and they saw that his face was like the face of a corpse. At the same instant an old cat which had been purring quietly by the stove-usually the most grave and decorous of tabbies started up and glared, and then sprang to the farthest part of the room, her tail puffed out to twice its ordinary size. They said nothing, but drew back and let him pass toward the strange-looking coffin. He glided toward it, and taking it under his arm, as if it were no heavier than a small basket, moved toward the door, which seemed to open of its own accord, and he vanished into the street. "Let's follow him," said the undertaker, "and see where he's going. You know I don't believe in ghosts. I've seen too many dead bodies for that. This is some crazy gentleman, depend on it; and we ought to see that he doesn't do himself any harm. Come!" The three young men didn't like the idea of following this stranger in the dark, whether he were living or dead. And yet they liked no better being left in the dimly-lighted room among the coffins. So they all sallied out, and caught a glimpse of the visitor just turning the corner. They walked quickly in that direction. "He's going to the church," said Spindles. "No, he's turning toward the graveyard. See, he has gone right through the iron gate! And yet it was locked! He has disappeared among the trees!" were like the confused tuning of an orchestra before a concert-with discords and chromatic runs, up and down, from at least twenty instruments, but all muffled and pent in, as if under ground. Yet, thought the undertaker, this may be only the wind in the trees. "I wish the moon would come out," he said, "so we could see something. Anyhow, I think it's a Christian duty to go in there, and see after that poor man. He may have taken a notion, you know, to shut himself up in his big fiddle-case, and we ought to see that he don't do himself any injury. Come, will you go?" "Not I, thank you-nor I-nor I," said they all. "We are going home we've had enough of this." "Very well," said the undertaker. you please; I'll go alone." "As Mr. Shrowdwell was a veritable Sadducee. He believed in death firmly. The only resurrection he acknowledged was the resurrection of a tangible body at some far-off judgmentday. He had no fear of ghosts. But this was not so much a matter of reasoning with him, as temperament, and the constant contact with lifeless bodies. "When a man's dead," said Shrowdwell, "he's dead, I take it. I never see a man or woman come to life again. Don't the Scriptures say, 'Dust to dust?' It's true that with the Lord nothing is impossible, and at the last day he will summon his elect to meet him in "We'll wait here at this corner, and watch," the clouds; but that's a mystery." said Shrowdwell. They waited fifteen or twenty minutes, but saw no more of him. They then advanced and peered through the iron railings of the cemetery. The moon was hidden in clouds, which drifted in great masses across the sky, into which rose the tall, dim church-steeple. The wind blew drearily among the leafless trees of the burial-ground. They thought they saw a dark figure moving down toward the northwest corner. Then they heard some of the vault-doors creak open and shut with a heavy thud. "Those are the tombs of the musicians," whispered the undertaker. "I have seen several of our Handel - and - Haydn Society buried there-two of them, you remember, were taken off by cholera last summer. Ah, well, in the midst of life we are in death; we none of us know when we shall be taken. I have a lot there myself, and expect to lay my bones in it some day." Presently strange sounds were heard, seeming to come from the corner spoken of. They And yet he couldn't account for this mysterious visitor passing through the tall iron railings of the gate-if he really did pass-for after all it may have been an ocular illusion. But he determined to go in and see what he could see. He had the key of the cemetery in his pocket. He opened the iron gate and passed in, while the other men stood at a distance. They knew the sexton was proof against spirits of all sorts, airy or liquid; and after waiting a little, they concluded to go home, for the night was cold and dreary-and ghost or no ghost, they couldn't do much good there. As Shrowdwell approached the north-west corner of the graveyard, he heard those singular musical sounds again. They seemed to come from the vaults and graves, but they mingled so with the rush and moaning of the wind, that he still thought he might be mistaken. In the farthest corner there stood a large old family vault. It had belonged to a family with an Italian name, the last member of which had been buried there many years ago—and since then had not been opened. The vines and shrubbery had grown around and over it, from the double-bass in the coffin. The sexton partly concealing it. As he approached it, Shrowdwell observed with amazement that the door was open, and a dense phosphorescent light lit up the interior. "Oh,” he said, "the poor insane gentleman has contrived somehow to get a key to this vault, and has gone in there to commit suicide, and bury himself in his queer coffin-and save the expense of having an undertaker. I must save him, if possible, from such a fate." As he stood deliberating, he heard the musical sounds again. They came not only from the vault, but from all around. There was the hoarse groaning of a double-bass, answered now and then by a low muffled wail of horns and a scream of flutes, mingled with the pathetic complainings of a violin. Shrowdwell began to think he was dreaming, and rubbed his eyes and his ears to see if he were awake. After considerable tuning and running up and down the scales, the instruments fell into an accompaniment to the double-bass in Beethoven's celebrated song "In questa temba oscura D'inutile vellen!" The tone was as if the air were played on the harmonic intervals of the instrument, and yet was so weirdly and so wonderfully like a human voice, that Shrowdwell felt as if he had got into some enchanted circle. As the solo drew to its conclusion, the voice that seemed to be in it broke into sobs, and ended in a deep groan. But the undertaker summoned up his courage, and determined to probe this mystery to the bottom. Coming nearer the vault and looking in, what should he see but the big musical coffin of the cadaverous stranger lying just inside the entrance of the tomb. The undertaker was convinced that the strange gentleman was the performer of the solo. But where was the instrument? He mustered courage to speak, and was about to offer some comforting and encouraging words. But at the first sound of his voice the lid of the musical coffin, which had been open, slammed to, so suddenly, that the sexton jumped back three feet, and came near tumbling over a tombstone behind him. At the same time the dim phosphorescent light in the vault was extinguished, and there was another groan determined to open the case. He stooped over it and listened. He thought he heard inside a sound like putting a key into a padlock. "He mustn't lock himself in," he said, and instantly wrenched open the cover. Immediately there was a noise like the snapping of strings and the cracking of light wood -then a strange sizzling sound-and then a loud explosion. And the undertaker lay senseless on the ground. Mrs. Shrowdwell waited for her husband till a late hour, but he did not return. She grew very anxious, and at last determined to put on her bonnet and shawl and step over to Mr. Spindles' boarding-house to know where he could be. That young gentleman was just about retiring, in a very nervous state, after having taken a strong nipper of brandy and water to restore his equanimity. Mrs. Shrowdwell stated her anxieties, and Spindles told her something of the occurrences of the evening. She then urged him to go at once to a policestation and obtain two or three of the town watchmen to visit the graveyard with lanterns and pistols; which, after some delay and demurring on the part of the guardians of the night, and a promise of a reward on the part of Mrs. Shrowdwell, they consented to do. After some searching the watchmen found the vault, and in front of it poor Shrowdwell lying on his back in a senseless state. They sent for a physician, who administered some stimulants, and gradually brought him to his senses, and upon his legs. He couldn't give any clear account of the adventure. The vault door was closed, and the moonlight lay calm upon the white stones, and no sounds were heard but the wind, now softly purring among the pines and cedars. They got him home, and, to his wife's joy, found him uninjured. He made light of the affair-told her of the bank-note he had received for the musical coffin, and soon fell soundly asleep. Next morning he went to his iron safe to reassure himself about the bank-note-for he had an uncanny dream about it. To his amazement and grief it was gone, and in its place was a piece of charred paper. The undertaker lost himself in endless speculations about this strange adventure, and began to think there was diabolical witchcraft in the whole business, after all. One day, however, looking over the parish record, he came upon some facts with regard to the Italian family who had owned that vault. On comparing these notes with the re miniscences of one or two of the older inha- | the two other young men (none of whom ac bitants of Boggsville, he made out something like the following history: Signor Domerico Pietri, an Italian exile of noble family, had lived in that town some fifty years since. He was of an unsocial, morose disposition, and very proud. His income was small, and his only son Ludovico, who had decided musical talent, determined to seek his fortune in the larger cities, as a performer on the double-bass. It was said his execution on the harmonic notes was something marvellous. But his father opposed his course, either from motives of family pride, or wishing him to engage in commerce; and one day, during an angry dispute with him, banished him from his house. Very little was known of Ludovico Pietri. He lived a wandering life, and suffered from poverty. Finally all trace was lost of him. The old man died, and was buried, along with other relatives, in the Italian vault. The authorities of the Dutch church had permitted this, on Signor Domerico's renouncing Romanism, and joining the Protestants. But there was a story told of a performer on the double-bass, who played such wild, passionate music, and with such skill, that in his lonely garret, one night, the devil appeared, and offered him a great bag of gold for his big fiddle-proposing at the same time that he should sign a contract that he would not play any more during his lifetime—except at his (the fiend's) bidding. The musician, being very poor, accepted the offer and signed the contract, and the devil vanished with his big fiddle. But afterward the poor musician repented the step he had taken, and took it so to heart that he became insane and died. Now, whether this strange visitor to Mr. Shrowdwell's coffin establishment, who walked the earth in this unhappy frame of mind, was a live man, or the ghost of the poor maniac, was a question which could not be satisfactorily settled. Some hopeless unbelievers said that the strange big fiddle-case was a box of nitroglycerine or fulminating powder, or an infernal machine; while others as firmly believed that there was something supernatural and uncanny about the affair, but ventured no philosophical theory in the case. And as for the undertaker, he was such a hopeless sceptic all his life, that he at last came to the conclusion that he must have been dreaming when he had that adventure in the graveyard; and this notwithstanding William Spindles' repeated declarations, and those of BOTHWELL CASTLE. Ruins and romance have a poetical affinity, which, to the observer, although sometimes sad, is always pleasing. Nowhere is this affinity more perfect than in the precincts of the fine ruins of Bothwell Castle and the old Priory of Blantyre on the Clyde. Wood and water, landscape and memorable associations, combine to endow the place with present beauty and the shadows of past glories. We stand in the midst of a smooth-shaven lawn, the river flowing at our feet; we lift our eyes and, through the surrounding foliage, catch glimpses of the fantastic films of distant smoke-all indicative of the taste, business, and progress of our own day: we take a few steps and stand amidst the tombstones of dead centuries, the mind filled with vague visions of the men and events associated with them in history or fable. There was the first Master of Bothwell, Walter Olifard, who, ever so long ago, when the second Alexander was King of Scots, dealt out justice in his own rough, and, let us hope, fairly honest way to the inhabitants of the Lothians. After him came the family of the Murrays; and they were succeeded by the English Edward's doughty knight, Aymer de Valence, Earl of Pembroke. It was he who held sway in the stirring times when Wallace was struggling for the liberties of his country, and earning all the undying fame which can be given by a nation's love and a nation's song and legend. In this same castle, says the story, De Valence opened negotiations with the faithless Sir John Menteith for the betrayal of his friend and chief, Wallace. For his share in this conspiracy tradition visited De Valence with a heavy punishment, for it tells us that "this earl (Pembroke) seemed to have a divine interdict depending over him;" he never prospered after, and he fell in a tournament on his bridal morning, thus leaving his unhappy lady "maid, bride, and widow." It is amusing to note, however, that he had been wed twice before. Then came the triumph of Bruce, and he gave the castle to his sister Christian's husband, Andrew Murray, Lord Bothwell. With their granddaughter the castle passed to the hands of Archibald, the Grim Douglas, and remained with that family until forfeited by them in the time of James II. Lord Crichton was the next Master of Bothwell; and now the lands begin to be divided, for his lordship parted with the moor and forest to Lord Hamilton in exchange for the lands of Kingswell. After Crichton appears Lord Monipenny; he enjoyed possession for a space during the minority of the third James, who, upon attaining his majority, altered his mind about the destination of Bothwell, took it from the then owner and gave it to his favourite, Sir John Ramsay. The latter was the same John Ramsay who, when the king's favourites were hung at Lauder, saved his neck by clinging to the king's knees and crying for mercy: his youth, his abject terror, and the king's supplication, induced the fierce barons to spare his life. Ramsay was subsequently involved in some very ugly. looking transactions with the English court, threatening the life of the Scottish monarch. Be that as it may, the fourth James gave the castle to Adam Hepburn, the forebear of the most famous or infamous of the Earls of Bothwell-he who bears the blame of Darnley's murder, and who married Darnley's unfortunate widow. Francis Stewart, son of the Abbot of Kelso (the latter was a natural son of James V.), became the next possessor; but he, too, forfeited the estate, which was bestowed upon the Lairds of Buccleugh and Roxburgh, from whom the Marquis of Hamilton acquired the superiority and patronage of the lordship. The Earl of Angus obtained the castle and a third of the lordship in exchange for the lordship of Liddisdale; and he and his son Archibald, early in the seventeenth century, began to dispose of part of the land in feus, retaining, however, the castle and mains of Bothwell. For a short time Archibald, Earl of Forfar— who died of wounds received at Sherriffmuirenjoyed possession of the castle and mains as his patrimonial portion; but on his death they reverted to the Douglas family. What vicissitudes, what tragedies and comedies, what petty speculations, and what grand passions lie under this list of the changes of years! What a gay time there must have been in the castle during the twenty-six days spent there by Edward III.; and what a commotion when, two years later, the Scots besieged the place and took it from the English. As a contrast we have the Marquis of Montrose, showing his respect for learning, sitting there in the midst of turmoil, and burdened with the anxieties of his high enterprise, calmly writing a pass for Drummond of Hawthornden, so that the poet might move in safety throughout his camp. It would be curious to compare the impression the scene made upon the poet of the seventeenth century with the experiences of the poet of our own century. Here is what Wordsworth thought of Bothwell and its sur roundings: "It was exceedingly delightful to enter thus unexpectedly upon such a beautiful region. The castle stands nobly overlooking the Clyde. When we came up to it I was hurt to see that flower-borders had taken place of the natural overgrowings of the ruin, the scattered stones, and wild plants. It is a large and grand pile of red freestone, harmonizing perfectly with the rocks of the river, from which no doubt it has been hewn. When I was a little accustomed to the unnaturalness of a modern garden, I could not help admiring the excessive beauty and luxuriance of some of the plants, particularly the purple-flowered clematis, and a broad-leaved creeping plant without flowers, which scrambled up the castle-wall along with the ivy, and spread its vine-like branches so lavishly that it seemed to be in its natural situation, and one could not help thinking that though not self-planted among the ruins of this country, it must somewhere have its native abode in such places. If Bothwell Castle had not been close to the Douglas mansion, we should have been disgusted with the possessor's miserable conception of adorning such a venerable ruin; but it is so very near to the house that of necessity the pleasure-grounds must have extended beyond it, and perhaps the neatness of a shaven lawn and the complete desolation natural to a ruin might have made an unpleasing contrast; and besides being within the precincts of the pleasure-grounds, and so very near to the dwelling of a noble family, it has forfeited, in some degree, its independent majesty, and becomes a tributary to the mansion; its solitude being interrupted, it has no longer the command over the mind in sending it back into past times, or excluding the ordinary feelings which we bear about us in daily life. . . We sat upon a bench under the high trees and had beautiful views of the different reaches of the river, above and below. On the opposite bank, which is finely wooded with elms and other trees, are the remains of a priory built upon a rock; and rock and ruin are so blended that it is impossible to separate the one from the other. Nothing can be more beautiful than the little remnant of this holy place: elm-trees grow out of the walls and overshadow a small but very elegant window. It can scarcely be conceived what a grace the castle and priory impart to each other; and the river Clyde flows on, smooth and unruffled below, seeming to my thoughts more in harmony with the sober and stately images of former times, than if it had roared over a rocky channel, forcing its sound upon the ear. It blended gently with the warbling of the smaller birds and the chatterVOL. IIL ing of the larger ones, that ha' made their nests in the ruins. In this fortress the chief of the English nobility were confined after the battle of Bannockburn. If a man is to be a prisoner, he scarcely could have a more pleasant place to solace to his captivity." In a sonnet written during a tour in Scotland, Wordsworth says: "Immured in Bothwell's towers, at times the Brave The real force of these last lines will be re alized best by the light of the pretty story so quaintly told by old Richard Verstegan in his book published at Antwerp in 1605, and entitled A Restitution of Decayed Intelligence in Antiquities concerning the most noble and renowned English Nation. This is the story: "So fell it out of late years that an English gentleman travelling in Palestine, not far from Jerusalem, as he passed through a country town, he heard by chance a woman, sitting at the door dandling her child, to sing"On the blythe Beltane, as I went By myself attour the green bent, Wharby the glancand waves of Clyde Through haughs and hangand hazels glide, There, sadly sitting on a brae, I heard a damsel speak her wae. And haply now sleeps in the clay; "The gentleman hereat exceedingly wondered, and forthwith, in English, saluted the woman, who joyfully answered him, and saidShe was right glad there to see a gentleman of our isle; and told him that she was a Scotch woman, and came first from Scotland to Venice, and from Venice thither; where her fortune was to be the wife of an officer under the Turk, who being at that instant absent and very soon to return, she entreated the gentleman to stay there until his return. The which he did; and she, for country's sake, to show herself more kind and bountiful unto him, told her husband 65 |