the described resource. National Library of Scotland <a title="National Library of Scotland" href="http://www.nls.uk/" target="_blank" rel="noopener">http://www.nls.uk/</a> Type The nature or genre of the resource fiction Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource Archival and Special Collections, University of Guelph, Guelph, Ontario, Canada Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource JPEGs and PDF derived from master file, which was scanned from the original book in 24-bit color at 600 dpi in TIFF format using an Epson Expression 10000XL scanner. Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource In the public domain; For higher quality reproductions, contact Archival & Special Collections, University of Guelph. libaspc@uoguelph.ca 519-824-4120, Ext. 53413 Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Glasgow: Printed for the Booksellers Source A related resource from which the described resource is derived Archival & Special Collections, University of Guelph Library, Guelph, Ontario https://scottishchapbooks.lib.uoguelph.ca/files/original/2db72fcd63bd6724b344d6e4032ae009.jpg 3832a2a499ac6f8e505fb41518db77f1 Omeka Image File The metadata element set that was included in the `files_images` table in previous versions of Omeka. These elements are common to all image files. Bit Depth 8 Channels 3 Height 3267 Width 1937 https://scottishchapbooks.lib.uoguelph.ca/files/original/e70fa1acd19b693d55bfb9dc9ea6af5e.pdf e608444a6f13ded101373f65847d57c7 Document A resource containing textual data. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre text. Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource The History of Duncan Campbell, and his dog Oscar. Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context <a href="https://ocul-gue.primo.exlibrisgroup.com/permalink/01OCUL_GUE/mrqn4e/alma9953134493505154">s0231b06</a> <a href="https://ocul-gue.primo.exlibrisgroup.com/permalink/01OCUL_GUE/mrqn4e/alma9923332013505154">s0384b16</a> Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1840-1850 per National Library of Scotland Extent The size or duration of the resource. 24 pages 15 cm Is Part Of A related resource in which the described resource is physically or logically included. Chapbook #11 in a bound collection of 20 chapbooks Description An account of the resource Woodcut image of a dog among grass and flowers on the title-page. 10 is printed at the bottom of the title-page. Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Edinburgh, Scotland Is Referenced By A related resource that references, cites, or otherwise points to the described resource. National Library of Scotland <a title="National Library of Scotland" href="http://www.nls.uk" target="_blank" rel="noopener">http://www.nls.uk</a>/ Type The nature or genre of the resource fiction Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource Archival and Special Collections, University of Guelph Library, Guelph, Ontario, Canada Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource JPEGs and PDF derived from master file, which was scanned from the original book in 24-bit color at 600 dpi in TIFF format using an Epson Expression 10000XL scanner. Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource In the public domain; For higher quality reproductions, contact Archival & Special Collections, University of Guelph. libaspc@uoguelph.ca 519-824-4120, Ext. 53413 Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Glasgow: Printed for the Booksellers https://scottishchapbooks.lib.uoguelph.ca/files/original/9051d3d4f4e1cb58a833231806616d88.pdf 188b18030249be5ef3d81143767e61aa https://scottishchapbooks.lib.uoguelph.ca/files/original/71f8adef82fabaf68f61737a4ef51776.jpg 7adac877b4fb59e78c6154b490a16262 Omeka Image File The metadata element set that was included in the `files_images` table in previous versions of Omeka. These elements are common to all image files. Bit Depth 8 Channels 3 Height 3351 Width 1907 Document A resource containing textual data. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre text. Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource History of James Allan, The Celebrated Northumberland Piper. Giving an account of his parentage, education, extraordinary adventures and exploits; his numerous enlistings and wonderful escapes: -with a brief narrative of his last confinement and death in Durham Gaol, which happened in 1810. Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context <a href="https://ocul-gue.primo.exlibrisgroup.com/permalink/01OCUL_GUE/mrqn4e/alma9953134493505154">s0231b06</a> <a href="https://ocul-gue.primo.exlibrisgroup.com/permalink/01OCUL_GUE/mrqn4e/alma9953134493505154">s0384b18</a> Alternative Title An alternative name for the resource. The distinction between titles and alternative titles is application-specific. The Celebrated Northumberland Piper. The Minister and his three sons. The Thistle Is Part Of A related resource in which the described resource is physically or logically included. Chapbook #19 in a bound collection of 20 chapbooks (s0231b06) Description An account of the resource 127 is printed at the bottom of the title-page. Subject The topic of the resource Religion and Morals Chapbooks - Scotland - Glasgow James, Allan, 1734-1810 Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1840-1850 per National Library of Scotland Extent The size or duration of the resource. 24 pages Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Northumberland, England Is Referenced By A related resource that references, cites, or otherwise points to the described resource. National Library of Scotland <a title="National Library of Scotland" href="http://www.nls.uk/" target="_blank" rel="noopener">http://www.nls.uk/</a> Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource Archival and Special Collections, University of Guelph Library, Guelph, Ontario, Canada Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource JPEGs and PDF derived from master file, which was scanned from the original book in 24-bit color at 600 dpi in TIFF format using an Epson Expression 10000XL scanner. Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource In the public domain; For higher quality reproductions, contact Archival & Special Collections, University of Guelph. libaspc@uoguelph.ca 519-824-4120, Ext. 53413 Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Glasgow: Printed for the Booksellers Abstract A summary of the resource. Allan [Allen], James [Jimmy] (1734–1810), Northumbrian piper and rogue, was born at Hepple, Northumberland, probably in March 1734, and baptized at Rothbury, Northumberland, on 21 April 1734, the son of William Allan or Allen, also known as Wull Faa, a noted vermin hunter and performer on the Northumbrian small pipes. Allan's 'mother was a gypsy' (Morpeth Chantry Bagpipe Museum display notes) and he was the second youngest in the family, which had links to the Faas, a clan of Gypsies noted for roving the Anglo-Scottish border. His father taught him to play the Northumbrian small pipes and, in a restless life, music was to remain one of few steadying influences. It is possible that he was the James Allan who married Isabel Muffat at Rothbury on 1 March 1763, and that they had at least one child, a daughter, Philis (bap. 4 November 1765). As Allan's interest in music developed, he was taken by seeing the band of the Northumberland militia at Alnwick, Northumberland, and enlisted as a substitute. He kept up his links with Alnwick and eventually succeeded in becoming official piper to Elizabeth Percy, countess of Northumberland, a post he held for two years. In October 1769 he was appointed one of the town musicians at Alnwick but the following Michaelmas he misbehaved and was dismissed and eventually lost the favour of his benefactor. Most of Allan's adult life was taken up with rambling and it is here that 'the line between fact and fiction becomes thin' (Askew, 63). He made his livelihood out of piping and stealing and, beyond that, by 'enlisting as a soldier and deserting—often having received his bounty money'. He was eventually arrested in 1803 at Jedburgh, Roxburghshire, for stealing a horse from Matthew Robinson of Gateshead, co. Durham, after a night drinking in Newcastle upon Tyne. From Jedburgh he was taken to Durham city where, described as 'the famous piper' (Newcastle Courant, 6 Aug 1803), he was tried and sentenced to death at the assizes in August 1803 for horse stealing. The death sentence was commuted to transportation at the end of the assizes, but on account of Allan's age and poor health he remained in England. Allan was imprisoned first in Durham gaol for seven years, and then in the Durham house of correction, where he died on 13 November 1810. News of a royal pardon arrived a few months after his death, reportedly one of the first signed by the prince regent, afterwards George IV. He was buried in the churchyard of St Nicholas, later covered by part of Durham's central market place, although it is said that one of his last requests was for his body to be returned to Rothbury. Allan's infamy survived him, and in the years after his death numerous tales of his deeds appeared in print. When compiling a brief biography of the piper in the late nineteenth century Richard Welford noted that the sources on Allan available to him included chapbooks based on the piper's life and hawked to shepherds and milkmaids in Northumberland and a series of books of varying reliability produced in the early nineteenth century. Writers generally described Allan as a man of many diversions with a great love of drinking and gambling and an eye for pretty women. He was said to have married three times (Morpeth Chantry Bagpipe Museum display notes). Cattle, sheep, and horse stealing as well as robbing his companions were among his identifiable vices. Drawings were published depicting episodes taken from his mythologized life, including an escape from armed guards, being rescued by a young lady in Batavia, and piping in the runners at a horse race in northern England. Allan was remembered as a virtuoso on the bagpipes, an expert at the double hornpipe played at 3/2 or 9/4 pace, and closely associated with the music of his native Cheviot hills. Woodcuts of his playing both the Northumbrian small pipes and the highland pipes have survived but the veracity of any surviving sketches of him was brought into question by the researches of the bagpipe historian Gilbert Askew in the 1930s. In the early twenty-first century, a dance tune known as 'Jimmy Allen' remained one of the most popular tunes played at traditional music sessions, used at barn dances and ceilidhs across the English-speaking world. The piece is firmly in the vein of Northumbrian rant-type reels; it is uncertain whether it was written by the piper or composed in his memory. Another tune entitled 'Coffee and Tea' or 'Jamie Allen's Fancy' has also survived. A case at the Chantry Bagpipe Museum, Morpeth, Northumberland, dedicated to his life both inside and outside piping, was still being maintained in 2007. His ghost, playing the pipes, is said to wander the area around the western end of Elvet Bridge, Durham, near the remains of the house of correction. The early twenty-first century saw a renewal of interest in Allan as a hero of Northumbrian cultural identity. An opera, The Ballad of Jamie Allan, composed by John Harle with a libretto by Tom Pickard, premièred at The Sage, Gateshead, in 2005. --From the Dictionary of National Biography Source A related resource from which the described resource is derived Archival & Special Collections, University of Guelph Library, Guelph, Ontario https://scottishchapbooks.lib.uoguelph.ca/files/original/b7c118098cd950c3de6572778b226a52.jpg 5ad3cb5e1a56dd709d982fe66c0f1962 Omeka Image File The metadata element set that was included in the `files_images` table in previous versions of Omeka. These elements are common to all image files. Bit Depth 8 Channels 3 Height 3404 Width 1890 https://scottishchapbooks.lib.uoguelph.ca/files/original/1bc8482dfa996e5ddde50add6778b015.pdf 72d9b9bbcccafa35b6d7fdd1873e388a PDF Text Text ��THE IRON ! j [ | SHROUD. The castle of the Prince of Tolfi was built on the summit of the towering and precipitious rock of Scylla, and commanded a magnificent yiew of Sicily in all its grandeur. Here during the wars of the middle ages, when the fertile plains of Italy were devastated by hostile factions, those prisoners were confined, for whose ransom a costly price was demanded. Here, too, in a dungeon, excavated deep in the solid rock, the miserable victim was immured, whom revenge pursued,—-the dark, fierce, and unpitying revenge of an Italian heart. VIVENZIO—the noble, and the generous, the fearless in battle, and the pride of Naples in her sunny hours of peace—the young, the brave, the proud, Yivenzio fell beneath this subtile and remorseless spirit. He was the prisoner of Tolfi, and lie languished in that rock-encircled dungeon, which stood alone, and whose portals never opened twice upon a living captive. It had the resemblance of a vast cage, for the roof, and floor, and sides, were of iron, solidly wrought, and spaciously constructed. High above there ran a range of seven grated windows, guarded with massy bars of the same metal, which admitted light and air. Save these, and the tall �4 folding doors beneath tliem, which occupied the centre, no cliink, or chasm, projection, broke the smooth black surface of the walls. An iron bedstead, littered with straw, stood in one corner ; and beside it, a vessel with water, and a coarse dish filled with coarser food. Even the intrepid soul of Vivenzio shrunk with dismay as he entered this abode, and heard the ponderous doors triple-locked by the silent ruffians who • conducted him to it. Their silence seemed prophetic of his fate, of the living grave that had been prepared for him. His menaces and his entreaties, his indignant appeals for justice, and his impatient questioning of their intentions, were alike vain. They listened, but spoke not. Fit ministers of a crime that should have no tongue! How dismal was the sound of their retiring steps! And, as their faint echoes died along the winding passages, a fearful presage grew within him, that never more the face, or voice, or tread, of man, •would greet his senses. He had seen human beings for the last time! And he had looked his last upon the bright sky, and upon the smiling earth and upon a beautiful world he loved and whose minion he had been! Here he was to end his life—a life he had just begun to revel i n ! And by what means? By secret poison? or by murderous assault? No—for then it had been needless to bring him thither. Famine perhaps—a thousand deaths in one! It was terrible to think of it—but it was yet more terrible to picture long, long years of captivity in a solitude so appalling, a loneliness so dreary, that thought, for want of fellowship, would lose itself in madness, or stagnate into, idiocy. He could not hope to escape, unless he had the �power, with bis bare hands, of rending asunder the solid iron walls of his prison. He could not hope for liberty from the relenting mercies of his enemy. His instant death, under any form of refined cruelty, was not the object of Tom, for he might have inflicted it, and he had not. It was too evident, therefore, he was reserved for some premeditated scheme of subtile vengeance ; and what vengeance could transcend in fiendish malice, either the slow death of famine, or the still slower one of solitary incarceration, till the last lingering spark of life expired, or reason fled, and nothing should remain to perish but the brute functions of the body! It was evening when Vivenzio entered his dungeon, and the approaching shades of night wrapped it in total darkness, as he paced up and down, revolving in his mind these horrible forebodings. No tolling bell from the castle, or from any neighbouring church or convent struck upon his ear to tell how the hours passed. Frequently he would stop and listen for some sound that might betoken the vicinity of man ; but the solitude of the desert, the silence of the tomb, are not so still and deep as the oppressive desolation by which he was encompassed. His heart sunk within him, and he threw himself dejectedly upon his couch of straw. Here sleep gradually obliterated the consciousness of misery, and bland dreams wafted his delighted spirit to scenes which were once glowing realities for him, in whose ravishing illusions he soon lost the remembrance that he was Tolfi's prisoner. When he awoke, it was daylight; but how long he had slept he knew not. It might be early morning, or it might be sultry noon, for he could measure time by no other note of its progress than light and darkness, l i e had been sp happy in his sleep, �amid friends that loved him, and sweeter endearments of those who loved him as friends could not, that in the first moments of waking, his startled mind seemed to admit the knowledge of his situation as if it had burst upon it for the first time, fresh in all its appalling horrors. He gazed round with an air of doubt and amazement, and took up a handful of the straw upon which he lay, as though he would ask himself what it meant. But memory, too faithful to her ofiice, soon unveiled the melancholy past, while reason, shuddering at the task, flashed before his eyes the tremendous future. The contrast overpowered him. He remained for some time lamenting, like a truth, the bright visions that had vanished ; and recoiling from the present, which clung to him as a poisoned garment. When he grew more calm, he surveyed his gloomy dungeon. Alas! the stronger light of day only served to confirm what the gloomy indistinctness of the preceding evening had partially disclosed,, the utter impossibility of escape. As, however, his eyes wandered round and round, and from place to place, he noticed two circumstances which excited his surprise and curiosity. The one, he thought might be fancy ; but the other, was positive. His pitcher of water, and the dish which contained his food, had been removed from his side while he slept, and now stood near the door. Were he even inclined to doubt this, by supposing he had mistaken the spot where he saw them over night, he could not, for the pitcher now in his dungeon was neither of the same form nor colour as the other, while the food was changed for some other of better quality. He had been visited therefore during the night. But how had the person obtained entrance ? Could he have slept so �soundly, that the unlocking and opening of those ponderous portals were affected without waking him ? He would have said this was not possible, but that in doing so, he must admit a greater difficulty, on entrance by other means, of which he was convinced there existed none. It was not intended, then, that he should be left to perish from hunger. But the secret and mysterious mode of supplying him with food, seemed to indicate lie was to have no opportunity of communicating with a human being. The other circumstance which had attracted his notice, was the disappearance, as he believed, of one of the seven grated windows that ran along the top of his prison. He felt confident that he had observed and counted them ; for he was rather surprised at their number, and there was something peculiar in their form, as well as in the manner of their arrangement, at equal distances It was so much easier, however, to suppose he was mistaken, than that a portion of the solid iron, which formed the walls, could have escaped from its position, that he soon dismissed the thought from his mind. Yivenzio partook of the food that was before him, without apprehension. It might be poisoned ; but if it were, he knew he could not escape death, should such be the design of Tolfi; and the quickest death would be the speediest release. The day passed wearily and gloomily; though not without a faint hope that, by keeping watch at night, he might observe when the person came again to bring him food, which he supposed he would do in the same way as before. The mere thought of being approached by a living creature, and the opportunity it might present of learning the doom �prepared, or preparing, for him, imparted some comfort. Besides, if he came alone, might he not in a furious onset overpower him ? Or he might "be accessible to pity, or the influence of such munificient rewards as he could bestow, if once more at liberty and master of himself. Say he were armed. The worse that could befall, if not bribe, nor prayers, nor force prevaled, was a faithful blow, which though dealt in a damned cause, might work a desired end. There was no chance so desperate, but it looked lovely in Vivenzio's eyes compared with the idea of being totally abandoned. The night came, and Yivenzio watched. Morning came, and Yivenzio was confounded! He must have slumbered without knowing it. Sleep must have stolen over him when exhausted by fatigue, and in the interval of feverish repose, he had been baffled ; for there stood his replenished pitcher of water, and there his day's meal! Nor was this all. Casting his looks towards the windows of his dungeon, he counted but FIVE ! there was no deception ; and he was now convinced there had been seven the day before. But what did all this portend ? Into what strange and mysterious den had he been cast? He gazed till his eyes ached; he could discover nothing to explain the mystery. That it was so, he knew. W h y it was so, he racked his imagination in vain conjecture. He examined the doors. A single circumstance convinced him that they had not been opened. A wisp of straw, which he had carelessly thrown against them the preceding day, as he paced to and fro, remained where he had cast it, though it must have been displaced by the slightest motion of either of the doors. This was evidence that could not be disputed ; and it followed there must l» �9 be some secret machinery in the walls by which a person could enter. He inspected them closely. They appeared to him one solid and compact mass of iron ; or joined, if joined they were, with such nice art, that no mark of divison was perceptible. Again and again he surveyed them—and the floor—and the roof—and the range of visionary windows, and he was now almost tempted to consider them ; he could discover nothing, absolutely nothing, to relieve his doubts or satisfy his curiosity. Sometimes he fancied that altogether the dungeon had a more contracted appearance—that it looked smaller; but this he ascribed to fancy, and the impression naturally produced upon his mind by the undeniable disappearance of two of the windows. With intense anxiety, Vivenzio looked forward to the return of night; and as it approached, he resolved that no treacherous sleep should again betray him. Instead of seeking his bed of straw, he continued to walk up and down his dungeon till daylight, straining his eyes in every direction through the darkness, to watch for any appearance that might explain these mysteries. While thus engaged, and as nearly as he could judge, (by the time that afterwards elapsed before the morning came in,) about two o' clock, there was a slight tremulous motion of the floors. He stooped. The motion lasted nearly a minute ; but it v/as so extremely gentle, that he almost doubted whether it was real, or only imaginary. He listened. Not a sound could be heard. Presently, however, lie felt a rush of cold air blow upon him ; and dashing towards the quarter whence it seemed to proceed, he stumbled over something which he judged to be the water ewer. The rush of cold air v/as no longer perceptible ; and as Vivenzio stretched out �10 his hands, he found himself close to the walls, He remained motionless for a considerable time ; but nothing occurred during the remainder of the night to excite his attention, though he continued to watch with unabated vigilance. The first approaches of the morning were visible through the grated windows, breaking, with faint divisions of light, the darkness that still pervaded every other part, long before Yivenzio was enabled to distinguish any object in his dungeon. Instinctively and fearfully he turned his eyes, hot and inflamed with watching, towards them. There were FOUR ! He could see only four ; but it might be that some intervening object prevented the fifth from being perceptible ; and he walked impatiently to ascertain if it were so. As the light strengthened, however, and penetrated every corner of the cell, other objects of amazement struck his sight. On the ground lay the broken fragments of the pitcher he had used the day before, and at a small distance from them, nearer the wall, stood the one lie had noticed the first iiislit. It was filled with water, and beside it was his food. , He was now certain, that, by some mechanical contrivance, an opening was obtained through the iron wall, and that through this opening the current of air had found entrance. But how noiseless! For had a feather almost waved at the time, he must have heard it. Again he examined that part of the wall: but both to sight and touch it appeared one even and uniform surface, while to repeated and violent blows, there was no reverberating sound indicative of hollowness. This perplexing mystery had for a time withdrawn his thoughts from the windows ; but now directing his eyes again towards them, he saw that �11 the fifth had disappeared in the same manner as the preceding two, without the least distinguishable alteration of external appearances. The remaining four looked as the seven had originally looked; that is, occupying, at irregular distances, the top of the wall on that side of the dungeon. The tall folding door, too, still seemed to stand beneath in the centre of these four, as it had at first stood in the centre of the seven. But he could no longer doubt, what, on the preceding day, he fancied might be the effect of visual deception. The dungeon was smaller. The roof had lowered •—and the opposite ends had contracted the intermediate distance by a space equal, he thought, to that over which three windows had extended. He was bewildered in vain imaginations to account for these things. Some frightful purpose—some devilish torture of mind or body—some unheard-of device for producing exquisite misery, lurked, he was sure, in what had taken place. Oppressed with this belief, and distracted more by the dreadful uncertainty of whatever fate impended, than he could be dismayed, he thought, by the knowledge of the worst, he sat ruminating, hour after hour, yielding his fears in succession to every haggard fancy. A t last a horrible suspicion flashed across his mind, and he started up with a frantic air. " Y e s ! " he exclaimed, looking wildly round his dungeon, and shuddering as he spoke—" Yes < it must be so! I see i t ! — I feel the maddening truth like scorching flames upon my brain! Eternal God ?—support me! It must be s o ! — Y e s , yes, that is to be my fate ! Yon roof will descend! — these walls will hem me round—and slowly, slowly, crush me in their iron arms! Lord God! look down upon me, and in mercy strike me with in- �12 stant death! Oh fiend, devil—is this your revenge?" He dashed himself upon the ground in agony ; —tears burst from him, and the sweat stood in large drops upon his face—he sobbed aloud—he tore his hair—he rolled about like one suffering intolerable anguish of body, and would have bitten the iron floor beneath h i m ; lie breathed fearful curses upon Tolfi, and the next moment passionate prayers to heaven for immediate death. Then the violence of his grief became exhausted, and he lay still, weeping as a child would weep. The twilight of departing day shed its gloom around him ere he arose from that posture of utter and hopeless sorrow. He had taken no food. Not one drop of water had cooled the fever of his parched lips. Sleep had not visited his eyes for six and thirty hours. He was faint with hunger ; weary with watching, and with the excess of his emotions. He tasted of his food ; he drank with avidity of the water ; and reeling like a drunken man to his straw, cast himself upon it to brood again over the appaling image that had fastened itself upon his almost frenzied thoughts. He slept. But his slumbers were not tranquil. He resisted, as long'as he could, their approach*; and when, at last, enfeebled nature yielded to their influence, he found no oblivion from his care3. Terrible dreams haunted him—ghastly visions harrowed up his imagination—he shouted and screamed, as if he already felt.the dungeon's ponderous roof descending on him—he breathed hattl and thick, as though writhing between its iron walls. Then would he spring up—stare wildly about him—stretch forth his hands to be sure he yet had space enough to live—and, muttering some �incoherent word, sink down again, to pass through the same fierce vicissitudes of delirious sleep. The morning of the fourth day dawned upon Vivenzio. But it was high noon before his mind shook off its stuper, or he awoke to a full consciousness of his situation. And what a fixed energy of despair sat upon his pale features, as he cast his eyes upwards, and gazed upon the THREE windows that now alone remained! The three !—there were no more!—and they seemed to number his own alloted days. Slowly and calmly he next surveyed the top and sides, and comprehended all the meaning of the diminished height of the former, as well as of the gradual approximination of the latter. The contracted dimensions of his mysterious prison were now too gross and palpable to be the juggle of his imagination. Still lost in wonder at the means, Vivenzio could put no cheat upon his reason, as to the end. B y what horrible ingenuity it was contrived, that walls, and roof, and windows should thus silently and imperceptibly, without noise, and without motion almost, fold, as it were, within each other, he knew not. He only knew they did so ; and he vainly strove to persuade himself it was the intention of the contriver, to rack the miserable wretch who might be immured there, with anticipation, merely, of a fate, from which in the very crisis of his agony, he was to be reprieved. Gladly would he have clung even to this possibility, if his heart would have let him ; but he felt a dreadful assurance of its fallacy. And what matchless inhumanity it was to doom the sufferer to such lingering torments*—to lead him day by day to so appalling a death, unsupported by the consolations of religion, unvisited by any human �14 being, abandoned to himself, deserted of all, and denied even the sad privilege of knowing that his cruel destiny would awaken pity! Alone he was to perish!—alone he was to wait a slow coming torture, whose most exquisite pangs would be inflicted by that very solitude and that tardy coming! " It is not death I fear, " he exclaimed, " but the death I must prepare for! Metliinks, too, I could meet even that—all horrible and revolting as it i s — i f it might overtake , me now, But where shall I find fortitude to tarry till it come! How can I outlive the three long days and nights I have to live ? There is no power within me to bid the hideous spectre hence—none to make it familiar to my thoughts ; or myself, patient of its errand. My thoughts, rather will flee from me, and I grow mad in looking at it. Oh ! for a deep sleep to fall upon me! that so, in death's likeness, I might embrace, death itself, and drink 110 more of the cup that is presented to me, than my fainting spirit has already tasted!" In the; midst of these lamentations, Yivenzio noticed that his accustomed meal, with the pitcher of water, had been conveyed, as before, into his dungeon. But this circumstance 110 longer excited his surprise. His mind was overwhelmed with others of a far greater magnitude. It suggested, however, a feeble hope of deliverance ; and there is no hope so feeble, as not to yield some support to a heart bending under despair. He resolved to watch, during the ensuing night, for the signs he had before observed ; and should he again feel the gentle, tremulous motion of the floor, or the current of air, to seize that moment for giving audible expression to his misery. Some person must be near �15 him, and within reach of his voice, at the instant when his food was supplied ; some one perhaps susceptible of pity. Or if not, to be told even that his apprehensions were just, and that his fate was to be what he foreboded would be preferable to a suspense which hung upon the possibility of his worst fears being visionary. The night came ; and as the hour approached when Yivenzio imagined he might expect the signs, he stood fixed and silent as a statue. He feared to breathe, almost, lest he might ( lose any sound which would warn him of their coming. While thus listening, with every faculty of mind and body strained to an agony of attention, it occured to him he should be more sensib1" ^ * if he stretched himself accordingly laid himself , j w been long in that position w h e n — y e s — h e was certain of it—the floor moved under h i m ! He sprang up, and in a voice suffocated nearly with emotion called, aloud. He paused—the motion Ceased—he felt no stream of air all was hushed— no voice answered to his—he burst into tears ; and as he sunk to the ground, in renewed anguish, exclaimed,—" Oh, my God! my God ! You alone have power to save n\e now, or strengthen me for the trial you permit."" Another morning dawned upon the wretched captive, and the fatal index of his doom met his eyes. Two windows! and two days, and all would be over! Fresh food and fresh water! The mysterious visit had been paid, though he had implored it in vain. But how awfully was his prayer answered in what he now saw ! The roof of the dungeon was within a foot of his head. The two ends were so near, that in six paces he trod the �16 space between them. Vivenzio shuddered as he gazed, and as bis steps traversed the narrowed area. But his feelings no longer vented themselves in frantic wailings. With folded arms, and clenched teeth, with eyes that were blood-shot from much watching, and fixed with a vacant glare upon the ground, with a hard quick breathing, and a hurried walk, he strode backwards and forwards in silent musing for several hours. What mind shall conceive, what tongue utter, or what pen describe the dark and terrible character of his thoughts ! Like the fate that moulded them, they had no similitude in the wide range of this world's agony for man. Suddenly he stopped, and his eyes were riveted upon that part of the wall which was over his bed of straw. Words are inscribed here! A human language, traced by a human hand! He rushes towards them: but his blood freezes as he reads: " I, Ludovica Sforza, tempted by the gold of the prince of Tolfi, spent three years in contriving and executing this accursed triumph of my art. When it was completed, the perfidious Tolfi, more devil than man, who conducted me hither one morning, to be witness as he said, of its perfection, doomed me to be the first victim of my own pernicious skill; lest as he declared, I should divulge the secret, or repeat the effort of my ingenuity. May God pardon him, as I hope he will me, that ministered to his unhallowed purpose! Miserable wretch, whoe'er thou art, that readest these lines, fall on thy knees, and invoke as I have done, His sustaining mercy, who alone can nerve thee to meet the vengeance of Tolfi, armed with his tremendous engine, which in a few hours must crush you, as it will the needy wretch that made it." A deep groan burst from Yivenzio. He stood �17 like one transfixed, with dilated eyes, expanded nostrils, and quivering lips, gazing at this fatal inscription. It was as if a voice from the sepulchre had sounded in his ears, ''Prepare!" Hope forsook him. There was his sentence, recorded in tiese dismal words. The future stood unveiled before him, ghastly and appalling. His brain already feels the descending horror,—his bones seemed to crack and crumble in the mighty grasp of the iron walls! Unknowing what it is he does, he fumbles in his garment for some weapon of selfdestruction. He clenches his throat in his convulsive gripe, as though he would strangle himself at once. He stores upon the walls, and his warring spirit demands, " w i l l they not anticipate their office if I dash my head against t h e m ? " An hysterical laugh chokes him as he exclaims, " w h y should I ? He was but a man who died first in their fierce embrace ; and I should be less than man not to do as much The evening sun was descending, and Vivenzio beheld its golden beams streaming through one of the windows. What a thrill of joy shot through his soul at the sight! It was a precious link, that united him, for the moment, with the world beyond. There was ecstacy in the thought. As he gazed, long and earnestly, it seemed as if the windows had lowered sufficiently for him to reach them. With one bound he was beneath them—with one wild spring he clung to the bars. Whether it was so contrived, purposely to madden with delight the wretch who looked, he knew n o t ; but at the extremity of a long vista, cut through the solid rocks the ocean, the sky, the setting sun, olive groves, shady walks, and in the farthest distance, delicious glimpses of magnificent Sicily, burst upon his �18 sight. How exquisite was the cool breeze as it swept across his cheek, loaded with fragrance! He inhaled it as though it were th^ breath of continued life. And there was a freshness in the landscape, and in the rippling of the calm green sea, that fell upon his withering hearfc like dew upon the parched earth. How he gazed and panted, and still clung to his hold ! sometimes hanging by one hand, sometimes by the other, and then grasping the bars with both, as loath to quite the smiling paradise outstretched before him j till exhausted, and his hands swollen and benumbed, he droped helpless clown, and lay stunned for a considerable time by the fall. When he recovered, the glorious vision had vanished. He was in darkness. He doubted whether it was not a dream that had passed before his sleeping fancy; but gradually his scattered thoughts returned, and with them remembrance. Yes ; he had looked once again upon the gorgeous splendour of nature! Once again his eyes had trembled beneath their veiled lids, at the sun's radiance, and sought repose in the soft verdure of the olive tree, or the gentle swell of undulating waves. Oh, that lie were a mariner, exposed upon the waves to the worst fury of storm and tempest; or a very wretch, loathsome with disease, plaguestricken, and his body one leprous contagion from crown to sole, hunted forth to grasp out the remnant of infectious life beneath those verdant trees, so he might shun the destiny upon whose edge he tottered! Vain thoughts like these would steal over his mind from time to time, in spite of himself; but they scarcely moved it from that stupor into which it had sunk, and which kept him, during the whole �19 night, like 0110 who had been drugged with opium. He was equally insensible to the calls of hunger and of thirst, though the third day was now commencing since even a drop of water had passed his lips. He remained ' on the ground, sometimes sitting, sometimes l y i n g ; at intervals, sleeping heavily ; and when not sleeping, silently brooding over what was to come, or talking aloud, in disordered speech, of his wrongs, of his friends, of his home, and of those he loved, with a confused mingling of all. In this pitiable condition, the sixth and last morning dawned upon Vivenzio, if dawn it might be called—the dim obscure light which faintly struggled through the ONE SOLITARY window of his dungeon. He could hardly be said to notice the melancholy token. And yet he did notice i t ; for as he raised his eyes and saw the portentous sign, there was a slight convulsive distortion of his countenance. But what did attract his notice, and at the sight of which his agitation was excessive, was the change his iron bed had undergone. I t was a bed no longer. It stood before him, the visible semblance of a funeral couch or bier! When he beheld this, he started from the ground ; and, in raising himself, suddenly struck his head against the roof, which was now so low that he could no longer stand upright. 44 God's will be done ! " was all he said, as he crouched his body, and placed his hand upon the bier; for such it was. The iron bedstead had been so contrived, by the mechanical art of Ludovico Sforza, that as the advancing walls came in contact with it, head and feet, a pressure was produced upon concealed springs, which when made to play, set in motion a very simple though ingeniously contrived machinery, that effected the �20 transformation. The object was, of course, to heighten, in the closing scene of this horrible drama, all the feelings of despair and anguish which the preceding ones had aroused. For the same reason, the last window was so made as to admit only a shadowy kind of gloom, rather than light, that the wretched captive might be surrounded, as it were, with every seeming preparation for approaching death. Vivenzio seated himself on his bier. Then he knelt and prayed fervently; and sometimes tears would gush from him. The air seemed thick, and he breathed with difficulty ; or it might be that he fancied it was so, from the hot and narrow limits of his dungeon, which were now so diminished that he could neither stand up nor lie down at his full length. But his wasted spirits and oppressed mind no longer struggled within him. He was past hope, and fear shook him no more. Happy if thus revenge had struck its final blow ; for he would have fallen beneath it almost unconscious of a pang. But such a lethargy of the soul, after such an excitement of its fiercest passions, had entered into the diabolical calculations of Tolfi; and the full artificer of his designs had imagined a counteracting device. The tolling of an enormous bell struck upon the ears of Yivenzio! He started. It beat but once. The sound was too close and stunning, it seemed to shatter his very brain, while it echoed through the rocky passages like reverberating peals of thunder. This was followed by a sudden crash of the roof and walls, as if they were about to fall upon and close around him at once. Vivenzio screamed, and instinctively spread forth his arms, as though he had a giant's strength to hold them �back. They had moved nearer to him, and were now motionless. Vivenzio looked up, and saw the roof almost touching his head, even as he sat cowering beneath i t ; and he felt that a further contraction of but a few inches only must commence the frightful operation. Roused as he had been, he now gasped for breath. His body shook violently — h e was bent nearly double. His hands rested upon either wall, and his feet were drawn under him to .avoid the pressure in front. Thus he remained for more than an hour, when that deafening bell beat again, and again there came the crash of horrid death. But the concussion was now so great that it struck Yivenzio down. As he lay gathered up in lessened bulk, the bell beat loud and frequent—crash succeeded crash—and on, and on, and on came the mysterious engine of death, till Yivenzio's smothered groans were heard no more ! He was horribly crushed by the ponderous roof and collapsing sides—and the flattened bier was his Iron Shroud• NO G R U M B L I N G — A TALE. A n odd whim once possessed a country 'squire, that he would not hire any servant whatever, until ten pounds should be deposited between the master and servant; and the first that grumbled at any thing, let it be what it might, was to forfeit the money. Being in want of a coachman, not one round the country would venture to go after the place. Now it happened that one Thomas Winterbourn, a coachman of London, who had been discharged from a nobleman's family, was in that �part of the country 011 a visit, and being acquainted with the oddity of the 'squire's whim, resolved to accept of the place, and, on application, was admitted into the family. Thomas was greatly surprised, after living there for two months, that nothing was allowed him for breakfast., dinner, or supper, but bread and cheese and small beer. Being heartly tired of this kind of fare, he applied to the cook: 4 Cookee,' says Thomas, • is it the standing rule of this family to keep their servants on nothing but bread and cheese V 4 "What! ' says the cook, 4 clo you grumble ?' ' N o , no, by no means, cookee/ replied Thomas, being fearful of forfeiting the money. But recollecting his master's park was stocked with fine deer, he took a musket and shot a fawn, skinned it, and brought it to the cook. 4 Here cookee,' said Thomas, 4 take and roast this fawn forme immediately ; for i have an acquaintance or two coming down from London, to pay me a visit.' The cook seemed to object to it, having some meat to dress directly for her master; 4 What,' says Thomas, 4 cookee, do you grumble V 4 No,' replied the cook ; so down to roast went the fawn. The appointed time arrived that the master ordered dinner, and 110 sign of any. coming to his table occasioned him to ring the bell, to know the reason of i t ; the cook acquainted the 'squire with all Thomas's proceedings, who in a great hurry bolted down stairs into the kitchen, where he found Thomas very busy in basting the fawn. 4 How got you that fawn V says the 'squire. 4 Shot it,' replied Thomas. 4 Where ?' says the 'squire* < In your park,'replied Thomas. 4 B y whose orders V 4 Do quoth the 'squire. you grumble? says Thomas. * No, Thomas,' says the squire; and �23 retired to his dining-room, greatly perplexed at Thomas's proceedings. He instantly wrote a letter to a gentleman who lived near six miles from his house, and ordered that Thomas should carry it immediately. Poor Thomas was obliged to comply, though with a sorrowful heart to leave the fawn. After his departure, the 'squire ordered the fawn, when dressed, to be brought to his table, which was done accordingly. On Thomas's return, he found himself fairly tricked out of the fawn ; and instead of it, to his mortification, bread and cheese, and small beex% his old diet; however, Thomas vowed within himself to revenge it the first opportunity. A little while after, the 'squire, (who was going to pay his addresses to a young lady,) gave orders to Thomas to get the carriage* together with the horses and harness, well cleaned. Thomas obeyed the order, and on the road from the stable to the 'squire's house, he met a man with a small sandcart, drawn by two remarkably fine jack-asses. Thomas insisted upon an exchange, the horses for the asses, which being obtained, he cut all his master's fine harness to pieces, to fit these Arabian ponies, as he styled them. Matters being completed, he drove up boldly to the 'squire's, and knocked at the gate ; the porter perceiving the droll figure his master's equipage cut, burst out into an immoderate fit of laughter! ' C'up, c'up,' says Thomas, 4 what's the fool laughing a t ? — G o and acquaint the 'squire his carriage is ready.' Shortly after the 'squire came, and seeing his carriage so beautifully adorned with cattle, was struck with astonishment. 4 Why, what the devil,' quoth the 'squire, 4 have you got harnessed to my carriage?' 4 1 will tell you,'says Thomas. 'As �I was driving from your stable to the gate, I met a fellow driving a sand-cart, drawn by these two fine Arabian ponies, and knowing you to be fond of good cattle, I gave your horses for these two fine creatures ; they draw well, and are ornaments to your carriage ; only observe what fine ears they have got?' * D — n their ears and ornaments too,' says the squire : 4 why, the fellow's m a d ! ' * W h a t ! ' cries Thomas, 'do you grumble?' 'Grumble, quoth the 'squire, 'why, I think it is high time to grumble: the next thing, I suppose, my carriage is to be given away for a sand-cart!' On Thomas procuring the horses again, he paid him his wages and forfeit-money, being heartily tired with the oddity of his whims, and declared that Thomas, the London coachman, was the drollest dog he ever met with. FINIS, � Document A resource containing textual data. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre text. Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource The Iron Shroud; or, Italian Revenge. Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context <a href="https://ocul-gue.primo.exlibrisgroup.com/permalink/01OCUL_GUE/mrqn4e/alma9953134493505154">s0231b06</a> <a href="https://ocul-gue.primo.exlibrisgroup.com/permalink/01OCUL_GUE/mrqn4e/alma9923343063505154">s0367b33</a> Alternative Title An alternative name for the resource. The distinction between titles and alternative titles is application-specific. Italian Revenge No Grumbling. A Tale. Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1840-1850 per National Library of Scotland Extent The size or duration of the resource. 24 pages 16 cm Is Part Of A related resource in which the described resource is physically or logically included. Chapbook #17 in a bound collection of 20 chapbooks (s0231b06) Description An account of the resource Woodcut image of an Italian man with a cape and a sword on the title-page. 149 is printed at the bottom of the title-page. Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Sicily, Italy Is Referenced By A related resource that references, cites, or otherwise points to the described resource. National Library of Scotland <a title="National Library of Scotland" href="http://www.nls.uk/" target="_blank" rel="noopener">http://www.nls.uk/</a> Abstract A summary of the resource. An Italian prisoner is made to undergo the evilly ingenious torture of imprisonment in an iron room which slowly contracts over several days until he is crushed by the walls of his prison. His thoughts and desperation are described as he realizes his peril and awaits death. Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource Archival and Special Collections, University of Guelph Library, Guelph, Ontario, Canada Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource JPEGs and PDF derived from master file, which was scanned from the original book in 24-bit color at 600 dpi in TIFF format using an Epson Expression 10000XL scanner. Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource In the public domain; For higher quality reproductions, contact Archival & Special Collections, University of Guelph. libaspc@uoguelph.ca 519-824-4120, Ext. 53413 Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Glasgow: Printed for the Booksellers https://scottishchapbooks.lib.uoguelph.ca/files/original/51019fa5f63b280d8d8ecb58eb18adf9.jpg c3c575e6e44700c6dd2a9d24803784c6 Omeka Image File The metadata element set that was included in the `files_images` table in previous versions of Omeka. These elements are common to all image files. Bit Depth 8 Channels 3 Height 3369 Width 1954 https://scottishchapbooks.lib.uoguelph.ca/files/original/641f7752c594fc4f5bc0f316efdd81db.pdf 0f78d44279081bc4a4dcaec1a9a197f3 Document A resource containing textual data. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre text. Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource The Long Pack; or, The Robbers Discovered: A Scottish Story. Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context <a href="https://ocul-gue.primo.exlibrisgroup.com/permalink/01OCUL_GUE/mrqn4e/alma9953134493505154">s0231b06</a> <a href="https://ocul-gue.primo.exlibrisgroup.com/permalink/01OCUL_GUE/mrqn4e/alma9923357673505154">s0329b34</a> Alternative Title An alternative name for the resource. The distinction between titles and alternative titles is application-specific. The Robbers Discovered Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource ca. 1850 per National Library of Scotland Extent The size or duration of the resource. 24 pages 16 cm Is Part Of A related resource in which the described resource is physically or logically included. Chapbook #20 in a bound collection of 20 chapbooks (s0231b06) Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Northumberland, England Subject The topic of the resource Crime Chapbooks - Scotland - Glasgow Is Referenced By A related resource that references, cites, or otherwise points to the described resource. National Library of Scotland <a title="National Library of Scotland" href="http://www.nls.uk/" target="_blank" rel="noopener">http://www.nls.uk/</a> Abstract A summary of the resource. This 24 page chapbook contains a print of James Hogg’s tale, The Long Pack, originally published under his pseudonym, the Ettrick Shepherd. In this tale, a peddler arrives at the country home of a wealthy Colonel who is absent on a visit to London. The peddler tries to convince the servants of the house to let him spend the night, but upon being asked to leave, he asks if he can at least leave his pack for the night, which is abnormally large and heavy. Alice, the servant, reluctantly agrees and soon regrets her decision when she observes the pack moving as it rests in the parlour. She seeks help from the other workers on the property, a farm-hand and a rash young man who has a bit of a gun obsession. When the young man, Edward, likewise observes the pack moving, he shoots it with his gun, Copenhagen, but to the company’s horror, the pack gushes bloods and they discover that the pack is actually a man in disguised to look like a pack. At first repentant, they are both relieved and scared to discover the man was armed and likely meant to kill them all and rob the house with the assistance of other criminals. The party of three rouse the peasants of the property, organizing and arming the company and hiding in the house in wait. Much later, a large company of men on horseback arrive, and the defenders release a volley, killing several men and successfully driving off the invaders. Cold and fear keep the men inside until the morning when they discover the bodies of the dead had been carried off under cover of night by their associates. By the time the Colonel is alerted and returns to his home, the trail is cold and the criminals fled or hidden. Nonetheless, the characters of the story are rewarded with full lives after their roles in the adventure of the Long Pack. Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource Archival and Special Collections, University of Guelph Library, Guelph, Ontario, Canada Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource JPEGs and PDF derived from master file, which was scanned from the original book in 24-bit color at 600 dpi in TIFF format using an Epson Expression 10000XL scanner. Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource In the public domain; For higher quality reproductions, contact Archival & Special Collections, University of Guelph. libaspc@uoguelph.ca 519-824-4120, Ext. 53413 Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Glasgow: Printed for the Booksellers Source A related resource from which the described resource is derived Archival & Special Collections, University of Guelph Library, Guelph, Ontario Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Hogg, James, 1770-1835; Ettrick shepherd Type The nature or genre of the resource supernatural & ghost stories https://scottishchapbooks.lib.uoguelph.ca/files/original/5ae7fcdbc3a66af9b2ef897f0c4c9b6e.jpg 0d95395539680b605c5ac3a4943a47e7 Omeka Image File The metadata element set that was included in the `files_images` table in previous versions of Omeka. These elements are common to all image files. Bit Depth 8 Channels 3 Height 3543 Width 1938 https://scottishchapbooks.lib.uoguelph.ca/files/original/75fda2f82a9e585e9d5a91f445acfe7e.pdf 3e921535e11b95dd89109759a9d9ee70 PDF Text Text THE PROPHECIES AND THE COMICAL STORY OF THRUMMY GAP & THE GHAIST GLASGOW: PRINTED FOR THE BOOKS ELLERS, ��SHORT ACCOUNT OF SIR THOMAS LEAKMANT, THE RHYMER. SIR THOMAS LEARMANT, commonly called Thomas the Rhymer, was born in the east corner of Fife, of a good family. His Prophecies have been more credited that any that were ever recorded in the Scots Chronicle, as they have been well attested, what of them is past, and what they allude to, in this present century and period, and of his dark sayings yet to come. He told many mystical prophecies anent all the Kings of Europe, and what fell out according to his prediction, in this ancient kingdom of Scotland ; what is past, present, and to come. This brief account is taken from the Record of Cryle, near which place he was bom and brought up. His father was said to be Laird of Balcomie, and the records of that family are extant in the Rolls, for assisting at several councils for the honour of �4 Scotland. And Sir Thomas the Rhymer's prophecies and sayings are still held in estimation. He lived in the reign of Alexander III. King of Scotland, in the year one thousand two hundred and forty-eight, much regarded, and knighted by that king that same year. The first of his prophecies ever taken to be faithfully observed, was, that there should be a storm on a certain day, that would surprise all Scotland. Now, some gentlemen being with him that day, they began to joke him, and said, " Sir Thomas, you are now mistaken, and we shall stay and see your mistake, as we have heard so much of your prophecies." He told them to stay an hour longer, and they would see and believe. And in less time than an hour, an express arrived to Sir Thomas from Edinburgh, of the death of Margaret, Queen of Alexander III., who died that day. Upon receiving the news, Sir Thomas told them that this was the storm, and it would give rise to greater commotions in Scotland. After the death of Queen Margaret, the King married Isabel, daughter to the Earl of Driux; and Sir Thomas told within a few months of an earthquake at Kinghorn, that would make Scotland tremble. An express accordingly came to Cryle to Sir Thomas, that the King had fallen from his horse at Kinghorn, and broke his neck. After the death of Alexander, he left no heirs except a grandchild, Margaret, daughter of the King of Norway, �5 who also soon died; but a short time before her death she was betrothed to Edward, King of England. After this there were great commotions anent the succession to the crown of Scotland, which occasioned great blood-shed, particularly betwixt Bruce and Baliol, which you have recorded in the Scottish Histories. The pride of Spain, and the deceitful conduct of the French, as also concerning the Dutch, is all foretold.—Likewise the Scots battles at Torwood, Bothwellbridge, Malpaickie, Killycrankie, Sheriffmuir, Proud-Preston, near Giadsmtiir, Falkirk, Culloden, the Camps in Moray-shire, on the Windmill brae at Aberdeen, by General Coup, and at Dunbar. In forty-five eighty-two and three, Sir Thomas' Works doth certify* �"u f oioiod THE PROPHECIES OP r H O M A S T H E R H Y M E R . As to his prophetical sayings, they are hard to be understood, because they are pointed out by the Coats of Arms which appertain to so many different kingdoms and persons. Yet we may observe how he has pointed out plainly, many things which have come to pass in our days; such as the extirpation of the noble race of the Stewarts, the Revolution of Sheriffinuir, where he says, That three Ships and a Shield, That day shall keep the field ; And be the Antelop's build. These three ships and a shield, are in the Duka of Argyle's arms. And even every particular of the rebellion in 1745 and 1746, when pointing at it he says, A Chieftain unchosen, Shall choose forth himself, And the realm as his own. When speaking of King Charles, he calls him A sly Fox-bird, who would turn to Christ with the wyles of tods and foxes," meaning his swearing of the covenants. When speaking of the battle of Prestonpans, in the year 1745, He names ths very two neighbour44 �7 ing villages to the spot of ground whereon it was fought, viz., Coyleford-green and Seton, saying, " Between Seton and the sea sorrow should be wrought by the light of the moon."—Which act, really came to pass that morning the battle of Prestonpans was fought. But how the Lion was hurt at this time, and not perceived, is yet a mystery. Some are of opinion, that it was by taking away the power or superiority from the chiefs of the Highland clans, so that they cannot raise men in such a short time as formerly. These are a few observations on things already come to pass ; and as to what is yet to come, there is some remark will yet happen, when the time draws nigh ; such as, " When Tarbet's craigs are tumbled into the sea. And the next season or summer thereafter, great sorrow and bloodshed happen to this realm, the chief thereof especially, such as harling on sleds, and chopping off heads." This Tarbet stands near the root of the river Clyde ; but whether its being tumbled into the sea shall happen by an earthquake, thunder, or by the hands of men, is a mystery unknown. There is also mention made of a lord with a lucken, or double hand, which certainly is of royal blood, and will breed great stir and confusion in Britain. This man is alive at this very present age, and of the Stewarts' race, now in Italy. There is plainly pointed out, that in his time, a great battle should be seen in Fife, Where saddled horses should be seen, Ty'd unto the trees green. Not only in Fife, but the four chief rivers of the realm, there should bo a battle on each of them, that should make the rivers run with blood, viz Tweed, Clyde, Forth, and Tay. �11 • f Last of all, a bloody desperate battle in Northumberland, on the river Tyne. Also great havock and slaughter about the broad walls of Berwick. All these things are yet to come to pass; and when the first appears, the rest will soon follow after. When HEMP is come and also gone, Scotland and England shall be one. Henry, VIII. Edward, VI. Mary, Philip, Elizabeth, of Spain. Q. M.'s Husb. HEMP. Praised be God alone, For HEMP is come and gone, And left us old Albion, By peace join'cl in one. The explication of the foregoing prophecy concerning Hemp being come and also gone, leaving Scotland and England joined in one, is fulfilled in the late king William, who came out of Holland, which, in old times, was vulgarly called the land of Hemp, -and the joining of the two nations together, signifies the union. These things were foretold by the two Scots Prophets in the reign of King Arthur. Afterwards, to the same purpose, these, and many other strange things were foretold by Thomas Learmant, vulgarly called Thomas Rhymer, �9 because he spoke all his prophetical savings in rhyme, and so darkly that they coi \d not be understood until they came to pass. But of all the prophets that ever were in Scotland, none of them attained to such credit, because many of his predictions referred to our own country, and were accomplished in the last and present centuries. THOMAS THE RHYMER'S PROPHECIES, IN VERSE. 1 SCOTLAND be sad now and lament* For honours thou hast lost, But yet rejoice, in better times, Which will pay the cost. 2 Tho' unto thraldom you should be Brought by your enemies ; You shall have freedom from them all, And enjoy your liberties. 3 The grave of the most noble prince, To all is great regret, The subject to law, who both leave The kingdom and estate. 4 0 anguish great! where every kind And ages doth lament Whom bitter death has ta'en away, Shall Scotland sore repent. �10 Lately a lamb of rich increase, A nation stout and true, Has lost their former dear estate. Which they did hold of due. 6 By hard conflict, and by the chance Of noble fortune's force, Thy hap and thy prosperity May turn into worse. 7 Tho' wont to won, may be subdued, And come in under yoke ; Strangers may reign, and you destroy, What likes him by sword's stroke. 8 A foreign foe whom neither thy force, Nor manners do approve, Woe is to thee, by guile and slight Will only win above. 9 This mighty nation was to force, Invincible and stout, Will yield slowly to destiny, Great pity is but doubt. 10 In former age the Scots renown Did flourish goodly gay! But yet alas ! will be overcome With a great dark decay. 11 Then mark and see what is the cause Of this so wond'rous fall! Contempt of faith, falsehood, deceit, The wrath of God withal. 12 Unsatiable greed of worldly gain, Oppression, cries of the poor ; A perpetual and slanderous race, No justice put indure. �13 The haughty pride of mighty me a, Of former vice chief cause, The nutriture of wickedness, An unjust match of laws. 14 Therefore this cause the prophets Of long time did presage ; And now has happen'd every point Into your present age. 15 Since fate is so, now Scotland learn In patience to abide, Slanders, great fears, and sudden plagues, And great dolours beside. 16 For out of thee shall people ris:% With divers happiness; And yet a pen can scarcely write Thy hurt, skaith, and distress. 17 And yet beware thou not distrust, Altho' o'erwhelm'd with grief, Thy stroke is not perpetual, For thou shalt find relief. 18 I do suppose, altho too late, Old prophecies shall hold, Hope thou in God s goodness evermore, And mercies manifold. 19 For thou that now a patient is, And seemeth to be bound ; At liberty shall free be set, And with empire be crown'd. 20 From high above shall grace come down, And thy state, Scotland, be, In latter ends, more prosperous mat former age shall see. �II Old prophecies foretell to thee. A warlike heir he's born, Who shall recover new your right, Advance this kingdom's horn. 22 Then shall fair Scotland be ad vaneTd Above her enemies power ; Her cruel foes shall be dispers'd, And scatter'cl from her bower. 23 Fair Scotia's enemies may invade, But not escape a plague ; With sword, and thirst, and tears, and pest, With fears, and such like ague. 24 And after enemies thrown down, And master'd in the war, Then Scotland in peace and quietness Pass joyful days for ever. But that the curious may be more fully informed concerning the aforesaid predictions, witn respect to their being exactly fulfilled, they are referred to the Scottish Histories. �13 THRUMMY CAR A TALE. IN ancient times, far i' the north A hundred miles ayont the Forth, Upon a stormy winter day, Twa men forgathered on the way; Ane was a sturdy Bardoch chiel, An' frae the weather happit weel, Wi' a milled plaiding jockey-coat, And eke he on his head had got A thrummy cap, baith large and stout, Wi' flaps a hind, as weel's a snout, Whilk buttoned close aneath his chin, To keep the cauld frae getting in: Upon his legs he had gamashes, Whilk sodgers term their spaterdashea ; An' on his hands, instead o' glo'es, Large doddy mittens, whilk he'd roose For warmness, an' an aiken stick, Nae verra lang, but unco thick, Intil his neive—he drave awa', And car'd for neither frost nor snaw. The itlier was just the reverse, 0 claes and courage baith was scarce; Sae in our tale, as we go on, 1 think we'd ca' him cowardly John. Sae on they gaed at a good scow'r, 'Cause that they saw a gathering showe: Grow verra thick upon the wind, Whilk to their wae they soon did find ; �14 A mighty shower of snaw and drift, As ever dang down frae the lift! Right wild and boisterous Boreas roar'd, Preserve's, quoth John, we'll baith be smoor'd Our trystic end we'll ne'er make out. Cheer up, says Tlirummy, never doubt; But I'm some fly'd we've tint our way, Howe'er at the neist house we'll stay, Until we see gif it grow fair, Gin no, a' night we'll tarry there. Weel, weel, says Johnny, we shall try. Syne they a mansion house did spy, Upon the road, a piece afore, Sae they gaed up unto the door, Where Thrummy chappit wi' his stick, Syne to the door came verra quick, A muckle dog, who barked sair, But Thrummy for him didna care He handled weel his aiken staff, And spite o's teeth he kept him aff, Until the Landlord came to see, And ken what might the matter be ; Then verra soon the dog did cease, The Landlord then did spear the case. Quoth Thrummy, Sir, we hae gane weel, We thought we'd ne'er a house get till; We near were smoor'd amo' the drift; An' sure, gudeman, ye'11 make a shift, To gie us quarters a' this night, For now we dinna hae the light, Farer to gang tho' it were fair ; See gin you hae a bed to spare ; Whate'er you charge, we sanna grudge, But satisfy ye, ere we budge To gang awa—and fan 'tis day, We'll pack our all, and tak the way. The Landlord said, 0 ' beds I've nane, Our ain folks they will scarce contain; �15 But gin ye gang but twa miles ferret, Aside the kirk dwalls Robbie Dorret, Wha keeps a change house, sells guid drink, His house you may mak out I think. Quoth Thrummy, That's o'er far awa, The roads are sae blawn up wi' snaw, To mak it is not in our power ; For look ye, there a gathering shower Is coming on—you'll let us bide, Tho' we should sit by the fire-side. The Landlord said to him, Na, na I canna let you bide ava, Chap off, for 'tis 110 worth your while To bide, when ye hae scrimp twa mile To gang—sae quickly aff ye'11 steer, For faith, I doubt ye'11 nae be here. Twa mile! quo' Thrummy, de'il speed me If frae your house this night I jee ; Are we to starve in Christian land ? As lang's my stick bides in my hand, An' silver plenty in my pouch, To nane about your house I'll crouch ; Landlord, you needna be sae rude, For faith we'll make our quarters good. Come, John, let's in, we'll take a seat, Fat sorrow gars you look sae blate ? Sae in he gangs and sets him down: Says he, They're nane about your town Sail put me out, till a new-day, As lang's I've siller for to pay. The Landlord said, Ye're rather rash, To turn ye out we sanna fash, Since ye're sae positive to bide, But troth ye's sit by the fire-side ; I tald ye else of beds I've nane Unocqupied, except bare ane, In it, I fear ye winna lye, For stoutest hearts have aft been shj �16 To venture in within the room After the night begins to gloom ; For in it they can ne'er get rest, 'Tis haunted by a frightful ghaist' Ourselves are terrified a' night; Sae ye may chance to get a sight, Like that which some of our folk saw, Far better till ye gang awa, Or else ye'11 maybe rue the day. Guid faith, says John, I'm thinking sae ; Better in the neuk to sit, Than fly'd, guid keep's, out o' our wit; Preserve us ever frae all evil, I widna like to see the devil: Whisht gowk, quo' Tlirummy, hand your peace, That sanna gar me quit this place : To great nor sma' I ne'er did ill, No ghaist, nor deil my sert shall spill. I can defy the meikle deil, An' a' his works I wat fu' weel; Fat sorry then maks you sae eery ? Fling by your fears, come then, be cheery. Landlord, gin ye'11 make up that bed, I promise I'll be very glad, Witl in the same a' night to lie, If that the room be warm and dry. The Landlord says, Ye's get a fire, An' candle too, gin ye desire, Wi' beuks to read, and for your bed, I'll orders gi'e to get it made. John says, As I'm a Christian man, Who never likes to curse nor ban, Nor steal, nor lie, nor drink, nor wliore, I'll never gang within its door, But sit by the fire-side a' night, An' gang awa whene'er 'tis light. Says Thrummy till him wi' a glow'r, Ye cowardly gowk, I'll make ye cower, �17 Come up the stair alang wi' me, An' I shall caution for you be. Then Johnny faintly gaecl consent, An' up stairs to the room they weht^ Where soon they gat baith fire and light, To haud them hearty a' the night; The Landlord likewise gae them meat, As meikle as they baith could eat; Show'd them their bed, and bade them gang To it, whene'er they did think lang ; And wishing them a gude repose, Straight syne to his ain bed he goes. Our travellers now being left alane, 'Cause that the frost was nippen keen. Cast aff their shoon, and warm'd their feet And syne gaed to their bed to sleep, But cowardly John wi' fear was quaking, He cou'clna sleep, but still lay wauking, Sae troubled wi' his panic f r i g h t When near the twalt hour o' the night, That Thrummy waken'd and thus spake ; Preserves! quoth he, I am like to choak Wi' thirst, and I maun ha'e a drink ; I will gang down the stair I think. And grapple for the water pail, 0 for a waught o' cawler ale! Johnny grips to him, an' says, Na, 1 winna let you gang awa ; Wow will -you gang and leave me here Alane to die wi' perfect fear ? Rise and go wi' me then, quoth Thrummy, Ye senseless gude-for-naething bummy, I'm only gaun to seek some water, I will be back just in a clatter. Na, na, says John, I'll rather lye, But as I am likewise something dry, Gif ye can get a jug or cap, Fesh up to me a little drap. �18 Ay, ay, quoth Thrummy, that I will, Altho' ye sudna get a gill. Sae down he gaes to fetch a drink, And then he thinks he sees a blink 0 ' light, that shone upo' the floor, Out thro' the key hole o' the door, So setting up the door a jee, Whatever's there he thinks he'll see; So bauldly o'er the threshold ventures. And in within the door he enters ; But, reader, judge of his surprise, When there he saw with wondering eyes A spacious vault, weel stored wi' casks 0 ' reaming ale, and some big flasks, And stride legs o'er a cask of ale, He saw the likeness o' himsel, Just in the dress that he cast aff, A Thrummy cap and aiken staff, Gammashes and the jockey-coat; And in his hand the Ghaist had got A big four-legged timber bicker, Filled to the brim wi' nappy liquor ; Our hero at the spectre star'd, But neither daunted was, nor car'd, But to the Ghaist straight up did step, An' says, dear brother, Thrummy Cap, The warst ye surely dinna drink ; Syne took a jug, pou'd out the pail, And filled it up in the same ale, Frae under where the spectre sat, And up the stair wi' it he gat; Took a gude drink, gaed John anither, But never tauld him o' his brither That he into the cellar saw, Mair than lie'd naething seen ava ; Right brown and nappy was the beer ; Whar did you get it ? John did speer, Says Thrummy, Sure you needna car#, �19 I'll gae and try and get some mair. Sae down the stair again he goes, To get o' drink, anither dose, Being positive to hae some mair i But still he fand the ghaist was there, Now on a butt behind the door: Says he, Ye didna ill before, Bear brother Thrummy, sae I'll try You once again, because I'm dry, He fills his jug straight out below, An' up the stair again does go. John marvell'd sair but didna speer Again, where did he get the beer, For it was stronger than the first, Sae they baith drank till like to burst; Syne did compose themselves to rest, To sleep a while they thought it best. An hour in bed they hadna been, And scarcely weel had closed their een, When just into the neighb'ring cham'er They heard a dreadful din and clamour, Beneath the bed-claes John did cower. But Thrummy jumped upon the floor, Him by the sark-tail John did haud, Lie still, quoth he, fat, are you mad ? Thrummy then gaed a hasty jump, And took John in the ribs a thump, Till on the bed he tumbled down, In little better than a swoon, While Thrummy, fast as he could rin, Set aff to see what made the din. The chamber seemed to him as light As gif the sun was shining bright; The ghaist was stanin' at the door, In the same dress he had afore ; And o'er anent it at the wa', Were ither apparitions twa. Thrummy beheld them for a wee, �20 But de'il a word as yet spoke he; The spirits seemed to kick a ba', The Ghaist against the ither twa: While close they drave baith back and fore Atween the chimla and the door. He stops a while and sees the play, Syne rirming up he thus did say: Ane for ane may well compare, But twa for ane is rather sair: The play's nae equal, sae I vow, Dear brother Thrummy, I'll help you, Then wi' his feet he kicked the ba', Gard it play stot against the wa': Quick then as lightning frae the sky The Spectres, with a horrid cry, A' vanished in a clap of thun'er, While Thrummy at the same did won'er The room was quiet now and dark, And Thrummy stripping in his sark: Glauming the gate back to his bed. Aye thinks he hears a person tread. An' ere he gat without the door, The Ghaist again stood him before, xVnd in his face did staring stand, Wi' a big candle in his hand. Quoth Thrummy, Friend, I want to know What brings you from the shades below ? I, in my maker's name, command You tell your story just aff hand ? Fat wacl you hae ?—I'll do my best For you, to let you be at rest, Then says the Ghaist, 'Tis thirty years Since I've been doom'cl to wander here ; In all that time there has been none Behav'd so bold as you have done ; Sae, if you'll do a job for me, Disturbance mair I'll never gie ; Say on your tale, quoth Thrummy, I, �21 To do you justice, sure will try. Then mark me weel, the Ghaist replied, And you shall soon be satisfied ; Frae this aback near forty years, I of this place was overseer, When this Laird's father had the land A' thing was then at my command, Wi' power to do as I thought fit, In ilka cause I chief did sit; The Laird paid great respect to me, But I an ill return did gie : The Title deeds of his estate, Out of the same I did him cheat, And staw them frae where they did lye ; Some days before the Laird did die.. His son, at that time, was in France. And sae I thought I'd hae a chance, Gif he should never come again, That the estate would be my ain. But scarcely three bare weeks were p When death did come and grip m-D ra«t, Sae sudden that I hadna power The charter back for to restore. Soon after that hame came the heir. And syne got up the reefu' rair, What sorrow was come o' the Eights They sought them several days and nights But never yet hae they been seen, As I aneath a meikle stane, Did hide them, i' this chamber wa\ We'll shewed up in a leather ba', But I was ne'er allowed to rest, Until that I the same confest; But this to do I hadna power, Frae yon time to this verra hour, That I've reveal'd it a' to you : And now I'll tell you what to do. Till nae larigsyne nae mony kent, �That this same Laird the Rights did want, But now thej hae him at the law, An' the neist owk the Laird maun shaw, Afore the Court, the Rights o's land, This puts him at an unco stand ; For if he disna shaw them there, O' a' his lands he'll be strip'd bare: Nae hopes has he to save's estate, This makes him sour and unco blate ; He canna think whar's Rights may be, And ne'er expects them mair to see, But now my friend, mark what I tell, And ye'11 get something to yoursel'; Tak out the stane there in the wa', And there ye'11 get the leather ba', 'Tis just the same that you did see, Whan that you said you wad help me ; The Rights are shew'd up in its heart; But see you dinna wi' them part, Until the Laird shall pay you down Just fifty guineas and a crown, Whilk at my death was due to me, This for thy trouble, I'll give thee : And I'll disturb this house nae mair, 'Cause I'll be free from all my care, This Thrummy promised to do, And syne the Ghaist bade him adieu, And vanished with a pleasant sound, Down thro' the laft and thro' the ground, Thrummy gade back syne till his bed, And cowardly John was verra glad, That he his neighbour saw once mair, For of his life he did despair. Wow man, quo' John, whar hae ye been, Come tell me a' fat ye hae seen ? Na, bide, says Thrummy, till clay light, And syne I'll tell you hale and right. Sae baith lay still and took a nap, �23 Until tlie ninth hour it did chap ; Thrummy syne raise, put on his claes, And to the cham'er quick he gaes, Taks out the stane into the wa', And soon he found the leather ba'; Took out the Rights, replaced the stane, Ere John did ken whar he had been: Then baith came stappin' down the stair. The morning now was calm and fair. Weel, says the laird, my trusty frien', Hae ye ought in your cham'er seen? Quoth Thrummy, Sir, I naething saw That did me ony ill ava. Weel, quoth the Laird, ye now may gang, Ye ken the day's nae verra lang: In the meantime it's calm and clear. Ye lose your time in biding here. Quoth Thrummy, Sir, mind what I tell, I've mair right here than you yoursel': Sae till I like I here shall bide. The Laird at this began to chide. Says he, My friend, you're turning rude; For here I, just before you a', The Rights o' this estate can shaw, And this is mair than you can do. What! quo' the Laird, can that be true ! 'Tis true, quoth Thrummy, look and see, D'ye think that I would tell a lie. The parchment from his pouch then drew And down upon the table threw, The Laird at this up to him ran, And cryed where did ye get them, man \ Syne Thrummy tauld him all the tale, As I've tauld you, baith clear and hale. The Laird at this was fidging fain, That he had got his Rights again ; And fifty guineas down did tell, Besides a present frae himsel\ �Thrummy him thanked, and syne his gaud Intil a muckle purse he stowed, An' cramed it in his oxter pouch, And syne sought out his aiken crutch: Said, Fare-ye-weel, I maun awa, An' see gin I get through the snaw. Weel, fare-ye-weel, replied the Laird; How comes it that ye ha'na shared, Or gi'en your nei'bour o' the money? J F , by my saul, I sir, quo' Thrummy. Na When I the siller, sir, did win, To had done this wad been a sin, For he cower'd, trembling in the bed, While I it was the Ghaist had laid. And sae my tale I here do end, I hope 110 one it will offend ; My muse will no' assist me langer, The dorty jade sometimes does languor, I thought her ance a gay smart lass, But now she's come to sic a pass, That a' my cudgelling and weeping, Will hardly wake her ouft o' sleeping s To plague her mair I winna try. Bet (light my pen and lay it bye. FlfiflS. � Document A resource containing textual data. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre text. Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource The Prophecies of Thomas the Rhymer, and the comical story of Thrummy Cap &amp; the Ghaist. Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context <a href="https://ocul-gue.primo.exlibrisgroup.com/permalink/01OCUL_GUE/mrqn4e/alma9953134493505154">s0231b06</a> <a href="https://ocul-gue.primo.exlibrisgroup.com/permalink/01OCUL_GUE/mrqn4e/alma9923395833505154">s0200b04</a> Alternative Title An alternative name for the resource. The distinction between titles and alternative titles is application-specific. The comical story of Thrummy Cap &amp; the Ghaist Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Thomas, the Rhymer, 1220?-1297? Burness, John, 1771-1826 Boyd, Allan, fl.1789-1820 Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1840-1850 per National Library of Scotland Extent The size or duration of the resource. 24 pages 16 cm Is Part Of A related resource in which the described resource is physically or logically included. Chapbook #8 in a bound collection of 20 chapbooks (s0231b06) Description An account of the resource 114 printed at the bottom of the title-page. Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Fife, Scotland Subject The topic of the resource Chapbooks - Scotland - Glasgow Is Referenced By A related resource that references, cites, or otherwise points to the described resource. National Library of Scotland <a title="National Library of Scotland" href="http://www.nls.uk/" target="_blank" rel="noopener">http://www.nls.uk/</a> Abstract A summary of the resource. The chapbook begins with a short history of some of the reputed prophecies by Sir Thomas Learmant, commonly known as Thomas the Rhymer, who was a 13th century laird and knight under Alexander III. Supposedly, Thomas’ prophecies have been linked to a number of important Scottish events, including the death of Alexander III during his lifetime, and the Jacobite Risings that occurred centuries after his death. The prophecies themselves, in verse, are included, followed by the Scots tale of Thrummy Cap, which tells the story of two companions—one brave and one cowardly—who are beset by a storm and take refuge in the nearby house of a local laird. The laird warns the two that the only unoccupied room is haunted, but Thrummy Cap refuses to be dissuaded, so they spend the night in the haunted room. While his friend cowers in the bed all night, Thrummy gets up multiple times and meets the ghost, who appears in the same likeness and dress as himself, and ends up drinking with him and assisting him in an impromptu and paranormal football match. Thrummy’s courage is rewarded when the ghost shares with him the cause of his curse, which Thrummy solves, thereby restoring the laird’s inheritance and receiving a hefty financial reward himself. His cowardly friend receives nothing. Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource Archival and Special Collections, University of Guelph Library, Guelph, Ontario, Canada Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource JPEGs and PDF derived from master file, which was scanned from the original book in 24-bit color at 600 dpi in TIFF format using an Epson Expression 10000XL scanner. Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource In the public domain; For higher quality reproductions, contact Archival & Special Collections, University of Guelph. libaspc@uoguelph.ca 519-824-4120, Ext. 53413 Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Glasgow: Printed for the Booksellers Source A related resource from which the described resource is derived Archival & Special Collections, University of Guelph Library, Guelph, Ontario Type The nature or genre of the resource supernatural & ghost stories wit & humor https://scottishchapbooks.lib.uoguelph.ca/files/original/9db3cf5e7baa514c2d3e51063cf7c501.jpg 6480c4a7b680951807f7d4cf625a07be Omeka Image File The metadata element set that was included in the `files_images` table in previous versions of Omeka. These elements are common to all image files. Bit Depth 8 Channels 3 Height 3378 Width 1820 https://scottishchapbooks.lib.uoguelph.ca/files/original/cf2a4972d7fb7f71a81219bda262b8e8.pdf 7366c9b311b9c7c735e12f1636693649 Document A resource containing textual data. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre text. Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Satan's Invisible World Discovered. Detailing the particulars of Strange Pranks Played by the Devil, together with a particular account of several apparition's, witches, and invisible spirits, to which is added The marvellous history of Major Weir and His Sister. Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context <a href="https://ocul-gue.primo.exlibrisgroup.com/permalink/01OCUL_GUE/mrqn4e/alma9953133913505154">s0221b12</a> <a href="https://ocul-gue.primo.exlibrisgroup.com/permalink/01OCUL_GUE/mrqn4e/alma9953134493505154">s0231b06</a> Alternative Title An alternative name for the resource. The distinction between titles and alternative titles is application-specific. The marvellous history of Major Weir and His Sister. Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource <p>[18--?] per St. Andrew's University Library Catalogue</p> Extent The size or duration of the resource. 24 pages Is Part Of A related resource in which the described resource is physically or logically included. Chapbook #15 in a bound collection of 22 chapbooks (s0221b12) Chapbook #15 in a bound collection of 20 chapbooks (s0231b06) Description An account of the resource 116 printed at the bottom of the title-page. Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Clydesdale (Lanarkshire), Scotland Edinburgh, Scotland Subject The topic of the resource Chapbooks - Scotland - Glasgow Crime Covenanters Witchcraft Is Referenced By A related resource that references, cites, or otherwise points to the described resource. St. Andrew's University Library Catalogue <a title="St. Andrew's University Library Catalogue" href="http://library.st-andrews.ac.uk/" target="_blank" rel="noopener">http://library.st-andrews.ac.uk/</a> Abstract A summary of the resource. This chapbook contains excerpts from George Sinclair’s Satan’s Invisible World Discovered, specifically the section detailing the life and crimes of Major Thomas Weir—a seventeenth-century minister, preacher, and conventicler—and his sister, who were accused and executed for a number of crimes such as incest, bestiality, and witchcraft. Also included are two additional stories of supernatural hauntings and demonic manifestations. Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource Archival and Special Collections, University of Guelph Library, Guelph, Ontario, Canada Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource JPEGs and PDF derived from master file, which was scanned from the original book in 24-bit color at 600 dpi in TIFF format using an Epson Expression 10000XL scanner. Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource In the public domain; For higher quality reproductions, contact Archival & Special Collections, University of Guelph. libaspc@uoguelph.ca 519-824-4120, Ext. 53413 Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Glasgow: Printed for the Booksellers Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Sinclair, George, -1696 Type The nature or genre of the resource supernatural & ghost stories Source A related resource from which the described resource is derived Archival & Special Collections, University of Guelph Library, Guelph, Ontario https://scottishchapbooks.lib.uoguelph.ca/files/original/267a6fb5694b181ba688f773bd1db6e0.jpg d707665535de78fa10edef34d9b364bf Omeka Image File The metadata element set that was included in the `files_images` table in previous versions of Omeka. These elements are common to all image files. Bit Depth 8 Channels 3 Height 3486 Width 1944 https://scottishchapbooks.lib.uoguelph.ca/files/original/ed4be61fea828352d5fe4c12853bf845.pdf af4cc4de08b37eaf1285c05d626658aa PDF Text Text SHEPHERDESS A VERY INTERESTING, PATHFTIC AND GLASGOW: [PRINTED FOR THE BOOKSELLERS, ��THE SHEPHERDESS OF THE ALPS. IN that part of the Alps, amidst the high mountains of Savoy, very near the road that leads from Briancon to Modena, is a lonely valley, whose solitary aspect instils into the minds of all who travel through it a sort of pleasing melancholy. Three hills in the form of an amphitheatre, on which some shepherds' huts are scattered at several distances, interspersed with clumps of lofty trees, streams tumbling down the mountains in cascades, and pastures ever green, compose the beautiful landscape of this natural scene. Count Fonrose and his Lady were returning from France to Italy, when their coach broke down as they were passing through the valley; and as the day was on the decline, they were obliged to look for some place of cover, where to pass the night. Whilst they advanced towards one of the huts, they perceived a flock of sheep drove by a shepherdess, whose walk and air filled them with astonishment, and their hearts with the sweet accent of her melodious voice, which the echoes repeated in plaintive sounds. How beautiful's the setting sun ; Its daily course now almost run, We can behold its charms ; More pleasing are its fainter rays. Than when in full meridan blaze. Thus it will prove, said she, when, after a painful race, the weary soul arrives at the wished-for gaol, and �4 The Shepherdessof•the Alps. calmly drops into eternity, to renew its vigour in the pure source of immortality. But alas ! how distant is the prospect! how slowly it passes away! In saying these words, the shepherdess moved on ; her head declined ; with a supineness in her attitude, which gave ease and dignity to her gait and mein. Struck with amazement at what they saw, and more at what they heard, the Count and Countess redoubled their steps to overtake her. But what was their surprise, when, under the coarse straw hat and mean apparel, they met with every beauty, every grace. Pray, child, said the Countess, (finding she endeavoured to shun them,) be not alarmed, we are travellers, and an accident obliges us to ask for shelter till morning in one of your cabins; be so kind as be our guide. I am very sorry, madam, answered the shepherdess, blushing and casting down her eyes, that you will be but ill accommodated, as these huts belong to very poor people. You live here, I suppose, said the Countess, and surely I may put up with the inconveniences for one night, when you undergo them continually. There is a wide difference, said the modest shepherdess, I am brought up to it. I cannot believe that, interrupted Count Fonrose, not able any longer to hide his emotion; no—you were not formed for such hardships. Fortune is unjust, or how is it possible that so lovely a person should be reduced to live obscurely in so low and ordinary a dress. Fortune, replied Adelaide, (so was the shepherdess named,) is not to be blamed, but when she deprives us of what she has given us before. My condition has its sweets for one that knows no other state in life. Custom and example create wants for the wealthy, which the poor are ignorant of. It may be so with those that are born in this solitude, said the Count; but for you, charming unknown, you are not what you seem to be: your air, your voice, your language, all betray your disguise. These few words you have said, discover a noble soul, and a cultivated education. 0 ! tell us, lovely creature, what cruel turn of fate has brought you to this condition ? A man under misfortune, replied Adelaide, �The Shepherdess of the Alps. 5 has a thousand means to extricate himself; but a woman, in such cases, has no resource but in the honest servitude; and in the choice of one's master, methinks it is best to prefer the good and virtuous. You are going to see mine, and you will be delighted with the innocence of their lives, and the candour and simplicity of their manners. As she was still speaking, they arrived at the hut: it was divided by a partition from the sheepfold, into which the shepherdess turned her flock, counting them over with the most serious attention, heedless of the strangers, who beheld her with admiration. The old folks, such as presented Baucis and Philemon, received their guests with the honest, simple courtesy which recalled the golden age. We have nothing to offer you, said the good woman, but clean straw for your bed, and a hearty welcome to such provisions as heaven affords us, milk, fruit, and oaten bread. On entering the cabin, they were amazed to see the order and neatness that appeared every where in so poor a habitation. Their table was walnut plank, finely polished by frequent rubbing; their earthern dishes and dairy pans shone with the nicest cleanness; every thing presented the image of contented poverty, happy to have wherewith to support the real wants of nature. It is our dear daughter, said the old woman, that manages all our little affairs. At break of day, before she leads her flocks to the hills and dales, whilst they are nipping about our hut the sweet grass surcharged with the morning dew, she employs that time in putting every thing in the neat order and manner you see them placed. What! said the Countess, interrupting her, is the shepherdess indeed your daughter ? Would to heaven she was, replied the good creature ; she is the daughter of my heart, and I have a mother's fondness for her; but 1 am not so happy as to have brought such perfections into the world, nor are we worthy of such honour. Who is she, then? Whence came she? What misfortune has reduced her to so low a station? All that is a secret to us. Three years ago �6 The Shepherdessof•the Alps. she came here in the liabit of a villager, and offered to tend our flock. She would have been welcome to share our little, without taking upon her that painful task; so much the sweetness of her person and behaviour engages our hearts. We could not believe she was bred in a cottage. Our questions made her uneasy. We desisted from farther enquiry, as they seemed to disturb her. As our knowledge of her good qualities increased, so did our respect; but the more we strove to shew her that respect, the more she humbled herself before us. No, never had any child for its parents a more tender regard, a more constant care. She cannot obey, because it is impossible for us to command ; but she dives into our hearts, and prevents our wishes when they are scarcely formed. She is an angel descended from heaven, to be the comfort of our age. What is she doing now in the sheepfold? asked the Countess. She milks the ewes and she-goats, fosters the young kids and lambs, and gives them fresh litter. The cheese she makes is thought delicious: no doubt for having been pressed with her neat hands. I carry it to the market, and have not near enough to supply all those that would be my customers. When the dear child is tending the sheep in the pasture, she employs herself in making works of plaited straw, which are admired by every body. I wish you were to gee with what dexterity she weaves the osier plain twigs, and mats the tender flexible rushes. There is nothing, let it appear ever so perfect, but what she can improve upon. You see, madam, continued the good old dame, in all about you is the image of an easy, contented life; it was she that procured it, it was she, this angelic creature, whose only study is to make us happy. But is she happy ? said the Countess. She does all she can to make us believe so, said the old pastor: but I have made my dame observe, that she ofttim.es returns from the pasture with a dejected look, her eyes still moist with tears; but as soon as she sees us she affects a smile. It is easy to perceive there is some gnawing grief that preys upon her heart, the cause of which we �TU SMpMrdess of the Alps. 7 dare not ask. And then, said the old dame, what concern does she not give me, when, in spite of all our entreaties, the dear creature will, in the severest weather, lead abroad her bleating care. A thousand times have I requested her, in the most earnest manner, to let me now and then relieve her ; but my requests have never been complied with. She rises with the sun, conducts the flock, and does not return till it sets, often shivering ^ith cold. How is it possible, my dear parents, she would say, with all the tenderness of a loving child, how is it possible that I should consent to let you leave your fireside, to be exposed, at your age, to the inclemency of the season, which I, young as I am, can scarce support? At the same time she comes loaded with fagots, which she gathers in the wood; and when she sees I am troubled at the fatigue she must undergo, Don't be uneasy, says she, my dear mother, exercise keeps me warm, and labour is fit for my age. In short, my dear lady, she is as good as she is beautiful. My husband and I never speak of her but with tears of affection. What if you were deprived of her? said the Countess. Why, answered the old shepherd, we should be deprived of all that is dear to us in the world; but if she is to be happier for it, we should die content, and our misfortune would be our comfort. Oh ! may kind heaven heap blessings on her head! There are none so great but what she deserves. I was in hopes her dear hands would have closed my eyes, for I love her much more than I do my life. Adelaide's coming in put an end to the conversation. In one hand she carried a pan of milk, and in the other a basket of fruit; and after courtseying with a grace peculiar to herself, she set about the little household affairs, as if she was not the least taken notice of. My dear child, said the Countess, you give yourself a deal of trouble. Not at all, madam: I endeavour to fulfil the intentions of the best of people, whose servant I am, to treat you in the best manner, with what their little can produce ; but I am afraid, continued whilst she was spreading on a coarse �8 The Shepherdessof•the Alps. table-cloth as white as snow, that you will but make a sorry meal. The bread is brown, but very savoury; the eggs are new laid, the milk fresh drawn, and the fruit fresh gathered, such as the season affords. Diligence, attention, and modest deportment, in every minute duty of hospitality, were conspicious in this wonderful shepherdess. After the frugal repast, Count Eonrose and his amiable lady retired to rest on the bed* though but of straw, which Adelaide had prepared for them. Is not our adventure surprising ? Let us endeavour, said they, to unravel the mystery of this pretended shepherdess, invite her to accompany us, and make her happy if we can. At break of day one of the Count's servants came to let his master know he might proceed on his journey as soon as his honour pleased, for the coach was securely repaired. It was ordered up immediately; but before they left these honest folks, the Countess desired a moment's conversation with the young person who styled herself their servant. Adelaide came to receive her commands. Without desiring to penetrate into the secret of your birth, said the Countess, or into whatever is the cause of your distress, I feel that I am sensibly interested in all that concerns your welfare. It is evident that your courage raises you above your misfortunes, and that you conform your behaviour suitably to your present circumstances. It is true, your charms and your virtues render your condition designed for you. It is in my power, amiable unknown, to alter it, as the Count's intentions are quite agreeble to mine. I waut a bosom friend: and from what I have seen in you, I shall think myself possessed of an inestimable treasure, if you consent to be my friend and companion. Drive from your thoughts the least shadow of dependance. You were not formed for servitude, and should my fond prejudice deceive me, I would rather lift you above your birth than leave you below it. In short, I seek a real friend, one that I can confide in. Be not under any concern about these good people : I shall make up for their loss; at least so far as to �9 The Shepherdess of the Alps. enable tliem to pass the remainder of their days in peace and plenty; and from your hands they shall receive my constant bounty. The poor old folks, who were present, fell on their kness and kissed the Countess' hand, then turning to Adelaide, they conjured her, in the most pressing terms, to accept the lady's generous proposal. We cannot, at our time of day, be far from the grave, and as it has been your constant study to make our lives happy, so must our death leave you comfortless in this solitary place. The shepherdess embracing them, and mixing her tears with theirs, returned a thousand thanks to their noble guests, with a sweetness that increased her charms. I cannot, said she, accept of your favour; heaven has marked my destined lot, and I submit to it: but I shall always with the most grateful heart acknowledge your goodness; and the name of Fonrose will never be absent from my memory. The only thing I request of you is to bury this adventure in eternal silence, and never to reveal the fate of an unknown person, who is determined to live and die in oblivion. The Count and Countess redoubled their solicitations, but all in vain— she was immoveable. The travellers parted from their charming shepherdess, to retirement. During their journey, their conversation was taken up with this strange adventure, which appeared to them like a romance. They arrived at Turin, their imagination full of i t ; and you may be sure their desired silence could not be observed. The charms and virtues of this unknown shepherdess was an inexhaustible source of reflection and conjectures. Young Fonrose, their only son, was often present at their conversation, and never let a single circumstance escape his memory. He was of that age when imagination is most lively, and the heart most susceptible of receiving tender impressions; but was of the character of those who keep the feelings of their sensibility within themselves, and which are so much more violently agitated when they burst from their confinement, as they have never been weakened by any dissipation. All the wonders he heard related of the �10 The Shepherdess of the Alps. valley of Savoy, raised in his soul the most passionate desire of serving her. The object which his imagination has formed, is ever in his mind. He compares it to all he sees, and all he sees is lost in the comparison. The more his impatience increased, the more he took care to disguise it. Turin became insupportable: the valley where the inestimable jewel was hid, was the loadstone that attracted his heart; there he placed all his happiness ; but knew not how to get at it. If his designs are found out, what difficulties to surmount! His parents will never consent to the journey he intends: it will not be looked upon as the mere effects of curiosity, but be deemed a youthful folly, that may have bad consequences ; and the shepherdess may be alarmed at his presence, and shun his addresses; if it is discovered, he loses her for ever. After three months' struggle, he determined to quit all for her alone ; and, under the disguise of a shepherd, find her out in the lonely valley, and there remain till death, if he could not prevail on her to leave it. He disappeared. His father and mother missed him with great consternation, and waited his return with the greatest impatience. Their apprehensions increased more and more ; and his absence continuing, the whole family was plunged into desolation. Their fruitless search and enquiries completed their distress ; till at last these unfortunate parents are reduced to lament the loss of their only child. Whilst the afflicted family of Fonrose was in this dejection, the youth arrived in the valley which had been described, and, in the habit of a peasant, presented himself to some of the neighbouring cottagers, and offered his services. His ambition is satisfied. He is accepted of, and a flock is committed to his care. At first he only followed the sheep wherever they chose to feed, in hopes that chance would direct him to the same pastures where the solitary shepherdess fed her flock. The unhappy, at some times, thought he, may listen to the voice of comfort. It is an aversion to the world, and the desire of a retired, quiet life, that �11 The Shepherdessof•the Alps. detains lier hefe. She will experience some tedious hours, when she will not be displeased to meet with a friendly intercourse, nor avoid a virtuous conversation. If I prove so happy as to make mine agreeable, I shall have great hopes of something more. If I gain her confidence, friendship will follow, of course; and friend* ship in different se&es, is nearly allied to love. Whilst he indulged himself with these pleasing reflections, his eyes wandering on the beautiful scenes of the valley, he heard at some distance, the very voice whose melody he had been so often told of, which raised an emotion in his heart as great as if it had been an accident unexpected. She sung the following words:— Sweet Solitude! to which I fly, Of every bliss bereft; There affliction's cup enjoy, The only boon that's left. These melancholy complaints pierced Fonrose's tender heart. Ah ! whence the grief that consumes her ! what pleasure to afford her comfort! He durst not as yet raise his hopes any higher. It might perhaps alarm her, if he yielded to his impatient longing to behold her; it was sufficient for the first time to have heard the sweetness of her voice. Next morning Fonrose went to the pastures, and having observed which way the lovely shepherdess directed her flock, he sat himself at the foot of the rock, which the day before had echoed with her moving sounds. Fonrose, with all the grace of outward form, possessed every talent, every endowment that the nobility study to attain. He played upon the hautboy as well as Beluzzi, of whom he had learned, and who was at that time the delight of the courts of Europe. Adelaide, absorbed in melancholy, had not yet begun her melodious strains. The echoes were silent; when on a sudden that silence was interrupted by the sweet notes of Fonrose's hautboy. A harmony so uncommon filled her with amazement, mixed with some emotion. �12 The Shepherdess of the Alps. Her ears had never there been struck before but with the shrill squeak and buzzing hum of the rustic bagpipe. Motionless, with deep attention, she cast her eyes around, t o find out from whence proceeded such divine music. » She perceived at some distance, a young shepherd sitting in the cavity of a rock, at the foot of which his sheep were feeding. She drew somewhat nearer, that she might hear him play more distinctly. Behold, said she, the effects of instinct! The ear alone has given this shepherd all the fineness of that charming art I what purity in the notes! variety in the modulations! what fire and neatness in the execution! who then shall say, that taste is not the gift of nature ? Adelaide, for the first time since her retirement, felt her grief in some measure suspended. Fonrose, who saw her approach nearer, and sit down under a willow, to listen more conveniently, had given her no room to think he had perceived her: he took the opportunity, as soon as she retired, to calculate the place of her flock, so as to meet her without affectation, at the bottom of the hill, where the road that led to their different huts crossed each other. He gave her a look in a seemingly careless manner, as if he was wholly taken up with the guidance of the sheep: but ah! what beauties were gazed on in that look! what eyes! what a mouth! what divine features! so moving in their languor! how ravishing would they appear in one animated with love! Affliction had added paleness, and freed, in some degree, the blooming carnation of her cheeks. But of all charms, none struck him with so much admiration, as her elegant shape and air. Her easy motion was that of a young cedar, whose straight and plain stem yielded to the soft impulse of the zephyrs. The charming image which love engraves in his heart, takes up his thoughts, and fills his soul with irresistable passion. How faintly, said he, was she described: the lovely beauty is unknown to the world, whose admiration she deserves. She that would grace a throne, lives under the thatch of a cottage, employed in the low occupation of tending the flocks!—in �The Shepherdess of the Alps. 13 what poor garments does she appear! But she embellishes every thing, and nothing can commend her. What! so delicate a frame made for such a laborious life! homely food! straw her bed! 0 heavens! she has the thorns, for whom do you preserve the roses! Sleep put a stop to those flattering ideas, but did not banish from him her lovely image. Adelaide felt herself somewhat touched with Fonrose's youth and comeliness, nor could she help reflecting on the capricious turns of fortune. For what end, thought she, has nature endowed this young shepherd with such graces! Alas! those gifts, haply useless in his station of life, might prove a source of misery in a higher station. What is outward form! what is beauty! wretched as I am, is it for me to fix their value? This reflection imbittered the little rising pleasure she had indulged. She reproached herself for having yielded to it, and resolved never to give way to it again. Next day, Fonrose imagined that she affected to avoid his coming near her. He was cast down at the very thought. Does she suspect my disguise ? Have I discovered myself? These uncertainties perplexed his mind. His hautboy was neglected. Adelaide was not far distant, but could have heard the sounds, had he played upon it. She could not guess the meaning of its silence, and began to sing, in her old melodious strains,— Ye pretty birds, whose pensive notes My lamentations join; Ah! what avails your warbling throats, Can they soothe woes like mine ? All seem around to share my grief, As if to assuage my pain ; But mine admits of no relief, And comfort speaks in vain. Fonrose, moved to his inmost soul with, lier complaining, so melodiously expressed, could not refrain from taking up his hautboy. She continued, and he accompanied her sweet voice. �14 The Shepherdess of• the Alps. Never was a unison more harmonious. Is this an enchantment! said Adelaide. May I believe my senses! it is no mean shepherd ! it is some supernatural being that I have been listening to! Nature may give a vent, but great masters and constant practice alone can reach to such perfections. As she was thus musing, the valley resounded with a rural or rather divine symphony; Adelaide imagined she saw realized those prodigies which poetry attributes to music, her brilliant sister. Astonished and confused, she could not determine whether to approach or retire. Meanwhile the young shepherd was collecting his flock, to lead it back to the cottage. He is not conscious, said she, of the pleasure he communicates around: he is not the least vain of his perfection; he does not expect the praises I ov^e, which are so justly his due. Such are the sweets of music! it is the only talent that finds enjoyment in itself: all others must have witnesses, or else partakers. Music was a gift from heaven, bestowed upon man in his state of innocence: it is the purest of all pleasures, and the only one that I can yield to. I look upon this as an echo, that comes to repeat my grief. Fonrose, in his turn, affected to avoid her. Adelaide was concerned at it. Alas! said she, I give myself up too easily to the little comfort I felt: I am deprived of it for my punishment. One day they met as if by chance, Shepherd, said she, do you lead your flocks to any great distance ? These words uttered from her sweet lips, caused in Fonrose's heart such an emotion as almost deprived him of his voice. I cannot tell, replied he, with hesitation, it is not I that lead my sheep, it is my sheep that lead me; they are better acquainted than I am with these pastures, and I let them range wherever they please to go. From whence came you ? said Adelaide. I was born 011 the other side the Alps. And were you brought up to a shepherd's life? No doubt, since I am one, I was destined for it. That is what I can scarce believe, she replied, gazing on him with fixed attention; your talents, your language, your air, all con- �15 The Shepherdess of the Alps. vince me to the contrary. You are very good, answered Fonrose; does it become you to tax nature for bestowing her favours with a sparing hand on those of your condition—you, whom she has formed more for a queen than a shepherdess. Adelaide blushed and waved the discourse. The other day, said she, your hautboy accompanied my voice with such a masterly art, as must seem a prodigy in one brought up to feed the flocks. It is to your singing, replied Fonrose, that is so rare in a simple shepherdess. What! were you never instructed ? Like you, I have no other guide than rny heart and my ear. You sung I was moved—what my heart feels, my instrument expresses—I breathe it in my very soul. That is all my secret—nothing is more natural. It is incredible, said Adelaide. t I thought so too, replied he, whilst listening to your voice, and now I am convinced of i t : though sometimes nature and love will frolicsomely bestow their choicest favours on the meanest objects, to shew there is no condition, be it ever so low, but what they can ennoble. Whilst they thus discoursed, advancing in the valley, Fonrose, animated by a small ray of hope, began to make it resound with rapturous notes that pleasure inspires.— A h ! cease, cried Adelaide, spare me the image of a sentiment I never more shall taste. This solitude is consecrated to grief; all here join with my lamentations. I am not without woes, said the young shepherd, fetching a deep sigh, which was followed by a pause of silence. What has caused your afflictions ? of what do you complain ? is it of mankind ? is it of fate ? I really cannot tell. All that I know is, that I am far from being happy—pray inquire no farther into my situation. Hear me, said Adelaide: Heaven has made us acquainted to be a mutual support to each other's woes ; mine are a burden, under which my heart sinks down even to despondency. Whoever you be, if you are unhappy you are compassionate,—I believe you are worthy the confidence I shall repose in you; but you must promise me that the confidence shall be reciprocal. Alas! said Fon- �16 The Shepherdessof•the Alps. rose, my woes are of a nature perhaps never to be relieved. Meet me to-morrow, said Adelaide, at the foot of the hill, under the spreading oak where you heard me moan. I will there reveal what will excite your pity. They parted. Fonrose passed the night with great inquietude; his fate depended on what he was to hear ; he dreaded the discovery of a tender unhappy passion. If she loves, I am undone. He set out to the rendezvous, and the fair shepherdess arrived soon after. The morn was overcast with clouds, as if nature had presaged their sorrowful conversation.— They seated themselves under the oak; when, after a profound sigh, Adelaide thus began T H E S T O R Y OF H E R WOES. " Beneath those stones you see there, almost covered with the creeping grass, lie the remains of a most faithful and virtuous man, whom my love and imprudence brought to the grave. I was born in France, of a wealthy family, and of high distinction ; too wealthy, to my misfortune. Count Oreston conceived for me the most passionate, tender love, to which my heart corresponded with equal warmth. My parents objected to our union, and refused their consent. Hurried on by my passion, I agreed to private marriage, sacred to virtuous souls, but disapproved by laws. Italy then was the seat of war. My husband was ordered to join the corps he was to command ; and I went with him as far as Briancon. There my foolish fondness prevailed on him to stay with me three days, which he passed with extreme reluctance. I sacrifice, said he, my duty for you. But what had I not sacrificed for him! " He afterwards set out with a foreboding that terrified me. I accompanied him to this valley, where we took leave of each other, and I returned to Briancon. In a few days a report of a battle was spread about. I was sure my dear Oreston was there. I wished it for his honour ; I feared it for my love. When I received �17 The Shepherdessof•the Alps. a letter from him, (which afforded me great comfort,) it informed me, that on such a day, such an hour, I should find him in the valley, under the same oak where I had bid him farewell; that he should be alone, and desired to meet me unaccompanied, adding, that he only lived for me. I saw nothing in his letter but his impatience to see me ; and that impatience was to me very flattering. I was exact to the appointment. Mr Oreston received me in the most tender manner. Ah! my dear Adelaide, said he, you would have it so. I have failed in my duty at the most important crisis of my life. What I feared is come to pass. The battle was given, my regiment charged, and performed wonders of valour, and I was not at its head. I ain dishonoured for ever—lost without risk—I have but one sacrifice more to make you, which I am come to consummate. At these words I pressed my dear husband in my arms. I felt my blood congeal in my shivering heart. I fainted dead away. He took that opportunity to perpetrate his design; and I was called to life again by the report of the fatal pistol that gave him his death. How can I paint the cruel situation in which I was left! it cannot be described. These tears, that must for ever flow ; the sighs which suffocate my voice, give but a faint idea of my distress. I passed the night over the bloody corpse, quite stupified with grief. My first thoughts were, as soon as I was able, to bury it and my shame together. These hands dug his grave! I do not mean to move your compassionate heart—But the moment in which the earth was to separate me from that dear remains, was a thousand times more dreadful than can be that which divides the body from the soul. Depressed with grief, deprived of food, my feeble hands were two days employed in performing this last sad duty ; and I then formed a determined resolution, to remain in solitude till death unite us. (Jnawing hunger preyed upon my vitals, and I thought myself criminal in preventing nature from supporting a life more insupportable to me than death. I changed my dress for that of a simple shepherdess; and X look upon this valley as my �1® The Shepherdess of the Alps„ only asylum. Ever since I have had no other comfort, but that of weeping over this grave, which I hope will soon be my own, " You see with what sincerity I open to you my inmost soul.—Henceforth I may weep in your presence without restraint—a relief my overburdened heart stands much in need o f — I expect you will put the same confidence in me, as that I have reposed in you.—Don't imagine that I am imposed upon. I am certain that you are 110 more a shepherd, than I am a shepherdess. You are young, perhaps in love ; for if I guess aright, our misfortunes flow from the same source. The similitude of our conditions will make us feel the more for each other. I look upon you as one whom heaven, moved with my afflictions, has sent into this solitude to save me from despair. I look upon you as a sincere friend, capable of giving, if not satisfactory advice, at least a firm example of true resignation to the Divine will." A h ! madam, said Fonrose, overwhelmed with what he heard, whatever tender sensibility my heart is prone to feel, you are far from imagining with what deep concern the recital of your woes has affected me—-the impression will remain as long as life. What! must I have a secret, nay, even a thought reserved from you— from you, who have a right, after what you have entrusted me with, to scrutinize my very soul ? But as I told you before, and as my foreboding heart apprehended, such is the nature of my woes, that I am doomed to conceal them in eternal silence. Be not offended, charming friend, at a silence which is my greatest torment. You are very unhappy: but I am more unhappy still. I'll be your constant companion: I'll endeavour to mitigate your sorrows, and help to ease you in an employment too laborious for your delicate frame. Let me be a partaker of your grief; and when I behold you weeping over the tomb, I shall mix my tears with yours. You never will have cause to reptfnt having deposited your secret in an unfortunate heart, that feels all the value of its trust. I do repent it already, said Adelaide, �The Shepherdess of the Alps. 19 with some confusion, and retired without further discourse. In her abrupt departure, she saw in Fonrose's countenance all the marks of an affected mind. Alas! said she, I have renewed his sufferings. 0 what sufferings they must be that can give him grounds, to think himself more unhappy than I am ? No more music, no more conversation. They neither seemed to seek nor shun each other. Looks that spoke their thoughts were all their language-*—it was very expressive. When he found her weeping over her husband's grave, he beheld her in mute attention, full of jealousy, grief, and pity, till her groans were echoed by his. A few days were past in this painful conflict, when Adelaide took notice how the young man wasted away, like a blooming flower just blasted by some malignant planet. The grief that consumed him gave her much concern, as not being entrusted with what occasioned his trouble, it was out of her power to administer any comfort. She little knew that she was the cause of his distress. It is an observation founded on nature, that when the soul admits of two passions, they will of course weaken each other. Adelaide's regret for the love of Oreston grew less in proportion as her pity increased for the young shepherd. She was sure that her pity proceeded from no motive, but what the most innocent friendship suggested ; nor did ever it occur not to give way to i t ; for seeing the youth plunged in so settled a melancholy, she thought it incumbent on her, after what she had professed for him, not to leave him any longer to himself. Unhappy youth ! said she, the first time they met after her resolve, you perish daily, and give me the fruitless concern of beholding you consume away, and not be able to afford you any comfort. If the recital of my imprudent conduct has not altered your opinion of me ; if the most sincere friendship is dear unto you ; in short, if it will not make me more unhappy than I was before our acquaintance, tell me, I conjure you? the cause of your afflictions. Was your �20 The Shepherdessof•the Alps. secret yet more important than mine ? You need not apprehend that I will ever divulge it. Oreston's death is an eternal barrier betwixt the world and me. The secret of your woe, which I desired to be acquainted with, and for your sake, not for mine, would have been deposited in my husband's tomb, with his faithful widow, and your sincere friend. I hope, said Fonrose, it will be my fate to die first. A h ! madam, let me end my deplorable life, without leaving you to reproach yourself with having shortened it. 0 heavens ! she cried, what, I ? Can I have contributed to increase the woes under which you perish. Ease my tortured heart, and tell me what I have said, what I have done to aggravate your affliction! Speak, I say, you have revealed too much to hide yourself any longer—I do insist upon knowing who you are. Since you will force from me so peremptorily the fatal secret, know that I am—that I am Fonrose, the son of those you lately filled with admiration and respect. All that I have heard them relate of your virtue and your charms, inspired me with the rash design of seeing you under this disguise. I have seen you, and my fate is fixed. I have left my family in the deepest distress. They think that I am for ever lost: they lament my death. I know what is your attachment here ; and I have no other hope but to die adoring you. Forbear to give me any useless advice : my resolution is as immoveable as your own. If by betraying my confidence you divulge my secret, you will only disturb the last ebbings of my declining life, and will have to impute my death to yourself. Astonished at what she had heard, Adelaide endeavoured to soothe young Fonrose's despair. I will restore him, said she, to his afflicted parents, and save their only hope from death. Heaven has procured me this opportunity to acknowledge their goodness: wherefore she diligently employed every means the most insinuating friend could suggest to calm and comfort him. Sweet angel! cried Fonrose, I see with what reluctance you are forced to make any one wretched ; your �The Shepherdess of the Alps. 21 heart is devoted to him that lies in that tomb, no power on earth can draw it away; I see with what condescension your virtue attempts to veil your unhappiness; I feel your goodness in full extent; I sink under it, and I forgive you. Your duty is never to love me, and mine is to adore you for ever. Adelaide, impatient to put in execution the design she had formed, arrived at the hut. Father, said she, to the old Pastor, do you think yourself able to undertake a journey to Turin ? I want a person that I can rely on, to carry the Count and Countess Fonrose intelligence of what concerns their whole happiness. My zeal, said the old man, to serve them, will give me strength equal to my inclination. Go, then, continued she, you will find them at present lamenting the death of their only child. Inform them that he is living ; and that it is the poor Adelaide that will restore him to their arms. But at the same time tell them, there is an indispensible necessity of their coming in person to fetch him. He set out immediately, and arrived at the Count's house in Turin. He sent in word, that the old man of the valley of Savoy was come to wait on them. A h ! cried the Countess, perhaps some misfortune has befallen our lovely shepherdess! Bid the old man enter, said the Count; who knows but Adelaide consents to come and live with us! It would be, replied the Countess, the only comfort I can taste after the loss of my son. The old man is introduced, he embraced their knees—they raise him to their arms. You weep, said he, for the death of your son, and I am come to inform you, that he is alive. It is our dear child that has discovered him in the valley, and dispatched me to communicate to you this interesting news ; but she says that yourselves, and only you, can bring him back. Whilst he was speaking, the Countess fainted away, overcome with surprise and joy. The Count calls for assistance. She revives. They embrace the old shepherd by turns, and acquaint the whole family with the subject of their transport. How shall we show our �The Shepherdess of theAlps.22 gratitude ? said the Countess. How can we requite a benefaction that restores us to life ? They set out immediately on tlieir journey, and arrived with the greatest expedition. They left their equipage at some distance, and walked to the hut through the valley that contained all that was dear to them. Adelaide was tending the flock, as usual. The old dame conducted them to the place where she was. How great was their surprise, when they beheld their beloved son with the shepherdess, under the habit of a simple pastor! Their hearts discovered him more than their eyes. Ah! cruel child, cried Fonrose's mother, throwing her arms about his neck, what trouble you have given us. What could induce you to leave your affectionate parents ? What is your business here? To adore what you yourself so much admired, said Fonrose. Madam, said Adelaide, whilst Fonrose embraced his father's knees, you would not so long have been a prey to grief, had I discovered sooner your dear son. After the first effusions of nature were over, Fonrose relapsed into his former melancholy. Come, said the Countess, let us go and repose ourselves in the cabin, and forget the woes this young madman has plunged us in. It is very true, said Fonrose, to his father, who led him by the hand; what else but the deprivation of my reason could suspend the emotions of nature, and make me forget the most sacred duties ? What but madness ? You innocently gave rise to it, and I am sincerely punished, for I am in love with the most amiable and accomplished person in the world. You have seen but little of her ; you know but little of this incomparable lady. Honour, virtue, and sensibility! she unites all that is great and good. I dote upon her to idolatry. I cannot be happy without her, and she never can be' mine. Has she trusted you, said the Count, with the secret of her birth ? I have learned enough, replied Fonrose, to assure you it is not inferior to mine. She has renounced a considerable fortune in the world, to remain in this solitude. Do you know what motive has induced her to it? I do ; In; t is a secret which �The Shepherdess of the Alps. she alone can reveal, Is she married ? No ; she is a widow ; but her heart is not the less engaged, nay, it is rather bound with stronger chains. Madam, said the Count to Adelaide, as they had entered the cabin, you see how you turn the heads, as well as captivate all that bear the name of Fonrose. Nothing could have justified my son's extravagant passion, but so virtuous, so loving an object. My wife's utmost wishes were to have you for a friend; my son cannot live without you for a wife; and it would he my greatest happiness to have you for a daughter. Oh! consider how many that love you would be wretched, if you refuse your consent. A h ! sir, replied Adelaide, your goodness perplexes me: lend me awhile your attention, and judge my situation. She then, in the presence of the old folks, related her sad story, adding the name of the family, which the Count was well acquainted with; and she finished ner narration by taking him for a witness of the inviolable fidelity she owed her husband. At these words a consternation appeared in their looks. Young Fonrpse, bursting with grief, threw himself into a corner of the hut, to give vent £p his sorrows. His afflicted father laid himself down by him, casting his eyes on Adelaide. Madam, said he, behold the effect of your resolution. The Countess pressing her in her bosom, A h ! will you, then, said she, give us cause to lament a second time the death of our clear child! Why did you restore him to us! The gpod pld people, penetrated with what they saw and heard, their eyes fixed on Adelaide, waited for her determination. Heaven knows, says she, I would willingly give up my life to acknowledge all this unbounded generosity. I own it would be the height of misery, if I had to upbraid myself of having been the cause of yours. I leave the decision of pur fate to your son—let me have a few minutes' conversation with him. Then retiring by themselves, Fonrose, said she, you know what sacred rites bind me here. If I could cease to lament the loss of him who loved and doted on me even beyond discretion, I §hofj}$ be deservedly despised. �21 The Shepherdess of the Alps. 21 Friendship, gratitude, and esteem, are all I have left to give; and is that a compensation for love ? The more you have conceived for me, the more right you have to expect a suitable return, and what return can I make ? The impossibility of performing that duty is the object that prevents my making myself liable to it; nevertheless, I behold you all in a situation that would soften the most obdurate heart. Mine, alas! is but too sensible, I cannot bear the shocking thought of being the cause of your distress. How can I hear your generous, worthy parents, reproach me with their loss. I will, therefore, forget for a while what I am, and leave you to be the arbitrator of my destiny. It is yours to decide, and choose which is most agreeable to you, either to conqueij/ your passion, and strive to forget me, or take the hanct of one whose heart is possessed by another object)' has nothing to bestow but friendship and esteem—ancfc what are they to satisfy a lover's ardent expectations ? : It is enough, replied he, tenderly, such exalted friend- | ship equals love. I may, perhaps, be jealous of tlieA I tears I shall see you shed for a former husband, but the: ] cause of my jealousy will only make you more estimable in my eyes, and dearer to my soul. She is mine ! cried Fonrose, precipitating himself into his fond parents' arms. It is to the respect and gratitude she has for you' that I owe my happiness, and it is owing to a superior Being. Adelaide could not appeal from the sentence. Did she consent merely through pity and gratitude ? I Jelieve she did—she believed it herself, and I will not cease to admire her. Before she left the valley, she would revisit the tomb,, j which she quitted with regret. 0 my dear Oreston, ; she cried, if from the mansions of the dead thou cam 4 have seen my struggles, and read the bottom of my heart, thy shade will not murmur at the sacrifice I make to comfort a virtuous family. THE END. � Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Woodcut 027: Title-page illustration of a man in a small boat. A village can be seen in the background. Document A resource containing textual data. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre text. Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource The Shepherdess of the Alps, a very interesting, pathetic, and moral history. Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context <a href="https://ocul-gue.primo.exlibrisgroup.com/permalink/01OCUL_GUE/mrqn4e/alma9953134493505154">s0231b06</a> Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1840-1850 per University of Glasgow Union Catalogue of Scottish Chapbooks Extent The size or duration of the resource. 24 pages Is Part Of A related resource in which the described resource is physically or logically included. Chapbook #16 in a bound collection of 20 chapbooks Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Briancon, Hautes-Alpes, France Modena, Italy Is Referenced By A related resource that references, cites, or otherwise points to the described resource. University of Glasgow Union Catalogue of Scottish Chapbooks <a title="University of Glasgow Union Catalogue of Scottish Chapbooks" href="http://special.lib.gla.ac.uk/chapbooks/search/" target="_blank" rel="noopener">http://special.lib.gla.ac.uk/chapbooks/search/</a> Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource Archival and Special Collections, University of Guelph Library, Guelph, Ontario, Canada Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource JPEGs and PDF derived from master file, which was scanned from the original book in 24-bit color at 600 dpi in TIFF format using an Epson Expression 10000XL scanner. Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource In the public domain; For higher quality reproductions, contact Archival & Special Collections, University of Guelph. libaspc@uoguelph.ca 519-824-4120, Ext. 53413 Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Glasgow: Printed for the Booksellers Type The nature or genre of the resource moral tales Subject The topic of the resource Chapbooks - Scotland - Glasgow Religion and Morals Source A related resource from which the described resource is derived Archival & Special Collections, University of Guelph Library, Guelph, Ontario https://scottishchapbooks.lib.uoguelph.ca/files/original/9428efa4daa61e1996e3414cdf0e78cf.jpg fc3d491f3839bbbd10d04cac85316a36 Omeka Image File The metadata element set that was included in the `files_images` table in previous versions of Omeka. These elements are common to all image files. Bit Depth 8 Channels 3 Height 3476 Width 1890 Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Woodcut on title-page portraying two old men engaged in an animated conversation https://scottishchapbooks.lib.uoguelph.ca/files/original/7176cfce601dd6f7c1e3e3562b374522.pdf 425291ae569ede3a876bdf133811ceb5 PDF Text Text i i € i i i i i i i M ^ l i l i l l i THE 1 THE MURDER DISCOVERED. THE WIDOW AND H E R SON. ENCOUNTER W I T H A LION. THE SOLDIER'S W I F E . THE CONFLICT B E T W E E N G R A N T AND M ' P H E R S O N , AT H E L L BRIDGE, A DANGEROUS PASS IN THE HIGHLANDS OF SCOTLAND. GLASGOW: PRINTED FOR THE BOOKSELLERS. ijwmwmwm^mw®» 80. ��THE MURDER DISCOVERED. I accompanied tlie gentleman into the garden and was shown the place where her own father found his murdered daughter. The grass was red with blood, and the marks of feet were quite visible on the ground, which happened to be soft and wet. In endeavouring to trace the footsteps, we observed that they led over some ground which had been newly dug with the spade, and that they had made a remarkably distinct impression 011 the loose soil, On examining that impression we saw that there was something particular in the form of the shoe. It was uncommonly broad and large, and roundtoed, and, from its shape, gave reason to suspect that its wearer was what is called fiat-soled. It had also been lately pieced at the heel and toe, and armed with broad-lieaded tacks, the points of which were distinctly marked. This was an important discovery, and Mr Johnson, who was accustomed to use his pencil, set himself, with the assistance of the surgeon, to take a correct measurement and drawing of it on paper. I11 the meantime, Mr Thomson and , I continued the search, and having traced the footsteps to the garden wall, the good minister, who happened to be before me, uttered an exclamation of horror, and directed my attention to a stone 011 the top of the wall which was stained with blood. On looking more minutely, we saw the marks of bloody fingers on the stone, and concluded that the murderer had made his retreat out of the garden at this place. A plowed field on the other side of the wall favoured our further search, and we tracked the villian to a small piece of water where he had probably washed his hands, and through which he appeared to have waded, as the prints of feet were �seen on the opposite bank, I threw off my shoes and stockings, and followed the course we supposed the murderer had taken as accurately as I could; but as the ground on the other side was covered with wood, I could trace him 110 farther. On my return, I observed something bright at the bottom of the water, which I took up, and found to be a largecl clasped knife, with the letters R. 8, scratched rudely on the handle. I shuddered to think that with this very instrument the fatal deed was probably committed, and we were confirmed in this opinion by discovering marks of blood on the handle, which the water had not wholly washed away. When the ceremony of interment was over, and before any person began to retire, Mr Thomson, standing on a grave-stone, informed the company, that it was the wish of the sheriff that no person should bq permitted to leave the church-yard till an examination had taken place, which might serve to throw some light on this dark and horrid business. " H u z z a ! " cried Robert Stewart; " that's right! I'll guard the yett, and let none out." " You are saved that trouble, young man," replied Mr Thomson, "for there are constables already posted at the gate, and none need attempt to escape," " I must request every person," continued he, " t o sit down on the grass in the vacant space at the north side of the church, arranged as nearly in rows as possible. That you may not think this request unnecessary, I will explain to you the reason of it. The murderer, whoever lie was, left the impression of his shoe 011 some new dug ground near the spot where the crime was committed. An accurate drawing of the form and dimensions of that impression has been taken by my friend Mr Johnson, and is /low in my hand. Our intention is to examine the feet of all who are present and compare their shoes with this draught, in hopes that this measure may tend to detect tlip �guiltj person." My eyes were steadily fixed on Robert Stewart during tliis speech, and I observed his face turn reel and pale by turns. The marks of guilt were visible, I thought, on liis countenance ; but when Mr Thomson ceased speaking, be had recovered himself sufficiently to exclaim, 44 What good 'ill that do ? D'ye think the man that, killed the lass wg,d liae the face to come here? or, if he was .here, how could you find him out by the sted o' his foot'( A hunder folk may ha'e shoon o' the same size, and if made by ae shoemaker, they may be a' the same shape too. It may mak innocent folk suspected, and will do mair ill than good; sae for my part 1 winna consent till't. Come, let us be off lads." As lie spake, he pulled some of his companions by the arm, and turned towards the gate, with the intention of making his escape. " The first man that leaves the church-yard before he is examined," cried Mr Johnson from among the crowd, 44 will be taken up as a suspected person, and committed to jail. 1 have the authority of the sheriff for saying so." A murmur of approbation succeeded his speech, and Stewart turned back intimidated, and seated himself on a grave-stone at a little distance, folding his arms across his breast, and kicking his heels against one of the feet of the stone, in order to appear very much at his ease. As soon as silence was obtained, Mr Thomson, in a few simple words, refuted Stewart's objections, and at the same time held up to public view Mr Johnson's drawing of the footstep, to convince the people that there was something so remarkably peculiar in its shape, there could be little doubt of finding out the person to whom it belonged, by the means proposed. Every one now seemed eager to have his shoes 'examined, and hastened to seat himself on the grass. Two shoemakers were employed to take the measurement, and Mr Johnson accompanied them with the drawing in his hand. Stewart �6 had placed himself in the middle of the crowd, and I sa# him make one or two unsuccessful attempts to shift his seat, so as to escape examination. When at last his turn came, his colour suddenly changed to a deadly pale, and with a horrid groan, he fell senseless on the ground. He was restored by the application of some water, which was quickly procured, and looking wildly round him, he exclaimed, " You caimot say that I did it ! it was dark—who saw me f 9 " God Almighty saw you, unhappy young man ! " said Mr Johnson, iu a tone which thrilled through my heart; for he had now taken the dimensions of Stewart's shoe, and found it correspond in every particular to the copy he had drawn. The murderer, for I had now no doubt that this was he, having recovered his strength, started up on his feet, and drawing a sharp-pointed knife from his pocket, threatened to stab to the heart the man that laid hands on him. He then made a desperate spring, and before any person had sufficient presence of mind to prevent him, reached the chureli-yard wall, which he cleared without difficulty, but losing his balance when he reached the other side, lie stumbled forward, and fell on the point of his knife. He was now overtaken and secured, and as he was losing much blood, he was conveyed to the manse, which happened to be the nearest house ; the surgeon, who was present, attended him for the purpose of dressing his wound. The knife had entered the bowels, and made a dangerous wound, which the surgeon immediately pronounced likely to prove fatal. The unfortunate wretch overheard the opinion of the surgeon, and cried out with a savage joy, which filled every person present with horror, 44 Then I'll disappoint the law yet. If I could na mak my escape in ae way, Vlldo it in another. Sleep, sleep, they say, it's a sleep." " Alas! young man," said Mr Thomson, shuddering as he spake, " in that �raw* sleep there are awful dreams to the wicked—dreams do I say ? they are horrible realities. God grant that I may not find—" " I t ' s a lie!" interrupted he with a dreadful oath, " I ' l l no believe it—sae ye needna preach to me." Mr Thomson, finding he could do no good by continuing the conversation, left the room; and it was not long after this he learned that the wretched murderer died, still hardened and impenitent, THE WIDOW AND H E R SON. DURING my residence in the country, I used frequently to attend at the old village church. Its shadowy aisles, its mouldering monuments, its dark oaken pannelling, all reverend with the gloom of departed years, seemed to fit it for the haunt of solemn meditation. A Sunday, too, in the country is so holy in its repose—such a pensive quiet reigns over the face of nature, that every restless passion is charmed down, and we feel all the natural religion of the soul gently springing up within us: " Sweet day, so pure, so calm, so bright, The bridle of the earth and sky." I do not pretend to be what is called a devout man; but there are feelings that visit me in a country church, and the beautiful serenity of nature, which I experience 110 where else ; and if not a more religious, I think I am a better man on Sunday, than on any other day of the seven. But in this church I felt myself continually thrown back upon the world, by the frigidity and pomp of the poor worms around me. The only being that seemed thoroughly to feel the humble and prostrate �s piety of a true christian, was a poor decrepit old woman, bending under tlie weight of years and infirmities. She bore the traces of something better than abject poverty. The lingerings of decent pride were still visible in her appearance. Her dress, though humble in the extreme, was scrupulously clean. Some trivial respect, too, had been awarded her; for she did not take her seat among the village poor, but sat alone on the steps of the altar. She seemed to have survived all love, all friendship, all society, and to have nothing left but the hopes of heaven. When I saw her feebly rising and bending her aged form in prayer—habitually conning her prayer-book, which her palsied hand and failing eyes would scarce permit her to read, but which she evidently knew by heart—I felt persuaded that tho faltering voice of that poor woman arose to heaven far before the responses of the clerk, the swell of the organ, or the chaunting of the choir. I am fond of loitering about country churches, and this was so delightfully situated, that it frequently attracted me. It stood on a knoll, round which a small stream made a beautiful bend, and then wound its way through a long reach of soft meadow scenery. The church was surrounded by yew trees, which seemed almost coeval with itself. Its tall gothic spire shot up lightly from among them, with rooks and' crows generally wheeling about it. I was seated there one still sunny morning, watching two labourers who were digging a grave. They had chosen one of tlie most remote and neglected corners of the church-yard ; where from the number of nameless graves around, it would appear that the indigent poor and friendless were huddled into the earth. I was told that the new-made grave was for the only son of a poor widow. While I was meditating on the distinctions of worldly rank, Which extend thus down into the very dust, the toll �jjiiiii ' or of the bell announced the approach of the funeral. They were the obsequies of poverty, with which pride had nothing to do. A coffin of the plainest materials, without pall or covering, was borne by some of the villagers. The sexton walked before^ with an air of cold indifference. There were no mock mourners in the trappings of affected woe ; but there was one real mourner, who feebly tottered after the corpse. It was the aged mother of the deceased-—the poor old woman whom I had seen seated on the steps of the altar. She was supported by a humble friend, who was endeavouring to comfort her. A few of the neighbouring poor had joined the train, and some of the children of the village were running hand in hand, now shouting with unthinking mirth, and now pausing to gaze, with childish curiosity, on the grief of the mourner. As the funeral train approached the grave, the parson issued from the church porch, arrayed in the surplice, with prayer book in hand, and attended by, the clerk. The service, Jiowever, was a mere act of charity. The deceased had been destitute, and th« surviver pennyless. It was shuffled through, therefore, in form, but coldly and unfeelingly. The well fed priest moved but a few steps from the churchdoor,; his voice could scarcely be heard at the grave, and never did I hear the funeral service, that sublime and touching ceremony, turned into such a frigid mummery of words. I approached the grave. The coffin was placed on the ground. On it were inscribed the name and age of the deceased—4 4 George Somers, aged 26, years." The poor mother had been assisted to kneel down at the head of it. Her withered hands were clasped, as if in prayer; but I could perceive by a feeble rocking of the body, and a convulsive motion of the lips, that she was gazing on the last relics of her son, with the yearnings of a mother's heart. �10 The service being ended, preparations were made to deposit the coffin in the earth. There was that bustling noise which breaks so harshly on the feelings of grief and affection ; directions given in the cold tones of business ; the striking of spades into sand and gravel; which at the grave of those we love, is, of all sounds the most withering. The bustle around seemed to awaken the mother from a wretched reverie. She raised her glazed eyes, and looked about with a faint wildness. As the men approached with cords to lower the coffin into the grave, she rung her hands, and broke into an agony of grief. The poor woman who attended her took her by the arm, endeavouring to raise her from the earth, and to whisper something like consolation— " Nay, now—nay, now-—don't take it so sorely to heart.'' She could only shake her head and wring her hands, as one not to be comforted. As they lowered the body into the earth, the creaking of the cords seemed to agonize her j but when 011 some accidental obstruction there was a justling of the coffin, all the tenderness of the mother burst forth ; as if any harm could come to him who was far beyond the reach of worldly suffering. I could see no more—my heart swelled into my throat—my eyes filled with tears —I felt as if I were acting a barbarous part, in standing by and gazing idly on this scene of maternal anguish. I wandered to another part of the church-yard, where I remained until the funeral train had dispersed. When I saw the mother slowly and painfully quitting the grave, leaving behind her the remains of all that was dear to her 011 earth, and returning to silence and destitution, my heart ached for her. What, thought I, are the distresses of the,rich? they have friends to soothe—pleasures to beguile—-a world to divert and dissipate their griefs. What are the sorrows of the young? their growing minds soo& �11 close above the wound—their elastic spirits soon rise beneath the pressure—their green and ductilo affections soon twine round new objects. But tho sorrows of the poor, who have no outward appliances to soothe—the sorrows of the aged, with whom life at best is but a wintry day, and who can look for no after-growth of joy—the sorrows of the widow, aged, solitary, destitute, mourning over an only son, the last solace of her years; these are indeed sorrows which make us feel the impotency of consolation. It was sometime before I left the church-yard. On my way homeward I met with the woman who had acted as comforter ; she was just returned from accompanying the mother to her lonely habitation, and I drew from her some particulars connected with the affecting scene I had witnessed. The parents of the deceased had resided in tho village from childhood. They had inhabited one of the neatest cottages, and by various rural occupations, and the assistance of a small garden, had supported themselves creditably and comfortably, and led a happy and blameless life. They had one son, who had grown up to be the staff and pride of their age.—44 Oh, Sir I" said the good woman, " he was such a likely lad, so sweet-tempered, so kind to every one around him, so dutiful to his parents! It did one's heart good to see him on a Sunday, dressed 6ut in his best, so tall, so straight, so cheery, sup. porting his old mother to church—for she was always fonder of leaning on George's arm, than on her goodmaii's ; and poor soul £he might well bo proud of him, for a filler lad there was not in all the Country round." Unfortunately, the son was tempted, during a year Of scarcity and agricultural hardship, to enter into the Service of one of tire small craft that plied on a neighbouring river. He had not been long in this fefiipldy, wben lie Iras eiltrapped by k press-gang, and �carried off to sea. His parents received tidings of his seizure ; but beyond that they could learn nothing. It was tie loss of their main prop. The father, who was already infirm, grew heartless and melancholy, and sunk into his grave. The widow, left lonely in her age and feebleness, could no longer support herself, and came upon the parish. Still there was a kind feeling towards her throughout the village, and a certain respect, as being one of the oldest inhabitants. As 110 one applied for the cottage in which she had passed so many happy clays, she was permitted to remain in it, where she lived solitary and almost helpless. The few wants of nature were chiefly supplied from the scanty productions of her little garden, which the neighbours would now and then cultivate for her. It was but a few days before the time at which these circumstances were told me, that she was gathering some, vegetables for her repast, when she heard the cottage door which faced the garden suddenly open ; a stranger came out, and seemed to be looking eagerly and wildly around. He was dressed in seaman's clothes, was emaciated and ghastly pale,, and bore the air of one broken by sickness and hardships. He saw her and hastened towards her; but his steps were faint and faultering ; he sunk on his. knees before her, and sobbed like a. child. The poor woman gazed upon him with a vacant and wandering eye. 44 Oh my dear, dear mother! don't you know your son? your poor boy George!" It was the wreck of her once noble lad, who, shattered by wounds, by sickness, and by foreign imprisonment, had at length dragged his wasted limbs homeward, to repose among the scenes of his childhood. I will not attempt to detail the particulars of such a meeting, where joy and sorrow were so completely blended; still he was alive ; he was come home ; he might yet live to comfort and cherish her old age ; ... W' • • ' - - •:• M. -Ira • �13 Nature, however, was exhausted in him ; and if any thing had been. wanting to finish the work of fate, the desolation of his native cottage had been sufficient. He stretched himself on the pallet on which his widowed mother had passed many a sleepless night, and he never rose from it again. The villagers, when they heard that George ISomers had returned, crowded to see him, offering every comfort and assistance that their humble means afforded. He was too weak, however, to talk; he could only look his thanks. His mother was his constant attendant; and he seemed unwill ing to be helped by any other hand. There is something in sickness, that breaks down the pride of manhood, that softens the heart, and brings it back to the feelings of infancy. Who that has languished, even in advanced life, in sickness and despondency; who that has pined 011 a weary bed, in the neglect and loneliness of a foreign land, but has thought 011 the mother " tfcat looked on his childhood," that smoothed his pillow, and administered to his helplessness ? Oh! there is an enduring tenderness in the love of a mother to a son, that transcends all other affections of the heart. It is neither chilled by selfishness, nor daunted by danger, nor weakened by worthlessness, nor stifled by ingratitude. She will sacrifice every comfort to his convenience; she will surrender every pleasure to his enjoyment; she will glory in his fame, and exult in his prosperity: and if adversity overtake him, he will be the dearer to her by misfortune : and if disgrace settle upon his name, she will still love and cherish him ; and if the world beside cast him off, she will be all the world to him. Poor George Somers had known well what it was to be in sickness, and none to soothe—lonely, and in prison, and none to visit him. He could not endure his mother from his sight; if she moved away, his �fcye would follow her. She would sit for hours by his bed, watching him as he slept. Sometimes he would start from a feverish dream, and look anxiously up until he saw her venerable form bending over him, when he would take her hand, lay it on his bosom, and fall asleep with the tranquillity of a child. In this way he died. My fkst impulse on hearing this humble tale of affliction, was to visit the cottage of the mourner, and administer pecuniary assistance, and, if possible comfort. I found, however, on inquiry, that the good feelings of the villagers had prompted them to do every thing that the case admitted; and as the poor know best how to console each other's sorrows, I did not venture to intrude. The next, Sunday I was at the village church, when, to my surprise, I saw the poor old woman tottering down the aisle to her accustomed seat on the steps of the altar. She had made an effort to put on something like mourning for her son ; and nothing could be more touching than this struggle between pious affection and utter poverty : a black ribband or so,—a faded black handkerchief, and one or two more such humble attempts to express by outward signs the grief which passes show. When I looked round on the storied monuments, the stately hatchments, the cold marble pomp, with which grandeur mourned magnificently over departed pride, and turned to this poor widow/ bowed down by age and sorrow, at the altar of her God, and offering up the prayers and praises of a pious, though Broken heart, I felt that this living monument of real grief was worth them all. I related her story to some of the wealthy m e m bers of the congregation, aiid they were moved by it. They exerted tlieinselves to render lifer situation more comfortable, and to lighten her afflictions. It �m h w h v h i h h i m h 15 was, however, but smoothing a few steps to the grave. In the course of a Sunday or two after she was missed from her usual seat at church, and before I left the neighbourhood, I heard with a feeling of satisfaction, that she had quietly breathed her last, and had gone to rejoin those she loved, 1 1 that 1 world where sorrow is never known, and friends aro never parted. ENCOUNTER W I T H A LION. THE day was exceedingly pleasant, and not a cloud was to be seen. For a mile or two we travelled along the banks of the river, which in this part abounded in tall mat-rushes, The dogs seemed much to enjoy prowling about and examining every bushy place, and at last met with some object among the rushes, which caused them to set up a most vehement and determined barking. We explored the spot with caution, as we suspected, from the peculiar tone of the bark, that it was what it proved to be, lions. Having encouraged the dogs to drive them out, a task -which they performed with great willingness, we had a full view of an enormous black mained lion and lioness. The latter was seen only for a minute, as she made her escape up the river, under concealment of the rushes; but the lion came steadily forward, and stood still to look at us. At this moment we felt our situation not free from danger, as the animal seemed preparing to spring upon us, and we were standing on the bant, at the distance of only a few yards from him, most of us toeing on foot and unarmed, without any visible possibility of escaping. I had given up my horse to the hunters, �JLU and was 011 foot myself; but there was no time for fear, and it was useless to attempt avoiding' him. I stood well on my guard, holding my pistols in my hand, with my finger 011 the trigger, and those who had muskets, kept themselves prepared in the same manner. But at this instant the clogs boldly flew in between us and the lion, and surrounding him, kept him at bay by their violent and resolute barking. The courage of these faithful animals was most admirable ; they advanced up to the side of the huge beast, and stood making the greatest clamour in his face, without the least appearance of fear. The Hon, conscious of his strength, remained unmoved at their noisy attempts, and kept his head towards us. At one moment, the dogs, perceiving his eyes thus engaged, had advanced close to his feet, and seemed as if they would actually seize hold of him; but they paid dearly for their imprudence, for, without discomposing the majestic and steady attitude in which he stood fixed, he merely moved his paw, and at the next instant I beheld two lying dead. In doing this he made so little exertion, that it was scarcely perceptible by what means they had been killed. Of the time which we gained by the interference of the dogs, not a moment was lost; we fired upon him; one of the balls went through his side just between the short ribs, and the blood immediately began to flow; but the animal still remained standing in the same position. We had no doubt that he would spring upon us ; every gun was instantly re-loaded ; but happily we were mistaken, and were not sorry to see him move quietly away, though I had hoped in a few minutes to have been enabled to take hold of his paw without danger. - - ms mmmumm^ �\%7 THE SOLDIER'S WIFE. IT is now many years since the first battalion of the 17th Regiment of Foot, under orders to embark for India,—that far distant land, where so many of our brave countrymen have fallen victims to the climate, and where so few have slept in what soldiers call 44 the bed of glory,"—were assembled in the barrack yard of Chatham, to be inspected previously to their passing on board the transports, which lay moored in the Downs. It was scarcely day-break, when the merry drum and fife were heard over all parts of the town, and the soldiers were seen sallying forth from their quarters, to join the ranks, with their bright firelocks on their shoulders, and the knapsacks and canteens fastened to their backs by belts as white as snow. Each soldier was accompanied by some friend or acquaintance,—or by some individual, with a dearer title to his regard than either; and there was a strange and sometimes a whimsical mingling of weeping and laughter among the assembled groups. The second battalion was to remain in England, and the greater portion of the division was present, to bid farewell to their old companions in arms. But among husbands and wives, uncertainty as to their destiny prevailed—for the lots were yet to be drawn—the lots that were to decide which of the women should accompany the regiment, and which should remain behind. Ten of each company were to be taken, and chance was to be th© only arbiter. Without noticing what passed elsewhere, I confined my attention to that company which was commanded by my friend Captain Loden, a brave and excellent officer, who, I am sure, has no more than myself forgotten the scene to which I refer. The women had gathered round the flag-serjeant, �18 who held the lots in his cap, ten of them marked, " to go," and all the others containing the fatal words "to remain," It was a moment of dreadful suspense, and never have I seen the extreme of anxiety so powerfully depicted in the countenances of human beings, as in the countenances of each of the soldiers' wives who composed that group. One advanced and drew her ticket; it was against her, and she retreated sobbing. Another, she succeeded; and giving a loud huzza, ran off to the distant ranks to embrace her husband, A third came forward with hesitating steps: tears were already chasing each other down her cheek, and there was an unnatural paleness on her interesting and youthful countenance! She put her small hand into the serjeant's cap, and I saw by the rise and fall of her bosom even more than her looks revealed. She unrolled the paper, looked upon it, and with a deep groan, fell back and fainted. So intense was the anxiety of every person present, that she remained unnoticed/-until the tickets had been drawn, and the greater number of the women had left the spot. I then looked round and beheld her supported by her husband, who was kneeling upon the ground, gazing upon her face, and drying her fast falling tears with his coarse handkerchief, and now and then pressing it to his own manly cheek. Captain Loden advanced towards them.—" I am sorry* Henry Jenkins," said he, " that fate has been against you; but bear up and be stout-hearted," " I am so, Captain," said the soldier, as he looked up, and passed his rough hand across his face » "but 'tis a hard thing to part from a wife, and she so soon to be a mother." " Oh! Captain," sobbed the young woman, "as you are both a husband and a father, do not take him from me. I have no friend in the wide world, but one, and will you let him bide with me? Oh! take �19 me with him,—take me with him,—for tlie lore bf God take me with him, Captain." She fell oii her knees, laid hold of the officer's sash, clasped it firmly between her hands, and looked up in his face, Exclaiming, " O h ! leave me my only hope, at least till1 God has given me another ;" and repeated in heartrending accents, " Oh [ take me with him, take me with him!" The gallant officer was himself in tears; he knew that it was impossible to grant the poor wife's petition, without creating much discontent in his company, and he gazed upon them with that feeling with which a good man always regards the sufferings he cannot alleviate. At this moment, a smart young soldier stepped forward, and stood before the Captain, with his hand to his cap. " And what do you want, my good fellow?" said the officer. " My name's John Carty, plase yer lionour, and I belong to the second battalion." " And what do you want here ?" Only, yer honour,'7 said Carty, scratching his head, "that poor man and his wife there, is sorrowhearted at parting, I'm thinking." " Well, and what then ?" " W h y , yer honour, they say I am a likely lad, and I know I'm fit for sarviee,—and if your honour would only let that poor fellow take my place in Captain Bond's company, and let me take his place in yours,—why, yer honour would make two poor things happy, and save the life of one of 'em, I'm thinking." Captain Loden considered for a few minutes, and directing the young Irishman to remain where he was, proceeded to his brother officer's quarters. He soon made arrangements for the exchange of the soldiers, and returned to the place where he had left them, �20 " Well, Jolin Carty," said he, " you go to Bengal with me, and you, Henry Jenkins, remain at home with your wife." " Thank yer honour," said John Carty, again touching his cap as he walked off. Henry Jenkins and his wife both rose from the ground, and rushed into each other's arms. 44 God bless you, Captain," said the soldier, as he pressed his wife closer to his bosom. " O h , bless him for ever!" said the wife ; " bless him with prosperity, and a happy heart!—bless his wife, and bless his children ;•" and she again fainted. The officer, wiping a tear from his eye, and exclaiming, " May you never want a friend when I am far from you,—you, my good lad, and your amiable and loving wife !" passed on to his company. The happy couple went in search of John Carty. * * * * * * About twelve months since, as two boys were watching the sheep confided to their charge, upon a wide heath, in the county of Somerset, their attention was attracted by a soldier, who walked along apparently with much fatigue, and at length stopped to rest his weary limbs beside the old finger-post, which at one time pointed out the way to the neighbouring villages, which now afforded no information to the traveller, for age had rendered it useless. The boys were gazing upon him with much curiosity, when he beckoned them towards him, and enquired the way to the village of Eldenby. The eldest, a fine intelligent lad of about twelve years of age, pointed to the path, and asked if lio was going to any particular house in the village, " No, my little lad," said the soldier ; "but it is on the high road to Frome, and I have friends there; but, in truth, I am very wearied, and perhaps may �21 find in yon village some person who will befriend a poor fellow, and look to God for a reward. " Sir," said tfie boy, " m y father was a soldier, many years ago, and he dearly loves to look upon a red coat; if you come with me, you may be sure of a welcome." " And you can tell us stories about foreign parts,'' said the younger lad, a fine chubby-cheeked fellow, who, with his watch-cloak thrown carelessly over his shoulder, and his crook in his right hand, had been minutely examining every portion of the soldier's dress. The boys gave instructions to their intelligent dog, who, they said, would take good care of the sheep during their absence ; and in a few minutes the soldier and his young companions reached the gate of a flourishing farm house, which had all the external tokens of prosperity and happiness. The younger boy trotted on a few paces before, to give his parents notice that they had invited a stranger to rest beneath their hospitable roof; and the soldier had just crossed the threshold of the door, when he was received by a joyful cry of recognition from his old friends, Henry Jenkins and his wife ; and he was welcomed as a brother to the dwelling of those, who, in all human probability, were indebted to him for their present enviable station. It is unnecessary to pursue this story further than to add, that John Carty spent his forlough at Eldenby farm ; and that at the expiration of it, his discharge was purchased by his grateful friends. He is now living in their happy dwelling ; and his care and exertions have contributed greatly to increase their prosperity. Nothing lias gone wrong with them since John Carty was their steward. " Cast thy bread upon the waters," said the wise man, " and it shall be returned to thee after many days." �22 HELL BRIDGE, THERE is a narrow pass between the mountains in the neighbourhood of Bendearg, in the Highlands of Scotland, which, at a little distance, has the appearance of an immense artificial bridge thrown over a tremendous chasm; but on nearer approach, is seen to be a wall of nature's own masonry, formed of vast and rugged bodies of solid rock, piled on each other, as if in the giant's sport of architecture. Its sides are in some places covered with trees of a considerable size ; and the passenger wlio has a head steady enough to look down, may see the eyrie of birds of prey beneath his feet. The path across is so narrow, that it cannot admit of two persons passing; and, indeed, none but natives would attempt the dangerous route, though it saves a circuit of three miles: yet it sometimes happens that two travellers meet, owing to the curve formed by the pass preventing a view across from either side ; and when this is the case, one lies down, while the other crawls over his body. One day, a Highlander, walking along the pass, when he had gained the highest part of the arch, observed another coming leisurely up, and being himself one of the patrician order, called him to lie down ; the person, however, disregarded the command, and the Highlanders met on the summit. They were Cairn and Bendearg, of two families in enmity to each other. " I was first at the top," said Bendearg, " and called out first, lie down, that I might pass over in peace." 44 When the Grant prostrates himself before the M'Pherson," answered the other, " it must be with a sword through his body." " Turn back, then," said Bendearg, " and repass as you came ;" " Go back yourself, if you like it," replied Grant; " I will not be the first of my name to turn before the M'Pherson." They then threw �w a s M B H H i 28 their bonnets over the precipice, and advanced with a slow and cautious pace closer to each other—they were both unarmed. Stretching their limbs like men preparing for a desperate struggle, they plant, ed their feet firmly 011 the ground, compressed their lips, knit their brows, and fixing fierce and watchful eyes on each other, stood prepared for an onset. They both grappled at the same moment; but, being of an equal strength, were unable to shift each other's position—standing fixed on the rock, with suppressed breath, and muscles strained to the top of their bent, like statues carved out of the solid stone. At length M'Plierson, suddenly removing his right foot, so as to give him greater purchase, stooped his body, and bent his enemy down with him by main strength, till they both leaned over the precipice, looking downward into the terrible abyss. The contest was as yet doubtful, for Grant had placed his foot firmly 011 an elevation at the brink, and had equal command of his enemy, but at this moment M'Plierson sunk slowly any firmly 011 his knee, and while Grant suddenly started back, stooping to take the supposed advantage, whirled him over his head into the gulf. M'Pherson fell backwards, his body partly hanging over the rock, a fragment gave way beneath him, and he sunk farther, till catching with a desperate effort at the solid stone above, he regained his footing. " There was a pause of death-like stillness, and the bold heart of M'Pherson felt sick and faint. At length, as if compelled unwillingly by some mysterious jps feeling, lie looked down over the precipice. Grant J <• had caught with a death-like grip, by the rugged ';) 11 point of a rock—his enemy was almost within his ?J reach. His face was turned upward, and there was ||j in it horror and despair ; but he uttered no word or cry. The next moment he loosed his hold, and his brains were dashed out before the eyes of his heredi- �24 tai7 foe ; the mangled body disappeared among tlie trees, and his last heavy and hollow sound arose from the bottom. M'Pherson returned home an altered man. He purchased a commission in the army, and fell bravely in the wars of the Peninsula. The Gaelic name of the place where this tragedj was acted signifies HELL BRIDGE. FINIS, � Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Woodcut 034: Title-page illustration of two old men engaged in an animated conversation. Document A resource containing textual data. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre text. Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource The Story Teller. The Murder Discovered. The Widow and her son. Encounter with a Lion. The soldier's Wife. The Conflict between Grant and McPherson, At hell Bridge, A Dangerous Pass in the Highlands of Scotland. Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context <a href="https://ocul-gue.primo.exlibrisgroup.com/permalink/01OCUL_GUE/mrqn4e/alma9953134493505154">s0231b06</a> Alternative Title An alternative name for the resource. The distinction between titles and alternative titles is application-specific. The Murder Discovered. The Widow and her son. Encounter with a Lion. The soldier's Wife. The Conflict between Grant and McPherson, At hell Bridge, A Dangerous Pass in the Highlands of Scotland Extent The size or duration of the resource. 24 pages Is Part Of A related resource in which the described resource is physically or logically included. Chapbook #6 in a bound collection of 20 chapbooks Description An account of the resource 80 is printed at the bottom of the title-page. Woodcut #34: Illustration on title-page of two old men engaged in an animated conversation. Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Chatham, Kent, England India Subject The topic of the resource Chapbooks - Scotland - Glasgow Highlands Crime Highlands Is Referenced By A related resource that references, cites, or otherwise points to the described resource. <a title="http://library.sc.edu/spcoll/britlit/roycol.html" href="http://library.sc.edu/spcoll/britlit/roycol.html">G. Ross Roy Collection, University of South Carolina Libraries&nbsp;</a> Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource Archival and Special Collections, University of Guelph Library, Guelph, Ontario, Canada Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource In the public domain; For high quality reproductions, contact Archival & Special Collections, University of Guelph. libaspc@uoguelph.ca, 519-824-4120, Ext. 53413 Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1840-1850 Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource JPEGs and PDF derived from master file, which was scanned from the original book in 24-bit color at 600 dpi in TIFF format using an Epson Expression 10000XL scanner. Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Glasgow: Printed for the Booksellers Source A related resource from which the described resource is derived Archival & Special Collections, University of Guelph Library, Guelph, Ontario Type The nature or genre of the resource moral tales Bib Context: title-page Chapbook Date: 1841-1850 Chapbook Genre: religion & morals Chapbook Publisher - Glasgow: Printed for the Booksellers Fashion (Clothing): upper class Gender: man/men https://scottishchapbooks.lib.uoguelph.ca/files/original/f8fd6173f57ca31f1ebacec0949c05dd.jpg 39f3e10963f4e69511a1f7a8a14c6b5c Omeka Image File The metadata element set that was included in the `files_images` table in previous versions of Omeka. These elements are common to all image files. Bit Depth 8 Channels 3 Height 3332 Width 1856 https://scottishchapbooks.lib.uoguelph.ca/files/original/4a0ab302c8dc6913b35f95d5519ed095.pdf fc2a10df8d43cbbc05c5cfad265045f0 Document A resource containing textual data. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre text. Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Storys of the Bewitched Fiddler, Perilous Situation, and John Hetherington's Dream Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context <a href="https://ocul-gue.primo.exlibrisgroup.com/permalink/01OCUL_GUE/mrqn4e/alma9953134493505154">s0231b06</a> Alternative Title An alternative name for the resource. The distinction between titles and alternative titles is application-specific. Perilous Situation John Hetherington's Dream Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource [1840-1850?] per National Library of Scotland Extent The size or duration of the resource. 24 pages Is Part Of A related resource in which the described resource is physically or logically included. Chapbook #4 in a bound collection of 20 chapbooks Description An account of the resource Woodcut image of a man leading a stalion on the title-page. 28 printed at the bottom of the title-page. Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Hesdin, Pas-de-Calais, France Is Referenced By A related resource that references, cites, or otherwise points to the described resource. <a title="National Library of Scotland" href="http://www.nls.uk/">National Library of Scotland</a> Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource Archival and Special Collections, University of Guelph Library, Guelph, Ontario, Canada Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource In the public domain; For high quality reproductions, contact Archival & Special Collections, University of Guelph. libaspc@uoguelph.ca, 519-824-4120, Ext. 53413 Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource JPEGs and PDF derived from master file, which was scanned from the original book in 24-bit color at 600 dpi in TIFF format using an Epson Expression 10000XL scanner. Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Glasgow: Printed for the Booksellers