EXECUTION OF A MUTINEER.

303.

North. James, you are very excursive this evening in your conversation-nobody is thinking of shooting you, James.

Shepherd. And I'm sure that I hae nae thochts o' shootin mysel. But ance-it's a lang time syne-I saw a sodger shot dead, sir, as a door-nail, or a coffin-nail, or ony ither kind o' nail.

North. Was it in battle, James ?

Shepherd. In battle?—Na, na; neither you nor me was ever fond o' being in battle at ony time o' our lives.

North. I was Private Secretary to Rodney when he beat Langara,1 James.

Shepherd. Haud your tongue !-What a crowd on the Links" that day! But a' wi' fixed whitish faces-nae speakin-no sae muckle as a whisper-a frozen dumbness that nae wecht3 could break!

North. You mean the spectators, James.

Shepherd. Then the airmy appeared in the distance; for there were three haill regiments, a' wi' fixed beggonets; but nae music-nae music for a while at least, till a' at ance, mercy on us! we heard, like laigh sullen thunder, the soun' o' the great muffled drum, aye played on, ye ken, by a black man; in this case, an African neegger, sax feet four; and what bangs he gied the bass-the whites o' his een rowin about as if he was glad, atween every stroke!

North. I remember him-the best pugilist then going, for it was long before the days of Richmond and Molineaux-and nearer forty than thirty years ago, James.

Shepherd. The tread of the troops was like the step o' ae giant sae perfate was their discippleen-and afore I weel kent that they were a' in the Links, three sides o' a square were formed—and the soun' o' the great drum ceased, as at an inaudible word of command, or wavin o' a haun, or the lowerin o' a banner. It was but ae man that was about to die-but for that ae man, had their awe no hindered them, twenty thousan' folk wad at that moment hae broken out into lamentations and rueful cries—but as yet not a tear was shed -not a sigh was heaved-for had a' that vast crowd been sae mony images, or corpses raised up by cantrip in their deathclaes, they couldna hae been mair motionless than at that

1 Off Cape St Vincent, on the 16th of January 1780.
2 Links-downs.

3 Wecht-weight.

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EXECUTION OF A MUTINEER.

minute, nor mair speechless than that multitude o' leevin souls!

North. I was myself one of the multitude, James.

Shepherd. There, a' at ance, hoo or whare he came frae nane could tell-there, I say, a' at ance stood the Mutineer. Some tell't me afterwards that they had seen him marchin along, twa-three yards ahint his coffin, wi' his head just a wee thocht inclined downwards, not in fear o' man or death, but in awe o' God and judgment, keepin time wi' a military step that was natural to him, and no unbecoming a brave man on the way to the grave, and his een fixed on the green that was fadin awa for ever and ever frae aneath his feet; but that was a sicht I saw not-for the first time I beheld him he was standin, a' unlike the ither men, in the middle o' that three-sided square, and there was a shudder through the haill multitude, just as if we had been a' standin haun in haun, and a natural philosopher had gien us a shock o' his electrical machine. "That's him—that's him-puir, puir fallow! Oh! but he's a pretty man!"-Such were the ejaculations frae thousan's o' women, maist o' them young anes, but some o' them auld, and grey-headed aneath their mutches, and no a few wi' babies sookin or caterwailin at their breasts.

North. A pretty girl fainted within half-a-dozen yards of where I stood.

Shepherd. His name was Lewis Mackenzie-and as fine a young man he was as ever stepped on heather. The moment before he knelt down on his coffin, he seemed as fu' o' life as if he had stripped aff his jacket for a game at foot-ba', or to fling the hammer. Ay, weel micht the women-folk gaze on him wi' red weeping een, for he had lo'ed them but ower weel; and mony a time, it is said, had he let himsel down the Castle-rock at night, God knows hoo, to meet his lemans—but a' that, a' his sins, and a' his crimes acted and only meditated, were at an end noo-puir fallow-and the platoon, wi' fixed beggonets, were drawn up within ten yards, or less, o' where he stood, and he himsel havin tied a handkerchief ower his een, dropped down on his knees on his coffin, wi' faulded hands, and lips moving fast, fast, and white as ashes, in prayer!

North. Cursed be the inexorable justice of military law!— he might have been pardoned.

THE MUTINEER'S FATHER,

305

Shepherd. Pardoned! Hadna he disarmed his ain captain o' his sword, and ran him through the shouther-in a mutiny of which he was himsel the ringleader? King George on the throne durstna hae pardoned him—it wad hae been as much as his crown was worth-for hoo could King, Kintra, and Constitution thole a standing army, in which mutiny was not punished wi' death?

North. Six balls pierced him-through head and heart— and what a shriek, James, then arose !

Shepherd. Ay, to hae heard that shriek, you wad hae thought that the women that raised it wad never hae lauched again; but in a few hours, as sune as nightfall darkened the city, some o' them were gossipin about the shootin o' the sodger to their neighbours, some dancin at hops that shall be nameless, some sittin on their sweethearts' knees wi' their arms roun' their necks, some swearin like troopers, some doubtless sittin thochtfu' by the fireside, or awa to bed in sadness an hour sooner than usual, and then fast asleep.

North. I saw his old father, James, with my own eyes, step out from the crowd, and way being made for him, he walked up to his son's dead body, and embracing it, kissed his bloody head, and then with clasped hands looked up to heaven.

Shepherd. A strang and stately auld man, and ane too that had been a soldier in his youth. Sorrow, not shame, somewhat bowed his head, and ance he reeled as if he were faint on a sudden.-But what the deevil's the use o' me haverin awa this way aboot the shootin o' a sodger, thretty years sin' syne, and mair too-for didna I see that auld silvery-headed father o' the mutineer staggering alang the Grassmarket, the verra next day after the execution, as fou as the Baltic, wi' a heap o' mischievous weans hallooin after him, and him a’ the while in a dwam o' drink and despair, maunderin about his son Lewis, then lyin a' barken'd wi' blood in his coffin, six feet deep in a fine rich loam.

North. That very same afternoon I heard the drums and fifes of a recruiting party, belonging to the same regiment, winding away down towards Holyrood; and the place of Lewis Mackenzie, in the line of bold sergeants with their claymores, was supplied by a corporal, promoted to a triple bar on his sleeve, in consequence of the death of the mutineer. Shepherd. It was an awfu' scene, yon, sir; but there was

VOL. I.

U

naething humiliating to human nature in it,—as in a hangin; and it struck a wholesome fear into the souls o' many thousan' sodgers.

North. The silence and order of the troops, all the while, was sublime.

Shepherd. It was sae, indeed.

North. What do you think, James, of that, by way of a toasting cheese? Ambrose calls it the Welshman's delight, or Davies' darling.

Shepherd. It's rather teuch-luk, luk, hoo it pu's out, out, out, and better out, into a very thread o' the unbeaten gold, a' the way frae the ashet to my mouth. Saw ye ever onything sae tenawcious? I verily believe that I could walk, without breakin't, intil the tither room. Luk hoo it shines, like a gossamer-filament, a' threaded wi' what Allan Kinnigham would ca' dew-blobs, stretching across frae ae sweet-briar bush to anither, and breaking afore the step o' the early lassie tripping down the brae, to wash her bonny face, yet smiling wi' the glimmerin licht o' love-dreams, in the bit burnie that wimples awa as pure and stainless as her ain virgin life! North. Sentiment-divine sentiment, extracted by the alchemy of genius from a Welsh-rabbit!

Shepherd. Noo that I've gotten't intil my mouth—I wush it ever may be gotten out again! The tae1 end o' the line is fastened, like a hard gedd2 (See Dr Jamieson) in the ashetand the ither end's in my stammach-and the thin thread o' attenuated cheese gets atween my teeth, sae that I canna chow't through and through. Thank ye sir, for cuttin't. Rax me ower the jug. Is't yill? Here's to you, sir. North. Peebles ale, James. It has a twang of the Tweed. Shepherd. Tweed ! Do you ken, Mr North, that last simmer3 the Tweed ran dry, and has never flowed sin' syne. They're speakin o' takin doun a' the brigs frae Erickstane to Berwick, and changing the channel intil the turnpike road. A' the materials are at haun, and it's a' to be macadameezed. North. The Steam-Engine Mail-Coach is to run that road in spring.

Shepherd. Is't? She'll be a dangerous vehicle-but I'll tak my place in the safety-valve. But jeestin apairt, do you 2 Gedd-a pikestaff stuck into the ground. 3 The summer of 1826 was memorable for its drought.

1 Tae-one.

ken, sir, that mony and mony a wee well among the hills and mountains was really dried up by the drought o' three dry simmers and for them my heart was wae, as if they had been ance leevin things! For werena they like leevin things, aye sae calm, and clear, and bright, and sae contented, ilka ane by itsel, in far-awa spats, whare the grass runkled only to the shepherd's foot twa-three times a-year, and a' the rest o' the sun's annual visit roun' the globe lay touched only by the wandering light and shadows!

North. Poo-poo-James-there's plenty of water in the world without them.

Shepherd. Plenty o' water in the world without them? Ay, that there is, and mair than plenty — but what's that to the purpose, ye auld haverel? Gin five thousan' bonny bairns were to be mawn doun by the scythe o' Death during the time that I'm drinking this glass-(oh man, but this is a grand jug, aiblins rather ower sweet, and rather ower strong, but that's twa gude fauts)-there wad be plenty o' bairns left in the warld, legitimate and illegitimate-and you nor me micht never miss them. But wadna there be just sae much extinguishment, or annihilation like, o' beauty and bliss, o' licht and lauchter, o' ray-like ringlets, and lips that war nae sweeter, for naething can be sweeter, than the halfopened buds o' moss-roses, when the morning is puttin on her claes, but lips that were just as sweet when openin and shuttin in their balmy breath, when ilka happy bairn was singing a ballant or a psalm, baith alike pious and baith alike pensive; for a' the airs o' Scotland (excep a gey hantle, to be sure, o' wicket tunes), soun' aye to me mair melancholy than mirthfu', spirit-like, and as if of heavenly origin, like the bit lown musical soun's that go echoing by the ear, or rather the verra soul o' the shepherd leaning on his staff at nicht, when a' the earth is at rest, and lookin up, and ower, and through into the verra heart o' Heaven, when the lift is a' ae glorious glitter o' cloudless stars! You're no sleepy, sir?

North. Sleepy! You may as well ask the leader in a tandem if he be sleepy, when performing the match of twentyeight miles in two hours, without a break.

Shepherd. Ae spring there is-in a nook known but to me and anither, a bit nook greener than ony emerald—or even the Queen Fairy's symar, as she disentangles it frae her feet