The honest heart that’s free frae a’
However Fortune kick the ba’,
Has aye some cause to smile.
BURNS.
We now return to the Fair Maid of Perth, who had been sent from the horrible scene at Falkland by order of the Douglas, to be placed under the protection of his daughter, the now widowed Duchess of Rothsay. That lady’s temporary residence was a religious house called Campsie, the ruins of which still occupy a striking situation on the Tay. It arose on the summit of a precipitous rock, which descends3 on the princely river, there rendered peculiarly remarkable5 by the cataract6 called Campsie Linn, where its waters rush tumultuously over a range of basaltic rock, which intercepts7 the current, like a dike8 erected9 by human hands. Delighted with a site so romantic, the monks10 of the abbey of Cupar reared a structure there, dedicated11 to an obscure saint, named St. Hunnand, and hither they were wont12 themselves to retire for pleasure or devotion. It had readily opened its gates to admit the noble lady who was its present inmate13, as the country was under the influence of the powerful Lord Drummond, the ally of the Douglas. There the Earl’s letters were presented to the Duchess by the leader of the escort which conducted Catharine and the glee maiden14 to Campsie. Whatever reason she might have to complain of Rothsay, his horrible and unexpected end greatly shocked the noble lady, and she spent the greater part of the night in indulging her grief and in devotional exercises.
On the next morning, which was that of the memorable15 Palm Sunday, she ordered Catharine Glover and the minstrel into her presence. The spirits of both the young women had been much sunk and shaken by the dreadful scenes in which they had so lately been engaged; and the outward appearance of the Duchess Marjory was, like that of her father, more calculated to inspire awe17 than confidence. She spoke18 with kindness, however, though apparently19 in deep affliction, and learned from them all which they had to tell concerning the fate of her erring20 and inconsiderate husband. She appeared grateful for the efforts which Catharine and the glee maiden had made, at their own extreme peril21, to save Rothsay from his horrible fate. She invited them to join in her devotions; and at the hour of dinner gave them her hand to kiss, and dismissed them to their own refection, assuring both, and Catharine in particular, of her efficient protection, which should include, she said, her father’s, and be a wall around them both, so long as she herself lived.
They retired22 from the presence of the widowed Princess, and partook of a repast with her duennas and ladies, all of whom, amid their profound sorrow, showed a character of stateliness which chilled the light heart of the Frenchwoman, and imposed restraint even on the more serious character of Catharine Glover. The friends, for so we may now term them, were fain, therefore, to escape from the society of these persons, all of them born gentlewomen, who thought themselves but ill assorted23 with a burgher’s daughter and a strolling glee maiden, and saw them with pleasure go out to walk in the neighbourhood of the convent. A little garden, with its bushes and fruit trees, advanced on one side of the convent, so as to skirt the precipice24, from which it was only separated by a parapet built on the ledge25 of the rock, so low that the eye might easily measure the depth of the crag, and gaze on the conflicting waters which foamed26, struggled, and chafed27 over the reef below.
The Fair Maiden of Perth and her companion walked slowly on a path that ran within this parapet, looked at the romantic prospect28, and judged what it must be when the advancing summer should clothe the grove29 with leaves. They observed for some time a deep silence. At length the gay and bold spirit of the glee maiden rose above the circumstances in which she had been and was now placed.
“Do the horrors of Falkland, fair May, still weigh down your spirits? Strive to forget them as I do: we cannot tread life’s path lightly, if we shake not from our mantles30 the raindrops as they fall.”
“These horrors are not to be forgotten,” answered Catharine. “Yet my mind is at present anxious respecting my father’s safety; and I cannot but think how many brave men may be at this instant leaving the world, even within six miles of us, or little farther.”
“You mean the combat betwixt sixty champions, of which the Douglas’s equerry told us yesterday? It were a sight for a minstrel to witness. But out upon these womanish eyes of mine — they could never see swords cross each other without being dazzled. But see — look yonder, May Catharine — look yonder! That flying messenger certainly brings news of the battle.”
“Methinks I should know him who runs so wildly,” said Catharine. “But if it be he I think of, some wild thoughts are urging his speed.”
As she spoke, the runner directed his course to the garden. Louise’s little dog ran to meet him, barking furiously, but came back, to cower31, creep, and growl32 behind its mistress; for even dumb animals can distinguish when men are driven on by the furious energy of irresistible33 passion, and dread16 to cross or encounter them in their career. The fugitive34 rushed into the garden at the same reckless pace. His head was bare, his hair dishevelled, his rich acton and all his other vestments looked as if they had been lately drenched35 in water. His leathern buskins were cut and torn, and his feet marked the sod with blood. His countenance36 was wild, haggard, and highly excited, or, as the Scottish phrase expresses it, much “raised.”
“Conachar!” said Catharine, as he advanced, apparently without seeing what was before him, as hares are said to do when severely37 pressed by the greyhounds. But he stopped short when he heard his own name.
“Conachar,” said Catharine, “or rather Eachin MacIan, what means all this? Have the Clan38 Quhele sustained a defeat?”
“I have borne such names as this maiden gives me,” said the fugitive, after a moment’s recollection. “Yes, I was called Conachar when I was happy, and Eachin when I was powerful. But now I have no name, and there is no such clan as thou speak’st of; and thou art a foolish maid to speak of that which is not to one who has no existence.”
“And why unfortunate, I pray you?” exclaimed the youth. “If I am coward and villain40, have not villainy and cowardice41 command over the elements? Have I not braved the water without its choking me, and trod the firm earth without its opening to devour43 me? And shall a mortal oppose my purpose?”
“He raves44, alas!” said Catharine. “Haste to call some help. He will not harm me; but I fear he will do evil to himself. See how he stares down on the roaring waterfall!”
The glee woman hastened to do as she was ordered, and Conachar’s half frenzied45 spirit seemed relieved by her absence.
“Catharine,” he said, “now she is gone, I will say I know thee — I know thy love of peace and hatred46 of war. But hearken; I have, rather than strike a blow at my enemy, given up all that a man calls dearest: I have lost honour, fame, and friends, and such friends! (he placed his hands before his face). Oh! their love surpassed the love of woman! Why should I hide my tears? All know my shame; all should see my sorrow. Yes, all might see, but who would pity it? Catharine, as I ran like a madman down the strath, man and woman called ‘shame’ on me! The beggar to whom I flung an alms, that I might purchase one blessing47, threw it back in disgust, and with a curse upon the coward! Each bell that tolled48 rung out, ‘Shame on the recreant49 caitiff!’ The brute50 beasts in their lowing and bleating51, the wild winds in their rustling52 and howling, the hoarse53 waters in their dash and roar, cried, ‘Out upon the dastard54!’ The faithful nine are still pursuing me; they cry with feeble voice, ‘Strike but one blow in our revenge, we all died for you!’”
While the unhappy youth thus raved42, a rustling was heard in the bushes.
“There is but one way!” he exclaimed, springing upon the parapet, but with a terrified glance towards the thicket55, through which one or two attendants were stealing, with the purpose of surprising him. But the instant he saw a human form emerge from the cover of the bushes, he waved his hands wildly over his head, and shrieking56 out, “Bas air Eachin!” plunged57 down the precipice into the raging cataract beneath.
It is needless to say, that aught save thistledown must have been dashed to pieces in such a fall. But the river was swelled58, and the remains59 of the unhappy youth were never seen. A varying tradition has assigned more than one supplement to the history. It is said by one account, that the young captain of Clan Quhele swam safe to shore, far below the Linns of Campsie; and that, wandering disconsolately60 in the deserts of Rannoch, he met with Father Clement61, who had taken up his abode62 in the wilderness63 as a hermit64, on the principle of the old Culdees. He converted, it is said, the heart broken and penitent65 Conachar, who lived with him in his cell, sharing his devotion and privations, till death removed them in succession.
Another wilder legend supposes that he was snatched from death by the daione shie, or fairy folk, and that he continues to wander through wood and wild, armed like an ancient Highlander66, but carrying his sword in his left hand. The phantom67 appears always in deep grief. Sometimes he seems about to attack the traveller, but, when resisted with courage, always flies. These legends are founded on two peculiar4 points in his story — his evincing timidity and his committing suicide — both of them circumstances almost unexampled in the history of a mountain chief.
When Simon Glover, having seen his friend Henry duly taken care of in his own house in Curfew Street, arrived that evening at the Place of Campsie, he found his daughter extremely ill of a fever, in consequence of the scenes to which she had lately been a witness, and particularly the catastrophe68 of her late playmate. The affection of the glee maiden rendered her so attentive69 and careful a nurse, that the glover said it should not be his fault if she ever touched lute70 again, save for her own amusement.
It was some time ere Simon ventured to tell his daughter of Henry’s late exploits, and his severe wounds; and he took care to make the most of the encouraging circumstance, that her faithful lover had refused both honour and wealth rather than become a professed71 soldier and follow the Douglas. Catharine sighed deeply and shook her head at the history of bloody72 Palm Sunday on the North Inch. But apparently she had reflected that men rarely advance in civilisation73 or refinement74 beyond the ideas of their own age, and that a headlong and exuberant75 courage, like that of Henry Smith, was, in the iron days in which they lived, preferable to the deficiency which had led to Conachar’s catastrophe. If she had any doubts on the subject, they were removed in due time by Henry’s protestations, so soon as restored health enabled him to plead his own cause.
“I should blush to say, Catharine, that I am even sick of the thoughts of doing battle. Yonder last field showed carnage enough to glut76 a tiger. I am therefore resolved to hang up my broadsword, never to be drawn77 more unless against the enemies of Scotland.”
“And should Scotland call for it,” said Catharine, “I will buckle78 it round you.”
“And, Catharine,” said the joyful79 glover, “we will pay largely for soul masses for those who have fallen by Henry’s sword; and that will not only cure spiritual flaws, but make us friends with the church again.”
“For that purpose, father,” said Catharine, “the hoards80 of the wretched Dwining may be applied81. He bequeathed them to me; but I think you would not mix his base blood money with your honest gains?”
“I would bring the plague into my house as soon,” said the resolute82 glover.
The treasures of the wicked apothecary83 were distributed accordingly among the four monasteries84; nor was there ever after a breath of suspicion concerning the orthodoxy of old Simon or his daughter.
Henry and Catharine were married within four months after the battle of the North Inch, and never did the corporations of the glovers and hammermen trip their sword dance so featly as at the wedding of the boldest burgess and brightest maiden in Perth. Ten months after, a gallant85 infant filled the well spread cradle, and was rocked by Louise to the tune2 of —
Bold and true,
The names of the boy’s sponsors are recorded, as “Ane Hie and Michty Lord, Archibald Erl of Douglas, ane Honorabil and gude Knicht, Schir Patrick Charteris of Kinfauns, and ane Gracious Princess, Marjory Dowaire of his Serene87 Highness David, umquhile Duke of Rothsay.”
Under such patronage88 a family rises fast; and several of the most respected houses in Scotland, but especially in Perthshire, and many individuals distinguished89 both in arts and arms, record with pride their descent from the Gow Chrom and the Fair Maid of Perth.
The End
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guile
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| n.诈术 | |
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tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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descends
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| v.下来( descend的第三人称单数 )；下去；下降；下斜 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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cataract
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| n.大瀑布，奔流，洪水，白内障 | |
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intercepts
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| （数学）截距( intercept的名词复数 ) | |
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dike
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| n.堤，沟；v.开沟排水 | |
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ERECTED
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| adj. 直立的，竖立的，笔直的 vt. 使 ... 直立，建立 | |
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monks
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| n.修道士，僧侣( monk的名词复数 ) | |
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dedicated
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| adj.一心一意的；献身的；热诚的 | |
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wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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inmate
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| n.被收容者；(房屋等的)居住人；住院人 | |
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maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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erring
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| 做错事的，错误的 | |
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peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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assorted
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| adj.各种各样的，各色俱备的 | |
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24
precipice
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| n.悬崖，危急的处境 | |
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ledge
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| n.壁架，架状突出物；岩架，岩礁 | |
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foamed
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| 泡沫的 | |
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27
chafed
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| v.擦热（尤指皮肤）( chafe的过去式 )；擦痛；发怒；惹怒 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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grove
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| n.林子，小树林，园林 | |
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30
mantles
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| vt.&vi.覆盖（mantle的第三人称单数形式） | |
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cower
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| v.畏缩，退缩，抖缩 | |
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growl
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| v.（狗等）嗥叫，（炮等）轰鸣；n.嗥叫，轰鸣 | |
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irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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fugitive
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| adj.逃亡的，易逝的；n.逃犯，逃亡者 | |
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35
drenched
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| adj.湿透的；充满的v.使湿透( drench的过去式和过去分词 )；在某人（某物）上大量使用（某液体） | |
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36
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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clan
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| n.氏族，部落，宗族，家族，宗派 | |
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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villain
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| n.反派演员，反面人物；恶棍；问题的起因 | |
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cowardice
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| n.胆小，怯懦 | |
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raved
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| v.胡言乱语( rave的过去式和过去分词 )；愤怒地说；咆哮；痴心地说 | |
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devour
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| v.吞没；贪婪地注视或谛听，贪读；使着迷 | |
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raves
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| n.狂欢晚会( rave的名词复数 )v.胡言乱语( rave的第三人称单数 )；愤怒地说；咆哮；痴心地说 | |
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frenzied
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| a.激怒的；疯狂的 | |
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hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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tolled
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| 鸣钟（toll的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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recreant
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| n.懦夫；adj.胆怯的 | |
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brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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bleating
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| v.（羊，小牛）叫( bleat的现在分词 )；哭诉；发出羊叫似的声音；轻声诉说 | |
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rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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dastard
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| n.卑怯之人，懦夫；adj.怯懦的，畏缩的 | |
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thicket
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| n.灌木丛，树林 | |
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56
shrieking
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| v.尖叫( shriek的现在分词 ) | |
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plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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swelled
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| 增强( swell的过去式和过去分词 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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disconsolately
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| adv.悲伤地，愁闷地；哭丧着脸 | |
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clement
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| adj.仁慈的；温和的 | |
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abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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hermit
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| n.隐士，修道者；隐居 | |
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penitent
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| adj.后悔的；n.后悔者；忏悔者 | |
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highlander
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| n.高地的人，苏格兰高地地区的人 | |
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phantom
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| n.幻影，虚位，幽灵；adj.错觉的，幻影的，幽灵的 | |
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catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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lute
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| n.琵琶，鲁特琴 | |
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professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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civilisation
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| n.文明，文化，开化，教化 | |
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refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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exuberant
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| adj.充满活力的；（植物）繁茂的 | |
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glut
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| n.存货过多，供过于求；v.狼吞虎咽 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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buckle
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| n.扣子，带扣；v.把...扣住，由于压力而弯曲 | |
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joyful
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| adj.欢乐的，令人欢欣的 | |
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80
hoards
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| n.（钱财、食物或其他珍贵物品的）储藏，积存( hoard的名词复数 )v.积蓄并储藏（某物）( hoard的第三人称单数 ) | |
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81
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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82
resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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83
apothecary
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| n.药剂师 | |
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84
monasteries
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| 修道院( monastery的名词复数 ) | |
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85
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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86
bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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87
serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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88
patronage
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| n.赞助，支援，援助；光顾，捧场 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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