THE BLACK POCKET-BOOK. THE kingdom of Fife has been peculiarly the kingdom of the Scottish gipsies, where they have flourished most, where they have lingered longest. It has been their haunting place, their city of refuge, their Sherwood forest, their Norwood retreat. Here has one hereditary band, in former times prosperous and proud, but now dejected and decayed, risen, flourished, and declined, till "small by degrees and beautifully less," its numbers have dwindled away, leaving only a broken and a scattered remnant to preserve its manners, its characteristics, and its usages, undimmed and undegenerated among themselves, the only specimens and representatives of their race. The annals of such a people must form a curious history; their chronicles, like their adventures, being peculiar to themselves, are of a strange, and wild, and wonderful description. Like all human narratives, their history is chequered with joy and sorrow, triumph and tribulation, fraud, oppression, and guilt; but to their lot has fallen a double share of all, and doubly interesting, and doubly exciting must therefore be their story. A few of their unrecorded traditions, as well of a painful as of a pleasing nature, have fallen into my possession. The following is one of a humorous character, the recital of which I prefer to one of an opposite description, and I hope my readers will approve the preference. Thomas Edmonstone, a substantial Fife yeoman of the last century, having been very successful in his transactions one market-day at Dunfermline, was enabled to stuff his little black pocket-book with bank notes, till its bulk exceeded so much its former dimensions, that the snap of the buckle was with difficulty prevailed upon to meet, on their usual friendly terms, its twin brother and natural companion, the clasp. They seemed to have taken a mutual dislike to each other; but Thomas at length succeeded in reconciling them. Thomas was in great good humour, as may naturally be imagined, and after having enjoyed a hearty guffaw or two, with some of the other farmers, his acquaintances, he was preparing to retire from the market, when he was thus accosted by a tall, swarthy-complexioned man, in the dress of a drover of the better sort. "How's a' wi' ye the day, Maister E'monstone? Odd, man, I'm glad to see ye, I've been seeking for ye ower the haill market!" "Weel, friend!" said Thomas, "What dae ye want wi' me, noo that ye've fund me?" "Is your cattle a' sold?" asked the stranger? 66 Every hoof o' them-a' gane-stump and rump. I ha'e made a gude market the day." I think sae," was the reply; " and I maun look to be ser❜ed some gate else." So saying, the tall, swarthy-complexioned man, in the dress of a drover of the better sort, walked quickly away. I dinna like the looks o' that chield," said Thomas to himself, as he slowly left the market-place. "I never saw him atween the een before, and he doesna seem to be a drover either-Guid forgi'e me! I hope a's right!" he ejaculated, as his thoughts and his hand instinctively and simultaneously reverted to his black pocketbook-but the nest was empty, the bird had flown, the black pocket-book had disappeared, and Thomas Edmonstone stood like one suddenly transmuted into stone. At length he gave utterance to these broken exclamations. "I'm lost-I'm ruined-clean done-pocket-book and a'! I maun flee the country-Hoo can I look my wife or my weans in the face, without my black pocket-book? Oh! black, black has it been to me! The de'il catch the lang ugly villain by the neck! Gif I had him here but! odd, I'd mak' him steal honest folk's pocket-books. As gude's a hunder and fifty pounds sterling, forbye seventeen and saxpence in silver! he's welcome to that, howsomever, if he gi'es me back the pocket-book an' the notes-but what am I to dae noo ?" This was a question much easier asked than answered; and Thomas Edmonstone was not the man, in his present circumstances, to answer it either speedily or satisfactorily. He could do nothing therefore but ejaculate to himself "What am I to dae? my pocket-book gane and my wife no here! Was there ever sic a misfortunate deevil as Tam Edmonstone is this day. I'll gang back to the market-I'll send through the bellman! Fule! that I didna think o' that suner! I'll hae oot the Constables and the Militia, and the fire drum and the water engines-a' the toon shall hear o't!" And with this magnanimous intention, Thomas Edmonstone returned to the market. In the meantime, his wife, having some little purchases to make, and not having been ready to accompany her husband when he left home in the morning, was on her road to Dunfermline. She had arrived within half a mile of the town, when she heard a sweet plaintive voice, singing, as it were, to a child, and on approaching nearer she could distinguish the words: Sleep, baby, sleep! Though thy fond mother's breast, Is a stranger to rest. Descend on thine e'e, May be shared not by thee. Thy father has gone On his perilous track, With soft sleep in thine e'e: That is shared not by thee. Almost at the same moment she observed a young woman, in a red cloak, sitting alone in a lonely part of the road, nursing a child. As Mrs Edmonstone came near her, she perceived that the young woman's eyes were red with weeping. In the country every person speaks to another; but were it not so, the disconsolate state in which the young woman appeared to be, awakened all the sympathy and kindliness of feeling of Mrs Edmonstone's nature. She therefore stopped, and addressed to her the homely but kind inquiry of, "What's the matter wi' ye, lass ?" "Oh! my husband! my husband!" exclaimed the young woman, in a tone of bitter but repressed anguish: "He has gone into the market, and I trust and pray that he'll not have occasion to repent his bargain." "Is that a' ?" said Mrs Edmonstone, "Why lassie! my husband has gane to the market tae, and let him alane for makin siccar bargains. Ise warrant his wife 'll no ha'e to greet her een oot for the bargains he maks." 66 you do not know whom Would that I were like "Oh! but," replied the young woman, you speak to, or what you speak about. you, goodwoman, or that he was like your husband! but oh how widely different are our situations and destinies !" She burst into tears, and the kind-hearted and sympathetic Mrs Edmonstone blubbered too, to keep her company. Suddenly the young woman started, wiped her eyes, and looked in the direction of the town. "Did you not hear it?" she said, partly rising and grasping Mrs Edmonstone by the gown. "There, there again! shouts of uproar and exultation! Oh, my God! they will murder him-no-no-it is over -it is nothing. If you knew what I have endured to-day, you would pity me, indeed you would! From morn until now I have sat on this cold, cold stone, with no one to smile on me, no one to comfort me, but my baby-and oh! the agony of my thoughts, the torture of my feelings! I have sat and watched the little birds as they flew about, chirping merrily, when my heart was bursting-breaking; and I have wished that I had wings like one of them, that I might fly away and for ever be at rest. But where, where could I fly to, but to him, to nestle in his bosom, which, however cold to others now, still continues warm to me, and to his baby! and could his wife forsake him, when all-even his ain tribe-have gone against him?-no! even in the hands of his enemies, with the chains around his limbs, and the rope around his neck, even then would I cling, would I cleave to him; and in that bitter moment of horror and despair, I would testify to him and to the world, the depth, the intensity of my affection, and the strength and constancy of its endurance." She paused; and Mrs Edmonstone, who began to think she was deranged, took the baby into her arms, and began to fondle it, as people do with children. The young woman continued. “I can endure this suspense-this torture no longer. For the last two hours every nerve has been strained, and stretched, and strung to the very uttermost. Every noise I hear fills me with alarm. If he does not come to me, I shall go to him!" She paused again, and then somewhat suddenly addressed Mrs Edmonstone. "My good woman, might I request you to do me a favour?" "Oh, ay!" was the answer, "ony thing in my power-ony thing in reason!" "till "Just to take charge of my baby," said the young woman, my return. I am going down to the market to seek my husband. I'll be back very soon!" "Oh, willingly !" said Mrs Edmonstone, "if you'll promise no to bide lang. I've business to dae in the toon mysel'; besides, I've to seek my ain husband, and it'll no be very easy to find him. He'll be in some public likely wi' his cronies beside him, and the gill-stoup before him: Tam likes his bead, especially on a marketday, and what for no?" The young woman hastily but fondly kissed her infant. Edmonstone inquired if it was like its father? Mrs "Heaven forbid it ever should!" said the mother with a shud. der. "Eh! but it's a bonny baby-a sweet wee lamb-I'll just sit doon here, on the same stane ye war sittin' on, till ye come back, sae that ye canna miss me!" 66 Thank ye! Thankye!" said the young woman; "and here take my cloak about ye till I return: you will perhaps feel cold, and I will not require it!" She threw the cloak on Mrs Edmonstone's shoulders and departed. The child finding itself in strange hands, soon became noisy and troublesome, and Mrs Edmonstone therefore set herself most assiduously to sing it asleep. Just as she had succeeded, and was making a comfortable bed for it on her knee, a tall, swarthy-complexioned man, walked quickly past her, threw a black pocket-book into her lap, and as quickly disappeared. "Eh! what's this?" said Mrs Edmonstone, too much astonished to observe in what direction the stranger had gone; "Whaur can this ha'e come frae? It's our Tam's pocket-book I declare! and what is better, fu' o' notes! Either it or me's bewitched, I think. But odd! there's something no right in that wind! I wish that limmer was back for her brat. I hope she doesna mean to leave the bairn wi' me a' thegither. Gude forgive me! I wonder how Tam wad look if I brought hame to him a wean that's no my ain. That wad be waur than losing his pocket-book! Ay, I thought there was something wrang about the wench, an' I think yet that she is demented. I'se wager that she's yane o' the Showfolk, ta'en to bad habits-greeting in yon gate, and makin' me greet tae; but I wonder what Tam will say to this kind o' wark-it's clean past my comprehension. There's ae thing clear, however, that he's lost his pocket-book, and I've fund it." Whatever might have been Mrs Edmonstone's suspicions of the young woman, they were dissipated by her return, and as soon as she saw her, she asked her if she had seen her husband. "Alas! no," replied the young woman; where, but I could hear nothing of him." "I sought for him every "Weel a weel," said Mrs Edmonstone, "there's your bairn, and there's your cloak, and now I've but ae advice to gi'e ye, and that is, mak' yourself scarce oot this place as soon as ye can, for we're a' honest folk here, and harbour neither robbers nor gipsey folk.” Mrs Edmonstone hastened to the market, where she found her husband nearly in a state of distraction. He had made inquiry at every body if they had seen aught of his pocket-book, but no one could give him any information on the subject. As soon as he |