"Yu-hoo! come back, Beeny, ye'll maybe win yet. Custy's away gree_tin"_ _(going up on the last syllable)._

"I'm no greetin, ye rude bairns," said Christie, bursting into tears, and retiring as soon as she had effected that proof of her philosophy.

It was about four hours later; Christie had s.n.a.t.c.hed some repose. The wind, as Flucker prognosticated, had grown into a very heavy gale, and the Firth was brown and boiling.

Suddenly a clamor was heard on the sh.o.r.e, and soon after a fishwife made her appearance, with rather a singular burden.

Her husband, ladies; _rien que cela._

She had him by the scruff of the neck; he was _dos-'a-dos,_ with his booted legs kicking in the air, and his fists making warlike but idle demonstrations and his mouth uttering ineffectual bad language.

This worthy had been called a coward by Sandy Liston, and being about to fight with him, and get thrashed, his wife had whipped him up and carried him away; she now flung him down, at some risk of his equilibrium.

"Ye are not fit to feicht wi' Sandy Liston," said she; "if ye are for feichtin, here's for ye."

As a comment to this proposal, she tucked up the sleeves of her short gown. He tried to run by her; she caught him by the bosom, and gave him a violent push, that sent him several paces backward; he looked half fierce, half astounded; ere he could quite recover himself, his little servant forced a pipe into his hand, and he smoked contented and peaceable.

Before tobacco the evil pa.s.sions fall, they tell me.

The cause of this quarrel soon explained itself; up came Sandy Liston, cursing and swearing.

"What! ye hae gotten till your wife's; that's the place for ye; to say there's a brig in distress, and ye'll let her go on the rocks under your noses. But what are ye afraid o'? there's na danger?"

"Nae danger!" said one of the reproached, "are ye fou?"

"Ye are fou wi' fear yoursel'; of a' the beasts that crawl the airth, a cooward is the ugliest, I think."

"The wifes will no let us," said one, sulkily.

"It's the woman in your hairts that keeps ye," roared Sandy hoa.r.s.ely; "curse ye, ye are sure to dee ane day, and ye are sure to be----!" (a past participle) "soon or late, what signifies when? Oh! curse the hour ever I was born amang sic a cooardly crew." _(Gun at sea.)_

"There!"

"She speaks till ye, hersel'; she cries for maircy; to think that, of a' that hear ye cry, Alexander Liston is the only mon mon enough to answer." _(Gun.)_

"You are mistaken, Mr. Alexander Liston," said a clear, smart voice, whose owner had mingled un.o.bserved with the throng; "there are always men to answer such occasions; now, my lads, your boats have plenty of beam, and, well handled, should live in any sea; who volunteers with Alexander Liston and me?"

The speaker was Lord Ipsden.

The fishwives of Newhaven, more accustomed to measure men than poor little Lady Barbara Sinclair, saw in this man what in point of fact he was--a cool, daring devil, than whom none more likely to lead men into mortal danger, or pull them through it, for that matter.

They recognized their natural enemy, and collected together against him, like hens at the sight of a hawk.

"And would you really entice our men till their death?"

"My life's worth as much as theirs, I suppose.

"Nae! your life! it's na worth a b.u.t.ton; when you dee, your next kin will dance, and wha'll greet? but our men hae wife and bairns to look till." _(Gun at sea.)_

"Ah! I didn't look at it in that light," said Lord Ipsden. He then demanded paper and ink; Christie Johnstone, who had come out of her house, supplied it from her treasures, and this cool hand actually began to convey a hundred and fifty thousand pounds away, upon a sheet of paper blowing in the wind; when he had named his residuary legatee, and disposed of certain large bequests, he came to the point--

"Christie Johnstone, what can these people live on? two hundred a year?

living is cheap here--confound the wind!"

"Twahundred? Fifty! Vile count."

"Don't call me vile count. I am Ipsden, and my name's Richard. Now, then, be smart with your names."

Three men stepped forward, gave their names, had their widows provided for, and went for their sou'westers, etc.

"Stay," said Lord Ipsden, writing. "To Christina Johnstone, out of respect for her character, one thousand pounds."

"Richard! dinna gang," cried Christie, "oh, dinna gang, dinna gang, dinna gang; it's no your business."

"Will you lend me your papa's Flushing jacket and sou'wester, my dear?

If I was sure to be drowned, I'd go!"

Christie ran in for them.

In the mean time, discomposed by the wind, and by feelings whose existence neither he, nor I, nor any one suspected, Saunders, after a sore struggle between the frail man and the perfect domestic, blurted out:

"My lord, I beg your lordship's pardon, but it blows tempestuous."

"That is why the brig wants us," was the reply.

"My lord, I beg your lordship's pardon," whimpered Saunders. "But, oh!

my lord, don't go; it's all very well for fishermen to be drowned; it is their business, but not yours, my lord."

"Saunders, help me on with this coat."

Christie had brought it.

"Yes, my lord," said Saunders, briskly, his second nature reviving.

His lordship, while putting on the coat and hat, undertook to cool Mr.

Saunders's aristocratic prejudices.

"Should Alexander Liston and I be drowned," said he, coolly, "when our bones come ash.o.r.e, you will not know which are the fisherman's and which the viscount's." So saying, he joined the enterprise.

"I shall pray for ye, lad," said Christie Johnstone, and she retired for that purpose.

Saunders, with a heavy heart, to the nearest tavern, to prepare an account of what he called "Heroism in High Life," large letters, and the usual signs of great astonishment!!!!! for the _Polytechnic Magazine._

The commander of the distressed vessel had been penny-wise. He had declined a pilot off the Isle of May, trusting to fall in with one close to the port of Leith; but a heavy gale and fog had come on; he knew himself in the vicinity of dangerous rocks; and, to make matters worse, his ship, old and sore battered by a long and stormy voyage, was leaky; and unless a pilot came alongside, his fate would be, either to founder, or run upon the rocks, where he must expect to go to pieces in a quarter of an hour.

The Newhaven boat lay in comparatively smooth water, on the lee side of the pier.

Our adventurers got into her, stepped the mast, set a small sail, and ran out! Sandy Liston held the sheet, pa.s.sed once round the belaying-pin, and whenever a larger wave than usual came at them, he slacked the sheet, and the boat, losing her way, rose gently, like a cork, upon seas that had seemed about to swallow her.