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THE estate of Monteith
belonged, in the year 1745, to a gentleman of that name, who in his
domestic circumstances was truly happy. A marriage of affection had
united him to a young lady of beauty, virtue, and good sense; and
Providence had blessed them with three lovely infants, to the care of
whom the fond parents devoted a mutual and constant attention.
Unfortunately, Mr. Monteith had been brought up in principles of firm
attachment to the House of Stuart. At the period of which I speak, the
last attempt was made to place a prince of that family on the throne of
Great Britain. Mr. Monteith thought himself bound in honour to take an
open part in the insurrection; but the rash undertaking was soon
quelled, and he found that, by engaging in it, he had for ever forfeited
his rank and fortune. He was forced, after the last battle, to fly for
his life; was discovered by a party of the king’s soldiers, and was
carried prisoner to Stirling Castle.
Mrs. Monteith, with much difficulty, procured leave to share his
confinement. She lost no time in availing herself of this permission,
and joined him about a week after his seizure, bringing along with her,
her three infants, who were too young to be at all aware of the dreadful
misfortune that had befallen their parents. Passionately fond of his
children, their innocent and endearing prattle served, in some degree,
at first, to amuse and comfort their father; but as time rolled on, and
all hopes of pardon for his crime vanished, Mrs. Monteith could not help
seeing that their presence seemed to augment his wretchedness; and,
therefore, she began to cast about in her mind how she could remove
them, without being herself obliged to quit the prison.
One morning, as she passed along, the under-gaoler met her, and put into
her hand a dirty crumbled bit of paper, which he desired her to read,
and said, if she chose to send any answer, he would undertake to deliver
it in the evening, when the bearer had promised to call again.
Mrs. Monteith was so much engrossed with her own melancholy reflections,
at the time she received the note, that she never thought of looking at
it, till the gaoler whispered to her, as he was removing the dinner from
the table, that he would wait for her answer in the court, at six
o’clock. Struck with something in the significance of his manner, she
felt for the note, and drawing near the window, with some difficulty
deciphered what it contained. It was written by a man who had lived from
his infancy upon her husband’s estate, and now rented a small farm
adjoining the village of Monteith. She had always known him to be an
industrious, sober, quiet young man; but from his having positively
refused to go out with Mr. Monteith in the rebellion, he had fallen
under his landlord’s displeasure, and had been threatened with being
turned out of the farm, as soon as he returned home. From this
circumstance, she was the more surprised at receiving a letter from him,
and still more so, when she made out its contents. He told her, that
accident had made him acquainted with her wishes for removing the
children from the prison, and thinking that as his wife had lived
nursery-maid at the Castle, for some time before she married, her
ladyship would, perhaps, trust them to her care sooner than to that of a
stranger, he had made bold to write to her to propose taking the charge
of them, till his dear master had got over his misfortunes; and that, if
she would confer so great a favour upon Jane and himself, she might
depend on their taking the greatest possible care of the darlings, who
should want for nothing in their power to bestow on them.
Mrs. Monteith remained lost in thought for some minutes, after reading
this note. Much as she wished to remove the children from where they
were, she could not bring her mind to burden poor William with such a
charge; particularly as she saw no prospect of being able to reimburse
him for the actual expense they must occasion him; at the same time, her
mind was filled with the strongest feelings of gratitude towards him,
for the interest he had shewn in her concerns.
“Alas!” thought she, “among all the numerous friends and acquaintances
with whom we lived and associated, not one, but this poor lad, has
either inclination or courage to befriend us.”
She was roused from these reflections by her husband’s asking what she
was reading. He listened while she related in what manner she had
received it, and then, taking *her hand, said, “My dear Mary, let us
bless God, who, in the extreme of our misery, has raised us up a friend,
who, though a humble one, may serve us more effectually than those in a
higher rank might have had the power of doing. Answer William’s letter
directly, and tell him that I accept, with thankfulness, the offer he
has made, and will intrust my children to the care of his wife, either
till I, myself, am restored to freedom, or till, by my death, their
mother is at liberty to relieve him from his engagement. When you have
written your answer, my love, I will explain to you my reasons for so
readily accepting his offer.”
Mrs. Monteith plainly saw that her husband’s mind was made up; and,
therefore, did not attempt to remonstrate, but wrote William a few
lines, informing him what his master had resolved on. These she conveyed
to the hands of the gaoler, and returning to her husband, entreated him
to tell her whether he had learnt anything relative to his destiny, that
she was yet unacquainted with.
“Not with regard to myself, my love,” said he; "but I yesterday learnt a
circumstance which has made me truly wretched as to the dear, children.
I have reason to believe that my uncle, Colonel Monteith, to whom my
estates have been given, is using all his influence, and you know he has
a great deal, to get possession of my boys. He pretends, I have no
doubt, that he means to take care of them, and place them in security;
but I know the nature of the man too well, to trust to any of his
promises; and never, if I can help it, shall they be placed in his
power. In the event of my losing my life, were my children under the
care of any of our relations, the Colonel might easily, either by
persuasions, or by the exertion of his interest, succeed in getting them
into his hands; and, therefore, I have resolved to confide them to
William Mathieson, who, from being known as a decided friend to the
House of Hanover, will be the last person on the estate to be suspected
of having any intercourse with me or mine. He is a prudent, sensible
man; very superior in understanding to most men in his rank of life; and
as resolute as he is prudent. When I place them in his hands, mean to
inform him of my suspicions of my uncle’s intentions, and, if possible,
prevail with him to remove them directly into Edinburgh, where, through
your old aunt’s assistance, lie may be able to conceal them, at least
till my fate is determined; after which, you, my dear wife, must act to
the best of your judgment for their benefit. I would recommend, however,
to you, for some years to live in the strictest retirement. And if you
could submit, at least for a short period, to live separated from the
children, I think it would be advisable.”
Mrs. Monteith, very naturally, was alarmed at the knowledge of Colonel
Monteith’s wishes to have possession of the children, and felt more
reconciled in trusting them to the care of William and Jane Mathieson,
than she at first thought possible. She continued conversing with her
husband on the best way of removing them from the castle, for some time,
when she was interrupted by a slight tap at the room door, which
presently opened cautiously, and William Mathieson entered. He was a man
about thirty years of age, tall, and stout made; but, at the same time,
well proportioned and good looking. His features were not regularly
handsome, but there was such an expression of good humour, accompanied
with strong marks of good sense and shrewdness, that no one could
converse with him without being prepossessed in his favour, and
convinced that his understanding was far superior to that of most other
men in his rank of life.
He approached Mr. and Mrs. Monteith, and kneeling at his master’s feet,
thanked him, in the most simple and energetic terms, for the trust he
had agreed to place in him, solemnly promising to devote himself to the
service and interest of his dear mistress and her children, as long as
they should require his feeble assistance. Mr. Monteith was much
affected, and for some minutes was unable to speak; at last he said—
“William, it is impossible for me to express how much I feel the
kindness of your conduct at this moment. Alas! it may never be in my
power to shew you how deeply it has sunt into my mind; but you will
receive your reward for your fidelity and kindness to your ruined
master, from a higher hand than mine, and from the satisfaction of your
own worthy heart. Your unexpected assistance has come, through the mercy
of Providence, at a time when I had almost given way to despair; but if
I can only have the satisfaction of learning that you have succeeded in
conveying my children to a place of security, I think I can meet death
with comparative resignation, and shall devote the little time that may
now be given me, to prepare for my awful change.”
William here ventured to interrupt his master, by stating that, as he
had much to say, and his time was very limited, he thought Mr. Monteith
had better allow him to repeat what information he had brought, before
his friend, the under-gaoler, returned for him. As he spoke, he glanced
towards Mrs. Monteith, which signal his master understood, and, making
an excuse that the noise of little Jessie disturbed him, requested her
mother to try to amuse her at the window. The moment William thought he
could speak without being heard, he informed Mr. Monteith he had learnt
that an order for his removal had been given, and that in two days, he
feared, he would be taken from Stirling, on his way to England, to be
tried at Carlisle; that he had discovered that Colonel Monteith had had
interest enough to be allowed to detain the children, under the pretence
of taking care of them, and that strict orders had been given to the
governor of the castle not to suffer them, or Mrs. Monteith, to quit the
prison till after his removal. “But, my dear good master,” continued
William, seeing Mr. Monteith clasp his hands in agony, “do not despair;
I have thought of a method of eluding the vigilance of the governor,
and, at the same time, preventing any blame from being attached to the
gaoler who is a relation of my wife’s, and who would otherwise be
suspected. For some time past, I have pretended to take up the business
of a carrier between this place and Edinburgh, and have gone regularly,
twice a week, with a couple of asses, loaded with panniers. To-morrow
morning, by four o’clock, I shall quit the town, as usual; but shall
return under your window, with my wife; when I think you may be able, by
some contrivance, to lower the children to us, without their sustaining
the slightest injury. Jane and I will then dress them so as to appear
like peasants’ children, and I will carry the boys to Edinburgh in the
panniers, while Jane shall follow in a cart with the baby. I hope to be
clear of the neighbourhood of Stirling before six O’clock, and, once a
few miles on the way, all fears of detection are at an end. I have
likewise, sir, thought that, if you would make the attempt, it is not
impossible that you might be able to escape by the window yourself, but
to do it will require more time than between this and tomorrow morning,
as you will be obliged to remove at least two of the iron bars, to make
the opening large enough for you to get through; I would, therefore,
advise you to send the children at once, and if, in the course of
to-morrow, you are so fortunate as to succeed in loosening the bars, yon
can, in the evening, endeavour to let yourself down from the window, and
escape to my sister’s house at the end of the bridge, where you must
remain till I return from Edinburgh; and then we may be able to contrive
some method of getting you on board of a ship, and out of the country,
as quickly as possible. Mr. Monteith shook his head. “I fear, William,
your plan for my escape is impracticable. I am much too large and heavy
a man to get safely down from such a height; the children, however, may
be conveyed to you, I think, safely in that way, if we can only contrive
to make them quiet; but if they should be frightened, and scream, poor
things, the noise may alarm the guards, and discover our design.
However, it is At least worth risking: and you may depend on finding me
ready, at the hour you have named, to attempt to put the plan in
execution.”
William endeavoured to persuade his master to attempt his own
deliverance; but Mr. Monteith felt convinced, that instant death must be
the consequence, if he did so; and the fear of adding to his poor wife’s
sufferings, by making her a witness to such a dreadful catastrophe,
weighed against all the arguments his faithful servant could urge; and
when the gaoler summoned William from the presence of his master, he was
forced to leave the prison, without having the slightest hope of being
able to save him. Mr. Monteith communicated to his wife so much of what
William had told him, as reconciled her to the plan of letting the
children down from the window. William had brought, concealed under his
coat, a strong rope, which Mr. Monteith was to let down in the morning,
for him to attach a basket sufficiently large to contain a child; the
difficulty, therefore, lay in getting them through the bars of the
window, and in persuading them to be quiet. The whole night was occupied
in making preparations; after almost despairing of success, Mr. Monteith
felt the bar shake in his hand, and a few minutes before William
appeared, he had the satisfaction of removing it sufficiently to permit
the largest of the, boys to get through.
The moment this was accomplished, Mrs. Monteith began to prepare tne
children, though the agony she endured, both from parting with them for
the first time in her life, and from the danger she could not help
seeing they ran, in case of any unforeseen accident happening to the
rope, during their descent rendered her scarcely able to complete her
task. Mr. Monteith was not much more composed himself; as he firmly
believed, whatever might be his success in letting them down safely, he
was now parting from them for the last time. The two youngest, Allen and
Jessie, were too young to be at all aware of what was passing, Allen
being little more thaii two years old, and Jessie a mere baby; but
Arthur, who was nearly five years old, had, for some time, been watching
his father, and now, on seeing his mother^ distress, was kissing her
cheek, and comforting her with all the kindness and innocence of a child
of his age. His father called him to him, and, after kissing him, told
him that it was in his power to be of great service to his mother, by
submitting quietly to be let down in a basket, to Jane Mathieson, his
old friend, who would take care of him, till they could get out of
prison, and come to Edinburgh.
“I will do anything,” answered Arthur, "that you please, papa, if mamma
will promise not to cry; for indeed, and indeed, her tears make me so
sorrowful, that my heart is like to break, whenever I look at her.”
His father assured him, that his mother would be greatly comforted if
she saw him, and his brother and sister, safely down from the window. He
then told him, that he hoped he would be a good boy till he saw his
mamma again, and be very obedient to William and Jane; and, finally,
after again kissing and blessing him, he knelt down and prayed for the
preservation of his helpless infants.
He had scarcely finished, when the signal was given by William, that all
was ready; he, therefore, lost no time in placing Arthur in the basket,
which he lashed across with the rope, and then gently and steadily let
the child down to his humble friend. When the basket began to move,
Arthur became very much frightened; but he was a sensible little fellow,
and had been for some months so constantly his mother’s companion, that
he was aware, more than children generally are, of the pain and misery
it would give her to hear him cry; and, as his father had lately taken
every opportunity of talking to him, and impressing upon his young mind
the great duty and obedience he ought always to show her, he resolved to
try to conceal his fears, and succeeded so well that he actually reached
the ground without uttering the slightest noise, and was received in
William’s arms in perfect safety, who quickly disengaged him from the
basket, and put him into Jane’s hands, when she immediately began to
dress him in the clothes she had prepared for his disguise. Meantime the
basket was again drawn up by Mr. Monteith, who then placed in it his
sleeping boy, Allen, who was by the same method conveyed to the ground,
just as Jane had finished dressing Arthur. The baby, likewise,
fortunately still slept; but, either the moving her, or else the
freshness of the air, awakened her, and during her descent, her cries
became loud and strong, to the great alarm of William, and the agony of
her wretched parents, who never doubted that the sentinel on duty would
be alarmed, and prevent the final escape of both herself and her
brothers. Fortunately, however, the wind carried the voice in the
opposite direction from where he was posted, and Mr. Monteith at last
saw her hushed in Jane’s arms. William delayed not a moment in quitting
the window, after disengaging the basket, and he and the children were
soon out of sight.
For hours after the children were gone, Mr. and Mrs. Monteith wept in
each other’s arms. But recollecting the necessity of composing
themselves, they dried up their tears; and by the time the governor paid
his visit, they were both so composed as to avoid giving him the
slightest suspicion of the flight of the children.
About nine o’clock the same evening, the gaoler came to inform them that
Mr. Monteith must prepare for his journey, which was to commence at
midnight. All their entreaties were unavailing to allow Mrs. Monteith to
accompany her husband. The governor said, he was ordered to detain her
and the children till the following morning, when she would be at
liberty to leave the castle, and return to Monteith, where the Colonel
had obtained liberty for them to remain till Mr. Monteith’s trial was
over.
To describe the agony they both endured, upon this separation, is
impossible. Mr. Monteith was carried off, leaving his wife senseless
upon the bed, where she remained in the same state for many hours. In
the morning, when the order for her liberation arrived, she was found by
the gaoler in a high fever, which being told to the governor, he lost no
time in getting medical assistance; but nothing that could be done had
the least effect in recalling her senses, nor in gaining from her any
account of the children. Their disappearance excited the utmost
astonishment; and for weeks they were searched for in every possible
direction, without the slightest success. At last, the fever abated, and
the surgeon declared, that, unless Mrs. Monteith was removed from the
close air of the prison, her life must sink under the debility and
languor it had produced; the governor reluctantly gave his consent to
her removal to the outskirts of the town, where she was placed under the
care of a nurse hired by him/ and who was charged to endeavour, by every
means, to discover what had become of the children.
Weeks, however, passed on, and Mrs. Monteith remained in nearly the same
state of health as before her removal. A deep melancholy had seized her
mind; and no inducement that her guardian could use, had power to draw
from her a single word; and at the end of three months from the time of
her separation from her husband, she breathed her last, one short week
before Mr. Monteith was beheaded at Carlisle.
Poor William, who had hovered contin^ ually in her neighbourhood, in
hopes of being able to ease her mind with regard to her children, found
all his attempts to get access to her were in vain; and when her death
was made public, perceiving that he could be of no use to his mistress,
he determined to try, if possible, to see his master, and for that
purpose set off directly towards Carlisle, travelling day and night. He
arrived there early in the morning of the execution. The streets were
crowded with people pressing forward to witness the awful scene; and
William was carried bv the crowd almost to the foot of the scaffold,
before he was aware of where it was leading him. Overpowered with grief
and astonishment, he endeavoured to extricate himself, in order, if
possible, to gain admission to the prisoners, so as at least to let his
master know his children were secure from their enemy; but before he
could get a yard from the spot a murmur arose, which made him look back,
and the first thing he saw was Mr. Monteith led out upon the scaffold.
Again he returned, and fixing his eyes on his master, slowly raised his
hat, and displaced a large patch he wore over his right eye, in order to
disguise his features from any of his countrymen who might happen to be
in Carlisle, and recognise him. His height made him remarkable among the
crowd, and, as he had hoped, caught instantly Mr. Monteith’s attention,
who, the moment he perceived him, knelt down, and uttered a prayer for
the protection of his innocent children, and for a blessing to descend
upon that man, who had had courage and generosity sufficient to
undertake the charge of them. Then rising, he continued in a loud voice,
as if addressing the whole assembly—
“To him, alone, I leave them; and Heaven will surely, sooner or later,
reward the man, who, in the true spirit of Christian charily, has poured
balm on the last moments of their distracted father. Let him rear them
as his own, and may they prove a blessing and assistance to him in his
declining years.” He waved his hand, on finishing this sentence, as a
signal to the executioner that he was now ready, and in a very few
minutes his head was separated from his body. William remained almost
stupified: but as the crowd began to separate, he recollected of what
consequence it was that he should not be remarked, and that no suspicion
should arise of his being the person addressed by Mr. Monteith. He
therefore mingled directly with the multitude, and passing quickly
along, quitted the town without taking the slightest refreshment, and
never stopped till he arrived at a small inn, where he had spent a few
hours the evening before. Here he only waited long enough to recruit his
almost exhausted strength, and proceeded, with haste, to join his wife
and the unhappy orphans, now left wholly dependent upon him for support
and protection. How William and Jane executed the trust they had so
humanely taken upon themselves, will be seen in the course of the
following little history of the Orphans. |
