Chambers's Journal of Popular Literature, Science, and Art, No. 705, June 30, 1877

She was laughing and crying together, with her arms about me, as different from her usual self as it was possible to be.

'It's the – the heat, I think,' she murmured. 'Do not notice me. I am stupid to-night, Mary.'

'She has deceived herself; her love for Arthur Trafford is not yet dead; and she is suffering the shame which is natural to one of her nature at the discovery,' I thought. Inexpressibly pained, I silently drew her hand under my arm and led her into the cottage.

LAMPREYS

Almost every schoolboy knows that King Henry I. died from eating too plentifully of lampreys, a 'food,' says Hume, 'which always agreed better with his palate than his constitution;' and yet, comparatively speaking, how few persons are familiar with the form, habits, and uses of the lamprey itself. It is usually defined as an 'eel-like fish,' and so far the definition is a correct one, seeing that an ordinary observer would conclude that the lamprey and the eel are identical, or at the most, that they are species of the same genus. Such, however, would be an erroneous conclusion. The lamprey undergoes a peculiar change of colour, being at times scarcely visible in the water, with variations from a silvery hue to a dark-brown back and a white belly. The eel has a bony skeleton, but that of the lamprey is soft and imperfect. The former has teeth with which to seize its prey or take a bait; the latter, as its name indicates (lambere, to lick, and petra, a stone), has a round sucking mouth with which to attach itself to rocks or stones, and though provided with very small teeth, which can pierce the skin of fishes or other soft substances, it may be said to subsist by suction rather than by eating. It has an elongated dorsal fin extending along the posterior half of the body to the tip of the tail, but is destitute of the pectorals with which the eel is furnished. The breathing organs of the lamprey are peculiar. In fishes with a bony skeleton there is usually but a single large orifice on each side of the throat, and in which the gills are covered with a valve-like flap called the operculum. The lamprey has seven external orifices like a row of round button-holes for breathing on each side, and apparently, without any protection. The animal is therefore quite distinct from all the species of eels.

Lampreys are in season from the first of September to the end of February, and during that period they are taken in large quantities in the river Ouse, above its confluence with the Trent. By some persons its flesh is esteemed a great delicacy, either potted or made into pies. However, it must be eaten sparingly, for if indulged in too freely it is apt to induce colic of a serious character. On that account the majority of people do not care to expose themselves to the danger that may ensue. The fishermen, as well as the peasantry in the neighbourhood where the lampreys are taken, rarely use them as an article of food. Still they form an important commodity of traffic to those who are engaged in it. During the last season nearly twenty thousand were secured at Naburn Lock alone, which is situated a few miles below the city of York. There are other stations at which we may conclude that the 'take' is equally good; let us say six: which would make a total of one hundred and twenty thousand fish. The average length of the lamprey is a foot – though it sometimes grows to three feet – and six are reckoned a pound; which, sold at two shillings, will produce a revenue of two thousand pounds sterling.

When we consider that these fish are taken in the dull portion of the year, when salmon and many other fish are not in season, we may readily understand that the sale of lampreys forms no insignificant supplement to the income of river fishermen, whose works are carried on generally on a somewhat limited scale.

In March these fish go up the stream in order to deposit their spawn in the shallows. In early summer the parent lampreys and their countless fry go down towards the brackish water; and the opinion long prevailed that the elders of the company never returned. That supposition is now disputed by the more observant of the fishermen, who believe in the coming of the old and young together, though no great difference in their size is apparent towards the month of September, when the season for catching them is recommenced. They are taken in wicker traps, which are constructed so as to secure the fish as they are washed in by the force of the current.

In Holland the lamprey is largely used as an article of bait. From a very early period it is said to have been the prime favourite for the purpose, and considerable quantities were brought from the English rivers to Rotterdam. Our informant says that the trade was suddenly brought to an end about a hundred years ago on account of the 'war' (declared by Great Britain against Holland in 1780). For nearly eighty years from that period the lamprey-fishing was almost abandoned, when some Dutchmen, influenced by a tradition which still lingered amongst their people to the effect that excellent bait had formerly been brought from England, made a voyage of discovery to the Ouse, where, after considerable inquiry and search, they discovered what had been described, and thus revived the trade in lampreys, which is now carried on more briskly than ever. They are taken away in barrels partially filled with water, transferred to tanks on board ship, and are thus preserved alive until required on the Dogger Bank or elsewhere.

THE DUKE'S PIPER:

A STORY OF THE WEST HIGHLANDS

IN FOUR CHAPTERS. – CHAPTER IV

For a week Maggie saw nothing and heard nothing of Angus. She became quite pale and worn with anxiety and distress. She hardly spoke to her father; and Janet reported that she was sure 'the mistress' was going into 'a decline,' because she hardly touched her food. To make matters worse, a letter came one day from her lover to say that he too was so miserable that he could bear it no longer; he was going to leave the Duke's yacht and go away – never more to return to Inversnow. Maggie was driven to the brink of despair by this letter – almost the only letter she had ever received in her life, and she forthwith wore it with the lock of his hair she had long treasured, next to her heart.

One afternoon a message came from the kitchen of the castle to ask the piper if he could oblige the cook with a dozen or so new-laid eggs, the cook's store having run short. Maggie took her basket, and went with the eggs to the castle kitchen. She went with a sad heavy heart, and remained as short a time as possible, for her little romance with Angus and its sudden collapse were well known among the servants and, as she knew, discussed. Inversnow Castle stands in the midst of its own lovely park, close by the sea-loch, and girt about by wooded and heather-mantled hills. It was a warm sunny afternoon as Maggie tripped from the castle homeward; she was in no mood to meet any one; and to avoid doing so, she struck off the public path through the woods towards Glen Heath. A robin was piping pathetically among the elms, and the squirrels were gamboling in the sunshine among the branches overhead. As she walked slowly over the turf she drew forth Angus's letter to read once more, and as she read, the tears started afresh to her young eyes, and she sobbed as she went.

Presently she was surprised by a voice, a kind gentle voice, addressing her in a familiar tone: 'Well, Maggie Cameron, what may all these tears be about? You look sadder than a young and bonnie lass like you has any right to be, surely! Are you well enough?'

The girl looked and looked again, and the flush came and went in her cheeks as she became conscious that, stretched at full length on the grass close by, under the shade of an elm, with a book in one hand and a lighted cigar in the other, was – the Duke!

Maggie courtesied low with a natural politeness, and in her confusion dropped her letter, but hardly dared to stoop to pick it up.

'I'm sure, Your Grace, I peg your pardon humbly; it wass a great liberty I will be takin' in coming home this way instead o' the road.'

Maggie hardly knew whether to turn back or to go on; being undecided, she did neither, but stood still in some bewilderment, the letter still lying at her feet.

'But you have not answered my question, I think,' said the Duke encouragingly.

'I peg Your Grace's pardon again,' replied the girl nervously; 'but it wass – it wass – but it wass Angus' – And there she stopped abruptly, and fairly broke down.

'Come here, my child,' said the Duke, interested in the girl's manifest grief. 'And what about Angus? Tell me all about it. Who knows, I may be able to help you?'

The Highland maid looked into the thoughtful kind face of the Duke, and went a few steps towards him.

'It wass apoot Angus MacTavish, Your Grace, and he wass – But Your Grace will not know anything at all, at all apoot Angus.'

'Do you mean the game-keeper's son, one of my crew, Maggie?'

'Ay, Your Grace, that same!' said she with delighted eagerness.

'Oh, he's at the root of your distress, the rascal, is he?'

'And inteed no, Your Grace; it wass not him at all; he wad not hurt nopody's feelings whatefer; oh, inteed, he's as cood and – and as prave a lad as iss in all the Hielants mirofer; and it iss not him, Your Grace, but my father and his father too had some quarrel; not but that they are cood men, poth cood men neither; but it wass all on account o' a gless o' pad whusky or the like o' that, I think; but – but – oh, Your Grace, Angus is going away cass my father has taken a hatred of him, and won't hef a word that iss cood to say to him; and if Angus goes away, it wad preak my heart!'

The Duke rose, leaving his book on the grass, and placing his hand kindly on the maiden's shoulder, said: 'Come, Maggie, this may not be so bad as it seems! We shall see what we can do. Dry your eyes, child. Angus can't go away from my yacht without my consent, and I shall take care that he shall not go away. Take comfort from that. We shall see what can be done.'

'Oh, but my father iss fery obstinate, Your Grace, fery! And he wants me to marry another man that I cannot bear to look at. – But I am troubling Your Grace.'

The Duke's sympathy had wonderfully dispelled Maggie's awe.

'Well, well,' said the kindly nobleman, 'pick up your letter. If the piper won't listen to reason, we must see what can be done without him. But your father is a sensible man, and will no doubt listen to reason. Good-bye! Remember there must be no more crying. And you don't think it will be hard to bring Angus to reason? Well, well, we shall see. But remember, not another tear all the way home!'

Encouraged by the words of the great Highland Chief, Maggie courtesied low again, and sped homeward, with a burden lifted from her heart.

Angus MacTavish astonished the village watchmaker and jeweller by walking into his shop towards gloaming one evening, shutting the door carefully behind him, and even turning the key in the lock when he had satisfied himself there was no one present except the big-browed, hump-backed little watchmaker behind his glass cases.

'And iss it yourself, Angus MacTavish?'

'O ay, it iss me.' Angus was examining, with a deep flush on his face, the case of ornaments in front of him.

'And what iss it that I can pe dooing for ye, Angus, the nicht?'

'Oh, it wass only a' – Angus coughed – 'it wass a ring – a gold ring that I wad be wanting ye to shew me mirofer.'

'Oho! that wass it, wass it?' said Mr Steven, winking at Angus, as he took his horn magnifying lens from his eye, and came from his three-legged stool and marvellous assortment of tiny hammers, pincers, and watchmaking gear scattered on the bench before him, to speak with Angus at the counter.

'Wass it a shentleman's ring now, Maister MacTavish, or a ring for the lass?'

'What wad the like o' me pe doing with a shentleman's ring, Mr Steven? Do ye take me for a wheeper-snapper lawyer's clerk, that ye should think o' me in that way?'

'Weel, weel, Angus lad, ye may pe right; but a' the lads wear them nooadays. Nae doot it iss ignorant vanity; but it is cood for trade, and it iss no for me to be finding fault wi' my customers. And it wass a ring for the lass – eh weel, that iss cood too,' said Mr Steven, pulling out a drawer full of subdivisions glistening with Scotch pebbles of many varieties set in gold, and placing them before Angus. 'Noo, there iss one that wad mak' any bonny lassie's mouth watter, and it iss only twelfe-an'-sixpence; and if ye like, I hef got a pair o' ponny ear-rinks to match it – the whole lot for a pound.'

'Na,' said Angus, pushing aside the gaudy stone; 'it iss a plain gold ring I want, wi' no rubbishing stones apoot it.'

'Eh, what, Angus! And iss it a mairriage ring that ye wull pe wanting me to gif you mirofer? Eh weel! but that iss a fery different tale from what I hef peen hearing – and it wass a mairriage ring – eh dear me! But it iss myself that is happy to hear it.'

'Hush-t!' said Angus sharply, reddening. 'A man may want to hef a wedding-ring apoot him – maype for a friend or the like o' that – without his – his' – Angus coughed a retreat.

'O ay, ay; surely, Angus, surely. Nae doot apoot it; ay, ay, lad – nae doot apoot it!'

Angus left the shop with a circlet of gold in his waistcoat pocket.

Meantime, although almost a fortnight had passed, the piper's lawsuit hung in the wind, despite the fact that his legal adviser felt it to be his duty to hold frequent and prolonged conferences with him at Glen Heath. The lawyer was not such genial company as Angus had been; and though he did his best to be agreeable to Maggie and sociable with her father, even to the extent of trying to learn the bagpipes, he had to lay the unmanageable instrument aside, under the piper's sweeping generalisation, 'that lawyers had no more ear for music than the pigs.' In his heart the piper was not sorry to see that his daughter snubbed Angus's rival in spite of his own strictest commands.

The Highland maid seemed to be bearing her lover's banishment better than was to be expected. More than one attempt had been made by the young sailor to mollify Mr Cameron, without palpable signs of success; and when Maggie renewed her protests, she was met with the announcement that if MacTavish's name was again mentioned to him, she would be sent off to her aunt's in Glasgow for the winter – a threat the full significance of which none knew better than Maggie herself.

Then it was announced that on a certain evening there was to be a supper given by the Duke in the barn of the Home Farm, to which all the servants and many of the tenantry were invited; and to the piper it was intimated that he would be expected to bring his bagpipes with him. Here was quite sufficient reason for Maggie to be wearing her eyes out with the preparation of feminine finery, as the piper observed she had been doing for several days.

Early in the morning after Angus's interview with Mr Steven the watchmaker – and it was a lovely autumn morning – the piper's daughter might have been seen walking briskly, perhaps somewhat paler than usual, through a meadow at the western side of Inversnow, towards the loch. Her heart beat quickly as she went, and there was a touch of anxiety in her face as she glanced back occasionally to the white cottage on the slope at the entrance of Glen Heath, as if she expected to see some one following her. She walked quickly on, brushing aside the dew with her dress as she went, and hardly paused until she reached a sheltered inlet of the loch. At some little distance from the beach, a boat – Maggie's own boat – was resting on the water, and the maiden had barely time to spread her white kerchief to the wind, when the oars were swiftly dipped, and almost immediately the bow of the boat ran high on the beach, grating along the pebbles almost to her feet, and Angus leaped out and held her in his arms.

'O Angus, dear, I don't think I can possibly go through with it – I really don't think I can!' she murmured.

'Ye are too late now, my bonny doo' [dove], 'too late now.'

Maggie stepped with Angus's help into the boat, although she did not think she could 'go through with it.'

'But if dad should come back and miss me – O Angus!'

'He will not come back. The Teuk – Cott pless him! – has sent him to the Duaghn ruins with a party from the castle. Look, Maggie! do ye see the flag – the Teuk's flag – on the mainmast o' the yacht?'

Angus rowed swiftly, without swerving, to the yacht. Not another word was said as Maggie ascended the ladder from the boat, accompanied by Angus. She was rosy as she noticed the universal grin that greeted her from the men as she walked along the deck, between the good-natured captain and Angus, straight to the cabin. In the cabin – a room with its gold and crimson, and carved wood-work, its luxurious carpets and pictures, its books and piano, and the sweet glimpse of loch and mountain visible from the wide-open ports, that made Maggie feel as if she had been introduced to a nook in Paradise – she was overwhelmed to find herself again face to face with the Duke! With the Duke was her old friend Mr Fraser, the parish minister of Inversnow, whose presence had a wonderfully inspiring influence as he shook hands with her. Mr Fraser was a little gentleman with the whitest of hair and the sharpest yet the kindest of eyes. 'Are you quite certain, Maggie,' he said, handing his open snuff-box to the Duke, smiling, 'that now at the last moment you do not repent?'

'We can land you again in a twinkling, you know – can't we, Angus?' said the Duke, looking slyly from one to the other. Angus was standing in the background, rather sheepishly, if the truth were told, cap in hand. Maggie had hardly time to assure 'the minister' that she would be the last to disappoint His Grace the Duke, and was quite certain, when a door at the other end of a cabin opened, and the Duke's daughter, Lady Flora, entered; and again the Highland maid courtesied, overwhelmed with blushes as her Ladyship shook hands with her.

'We shall hear by-and-by what the piper has to say to this,' said Lady Flora; 'but you, Maggie, had better come with me for a time, that all may be done in good order.'

And so Maggie was carried off by the Duke's daughter to a second nook of paradise in blue velvet and gold and mirrors, a fairy cabin redolent with the perfume of flowers, and with a glorious peep of loch and mountain from a different point of view. The girl felt as if she were moving and talking in a dream.

When she emerged with Lady Flora she was clad in simple white attire, veiled, and a spray of heather-blossom mingling in her hair. Was it still a dream? – the minister with an open Bible before him, and Angus waiting to take her by the hand!

'Wilt thou have this woman to be thy wedded wife?' &c. – the magic words that have sent a thrill through the hearts of so many generations, were sounding in their ears too. And as for Angus – well, Angus was conscious, as he placed the ring on Maggie's finger, that he was drifting away into a dreamy world of happiness, far better than he deserved, or ever, in his most ardent moments, dreamed were in store for him!

The piper returned with the party that had been committed to his guidance towards set of sun, and reached Glen Heath hungry as Esau from the field; he was impatient to be at the Home Farm barn, where he and his bagpipes were already due. So hungry and impatient was he that he did not cross-examine Janet with that severity which generally characterised him as she – well primed in her part – explained that Maggie had already started for the ball. No; the piper was speedily girding himself, in the merriest possible frame of mind, in his best, and smiling as he observed that Maggie had for the occasion adorned his bagpipes with new ribbons. The piper was no fop; but it was rumoured that the Duke himself was about to lead off the ball to-night, and that some of the ladies from the castle were to be present; so it behoved him to appear in his best tartan, which he did; and a finer specimen of the clan Cameron, firm on his legs, with a head set strongly on a pair of broad shoulders that proudly bore the bagpipes, never led clan to battle-field.

With all his haste, he was late. Many of the company were already seated at the long tables that extended from one end of the barn to the other. People were shaking hands and chatting freely, and already there was the fragrant odour of cooked meats, tempting the appetites of all and sundry. The room was gaily lit with candles and lamps from the castle. The piper lifted his cap politely in acknowledgment of the applause that greeted him as he entered.

'This is your place, Mr Cameron,' said the Duke's factor, who acted as steward for the occasion, pointing a place near the head of the table, and immediately opposite Mr MacTavish and his wife; the former of whom frowned blackly as the piper looked across at him.

'Na, Mr Reid, na; not just yet,' the piper said rising.

'A tune, Mr Cameron, a tune!' came from several quarters of the room; a request which the piper was pleased and proud to comply with. Nor did the music cease until the door opened, and the Duke walked in, Lady Flora leaning on his arm, and behind him Mr Fraser, leading in the mild-eyed Duchess; and behind these several of the Duke's guests. The bagpipes came to abrupt silence as the company rose to cheer the ducal party. When Mr Fraser had asked a blessing on the mercies which the Duke had provided for them, there came a loud clatter of knives and forks and an assault upon the dishes; and talk and laughter and merry din. The piper forgot the game-keeper in the absorbing fact that he was seated between Lady Flora and Factor Reid, an unusual and unexpected honour; so absorbed, that he hardly noticed that his daughter Maggie had not up to this moment appeared in the room.

When the dishes were cleared away and glasses and decanters stood regiment-wise along the table, the Chief rose and, when silence prevailed, said: 'My very good friends, before I ask you to fill bumpers for the toast of this evening, the nature of which I shall be called upon to explain presently – I wish you all to join with me in a glass to two very worthy friends of mine, and esteemed acquaintances of all of you; whose good qualities are too well known to require any words from me to commend them to your favourable notice – I mean our excellent friend Mr Cameron of Glen Heath, and my no less esteemed friend Mr MacTavish of Glen Ford – and may they never be worse friends than I am sure in their hearts they are to-night!'

There was a general clinking of glasses and nodding of heads towards the piper and the game-keeper: 'Your health, Mr Cameron!' 'I look towarts ye, Mr MacTavish!' 'Your fery cood healths, shentlemen!' &c.

It need hardly be said that Mr Cameron and Mr MacTavish looked extremely foolish as the sounds gradually passed into silence, and all eyes became fixed on them; but neither of them seemed disposed to rise. At length the piper sprang to his feet.

'It wass a great honour that His Grace paid me, and I thank him for it with all my heart. And it wass – well it wass, ladies and shentlemens – well, ye may hef heard mirofer that there wass a small wee bit of a tifference – inteed ye might call it a quarrel between Mister MacTavish and me, and it wass a pity too whatefer – nae doot there might be faults on poth sides – and Your Grace, if ye will allow me to say it – I pear no enmity to no man this nicht, no not to Mister MacTavish, nor to any other shentleman at all, at all.'

'Bravo! bravo!' exclaimed the Duke, looking towards Mr MacTavish. But that worthy had no gift of words, and only signified his emotion by a series of dry-lipped jerks and nods and a waving of the hands in the piper's direction, meant to imply his general assent to the piper's view of the case.

The Duke again rose. 'I now rise to ask you, every one of you, Mr Cameron and Mr MacTavish included, to fill your glasses a good bumper, to drink with me the toast of this evening. I drink to the very good health of the bride and bridegroom in whose honour this ball is given to-night.' At the same moment the door opened, and Angus MacTavish entered with Maggie Cameron – no longer Cameron – leaning on his arm. Maggie looked round the room in some bewilderment. When her eye met her father's, her hand dropped from Angus's arm, and with her face all pale, she walked firmly toward him. When she came to him, she stopped.