The Private Memoirs and Confessions of A Justified Sinner

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THE PRIVATE MEMOIRS
AND CONFESSIONS
OF A JUSTIFIED SINNER

WRITTEN BY HIMSELF

WITH A DETAIL OF CURIOUS TRADITIONARY FACTS, AND
OTHER EVIDENCE, BY THE EDITOR

By James Hogg

THE EDITOR'S NARRATIVE

It appears from tradition, as well as some parish registers still
extant, that the lands of Dalcastle (or Dalchastel, as it is often
spelled) were possessed by a family of the name of Colwan,
about one hundred and fifty years ago, and for at least a century
previous to that period. That family was supposed to have been a
branch of the ancient family of Colquhoun, and it is certain that
from it spring the Cowans that spread towards the Border. I find
that, in the year 1687, George Colwan succeeded his uncle of the
same name, in the lands of Dalchastel and Balgrennan; and, this
being all I can gather of the family from history, to tradition I
must appeal for the remainder of the motley adventures of that
house. But, of the matter furnished by the latter of these powerful
monitors, I have no reason to complain: It has been handed down
to the world in unlimited abundance; and I am certain that, in
recording the hideous events which follow, I am only relating to
the greater part of the inhabitants of at least four counties of
Scotland matters of which they were before perfectly well
informed.

This George was a rich man, or supposed to be so, and was
married, when considerably advanced in life, to the sole heiress
and reputed daughter of a Baillie Orde, of Glasgow. This proved
a conjunction anything but agreeable to the parties contracting. It
is well known that the Reformation principles had long before
that time taken a powerful hold of the hearts and affections of the
people of Scotland, although the feeling was by no means
general, or in equal degrees; and it so happened that this married
couple felt completely at variance on the subject. Granting it to
have been so, one would have thought that the laird, owing to his
retiring situation, would have been the one that inclined to the
stern doctrines of the reformers; and that the young and gay dame
from the city would have adhered to the free principles cherished
by the court party, and indulged in rather to extremity, in
opposition to their severe and carping contemporaries.

The contrary, however, happened to be the case. The laird was
what his country neighbours called "a droll, careless chap", with a
very limited proportion of the fear of God in his heart, and very
nearly as little of the fear of man. The laird had not intentionally
wronged or offended either of the parties, and perceived not the
necessity of deprecating their vengeance. He had hitherto
believed that he was living in most cordial terms with the greater
part of the inhabitants of the earth, and with the powers above in
particular: but woe be unto him if he was not soon convinced of
the fallacy of such damning security! for his lady was the most
severe and gloomy of all bigots to the principles of the
Reformation. Hers were not the tenets of the great reformers, but
theirs mightily overstrained and deformed. Theirs was an unguent
hard to be swallowed; but hers was that unguent embittered and
overheated until nature could not longer bear it. She had imbibed
her ideas from the doctrines of one flaming predestinarian divine
alone; and these were so rigid that they became a stumbling block
to many of his brethren, and a mighty handle for the enemies of
his party to turn the machine of the state against them.

The wedding festivities at Dalcastle partook of all the gaiety, not
of that stern age, but of one previous to it. There was feasting,
dancing, piping, and singing: the liquors were handed, around in
great fulness, the ale in large wooden bickers, and the brandy in
capacious horns of oxen. The laird gave full scope to his homely
glee. He danced--he snapped his fingers to the music--clapped his
hands and shouted at the turn of the tune. He saluted every girl in
the hall whose appearance was anything tolerable, and requested
of their sweethearts to take the same freedom with his bride, by
way of retaliation. But there she sat at the head of the hall in still
and blooming beauty, absolutely refusing to tread a single
measure with any gentleman there. The only enjoyment in which
she appeared to partake was in now and then stealing a word of
sweet conversation with her favourite pastor about divine things;
for he had accompanied her home after marrying her to her
husband, to see her fairly settled in her new dwelling. He
addressed her several times by her new name, Mrs. Colwan; but
she turned away her head disgusted, and looked with pity and
contempt towards the old inadvertent sinner, capering away in the
height of his unregenerated mirth. The minister perceived the
workings of her pious mind, and thenceforward addressed her by
the courteous title of Lady Dalcastle, which sounded somewhat
better, as not coupling her name with one of the wicked: and
there is too great reason to believe that, for all the solemn vows
she had come under, and these were of no ordinary binding,
particularly on the laird's part, she at that time despised, if not
abhorred him, in her heart.

The good parson again blessed her, and went away. She took
leave of him with tears in her eyes, entreating him often to visit
her in that heathen land of the Amorite, the Hittite, and the
Girgashite: to which he assented, on many solemn and qualifying
conditions--and then the comely bride retired to her chamber to
pray.

It was customary, in those days, for the bride's-man and maiden,
and a few select friends, to visit the new-married couple after
they had retired to rest, and drink a cup to their healths, their
happiness, and a numerous posterity. But the laird delighted not
in this: he wished to have his jewel to himself; and, slipping away
quietly from his jovial party, he retired to his chamber to his
beloved, and bolted the door. He found her engaged with the
writings of the Evangelists, and terribly demure. The laird went
up to caress her; but she turned away her head, and spoke of the
follies of aged men, and something of the broad way that leadeth
to destruction. The laird did not thoroughly comprehend this
allusion; but being considerably flustered by drinking, and
disposed to take all in good part, he only remarked, as he took off
his shoes and stockings, that, "whether the way was broad or
narrow, it was time that they were in their bed."

"Sure, Mr. Colwan, you won't go to bed to-night, at such an
important period of your life, without first saying prayers for
yourself and me."

When she said this, the laird had his head down almost to the
ground, loosing his shoe-buckle; but when he heard of prayers, on
such a night, he raised his face suddenly up, which was all over
as flushed and red as a rose, and answered:

"Prayers, Mistress! Lord help your crazed head, is this a night for
prayers?"

He had better have held his peace. There was such a torrent of
profound divinity poured out upon him that the laird became
ashamed, both of himself and his new-made spouse, and wist not
what to say: but the brandy helped him out.

"It strikes me, my dear, that religious devotion would be
somewhat out of place to-night," said he. "Allowing that it is ever
so beautiful, and ever so beneficial, were we to ride on the
rigging of it at all times, would we not be constantly making a
farce of it: It would be like reading the Bible and the jestbook,
verse about, and would render the life of man a medley of
absurdity and confusion."

But, against the cant of the bigot or the hypocrite, no reasoning
can aught avail. If you would argue until the end of life, the
infallible creature must alone be right. So it proved with the laird.
One Scripture text followed another, not in the least connected,
and one sentence of the profound Mr. Wringhim's sermons after
another, proving the duty of family worship, till the laird lost
patience, and tossing himself into bed, said carelessly that he
would leave that duty upon her shoulders for one night.

The meek mind of Lady Dalcastle was somewhat disarranged by
this sudden evolution. She felt that she was left rather in an
awkward situation. However, to show her unconscionable spouse
that she was resolved to hold fast her integrity, she kneeled down
and prayed in terms so potent that she deemed she was sure of
making an impression on him. She did so; for in a short time the
laird began to utter a response so fervent that she was utterly
astounded, and fairly driven from the chain of her orisons. He
began, in truth, to sound a nasal bugle of no ordinary calibre--the
notes being little inferior to those of a military trumpet. The lady
tried to proceed, but every returning note from the bed burst on
her ear with a louder twang, and a longer peal, till the concord of
sweet sounds became so truly pathetic that the meek spirit of the
dame was quite overcome; and, after shedding a flood of tears,
she arose from her knees, and retired to the chimney-corner with
her Bible in her lap, there to spend the hours in holy meditation
till such time as the inebriated trumpeter should awaken to a
sense of propriety.

The laird did not awake in any reasonable time; for, he being
overcome with fatigue and wassail, his sleep became sounder,
and his Morphean measures more intense. These varied a little in
their structure; but the general run of the bars sounded something
in this way: "Hic-hoc-wheew!" It was most profoundly ludicrous;
and could not have missed exciting risibility in anyone save a
pious, a disappointed, and humbled bride.

The good dame wept bitterly. She could not for her life go and
awaken the monster, and request him to make room for her: but
she retired somewhere, for the laird, on awaking next morning,
found that he was still lying alone. His sleep had been of the
deepest and most genuine sort; and, all the time that it lasted, he
had never once thought of either wives, children, or sweethearts,
save in the way of dreaming about them; but, as his
spirit began again by slow degrees to verge towards the
boundaries of reason, it became lighter and more buoyant from
the effects of deep repose, and his dreams partook of that
buoyancy, yea, to a degree hardly expressible. He dreamed of the
reel, the jig, the strathspey, and the corant; and the elasticity of
his frame was such that he was bounding over the heads of
maidens, and making his feet skimmer against the ceiling,
enjoying, the while, the most ecstatic emotions. These grew too
fervent for the shackles of the drowsy god to restrain. The nasal
bugle ceased its prolonged sounds in one moment, and a sort of
hectic laugh took its place. "Keep it going--play up, you devils!"
cried the laird, without changing his position on the pillow. But
this exertion to hold the fiddlers at their work fairly awakened the
delighted dreamer, and, though he could not refrain from
continuing, his laugh, beat length, by tracing out a regular chain
of facts, came to be sensible of his real situation. "Rabina, where
are you? What's become of you, my dear?" cried the laird. But
there was no voice nor anyone that answered or regarded. He
flung open the curtains, thinking to find her still on her knees, as
he had seen her, but she was not there, either sleeping or waking.
"Rabina! Mrs. Colwan!" shouted he, as loud as he could call, and
then added in the same breath, "God save the king--I have lost my
wife!"

He sprung up and opened the casement: the day-light was
beginning to streak the east, for it was spring, and the nights were
short, and the mornings very long. The laird half dressed himself
in an instant, and strode through every room in the house,
opening the windows as he went, and scrutinizing every bed and
every corner. He came into the hall where the wedding festival
had been held; and as he opened the various windowboards,
loving couples flew off like hares surprised too late in the
morning among the early braird. "Hoo-boo! Fie, be frightened!"
cried the laird. "Fie, rin like fools, as if ye were caught in an ill-
turn!" His bride was not among them; so he was obliged to betake
himself to further search. "She will be praying in some corner,
poor woman," said he to himself. "It is an unlucky thing this
praying. But, for my part, I fear I have behaved very ill; and I
must endeavour to make amends."

The laird continued his search, and at length found his beloved in
the same bed with her Glasgow cousin who had acted as
bridesmaid. "You sly and malevolent imp," said the laird; "you
have played me such a trick when I was fast asleep! I have not
known a frolic so clever, and, at the same time, so severe. Come
along, you baggage you!"

"Sir, I will let you know that I detest your principles and your
person alike," said she. "It shall never be said, Sir, that my person
was at the control of a heathenish man of Belial--a dangler among
the daughters of women--a promiscuous dancer--and a player of
unlawful games. Forgo your rudeness, Sir, I say, and depart away
from my presence and that of my kinswoman.

"Come along, I say, my charming Rab. If you were the pink of all
puritans, and the saint of all saints, you are my wife, and must do
as I command you."

"Sir, I will sooner lay down my life than be subjected to your
godless will; therefore I say, desist, and begone with you."

But the laird regarded none of these testy sayings: he rolled her in
a blanket, and bore her triumphantly away to his chamber, taking
care to keep a fold or two of the blanket always rather near to her
mouth, in case of any outrageous forthcoming of noise.

The next day at breakfast the bride was long in making her
appearance. Her maid asked to see her; but George did not choose
that anybody should see her but himself. He paid her several
visits, and always turned the key as he came out. At length
breakfast was served; and during the time of refreshment the laird
tried to break several jokes; but it was remarked that they wanted
their accustomed brilliancy, and that his nose was particularly red
at the top.

Matters, without all doubt, had been very bad between the new-
married couple; for in the course of the day the lady deserted her
quarters, and returned to her father's house in Glasgow, after
having been a night on the road; stage-coaches and steam-boats
having then no existence in that quarter.

Though Baillie Orde had acquiesced in his wife's asseveration
regarding the likeness of their only daughter to her father, he
never loved or admired her greatly; therefore this behaviour
nothing astounded him. He questioned her strictly as to the
grievous offence committed against her, and could discover
nothing that warranted a procedure so fraught with disagreeable
consequences. So, after mature deliberation, the baillie addressed
her as follows:

"Aye, aye, Raby! An' sae I find that Dalcastle has actually refused
to say prayers with you when you ordered him; an' has guidit you
in a rude indelicate manner, outstepping the respect due to my
daughter--as my daughter. But, wi' regard to what is due to his
own wife, of that he's a better judge nor me. However, since he
has behaved in that manner to MY DAUGHTER, I shall be
revenged on him for aince; for I shall return the obligation to ane
nearer to him: that is, I shall take pennyworths of his wife--an' let
him lick at that."

"What do you mean, Sir?" said the astonished damsel.

"I mean to be revenged on that villain Dalcastle," said he, "for
what he has done to my daughter. Come hither, Mrs. Colwan, you
shall pay for this."

So saying, the baillie began to inflict corporal punishment on the
runaway wife. His strokes were not indeed very deadly, but he
made a mighty flourish in the infliction, pretending to be in a
great rage only at the Laird of Dalcastle. "Villain that he is!"
exclaimed he, 'I shall teach him to behave in such a manner to a
child of mine, be she as she may; since I cannot get at himself, I
shall lounder her that is nearest to him in life. Take you that, and
that, Mrs. Colwan, for your husband's impertinence!"

The poor afflicted woman wept and prayed, but the baillie would
not abate aught of his severity. After fuming and beating her with
many stripes, far drawn, and lightly laid down, he took her up. to
her chamber, five stories high, locked her in, and there he fed her
on bread and water, all to be revenged on the presumptuous Laird
of Dalcastle; but ever and anon, as the baillie came down the stair
from carrying his daughter's meal, he said to himself: "I shall
make the sight of the laird the blithest she ever saw in her life."

Lady Dalcastle got plenty of time to read, and pray, and meditate;
but she was at a great loss for one to dispute with about religious
tenets; for she found that, without this advantage, about which
there was a perfect rage at that time, the reading and learning of
Scripture texts, and sentences of intricate doctrine, availed her
naught; so she was often driven to sit at her casement and look
out for the approach of the heathenish Laird of Dalcastle.

That hero, after a considerable lapse of time, at length made his
appearance. Matters were not hard to adjust; for his lady found
that there was no refuge for her in her father's house; and so, after
some sighs and tears, she accompanied her husband home. For all
that had passed, things went on no better. She WOULD convert
the laird in spite of his teeth: the laird would not be converted.
She WOULD have the laird to say family prayers, both morning
and evening: the laird would neither pray morning nor evening.
He would not even sing psalms, and kneel beside her while she
performed the exercise; neither would he converse at all times,
and in all places, about the sacred mysteries of religion, although
his lady took occasion to contradict flatly every assertion that he
made, in order that she might spiritualize him by drawing him
into argument.

The laird kept his temper a long while, but at length his patience
wore out; he cut her short in all her futile attempts at
spiritualization, and mocked at her wire-drawn degrees of faith,
hope, and repentance. He also dared to doubt of the great
standard doctrine of absolute predestination, which put the crown
on the lady's Christian resentment. She declared her helpmate to
be a limb of Antichrist, and one with whom no regenerated
person could associate. She therefore bespoke a separate
establishment, and, before the expiry of the first six months, the
arrangements of the separation were amicably adjusted. The
upper, or third, story of the old mansion-house was awarded to
the lady for her residence. She had a separate door, a separate
stair, a separate garden, and walks that in no instance intersected
the laird's; so that one would have thought the separation
complete. They had each their own parties, selected from their
own sort of people; and, though the laird never once chafed
himself about the lady's companies, it was not long before she
began to intermeddle about some of his.

"Who is that fat bouncing dame that visits the laird so often, and
always by herself?" said she to her maid Martha one day.

"Oh dear, mem, how can I ken? We're banished frae our
acquaintances here, as weel as frae the sweet gospel ordinances."

"Find me out who that jolly dame is, Martha. You, who hold
communion with the household of this ungodly man, can be at no
loss to attain this information. I observe that she always casts her
eye up toward our windows, both in coming and going; and I
suspect that she seldom departs from the house emptyhanded."

That same evening Martha came with the information that this
august visitor was a Miss Logan, an old an intimate acquaintance
of the laird's, and a very worthy respectable lady, of good
connections, whose parents had lost their patrimony in the civil
wars.

"Ha! very well!" said the lady; "very well, Martha! But,
nevertheless, go thou and watch this respectable lady's motions
and behaviour the next time she comes to visit the laird--and the
next after that. You will not, I see, lack opportunities."

Martha's information turned out of that nature that prayers were
said in the uppermost story of Dalcastle house against the
Canaanitish woman, every night and every morning; and great
discontent prevailed there, even to anathemas and tears. Letter
after letter was dispatched to Glasgow; and at length, to the lady's
great consolation, the Rev. Mr. Wringhim arrived safely and
devoutly in her elevated sanctuary. Marvellous was the
conversation between these gifted people. Wringhim had held in
his doctrines that there were eight different kinds of FAITH, all
perfectly distinct in their operations and effects. But the lady, in
her secluded state, had discovered another five, making twelve
[sic] in all: the adjusting of the existence or fallacy of these five
faiths served for a most enlightened discussion of nearly
seventeen hours; in the course of which the two got warm in their
arguments, always in proportion as they receded from nature,
utility, and common sense. Wringhim at length got into unwonted
fervour about some disputed point between one of these faiths
and TRUST: when the lady, fearing that zeal was getting beyond
its wonted barrier, broke in on his vehement asseverations with
the following abrupt discomfiture: "But, Sir, as long as I
remember, what is to be done with this case of open and avowed
iniquity?"

The minister was struck dumb. He leaned him back on his chair,
stroked his beard, hemmed--considered, and hemmed again, and
then said. in an altered and softened tone: "Why, that is a
secondary consideration; you mean the case between your
husband and Miss Logan?"

"The same, Sir. I am scandalized at such intimacies going on
under my nose. The sufferance of it is a great and crying evil."

"Evil, madam, may be either operative, or passive. To them it is
an evil, but to us none. We have no more to do with the sins of
the wicked and unconverted here than with those of an infidel
Turk; for all earthly bonds and fellowships are absorbed and
swallowed up in the holy community of the Reformed Church.
However, if it is your wish, I shall take him to task, and
reprimand and humble him in such a manner that he shall be
ashamed of his doings, and renounce such deeds for ever, out of
mere self-respect, though all unsanctified the heart, as well as the
deed, may be. To the wicked, all things are wicked; but to the
just, all things are just and right."

"Ah, that is a sweet and comfortable saying, Mr. Wringhim! How
delightful to think that a justified person can do no wrong! Who
would not envy the liberty wherewith we are made free? Go to
my husband, that poor unfortunate, blindfolded person, and open
his eyes to his degenerate and sinful state; for well are you fitted
to the task."

"Yea, I will go in unto him, and confound him. I will lay the
strong holds of sin and Satan as flat before my face as the dung
that is spread out to fatten the land."

"Master, there's a gentleman at the fore-door wants a private.
word o' ye."

"Tell him I'm engaged: I can't see any gentleman to-night. But I
shall attend on him to-morrow as soon as he pleases."

"'He's coming straight in, Sir. Stop a wee bit, Sir, my master is
engaged. He cannot see you at present, Sir."

"Stand aside, thou Moabite! My mission admits of no delay. I
come to save him from the jaws of destruction!"

"An that be the case, Sir, it maks a wide difference; an', as the
danger may threaten us a', I fancy I may as weel let ye gang by as
fight wi' ye, sin' ye seem sae intent on 't.--The man says he's
comin' to save ye, an' canna stop, Sir. Here he is."

The laird was going to break out into a volley of wrath against
Waters, his servant; but, before he got a word pronounced, the
Rev. Mr. Wringhim had stepped inside the room, and Waters had
retired, shutting the door behind him.

No introduction could be more mal-a-propos: it was impossible;
for at that very moment the laird and Arabella Logan were both
sitting on one seat, and both looking on one book, when the door
opened. "What is it, Sir?" said the laird fiercely.

"A message of the greatest importance, Sir," said the divine,
striding unceremoniously up to the chimney, turning his back to
the fire, and his face to the culprits. "I think you should know me,
Sir?" continued he, looking displeasedly at the laird, with his face
half turned round.

"I think I should," returned the laird. "You are a Mr. How's--tey--
ca'--him, of Glasgow, who did me the worst turn ever I got done
to me in my life. You gentry are always ready to do a man such a
turn. Pray, Sir, did you ever do a good job for anyone to
counterbalance that? For, if you have not, you ought to be--"

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