Vivat Rex,
Currat Lex,
as the poet has it, in whilk of Horaceís odes I know not.”
Here Butler groaned, in utter impatience of the brutality and ignorance
which Bartoline had contrived to amalgamate into one sentence. But
Saddletree, like other prosers, was blessed with a happy obtuseness of
perception concerning the unfavourable impression which he sometimes made
on his auditors. He proceeded to deal forth his scraps of legal knowledge
without mercy, and concluded by asking Butler, with great
self-complacency, “Was it na a pity my father didna send me to Utrecht?
Havena I missed the chance to turn out as _clarissimus_ an _ictus,_ as
auld Grunwiggin himself?--Whatfor dinna ye speak, Mr. Butler? Wad I no
hae been a _clarissimus ictus?_--Eh, man?”
“I really do not understand you, Mr. Saddletree,” said Butler, thus
pushed hard for an answer. His faint and exhausted tone of voice was
instantly drowned in the sonorous bray of Bartoline.
“No understand me, man? _Ictus_ is Latin for a lawyer, is it not?”
“Not that ever I heard of,” answered Butler in the same dejected tone.
“The deil ye didna!--See, man, I got the word but this morning out of a
memorial of Mr. Crossmyloofís--see, there it is, _ictus clarissimus et
perti--peritissimus_--itís aí Latin, for itís printed in the Italian
types.”
“O, you mean _juris-consultus--Ictus_ is an abbreviation for
_juris-consultus._”
“Dinna tell me, man,” persevered Saddletree, “thereís nae abbreviates
except in adjudications; and this is aí about a servitude of
water-drap--that is to say, _tillicidian_* (maybe yeíll say thatís no
Latin neither), in Mary Kingís Close in the High Street.”
* He meant, probably, _stillicidium._
“Very likely,” said poor Butler, overwhelmed by the noisy perseverance of
his visitor. “Iam not able to dispute with you.”
“Few folk are--few folk are, Mr. Butler, though I say it that shouldna
say it,” returned Bartoline with great delight. “Now, it will be twa
hours yet or yeíre wanted in the schule, and as ye are no weel, Iíll sit
wií you to divert ye, and explain tíye the nature of a _tillicidian._ Ye
maun ken, the petitioner, Mrs. Crombie, a very decent woman, is a friend
of mine, and I hae stude her friend in this case, and brought her wií
credit into the court, and I doubtna that in due time she will win out
oít wií credit, win she or lose she. Ye see, being an inferior tenement
or laigh house, we grant ourselves to be burdened wií the _tillicide,_
that is, that we are obligated to receive the natural water-drap of the
superior tenement, sae far as the same faís frae the heavens, or the roof
of our neighbourís house, and from thence by the gutters or eaves upon
our laigh tenement. But the other night comes a Highland quean of a lass,
and she flashes, God kens what, out at the eastmost window of Mrs.
MacPhailís house, thatís the superior tenement. I believe the auld women
wad hae agreed, for Luckie MacPhail sent down the lass to tell my friend
Mrs. Crombie that she had made the gardyloo out of the wrang window, out
of respect for twa Highlandmen that were speaking Gaelic in the close
below the right ane. But luckily for Mrs. Crombie, I just chanced to come
in in time to break aff the communing, for itís a pity the point suldna
be tried. We had Mrs. MacPhail into the Ten-Mark Court--The Hieland
limmer of a lass wanted to swear herself free--but haud ye there,
says I.”
The detailed account of this important suit might have lasted until poor
Butlerís hour of rest was completely exhausted, had not Saddletree been
interrupted by the noise of voices at the door. The woman of the house
where Butler lodged, on returning with her pitcher from the well, whence
she had been fetching water for the family, found our heroine Jeanie
Deans standing at the door, impatient of the prolix harangue of
Saddletree, yet unwilling to enter until he should have taken his leave.
The good woman abridged the period of hesitation by inquiring, “Was ye
wanting the gudeman or me, lass?”
“I wanted to speak with Mr. Butler, if heís at leisure,” replied Jeanie.
“Gang in by then, my woman,” answered the goodwife; and opening the door
of a room, she announced the additional visitor with, “Mr. Butler, hereís
a lass wants to speak tíye.”
The surprise of Butler was extreme, when Jeanie, who seldom stirred
half-a-mile from home, entered his apartment upon this annunciation.
“Good God!” he said, starting from his chair, while alarm restored to his
cheek the colour of which sickness had deprived it; “some new misfortune
must have happened!”
“None, Mr. Reuben, but what you must hae heard of--but oh, ye are looking
ill yoursell!”--for the “hectic of a moment” had not concealed from her
affectionate eyes the ravages which lingering disease and anxiety of mind
had made in her loverís person.
“No: I am well--quite well,” said Butler with eagerness; “if I can do
anything to assist you, Jeanie--or your father.”
“Ay, to be sure,” said Saddletree; “the family may be considered as
limited to them twa now, just as if Effie had never been in the tailzie,
puir thing. But, Jeanie lass, what brings you out to Liberton sae air in
the morning, and your father lying ill in the Luckenbooths?”
“I had a message frae my father to Mr. Butler,” said Jeanie with
embarrassment; but instantly feeling ashamed of the fiction to which she
had resorted, for her love of and veneration for truth was almost
Quaker-like, she corrected herself--“That is to say, I wanted to speak
with Mr. Butler about some business of my fatherís and puir Effieís.”
“Is it law business?” said Bartoline; “because if it be, ye had better
take my opinion on the subject than his.”
“It is not just law business,” said Jeanie, who saw considerable
inconvenience might arise from letting Mr. Saddletree into the secret
purpose of her journey; “but I want Mr. Butler to write a letter for me.”
“Very right,” said Mr. Saddletree; “and if yeíll tell me what it is
about, Iíll dictate to Mr. Butler as Mr. Crossmyloof does to his
clerk.--Get your pen and ink in initialibus, Mr. Butler.”
Jeanie looked at Butler, and wrung her hands with vexation and
impatience.
“I believe, Mr. Saddletree,” said Butler, who saw the necessity of
getting rid of him at all events, “that Mr. Whackbairn will be somewhat
affronted if you do not hear your boys called up to their lessons.”
“Indeed, Mr. Butler, and thatís as true; and I promised to ask a half
play-day to the schule, so that the bairns might gang and see the
hanging, which canna but have a pleasing effect on their young minds,
seeing there is no knowing what they may come to themselves.--Odd so, I
didna mind ye were here, Jeanie Deans; but ye maun use yoursell to hear
the matter spoken oí.--Keep Jeanie here till I come back, Mr. Butler; I
winna bide ten minutes.”
And with this unwelcome assurance of an immediate return, he relieved
them of the embarrassment of his presence.
“Reuben,” said Jeanie, who saw the necessity of using the interval of his
absence in discussing what had brought her there, “I am bound on a lang
journey--I am gaun to Lunnon to ask Effieís life of the king and of the
queen.”
“Jeanie! you are surely not yourself,” answered Butler, in the utmost
surprise;--“_you_ go to London--_you_ address the king and queen!”
“And what for no, Reuben?” said Jeanie, with all the composed simplicity
of her character; “itís but speaking to a mortal man and woman when aí is
done. And their hearts maun be made oí flesh and blood like other folkís,
and Effieís story wad melt them were they stane. Forby, I hae heard that
they are no sic bad folk as what the Jacobites caí them.”
“Yes, Jeanie,” said Butler; “but their magnificence--their retinue--the
difficulty of getting audience?”
“I have thought of aí that, Reuben, and it shall not break my spirit. Nae
doubt their claiths will be very grand, wií their crowns on their heads,
and their sceptres in their hands, like the great King Ahasuerus when he
sate upon his royal throne fornent the gate of his house, as we are told
in Scripture. But I have that within me that will keep my heart from
failing, and I am amaist sure that I will be strengthened to speak the
errand I came for.”
“Alas! alas!” said Butler, “the kings now-a-days do not sit in the gate
to administer justice, as in patriarchal times. I know as little of
courts as you do, Jeanie, by experience; but by reading and report I
know, that the King of Britain does everything by means of his
ministers.”
“And if they be upright, God-fearing ministers,” said Jeanie, “itís sae
muckle the better chance for Effie and me.”
“But you do not even understand the most ordinary words relating to a
court,” said Butler; “by the ministry is meant not clergymen, but the
kingís official servants.”
“Nae doubt,” returned Jeanie, “he maun hae a great number mair, I daur to
say, than the duchess has at Dalkeith, and great folkís servants are aye
mair saucy than themselves. But Iíll be decently put on, and Iíll offer
them a trifle oí siller, as if I came to see the palace. Or, if they
scruple that, Iíll tell them Iím come on a business of life and death,
and then they will surely bring me to speech of the king and queen?”
Butler shook his head. “O Jeanie, this is entirely a wild dream. You can
never see them but through some great lordís intercession, and I think it
is scarce possible even then.”
“Weel, but maybe I can get that too,” said Jeanie, “with a little helping
from you.”
“From me, Jeanie! this is the wildest imagination of all.”
“Ay, but it is not, Reuben. Havena I heard you say, that your grandfather
(that my father never likes to hear about) did some gude langsyne to the
forbear of this MacCallummore, when he was Lord of Lorn?”
“He did so,” said Butler, eagerly, “and I can prove it.--I will write to
the Duke of Argyle--report speaks him a good kindly man, as he is known
for a brave soldier and true patriot--I will conjure him to stand between
your sister and this cruel fate. There is but a poor chance of success,
but we will try all means.”
“We _must_ try all means,” replied Jeanie; “but writing winna do it--a
letter canna look, and pray, and beg, and beseech, as the human voice can
do to the human heart. A letterís like the music that the ladies have for
their spinets--naething but black scores, compared to the same tune
played or sung. Itís word of mouth maun do it, or naething, Reuben.”
“You are right,” said Reuben, recollecting his firmness, “and I will hope
that Heaven has suggested to your kind heart and firm courage the only
possible means of saving the life of this unfortunate girl. But, Jeanie,
you must not take this most perilous journey alone; I have an interest in
you, and I will not agree that my Jeanie throws herself away. You must
even, in the present circumstances, give me a husbandís right to protect
you, and I will go with you myself on this journey, and assist you to do
your duty by your family.”
“Alas, Reuben!” said Jeanie in her turn, “this must not be; a pardon will
not gie my sister her fair fame again, or make me a bride fitting for an
honest man and an usefuí minister. Wha wad mind what he said in the
puípit, that had to wife the sister of a woman that was condemned for sic
wickedness?”
“But, Jeanie,” pleaded her lover, “I do not believe, and I cannot
believe, that Effie has done this deed.”
“Heaven bless ye for saying sae, Reuben,” answered Jeanie; “but she maun
bear the blame oít after all.”
“But the blame, were it even justly laid on her, does not fall on you.”
“Ah, Reuben, Reuben,” replied the young woman, “ye ken it is a blot that
spreads to kith and kin.--Ichabod--as my poor father says--the glory is
departed from our house; for the poorest manís house has a glory, where
there are true hands, a divine heart, and an honest fame--And the last
has gane frae us a.”
“But, Jeanie, consider your word and plighted faith to me; and would you
undertake such a journey without a man to protect you?--and who should
that protector be but your husband?”
“You are kind and good, Reuben, and wad take me wií aí my shame, I
doubtna. But ye canna but own that this is no time to marry or be given
in marriage. Na, if that suld ever be, it maun be in another and a better
season.--And, dear Reuben, ye speak of protecting me on my journey--Alas!
who will protect and take care of you?--your very limbs tremble with
standing for ten minutes on the floor; how could you undertake a journey
as far as Lunnon?”
“But I am strong--I am well,” continued Butler, sinking in his seat
totally exhausted, “at least I shall be quite well to-morrow.”
“Ye see, and ye ken, ye maun just let me depart,” said Jeanie, after a
pause; and then taking his extended hand, and gazing kindly in his face,
she added, “Itís eíen a grief the mair to me to see you in this way. But
ye maun keep up your heart for Jeanieís sake, for if she isna your wife,
she will never be the wife of living man. And now gie me the paper for
MacCallummore, and bid God speed me on my way.”
There was something of romance in Jeanieís venturous resolution; yet, on
consideration, as it seemed impossible to alter it by persuasion, or to
give her assistance but by advice, Butler, after some farther debate, put
into her hands the paper she desired, which, with the muster-roll in
which it was folded up, were the sole memorials of the stout and
enthusiastic Bible Butler, his grandfather. While Butler sought this
document, Jeanie had time to take up his pocket Bible. “I have marked a
scripture,” she said, as she again laid it down, “with your kylevine pen,
that will be useful to us baith. And ye maun tak the trouble, Reuben, to
write aí this to my father, for, God help me, I have neither head nor
hand for lang letters at ony time, forby now; and I trust him entirely to
you, and I trust you will soon be permitted to see him. And, Reuben, when
ye do win to the speech oí him, mind aí the auld manís bits oí ways, for
Jeanieís sake; and dinna speak oí Latin or English terms to him, for heís
oí the auld warld, and downa bide to be fashed wií them, though I daresay
he may be wrang. And dinna ye say muckle to him, but set him on speaking
himself, for heíll bring himsell mair comfort that way. And O, Reuben,
the poor lassie in yon dungeon!--but I needna bid your kind heart--gie
her what comfort ye can as soon as they will let ye see her--tell
her--But I maunna speak mair about her, for I maunna take leave oí ye
wií the tear in my ee, for that wouldna be canny.--God bless ye, Reuben!”
To avoid so ill an omen she left the room hastily, while her features yet
retained the mournful and affectionate smile which she had compelled them
to wear, in order to support Butlerís spirits.
It seemed as if the power of sight, of speech, and of reflection, had
left him as she disappeared from the room, which she had entered and
retired from so like an apparition. Saddletree, who entered immediately
afterwards, overwhelmed him with questions, which he answered without
understanding them, and with legal disquisitions, which conveyed to him
no iota of meaning. At length the learned burgess recollected that there
was a Baron Court to be, held at Loanhead that day, and though it was
hardly worth while, “he might as weel go to see if there was onything
doing, as he was acquainted with the baron bailie, who was a decent man,
and would be glad of a word of legal advice.”
So soon as he departed, Butler flew to the Bible, the last book which
Jeanie had touched. To his extreme surprise, a paper, containing two or
three pieces of gold, dropped from the book. With a black-lead pencil,
she had marked the sixteenth and twenty-fifth verses of the
thirty-seventh Psalm,--“A little that a righteous man hath, is better
than the riches of the wicked.”--“I have been young and am now old, yet
have I not seen the righteous forsaken, nor his seed begging their
bread.”
Deeply impressed with the affectionate delicacy which shrouded its own
generosity under the cover of a providential supply to his wants, he
pressed the gold to his lips with more ardour than ever the metal was
greeted with by a miser. To emulate her devout firmness and confidence
seemed now the pitch of his ambition, and his first task was to write an
account to David Deans of his daughterís resolution and journey
southward. He studied every sentiment, and even every phrase, which he
thought could reconcile the old man to her extraordinary resolution. The
effect which this epistle produced will be hereafter adverted to. Butler
committed it to the charge of an honest clown, who had frequent dealings
with Deans in the sale of his dairy produce, and who readily undertook a
journey to Edinburgh to put the letter into his own hands.*
* By dint of assiduous research I am enabled to certiorate the reader,
that the name of this person was Saunders Broadfoot, and that he dealt in
the wholesome commodity called kirn-milk (_Angliceí,_ butter-milk).--
J. C.