How To Download Risk Communication A Handbook For Communicating Environmental Safety and Ebook PDF Version Ebook PDF Docx Kindle Full Chapter
How To Download Risk Communication A Handbook For Communicating Environmental Safety and Ebook PDF Version Ebook PDF Docx Kindle Full Chapter
How To Download Risk Communication A Handbook For Communicating Environmental Safety and Ebook PDF Version Ebook PDF Docx Kindle Full Chapter
Emotional Constraints 53
Constraints from the Audience 55
Cultural Alignment 55
Hostility and Outrage 56
Panic and Denial 58
Apathy 59
Mistrust of Risk Assessment 60
Disagreements on the Acceptable Magnitude of Risk 61
Lack of Faith in Science and Institutions 61
Learning Difficulties 62
Constraints for Both Communicator and Audience 63
Stigma 63
Stability of the Knowledge Base 64
Summary 65
References 65
Additional Resources 67
5 ETHICAL ISSUES 69
Social Ethics 70
The Sociopolitical Environment’s Influence 70
The Use of the Risk Idiom 72
Fairness of the Risk 74
Consequences of Multiple Meanings 75
The Issue of Stigma 76
Organizational Ethics 77
Legitimacy of Representation 77
Designation of Primary Audience 79
Releasing Information 79
Attitude toward Compliance with Regulations 81
Personal Ethics 82
Using Persuasion 82
The Role of the Communicator 83
Liability and Professional Responsibility 83
Organizational Ethics or Personal Ethics? 84
Summary 85
References 85
Additional Resources 86
viii CONTENTS
Reference 114
Additional Resources 115
20 PARTNERSHIPS 371
Categories of Partnerships 372
Task Forces and Advisory Groups 372
Crisis Response Partnerships 373
Legal Partnerships 373
Informal Partnerships 374
Sponsorships 374
General Principles for Working in Partnership 374
Working with Influencers 378
Identifying Influencers 379
Approaching Influencers 380
When You Are the Influencer 380
Evaluating and Ending Partnerships 381
References 383
Additional Resources 384
RESOURCES 489
General Risk Communication Resources 489
Environmental Risk Communication Resources 491
Safety Risk Communication Resources 491
Health Risk Communication Resources 492
Care Communication Resources 493
Consensus Communication Resources 493
Crisis Communication Resources 494
GLOSSARY 497
INDEX 501
LIST OF FIGURES
xvii
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This was a wee alarming. “No,” quoth I—“no, Isaac, man, I ne’er
heard o’t.”
“But let alane resurrectioners, do ye no think there is sic a thing as
ghaists? Guide ye, my man, my granny could hae telled ye as muckle
about them as wad hae filled a minister’s sermons from June to
January.”
“Kay—kay—that’s a’ buff,” I said. “Are there nae cutty-stool
businesses—are there nae marriages gaun, Isaac?” for I was keen to
change the subject.
“Ye may kay—kay—as ye like, though; I can just tell ye this—ye’ll
mind auld Armstrong, wi’ the leather breeks, and the brown three-
storey wig—him that was the grave—digger? Weel, he saw a ghaist
wi’ his leeving een—aye, and what’s better, in this very kirkyard too.
It was a cauld spring morning, and daylight just coming in, when he
cam to the yett yonder, thinking to meet his man, paidling Jock—but
Jock had sleepit in, and wasna there. Weel, to the wast corner ower
yonder he gaed, and throwing his coat ower a headstane, and his hat
on the tap o’t, he dug awa wi’ his spade, casting out the mools, and
the coffin-handles, and the green banes, and sic-like, till he stoppit a
wee to tak breath.—What! are ye whistling to yoursel?” quo’ Isaac to
me, “and no hearing what’s God’s truth?”
“Ou ay,” said I, “but ye didna tell me if ony body was cried last
Sunday?” I wad hae given every farthing I had made by the needle to
hae been at that blessed time in my bed wi’ my wife and wean. Ay,
how I was gruing! I mostly chacked aff my tongue in chitterin’. But a’
wadna do.
“Weel, speaking of ghaists;—when he was resting on his spade, he
looked up to the steeple, to see what o’clock it was, wondering what
way Jock hadna come,—when lo, and behold! in the lang diced
window of the kirk yonder, he saw a lady a’ in white, wi’ her hands
clasped thegither, looking out to the kirkyard at him.
“He couldna believe his een, so he rubbit them wi’ his sark sleeve,
but she was still there bodily, and, keeping ae ee on her, and anither
on his road to the yett, he drew his coat and hat to him below his
arm, and aff like mad, throwing his shool half a mile ahint him. Jock
fand that; for he was coming singing in at the yett, when his maister
ran clean ower the tap o’ him, and capseized him like a toom barrel;
and never stoppin’ till he was in at his ain house, and the door baith
bolted and barred at his tail.
“Did ye ever hear the like of that, Mansie? Weel man, I’ll explain
the hale history o’t to ye. Ye see,—’od! how sound that callant’s
sleeping,” continued Isaac; “he’s snoring like a nine-year-auld.”
I was glad he had stoppit, for I was like to sink through the grund
wi’ fear; but na, it wadna do.
“Dinna ye ken—sauf us! what a fearsome night this is! The trees ’ll
be a’ broken. What a noise in the lum! I dare say there is some auld
hag of a witch-wife gaun to come rumble doun’t. It’s no the first time,
I’ll swear. Hae ye a silver sixpence? Wad ye like that?” he bawled up
the chimley. “Ye’ll hae heard,” said he, “lang ago, that a wee
murdered wean was buried—didna ye hear a voice?—was buried
below that corner—the hearthstane there, where the laddie’s lying
on?”
I had now lost my breath, so that I couldna stop him.
“Ye never heard tell o’t, didna ye? Weel, I’se tell’t ye.—Sauf us!
what swurls o’ smoke coming down the chimley—I could swear
something no canny’s stopping up the lum-head—gang out and see!”
At that moment, a clap like thunder was heard—the candle was
driven ower—the sleeping laddie roared “Help!” and “Murder!” and
“Thieves!” and as the furm on which we were sitting played flee
backwards, cripple Isaac bellowed out, “I’m dead!—I’m killed! shot
through the head!—oh, oh, oh!”
Surely I had fainted away; for when I came to mysel, I found my
red comforter loosed; my face a’ wet—Isaac rubbing down my
waistcoat with his sleeve—the laddie swigging ale out of a bicker—
and the brisk brown stout, which, by casting its cork, had caused a’
the alarm, whizz—whizz—whizzing in the chimley-lug.—Mansie
Wauch.
MARY WILSON.
“And what has become of the laird?” said I, looking to the well-
known mansion.
“The old laird is dead, and the young one, that was once expected
to be laird, lies rotting with many carcases in a foreign trench. He
broke his father’s heart, spent his substance, and died a common
soldier. The comforting dew of heaven seldom falls on him who
disregards its commands: seldom does the friendly hands of woman
smooth the dying bed of the seducer; and still more rarely does the
insulter of a parent’s gray hairs sleep in the same grave wi’ him. Ye
canna lament Mary Wilson mair than I do.”
“Do you possess her father’s land?” said I.
“Ay do I,” replied the rustic,—apparently much moved; “and it may
be that I would hae ploughed them mair pleasantly, and whistled
mair cheerfully to my horses, had Mary shared it with a plain man, as
became her station; but we maunna repine.”
I had no wish to proceed farther; and in my ride back I enjoyed
one of those deep, melancholy musings, far more congenial to my
mind than the most ecstatic dreams of the most ambitious men.—
Aberdeen Censor.
THE LAIRD OF CASSWAY.
Chapter I.
There is an old story which I have often heard related, about a
great Laird of Cassway, in an outer corner of Dumfriesshire, of the
name of Beattie, and his two sons. The incidents of the story are of a
very extraordinary nature. This Beattie had occasion to be almost
constantly in England, because, as my informant said, he took a great
hand in government affairs, from which I conclude that the tradition
had its rise about the time of the civil wars; for about the close of that
time the Scotts took advantage of the times to put the Beatties down,
who for some previous ages had maintained the superiority of that
district.
Be that as it may, the Laird of Cassway’s second son, Francis, fell
desperately in love with a remarkably beautiful girl, the eldest
daughter of Henry Scott of Drumfielding, a gentleman, but still only
a retainer, and far beneath Beattie of Cassway, both in point of
wealth and influence. Francis was a scholar newly returned from the
university; was tall, handsome, of a pale complexion, and
gentlemanly appearance, while Thomas, the eldest son, was fair,
ruddy, and stout made, a perfect picture of health and good humour,
—a sportsman, a warrior, and a jovial blade; one who would not
suffer a fox to get rest in the whole moor district. He rode the best
horse, kept the best hounds, played the best fiddle, danced the best
country bumpkin, and took the stoutest draught of mountain dew, of
any man between Erick Brae and Teviot Stone, and was altogether
the sort of young man, that whenever he cast his eyes on a pretty girl,
either at chapel or at weapon-shaw, she would hide her face, and
giggle as if tickled by some unseen hand.
Now, though Thomas, or the Young Laird, as he was called, had
only spoken once to Ellen Scott in his life, at which time he chucked
her below the chin, and bid the deil take him if ever he saw as bonny
a face in his whole born days; yet for all that, Ellen loved him. It
could not be said that she was “in love” with him, for a maiden’s
heart must be won before it is given absolutely away; but hers gave
him the preference to any other young man. She loved to see him, to
hear of him, and to laugh at him; and it was even observed by the
domestics, that Tam Beattie o’ the Cassway’s name came oftener into
her conversation than there was any good reason for.
Such was the state of affairs when Francis came home, and fell
desperately in love with Ellen Scott; and his father being in England,
and he under no restraint, he went frequently to visit her. She
received him with a kindness and affability that pleased him to the
heart; but he little wist that this was only a spontaneous and natural
glow of kindness towards him because of his connections, and rather
because he was the young laird of Cassway’s only brother, than the
poor but accomplished Francis Beattie, the scholar from Oxford.
He was, however, so much delighted with her, that he asked her
father’s permission to pay his addresses to her. Her father, who was a
prudent and sensible man, answered him in this wise:—“That
nothing would give him greater delight than to see his beloved Ellen
joined with so accomplished and amiable a young gentleman in the
bonds of holy wedlock, provided his father’s assent was previously
obtained. But as he himself was subordinate to another house, not on
the best terms with the house of Cassway, he would not take it on
him to sanction any such connection without the old Laird’s full
consent. That, moreover, as he, Francis Beattie, was just setting out
in life as a lawyer, there was but too much reason to doubt that a
matrimonial connection with Ellen at that time would be highly
imprudent; therefore it was not to be thought further of till the old
laird was consulted. In the meantime, he should always be welcome
to his house, and to his daughter’s company, as he had the same
confidence in his honour and integrity as if he had been a son of his
own.”
The young man thanked him affectionately, and could not help
acquiescing in the truth of his remarks, promised not to mention
matrimony farther till he had consulted his father, and added,—“But
indeed you must excuse me, if I avail myself of your permission to
visit here often, as I am sensible that it will be impossible for me to
live for any space of time out of my dear Ellen’s sight.” He was again
assured of welcome, and the two parted mutually pleased.
Henry Scott of Drumfielding was a widower, with six daughters,
over whom presided Mrs Jane Jerdan, their maternal aunt, an old
maid, with fashions and ideas even more antiquated than herself. No
sooner had the young wooer taken his leave than she bounced into
the room, the only sitting apartment in the house, and said, in a loud,
important whisper, “What’s that young swankey of a lawyer wanting,
that he’s aye hankering sae muckle about our town? I’ll tell you what,
brother Harry, it strikes me that he wants to make a wheelwright o’
your daughter Nell. Now, gin he axes your consent to ony siccan
thing, dinna ye grant it. That’s a.’ Tak an auld fool’s advice gin ye wad
prosper. Folk are a’ wise ahint the hand, and sae will ye be.”
“Dear Mrs Jane, what objections can you have to Mr Francis
Beattie, the most accomplished young gentleman of the whole
country?”
“’Complished gentleman! ’Complished kirn-milk! I’ll tell ye what,
brother Harry,—afore I were a landless lady, I wad rather be a tailor’s
lay-board. What has he to maintain a lady spouse with? The wind o’
his lungs, forsooth!—thinks to sell that for goud in goupins. Hech
me! Crazy wad they be wha wad buy it; and they wha trust to crazy
people for their living will live but crazily. Tak an auld fool’s advice
gin ye wad prosper, else ye’ll be wise ahint the hand. Have nae mair
to do with him—Nell’s bread for his betters; tell him that. Or, by my
certie, gin I meet wi’ him face to face, I’ll tell him!”
“It would be unfriendly in me to keep aught a secret from you,
sister, considering the interest you have taken in my family. I have
given him my consent to visit my daughter, but at the same time
have restricted him from mentioning matrimony until he has
consulted his father.”
“And what has the visiting to gang for, then? Awa wi’ him! Our
Nell’s food for his betters. What wad you think an she could get the
young laird, his brother, wi’ a blink o’ her ee?”
“Never speak to me of that, Mrs Jane. I wad rather see the poorest
of his shepherd lads coming to court my child than see him;” and
with these words Henry left the room.
Mrs Jane stood long, making faces, shaking her apron with both
hands, nodding her head, and sometimes giving a stamp with her
foot. “I have set my face against that connexion,” said she. “Our
Nell’s no made for a lady to a London lawyer. It wad set her rather
better to be Lady of Cassway. The young laird for me! I’ll hae the
branks of love thrown ower the heads o’ the twasome, tie the tangs
thegither, and then let them gallop like twa kippled grews. My
brother Harry’s a simple man; he disna ken the credit that he has by
his daughters—thanks to some other body than him! Niece Nell has a
shape, an ee, and a lady-manner that wad kilhab the best lord o’ the
kingdom, were he to come under their influence and my manoovres.
She’s a Jerdan a’ through; and that I’ll let them ken! Folk are a’ wise
ahint the hand; credit only comes by catch and keep. Good night to a’
younger brothers, puffings o’ love vows, and sabs o’ wind! Gie me the
good green hills, the gruff wedders, and bobtailed yowes; and let the
law and the gospel-men sell the wind o’ their lungs as dear as they
can!”
In a few days, Henry of Drumfielding was called out to attend his
chief on some expedition; on which Mrs Jane, not caring to trust her
message to any other person, went over to Cassway, and invited the
young laird to Drumfielding to see her niece, quite convinced that
her charms and endowments would at once enslave the elder
brother, as they had done the younger. Tam Beattie was delighted at
finding such a good back friend as Mrs Jane, for he had not failed to
observe, for a twelvemonth back, that Ellen Scott was very pretty,
and either through chance or design, he asked Mrs Jane if the young
lady was privy to this invitation.
“She privy to it!” exclaimed Mrs Jane, shaking her apron. “Ha,
weel I wat, no! She wad soon hae flown in my face wi’ her gibery and
her jaukery, had I tauld her my errand; but the gowk kens what the
tittling wants, although it is no aye crying, ‘Give, give,’ like the horse
loch-leech.”
“Does the horse-leech really cry that, Mrs Jane? I should think,
from a view of its mouth, that it could scarcely cry anything,” said
Tom.
“Are ye sic a reprobate as to deny the words o’ the Scripture, sir?
Hech, wae’s me! what some folk hae to answer for! We’re a’ wise
ahint the hand. But hark ye,—come ye ower in time, else I am feared
she may be settled for ever out o’ your reach. Now, I canna bide to
think on that, for I have always thought you twa made for ane
anither. Let me take a look o’ you frae tap to tae—O yes—made for
ane anither. Come ower in time, before billy Harry come hame again;
and let your visit be in timeous hours, else I’ll gie you the back of the
door to keep.—Wild reprobate!” she exclaimed to herself, on taking
her leave; “to deny that the horse loch-leech can speak! Ha—ha—the
young laird is the man for me!”
Thomas Beattie was true to his appointment, as may be supposed,
and Mrs Jane having her niece dressed in style, he was perfectly
charmed with her; and really it cannot be denied that Ellen was as
much delighted with him. She was young, gay, and frolicsome, and
she never spent a more joyous and happy afternoon, or knew before
what it was to be in a presence that delighted her so much. While
they sat conversing, and apparently better satisfied with the
company of each other than was likely to be regarded with
indifference by any other individual aspiring to the favour of the
young lady, the door was opened, and there entered no other than
Francis Beattie! When Ellen saw her devoted lover appear thus
suddenly, she blushed deeply, and her glee was damped in a
moment. She looked rather like a condemned criminal, or at least a
guilty creature, than what she really was,—a being over whose mind
the cloud of guilt had never cast its shadow.
Francis loved her above all things on earth or in heaven, and the
moment he saw her so much abashed at being surprised in the
company of his brother, his spirit was moved to jealousy—to
maddening and uncontrollable jealousy. His ears rang, his hair stood
on end, and the contour of his face became like a bent bow. He
walked up to his brother with his hand on his sword-hilt, and, in a
state of excitement which rendered his words inarticulate, addressed
him thus, while his teeth ground together like a horse-rattle:—
“Pray, sir, may I ask you of your intentions, and of what you are
seeking here?”
“I know not, Frank, what right you have to ask any such questions;
but you will allow that I have a right to ask at you what you are
seeking here at present, seeing you come so very inopportunely?”
“Sir,” said Francis, whose passion could stay no farther parley,
“dare you put it to the issue of the sword this moment?”
“Come now, dear Francis, do not act the fool and the madman
both at a time. Rather than bring such a dispute to the issue of the
sword between two brothers who never had a quarrel in their lives, I
propose that we bring it to a much more temperate and decisive issue
here where we stand, by giving the maiden her choice. Stand you
there at that corner of the room, I at this, and Ellen Scott in the
middle; let us both ask, and to whomsoever she comes, the prize be
his. Why should we try to decide, by the loss of one of our lives, what
we cannot decide, and what may be decided in a friendly and rational
way in one minute?”
“It is easy for you, sir, to talk temperately and with indifference of
such a trial, but not so with me. This young lady is dear to my heart.”
“Well, but so is she to mine. Let us, therefore, appeal to the lady at
once whose claim is the best; and, as your pretensions are the
highest, do you ask her first.”
“My dearest Ellen,” said Francis, humbly and affectionately, “you
know that my whole soul is devoted to your love, and that I aspire to
it only in the most honourable way; put an end to this dispute,
therefore, by honouring me with the preference which the
unequivocal offer of my hand merits.”
Ellen stood dumb and motionless, looking stedfastly down at the
hem of her jerkin, which she was nibbling with her hands. She dared
not lift an eye to either of the brothers, though apparently conscious
that she ought to have recognised the claims of Francis.
“Ellen, I need not tell you that I love you,” said Thomas, in a light
and careless manner, as if certain that his appeal would be
successful; “nor need I attempt to tell how dearly and how long I will
love you, for, in faith, I cannot. Will you make the discovery for
yourself, by deciding in my favour?”
Ellen looked up. There was a smile on her face; an arch,
mischievous, and happy smile, but it turned not on Thomas. Her face
turned to the contrary side, but yet the beam of that smile fell not on
Francis, who stood in a state of as terrible suspense between hope
and fear, as a Roman Catholic sinner at the gate of heaven, who has
implored St Peter to open the gate, and awaits a final answer. The die
of his fate was soon cast; for Ellen, looking one way, yet moving
another, straightway threw herself into Thomas Beattie’s arms,
exclaiming, “Ah, Tom! I fear I am doing that which I shall rue, but I
must trust to your generosity; for, bad as you are, I like you the best!”
Thomas took her in his arms, and kissed her; but before he could
say a word in return, the despair and rage of his brother, breaking
forth over every barrier of reason, interrupted him.
“This is the trick of a coward, to screen himself from the
chastisement he deserves. But you escape me not thus. Follow me, if
you dare!” And as he said this, Francis rushed from the house,
shaking his naked sword at his brother.
Ellen trembled with agitation at the young man’s rage; and while
Thomas still continued to assure her of his unalterable affection, Mrs
Jane Jerdan entered, plucking her apron so as to make it twang like a
bowstring.
“What’s a’ this, Squire Tummas? Are we to be habbled out o’ house
and hadding by this outrageous young lawyer o’ yours? By the souls
o’ the Jerdans, I’ll kick up sic a stour about his lugs as shall blind the
juridical een o’ him! Its’ queer that men should study the law only to
learn to break it. Sure am I, nae gentleman, that hasna been bred a
lawyer, wad come into a neighbour’s house bullyragging that gate, wi’
sword in han’, malice prepense in his eye, and venom on his tongue.
Just as if a lassie hadna her ain freedom o’ choice, because a fool has
been pleased to ask her! Haud the grip you hae, niece Nell; ye hae
made a wise choice for aince. Tam’s the man for my money! Folk are
a’ wise ahint the hand, but real wisdom lies taking time by the
forelock. But, Squire Tam, the thing that I want to ken is this—Are
you going to put up wi’ a’ that bullying and threatening, or do you
propose to chastise the fool according to his folly?”
“In truth, Mrs Jane, I am very sorry for my brother’s behaviour,
and could not, with honour, yield any more than I did to pacify him.
But he must be humbled. It would not do to suffer him to carry
matters with so high a hand.”
“Now, wad ye be but advised and leave him to me, I would play
him sic a plisky as he shouldna forget till his dying day. By the souls
o’ the Jerdans, I would! Now, promise to me that ye winna fight
him.”
“O promise, promise!” cried Ellen, vehemently; “for the sake of
Heaven’s love, promise my aunt that.”
Thomas smiled and shook his head, as much as if he had said,
“You do not know what you are asking.” Mrs Jane went on.
“Do it then—do it with a vengence; and remember this, that
wherever ye set the place o’ combat, be it in hill or dale, deep linn or
moss hag, I shall have a thirsdman there to encourage you on. I shall
give you a meeting you little wot of!”
Thomas Beattie took all this for words of course, as Mrs Jane was
well known for a raving, ranting old maid, whose vehemence few
regarded, though a great many respected her for the care she had
taken of her sister’s family, and a greater number still regarded her
with terror, as a being possessed of superhuman powers; so after
many expressions of the fondest love for Ellen, he took his leave, his
mind being made up how it behoved him to deal with his brother.
I forgot to mention before, that old Beattie lived at Nether Cassway
with his family; and his eldest son Thomas at Over Cassway, having,
on his father’s entering into a second marriage, been put in
possession of that castle and these lands. Francis, of course, lived in
his father’s house when in Scotland; and it was thus that his brother
knew nothing of his frequent visits to Ellen Scott.
That night, as soon as Thomas went home, he despatched a note to
his brother to the following purport: That he was sorry for the
rudeness and unreasonableness of his behaviour. But if, on coming
to himself, he was willing to make an apology before his mistress,
then he (Thomas) would gladly extend to him the right hand of love
and brotherhood; but if he refused this, he would please to meet him
on the Crook of Glendearg next morning by the sunrising. Francis
returned for answer, that he would meet him at the time and place
appointed. There was then no farther door of reconciliation left open,
but Thomas still had hopes of managing him even on the combat
field.
Francis slept little that night, being wholly set on revenge for the
loss of his beloved mistress; and a little after daybreak he arose, and
putting himself in light armour, proceeded to the place of
rendezvous. He had farther to go than his elder brother, and on
coming in sight of the Crook of Glendearg, he perceived the latter
there before him. He was wrapt in his cavalier’s cloak, and walking
up and down the Crook with impassioned strides, on which Francis
soliloquized as follows, as he hasted on:—“Ah, ha! so Tom is here
before me! This is what I did not expect, for I did not think the
flagitious dog had so much spirit or courage in him as to meet me. I
am glad he has! for how I long to chastise him, and draw some of the
pampered blood from that vain and insolent heart, which has
bereaved me of all I held dear on earth.”
In this way did he cherish his wrath till close at his brother’s side,
and then, addressing him in the same insolent terms, he desired him
to cease his cowardly cogitations and draw. His opponent instantly
wheeled about, threw off his horseman’s cloak, and presented his
sword; and, behold, the young man’s father stood before him, armed
and ready for action! The sword fell from Francis’ hand, and he stood
appalled, as if he had been a statue, unable either to utter a word or
move a muscle.
“Take up thy sword, caitiff, and let it work thy ruthless work of
vengeance here. Is it not better that thou shouldst pierce this old
heart, worn out with care and sorrow, and chilled by the ingratitude
of my race, than that of thy gallant and generous brother, the
representative of our house, and the chief of our name? Take up thy
sword, I say, and if I do not chastise thee as thou deservest, may
heaven reft the sword of justice from the hand of the avenger!”
“The God of heaven forbid that I should ever lift my sword against
my honoured father!” said Francis.
“Thou darest not, thou traitor and coward!” returned the father. “I
throw back the disgraceful terms in thy teeth which thou usedst to
thy brother. Thou camest here boiling with rancour to shed his
blood; and when I appear in person for him, thou darest not accept
the challenge.”
“You never did me wrong, my dear father; but my brother has
wronged me in the tenderest part.”
“Thy brother never wronged thee intentionally, thou deceitful and
sanguinary fratricide. It was thou alone who forced this quarrel upon
him; and I have great reason to suspect thee of a design to cut him
off, that the inheritance and the maid might both be thine own. But
here I swear by Him that made me, and the Redeemer that saved me,
if thou wilt not go straight and kneel to thy brother for forgiveness,
confessing thy injurious treatment, and swearing submission to thy
natural chief, I will banish thee from my house and presence for ever,
and load thee with a parent’s curse.”
The young scholar, being utterly astounded at his father’s words,
and at the awful and stern manner in which he addressed him, whom
he had never before reprimanded, was wholly overcome. He kneeled
to his parent, and implored his forgiveness, promising, with tears, to
fulfil every injunction which it would please him to enjoin; and on
this understanding, the two parted on amicable and gracious terms.
Chapter II.
Francis went straight to the tower of Over Cassway, and inquired
for his brother, resolved to fulfil his father’s stern injunctions to the
very letter. He was informed his brother was in his chamber in bed,
and indisposed. He asked the porter farther, if he had not been forth
that day, and was answered, that he had gone forth early in the
morning in armour, but had quickly returned, apparently in great
agitation, and betaken himself to his bed. Francis then requested to
be taken to his brother, to which the servant instantly assented, and
led him up to the chamber, never suspecting that there could be any
animosity between the two only brothers; but on John Burgess
opening the door, and announcing the Tutor, Thomas, being in a
nervous state, was a little alarmed. “Remain in the room there,
Burgess,” said he. “What, brother Frank, are you seeking here at this
hour, armed cap-a-pie? I hope you are not come to assassinate me in
my bed?”
“God forbid, brother,” said the other; “here John, take my sword
down with you, I want some private conversation with Thomas.”
John did so, and the following conversation ensued; for as soon as
the door closed, Francis dropt on his knees, and said, “O, my dear
brother, I have erred grievously, and am come to confess my crime,
and implore your pardon.”
“We have both erred, Francis, in suffering any earthly concern to
incite us against each other’s lives. We have both erred, but you have
my forgiveness cheerfully; here is my hand on it, and grant me thine
in return. Oh, Francis, I have got an admonition this morning, that
never will be erased from my memory, and which has caused me to
see my life in a new light. What or whom think you I met an hour ago
on my way to the Crook of Glendearg to encounter you?”
“Our father, perhaps.”
“You have seen him, then?”
“Indeed I have, and he has given me such a reprimand for severity
as son never before received from a parent.”