Chronicles of the Canongate

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The relative of the slaughtered Cameron raised her voice in
reply; but Elspat, disdaining to continue the objurgation, or
perhaps feeling her grief likely to overmaster her power of
expressing her resentment, had left the hut, and was walking
forth in the bright moonshine.

The females who were arranging the corpse of the slaughtered man
hurried from their melancholy labour to look after her tall
figure as it glided away among the cliffs. "I am glad she is
gone," said one of the younger persons who assisted. "I would as
soon dress a corpse when the great fiend himself--God sain us!--
stood visibly before us, as when Elspat of the Tree is amongst
us. Ay, ay, even overmuch intercourse hath she had with the
enemy in her day."

"Silly woman," answered the female who had maintained the
dialogue with the departed Elspat, "thinkest thou that there is a
worse fiend on earth, or beneath it, than the pride and fury of
an offended woman, like yonder bloody-minded hag? Know that
blood has been as familiar to her as the dew to the mountain
daisy. Many and many a brave man has she caused to breathe their
last for little wrong they had done to her or theirs. But her
hough-sinews are cut, now that her wolf-burd must, like a
murderer as he is, make a murderer's end."

Whilst the women thus discoursed together, as they watched the
corpse of Allan Breack Cameron, the unhappy cause of his death
pursued her lonely way across the mountain. While she remained
within sight of the bothy, she put a strong constraint on
herself, that by no alteration of pace or gesture she might
afford to her enemies the triumph of calculating the excess of
her mental agitation, nay, despair. She stalked, therefore, with
a slow rather than a swift step, and, holding herself upright,
seemed at once to endure with firmness that woe which was passed,
and bid defiance to that which was about to come. But when she
was beyond the sight of those who remained in the hut, she could
no longer suppress the extremity of her agitation. Drawing her
mantle wildly round her, she stopped at the first knoll, and
climbing to its summit, extended her arms up to the bright moon,
as if accusing heaven and earth for her misfortunes, and uttered
scream on scream, like those of an eagle whose nest has been
plundered of her brood. Awhile she vented her grief in these
inarticulate cries, then rushed on her way with a hasty and
unequal step, in the vain hope of overtaking the party which was
conveying her son a prisoner to Dunbarton. But her strength,
superhuman as it seemed, failed her in the trial; nor was it
possible for her, with her utmost efforts, to accomplish her
purpose.

Yet she pressed onward, with all the speed which her exhausted
frame could exert. When food became indispensable, she entered
the first cottage. "Give me to eat," she said. "I am the widow
of MacTavish Mhor--I am the mother of Hamish MacTavish Bean,--
give me to eat, that I may once more see my fair-haired son."
Her demand was never refused, though granted in many cases with a
kind of struggle between compassion and aversion in some of those
to whom she applied, which was in others qualified by fear. The
share she had had in occasioning the death of Allan Breack
Cameron, which must probably involve that of her own son, was not
accurately known; but, from a knowledge of her violent passions
and former habits of life, no one doubted that in one way or
other she had been the cause of the catastrophe, and Hamish Bean
was considered, in the slaughter which he had committed, rather
as the instrument than as the accomplice of his mother.

This general opinion of his countrymen was of little service to
the unfortunate Hamish. As his captain, Green Colin, understood
the manners and habits of his country, he had no difficulty in
collecting from Hamish the particulars accompanying his supposed
desertion, and the subsequent death of the non-commissioned
officer. He felt the utmost compassion for a youth, who had thus
fallen a victim to the extravagant and fatal fondness of a
parent. But he had no excuse to plead which could rescue his
unhappy recruit from the doom which military discipline and the
award of a court-martial denounced against him for the crime he
had committed.

No time had been lost in their proceedings, and as little was
interposed betwixt sentence and execution. General -- had
determined to make a severe example of the first deserter who
should fall into his power, and here was one who had defended
himself by main force, and slain in the affray the officer sent
to take him into custody. A fitter subject for punishment could
not have occurred, and Hamish was sentenced to immediate
execution. All which the interference of his captain in his
favour could procure was that he should die a soldier's death;
for there had been a purpose of executing him upon the gibbet.

The worthy clergyman of Glenorquhy chanced to be at Dunbarton, in
attendance upon some church courts, at the time of this
catastrophe. He visited his unfortunate parishioner in his
dungeon, found him ignorant indeed, but not obstinate, and the
answers which he received from him, when conversing on religious
topics, were such as induced him doubly to regret that a mind
naturally pure and noble should have remained unhappily so wild
and uncultivated.

When he ascertained the real character and disposition of the
young man, the worthy pastor made deep and painful reflections on
his own shyness and timidity, which, arising out of the evil fame
that attached to the lineage of Hamish, had restrained him from
charitably endeavouring to bring this strayed sheep within the
great fold. While the good minister blamed his cowardice in
times past, which had deterred him from risking his person, to
save, perhaps, an immortal soul, he resolved no longer to be
governed by such timid counsels, but to endeavour, by application
to his officers, to obtain a reprieve, at least, if not a pardon,
for the criminal, in whom he felt so unusually interested, at
once from his docility of temper and his generosity of
disposition.

Accordingly the divine sought out Captain Campbell at the
barracks within the garrison. There was a gloomy melancholy on
the brow of Green Colin, which was not lessened, but increased,
when the clergyman stated his name, quality, and errand. "You
cannot tell me better of the young man than I am disposed to
believe," answered the Highland officer; "you cannot ask me to do
more in his behalf than I am of myself inclined, and have already
endeavoured to do. But it is all in vain. General -- is half a
Lowlander, half an Englishman. He has no idea of the high and
enthusiastic character which in these mountains often brings
exalted virtues in contact with great crimes, which, however, are
less offences of the heart than errors of the understanding. I
have gone so far as to tell him, that in this young man he was
putting to death the best and the bravest of my company, where
all, or almost all, are good and brave. I explained to him by
what strange delusion the culprit's apparent desertion was
occasioned, and how little his heart was accessory to the crime
which his hand unhappily committed. His answer was, 'These are
Highland visions, Captain Campbell, as unsatisfactory and vain as
those of the second sight. An act of gross desertion may, in any
case, be palliated under the plea of intoxication; the murder of
an officer may be as easily coloured over with that of temporary
insanity. The example must be made, and if it has fallen on a
man otherwise a good recruit, it will have the greater effect.'
Such being the general's unalterable purpose," continued Captain
Campbell, with a sigh, "be it your care, reverend sir, that your
penitent prepare by break of day tomorrow for that great change
which we shall all one day be subjected to."

"And for which," said the clergyman, "may God prepare us all, as
I in my duty will not be wanting to this poor youth!"

Next morning, as the very earliest beams of sunrise saluted the
grey towers which crown the summit of that singular and
tremendous rock, the soldiers of the new Highland regiment
appeared on the parade, within the Castle of Dunbarton, and
having fallen into order, began to move downward by steep
staircases, and narrow passages towards the external barrier-
gate, which is at the very bottom of the rock. The wild wailings
of the pibroch were heard at times, interchanged with the drums
and fifes, which beat the Dead March.

The unhappy criminal's fate did not, at first, excite that
general sympathy in the regiment which would probably have arisen
had he been executed for desertion alone. The slaughter of the
unfortunate Allan Breack had given a different colour to Hamish's
offence; for the deceased was much beloved, and besides belonged
to a numerous and powerful clan, of whom there were many in the
ranks. The unfortunate criminal, on the contrary, was little
known to, and scarcely connected with, any of his regimental
companions. His father had been, indeed, distinguished for his
strength and manhood; but he was of a broken clan, as those names
were called who had no chief to lead them to battle.

It would have been almost impossible in another case to have
turned out of the ranks of the regiment the party necessary for
execution of the sentence; but the six individuals selected for
that purpose, were friends of the deceased, descended, like him,
from the race of MacDhonuil Dhu; and while they prepared for the
dismal task which their duty imposed, it was not without a stern
feeling of gratified revenge. The leading company of the
regiment began now to defile from the barrier-gate, and was
followed by the others, each successively moving and halting
according to the orders of the adjutant, so as to form three
sides of an oblong square, with the ranks faced inwards. The
fourth, or blank side of the square, was closed up by the huge
and lofty precipice on which the Castle rises. About the centre
of the procession, bare-headed, disarmed, and with his hands
bound, came the unfortunate victim of military law. He was
deadly pale, but his step was firm and his eye as bright as ever.
The clergyman walked by his side; the coffin, which was to
receive his mortal remains, was borne before him. The looks of
his comrades were still, composed, and solemn. They felt for the
youth, whose handsome form and manly yet submissive deportment
had, as soon as he was distinctly visible to them, softened the
hearts of many, even of some who had been actuated by vindictive
feelings.

The coffin destined for the yet living body of Hamish Bean was
placed at the bottom of the hollow square, about two yards
distant from the foot of the precipice, which rises in that place
as steep as a stone wall to the height of three or four hundred
feet. Thither the prisoner was also led, the clergyman still
continuing by his side, pouring forth exhortations of courage and
consolation, to which the youth appeared to listen with
respectful devotion. With slow, and, it seemed, almost unwilling
steps, the firing party entered the square, and were drawn up
facing the prisoner, about ten yards distant. The clergyman was
now about to retire. "Think, my son," he said, "on what I have
told you, and let your hope be rested on the anchor which I have
given. You will then exchange a short and miserable existence
here for a life in which you will experience neither sorrow nor
pain. Is there aught else which you can entrust to me to execute
for you?"

The youth looked at his sleeve buttons. They were of gold, booty
perhaps which his father had taken from some English officer
during the civil wars. The clergyman disengaged them from his
sleeves.

"My mother!" he said with some effort--"give them to my poor
mother! See her, good father, and teach her what she should
think of all this. Tell her Hamish Bean is more glad to die than
ever he was to rest after the longest day's hunting. Farewell,
sir--farewell!"

The good man could scarce retire from the fatal spot. An officer
afforded him the support of his arm. At his last look towards
Hamish, he beheld him alive and kneeling on the coffin; the few
that were around him had all withdrawn. The fatal word was
given, the rock rung sharp to the sound of the discharge, and
Hamish, falling forward with a groan, died, it may be supposed,
without almost a sense of the passing agony.

Ten or twelve of his own company then came forward, and laid with
solemn reverence the remains of their comrade in the coffin,
while the Dead March was again struck up, and the several
companies, marching in single files, passed the coffin one by
one, in order that all might receive from the awful spectacle the
warning which it was peculiarly intended to afford. The regiment
was then marched off the ground, and reascended the ancient
cliff, their music, as usual on such occasions, striking lively
strains, as if sorrow, or even deep thought, should as short a
while as possible be the tenant of the soldier's bosom.

At the same time the small party, which we before mentioned, bore
the bier of the ill-fated Hamish to his humble grave, in a corner
of the churchyard of Dunbarton, usually assigned to criminals.
Here, among the dust of the guilty, lies a youth, whose name, had
he survived the ruin of the fatal events by which he was hurried
into crime, might have adorned the annals of the brave.

The minister of Glenorquhy left Dunbarton immediately after he
had witnessed the last scene of this melancholy catastrophe. His
reason acquiesced in the justice of the sentence, which required
blood for blood, and he acknowledged that the vindictive
character of his countrymen required to be powerfully restrained
by the strong curb of social law. But still he mourned over the
individual victim. Who may arraign the bolt of Heaven when it
bursts among the sons of the forest? yet who can refrain from
mourning when it selects for the object of its blighting aim the
fair stem of a young oak, that promised to be the pride of the
dell in which it flourished? Musing on these melancholy events,
noon found him engaged in the mountain passes, by which he was to
return to his still distant home.

Confident in his knowledge of the country, the clergyman had left
the main road, to seek one of those shorter paths, which are only
used by pedestrians, or by men, like the minister, mounted on the
small, but sure-footed, hardy, and sagacious horses of the
country. The place which he now traversed was in itself gloomy
and desolate, and tradition had added to it the terror of
superstition, by affirming it was haunted by an evil spirit,
termed CLOGHT-DEARG--that is, Redmantle--who at all times, but
especially at noon and at midnight, traversed the glen, in enmity
both to man and the inferior creation, did such evil as her power
was permitted to extend to, and afflicted with ghastly terrors
those whom she had not license otherwise to hurt.

The minister of Glenorquhy had set his face in opposition to many
of these superstitions, which he justly thought were derived from
the dark ages of Popery, perhaps even from those of paganism, and
unfit to be entertained or believed by the Christians of an
enlightened age. Some of his more attached parishioners
considered him as too rash in opposing the ancient faith of their
fathers; and though they honoured the moral intrepidity of their
pastor, they could not avoid entertaining and expressing fears
that he would one day fall a victim to his temerity, and be torn
to pieces in the glen of the Cloght-dearg, or some of those other
haunted wilds, which he appeared rather to have a pride and
pleasure in traversing alone, on the days and hours when the
wicked spirits were supposed to have especial power over man and
beast.

These legends came across the mind of the clergyman, and,
solitary as he was, a melancholy smile shaded his cheek, as he
thought of the inconsistency of human nature, and reflected how
many brave men, whom the yell of the pibroch would have sent
headlong against fixed bayonets, as the wild bull rushes on his
enemy, might have yet feared to encounter those visionary
terrors, which he himself, a man of peace, and in ordinary perils
no way remarkable for the firmness of his nerves, was now risking
without hesitation.

As he looked around the scene of desolation, he could not but
acknowledge, in his own mind, that it was not ill chosen for the
haunt of those spirits, which are said to delight in solitude and
desolation. The glen was so steep and narrow that there was but
just room for the meridian sun to dart a few scattered rays upon
the gloomy and precarious stream which stole through its
recesses, for the most part in silence, but occasionally
murmuring sullenly against the rocks and large stones which
seemed determined to bar its further progress. In winter, or in
the rainy season, this small stream was a foaming torrent of the
most formidable magnitude, and it was at such periods that it had
torn open and laid bare the broad-faced and huge fragments of
rock which, at the season of which we speak, hid its course from
the eye, and seemed disposed totally to interrupt its course.
"Undoubtedly," thought the clergyman, "this mountain rivulet,
suddenly swelled by a waterspout or thunderstorm, has often been
the cause of those accidents which, happening in the glen called
by her name, have been ascribed to the agency of the Cloght-
dearg."

Just as this idea crossed his mind, he heard a female voice
exclaim, in a wild and thrilling accent, "Michael Tyrie! Michael
Tyrie!" He looked round in astonishment, and not without some
fear. It seemed for an instant, as if the evil being, whose
existence he had disowned, was about to appear for the punishment
of his incredulity. This alarm did not hold him more than an
instant, nor did it prevent his replying in a firm voice, "Who
calls? and where are you?"

"One who journeys in wretchedness, between life and death,"
answered the voice; and the speaker, a tall female, appeared from
among the fragments of rocks which had concealed her from view.

As she approached more closely, her mantle of bright tartan, in
which the red colour much predominated, her stature, the long
stride with which she advanced, and the writhen features and wild
eyes which were visible from under her curch, would have made her
no inadequate representative of the spirit which gave name to the
valley. But Mr. Tyrie instantly knew her as the Woman of the
Tree, the widow of MacTavish Mhor, the now childless mother of
Hamish Bean. I am not sure whether the minister would not have
endured the visitation of the Cloght-dearg herself, rather than
the shock of Elspat's presence, considering her crime and her
misery. He drew up his horse instinctively, and stood
endeavouring to collect his ideas, while a few paces brought her
up to his horse's head.

"Michael Tyrie," said she, "the foolish women of the Clachan [The
village; literally, the stones.] hold thee as a god--be one to
me, and say that my son lives. Say this, and I too will be of
thy worship; I will bend my knees on the seventh day in thy house
of worship, and thy God shall be my God."

"Unhappy woman," replied the clergyman, "man forms not pactions
with his Maker as with a creature of clay like himself. Thinkest
thou to chaffer with Him, who formed the earth, and spread out
the heavens, or that thou canst offer aught of homage or devotion
that can be worth acceptance in his eyes? He hath asked
obedience, not sacrifice; patience under the trials with which He
afflicts us, instead of vain bribes, such as man offers to his
changeful brother of clay, that he may be moved from his
purpose."

"Be silent, priest!" answered the desperate woman; "speak not to
me the words of thy white book. Elspat's kindred were of those
who crossed themselves and knelt when the sacring bell was rung,
and she knows that atonement can be made on the altar for deeds
done in the field. Elspat had once flocks and herds, goats upon
the cliffs, and cattle in the strath. She wore gold around her
neck and on her hair--thick twists, as those worn by the heroes
of old. All these would she have resigned to the priest--all
these; and if he wished for the ornaments of a gentle lady, or
the sporran of a high chief, though they had been great as
Macallum Mhor himself, MacTavish Mhor would have procured them,
if Elspat had promised them. Elspat is now poor, and has nothing
to give. But the Black Abbot of Inchaffray would have bidden her
scourge her shoulders, and macerate her feet by pilgrimage; and
he would have granted his pardon to her when he saw that her
blood had flowed, and that her flesh had been torn. These were
the priests who had indeed power even with the most powerful;
they threatened the great men of the earth with the word of their
mouth, the sentence of their book, the blaze of their torch, the
sound of their sacring bell. The mighty bent to their will, and
unloosed at the word of the priests those whom they had bound in
their wrath, and set at liberty, unharmed, him whom they had
sentenced to death, and for whose blood they had thirsted. These
were a powerful race, and might well ask the poor to kneel, since
their power could humble the proud. But you!--against whom are
ye strong, but against women who have been guilty of folly, and
men who never wore sword? The priests of old were like the
winter torrent which fills this hollow valley, and rolls these
massive rocks against each other as easily as the boy plays with
the ball which he casts before him. But you!--you do but
resemble the summer-stricken stream, which is turned aside by the
rushes, and stemmed by a bush of sedges. Woe worth you, for
there is no help in you!"

The clergyman was at no loss to conceive that Elspat had lost the
Roman Catholic faith without gaining any other, and that she
still retained a vague and confused idea of the composition with
the priesthood, by confession, alms, and penance, and of their
extensive power, which, according to her notion, was adequate, if
duly propitiated, even to effecting her son's safety.
Compassionating her situation, and allowing for her errors and
ignorance, he answered her with mildness.

"Alas, unhappy woman! Would to God I could convince thee as
easily where thou oughtest to seek, and art sure to find,
consolation, as I can assure you with a single word, that were
Rome and all her priesthood once more in the plenitude of their
power, they could not, for largesse or penance, afford to thy
misery an atom of aid or comfort--Elspat MacTavish, I grieve to
tell you the news."

"I know them without thy speech," said the unhappy woman. "My
son is doomed to die."

"Elspat," resumed the clergyman, "he WAS doomed, and the sentence
has been executed."

The hapless mother threw her eyes up to heaven, and uttered a
shriek so unlike the voice of a human being, that the eagle which
soared in middle air answered it as she would have done the call
of her mate.

"It is impossible!" she exclaimed--"it is impossible! Men do
not condemn and kill on the same day! Thou art deceiving me.
The people call thee holy--hast thou the heart to tell a mother
she has murdered her only child?"

"God knows," said the priest, the tears falling fast from his
eyes, "that were it in my power, I would gladly tell better
tidings. But these which I bear are as certain as they are
fatal. My own ears heard the death-shot, my own eyes beheld thy
son's death--thy son's funeral. My tongue bears witness to what
my ears heard and my eyes saw."

The wretched female clasped her bands close together, and held
them up towards heaven like a sibyl announcing war and
desolation, while, in impotent yet frightful rage, she poured
forth a tide of the deepest imprecations. "Base Saxon churl!"
she exclaimed--"vile hypocritical juggler! May the eyes that
looked tamely on the death of my fair-haired boy be melted in
their sockets with ceaseless tears, shed for those that are
nearest and most dear to thee! May the ears that heard his
death-knell be dead hereafter to all other sounds save the
screech of the raven, and the hissing of the adder! May the
tongue that tells me of his death and of my own crime, be
withered in thy mouth--or better, when thou wouldst pray with thy
people, may the Evil One guide it, and give voice to blasphemies
instead of blessings, until men shall fly in terror from thy
presence, and the thunder of heaven be launched against thy head,
and stop for ever thy cursing and accursed voice! Begone, with
this malison! Elspat will never, never again bestow so many
words upon living man."

She kept her word. From that day the world was to her a
wilderness, in which she remained without thought, care, or
interest, absorbed in her own grief, indifferent to every thing
else.

With her mode of life, or rather of existence, the reader is
already as far acquainted as I have the power of making him. Of
her death, I can tell him nothing. It is supposed to have
happened several years after she had attracted the attention of
my excellent friend Mrs. Bethune Baliol. Her benevolence, which
was never satisfied with dropping a sentimental tear, when there
was room for the operation of effective charity, induced her to
make various attempts to alleviate the condition of this most
wretched woman. But all her exertions could only render Elspat's
means of subsistence less precarious--a circumstance which,
though generally interesting even to the most wretched outcasts,
seemed to her a matter of total indifference. Every attempt to
place any person in her hut to take charge of her miscarried,
through the extreme resentment with which she regarded all
intrusion on her solitude, or by the timidity of those who had
been pitched upon to be inmates with the terrible Woman of the
Tree. At length, when Elspat became totally unable (in
appearance at least) to turn herself on the wretched settle which
served her for a couch, the humanity of Mr. Tyrie's successor
sent two women to attend upon the last moments of the solitary,
which could not, it was judged, be far distant, and to avert the
possibility that she might perish for want of assistance or food,
before she sunk under the effects of extreme age or mortal
malady.

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