CHAMBERS'S

POCKET MISCELLANY.

A STORY OF THE FORTY-FIVE.'

THE little lonely Inn of Crook, near the source of the Tweed, is a spot well known to travellers and tourists, and withal one much admired by them, being, as it were, an oasis in the desert, a place of rest and refreshment in a cold and mountainous wilderness. This place, or rather its neighbourhood, was the scene of a strange adventure, many years ago, which we propose to narrate to the reader in a more complete form than it has hitherto appeared.

One misty morning, in the autumn of 1746, George Black, the landlord of the Crook Inn, stood at the door of his isolated dwelling, eyeing attentively the heavens above him, and the mountains around him, for want, it may be, of anything better to do. Confoun' these mists!' muttered he; 'they'll no clear up the hail day, I doot. Gin this weather gang on muckle langer, we may shut our doors when we like. No ae leevin' thing,' continued he, stepping out to the middle of the road that passed his house, and looking first up and then down the narrow vale—'no ae leevin' thing to be seen either to the richt or to the left. But there's aye ae comfort in this rouky

weather, at onyrate; for if it be the same in the Highlands as it is here, the puir bits o' bodies that's skulkin' aboot the hill-taps winna be sae easily ta'en by the sodgers.' The landlord's observations were suddenly cut short. His eye caught sight of a party of soldiers, the very persons he had been speaking of; and he hurried in to prepare for their anticipated visit.

Meanwhile, the little party of soldiers which had caught his eye, marched slowly up the vale, along the soft and plashy road that ran nearly parallel with the Tweed. Such detachments were no uncommon visitors of the Crook, for this little hostel lay on the direct road from the Highlands towards Carlisle, whither the northern rebels were at this time regularly sent, as taken, in order that they might be tried at a cool distance from all partial influences, and where, at this particular time, scarcely a week passed without seeing numbers of them executed according to the approved style dictated by the English law of high-treason. The well-armed party now advancing to the Crook, was bound on such an errand. They were six or seven in number, with a lieutenant at their head, and in the midst of them walked a tall and finely formed young Highlander, with his right arm pinned for security to his side. Though on his way to certain death, and though his soiled tartans and thin cheek spoke of suffering and privation, the prisoner moved with as firm a tread as his captors, and, but for his bonds, might have been taken as their chief. Of a very different opinion, however, was Lieutenant Howison, the actual leader of the band, a pompous middle-aged man, of low stature, and thickset, rolling figure, which was rendered somewhat ludicrous to look at, by its possessor having bent it into a crescent-the convex side foremost-through longcontinued attempts to acquire a dignified military attitude. Everything which this personage did or said was 'in the king's name.' This was indeed Lieutenant Howison's

tower of strength. It was even alleged, that when he ran away from the battle of Prestonpans, he did it 'in the king's name.'

Such was the person who halted, on the morning al-, luded to, to refresh himself and men at the Inn of Crook, having marched some five or six miles since daybreak. After commanding his soldiers to go with the prisoner into one room, and take some bread and cheese, the lieutenant himself retired to another apartment, there to refresh himself with something of a more savoury nature, if it was to be had. Geordie, in person, waited on the officer, and supplied him with the best the house contained. When this duty had been performed, the landlord then turned his attention to the soldiers, being, in fact, anxious to get a glimpse of the 'puir chield' that had fallen into their hands. In this object he was at first disappointed, the Highlander's face being averted from the rest of the party, and steadily directed towards the window. At last one of the soldiers, with more kindness than any of the others seemed disposed to shew, exclaimed: 'Come, my lad, here's a share of my bit and sup! I shan't see a poor fellow starved neither, rebel though he has been? The prisoner seemingly was touched by the man's good-nature, and turned partly round to benefit by the offer. Geordie Black, on the instant that he got a glimpse of the Highlander's face, was overwhelmed with alarm and vexation. His heart failed him, and it was with a feeling of fainting that he shrunk from the apartment.

It was not until the soldiers were fairly out of sight, that the heart-stricken landlord dared to give vent to his feelings. 'O Peggy, Peggy, woman!' said he when alone with his wife, 'whae do ye think has faun into their murdering clutches but Neil Maclaren! What will become o' Ailie noo, wandering, maybe, by this time frae door to door, without a house to put her head in, or a bit to put in her mouth, or as likely to be dead and gane, since we have na heard from her about this unlucky business. O what could tempt him to gang out, and him a married man wi' a family!' To Geordie's tirade, his wife could only reply by sorrowful exclamations of 'My puir dochter, my puir Ailie!' The forenoon, it may well