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The summer of 168— was wet
and ungenial; the little grain which Scotland at that time produced had
never ripened, and men and women would shear all day, and carry home the
greater part of the thin and scanty upland crop on their backs. The winter
was issued in by strange and marvellous reports—men fighting in the
air—showers of Highland bonnets—and eclipses of no ordinary occurrence. In
fact, the northern lights, which for centuries had disappeared, had again
returned, and were viewed by a superstitious people with much dread and
amazement. The end of the world was anticipated and confidently predicted,
and the soul of man sank within him under the pressure of an awakened
conscience. Besides, political events were sufficiently distressing: the
battle of Bothwell Brig had been fought and lost by the friends of
Presbytery and religious freedom; and strong parties, under the command of
demons, denominated Grierson, Johnstone, Douglas, and Clavers, scoured the
west country, and Dumfriesshire in particular, making sad and fearful
havoc amongst God’s covenanted flock. It appeared to many, and to Walter
Gibson of Auchincairn in particular, that, what betwixt the pestilence
induced by want and bad provisions, and the devastations brought on the
earth by the hand of man, life was not only precarious, but a burden. Men
rose, went about their wonted employment, and retired again to rest,
without a smile, and often without exchanging a word. Young men and young
women were seen constantly perusing the Bible, and taking farewell of each
other with the feeling that they were never to meet again. The cattle were
driven into the farther’s stores from the outfields, and there bled every
three weeks. The blood thus obtained was mixed, and boiled with green kail
from the yard, and this, with a mere sprinkling of meal, was all the
subsistence which could be afforded to master and servant, to guest and
beggar. A capacious pot, filled with this supply, stood from morn to night
in the farmer’s kitchen, with a large horn spoon stuck into the centre of
it; and every one who entered helped himself to a heaped spoonful, and
retired, making way for a successor. If the summer had been ungenial, the
winter was unusually severe. Snow and frost had set in, long before
Christmas, with awful severity. The sheep were starving, and dying by
scores on the hills; and the farmer, with his servant band, were employed
all day in digging out the half and wholly dead from the snow wreaths. The
strength of man failed him; and the very dogs deserted their masters, and
lived wild on the hills, feeding on the dead and dying. It was indeed an
awful time, and a judgment-like season, unparalleled (unless perhaps by
the year ‘40 of the last century) in the annals of Scotland. Five hundred
human beings are said to have perished of hunger merely, within the
limited district of Dumfriesshire, besides many hundreds whom the plague
(for such it was deemed and called) cut off.
It was on a cold frosty
night, with intervals of drifting and falling snow, that a strange
apparition made its way into the kitchen of Auchincairn, in the hill
district of the parish of Closeburn. It was naked, emaciated, and
extremely feeble, and rolled itself into the langsettle with extreme
difficulty "In the name of God!" said Mrs Gibson, "who and what art thou?"
But the apparition only stretched out its hand, and, pointing to its
mouth, signified that it was dumb. Food, such as has been described, was
immediately administered; and a glass of French brandy seemed to revive
the skeleton greatly. Walter Gibson, and his wife Janet Harkuess, were not
the persons to deny shelter on such a night and to such an object. Warm
blankets and a great peat-fire were resorted to; and the next morning saw
the stranger much recovered. But he was manifestly deaf and dumb, and
could only converse by signs; his features, now that they could be clearly
marked, were regular, and a superior air marked his movements. He was
apparently young; but he refused to make known, by means of writing, his
previous history. There he was, and there he seemed disposed to remain;
and it was not possible to eject by force a being at once so dependent and
so interesting. As he gained strength, he would walk out with an old
musket, which hung suspended from the roofing of the kitchen, and return
with valuable and acceptable provisions—hares, miresnipes, woodcocks,
partridges, and even crows, were welcome visitors in the kitchen of
Auchincairn. Without the aid of a dog, and with ammunition which nobody
knew how he procured, he contrived to contribute largely to the
alleviation of the winter’s sufferings. The family, consisting of one
daughter about eighteen years of age, a son about twenty-two, and four or
five male and female servants, were deeply impressed with the notion that
he possessed some unearthly powers, and was actually sent by heaven for
the purpose of preserving them alive during the asperities and
deprivations of the famine and the storm. The winter gradually and slowly
passed away, and it was succeeded by a spring, and a summer, and a harvest
of unusual beauty and productiveness. The stranger was a wanderer in the
fields, and in the linns and in the dark places of the mountains; and it
was observed that he had read all the little library of Auchincairn—consisting
of Knox’s "History," "The Holy War," "The Pilgrim’s Progress," and a
volume of sermons—again and again. He had clearly been well educated, and,
as his frame resumed a healthy aspect, he looked every inch a gentleman.
Mary Gibson was a kind-hearted, bonny lassie. There were no pretensions to
ladyhood about her; but her sweet face beamed with benevolence, and her
warm heart beat with goodness and affection. She had, all along, been most
kind and attentive to the poor dumb gentleman, (as she called him,) for it
early struck her that the stranger had been born such. But, all at once,
the stranger disappeared; and, though search was made in all his haunts,
not a trace of him could be found. It was feared that, in some of his
reveries, he had stumbled over the Whiteside Linn; but his body was not to
be found. Newspapers, in these days, there were none, at least in
Dumfriesshire; and, in a month or two, the family of Auchincairn seemed to
have made up their mind to regard their mysterious visiter in the light of
a benevolent messenger of God—in short, of an angel. Into this opinion,
however, Mary, it was observed, did not fully enter. But she said
little, and sang much, and seemed but little affected by the
stranger’s departure.
It was in the month of
November of this destructive season, that, one morning, long ere daylight,
the closs of Auchincairn was filled with dragoons. There were fearful
oaths, and plunging of swords into bed-covers and wool-sacks, in quest of
some one after whom they were searching. At length, Walter Gibson and his
son were roused from their beds, and placed, half-naked, in the presence
of Grierson of Lag, to be interrogated respecting a stranger whom they had
sheltered for months past, and whom Grierson described as an enemy to the
King and his Government. Of this, both son and father declared, and truly,
their ignorance; but they were disbelieved, and immediately marched off,
under a guard, to Lag Castle, to Dumfries, and ultimately to Edinburgh,
there to await a mock trial, for harbouring a traitor. In vain was all
remonstrance on the part of the wife and daughter. Resistance was
impossible, and tears were regarded as a subject of merriment.
"Ay, pipe away there," said
the infamous Lag," and scream and howl your belly-fulls; but it will be
long ere such music will reach the ear, or soften the heart, of my Lord
Lauderdale. There is a maiden in Edinburgh, my gentle wood-dove,"
familiarly grasping Mary Gibson’s chin, and squeezing it even to
agony—"there is a maiden in Edinurgh, more loving, by far, than thou canst
be; and to this lady of the sharp tongue and heavy hand shall thy dainty
brother soon be wedded. As to the old cock, a new pair of boots and a
touch of the thumbikins will probably awaken his recollections, and clear
his judgment. But march, my lads!—we are wasting time." And the cavalcade
rode off, having eaten and drunk all eatables and drinkables in the
dwelling.
Mrs Gibson was a person of
mild and submissive manners; but there was a strength in her character,
which rose with the occasion. She immediately dried up her tears, spoke
kindly, and in words of comforting, to her daughter; and, taking her plaid
about her shoulders, retired to the barn, where she had long been in the
habit of offering up her supplication and thanksgiving to the God of her
fathers. When she came forth, after some hours of private communion with
herself; she seemed cheered and resolved, and addressed herself to the
arrangement of family matters, as if nothing particular had happened. In a
few days, information was conveyed to her, that her husband and son had
been marched off to Edinburgh, there to await their trial, for the state
offence of harbouring a rebel, but really to gratify the resentment of the
parish curate, who had taken mortal offence at their nonconformity. Helen
Gibson had already resolved in what manner she was to act; and, leaving
her daughter to superintend domestic affairs, she set out, like her
successor Jeanie Deans, on foot, and unprotected, to Edinburgh, there to
visit her husband and son in their confinement, and intercede, should
opportunity occur, with the superior and ruling powers, for their life and
freedom. As she wandered up the wild path which conducts to Leadhills, it
began to snow; and it was with infinite difficulty that she reached the
highest town in Scotland, then an insignificant village. Fever was the
consequence of this exertion; but, after a few days’ rest, she recovered,
and, though still feeble, pursued her way. At Biggar, news reached her
that four individuals had, a few days before, been executed at the
Gallowlee; and she retired to rest with an alarmed and a dispirited mind.
The snow having thawed, she pursued her way under the Pentlands next day,
and had advanced as far as Brighouse, at the foot of these hills, when,
overcome by fatigue, she was compelled to seek for shelter under the
excavation of a rock, upon the banks of a mountain torrent, which works
its way, through rook and over precipice, at this place. Being engaged in
prayer, she did not observe, for some time, a figure which stood behind
her; but what was her surprise, when, on looking around, she recognised at
once the well-known countenance of the poor dumb lad! He was now no longer
dumb, but immediately informed her that he lived in the neighbourhood; and
entreated his former mistress to accompany him home to his habitation.
Surprise and astonishment had their play in her bosom—but comfort and
something like confidence succeeded; for Mrs Gibson could not help seeing
the finger of her God in this matter.
She was conveyed by her
guide, now a well-dressed and well-spoken gentleman, to his abode at
Pentland Tower—a strongly-built edifice, well fitted for defence, and
indicating the antiquity of the family by which it had been possessed. The
place was to her a palace, and she looked with amazement on the
looking-glasses and pictures which it contained; but, what was of more
moment and interest than all other considerations, she learned that King
James had fled, and King William had given "Liberty to the captive, and
the opening of the prison doors to those who were bound." Nay, more, her
mysterious landlord informed her that, having himself just obtained his
pardon, he had only returned from skulking about, from place to place, to
his paternal inheritance, a few days ago, and that, having heard of her
family’s misfortunes, occasioned in some measure, by himself; he had
immediately repaired to Edinburgh, had seen her husband and son, who were
actually at that moment in another chamber of the same house, on their
return home to Auchincairn. His renoontre with her had undoubtedly been
providential, as he had not the slightest idea that she could possibly be
in his neighbourhood.
The interview which
followed, upon all its interestiug and fond recognisances, I shall leave
to the reader’s imagination —only noticing the kindness of the young Laird
of Pentland Tower, in consequence of which the father and son were
compelled to delay their return to Auchincairn for a few days, in the
course of which a chaise one evening drove up to the door, from which
alighted, dressed in her newest attire, and in all the pride of beauty and
of a gentle nature. Mary Gibson.
The sequel can be easily
anticipated. To all but Mary, the poor persecuted stranger had been dumb;
but to her he had formerly confided the secret of his birth, and his
subsequent history; and in places "whar warld sa na," they had again and
again sworn truth and fealty to each other. But having learned that a
search was going on in his neighbourhood, the young Laird of Pentland
Tower had assumed a new disguise, and betaken himself to another locality,
from which he was drawn by the blessed change of Government already
alluded to, as well as by his wish to dignify and adorn, with the name and
the honour of wife, "a bonny, virtuous, kind-hearted lassie," who long
continued to share and add to his happiness, and to secure the inheritance
of Pentland Tower, with its domains, to the name of "Lindsay."
Among the claimants who, a
few years ago, contended for the honours of the lordship of Lindsay, I
observed a lineal descendant of BONNY MARY GIBSON. |
