"An' ye ken," continued Dan, "that he was shot on Dumfries sands this simmer. It is his ghaist come to haunt the place whar he baid, an'

prayed sae aften."

"Ower true! Ower true! it's awsome to think o'," was the general remark.

"Let us go to prayers," said Nanny: "it isna a time to creep into nooks on aboon other, an' gie way to despair. There is but Ane that _can_ guard or protect us, let us apply there."

"Something has been done that way already," said Davie Tait; "we canna come to handygrips wi' him, an' force him to stand senter at our door a'

night."

Davie's matter was exhausted on the subject, and he did not much relish going over the same words again, which, he acknowledged, were _rather kenspeckle_; nor yet to venture on composing new ones out of his own head: this made him disposed to waive Nanny's proposal.

"Ay," answered she, "but we mauna haud just wi' saying gie us this, an'

gie us that; and than, because we dinna just get it aff loof, drap the plea an' despair. Na, na, dear bairns, that's nae part o' the christian warfare! we maun plead wi' humility, and plead again, an' never was there mair cause for rousing to exertion than now. The times are momentous, and some great change is drawing near, for the dead are astir-I have seen them mysel'. Yes, the severed members that were scattered, and buried apart, are come thegither again-joined, an' gaun aboon the grund, mouthing the air o' Heaven. I saw it mysel-Can it be that the resurrection is begun? It is a far away thought for the thing itsel to be as near; but it's a glorious ane, an' there's proof o't. But then the place an' the time are doubtfu'-had it been sun proof I wad hae likit it better. We little wot what to say or think under sic visitations. Let us apply to the only source of light and direction.

David, be you a mouth to us."

"A mouth?" said Davie; but recollecting himself, added-"Hum, I understand you; but I hae mouthed mair already than has come to ony good. I like fock to pray that hae some chance to be heard; some fock may scraugh themsels hersh, and be nae the better."

"Oh fie, David! speak wi' some reverence," said his wife Maysey.

"I mint.i.t at naething else," said he, "but I hae an unreverent kind o'

tongue that nought ever serouslike fa's frae, let my frame o' mind be as it will; an' troth I haena command o' language for a job like this. I trow the prelates hae the best way after a', for they get prayers ready made to their hands, an' disna need to affront their Maker wi'

blunders."

"How can ye speak sae the night, David? or how can sic a thought hover round your heart as to flee out at random that gate? If ye will _read_ prayers, there's a book, read them out o' that; if the words o' G.o.d winna suit the cases o' his ain creatures, how can ye trow the words o'

another man can do it? But pray wi' the heart, an' pray in humility, and fearna being accepted."

"That's true; but yet ane maks but a poor figure wi' the heart by itsel."

"Wow, Davie, man," quoth Maysey, his wife, "an' ye mak but a poor figure indeed, when we're a' in sic a plight! Ye hear the woman speaks gude truth; an' ye ken yoursel ye fenced us against the Brownie afore, but no against Kirky's ghaist; tak the beuk like a man, an' pit the fence o'

scripture faith round us for that too."

Stupid as Maysey was, she knew the way to her husband's heart. Davie could not resist such an appeal-he took the Bible; sung the 143d psalm, from beginning to end, at Nanny's request; and likewise, by her direction, read the 20th of Revelations; then kneeling down on his bare knees, legs, and feet, as he fled from the kitchen, on the damp miry floor of the milkhouse, he essayed a strong energetic prayer as a fence against the invading ghost. But as Davie acknowledged, he had an irreverend expression naturally, that no effort could overcome, (and by the bye, there is more in this than mankind are in general aware of,) and the more he aimed at sublimity, the more ludicrous he grew, even to common ears. There is scarcely a boy in the country who cannot recite sc.r.a.ps of Davie Tait's prayer; but were I to set all that is preserved of it down here, it might be construed as a mockery of that holy ordinance, than which nothing is so far from my heart or intention; but, convinced as I am that a rude exhibition in such a divine solemnity is of all things the most indecent and unbecoming, I think such should be held up to ridicule, as a warning to all Christians never to ask ignorance or absurdity to perform this sacred duty in public. The sublime part of it therefore is given, which was meant as a fence against the spirit that had set up his rest so near. To such as are not acquainted with the pastoral terms, the meaning in some parts may be equivocal; to those who are, the train of thinking will be obvious.-It is part of a genuine prayer.

"But the last time we gathered oursels before thee, we left out a wing o' the hirsel by mistake, an' thou hast paid us hame i' our ain coin. Thou wart sae gude than as come to the sheddin thysel, an' clap our heads, an' whisper i' our lugs, 'dinna be disheartened, my puir bits o' waefu' things, for though ye be the shotts o' my hale fauld, I'll take care o' ye, an' herd ye, an'

gie ye a' that ye hae askit o' me the night.' It was kind, an'

thou hast done it; but we forgot a princ.i.p.al part, an' maun tell thee now, that we have had another visitor sin' ye war here, an'

ane wha's back we wad rather see than his face. Thou kens better thysel than we can tell thee what place he has made his escape frae; but we sair dread it is frae the boddomless pit, or he wadna hae ta'en possession but leave. Ye ken, that gang tried to keep vilent leasehaud o' your ain fields, an' your ain ha', till ye gae them a killicoup. If he be ane o' them, O come thysel to our help, an' bring in thy hand a bolt o' divine vengeance, het i' the furnace o' thy wrath as reed as a nailstring, an' bizz him an'

scouder him till ye dinna leave him the likeness of a paper izel, until he be glad to creep into the wormholes o' the earth, never to see sun or sterns mair. But, if it be some puir dumfoundered soul that has been b.u.mbased and stoundit at the view o' the lang Hopes an' the Downfa's o' Eternity, comed daundering away frae about the laiggen girds o' Heaven to the waefu' gang that he left behind, like a lost sheep that strays frae the rich pastures o'

the south, an' comes bleating back a' the gate to its cauld native hills, to the very gair where it was lambed and first followed its minny, ane canna help haeing a fellowfeeling wi' the puir soul after a', but yet he'll find himsel here like a cow in an unco loan. Therefore, O furnish him this night wi' the wings o'

the wild gainner or the eagle, that he may swoof away back to a better hame than this, for we want nane o' his company. An' do thou give to the puir stray thing a weelhained heff and a beildy lair, that he may nae mair come straggling amang a stock that's sae unlike himsel, that they're fright.i.t at the very look o' him.

"Thou hast promised in thy Word to be our shepherd, our guider an' director; an' thy word's as gude as some men's aith, an' we'll haud thee at it. Therefore take thy plaid about thee, thy staff in thy hand, an' thy dog at thy fit, an' gather us a' in frae the cauld windy knowes o' selfconceit-the plashy bogs an' mires o'

sensuality, an' the damp flows o' worldlymindedness, an' wyse us a' into the true bught o' life, made o' the flakes o' forgiveness and the door o' lovingkindness; an' never do thou suffer us to be heft.i.t e'ening or morning, but gie lashin' meals o' the milk o'

praise, the ream o' thankfu'ness, an' the b.u.t.ter o' goodworks.

An' do thou, in thy good time an' way, smear us ower the hale bouk wi' the tar o' adversity, weel mixed up wi' the meinging of repentance, that we may be kiver'd ower wi' gude bouzy shakerough fleeces o' faith, a' run out on the hips, an' as brown as a tod.

An' do thou, moreover, fauld us owernight, an' every night, in within the true sheepfauld o' thy covenant, weel buggen wi' the stanes o' salvation, an' caped wi' the divots o' grace. An' then wi' sic a shepherd, an' sic a sheepfauld, what hae wi' to be feared for? Na, na! we'll fear naething but sin!-We'll never mair scare at the poollywoolly o' the whaup, nor swirl at the gelloch o' the ern; for if the arm of our Shepherd be about us for good, a' the imps, an' a' the powers o' darkness, canna wrang a hair o'

our tails."

All the family arose from their knees with altered looks. Thus fenced, a new energy glowed in every breast. Poor Maysey, proud of her husband's bold and sublime intercession, and trusting in the divine fence now raised around them, rose with the tear in her eye, seized the lamp, and led the way, followed by all the rest, to retake the apartment of Kirky's ghost by open a.s.sault. Nanny, whose faith wont to be superior to all these things, lagged behind, dreading to see the sight that she had seen on the Sat.u.r.day night before; and the bold intercessor himself kept her company, on pretence of a sleeping leg; but, in truth, his faith in his own intercession and fence did not mount very high. All the apartment was searched-every chest, corner, and hole that could be thought of-every thing was quiet, and not so much as a mouse stirring!-not a bedcover folded down, nor the smallest remembered article missing! All the family saw Kirky's ghost enter in his own likeness, and heard him speak in his wonted tongue, except old Nanny. It was a great and wonderful victory gained. They were again in full possession of their own house, a right which they never seemed before to have duly appreciated. They felt grateful and happy; and it was hinted by Maysey, Dan, and uncle Nicholas, that Davie Tait would turn out a burning and a shining light in these dark and dismal times, and would supersede Messrs Renwick, Shields, and all the curates in the country.

He had laid a visible ghost, that might be the devil for aught they knew to the contrary; and it was argued on all hands, that "Davie was nae sma' drink."

The whole of the simple group felt happy and grateful; and they agreed to sit another hour or two before they went to sleep, and each one read a chapter from the Bible, and recite a psalm or hymn. They did so, until it came to Nanny's turn.

[Music: A Cameronian's Midnight Hymn.

O thou who dwell'st in the heavens high, Above yon Stars and within yon Sky, Where the dazzling fields never needed light, Of the Sun by day nor the Moon by night, Where the dazzling fields never needed light, Of the Sun by day nor the Moon by night.

She laid her hands across each other on her breast, turned in the b.a.l.l.s of her halfclosed eyes so that nothing was seen but the white, and, with her face raised upwards, and a slow rocking motion, she sung the following hymn, to a strain the most solemn that ever was heard. A sc.r.a.p of this ancient melody is still preserved, and here subjoined, for without its effect the words are nothing.

O thou, who dwell'st in the heavens high, Above yon stars, and within yon sky, Where the dazzling fields never needed light Of the sun by day, nor the moon by night!

Though shining millions around thee stand, For the sake of one that's at thy right hand, O think of them that have cost him dear, Still chained in doubt and in darkness here!

Our night is dreary, and dim our day; And if thou turn'st thy face away, We are sinful, feeble, and helpless dust, And have none to look to, and none to trust.

The powers of darkness are all abroad, They own no Saviour, and fear no G.o.d; And we are trembling in dumb dismay, O turn not thus thy face away!

Our morning dawn is with clouds o'erspread, And our evening fall is a b.l.o.o.d.y red; And the groans are heard on the mountain swarth; There is blood in heaven, and blood on earth.

A life of scorn for us thou did'st lead, And in the grave laid thy blessed head; Then think of those who undauntedly Have laid down life and all for thee.

Thou wilt not turn them forth in wrath, To walk this world of sin and death, In shadowy dim deformity?

O G.o.d it may not-cannot be!

Thy aid, O mighty One, we crave!

Not shortened is thy arm to save.

Afar from thee we now sojourn Return to us, O G.o.d, return!

This air, having a great resemblance to the tone and manner in which the old Cameronians said, or rather sung their prayers, and just no more music in it, as the singer will perceive, than what renders the recitation more slow and solemn, Nanny's hymn affected the family group in no ordinary degree; it made the hairs of their head creep, and thrilled their simple hearts, easily impressed by divine things, while their looks strongly expressed their feelings. None of them would read or recite any thing farther, but entreated Nanny to say it over again, affirming, with one voice that "it was an _extrodnar_ thing."

"Ah! dear, dear bairns! I dinna ken about it," said she; "he was a good cannie lad that made it, but he mixed wi' the scoffers, and turned to hae his doubts and his failings like mony ane, (Lord forgie us a' for our share in them;) he seems even to have doubted o' the Omnipresence when he penned that, which was far far wrang. I'll rather say ye ane on that subject that he had made when in a better way o' thinking. It is said that the Englishes sing it in their chapels."

She then attempted one in a bolder and more regular strain, but wanting the simplicity of the former, it failed in having the same effect. As it, however, closed the transactions of that momentous night at Riskinhope, we shall with it close this long chapter.

Dweller in heaven and ruler below!

Fain would I know thee, yet tremble to know!

How can a mortal deem, how may it be, That being can not be, but present with thee?

Is it true that thou saw'st me ere I saw the morn?

Is it true that thou knew'st me before I was born?

That nature must live in the light of thine eye?

This knowledge for me is too great and too high!

That fly I to noonday, or fly I to night, To shroud me in darkness, or bathe me in light, The light and the darkness to thee are the same, And still in thy presence of wonder I am?

Should I with the dove to the desert repair; Or dwell with the eagle in clough of the air; In the desart afar, on the mountain's wild brink, From the eye of Omnipotence still must I shrink?

Or mount I on wings of the morning away To caves of the ocean unseen by the day, And hide in these uttermost parts of the sea, Even there to be living and moving in thee?

Nay, scale I the cloud in the heavens to dwell; Or make I my bed in the shadows of h.e.l.l; Can science expound, or humanity frame, That still thou art present, and all are the same?