of the innocent kindred; nor do I think that the fact itself, though mentioned by ancient lawyers, was ever admitted to proof in the proceedings against Auchindrane.

It is certain, however, that Auchindrane found himself so much the object of suspicion from this new crime, that he resolved to fly from justice, and suffer himself to be declared a rebel and outlaw rather than face a trial. But his conduct in preparing to cover his flight with another motive than the real one, is a curious picture of the men and manners of the times. He knew well that if he were to shun his trial for the murder of Dalrymple, the whole country would consider him as a man guilty of a mean and disgraceful crime in putting to death an obscure lad, against whom he had no personal quarrel. He knew, besides, that his powerful friends, who would have interceded for him had his offence been merely burning a house, or killing a neighbour, would not plead for or stand by him in so pitiful a concern as the slaughter of this wretched wanderer.

Accordingly, Mure sought to provide himself with some ostensible cause for avoiding the law, with which the feelings of his kindred and friends might sympathize; and none occurred to him so natural as an assault upon some friend and adherent of the Earl of Cassilis. Should he kill such a one, it would be indeed an unlawful action, but so far from being infamous, would be accounted the natural consequence of the avowed quarrel between the families. With this purpose, Mure, with the assistance of a relative, of whom he seems always to have had some ready to execute his worst purposes, beset Hugh Kennedy of Garriehorne, a follower of the Earl's, against whom they had especial ill-will, fired their pistols at him, and used other means to put him to death. But Garriehorne, a stout-hearted man, and well armed, defended himself in a very different manner from the unfortunate Knight of Cullayne, and beat off the assailants, wounding young Auchindrane in the right hand, so that he wellnigh lost the use of it.

But though Auchindrane's purpose did not entirely succeed, he availed himself of it to circulate a report, that if he could obtain a pardon for firing upon his feudal enemy with pistols, weapons declared unlawful by act of Parliament, he would willingly stand his trial for the death of Dalrymple, respecting which he protested his total innocence. The King, however, was decidedly of opinion that the Mures, both father and son, were alike guilty of both crimes, and used intercession with the Earl of Abercorn, as a person of power in those western counties, as well as in Ireland, to arrest and transmit them prisoners to Edinburgh. In consequence of the Earl's exertions, old Auchindrane was made prisoner, and lodged in the tolbooth of Edinburgh.

Young Auchindranc no sooner heard that his father was in custody, than he became as apprehensive of Bannatyne, the accomplice in Dalrymple's murder, telling tales, as ever his father had been of Dalrymple. He, therefore, hastened to him, and prevailed on him to pass over for a while to the neighbouring coast of Ireland, finding him money and means to accomplish the voyage, and engaging in the meantime to take care of his affairs in Scotland. Secure, as they thought, in this precaution, old Auchindrane persisted in his innocence, and his son found security to stand his trial. Both appeared with the same confidence at the day appointed, and braved the public justice, hoping to be put to a formal trial, in which Auchindrane reckoned upon an acquittal for want of the evidence which he had removed. The trial was, however, postponed, and Mure the elder was dismissed, under high security to return when called for.

But King James, being convinced of the guilt of the accused, ordered young Auchindrane, instead of being sent to trial, to be examined under the force of torture, in order

to compel him to tell whatever he knew of the things charged against him. He was accordingly severely tortured; but the result only served to show that such examinations are as useless as they are cruel. A man of weak resolution, or of a nervous habit, would probably have assented to any confession, however false, rather than have endured the extremity of fear and pain to which Mure was subjected. But young Auchindrane, a strong and determined ruffian, endured the torture with the utmost firmness, and by the constant audacity with which, in spite of the intolerable pain, he continued to assert his innocence, he spread so favourable an opinion of his case, that the detaining him in prison, instead of bringing him to open trial, was censured as severe and oppressive. James, however, remained firmly persuaded of his guilt, and by an exertion of authority quite inconsistent with our present laws, commanded young Auchindrane to be still detained in close custody till further light could be thrown on these dark proceedings. He was detained accordingly by the King's express personal command, and against the opinion even of his privy counsellors. This exertion of authority was much murmured against.

In the meanwhile old Auchindrane, being, as we have seen, at liberty on pledges, skulked about in the west, feeling how little security he had gained by Dalrymple's murder, and that he had placed himself by that crime in the power of Bannatyne, whose evidence concerning the death of Dalrymple could not be less fatal than what Dalrymple might have told concerning Auchindrane's accession to the conspiracy against Sir Thomas Kennedy of Cullayne. But though the event had shown the error of his wicked policy, Auchindrane could think of no better mode in this case than that which had failed in relation to Dalrymple. When any man's life became inconsistent with his own safety, no idea seems to have occurred to this inveterate ruffian, save to murder the person by whom he might himself be in any way endangered. He therefore attempted the life of James Bannatyne by more agents than one. Nay, he had nearly ripened a plan, by which one Pennycuke was to be employed to slay Bannatyne, while, after the deed was done, it was devised that Mure of Auchnull, a connexion of Bannatyne, should be instigated to slay Pennycuke; and thus close up this train of murders by one, which, flowing in the ordinary course of deadly feud, should have nothing in it so particular as to attract much attention.

But the justice of Heaven would bear this complicated train of iniquity no longer. Bannatyne, knowing with what sort of men he had to deal, kept on his guard, and, by his caution, disconcerted more than one attempt to take his life, while another miscarried by the remorse of Pennycuke, the agent whom Mure employed. At length Bannatyne, tiring of this state of insecurity, and in despair of escaping such repeated plots, and also feeling remorse for the crime to which he had been accessory, resolved rather to submit himself to the severity of the law, than remain the object of the principal criminal's practices. He surrendered himself to the Earl of Abercorn, and was transported to Edinburgh, where he confessed before the King and council all the particulars of the murder of Dalrymple, and the attempt to hide his body by committing it to the sea.

When Bannatyne was confronted with the two Mures before the Privy Council, they denied with vehemence every part of the evidence he had given, and affirmed that the witness had been bribed to destroy them by a false tale. Bannatyne's behaviour seemed sincere and simple, that of Auchindrane more resolute and crafty. The wretched accomplice fell upon his knees, invoking God to witness that all the land in Scotland could not have bribed him to bring a false accusation against a master whom he bad served,

loved, and followed in so many dangers, and calling upon Auchindrane to honour God by confessing the crime he had committed. Mure the elder, on the other hand, boldly replied, that he hoped God would not so far forsake him as to permit him to confess a crime of which he was innocent, and exhorted Bannatyne in his turn to confess the practices by which he had been induced to devise such falsehoods against him.

The two Mures, father and son, were therefore put upon their solemn trial, along with Bannatyne, in 1611, and, after a great deal of evidence had been brought in support of Bannatyne's confession, all three were found guilty. The elder Auchindrane was convicted of counselling and directing the murder of Sir Thomas Kennedy of Cullayne, and also of the actual murder of the lad Dalrymple. Bannatyne and the younger Mure were found guilty of the latter crime, and all three were sentenced to be beheaded. Bannatyne, however, the accomplice, received the King's pardon, in consequence of his voluntary surrender and confession.

The two Mures were both executed. The younger was affected by the remonstrances of the clergy who attended him, and he confessed the guilt of which he was accused. The father, also, was at length brought to avow the fact, but in other respects died as impenitent as he had lived; and so ended this dark and extraordinary tragedy. The Lord Advocate of the day, Sir Thomas Hamilton, afterwards successively Earl of Melrose and of Haddington, seems to have busied himself much in drawing up a statement of this foul transaction, for the purpose of vindicating to the people of Scotland the severe course of justice observed by King James VI. He assumes the task in a high tone of prerogative law, and, on the whole, seems at a loss whether to attribute to Providence, or to his most Sacred Majesty, the greatest share in bringing to light these mysterious villanies, but rather inclines to the latter opinion. There is, I believe, no printed copy of the intended tract, which seems never to have been published; but the curious will be enabled to judge of it, as it appears in the next fasciculus of Mr. Robert Pitcairn's very interesting publications from the Scottish Criminal Record.

The family of Auchindrane did not become extinct on the death of the two homicides. The last descendant existed in the eighteenth century, a poor and distressed man. The following anecdote shows that he had a strong feeling of his situation.

There was in front of the old castle a huge ash-tree, called the Dule-tree (mourning-tree) of Auchindrane, probably because it was the place where the Baron executed the criminals who fell under his jurisdiction. It is described as having been the finest tree of the neighbourhood. This last representative of the family of Auchindrane had the misfortune to be arrested for payment of a small debt) and, unable to discharge it, was preparing to accompany the messenger (bailiff) to the jail of Ayr. The servant of the law had compassion for his prisoner, and offered to accept of this remarkable tree as of value adequate to the discharge of the debt. "What!" said the debtor; "Sell the

Dule-tree of Auchindrane! I will sooner die in the worst dungeon of your prison." In this luckless character the line of Auchindrane ended. The family, blackened with the crimes of its predecessors, became extinct, and the estate passed into other hands.

DRAMATIS PERSONE.

JOHN MURE OF AUCHINDRANE, an Ayrshire Baron. He has been a follower of the Regent, Earl of Morton, during the Civil Wars, and hides an oppressive, ferocious, and unscrupulous disposition, under some pretences to strictness of life and doctrine, which, however, never influence his conduct. He is in danger from the law, owing to bis having been formerly active in the assassination of the Earl of Cassilis. PHILIP MURE, his Son, a wild, debauched Profligate, professing and practising a contempt for his Father's hypocrisy, while he is as fierce and licentious as Auchindrane himself.

GIFFORD, their Relation, a Courtier. QUENTIN BLANE, a Youth, educated for a Clergyman, but sent by AUCHINDRANE to serve in a Band of Auxiliaries in the Wars of the Netherlands, and lately employed as Clerk or Comptroller to the Regiment-Disbanded, however, and on his return to his native Country. He is of a mild, gentle, and rather feeble character, ilable to be influenced by any person of stronger mind who will take the trouble to direct him. He is somewhat of a nervous temperament, varying from sadness to galety, according to the impulse of the moment; an amiable hypochondriac. HILDEBRAND, a stout old Englishman, who, by feats of courage, has raised bimself to the rank of Sergeant-Major, (then of greater consequence than at present.) De, too, has been disbanded, but cannot bring himself to believe that he has lost his command over his Regiment. ABRAHAM, WILLIAMS, JENKIN.

And Other

Privates dismissed from the same Regiment in which QUENTIN and HILDEBRAND had served. These are mutinous, and are much disposed to remember former quar rels with their late officers.

NIEL MACLELLAN, Keeper of Auchindrane Forest and Game. EARL OF DUNBAR, commanding an Army as Lieutenant of James I., for execution of Justice on Offenders.

Guards, Attendants, etc. etc.

MARION, Wife of NIEL MACLELLAN.
ISABEL, their Daughter, a Girl of six years old.
Other Children and reasant Women.

AUCHINDRANE;

OR

THE AYRSHIRE TRAGEDY.

ACT I. SCENE I.

A rocky Bay on the Coast of Carrick, in Ayrshire, not far from the Point of Turnberry. The Sea comes in upon a bold rocky Shore. The remains of a small half-ruined Tower are seen on the right hand, overhanging the Sea. There is a vessel at a distance in the offing.

A Boat at the bottom of the Stage lands eight or ten Persons, dressed like disbanded, and in one or two cases like disabled Soldiers. They come straggling forward with their knapsacks and bundles. HILDEBRAND, the Sergeant, belonging to the Party, a stout elderly man, stands by the boat, as if superintending the disembarkation. QUENTIN remains apart.

Abraham. Farewell, the flats of Holland, and right welcome

"Efter the pronunceing and declairing of the quhilk determination and delyuerance of the saidis persones of Assyse, The Justice, in respect thairof, be the mouth of Alexander Kennydie, dempster of Court, decernit and adiudget the saidis Johnne Mure of Auchindrane elder, James Mure of Auchindrane younger, his eldest sone and appeirand air, and James Bannatyne, callit of Chapel-Donane, aud ilk ane of thame, to be tane to the mercat croce of the burcht of Edinburgh, and thair, upone ane scaffold, thair heidis to be strukin frome thair bodeyis: And all thair landis, heritages, takis, steidingis, rowmes, possessiones, teyndis, coirnes, cattell, iusicht plenissing, guidis, geir, tytillis, proffeitis, commoditeis, and richtis quhatsumeuir, directlie or indirectlie pertening to thame, or ony of thame, at the committing

Thou art our comrade still for good or evil.

Else take thy course apart, or with the clerk thereA sergeant thou, and he being all thy regiment.

Ser. Is't come to this, knaves? And think you not, That if you bear a name o'er other soldiers, It was because you follow'd to the charge One that had zeal and skill enough to lead you Where fame was won by danger?

Wil. We grant thy skill in leading, noble sergeant; Witness some empty boots and sleeves amongst us, Which else had still been tenanted with limbs In the full quantity; and for the arguments With which you used to back our resolution, Our shoulders do record them. At a word, Will you conform, or must we part our company? Ser. Conform to you? Base dogs! I would not lead A bolt-flight farther to be made a general.

[you

Mean mutineers! when you swill'd off the dregs
Of my poor sea-stores, it was, "Noble Sergeant-
Heaven bless old Hildebrand-we'll follow him,
At least, until we safely see him lodged
Within the merry bounds of his own England!"

Wil. Ay, truly, sir; but, mark, the ale was mighty,
And the geneva potent. Such stout liquor
Makes violent protestations. Skink it round,
If you have any left, to the same tune,
And we may find a chorus for it still.

Abr. We lose our time.-Tell us at once, old man, If thou wilt march with us, or stay with Quentin? Ser. Out, mutineers! Dishonour dog your heels! Abr. Wilful will have his way. Adieu, stout Hildebrand!

[The Soldiers go off laughing, and taking leave, with mockery, of the SERGEANT and QUENTIN, who remain on the Stage.

Quen. But mine is not fantastic. I can tell thee, Since I have known thee still my faithful friend, In part at least the dangerous plight I stand in. Ser. And I will hear thee willingly, the rather That I would let these vagabonds march on, Nor join their troop again. Besides, good sooth, I'm wearied with the toil of yesterday, And revel of last night.-And I may aid thee; Yes, I may aid thee, comrade, and perchance Thou mayst advantage me.

[friend,

Quen. May it prove well for both!-But note, my I can but intimate my mystic story.

Some of it lies so secret,-even the winds

That whistle round us must not know the wholeAn oath!-an oath!

Ser.

That must be kept, of course.

I ask but that which thou mayst freely tell.
Quen. I was an orphan boy, and first saw light
Not far from where we stand-my lineage low,
But honest in its poverty. A lord,
The master of the soil for many a mile,
Dreaded and powerful, took a kindly charge
For my advance in letters, and the qualities
Of the poor orphan lad drew some applause.
The knight was proud of me, and, in his halls,
I had such kind of welcome as the great
Give to the humble, whom they love to point to
As objects not unworthy their protection,
Whose progress is some honour to their patron—
A cure was spoken of, which I might serve,

fail you to follow

Yon goodly fellowship and fair example?
Come, take your wild-goose flight. I know you Scots,
Like your own sea-fowl, seek your course together.
Quen. Faith, a poor heron I, who wing my flight
In loneliness, or with a single partner;
And right it is that I should seek for solitude,
Bringing but evil luck on them I herd with.

Ser. Thou'rt thankless. Had we landed on the coast,
Where our course bore us, thou wert far from home:
But the fierce wind that drove us round the island,
Barring each port and inlet that we aim'd at,
Hath wafted thee to harbour; for I judge
This is thy native land we disembark on. [I look on,
Quen. True, worthy friend. Each rock, each stream
Each bosky wood, and every frowning tower,
Awakens some young dream of infancy.

Yet such is my hard hap, I might more safely
Have look'd on Indian cliffs, or Afric's desert,
Than on my native shores. I'm like a babe,
Doom'd to draw poison from my nurse's bosom.

1 [MS.-Quentin. "My short tale

Grows mystic now. Among the deadly feuds

Which curse our country, something once it chanced

Ser. Hitherto thy luck

Was of the best, good friend. Few lords had cared
If thou couldst read thy grammar or thy psalter.
Thou hadst been valued couldst thou scour a harness,
And dress a steed distinctly.
Quen.

My old master
Held different doctrine, at least it seem'd so-
But he was mix'd in many a deadly feud-
And here my tale grows mystic. I became,
Unwitting and unwilling, the depositary
Of a dread secret, and the knowledge on't
Has wreck'd my peace for ever. It became
My patron's will, that I, as one who knew
More than I should, must leave the realm of Scotland,
And live or die within a distant land."

Ser. Ah! thou hast done a fault in some wild raid, As you wild Scotsmen call them.

Tower after tower conceal'd me, willing still
To hide my ill-omen'd face with owls and ravens,'
And let my patron's safety be the purchase
Of my severe and desolate captivity.

So thought I, when dark Arran, with its walls
Of native rock, enclosed me. There I lurk'd,
A peaceful stranger amid armed clans,
Without a friend to love or to defend me,
Where all beside were link'd by close alliances.
At length I made my option to take service
In that same legion of auxiliaries

In which we lately served the Belgian.
Our leader, stout Montgomery, hath been kind
Through full six years of warfare, and assign'd me
More peaceful tasks than the rough front of war,
For which my education little suited me.

Ser. Ay, therein was Montgomery kind indeed; Nay, kinder than you think, my simple Quentin. The letters which you brought to the Montgomery, Pointed to thrust thee on some desperate service, Which should most likely end thee.

Quen. Bore I such letters ?-Surely, comrade, no. Full deeply was the writer bound to aid me. Perchance he only meant to prove my mettle; And it was but a trick of my bad fortune That gave his letters ill interpretation.

Ser. Ay, but thy better angel wrought for good,
Whatever ill thy evil fate designed thee.
Montgomery pitied thee, and changed thy service
In the rough field for labour in the tent,
More fit for thy green years and peaceful habits.
Quen. Even there his well-meant kindness injured
My comrades hated, undervalued me,

And whatsoe'er of service I could do them,
They guerdon'd with ingratitude and envy—
Such my strange doom, that if I serve a man
At deepest risk, he is my foe for ever!

[me.

Ser. Hast thou worse fate than others if it were so? Worse even than me, thy friend, thine officer, Whom yon ungrateful slaves have pitch'd ashore, As wild waves heap the sea-weed on the beach, And left him here, as if he had the pest

Or leprosy, and death were in his company?

Quen. They think at least you have the worst of plagues,

A dungeon or a grave.

Ser. Now, by the rood, thou art a simple fool!
I can do better for thee. Mark me, Quentin.
I took my license from the noble regiment,
Partly that I was worn with age and warfare,
Partly that an estate of yeomanry,

Of no great purchase, but enough to live on,
Has call'd me owner since a kinsman's death.
It lies in merry Yorkshire, where the wealth
Of fold and furrow, proper to Old England,
Stretches by streams which walk no sluggish pace,
But dance as light as yours. Now, good friend Quen-
This copyhold can keep two quiet inmates, [tin,
And I am childless. Wilt thou be my son?
Quen. Nay, you can only jest, my worthy friend!
What claim have I to be a burden to you?

Ser. The claim of him that wants, and is in danger,
On him that has, and can afford protection :
Thou wouldst not fear a foeman in my cottage,
Where a stout mastiff slumber'd on the hearth,
And this good halberd hung above the chimney?
But come I have it-thou shalt earn thy bread
Duly, and honourably, and usefully.

Our village schoolmaster hath left the parish,
Forsook the ancient schoolhouse with its yew-trees,
That lurk'd beside a church two centuries older,-
So long devotion took the lead of knowledge;
And since his little flock are shepherdless,
'Tis thou shalt be promoted in his room;
And rather than thou wantest scholars, man,
Myself will enter pupil. Better late,
Our proverb says, than never to do well.
And look you, on the holydays I'd tell
To all the wondering boors and gaping children,
Strange tales of what the regiment did in Flanders,
And thou should'st say Amen, and be my warrant,
That I speak truth to them.

Quen. Would I might take thy offer! But, alas!
Thou art the hermit who compell'd a pilgrim,
In name of Heaven and heavenly charity,
To share his roof and meal, but found too late
That he had drawn a curse on him and his,
By sheltering a wretch foredoom'd of heaven!
Ser. Thou talk'st in riddles to me.
Quen.

If I do,

purpose

Return to my stern patron—there to tell him That wars, and winds, and waves, have cross'd his pleasure,

[me. And cast me on the shore from whence he banish'd Then let him do his will, and destine for me

Ser.

I have known thee A blithe companion still, and wonder now Thou shouldst become thus crest-fallen.

Quen. Does the lark sing her descant when the falcon Scales the blue vault with bolder wing than hers, And meditates a stoop? The mirth thou'st noted