Prior to this act of vassalage, Edward I. king of
England had entered Scotland at the head of an immense army. He seized
Berwick by stratagem; laid the country in ashes; and, on the field of
Dunbar, forced the Scottish king and his nobles to acknowledge him
their liege lord.
But while the courts of Edward, or of his
representatives, were crowded by the humbled Scots, the spirit of one
brave man remained unsubdued. Disgusted alike at the facility with
which the sovereign of a warlike nation could resign his people and
his crown into the hands of a treacherous invader, and at the
pusillanimity of the nobles who had ratified the sacrifice, William
Wallace retired to the glen of Ellerslie. Withdrawn from the world, he
hoped to avoid the sight of oppressions he could not redress, and the
endurance of injuries beyond his power to avenge.
Thus
checked at the opening of life in the career
of glory that was his passion,—secluded in
the bloom of manhood from the social haunts of
men,—he repressed the eager aspirations of
his mind, and strove to acquire that
resignation to inevitable evils which alone
could reconcile him to forego the promises of
his youth; and enable him to view with
patience a humiliation of Scotland, which
blighted her honour, menaced her existence,
and consigned her sons to degradation or
obscurity. The latter was the choice of
Wallace. Too noble to bend his spirit to the
usurper, too honest to affect submission, he
resigned himself to the only way left of
maintaining the independence of a true Scot;
and giving up the world at once, all the
ambitions of youth became extinguished in his
breast, since nothing was preserved in his
country to sanctify their fires. Scotland
seemed proud of her chains. Not to share in
such debasement, appeared all that was now in
his power; and within the shades of Ellerslie
he found a retreat and a home, whose sweets
beguiling him of every care, made him
sometimes forget the wrongs of his country in
the tranquil enjoyments of wedded love.
During
the happy months of the preceding autumn,
while Scotland was yet free, and the path of
honourable distinction still open before her
young nobility, Wallace married Marion
Braidfoot, the beautiful heiress of Lammington.
Nearly of the same age, and brought up from
childhood together, reciprocal affection had
grown with their growth; and sympathy of taste
and virtues, and mutual tenderness, made them
so entirely one, that when at the age of
twenty-two the enraptured lover was allowed to
pledge that faith publicly at the altar, which
he had so often cowed in secret to his Marion,
he clasped her to. his heart, and softly
whispered,—" Dearer than life! part of
my being! blessed is this union, that mingles
thy soul with mine, now, and for ever I"
Edward’s
invasion of Scotland broke in upon their
innocent joys. Wallace threw aside the wedding
garment for the cuirass and the sword. But he
was not permitted long to use either :—Scotland
submitted to her enemies; and he had no
alternative but to bow to her oppressors, or
to become an exile from man, amid the deep
glens of his country.
The
tower of Ellerslie was henceforth the lonely
abode of himself and his bride. The
neighbouring nobles avoided him, because the
principles he declared were a tacit reproach
on their proceedings; and in the course of a
short time, as he forbore to seek them, they
even forgot that he was in existence. Indeed,
all occasions of mixing with society he now
rejected. The hunting-spear with which he had
delighted to follow the flying roebuck from
glade to glade, the arrows with which he used
to bring down the heavy ptarmigan or the
towering eagle, all were laid aside. Scottish
liberty was no more; and Wallace would have
blushed to have shown himself to the free-born
deer of his native hills, in communion of
sports with the spoilers of his country. Had
he pursued his once favourite exercises, he
must have mingled with the English, now
garrisoned in every town, and who passed their
hours of leisure in the chase.
Being
resigned to bury his youth,—since its
strength could no longer be serviceable to his
country,—books, his harp, and the sweet
converse of his tender Marion, became the
occupations of his days. Ellerslie was his
hermitage; and there, closed from the world,
with an angel his companion, he might have
forgotten Edward was lord in Scotland, had not
that which was without his little paradise
made a way to its gates, and showed him the
slavery of the nobles and the wretchedness of
the people. In these cases, his generous hand
gave succour, where it could not bring
redress. Those whom the lawless plunderer had
driven from their houses or stripped of their
covering, found shelter, clothing, and food at
the house of Sir William Wallace.
Ellerslie
was the refuge of the friendless, and the
comfort of the unhappy. Wherever Lady Wallace
moved,— whether looking out from her window
on the accidental passenger, or taking her
morning or moonlight walks through the glen,
leaning on the arm of her husband,—she had
the rapture of hearing his steps greeted and
followed by the blessing of the poor
destitute, and the prayers of them who were
ready to perish. It was then that this
happy woman would raise her husband’s hand
to her lips, and, in silent adoration, thank
God for blessing her with a being made so
truly in his own image.
Several
months of this blissful and uninterrupted
solitude had elapsed, when Lady Wallace saw a
chieftain at her gate. He inquired for its
master—requested a private conference—and
retired with him into a remote room. They
remained together for an hour. Wallace then
came forth, and ordering his horse, with four
followers, to be in readiness, said he meant
to accompany his guest to Douglas castle. When
he embraced his wife at parting, he told her
that as Douglas was only a few miles distant,
he should be at home again before the moon
rose.
She
passed the tedious hours of his absence with
tranquillity, till the appointed signal of his
return appeared from behind the summits of the
opposite mountains. So bright were its beams,
that Marion did not need any other light to
show her the stealing sands of her hourglass,
as they numbered the prolonged hours of her
husband’s stay. Site dismissed her servants
to their rest; all, excepting Halbert, the
grey-haired harper of Wallace; and he, like
her self, was too unaccustomed to the absence
of his master to find sleep visit his eyes
while Ellerslie was bereft of its joy and its
guard.
As
the night advanced, Lady Wallace sat in the
window of her bed-chamber, which looked
towards the west. She watched the winding
pathway that led from Lanark down the opposite
heights, eager to catch a glimpse of the
waving plumes of her husband when he should
emerge from behind the hill, and pass under
the thicket which overhung the road. How
often, as a cloud obscured for an instant the
moon’s light, and threw a transitory shade
across the path, did her heart bound with the
thought that her watching was at an end! It
was he whom she had seen start from the abrupt
rock! They were the folds of his tartan that
darkened the white cliff! But the moon again
rolled through her train of clouds, and threw
her light around. Where then was her Wallace?
Alas! it was only a shadow she had seen! the
hill was still lonely, and he whom she sought
was yet far away! Overcome with watching,
expectation, and disappointment, unable to say
whence arose her fears, she sat down again to
look; but her eyes were blinded with tears,
and in a voice interrupted by sighs she
exclaimed, "Not yet, not yet !—Ah, my
Wallace, what evil bath betided thee?"
Trembling
with a nameless terror, she knew not what to
dread. She believed that all hostile
rencontres had ceased, when Scotland no longer
contended with Edward. The nobles, without
remonstrance, had surrendered their castles
into the hands of the usurper; and the
peasantry, following the example of their
lords, had allowed their homes to be ravaged
without lifting an arm in their defence.
Opposition being over, nothing could then
threaten her husband from the enemy; and was
not the person who had taken him from
Ellerslie, a friend ?
Before
Wallace’s departure, he had spoken to Marion
alone; he told her that the stranger was Sir
John Monteith, the youngest son of the brave
Walter Lord Monteith, [Walter
Stewart, the father of Sir John Mouteith,
assumed the name and earldom of Monteith in
right of his wife, the daughter and heiress of
the preceding earl. When his wife died, he
married an Englishwoman of rank, who finding
him ardently attached to the liberties of his
country, cut him off by poison, and was
rewarded by the enemies of Scotland for this
murder with the hand of a British nobleman.—(1809.)]
who had been treacherously put to death by the
English in the early part of the foregoing
year. This young man was bequeathed by his
dying father to the particular charge of his
friend William Lord Douglas, at that time
governor of Berwick. After the fail of that
place and the captivity of its defender, Sir
John Monteith had retired to Douglas castle,
in the vicinity of Lanark, and was now the
sole master of that princely residence; James
Douglas, the only son of its veteran lord,
being still at Paris, whither he had been
despatched, before the defeat at Dunbar, to
negotiate a league between the French monarch
and the then King of Scots.
Informed
of the privacy in which Wallace wished to
live, Monteith had never ventured to disturb
it until this day; but knowing the steady
honour of his old school-companion, he came to
entreat him, by the respect he entertained for
the brave Douglas, and by his love for his
country, that he would not refuse to accompany
him to the brave exile’s castle.
"I
have a secret to disclose to you," said
he, "which cannot be divulged on any
other spot."
Unwilling
to deny so small a favour, Wallace, as has
been said before, consented; and accordingly
was conducted by Monteith towards Douglas.
While
descending the heights which led to the
castle, Monteith kept a profound silence; and
when crossing the drawbridge towards it, he
put his finger to his lips, in token to the
servants for equal caution. This was explained
as they entered the gate, and looked around.
It was guarded by English soldiers. Wallace
would have drawn back; but Monteith laid his
hand on his arm, and whispered, "For your
country!" At these words, a spell to the
ear of Wallace, he proceeded; and his
attendants followed into the court-yard.
The
sun was just setting as Monteith led his
friend into the absent earl’s room. Its
glowing reflection on the distant hills,
reminded Wallace of the stretch he had to
retread to reach his home before midnight; and
thinking of his anxious Marion, he awaited
with impatience the development of the object
of his journey.
Monteith
closed the door, looked fearfully around for
some time; then, trembling at every step,
approached Wallace. When drawn quite near, in
a low voice he said, "You must swear upon
the cross that you will keep inviolate the
secret I am going to reveal."
Wallace
put aside the hilt of the sword, which
Monteith presented, to receive his oath :—"
No," said he, with a smile; "in
these times I will not bind my conscience, on
subjects I do not know. If you dare trust the
word of a Scotsman and a friend, speak out;
and if the matter be honest, my honour is your
pledge."
"You
will not swear?"
"No."
"Then
I must not trust you."
"Then
our business is at an end," returned
Wallace, rising, "and I may return
home."
"Stop
!" cried Monteith. "Forgive me, my
old companion, that I have dared to hesitate:
These are, indeed, times of such treason to
honour, that I do not wonder you should be
careful how you swear. But the nature of the
confidence reposed in me, will, I hope,
convince you that I ought not to share it
rashly. Of any one but you, whose truth stands
unsullied amidst the faithlessness of the
best, I would exact oaths on oaths; but your
word is given, and on that I rely. Await me
here."
Monteith
unlocked a door which had been concealed by
the tapestry, and after a short absence
re-entered with a small iron box. He set it on
the table near his friend, then went to the
great door, which he had before so carefully
closed, tried that the bolts were secure, and
returned, with a still more pallid
countenance, towards the table. Wallace,
surprised at so much precaution, and at the
extreme apprehension visible in these actions,
awaited with wonder the promised explanation.
Monteith sat down with his hand on the box,
and fixing his eyes on it, began:-
"I
am going to mention a name, which you may hear
with patience, since its power is no more. The
successful rival of Bruce, and the enemy of
your family, is now a prisoner
in the Tower of London."
"
Baliol ?"
""Yes,"
"My
grandfather never injured him, nor any
man!" interrupted Wallace: "Sir
Ronald Crawford was as incapable of injustice,
as of flattering the minions of his country’s
enemy. But Baliol is fallen, and I forgive
him."
"Did
you witness his degradation," returned
Monteith, "you would even pity him."
"I
always pity the wicked," continued
Wallace: "and as you seem ignorant of the
cause of his enmity against Sir Ronald and
myself, in justice to the character of that
most venerable of men I will explain it. I
first saw Baliol four years ago, when I
accompanied my grandfather to witness the
arbitration of the King of England between the
two contending claimants for the Scottish
crown. Sir Ronald came on the part of Bruce. I
was deemed too young to have a voice in the
council; but I was old enough to understand
what was passing there, and to perceive, in
the crouching demeanor with which Baliol
received the crown, that it was the price for
which he sold his country. However, as
Scotland acknowledged him sovereign, and as
Bruce submitted, my grandfather silently
acquiesced. But Baliol did not forget former
opposition. His behaviour to Sir Ronald and
myself at the beginning of this year, when,
according to the privilege of our birth, we
appeared in the field against the public
enemy, fully demonstrated what was the injury
Baliol complains of, and how unjustly he
drove us from the standard of Scotland. ‘None,’
said he, ‘shall serve under me, who presumed
to declare themselves the friends of Bruce.’
Poor weak man! The purchased vassal of
England; yet so vain of his ideal throne, he
hated all who had opposed his elevation, even
while his own treachery sapped its foundation!
Edward having made use of him, all these
sacrifices of honour and of conscience are
insufficient to retain his favour; and Baliol
is removed from his kingdom to an English
prison! Can I feel anything so honouring, as
indignation, against a wretch so abject? No! I
do indeed pity him. And now that I have
cleared my grandfather’s name of such
calumny, I am ready to hear you further."
Monteith,
after remarking on the well-known honour of
Sir Ronald Crawford, resumed.
"During
the massacre at the capture of Berwick, Lord
Douglas, wounded, and nearly insensible, was
taken by a trusty band of Scots out of the
citadel and town. I followed him to Dunbar,
and witnessed with him that day’s dreadful
conflict, which completed the triumph of the
English. When the few nobles who survived the
battle dispersed, Douglas took the road to
Forfar, hoping to meet King Baliol there, and
to concert with him new plans of resistance.
When we arrived, we found his Majesty in close
conversation with the Earl of Athol, who had
persuaded him the disaster at Dunbar was
decisive, and that if he. wished to save his
life, he must immediately go to the King of
England, then at Montrose, and surrender
himself to his mercy. [This
treacherous Scot, who persuaded Baliol to his
ruin, was John Cummin of Strathbogie, Earl of
Athol in right of his wife, the heiress of
that earldom.—(1809.)]
"Douglas
tried to alter Baliol’s resolution, but
without effect. The King could not return any
reasonable answers to the arguments which were
offered to induce him to remain, but continued
to repeat, with groans and tears, ‘It is my
fate.’ Athol sat knitting his black brows
during this conversation; and, at last
throwing out some sullen remarks to Lord
Douglas, on exhorting the King to defy his
liege lord, he abruptly left the room.
"As
soon as he was gone, Baliol rose from his seat
with a very anxious countenance, and taking my
patron into an adjoining room, they continued
there a few minutes, and then re-entered.
Douglas brought with him this iron box. ‘Monteith,’
said he, ‘I confide this to your care.’
Putting the box under my arm, and concealing
it with my cloak—’ Carry it,’ continued
he, ‘directly to my castle in Lanarkshire. I
will rejoin you there, in four-and-twenty
hours after your arrival. Meanwhile, by your
affection for me and fidelity to your king,
breathe not a word of what has passed.’
"‘Look
on that, and be faithful!’ said Baliol,
putting this ruby ring on my finger. I
withdrew, with the haste his look dictated;
and as I crossed the outward hall, was met by
Athol. He eyed me sternly, and inquired
whither I was going. I replied, ‘To Douglas,
to prepare for the coming of its lord.’ The
hall was full of armed men in Athol’s
colours. Not one of the remnant who had
followed my patron from the bloody field of
Dunbar was visible. Athol looked round on his
myrmidons: ‘Here,’ cried he, ‘see that
you speed this fellow on his journey. We shall
provide lodgings for his master.’ I foresaw
danger to Lord Douglas, but I durst not
attempt to warn him of it; and to secure my
charge, which a return to the room might have
hazarded, I hastened into the court-yard; and
being permitted to mount my horse, set off at
full speed.
"On
arriving at this place, I remembered that
secret closet, and carefully deposited the box
within it. A week passed, without any tidings
of Lord Douglas. At last a pilgrim appeared at
the gate, and requested to see me alone;
fearing nothing from a man in so sacred a
habit, I admitted him. Presenting me with a
packet which had been entrusted to him by Lord
Douglas, he told me my patron had been
forcibly carried on board a vessel at
Montrose, to be conveyed, with the unhappy
Baliol to the Tower of London. Douglas, on
this outrage, sent to the monastery at
Aberbrothick, and under the pretence of making
a religious confession before he sailed,
begged a visit from the subprior. ‘I am that
prior,’ continued the pilgrim; ‘and having
been born on the Douglas lands, he well knew
the claim he had to my fidelity. He gave me
this packet, and conjured me to lose no time
in conveying it to you. The task was
difficult; and, as in these calamitous seasons
we hardly know whom to trust, I determined to
execute it myself.’
"I
inquired whether Lord Douglas had actually
sailed. ‘Yes,’ replied the father; ‘I
stood on the beach till the ship disappeared.’"
A
half-stifled groan burst from the indignant
breast of Wallace. It interrupted Monteith for
an instant, but without noticing it, he
proceeded.
"Not
only the brave Douglas was then wrested from
his country, with our King, but also that holy
pillar of Jacob, which prophets have declared
to be the palladium of Scotland!" [The
tradition respecting this stone is as follows
:—Hiber, or Iber, the Phoenician, who came
from the Holy Land, to inhabit the coast of
Spain, brought this sacred relic along with
him. From Spain he transplanted it with the
colony he sent to people the south of Ireland;
and from Ireland it was brought into Scotland
by the great Fergus, the son of Ferchard. He
placed it in Argyleshire; but MacAlpine
removed it to Scone, and fixed it in the royal
chair in which all the succeeding kings of
Scotland were inaugurated. Edward I. of
England caused it to be carried to Westminster
Abbey, where it now stands. The tradition is,
that empire abides where it stays.—(1809.)]
"What!"
inquired Wallace, with a yet darker frown,
"has Baliol robbed Scotland of that
trophy of one of her best kings? Is the sacred
gift of Fergus to be made the spoil of a
coward?"
"Baliol
is not the robber," rejoined Monteith:
"the hallowed pillar was taken from Scone
by the command of the King of England, and
with the sackings of lona, was carried on
board the same vessel with the betrayed
Douglas. The archives of the kingdom have also
been torn from their sanctuary, and were
thrown by Edward’s own hands into the
fire."
"Tyrant!"
murmured Wallace, "thou mayst fill the
cup too full !"
"His
depredations," continued Monteith,
"the good monk told me, have been wide as
destructive. He has not left a parchment,
either of public records or of private annals,
in any of the monasteries or castles around
Montrose; all have been searched and
plundered. And, besides, the faithless Earl of
March and Lord Soulis are such parricides of
their country, as to have performed the like
robberies, in his name, from the eastern
shores of the Highlands to the farthest of the
Western Isles." [It
is not necessary to remind the reader of the
authorities whence these
notorious facts are drawn, as there is not a
British historian silent on the subject.—{1809.)]
and Edward may one
day find that she remembers the "Do the
traitors think," cried Wallace,
"that by robbing Scotland of her annals
and of that stone they really deprive her of
her palladium? Scotland’s history is in the
memories of her Sons; her palladium is in
their hearts; victory
of Largs, [This
battle was fought by Alexander III. on the 1st
of August, 1263, against Acho, King of Norway.
That monarch invaded Scotland with a large
army, and drew up his forces before Large, a
town in Ayrshire. He met with a great defeat,
and, covered with disgrace, retired to his own
country. Wallace’s father signalized himself
on that field.—.-(1809)] and
needs not talismans to give her freedom."
"Alas!
not in our time!" answered Monteith.
"The spear is at our breasts, and we must
submit. You see this castle is full of Edward’s
soldiers. Every house is a garrison for
England,—but more of this by-and-by; I have
yet to tell you the contents of the packet
which the monk brought. It contained two
others. One directed to Sir James
Douglas at Paris, and the other to me. I read
as follows :— "Athol has persuaded
Baliol to his ruin, and betrayed me
into the hands of Edward. I shall see Scotland
no more. Send the enclosed to my son at Paris;
it will inform him what is the last wish of
William Douglas for his country. The iron box
I confided to you guard as your life, until
you can deposit it with my son. But should he
remain abroad, and you ever be in extremity,
commit the box in strict charge to the
worthiest Scot you know; and tell him that
it will be at the peril of his soul, who dares
to open it, till Scotland lie again free! ‘When
that hour comes, then let the man by whose
valour God restores her rights, receive the
box as his own; for by him only is it
to be opened. Douglas."
Monteith
finished reading the letter, and remained
silent. Wallace, who had listened to it with
increasing indignation against the enemies of
Scotland, spoke first:-
"Tell
me in what I can assist you; or how serve
these last wishes of the imprisoned
Douglas."
Monteith
replied by reading over again this sentence,—
"Should my son remain abroad, and you
ever be in extremity, commit the box in strict
charge to the worthiest Scot you know.’—I
am in that extremity now. Edward determined on
desolation, when he placed English governors
throughout our towns; and the rapacious
Heselrigge, his representative in Lanark, not
backward to execute the despot’s will, has
just issued an order, for the houses of all
the absent chiefs to be searched for records
and secret correspondences. Two or three in
the neighbourhood have already gone through
this ordeal; but the event has proved that it
was not papers they sought, but plunder, and
an excuse for dismantling the castles, or
occupying them with English officers.
"The
soldiers you saw were sent; by daybreak this
morning, to guard this castle until Heselrigge
could in person be present at the examination.
This ceremony is to take place to-morrow; and
as Lord Douglas is considered a traitor to
Edward, I am told the place will be sacked to
its walls. In such an extremity, to
you, noble Wallace, as to the worthiest
Scot I know, I apply to take charge of
this box. Within the remote cliffs of
Ellerslie it must be safe; and when James
Douglas arrives from Paris, to him you will
resign it. Meanwhile, as I cannot resist the
plunderers, after delivering the keys of the
state apartments to Heselrigge to-morrow, I
shall submit to necessity, and beg his
permission to retire to my lodge on Ben Venu."
Wallace
made no difficulty in granting Monteith’s
request; and, there being two iron rings on
each side of his charge, the young chief took
off his leathern belt, and putting it through
them, swung the box easily under his left arm,
while covering it with his plaid.
Monteith’s
eyes now brightened,—the paleness left his
cheek,—and with a firmer step, as if
suddenly relieved of a heavy load, he called a
servant to prepare Sir William Wallace’s
attendants.
While
Wallace shook him by the hand, Monteith, in a
low and solemn voice, exhorted him to caution
respecting the box. "Remember,"
added he, "the penalty that hangs over
him who looks into it."
"Be
not afraid," answered Wallace; "even
the outside shall never be seen by other eyes
than my own, unless the same circumstance
which now induces you, mortal extremity, should
force me to confide it to safer hands."
"Beware
of that!" exclaimed Monteith; "for
who is there that would adhere to the
prohibition as I have done—as you will do?
and besides, as I have no doubt it contains
holy relics, who knows what new calamities a
sacrilegious look might bring upon our already
devoted country?"
"Relics
or no relics," replied Wallace, "it
would be an equal sin against good faith to
invade what is forbidden but from the weight I
am rather inclined to suspect it contains
gold; probably a treasure, with which the
sordid Baliol thinks to compensate the hero
who may free his country, for all the miseries
a traitor king and a treacherous usurper have
brought upon it."
"A
treasure!" repeated Monteith; "I
never thought of that ;—it is indeed heavy !—and,
as we are responsible for the contents of the
box, I wish we were certain of what it
contains; let us consider that!"
"It
is no consideration of ours," returned
Wallace. "With what is in the box we have
no concern: all we have to do, is to preserve
the contents unviolated by even our own eyes;
and to that, as you have now transferred the
charge to me, I pledge myself :—farewell."
"But
why this haste?" rejoined Monteith;
"indeed, I wish I had thought—stay only
a little."
"I
thank you," returned Wallace, proceeding
to the court-yard; "but it is now dark,
and I promised to be at home before the moon
rises. If you wish me to serve you further, I
shall be happy to see you at Ellerslie
tomorrow. My Marion will have pleasure in
entertaining, for days or weeks, the friend of
her husband."
While
Wallace spoke he advanced to his horse, to
which he was lighted by the servants of the
castle. A few English soldiers lingered about
in idle curiosity. As he put his foot in the
stirrup, he held the sword in his hand, which
he had unbuckled from his side to leave space
for his charge. Menteith, whose dread of
detection was ever awake, whispered,
"Your loosened weapon may excite
suspicion !" Fear incurred what it sought
to avoid. He hastily pulled aside Wallace’s
plaid to throw it over the glittering hilt of
the sword, and thus exposed the iron box. The
‘light of the torches striking upon the
polished rivets, displayed it to all lookers
on, but no remark was made. Wallace, not
observing what was done, again shook hands
with Monteith, and calling his servants about
him galloped away. A murmur was heard, as if
of some intention to follow him; but deeming
it prudent to leave the open and direct road,
because of the English marauders who swarmed
there, he was presently lost amid the thick
shades of Clydesdale.
