My Aunt Margaret's Mirror, by Sir Walter Scott
The species of publication which has come to be generally known
by the title of ANNUAL, being a miscellany of prose and verse,
equipped with numerous engravings, and put forth every year about
Christmas, had flourished for a long while in Germany before it
was imitated in this country by an enterprising bookseller, a
German by birth, Mr. Ackermann. The rapid success of his work,
as is the custom of the time, gave birth to a host of rivals,
and, among others, to an Annual styled The Keepsake, the first
volume of which appeared in 1828, and attracted much notice,
chiefly in consequence of the very uncommon splendour of its
illustrative accompaniments. The expenditure which the spirited
proprietors lavished on this magnificent volume is understood to
have been not less than from ten to twelve thousand pounds
Various gentlemen of such literary reputation that any one might
think it an honour to be associated with them had been announced
as contributors to this Annual, before application was made to me
to assist in it; and I accordingly placed with much pleasure at
the Editor's disposal a few fragments, originally designed to
have been worked into the Chronicles of the Canongate, besides a
manuscript drama, the long-neglected performance of my youthful
days--"The House of Aspen."
The Keepsake for 1828 included, however, only three of these
little prose tales, of which the first in order was that entitled
"My Aunt Margaret's Mirror." By way of INTRODUCTION to this,
when now included in a general collection of my lucubrations, I
have only to say that it is a mere transcript, or at least with
very little embellishment, of a story that I remembered being
struck with in my childhood, when told at the fireside by a lady
of eminent virtues and no inconsiderable share of talent, one of
the ancient and honourable house of Swinton. She was a kind of
relation of my own, and met her death in a manner so shocking--
being killed, in a fit of insanity, by a female attendant who had
been attached to her person for half a lifetime--that I cannot
now recall her memory, child as I was when the catastrophe
occurred, without a painful reawakening of perhaps the first
images of horror that the scenes of real life stamped on my mind.
This good spinster had in her composition a strong vein of the
superstitious, and was pleased, among other fancies, to read
alone in her chamber by a taper fixed in a candlestick which she
had had formed out of a human skull. One night this strange
piece of furniture acquired suddenly the power of locomotion,
and, after performing some odd circles on her chimney-piece,
fairly leaped on the floor, and continued to roll about the
apartment. Mrs. Swinton calmly proceeded to the adjoining room
for another light, and had the satisfaction to penetrate the
mystery on the spot. Rats abounded in the ancient building she
inhabited, and one of these had managed to ensconce itself within
her favourite MEMENTO MORI. Though thus endowed with a more than
feminine share of nerve, she entertained largely that belief in
supernaturals which in those times was not considered as sitting
ungracefully on the grave and aged of her condition; and the
story of the Magic Mirror was one for which she vouched with
particular confidence, alleging indeed that one of her own family
had been an eye-witness of the incidents recorded in it.
"I tell the tale as it was told to me."
Stories enow of much the same cast will present themselves to the
recollection of such of my readers as have ever dabbled in a
species of lore to which I certainly gave more hours, at one
period of my life, than I should gain any credit by confessing.
AUNT MARGARET'S MIRROR.
"There are times
When Fancy plays her gambols, in despite
Even of our watchful senses--when in sooth
Substance seems shadow, shadow substance seems--
When the broad, palpable, and mark'd partition
'Twixt that which is and is not seems dissolved,
As if the mental eye gain'd power to gaze
Beyond the limits of the existing world.
Such hours of shadowy dreams I better love
Than all the gross realities of life." ANONYMOUS.
My Aunt Margaret was one of that respected sisterhood upon whom
devolve all the trouble and solicitude incidental to the
possession of children, excepting only that which attends their
entrance into the world. We were a large family, of very
different dispositions and constitutions. Some were dull and
peevish--they were sent to Aunt Margaret to be amused; some were
rude, romping, and boisterous--they were sent to Aunt Margaret to
be kept quiet, or rather that their noise might be removed out of
hearing; those who were indisposed were sent with the prospect of
being nursed; those who were stubborn, with the hope of their
being subdued by the kindness of Aunt Margaret's discipline;--in
short, she had all the various duties of a mother, without the
credit and dignity of the maternal character. The busy scene of
her various cares is now over. Of the invalids and the robust,
the kind and the rough, the peevish and pleased children, who
thronged her little parlour from morning to night, not one now
remains alive but myself, who, afflicted by early infirmity, was
one of the most delicate of her nurslings, yet, nevertheless,
have outlived them all.
It is still my custom, and shall be so while I have the use of my
limbs, to visit my respected relation at least three times a
week. Her abode is about half a mile from the suburbs of the
town in which I reside, and is accessible, not only by the
highroad, from which it stands at some distance, but by means of
a greensward footpath leading through some pretty meadows. I
have so little left to torment me in life, that it is one of my
greatest vexations to know that several of these sequestered
fields have been devoted as sites for building. In that which is
nearest the town, wheelbarrows have been at work for several
weeks in such numbers, that, I verily believe, its whole surface,
to the depth of at least eighteen inches, was mounted in these
monotrochs at the same moment, and in the act of being
transported from one place to another. Huge triangular piles of
planks are also reared in different parts of the devoted
messuage; and a little group of trees that still grace the
eastern end, which rises in a gentle ascent, have just received
warning to quit, expressed by a daub of white paint, and are to
give place to a curious grove of chimneys.
It would, perhaps, hurt others in my situation to reflect that
this little range of pasturage once belonged to my father (whose
family was of some consideration in the world), and was sold by
patches to remedy distresses in which he involved himself in an
attempt by commercial adventure to redeem his diminished fortune.
While the building scheme was in full operation, this
circumstance was often pointed out to me by the class of friends
who are anxious that no part of your misfortunes should escape
your observation. "Such pasture-ground!--lying at the very
town's end--in turnips and potatoes, the parks would bring L20
per acre; and if leased for building--oh, it was a gold mine!
And all sold for an old song out of the ancient possessor's
hands!" My comforters cannot bring me to repine much on this
subject. If I could be allowed to look back on the past without
interruption, I could willingly give up the enjoyment of present
income and the hope of future profit to those who have purchased
what my father sold. I regret the alteration of the ground only
because it destroys associations, and I would more willingly (I
think) see the Earl's Closes in the hands of strangers, retaining
their silvan appearance, than know them for my own, if torn up by
agriculture, or covered with buildings. Mine are the sensations
of poor Logan:--
"The horrid plough has rased the green
Where yet a child I strayed;
The axe has fell'd the hawthorn screen,
The schoolboy's summer shade."
I hope, however, the threatened devastation will not be
consummated in my day. Although the adventurous spirit of times
short while since passed gave rise to the undertaking, I have
been encouraged to think that the subsequent changes have so far
damped the spirit of speculation that the rest of the woodland
footpath leading to Aunt Margaret's retreat will be left
undisturbed for her time and mine. I am interested in this, for
every step of the way, after I have passed through the green
already mentioned, has for me something of early remembrance:--
There is the stile at which I can recollect a cross child's-maid
upbraiding me with my infirmity as she lifted me coarsely and
carelessly over the flinty steps, which my brothers traversed
with shout and bound. I remember the suppressed bitterness of
the moment, and, conscious of my own inferiority, the feeling of
envy with which I regarded the easy movements and elastic steps
of my more happily formed brethren. Alas! these goodly barks
have all perished on life's wide ocean, and only that which
seemed so little seaworthy, as the naval phrase goes, has reached
the port when the tempest is over. Then there is the pool,
where, manoeuvring our little navy, constructed out of the broad
water-flags, my elder brother fell in, and was scarce saved from
the watery element to die under Nelson's banner. There is the
hazel copse also, in which my brother Henry used to gather nuts,
thinking little that he was to die in an Indian jungle in quest
There is so much more of remembrance about the little walk, that
--as I stop, rest on my crutch-headed cane, and look round with
that species of comparison between the thing I was and that which
I now am--it almost induces me to doubt my own identity; until I
find myself in face of the honeysuckle porch of Aunt Margaret's
dwelling, with its irregularity of front, and its odd, projecting
latticed windows, where the workmen seem to have made it a study
that no one of them should resemble another in form, size, or in
the old-fashioned stone entablature and labels which adorn them.
This tenement, once the manor house of the Earl's Closes, we
still retain a slight hold upon; for, in some family
arrangements, it had been settled upon Aunt Margaret during the
term of her life. Upon this frail tenure depends, in a great
measure, the last shadow of the family of Bothwell of Earl's
Closes, and their last slight connection with their paternal
inheritance. The only representative will then be an infirm old
man, moving not unwillingly to the grave, which has devoured all
that were dear to his affections.
When I have indulged such thoughts for a minute or two, I enter
the mansion, which is said to have been the gate-house only of
the original building, and find one being on whom time seems to
have made little impression; for the Aunt Margaret of to-day
bears the same proportional age to the Aunt Margaret of my early
youth that the boy of ten years old does to the man of (by'r
Lady!) some fifty-six years. The old lady's invariable costume
has doubtless some share in confirming one in the opinion that
time has stood still with Aunt Margaret.
The brown or chocolate-coloured silk gown, with ruffles of the
same stuff at the elbow, within which are others of Mechlin lace;
the black silk gloves, or mitts; the white hair combed back upon
a roll; and the cap of spotless cambric, which closes around the
venerable countenance--as they were not the costume of 1780, so
neither were they that of 1826; they are altogether a style
peculiar to the individual Aunt Margaret. There she still sits,
as she sat thirty years since, with her wheel or the stocking,
which she works by the fire in winter and by the window in
summer; or, perhaps, venturing as far as the porch in an
unusually fine summer evening. Her frame, like some well-
constructed piece of mechanics, still performs the operations for
which it had seemed destined--going its round with an activity
which is gradually diminished, yet indicating no probability that
it will soon come to a period.
The solicitude and affection which had made Aunt Margaret the
willing slave to the inflictions of a whole nursery, have now for
their object the health and comfort of one old and infirm man--
the last remaining relative of her family, and the only one who
can still find interest in the traditional stores which she
hoards, as some miser hides the gold which he desires that no one
should enjoy after his death.
My conversation with Aunt Margaret generally relates little
either to the present or to the future. For the passing day we
possess as much as we require, and we neither of us wish for
more; and for that which is to follow, we have, on this side of
the grave, neither hopes, nor fears, nor anxiety. We therefore
naturally look back to the past, and forget the present fallen
fortunes and declined importance of our family in recalling the
hours when it was wealthy and prosperous.
With this slight introduction, the reader will know as much of
Aunt Margaret and her nephew as is necessary to comprehend the
following conversation and narrative.
Last week, when, late in a summer evening, I went to call on the
old lady to whom my reader is now introduced, I was received by
her with all her usual affection and benignity, while, at the
same time, she seemed abstracted and disposed to silence. I
asked her the reason. "They have been clearing out the old
chapel," she said; "John Clayhudgeons having, it seems,
discovered that the stuff within--being, I suppose, the remains
of our ancestors--was excellent for top-dressing the meadows."
Here I started up with more alacrity than I have displayed for
some years; but sat down while my aunt added, laying her hand
upon my sleeve, "The chapel has been long considered as common
ground, my dear, and used for a pinfold, and what objection can
we have to the man for employing what is his own to his own
profit? Besides, I did speak to him, and he very readily and
civilly promised that if he found bones or monuments, they should
be carefully respected and reinstated; and what more could I ask?
So, the first stone they found bore the name of Margaret
Bothwell, 1585, and I have caused it to be laid carefully aside,
as I think it betokens death, and having served my namesake two
hundred years, it has just been cast up in time to do me the same
good turn. My house has been long put in order, as far as the
small earthly concerns require it; but who shall say that their
account with, Heaven is sufficiently revised?"
"After what you have said, aunt," I replied, "perhaps I ought to
take my hat and go away; and so I should, but that there is on
this occasion a little alloy mingled with your devotion. To
think of death at all times is a duty--to suppose it nearer from
the finding an old gravestone is superstition; and you, with your
strong, useful common sense, which was so long the prop of a
fallen family, are the last person whom I should have suspected
of such weakness."
"Neither would I deserve your suspicions, kinsman," answered Aunt
Margaret, "if we were speaking of any incident occurring in the
actual business of human life. But for all this, I have a sense
of superstition about me, which I do not wish to part with. It
is a feeling which separates me from this age, and links me with
that to which I am hastening; and even when it seems, as now, to
lead me to the brink of the grave, and bid me gaze on it, I do
not love that it should be dispelled. It soothes my imagination,
without influencing my reason or conduct."
"I profess, my good lady," replied I, "that had any one but you
made such a declaration, I should have thought it as capricious
as that of the clergyman, who, without vindicating his false
reading, preferred, from habit's sake, his old Mumpsimus to the
"Well," answered my aunt, "I must explain my inconsistency in
this particular by comparing it to another. I am, as you know, a
piece of that old-fashioned thing called a Jacobite; but I am so
in sentiment and feeling only, for a more loyal subject never
joined in prayers for the health and wealth of George the Fourth,
whom God long preserve! But I dare say that kind-hearted
sovereign would not deem that an old woman did him much injury if
she leaned back in her arm-chair, just in such a twilight as
this, and thought of the high-mettled men whose sense of duty
called them to arms against his grandfather; and how, in a cause
which they deemed that of their rightful prince and country,
'They fought till their hand to the broadsword was glued,
They fought against fortune with hearts unsubdued.'
Do not come at such a moment, when my head is full of plaids,
pibrochs, and claymores, and ask my reason to admit what, I am
afraid, it cannot deny--I mean, that the public advantage
peremptorily demanded that these things should cease to exist. I
cannot, indeed, refuse to allow the justice of your reasoning;
but yet, being convinced against my will, you will gain little by
your motion. You might as well read to an infatuated lover the
catalogue of his mistress's imperfections; for when he has been
compelled to listen to the summary, you will only get for answer
that 'he lo'es her a' the better.'"
I was not sorry to have changed the gloomy train of Aunt
Margaret's thoughts, and replied in the same tone, "Well, I can't
help being persuaded that our good King is the more sure of Mrs.
Bothwell's loyal affection, that he has the Stewart right of
birth as well as the Act of Succession in his favour."
"Perhaps my attachment, were its source of consequence, might be
found warmer for the union of the rights you mention," said Aunt
Margaret; "but, upon my word, it would be as sincere if the
King's right were founded only on the will of the nation, as
declared at the Revolution. I am none of your JURE DIVINO
"And a Jacobite notwithstanding."
"And a Jacobite notwithstanding--or rather, I will give you leave
to call me one of the party which, in Queen Anne's time, were
called, WHIMSICALS, because they were sometimes operated upon by
feelings, sometimes by principle. After all, it is very hard
that you will not allow an old woman to be as inconsistent in her
political sentiments as mankind in general show themselves in all
the various courses of life; since you cannot point out one of
them in which the passions and prejudices of those who pursue it
are not perpetually carrying us away from the path which our
reason points out."
"True, aunt; but you are a wilful wanderer, who should be forced
back into the right path."
"Spare me, I entreat you," replied Aunt Margaret. "You remember
the Gaelic song, though I dare say I mispronounce the words--
'Hatil mohatil, na dowski mi.'
(I am asleep, do not waken me.)
I tell you, kinsman, that the sort of waking dreams which my
imagination spins out, in what your favourite Wordsworth calls
'moods of my own mind,' are worth all the rest of my more active
days. Then, instead of looking forwards, as I did in youth, and
forming for myself fairy palaces, upon the verge of the grave I
turn my eyes backward upon the days and manners of my better
time; and the sad, yet soothing recollections come so close and
interesting, that I almost think it sacrilege to be wiser or more
rational or less prejudiced than those to whom I looked up in my
"I think I now understand what you mean," I answered, "and can
comprehend why you should occasionally prefer the twilight of
illusion to the steady light of reason."
"Where there is no task," she rejoined, "to be performed, we may
sit in the dark if we like it; if we go to work, we must ring for
"And amidst such shadowy and doubtful light," continued I,
"imagination frames her enchanted and enchanting visions, and
sometimes passes them upon the senses for reality."
"Yes," said Aunt Margaret, who is a well-read woman, "to those
who resemble the translator of Tasso,--
'Prevailing poet, whose undoubting mind
Believed the magic wonders which he sung.
It is not required for this purpose that you should be sensible
of the painful horrors which an actual belief in such prodigies
inflicts. Such a belief nowadays belongs only to fools and
children. It is not necessary that your ears should tingle and
your complexion change, like that of Theodore at the approach of
the spectral huntsman. All that is indispensable for the
enjoyment of the milder feeling of supernatural awe is, that you
should be susceptible of the slight shuddering which creeps over
you when you hear a tale of terror--that well-vouched tale which
the narrator, having first expressed his general disbelief of all
such legendary lore, selects and produces, as having something in
it which he has been always obliged to give up as inexplicable.
Another symptom is a momentary hesitation to look round you, when
the interest of the narrative is at the highest; and the third, a
desire to avoid looking into a mirror when you are alone in your
chamber for the evening. I mean such are signs which indicate
the crisis, when a female imagination is in due temperature to
enjoy a ghost story. I do not pretend to describe those which
express the same disposition in a gentleman."
"That last symptom, dear aunt, of shunning the mirror seems
likely to be a rare occurrence amongst the fair sex."
"You are a novice in toilet fashions, my dear cousin. All women
consult the looking-glass with anxiety before they go into
company; but when they return home, the mirror has not the same
charm. The die has been cast--the party has been successful or
unsuccessful in the impression which she desired to make. But,
without going deeper into the mysteries of the dressing-table, I
will tell you that I myself, like many other honest folks, do not
like to see the blank, black front of a large mirror in a room
dimly lighted, and where the reflection of the candle seems
rather to lose itself in the deep obscurity of the glass than to
be reflected back again into the apartment, That space of inky
darkness seems to be a field for Fancy to play her revels in.
She may call up other features to meet us, instead of the
reflection of our own; or, as in the spells of Hallowe'en, which
we learned in childhood, some unknown form may be seen peeping
over our shoulder. In short, when I am in a ghost-seeing humour,
I make my handmaiden draw the green curtains over the mirror
before I go into the room, so that she may have the first shock
of the apparition, if there be any to be seen, But, to tell you
the truth, this dislike to look into a mirror in particular times
and places has, I believe, its original foundation in a story
which came to me by tradition from my grandmother, who was a
party concerned in the scene of which I will now tell you."
You are fond (said my aunt) of sketches of the society which has
passed away. I wish I could describe to you Sir Philip Forester,
the "chartered libertine" of Scottish good company, about the end
of the last century. I never saw him indeed; but my mother's
traditions were full of his wit, gallantry, and dissipation.
This gay knight flourished about the end of the seventeenth and
beginning of the eighteenth century. He was the Sir Charles Easy
and the Lovelace of his day and country--renowned for the number
of duels he had fought, and the successful intrigues which he had
carried on. The supremacy which he had attained in the
fashionable world was absolute; and when we combine it with one
or two anecdotes, for which, "if laws were made for every
degree," he ought certainly to have been hanged, the popularity
of such a person really serves to show, either that the present
times are much more decent, if not more virtuous, than they
formerly were, or that high-breeding then was of more difficult
attainment than that which is now so called, and consequently
entitled the successful professor to a proportional degree of
plenary indulgences and privileges. No beau of this day could
have borne out so ugly a story as that of Pretty Peggy
Grindstone, the miller's daughter at Sillermills--it had well-
nigh made work for the Lord Advocate. But it hurt Sir Philip
Forester no more than the hail hurts the hearthstone. He was as
well received in society as ever, and dined with the Duke of A---
the day the poor girl was buried. She died of heartbreak. But
that has nothing to do with my story.
Now, you must listen to a single word upon kith, kin, and ally; I
promise you I will not be prolix. But it is necessary to the
authenticity of my legend that you should know that Sir Philip
Forester, with his handsome person, elegant accomplishments, and
fashionable manners, married the younger Miss Falconer of King's
Copland. The elder sister of this lady had previously become the
wife of my grandfather, Sir Geoffrey Bothwell, and brought into
our family a good fortune. Miss Jemima, or Miss Jemmie Falconer,
as she was usually called, had also about ten thousand pounds
sterling--then thought a very handsome portion indeed.
The two sisters were extremely different, though each had their
admirers while they remained single. Lady Bothwell had some
touch of the old King's Copland blood about her. She was bold,
though not to the degree of audacity, ambitious, and desirous to
raise her house and family; and was, as has been said, a
considerable spur to my grandfather, who was otherwise an
indolent man, but whom, unless he has been slandered, his lady's
influence involved in some political matters which had been more
wisely let alone. She was a woman of high principle, however,
and masculine good sense, as some of her letters testify, which
are still in my wainscot cabinet.
Jemmie Falconer was the reverse of her sister in every respect.
Her understanding did not reach above the ordinary pitch, if,
indeed, she could be said to have attained it. Her beauty, while
it lasted, consisted, in a great measure, of delicacy of
complexion and regularity of features, without any peculiar force
of expression. Even these charms faded under the sufferings
attendant on an ill-assorted match. She was passionately
attached to her husband, by whom she was treated with a callous
yet polite indifference, which, to one whose heart was as tender
as her judgment was weak, was more painful perhaps than absolute
ill-usage. Sir Philip was a voluptuary--that is, a completely
selfish egotist--whose disposition and character resembled the
rapier he wore, polished, keen, and brilliant, but inflexible and
unpitying. As he observed carefully all the usual forms towards
his lady, he had the art to deprive her even of the compassion of
the world; and useless and unavailing as that may be while
actually possessed by the sufferer, it is, to a mind like Lady
Forester's, most painful to know she has it not.
The tattle of society did its best to place the peccant husband
above the suffering wife. Some called her a poor, spiritless
thing, and declared that, with a little of her sister's spirit,
she might have brought to reason any Sir Philip whatsoever, were
it the termagant Falconbridge himself. But the greater part of
their acquaintance affected candour, and saw faults on both
sides--though, in fact, there only existed the oppressor and the
oppressed. The tone of such critics was, "To be sure, no one
will justify Sir Philip Forester, but then we all know Sir
Philip, and Jemmie Falconer might have known what she had to
expect from the beginning. What made her set her cap at Sir
Philip? He would never have looked at her if she had not thrown
herself at his head, with her poor ten thousand pounds. I am
sure, if it is money he wanted, she spoiled his market. I know
where Sir Philip could have done much better. And then, if she
WOULD have the man, could not she try to make him more
comfortable at home, and have his friends oftener, and not plague
him with the squalling children, and take care all was handsome
and in good style about the house? I declare I think Sir Philip
would have made a very domestic man, with a woman who knew how to
Now these fair critics, in raising their profound edifice of
domestic felicity, did not recollect that the corner-stone was
wanting, and that to receive good company with good cheer, the
means of the banquet ought to have been furnished by Sir Philip,
whose income (dilapidated as it was) was not equal to the display
of the hospitality required, and at the same time to the supply
of the good knight's MENUS PLAISIRS. So, in spite of all that
was so sagely suggested by female friends, Sir Philip carried his
good-humour everywhere abroad, and left at home a solitary
mansion and a pining spouse.
At length, inconvenienced in his money affairs, and tired even of
the short time which he spent in his own dull house, Sir Philip
Forester determined to take a trip to the Continent, in the
capacity of a volunteer. It was then common for men of fashion
to do so; and our knight perhaps was of opinion that a touch of
the military character, just enough to exalt, but not render
pedantic, his qualities as a BEAU GARCON, was necessary to
maintain possession of the elevated situation which he held in
the ranks of fashion.
Sir Philip's resolution threw his wife into agonies of terror; by
which the worthy baronet was so much annoyed, that, contrary to
his wont, he took some trouble to soothe her apprehensions, and
once more brought her to shed tears, in which sorrow was not
altogether unmingled with pleasure. Lady Bothwell asked, as a
favour, Sir Philip's permission to receive her sister and her
family into her own house during his absence on the Continent.
Sir Philip readily assented to a proposition which saved expense,
silenced the foolish people who might have talked of a deserted
wife and family, and gratified Lady Bothwell, for whom he felt
some respect, as for one who often spoke to him, always with
freedom and sometimes with severity, without being deterred
either by his raillery or the PRESTIGE of his reputation.
A day or two before Sir Philip's departure, Lady Bothwell took
the liberty of asking him, in her sister's presence, the direct
question, which his timid wife had often desired, but never
ventured, to put to him:--
"Pray, Sir Philip, what route do you take when you reach the
"I go from Leith to Helvoet by a packet with advices."
"That I comprehend perfectly," said Lady Bothwell dryly; "but you
do not mean to remain long at Helvoet, I presume, and I should
like to know what is your next object."
"You ask me, my dear lady," answered Sir Philip, "a question
which I have not dared to ask myself. The answer depends on the
fate of war. I shall, of course, go to headquarters, wherever
they may happen to be for the time; deliver my letters of
introduction; learn as much of the noble art of war as may
suffice a poor interloping amateur; and then take a glance at the
sort of thing of which we read so much in the Gazette."
"And I trust, Sir Philip," said Lady Bothwell, "that you will
remember that you are a husband and a father; and that, though
you think fit to indulge this military fancy, you will not let it
hurry you into dangers which it is certainly unnecessary for any
save professional persons to encounter."
"Lady Bothwell does me too much honour," replied the adventurous
knight, "in regarding such a circumstance with the slightest
interest. But to soothe your flattering anxiety, I trust your
ladyship will recollect that I cannot expose to hazard the
venerable and paternal character which you so obligingly
recommend to my protection, without putting in some peril an
honest fellow, called Philip Forester, with whom I have kept
company for thirty years, and with whom, though some folks
consider him a coxcomb, I have not the least desire to part."
"Well, Sir Philip, you are the best judge of your own affairs. I
have little right to interfere--you are not my husband."
"God forbid!" said Sir Philip hastily; instantly adding,
however, "God forbid that I should deprive my friend Sir Geoffrey
of so inestimable a treasure."
"But you are my sister's husband," replied the lady; "and I
suppose you are aware of her present distress of mind--"
"If hearing of nothing else from morning to night can make me
aware of it," said Sir Philip, "I should know something of the
"I do not pretend to reply to your wit, Sir Philip," answered
Lady Bothwell; "but you must be sensible that all this distress
is on account of apprehensions for your personal safety. "
"In that case, I am surprised that Lady Bothwell, at least,
should give herself so much trouble upon so insignificant a
"My sister's interest may account for my being anxious to learn
something of Sir Philip Forester's motions; about which,
otherwise, I know he would not wish me to concern myself. I have
a brother's safety too to be anxious for."
"You mean Major Falconer, your brother by the mother's side?
What can he possibly have to do with our present agreeable
"You have had words together, Sir Philip," said Lady Bothwell.
"Naturally; we are connections," replied Sir Philip, "and as such
have always had the usual intercourse."
"That is an evasion of the subject," answered the lady. "By
words, I mean angry words, on the subject of your usage of your
"If," replied Sir Philip Forester, "you suppose Major Falconer
simple enough to intrude his advice upon me, Lady Bothwell, in my
domestic matters, you are indeed warranted in believing that I
might possibly be so far displeased with the interference as to
request him to reserve his advice till it was asked."
"And being on these terms, you are going to join the very army in
which my brother Falconer is now serving?"
"No man knows the path of honour better than Major Falconer,"
said Sir Philip. "An aspirant after fame, like me, cannot choose
a better guide than his footsteps."
Lady Bothwell rose and went to the window, the tears gushing from
"And this heartless raillery," she said, "is all the
consideration that is to be given to our apprehensions of a
quarrel which may bring on the most terrible consequences? Good
God! of what can men's hearts be made, who can thus dally with
the agony of others?"
Sir Philip Forester was moved; he laid aside the mocking tone in
which he had hitherto spoken.
"Dear Lady Bothwell," he said, taking her reluctant hand, "we are
both wrong. You are too deeply serious; I, perhaps, too little
so. The dispute I had with Major Falconer was of no earthly
consequence. Had anything occurred betwixt us that ought to have
been settled PAR VOIE DU FAIT, as we say in France, neither of us
are persons that are likely to postpone such a meeting. Permit
me to say, that were it generally known that you or my Lady
Forester are apprehensive of such a catastrophe, it might be the
very means of bringing about what would not otherwise be likely
to happen. I know your good sense, Lady Bothwell, and that you
will understand me when I say that really my affairs require my
absence for some months. This Jemima cannot understand. It is a
perpetual recurrence of questions, why can you not do this, or
that, or the third thing? and, when you have proved to her that
her expedients are totally ineffectual, you have just to begin
the whole round again. Now, do you tell her, dear Lady Bothwell,
that YOU are satisfied. She is, you must confess, one of those
persons with whom authority goes farther than reasoning. Do but
repose a little confidence in me, and you shall see how amply I
will repay it."
Lady Bothwell shook her head, as one but half satisfied. "How
difficult it is to extend confidence, when the basis on which it
ought to rest has been so much shaken! But I will do my best to
make Jemima easy; and further, I can only say that for keeping
your present purpose I hold you responsible both to God and man,"
"Do not fear that I will deceive you," said Sir Philip. "The
safest conveyance to me will be through the general post-office,
Helvoetsluys, where I will take care to leave orders for
forwarding my letters. As for Falconer, our only encounter will
be over a bottle of Burgundy; so make yourself perfectly easy on
Lady Bothwell could NOT make herself easy; yet she was sensible
that her sister hurt her own cause by TAKING ON, as the
maidservants call it, too vehemently, and by showing before every
stranger, by manner, and sometimes by words also, a
dissatisfaction with her husband's journey that was sure to come
to his ears, and equally certain to displease him. But there was
no help for this domestic dissension, which ended only with the
day of separation.
I am sorry I cannot tell, with precision, the year in which Sir
Philip Forester went over to Flanders; but it was one of those in
which the campaign opened with extraordinary fury, and many
bloody, though indecisive, skirmishes were fought between the
French on the one side and the Allies on the other. In all our
modern improvements, there are none, perhaps, greater than in the
accuracy and speed with which intelligence is transmitted from
any scene of action to those in this country whom it may concern.
During Marlborough's campaigns, the sufferings of the many who
had relations in, or along with, the army were greatly augmented
by the suspense in which they were detained for weeks after they
had heard of bloody battles, in which, in all probability, those
for whom their bosoms throbbed with anxiety had been personally
engaged. Amongst those who were most agonized by this state of
uncertainty was the--I had almost said deserted--wife of the gay
Sir Philip Forester. A single letter had informed her of his
arrival on the Continent; no others were received. One notice
occurred in the newspapers, in which Volunteer Sir Philip
Forester was mentioned as having been entrusted with a dangerous
reconnaissance, which he had executed with the greatest courage,
dexterity, and intelligence, and received the thanks of the
commanding officer. The sense of his having acquired distinction
brought a momentary glow into the lady's pale cheek; but it was
instantly lost in ashen whiteness at the recollection of his
danger. After this, they had no news whatever, neither from Sir
Philip, nor even from their brother Falconer. The case of Lady
Forester was not indeed different from that of hundreds in the
same situation; but a feeble mind is necessarily an irritable
one, and the suspense which some bear with constitutional
indifference or philosophical resignation, and some with a
disposition to believe and hope the best, was intolerable to Lady
Forester, at once solitary and sensitive, low-spirited, and
devoid of strength of mind, whether natural or acquired.
As she received no further news of Sir Philip, whether directly
or indirectly, his unfortunate lady began now to feel a sort of
consolation even in those careless habits which had so often
given her pain. "He is so thoughtless," she repeated a hundred
times a day to her sister, "he never writes when things are going
on smoothly. It is his way. Had anything happened, he would
have informed us."
Lady Bothwell listened to her sister without attempting to
console her. Probably she might be of opinion that even the
worst intelligence which could be received from Flanders might
not be without some touch of consolation; and that the Dowager
Lady Forester, if so she was doomed to be called, might have a
source of happiness unknown to the wife of the gayest and finest
gentleman in Scotland. This conviction became stronger as they
learned from inquiries made at headquarters that Sir Philip was
no longer with the army--though whether he had been taken or
slain in some of those skirmishes which were perpetually
occurring, and in which he loved to distinguish himself, or
whether he had, for some unknown reason or capricious change of
mind, voluntarily left the service, none of his countrymen in the
camp of the Allies could form even a conjecture. Meantime his
creditors at home became clamorous, entered into possession of
his property, and threatened his person, should he be rash enough
to return to Scotland. These additional disadvantages aggravated
Lady Bothwell's displeasure against the fugitive husband; while
her sister saw nothing in any of them, save what tended to
increase her grief for the absence of him whom her imagination
now represented--as it had before marriage--gallant, gay, and
About this period there appeared in Edinburgh a man of singular
appearance and pretensions. He was commonly called the Paduan
Doctor, from having received his education at that famous
university. He was supposed to possess some rare receipts in
medicine, with which, it was affirmed, he had wrought remarkable
cures. But though, on the one hand, the physicians of Edinburgh
termed him an empiric, there were many persons, and among them
some of the clergy, who, while they admitted the truth of the
cures and the force of his remedies, alleged that Doctor Baptista
Damiotti made use of charms and unlawful arts in order to obtain
success in his practice. The resorting to him was even solemnly
preached against, as a seeking of health from idols, and a
trusting to the help which was to come from Egypt. But the
protection which the Paduan Doctor received from some friends of
interest and consequence enabled him to set these imputations at
defiance, and to assume, even in the city of Edinburgh, famed as
it was for abhorrence of witches and necromancers, the dangerous
character of an expounder of futurity. It was at length rumoured
that, for a certain gratification, which of course was not an
inconsiderable one, Doctor Baptista Damiotti could tell the fate
of the absent, and even show his visitors the personal form of
their absent friends, and the action in which they were engaged
at the moment. This rumour came to the ears of Lady Forester,
who had reached that pitch of mental agony in which the sufferer
will do anything, or endure anything, that suspense may be
converted into certainty.
Gentle and timid in most cases, her state of mind made her
equally obstinate and reckless, and it was with no small surprise
and alarm that her sister, Lady Bothwell, heard her express a
resolution to visit this man of art, and learn from him the fate
of her husband. Lady Bothwell remonstrated on the improbability
that such pretensions as those of this foreigner could be founded
in anything but imposture.
"I care not," said the deserted wife, "what degree of ridicule I
may incur; if there be any one chance out of a hundred that I may
obtain some certainty of my husband's fate, I would not miss that
chance for whatever else the world can offer me."
Lady Bothwell next urged the unlawfulness of resorting to such
sources of forbidden knowledge.
"Sister," replied the sufferer, "he who is dying of thirst cannot
refrain from drinking even poisoned water. She who suffers under
suspense must seek information, even were the powers which offer
it unhallowed and infernal. I go to learn my fate alone, and
this very evening will I know it; the sun that rises to-morrow
shall find me, if not more happy, at least more resigned."
"Sister," said Lady Bothwell, "if you are determined upon this
wild step, you shall not go alone. If this man be an impostor,
you may be too much agitated by your feelings to detect his
villainy. If, which I cannot believe, there be any truth in what
he pretends, you shall not be exposed alone to a communication of
so extraordinary a nature. I will go with you, if indeed you
determine to go. But yet reconsider your project, and renounce
inquiries which cannot be prosecuted without guilt, and perhaps
Lady Forester threw herself into her sister's arms, and, clasping
her to her bosom, thanked her a hundred times for the offer of
her company, while she declined with a melancholy gesture the
friendly advice with which it was accompanied.
When the hour of twilight arrived--which was the period when the
Paduan Doctor was understood to receive the visits of those who
came to consult with him--the two ladies left their apartments in
the Canongate of Edinburgh, having their dress arranged like that
of women of an inferior description, and their plaids disposed
around their faces as they were worn by the same class; for in
those days of aristocracy the quality of the wearer was generally
indicated by the manner in which her plaid was disposed, as well
as by the fineness of its texture. It was Lady Bothwell who had
suggested this species of disguise, partly to avoid observation
as they should go to the conjurer's house, and partly in order to
make trial of his penetration, by appearing before him in a
feigned character. Lady Forester's servant, of tried fidelity,
had been employed by her to propitiate the Doctor by a suitable
fee, and a story intimating that a soldier's wife desired to know
the fate of her husband--a subject upon which, in all
probability, the sage was very frequently consulted,
To the last moment, when the palace clock struck eight, Lady
Bothwell earnestly watched her sister, in hopes that she might
retreat from her rash undertaking; but as mildness, and even
timidity, is capable at times of vehement and fixed purposes, she
found Lady Forester resolutely unmoved and determined when the
moment of departure arrived. Ill satisfied with the expedition,
but determined not to leave her sister at such a crisis, Lady
Bothwell accompanied Lady Forester through more than one obscure
street and lane, the servant walking before, and acting as their
guide. At length he suddenly turned into a narrow court, and
knocked at an arched door which seemed to belong to a building of
some antiquity. It opened, though no one appeared to act as
porter; and the servant, stepping aside from the entrance,
motioned the ladies to enter. They had no sooner done so than it
shut, and excluded their guide. The two ladies found themselves
in a small vestibule, illuminated by a dim lamp, and having, when
the door was closed, no communication with the external light or
air. The door of an inner apartment, partly open, was at the
farther side of the vestibule.
"We must not hesitate now, Jemima," said Lady Bothwell, and
walked forwards into the inner room, where, surrounded by books,
maps, philosophical utensils, and other implements of peculiar
shape and appearance, they found the man of art.
There was nothing very peculiar in the Italian's appearance. He
had the dark complexion and marked features of his country,
seemed about fifty years old, and was handsomely but plainly
dressed in a full suit of black clothes, which was then the
universal costume of the medical profession. Large wax-lights,
in silver sconces, illuminated the apartment, which was
reasonably furnished. He rose as the ladies entered, and,
notwithstanding the inferiority of their dress, received them
with the marked respect due to their quality, and which
foreigners are usually punctilious in rendering to those to whom
such honours are due.
Lady Bothwell endeavoured to maintain her proposed incognito,
and, as the Doctor ushered them to the upper end of the room,
made a motion declining his courtesy, as unfitted for their
condition. "We are poor people, sir," she said; "only my
sister's distress has brought us to consult your worship whether
He smiled as he interrupted her--"I am aware, madam, of your
sister's distress, and its cause; I am aware, also, that I am
honoured with a visit from two ladies of the highest
consideration--Lady Bothwell and Lady Forester. If I could not
distinguish them from the class of society which their present
dress would indicate, there would be small possibility of my
being able to gratify them by giving the information which they
come to seek."
"I can easily understand--" said Lady Bothwell.
"Pardon my boldness to interrupt you, milady," cried the Italian;
"your ladyship was about to say that you could easily understand
that I had got possession of your names by means of your
domestic. But in thinking so, you do injustice to the fidelity
of your servant, and, I may add, to the skill of one who is also
not less your humble servant--Baptista Damiotti."
"I have no intention to do either, sir," said Lady Bothwell,
maintaining a tone of composure, though somewhat surprised; "but
the situation is something new to me. If you know who we are,
you also know, sir, what brought us here."
"Curiosity to know the fate of a Scottish gentleman of rank, now,
or lately, upon the Continent," answered the seer. "His name is
Il Cavaliero Philippo Forester, a gentleman who has the honour to
be husband to this lady, and, with your ladyship's permission for
using plain language, the misfortune not to value as it deserves
that inestimable advantage."
Lady Forester sighed deeply, and Lady Bothwell replied,--
"Since you know our object without our telling it, the only
question that remains is, whether you have the power to relieve
my sister's anxiety?"
"I have, madam," answered the Paduan scholar; "but there is still
a previous inquiry. Have you the courage to behold with your own
eyes what the Cavaliero Philippo Forester is now doing? or will
you take it on my report?"
"That question my sister must answer for herself," said Lady
"With my own eyes will I endure to see whatever you have power to
show me," said Lady Forester, with the same determined spirit
which had stimulated her since her resolution was taken upon this
"There may be danger in it."
"If gold can compensate the risk," said Lady Forester, taking out
"I do not such things for the purpose of gain," answered the
foreigner; "I dare not turn my art to such a purpose. If I take
the gold of the wealthy, it is but to bestow it on the poor; nor
do I ever accept more than the sum I have already received from
your servant. Put up your purse, madam; an adept needs not your
Lady Bothwell, considering this rejection of her sister's offer
as a mere trick of an empiric, to induce her to press a larger
sum upon him, and willing that the scene should be commenced and
ended, offered some gold in turn, observing that it was only to
enlarge the sphere of his charity.
"Let Lady Bothwell enlarge the sphere of her own charity," said
the Paduan, "not merely in giving of alms, in which I know she is
not deficient, but in judging the character of others; and let
her oblige Baptista Damiotti by believing him honest, till she
shall discover him to be a knave. Do not be surprised, madam, if
I speak in answer to your thoughts rather than your expressions;
and tell me once more whether you have courage to look on what I
am prepared to show?"
"I own, sir," said Lady Bothwell, "that your words strike me with
some sense of fear; but whatever my sister desires to witness, I
will not shrink from witnessing along with her."
"Nay, the danger only consists in the risk of your resolution
failing you. The sight can only last for the space of seven
minutes; and should you interrupt the vision by speaking a single
word, not only would the charm be broken, but some danger might
result to the spectators. But if you can remain steadily silent
for the seven minutes, your curiosity will be gratified without
the slightest risk; and for this I will engage my honour."
Internally Lady Bothwell thought the security was but an
indifferent one; but she suppressed the suspicion, as if she had
believed that the adept, whose dark features wore a half-formed
smile, could in reality read even her most secret reflections. A
solemn pause then ensued, until Lady Forester gathered courage
enough to reply to the physician, as he termed himself, that she
would abide with firmness and silence the sight which he had
promised to exhibit to them. Upon this, he made them a low
obeisance, and saying he went to prepare matters to meet their
wish, left the apartment. The two sisters, hand in hand, as if
seeking by that close union to divert any danger which might
threaten them, sat down on two seats in immediate contact with
each other--Jemima seeking support in the manly and habitual
courage of Lady Bothwell; and she, on the other hand, more
agitated than she had expected, endeavouring to fortify herself
by the desperate resolution which circumstances had forced her
sister to assume. The one perhaps said to herself that her
sister never feared anything; and the other might reflect that
what so feeble-minded a woman as Jemima did not fear, could not
properly be a subject of apprehension to a person of firmness and
resolution like her own.
In a few moments the thoughts of both were diverted from their
own situation by a strain of music so singularly sweet and solemn
that, while it seemed calculated to avert or dispel any feeling
unconnected with its harmony, increased, at the same time, the
solemn excitation which the preceding interview was calculated to
produce. The music was that of some instrument with which they
were unacquainted; but circumstances afterwards led my ancestress
to believe that it was that of the harmonica, which she heard at
a much later period in life.
When these heaven-born sounds had ceased, a door opened in the
upper end of the apartment, and they saw Damiotti, standing at
the head of two or three steps, sign to them to advance. His
dress was so different from that which he had worn a few minutes
before, that they could hardly recognize him; and the deadly
paleness of his countenance, and a certain stern rigidity of
muscles, like that of one whose mind is made up to some strange
and daring action, had totally changed the somewhat sarcastic
expression with which he had previously regarded them both, and
particularly Lady Bothwell. He was barefooted, excepting a
species of sandals in the antique fashion; his legs were naked
beneath the knees; above them he wore hose, and a doublet of dark
crimson silk close to his body; and over that a flowing loose
robe, something resembling a surplice, of snow-white linen. His
throat and neck were uncovered, and his long, straight, black
hair was carefully combed down at full length.
As the ladies approached at his bidding, he showed no gesture of
that ceremonious courtesy of which he had been formerly lavish.
On the contrary, he made the signal of advance with an air of
command; and when, arm in arm, and with insecure steps, the
sisters approached the spot where he stood, it was with a warning
frown that he pressed his finger to his lips, as if reiterating
his condition of absolute silence, while, stalking before them,
he led the way into the next apartment.
This was a large room, hung with black, as if for a funeral. At
the upper end was a table, or rather a species of altar, covered
with the same lugubrious colour, on which lay divers objects
resembling the usual implements of sorcery. These objects were
not indeed visible as they advanced into the apartment; for the
light which displayed them, being only that of two expiring
lamps, was extremely faint. The master--to use the Italian
phrase for persons of this description--approached the upper end
of the room, with a genuflection like that of a Catholic to the
crucifix, and at the same time crossed himself. The ladies
followed in silence, and arm in arm. Two or three low broad
steps led to a platform in front of the altar, or what resembled
such. Here the sage took his stand, and placed the ladies beside
him, once more earnestly repeating by signs his injunctions of
silence. The Italian then, extending his bare arm from under his
linen vestment, pointed with his forefinger to five large
flambeaux, or torches, placed on each side of the altar. They
took fire successively at the approach of his hand, or rather of
his finger, and spread a strong light through the room. By this
the visitors could discern that, on the seeming altar, were
disposed two naked swords laid crosswise; a large open book,
which they conceived to be a copy of the Holy Scriptures, but in
a language to them unknown; and beside this mysterious volume was
placed a human skull. But what struck the sisters most was a
very tall and broad mirror, which occupied all the space behind
the altar, and, illumined by the lighted torches, reflected the
mysterious articles which were laid upon it.
The master then placed himself between the two ladies, and,
pointing to the mirror, took each by the hand, but without
speaking a syllable. They gazed intently on the polished and
sable space to which he had directed their attention. Suddenly
the surface assumed a new and singular appearance. It no longer
simply reflected the objects placed before it, but, as if it had
self-contained scenery of its own, objects began to appear within
it, at first in a disorderly, indistinct, and miscellaneous
manner, like form arranging itself out of chaos; at length, in
distinct and defined shape and symmetry. It was thus that, after
some shifting of light and darkness over the face of the
wonderful glass, a long perspective of arches and columns began
to arrange itself on its sides, and a vaulted roof on the upper
part of it, till, after many oscillations, the whole vision
gained a fixed and stationary appearance, representing the
interior of a foreign church. The pillars were stately, and hung
with scutcheons; the arches were lofty and magnificent; the floor
was lettered with funeral inscriptions. But there were no
separate shrines, no images, no display of chalice or crucifix on
the altar. It was, therefore, a Protestant church upon the
Continent. A clergyman dressed in the Geneva gown and band stood
by the communion table, and, with the Bible opened before him,
and his clerk awaiting in the background, seemed prepared to
perform some service of the church to which he belonged.
At length, there entered the middle aisle of the building a
numerous party, which appeared to be a bridal one, as a lady and
gentleman walked first, hand in hand, followed by a large
concourse of persons of both sexes, gaily, nay richly, attired.
The bride, whose features they could distinctly see, seemed not
more than sixteen years old, and extremely beautiful. The
bridegroom, for some seconds, moved rather with his shoulder
towards them, and his face averted; but his elegance of form and
step struck the sisters at once with the same apprehension. As
he turned his face suddenly, it was frightfully realized, and
they saw, in the gay bridegroom before them, Sir Philip Forester.
His wife uttered an imperfect exclamation, at the sound of which
the whole scene stirred and seemed to separate.
"I could compare it to nothing," said Lady Bothwell, while
recounting the wonderful tale, "but to the dispersion of the
reflection offered by a deep and calm pool, when a stone is
suddenly cast into it, and the shadows become dissipated and
broken." The master pressed both the ladies' hands severely, as
if to remind them of their promise, and of the danger which they
incurred. The exclamation died away on Lady Forester's tongue,
without attaining perfect utterance, and the scene in the glass,
after the fluctuation of a minute, again resumed to the eye its
former appearance of a real scene, existing within the mirror, as
if represented in a picture, save that the figures were movable
instead of being stationary.
The representation of Sir Philip Forester, now distinctly visible
in form and feature, was seen to lead on towards the clergyman
that beautiful girl, who advanced at once with diffidence and
with a species of affectionate pride. In the meantime, and just
as the clergyman had arranged the bridal company before him, and
seemed about to commence the service, another group of persons,
of whom two or three were officers, entered the church. They
moved, at first, forward, as though they came to witness the
bridal ceremony; but suddenly one of the officers, whose back was
towards the spectators, detached himself from his companions, and
rushed hastily towards the marriage party, when the whole of them
turned towards him, as if attracted by some exclamation which had
accompanied his advance. Suddenly the intruder drew his sword;
the bridegroom unsheathed his own, and made towards him; swords
were also drawn by other individuals, both of the marriage party
and of those who had last entered. They fell into a sort of
confusion, the clergyman, and some elder and graver persons,
labouring apparently to keep the peace, while the hotter spirits
on both sides brandished their weapons. But now, the period of
the brief space during which the soothsayer, as he pretended, was
permitted to exhibit his art, was arrived. The fumes again mixed
together, and dissolved gradually from observation; the vaults
and columns of the church rolled asunder, and disappeared; and
the front of the mirror reflected nothing save the blazing
torches and the melancholy apparatus placed on the altar or table
The doctor led the ladies, who greatly required his support, into
the apartment from whence they came, where wine, essences, and
other means of restoring suspended animation, had been provided
during his absence. He motioned them to chairs, which they
occupied in silence--Lady Forester, in particular, wringing her
hands, and casting her eyes up to heaven, but without speaking a
word, as if the spell had been still before her eyes.
"And what we have seen is even now acting?" said Lady Bothwell,
collecting herself with difficulty.
"That," answered Baptista Damiotti, "I cannot justly, or with
certainty, say. But it is either now acting, or has been acted
during a short space before this. It is the last remarkable
transaction in which the Cavalier Forester has been engaged."
Lady Bothwell then expressed anxiety concerning her sister, whose
altered countenance and apparent unconsciousness of what passed
around her excited her apprehensions how it might be possible to
convey her home.
"I have prepared for that," answered the adept. "I have directed
the servant to bring your equipage as near to this place as the
narrowness of the street will permit. Fear not for your sister,
but give her, when you return home, this composing draught, and
she will be better to-morrow morning. Few," he added in a
melancholy tone, "leave this house as well in health as they
entered it. Such being the consequence of seeking knowledge by
mysterious means, I leave you to judge the condition of those who
have the power of gratifying such irregular curiosity. Farewell,
and forget not the potion."
"I will give her nothing that comes from you," said Lady
Bothwell; "I have seen enough of your art already. Perhaps you
would poison us both to conceal your own necromancy. But we are
persons who want neither the means of making our wrongs known,
nor the assistance of friends to right them."
"You have had no wrongs from me, madam," said the adept. "You
sought one who is little grateful for such honour. He seeks no
one, and only gives responses to those who invite and call upon
him. After all, you have but learned a little sooner the evil
which you must still be doomed to endure. I hear your servant's
step at the door, and will detain your ladyship and Lady Forester
no longer. The next packet from the Continent will explain what
you have already partly witnessed. Let it not, if I may advise,
pass too suddenly into your sister's hands."
So saying, he bid Lady Bothwell good-night. She went, lighted by
the adept, to the vestibule, where he hastily threw a black cloak
over his singular dress, and opening the door, entrusted his
visitors to the care of the servant. It was with difficulty that
Lady Bothwell sustained her sister to the carriage, though it was
only twenty steps distant. When they arrived at home, Lady
Forester required medical assistance. The physician of the
family attended, and shook his head on feeling her pulse.
"Here has been," he said, "a violent and sudden shock on the
nerves. I must know how it has happened."
Lady Bothwell admitted they had visited the conjurer, and that
Lady Forester had received some bad news respecting her husband,
"That rascally quack would make my fortune, were he to stay in
Edinburgh," said the graduate; "this is the seventh nervous case
I have heard of his making for me, and all by effect of terror."
He next examined the composing draught which Lady Bothwell had
unconsciously brought in her hand, tasted it, and pronounced it
very germain to the matter, and what would save an application to
the apothecary. He then paused, and looking at Lady Bothwell
very significantly, at length added, "I suppose I must not ask
your ladyship anything about this Italian warlock's proceedings?"
"Indeed, doctor," answered Lady Bothwell, "I consider what passed
as confidential; and though the man may be a rogue, yet, as we
were fools enough to consult him, we should, I think, be honest
enough to keep his counsel."
"MAY be a knave! Come," said the doctor, "I am glad to hear your
ladyship allows such a possibility in anything that comes from
"What comes from Italy may be as good as what comes from Hanover,
doctor. But you and I will remain good friends; and that it may
be so, we will say nothing of Whig and Tory."
"Not I," said the doctor, receiving his fee, and taking his hat;
"a Carolus serves my purpose as well as a Willielmus. But I
should like to know why old Lady Saint Ringan, and all that set,
go about wasting their decayed lungs in puffing this foreign
"Ay--you had best set him down a Jesuit, as Scrub says." On
these terms they parted.
The poor patient--whose nerves, from an extraordinary state of
tension, had at length become relaxed in as extraordinary a
degree--continued to struggle with a sort of imbecility, the
growth of superstitious terror, when the shocking tidings were
brought from Holland which fulfilled even her worst expectations.
They were sent by the celebrated Earl of Stair, and contained the
melancholy event of a duel betwixt Sir Philip Forester and his
wife's half-brother, Captain Falconer, of the Scotch-Dutch, as
they were then called, in which the latter had been killed. The
cause of quarrel rendered the incident still more shocking. It
seemed that Sir Philip had left the army suddenly, in consequence
of being unable to pay a very considerable sum which he had lost
to another volunteer at play. He had changed his name, and taken
up his residence at Rotterdam, where he had insinuated himself
into the good graces of an ancient and rich burgomaster, and, by
his handsome person and graceful manners, captivated the
affections of his only child, a very young person, of great
beauty, and the heiress of much wealth. Delighted with the
specious attractions of his proposed son-in-law, the wealthy
merchant--whose idea of the British character was too high to
admit of his taking any precaution to acquire evidence of his
condition and circumstances--gave his consent to the marriage.
It was about to be celebrated in the principal church of the
city, when it was interrupted by a singular occurrence.
Captain Falconer having been detached to Rotterdam to bring up a
part of the brigade of Scottish auxiliaries, who were in quarters
there, a person of consideration in the town, to whom he had been
formerly known, proposed to him for amusement to go to the high
church to see a countryman of his own married to the daughter of
a wealthy burgomaster. Captain Falconer went accordingly,
accompanied by his Dutch acquaintance, with a party of his
friends, and two or three officers of the Scotch brigade. His
astonishment may be conceived when he saw his own brother-in-law,
a married man, on the point of leading to the altar the innocent
and beautiful creature upon whom he was about to practise a base
and unmanly deceit. He proclaimed his villainy on the spot, and
the marriage was interrupted, of course. But against the opinion
of more thinking men, who considered Sir Philip Forester as
having thrown himself out of the rank of men of honour, Captain
Falconer admitted him to the privilege of such, accepted a
challenge from him, and in the rencounter received a mortal
wound. Such are the ways of Heaven, mysterious in our eyes.
Lady Forester never recovered the shock of this dismal
"And did this tragedy," said I, "take place exactly at the time
when the scene in the mirror was exhibited?"
"It is hard to be obliged to maim one's story," answered my aunt,
"but to speak the truth, it happened some days sooner than the
apparition was exhibited."
"And so there remained a possibility," said I, "that by some
secret and speedy communication the artist might have received
early intelligence of that incident."
"The incredulous pretended so," replied my aunt.
"What became of the adept?" demanded I.
"Why, a warrant came down shortly afterwards to arrest him for
high treason, as an agent of the Chevalier St. George; and Lady
Bothwell, recollecting the hints which had escaped the doctor, an
ardent friend of the Protestant succession, did then call to
remembrance that this man was chiefly PRONE among the ancient
matrons of her own political persuasion. It certainly seemed
probable that intelligence from the Continent, which could easily
have been transmitted by an active and powerful agent, might have
enabled him to prepare such a scene of phantasmagoria as she had
herself witnessed. Yet there were so many difficulties in
assigning a natural explanation, that, to the day of her death,
she remained in great doubt on the subject, and much disposed to
cut the Gordian knot by admitting the existence of supernatural
"But, my dear aunt," said I, "what became of the man of skill?"
"Oh, he was too good a fortune-teller not to be able to foresee
that his own destiny would be tragical if he waited the arrival
of the man with the silver greyhound upon his sleeve. He made,
as we say, a moonlight flitting, and was nowhere to be seen or
heard of. Some noise there was about papers or letters found in
the house; but it died away, and Doctor Baptista Damiotti was
soon as little talked of as Galen or Hippocrates."
"And Sir Philip Forester," said I, "did he too vanish for ever
from the public scene?"
"No," replied my kind informer. "He was heard of once more, and
it was upon a remarkable occasion. It is said that we Scots,
when there was such a nation in existence, have, among our full
peck of virtues, one or two little barley-corns of vice. In
particular, it is alleged that we rarely forgive, and never
forget, any injuries received--that we make an idol of our
resentment, as poor Lady Constance did of her grief, and are
addicted, as Burns says, to 'nursing our wrath to keep it warm.'
Lady Bothwell was not without this feeling; and, I believe,
nothing whatever, scarce the restoration of the Stewart line,
could have happened so delicious to her feelings as an
opportunity of being revenged on Sir Philip Forester for the deep
and double injury which had deprived her of a sister and of a
brother. But nothing of him was heard or known till many a year
had passed away.
"At length--it was on a Fastern's E'en (Shrovetide) assembly, at
which the whole fashion of Edinburgh attended, full and frequent,
and when Lady Bothwell had a seat amongst the lady patronesses,
that one of the attendants on the company whispered into her ear
that a gentleman wished to speak with her in private.
"'In private? and in an assembly room?--he must be mad. Tell
him to call upon me to-morrow morning.'
"'I said so, my lady,' answered the man, 'but he desired me to
give you this paper.'
"She undid the billet, which was curiously folded and sealed. It
only bore the words, 'ON BUSINESS OF LIFE AND DEATH,' written in
a hand which she had never seen before. Suddenly it occurred to
her that it might concern the safety of some of her political
friends. She therefore followed the messenger to a small
apartment where the refreshments were prepared, and from which
the general company was excluded. She found an old man, who, at
her approach, rose up and bowed profoundly. His appearance
indicated a broken constitution, and his dress, though sedulously
rendered conforming to the etiquette of a ballroom, was worn and
tarnished, and hung in folds about his emaciated person. Lady
Bothwell was about to feel for her purse, expecting to get rid of
the supplicant at the expense of a little money, but some fear of
a mistake arrested her purpose. She therefore gave the man
leisure to explain himself.
"'I have the honour to speak with the Lady Bothwell?'
"'I am Lady Bothwell; allow me to say that this is no time or
place for long explanations. What are your commands with me?'
"'Your ladyship,' said the old man, 'had once a sister.'
"'True; whom I loved as my own soul.'
"'And a brother.'
"'The bravest, the kindest, the most affectionate!' said Lady
"'Both these beloved relatives you lost by the fault of an
unfortunate man,' continued the stranger.
"'By the crime of an unnatural, bloody-minded murderer,' said the
"'I am answered,' replied the old man, bowing, as if to withdraw.
"'Stop, sir, I command you,' said Lady Bothwell. 'Who are you
that, at such a place and time, come to recall these horrible
recollections? I insist upon knowing.'
"'I am one who intends Lady Bothwell no injury, but, on the
contrary, to offer her the means of doing a deed of Christian
charity, which the world would wonder at, and which Heaven would
reward; but I find her in no temper for such a sacrifice as I was
prepared to ask.'
"'Speak out, sir; what is your meaning?' said Lady Bothwell.
"'The wretch that has wronged you so deeply,' rejoined the
stranger, 'is now on his death-bed. His days have been days of
misery, his nights have been sleepless hours of anguish--yet he
cannot die without your forgiveness. His life has been an
unremitting penance--yet he dares not part from his burden while
your curses load his soul.'
"'Tell him,' said Lady Bothwell sternly, 'to ask pardon of that
Being whom he has so greatly offended, not of an erring mortal
like himself. What could my forgiveness avail him?'
"'Much,' answered the old man. 'It will be an earnest of that
which he may then venture to ask from his Creator, lady, and from
yours. Remember, Lady Bothwell, you too have a death-bed to look
forward to; Your soul may--all human souls must--feel the awe of
facing the judgment-seat, with the wounds of an untented
conscience, raw, and rankling--what thought would it be then that
should whisper, "I have given no mercy, how then shall I ask
"'Man, whosoever thou mayest be,' replied Lady Bothwell, 'urge me
not so cruelly. It would be but blasphemous hypocrisy to utter
with my lips the words which every throb of my heart protests
against. They would open the earth and give to light the wasted
form of my sister, the bloody form of my murdered brother.
Forgive him?--never, never!'
"'Great God!' cried the old man, holding up his hands, 'is it
thus the worms which Thou hast called out of dust obey the
commands of their Maker? Farewell, proud and unforgiving woman.
Exult that thou hast added to a death in want and pain the
agonies of religious despair; but never again mock Heaven by
petitioning for the pardon which thou hast refused to grant.'
"He was turning from her.
"'Stop,' she exclaimed; 'I will try--yes, I will try to pardon
"'Gracious lady,' said the old man, 'you will relieve the over-
burdened soul which dare not sever itself from its sinful
companion of earth without being at peace with you. What do I
know--your forgiveness may perhaps preserve for penitence the
dregs of a wretched life.'
"'Ha!' said the lady, as a sudden light broke on her, 'it is the
villain himself!' And grasping Sir Philip Forester--for it was
he, and no other--by the collar, she raised a cry of 'Murder,
murder! seize the murderer!'
"At an exclamation so singular, in such a place, the company
thronged into the apartment; but Sir Philip Forester was no
longer there. He had forcibly extricated himself from Lady
Bothwell's hold, and had run out of the apartment, which opened
on the landing-place of the stair. There seemed no escape in
that direction, for there were several persons coming up the
steps, and others descending. But the unfortunate man was
desperate. He threw himself over the balustrade, and alighted
safely in the lobby, though a leap of fifteen feet at least, then
dashed into the street, and was lost in darkness. Some of the
Bothwell family made pursuit, and had they come up with the
fugitive they might perhaps have slain him; for in those days
men's blood ran warm in their veins. But the police did not
interfere, the matter most criminal having happened long since,
and in a foreign land. Indeed it was always thought that this
extraordinary scene originated in a hypocritical experiment, by
which Sir Philip desired to ascertain whether he might return to
his native country in safety from the resentment of a family
which he had injured so deeply. As the result fell out so
contrary to his wishes, he is believed to have returned to the
Continent, and there died in exile."
So closed the tale of the MYSTERIOUS MIRROR.
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