The devil a puritan, or any thing else he is, but a time-server.
Twelfth Night.
It was evening when Mr Henry Morton perceived an old woman, wrapped in
her tartan plaid, supported by a stout, stupid-looking fellow, in
hoddin-grey, approach the house of Milnwood. Old Mause made her courtesy,
but Cuddie took the lead in addressing Morton. Indeed, he had previously
stipulated with his mother that he was to manage matters his own way; for
though he readily allowed his general inferiority of understanding, and
filially submitted to the guidance of his mother on most ordinary
occasions, yet he said, “For getting a service, or getting forward in the
warld, he could somegate gar the wee pickle sense he had gang muckle
farther than hers, though she could crack like ony minister o’ them a’.”
Accordingly, he thus opened the conversation with young Morton: “A braw
night this for the rye, your honour; the west park will be breering
bravely this e’en.”
“I do not doubt it, Cuddie; but what can have brought your mother--this
is your mother, is it not?” (Cuddie nodded.) “What can have brought your
mother and you down the water so late?”
“Troth, stir, just what gars the auld wives trot--neshessity, stir--I’m
seeking for service, stir.”
“For service, Cuddie, and at this time of the year? how comes that?”
Mause could forbear no longer. Proud alike of her cause and her
sufferings, she commenced with an affected humility of tone, “It has
pleased Heaven, an it like your honour, to distinguish us by a
visitation”--“Deil’s in the wife and nae gude!” whispered Cuddie to his
mother, “an ye come out wi’ your whiggery, they’ll no daur open a door to
us through the haill country!” Then aloud and addressing Morton, “My
mother’s auld, stir, and she has rather forgotten hersell in speaking to
my leddy, that canna weel bide to be contradickit, (as I ken nae-body
likes it if they could help themsells,) especially by her ain folk,--and
Mr Harrison the steward, and Gudyill the butler, they’re no very fond o’
us, and it’s ill sitting at Rome and striving wi’ the Pope; sae I thought
it best to flit before ill came to waur--and here’s a wee bit line to
your honour frae a friend will maybe say some mair about it.”
Morton took the billet, and crimsoning up to the ears, between joy and
surprise, read these words: “If you can serve these poor helpless people,
you will oblige E. B.”
It was a few instants before he could attain composure enough to ask,
“And what is your object, Cuddie? and how can I be of use to you?”
“Wark, stir, wark, and a service, is my object--a bit beild for my mither
and mysell--we hae gude plenishing o’ our ain, if we had the cast o’ a
cart to bring it down--and milk and meal, and greens enow, for I’m gay
gleg at meal-time, and sae is my mither, lang may it be sae--And, for the
penny-fee and a’ that, I’ll just leave it to the laird and you. I ken
ye’ll no see a poor lad wranged, if ye can help it.”
Morton shook his head. “For the meat and lodging, Cuddie, I think I can
promise something; but the penny-fee will be a hard chapter, I doubt.”
“I’ll tak my chance o’t, stir,” replied the candidate for service,
“rather than gang down about Hamilton, or ony sic far country.”
“Well; step into the kitchen, Cuddie, and I’ll do what I can for you.”
The negotiation was not without difficulties. Morton had first to bring
over the housekeeper, who made a thousand objections, as usual, in order
to have the pleasure of being besought and entreated; but, when she was
gained over, it was comparatively easy to induce old Milnwood to accept
of a servant, whose wages were to be in his own option. An outhouse was,
therefore, assigned to Mause and her son for their habitation, and it was
settled that they were for the time to be admitted to eat of the frugal
fare provided for the family, until their own establishment should be
completed. As for Morton, he exhausted his own very slender stock of
money in order to make Cuddie such a present, under the name of arles, as
might show his sense of the value of the recommendation delivered to him.
“And now we’re settled ance mair,” said: Cuddie to his mother, “and if
we’re no sae bien and comfortable as we were up yonder, yet life’s life
ony gate, and we’re wi’ decent kirk-ganging folk o’ your ain persuasion,
mither; there will be nae quarrelling about that.”
“Of my persuasion, hinnie!” said the too-enlightened Mause; “wae’s me for
thy blindness and theirs. O, Cuddie, they are but in the court of the
Gentiles, and will ne’er win farther ben, I doubt; they are but little
better than the prelatists themsells. They wait on the ministry of that
blinded man, Peter Poundtext, ance a precious teacher of the Word, but
now a backsliding pastor, that has, for the sake of stipend and family
maintenance, forsaken the strict path, and gane astray after the black
Indulgence. O, my son, had ye but profited by the gospel doctrines ye hae
heard in the Glen of Bengonnar, frae the dear Richard Rumbleberry, that
sweet youth, who suffered martyrdom in the Grassmarket, afore Candlemas!
Didna ye hear him say, that Erastianism was as bad as Prelacy, and that
the Indulgence was as bad as Erastianism?”
“Heard ever ony body the like o’ this!” interrupted Cuddie; “we’ll be
driven out o’ house and ha’ again afore we ken where to turn oursells.
Weej, mither, I hae just ae word mair--An I hear ony mair o’ your
din--afore folk, that is, for I dinna mind your clavers mysell, they aye
set me sleeping--but if I hear ony mair din afore folk, as I was saying,
about Poundtexts and Rumbleberries, and doctrines and malignants, I’se
e’en turn a single sodger mysell, or maybe a sergeant or a captain, if ye
plague me the mair, and let Rumbleberry and you gang to the deil
thegither. I ne’er gat ony gude by his doctrine, as ye ca’t, but a sour
fit o’ the batts wi’ sitting amang the wat moss-hags for four hours at a
yoking, and the leddy cured me wi’ some hickery-pickery; mair by token,
an she had kend how I came by the disorder, she wadna hae been in sic a
hurry to mend it.”
Although groaning in spirit over the obdurate and impenitent state, as
she thought it, of her son Cuddie, Mause durst neither urge him farther
on the topic, nor altogether neglect the warning he had given her. She
knew the disposition of her deceased helpmate, whom this surviving pledge
of their union greatly resembled, and remembered, that although
submitting implicitly in most things to her boast of superior acuteness,
he used on certain occasions, when driven to extremity, to be seized with
fits of obstinacy, which neither remonstrance, flattery, nor threats,
were capable of overpowering. Trembling, therefore, at the very
possibility of Cuddie’s fulfilling his threat, she put a guard over her
tongue, and even when Poundtext was commended in her presence, as an able
and fructifying preacher, she had the good sense to suppress the
contradiction which thrilled upon her tongue, and to express her
sentiments no otherwise than by deep groans, which the hearers charitably
construed to flow from a vivid recollection of the more pathetic parts of
his homilies. How long she could have repressed her feelings it is
difficult to say. An unexpected accident relieved her from the necessity.
The Laird of Milnwood kept up all old fashions which were connected with
economy. It was, therefore, still the custom in his house, as it had been
universal in Scotland about fifty years before, that the domestics, after
having placed the dinner on the table, sate down at the lower end of the
board, and partook of the share which was assigned to them, in company
with their masters. On the day, therefore, after Cuddie’s arrival, being
the third from the opening of this narrative, old Robin, who was butler,
valet-de-chambre, footman, gardener, and what not, in the house of
Milnwood, placed on the table an immense charger of broth, thickened with
oatmeal and colewort, in which ocean of liquid was indistinctly
discovered, by close observers, two or three short ribs of lean mutton
sailing to and fro. Two huge baskets, one of bread made of barley and
pease, and one of oat-cakes, flanked this standing dish. A large boiled
salmon would now-a-days have indicated more liberal house-keeping; but at
that period salmon was caught in such plenty in the considerable rivers
in Scotland, that instead of being accounted a delicacy, it was generally
applied to feed the servants, who are said sometimes to have stipulated
that they should not be required to eat a food so luscious and surfeiting
in its quality above five times a-week. The large black jack, filled with
very small beer of Milnwood’s own brewing, was allowed to the company at
discretion, as were the bannocks, cakes, and broth; but the mutton was
reserved for the heads of the family, Mrs Wilson included: and a measure
of ale, somewhat deserving the name, was set apart in a silver tankard
for their exclusive use. A huge kebbock, (a cheese, that is, made with
ewemilk mixed with cow’s milk,) and a jar of salt butter, were in common
to the company.
To enjoy this exquisite cheer, was placed, at the head of the table, the
old Laird himself, with his nephew on the one side, and the favourite
housekeeper on the other. At a long interval, and beneath the salt of
course, sate old Robin, a meagre, half-starved serving-man, rendered
cross and cripple by rheumatism, and a dirty drab of a housemaid, whom
use had rendered callous to the daily exercitations which her temper
underwent at the hands of her master and Mrs Wilson. A barnman, a
white-headed cow-herd boy, with Cuddie the new ploughman and his mother,
completed the party. The other labourers belonging to the property
resided in their own houses, happy at least in this, that if their cheer
was not more delicate than that which we have described, they could eat
their fill, unwatched by the sharp, envious grey eyes of Milnwood, which
seemed to measure the quantity that each of his dependents swallowed, as
closely as if their glances attended each mouthful in its progress from
the lips to the stomach. This close inspection was unfavourable to
Cuddie, who sustained much prejudice in his new master’s opinion, by the
silent celerity with which he caused the victuals to disappear before
him. And ever and anon Milnwood turned his eyes from the huge feeder to
cast indignant glances upon his nephew, whose repugnance to rustic labour
was the principal cause of his needing a ploughman, and who had been the
direct means of his hiring this very cormorant.
“Pay thee wages, quotha?” said Milnwood to himself,--“Thou wilt eat in a
week the value of mair than thou canst work for in a month.”
These disagreeable ruminations were interrupted by a loud knocking at the
outer-gate. It was a universal custom in Scotland, that, when the family
was at dinner, the outer-gate of the courtyard, if there was one, and if
not, the door of the house itself, was always shut and locked, and only
guests of importance, or persons upon urgent business, sought or received
admittance at that time.
[Note: Locking the Door during Dinner. The custom of keeping the
door of a house or chateau locked during the time of dinner,
probably arose from the family being anciently assembled in the hall
at that meal, and liable to surprise. But it was in many instances
continued as a point of high etiquette, of which the following is an
example:
A considerable landed proprietor in Dumfries-shire, being a
bachelor, without near relations, and determined to make his will,
resolved previously to visit his two nearest kinsmen, and decide
which should be his heir, according to the degree of kindness with
which he should be received. Like a good clansman, he first visited
his own chief, a baronet in rank, descendant and representative of
one of the oldest families in Scotland. Unhappily the dinner-bell
had rung, and the door of the castle had been locked before his
arrival. The visitor in vain announced his name and requested
admittance; but his chief adhered to the ancient etiquette, and
would on no account suffer the doors to be unbarred. Irritated at
this cold reception, the old Laird rode on to Sanquhar Castle, then
the residence of the Duke of Queensberry, who no sooner heard his
name, than, knowing well he had a will to make, the drawbridge
dropped, and the gates flew open--the table was covered anew--his
grace’s bachelor and intestate kinsman was received with the utmost
attention and respect; and it is scarcely necessary to add, that
upon his death some years after, the visitor’s considerable landed
property went to augment the domains of the Ducal House of
Queensberry. This happened about the end of the seventeenth
century.]
The family of Milnwood were therefore surprised, and, in the unsettled
state of the times, something alarmed, at the earnest and repeated
knocking with which the gate was now assailed. Mrs Wilson ran in person
to the door, and, having reconnoitred those who were so clamorous for
admittance, through some secret aperture with which most Scottish
door-ways were furnished for the express purpose, she returned wringing
her hands in great dismay, exclaiming, “The red-coats! the red-coats!”
“Robin--Ploughman--what ca’ they ye?--Barnsman--Nevoy Harry--open the
door, open the door!” exclaimed old Milnwood, snatching up and slipping
into his pocket the two or three silver spoons with which the upper end
of the table was garnished, those beneath the salt being of goodly horn.
“Speak them fair, sirs--Lord love ye, speak them fair--they winna bide
thrawing--we’re a’ harried--we’re a’ harried!”
While the servants admitted the troopers, whose oaths and threats already
indicated resentment at the delay they had been put to, Cuddie took the
opportunity to whisper to his mother, “Now, ye daft auld carline, mak
yoursell deaf--ye hae made us a’ deaf ere now--and let me speak for ye. I
wad like ill to get my neck raxed for an auld wife’s clashes, though ye
be our mither.”
“O, hinny, ay; I’se be silent or thou sall come to ill,” was the
corresponding whisper of Mause “but bethink ye, my dear, them that deny
the Word, the Word will deny”--Her admonition was cut short by the
entrance of the Life-Guardsmen, a party of four troopers, commanded by
Bothwell.
In they tramped, making a tremendous clatter upon the stone-floor with
the iron-shod heels of their large jack-boots, and the clash and clang of
their long, heavy, basket-hilted broadswords. Milnwood and his
housekeeper trembled, from well-grounded apprehensions of the system of
exaction and plunder carried on during these domiciliary visits. Henry
Morton was discomposed with more special cause, for he remembered that he
stood answerable to the laws for having harboured Burley. The widow Mause
Headrigg, between fear for her son’s life and an overstrained and
enthusiastic zeal, which reproached her for consenting even tacitly to
belie her religious sentiments, was in a strange quandary. The other
servants quaked for they knew not well what. Cuddie alone, with the look
of supreme indifference and stupidity which a Scottish peasant can at
times assume as a mask for considerable shrewdness and craft, continued
to swallow large spoonfuls of his broth, to command which he had drawn
within his sphere the large vessel that contained it, and helped himself,
amid the confusion, to a sevenfold portion.
“What is your pleasure here, gentlemen?” said Milnwood, humbling himself
before the satellites of power.
“We come in behalf of the king,” answered Bothwell; “why the devil did
you keep us so long standing at the door?”
“We were at dinner,” answered Milnwood, “and the door was locked, as is
usual in landward towns [Note: The Scots retain the use of the word town
in its comprehensive Saxon meaning, as a place of habitation. A mansion
or a farm house, though solitary, is called the town. A landward town is
a dwelling situated in the country.] in this country. I am sure,
gentlemen, if I had kend ony servants of our gude king had stood at the
door--But wad ye please to drink some ale--or some brandy--or a cup of
canary sack, or claret wine?” making a pause between each offer as long
as a stingy bidder at an auction, who is loath to advance his offer for a
favourite lot.
“Claret for me,” said one fellow.
“I like ale better,” said another, “provided it is right juice of John
Barleycorn.”
“Better never was malted,” said Milnwood; “I can hardly say sae muckle
for the claret. It’s thin and cauld, gentlemen.”
“Brandy will cure that,” said a third fellow; “a glass of brandy to three
glasses of wine prevents the curmurring in the stomach.”
“Brandy, ale, sack, and claret?--we’ll try them all,” said Bothwell, “and
stick to that which is best. There’s good sense in that, if the damn’dest
whig in Scotland had said it.”
Hastily, yet with a reluctant quiver of his muscles, Milnwood lugged out
two ponderous keys, and delivered them to the governante.
“The housekeeper,” said Bothwell, taking a seat, and throwing himself
upon it, “is neither so young nor so handsome as to tempt a man to follow
her to the gauntrees, and devil a one here is there worth sending in her
place.--What’s this?--meat?” (searching with a fork among the broth, and
fishing up a cutlet of mutton)--“I think I could eat a bit--why, it’s as
tough as if the devil’s dam had hatched it.”
“If there is any thing better in the house, sir,” said Milnwood, alarmed
at these symptoms of disapprobation--“No, no,” said Bothwell, “it’s not
worth while, I must proceed to business.--You attend Poundtext, the
presbyterian parson, I understand, Mr Morton?”
Mr Morton hastened to slide in a confession and apology.
“By the indulgence of his gracious majesty and the government, for I wad
do nothing out of law--I hae nae objection whatever to the establishment
of a moderate episcopacy, but only that I am a country-bred man, and the
ministers are a hamelier kind of folk, and I can follow their doctrine
better; and, with reverence, sir, it’s a mair frugal establishment for
the country.”
“Well, I care nothing about that,” said Bothwell; “they are indulged, and
there’s an end of it; but, for my part, if I were to give the law, never
a crop-ear’d cur of the whole pack should bark in a Scotch pulpit.
However, I am to obey commands.--There comes the liquor; put it down, my
good old lady.”
He decanted about one-half of a quart bottle of claret into a wooden
quaigh or bicker, and took it off at a draught.
“You did your good wine injustice, my friend;--it’s better than your
brandy, though that’s good too. Will you pledge me to the king’s health?”
“With pleasure,” said Milnwood, “in ale,--but I never drink claret, and
keep only a very little for some honoured friends.”
“Like me, I suppose,” said Bothwell; and then, pushing the bottle to
Henry, he said, “Here, young man, pledge you the king’s health.”
Henry filled a moderate glass in silence, regardless of the hints and
pushes of his uncle, which seemed to indicate that he ought to have
followed his example, in preferring beer to wine.
“Well,” said Bothwell, “have ye all drank the toast?--What is that old
wife about? Give her a glass of brandy, she shall drink the king’s
health, by”--“If your honour pleases,” said Cuddie, with great stolidity
of aspect, “this is my mither, stir; and she’s as deaf as Corra-linn; we
canna mak her hear day nor door; but if your honour pleases, I am ready
to drink the king’s health for her in as mony glasses of brandy as ye
think neshessary.”
“I dare swear you are,” answered Bothwell; “you look like a fellow that
would stick to brandy--help thyself, man; all’s free where’er I come.--
Tom, help the maid to a comfortable cup, though she’s but a dirty jilt
neither. Fill round once more--Here’s to our noble commander, Colonel
Graham of Claverhouse!--What the devil is the old woman groaning for? She
looks as very a whig as ever sate on a hill-side--Do you renounce the
Covenant, good woman?”
“Whilk Covenant is your honour meaning? Is it the Covenant of Works, or
the Covenant of Grace?” said Cuddie, interposing.
“Any covenant; all covenants that ever were hatched,” answered the
trooper.
“Mither,” cried Cuddie, affecting to speak as to a deaf person, “the
gentleman wants to ken if ye will renunce the Covenant of Works?”
“With all my heart, Cuddie,” said Mause, “and pray that my feet may be
delivered from the snare thereof.”
“Come,” said Bothwell, “the old dame has come more frankly off than I
expected. Another cup round, and then we’ll proceed to business.--You
have all heard, I suppose, of the horrid and barbarous murder committed
upon the person of the Archbishop of St Andrews, by ten or eleven armed
fanatics?”
All started and looked at each other; at length Milnwood himself
answered, “They had heard of some such misfortune, but were in hopes it
had not been true.”
“There is the relation published by government, old gentleman; what do
you think of it?”
“Think, sir? Wh--wh--whatever the council please to think of it,”
stammered Milnwood.
“I desire to have your opinion more explicitly, my friend,” said the
dragoon, authoritatively.
Milnwood’s eyes hastily glanced through the paper to pick out the
strongest expressions of censure with which it abounded, in gleaning
which he was greatly aided by their being printed in italics.
“I think it a--bloody and execrable--murder and parricide--devised by
hellish and implacable cruelty--utterly abominable, and a scandal to the
land.”
“Well said, old gentleman!” said the querist--“Here’s to thee, and I wish
you joy of your good principles. You owe me a cup of thanks for having
taught you them; nay, thou shalt pledge me in thine own sack--sour ale
sits ill upon a loyal stomach.--Now comes your turn, young man; what
think you of the matter in hand?”
“I should have little objection to answer you,” said Henry, “if I knew
what right you had to put the question.”
“The Lord preserve us!” said the old housekeeper, “to ask the like o’
that at a trooper, when a’ folk ken they do whatever they like through
the haill country wi’ man and woman, beast and body.”
The old gentleman exclaimed, in the same horror at his nephew’s audacity,
“Hold your peace, sir, or answer the gentleman discreetly. Do you mean to
affront the king’s authority in the person of a sergeant of the
Life-Guards?”
“Silence, all of you!” exclaimed Bothwell, striking his hand fiercely on
the table--“Silence, every one of you, and hear me!--You ask me for my
right to examine you, sir (to Henry); my cockade and my broadsword are my
commission, and a better one than ever Old Nol gave to his roundheads;
and if you want to know more about it, you may look at the act of council
empowering his majesty’s officers and soldiers to search for, examine,
and apprehend suspicious persons; and, therefore, once more, I ask you
your opinion of the death of Archbishop Sharpe--it’s a new touch-stone we
have got for trying people’s metal.”
Henry had, by this time, reflected upon the useless risk to which he
would expose the family by resisting the tyrannical power which was
delegated to such rude hands; he therefore read the narrative over, and
replied, composedly, “I have no hesitation to say, that the perpetrators
of this assassination have committed, in my opinion, a rash and wicked
action, which I regret the more, as I foresee it will be made the cause
of proceedings against many who are both innocent of the deed, and as far
from approving it as myself.”
While Henry thus expressed himself, Bothwell, who bent his eyes keenly
upon him, seemed suddenly to recollect his features.
“Aha! my friend Captain Popinjay, I think I have seen you before, and in
very suspicious company.”
“I saw you once,” answered Henry, “in the public-house of the town of--.”
“And with whom did you leave that public-house, youngster?--Was it not
with John Balfour of Burley, one of the murderers of the Archbishop?”
“I did leave the house with the person you have named,” answered Henry,
“I scorn to deny it; but, so far from knowing him to be a murderer of the
primate, I did not even know at the time that such a crime had been
committed.”
“Lord have mercy on me, I am ruined!--utterly ruined and undone!”
exclaimed Milnwood. “That callant’s tongue will rin the head aff his ain
shoulders, and waste my gudes to the very grey cloak on my back!”
“But you knew Burley,” continued Bothwell, still addressing Henry, and
regardless of his uncle’s interruption, “to be an intercommuned rebel and
traitor, and you knew the prohibition to deal with such persons. You
knew, that, as a loyal subject, you were prohibited to reset, supply, or
intercommune with this attainted traitor, to correspond with him by word,
writ, or message, or to supply him with meat, drink, house, harbour, or
victual, under the highest pains--you knew all this, and yet you broke
the law.” (Henry was silent.) “Where did you part from him?” continued
Bothwell; “was it in the highway, or did you give him harbourage in this
very house?”
“In this house!” said his uncle; “he dared not for his neck bring ony
traitor into a house of mine.”
“Dare he deny that he did so?” said Bothwell.
“As you charge it to me as a crime,” said Henry, “you will excuse my
saying any thing that will criminate myself.”
“O, the lands of Milnwood!--the bonny lands of Milnwood, that have been
in the name of Morton twa hundred years!” exclaimed his uncle; “they are
barking and fleeing, outfield and infield, haugh and holme!”
“No, sir,” said Henry, “you shall not suffer on my account.--I own,” he
continued, addressing Bothwell, “I did give this man a night’s lodging,
as to an old military comrade of my father. But it was not only without
my uncle’s knowledge, but contrary to his express general orders. I
trust, if my evidence is considered as good against myself, it will have
some weight in proving my uncle’s innocence.”
“Come, young man,” said the soldier, in a somewhat milder tone, “you’re a
smart spark enough, and I am sorry for you; and your uncle here is a fine
old Trojan, kinder, I see, to his guests than himself, for he gives us
wine and drinks his own thin ale--tell me all you know about this Burley,
what he said when you parted from him, where he went, and where he is
likely now to be found; and, d--n it, I’ll wink as hard on your share of
the business as my duty will permit. There’s a thousand merks on the
murdering whigamore’s head, an I could but light on it--Come, out with
it--where did you part with him?”
“You will excuse my answering that question, sir,” said Morton; “the same
cogent reasons which induced me to afford him hospitality at considerable
risk to myself and my friends, would command me to respect his secret,
if, indeed, he had trusted me with any.”
“So you refuse to give me an answer?” said Bothwell.
“I have none to give,” returned Henry.
“Perhaps I could teach you to find one, by tying a piece of lighted match
betwixt your fingers,” answered Bothwell.
“O, for pity’s sake, sir,” said old Alison apart to her master, “gie them
siller--it’s siller they’re seeking--they’ll murder Mr Henry, and
yoursell next!”
Milnwood groaned in perplexity and bitterness of spirit, and, with a tone
as if he was giving up the ghost, exclaimed, “If twenty p--p--punds would
make up this unhappy matter”--“My master,” insinuated Alison to the
sergeant, “would gie twenty punds sterling”--“Punds Scotch, ye b--h!”
interrupted Milnwood; for the agony of his avarice overcame alike his
puritanic precision and the habitual respect he entertained for his
housekeeper.
“Punds sterling,” insisted the housekeeper, “if ye wad hae the gudeness
to look ower the lad’s misconduct; he’s that dour ye might tear him to
pieces, and ye wad ne’er get a word out o’ him; and it wad do ye little
gude, I’m sure, to burn his bonny fingerends.”
“Why,” said Bothwell, hesitating, “I don’t know--most of my cloth would
have the money, and take off the prisoner too; but I bear a conscience,
and if your master will stand to your offer, and enter into a bond to
produce his nephew, and if all in the house will take the test-oath, I do
not know but”--“O ay, ay, sir,” cried Mrs Wilson, “ony test, ony oaths ye
please!” And then aside to her master, “Haste ye away, sir, and get the
siller, or they will burn the house about our lugs.”
Old Milnwood cast a rueful look upon his adviser, and moved off, like a
piece of Dutch clockwork, to set at liberty his imprisoned angels in this
dire emergency. Meanwhile, Sergeant Bothwell began to put the test-oath
with such a degree of solemn reverence as might have been expected, being
just about the same which is used to this day in his majesty’s
custom-house.
“You--what’s your name, woman?”
“Alison Wilson, sir.”
“You, Alison Wilson, solemnly swear, certify, and declare, that you judge
it unlawful for subjects, under pretext of reformation, or any other
pretext whatsoever, to enter into Leagues and Covenants”--Here the
ceremony was interrupted by a strife between Cuddie and his mother,
which, long conducted in whispers, now became audible.
“Oh, whisht, mither, whisht! they’re upon a communing--Oh! whisht, and
they’ll agree weel eneuch e’enow.”
“I will not whisht, Cuddie,” replied his mother, “I will uplift my voice
and spare not--I will confound the man of sin, even the scarlet man, and
through my voice shall Mr Henry be freed from the net of the fowler.”
“She has her leg ower the harrows now,” said Cuddie, “stop her wha can--I
see her cocked up behint a dragoon on her way to the Tolbooth--I find my
ain legs tied below a horse’s belly--Ay--she has just mustered up her
sermon, and there--wi’ that grane--out it comes, and we are a’ruined,
horse and foot!”
“And div ye think to come here,” said Mause, her withered hand shaking in
concert with her keen, though wrinkled visage, animated by zealous wrath,
and emancipated, by the very mention of the test, from the restraints of
her own prudence, and Cuddie’s admonition--“Div ye think to come here,
wi’ your soul-killing, saint-seducing, conscience-confounding oaths, and
tests, and bands--your snares, and your traps, and your gins?--Surely it
is in vain that a net is spread in the sight of any bird.”
“Eh! what, good dame?” said the soldier. “Here’s a whig miracle, egad!
the old wife has got both her ears and tongue, and we are like to be
driven deaf in our turn.--Go to, hold your peace, and remember whom you
talk to, you old idiot.”
“Whae do I talk to! Eh, sirs, ower weel may the sorrowing land ken what
ye are. Malignant adherents ye are to the prelates, foul props to a
feeble and filthy cause, bloody beasts of prey, and burdens to the
earth.”
“Upon my soul,” said Bothwell, astonished as a mastiff-dog might be
should a hen-partridge fly at him in defence of her young, “this is the
finest language I ever heard! Can’t you give us some more of it?”
“Gie ye some mair o’t?” said Mause, clearing her voice with a preliminary
cough, “I will take up my testimony against you ance and again.--
Philistines ye are, and Edomites--leopards are ye, and foxes--evening
wolves, that gnaw not the bones till the morrow--wicked dogs, that
compass about the chosen--thrusting kine, and pushing bulls of
Bashan--piercing serpents ye are, and allied baith in name and nature
with the great Red Dragon; Revelations, twalfth chapter, third and
fourth verses.”
Here the old lady stopped, apparently much more from lack of breath than
of matter.
“Curse the old hag!” said one of the dragoons, “gag her, and take her to
head-quarters.”
“For shame, Andrews,” said Bothwell; “remember the good lady belongs to
the fair sex, and uses only the privilege of her tongue.--But, hark ye,
good woman, every bull of Bashan and Red Dragon will not be so civil as I
am, or be contented to leave you to the charge of the constable and
ducking-stool. In the meantime I must necessarily carry off this young
man to head-quarters. I cannot answer to my commanding-officer to leave
him in a house where I have heard so much treason and fanaticism.”
“Se now, mither, what ye hae dune,” whispered Cuddie; “there’s the
Philistines, as ye ca’ them, are gaun to whirry awa’ Mr Henry, and a’ wi’
your nash-gab, deil be on’t!”
“Haud yere tongue, ye cowardly loon,” said the mother, “and layna the
wyte on me; if you and thae thowless gluttons, that are sitting staring
like cows bursting on clover, wad testify wi’ your hands as I have
testified wi’ my tongue, they should never harle the precious young lad
awa’ to captivity.”
While this dialogue passed, the soldiers had already bound and secured
their prisoner. Milnwood returned at this instant, and, alarmed at the
preparations he beheld, hastened to proffer to Bothwell, though with many
a grievous groan, the purse of gold which he had been obliged to rummage
out as ransom for his nephew. The trooper took the purse with an air of
indifference, weighed it in his hand, chucked it up into the air, and
caught it as it fell, then shook his head, and said, “There’s many a
merry night in this nest of yellow boys, but d--n me if I dare venture
for them--that old woman has spoken too loud, and before all the men
too.--Hark ye, old gentleman,” to Milnwood, “I must take your nephew to
head-quarters, so I cannot, in conscience, keep more than is my due as
civility-money;” then opening the purse, he gave a gold piece to each of
the soldiers, and took three to himself. “Now,” said he, “you have the
comfort to know that your kinsman, young Captain Popinjay, will be
carefully looked after and civilly used; and the rest of the money I
return to you.”
Milnwood eagerly extended his hand.
“Only you know,” said Bothwell, still playing with the purse, “that every
landholder is answerable for the conformity and loyalty of his household,
and that these fellows of mine are not obliged to be silent on the
subject of the fine sermon we have had from that old puritan in the
tartan plaid there; and I presume you are aware that the consequences of
delation will be a heavy fine before the council.”
“Good sergeant,--worthy captain!” exclaimed the terrified miser, “I am
sure there is no person in my house, to my knowledge, would give cause of
offence.”
“Nay,” answered Bothwell, “you shall hear her give her testimony, as she
calls it, herself.--You fellow,” (to Cuddie,) “stand back, and let your
mother speak her mind. I see she’s primed and loaded again since her
first discharge.”
“Lord! noble sir,” said Cuddie, “an auld wife’s tongue’s but a feckless
matter to mak sic a fash about. Neither my father nor me ever minded
muckle what our mither said.”
“Hold your peace, my lad, while you are well,” said Bothwell; “I promise
you I think you are slyer than you would like to be supposed.--Come, good
dame, you see your master will not believe that you can give us so bright
a testimony.”
Mause’s zeal did not require this spur to set her again on full career.
“Woe to the compliers and carnal self-seekers,” she said, “that daub over
and drown their consciences by complying with wicked exactions, and
giving mammon of unrighteousness to the sons of Belial, that it may make
their peace with them! It is a sinful compliance, a base confederacy with
the Enemy. It is the evil that Menahem did in the sight of the Lord, when
he gave a thousand talents to Pul, King of Assyria, that his hand might
be with him; Second Kings, feifteen chapter, nineteen verse. It is the
evil deed of Ahab, when he sent money to Tiglath-Peleser; see the saame
Second Kings, saxteen and aught. And if it was accounted a backsliding
even in godly Hezekiah, that he complied with Sennacherib, giving him
money, and offering to bear that which was put upon him, (see the saame
Second Kings, aughteen chapter, fourteen and feifteen verses,) even so it
is with them that in this contumacious and backsliding generation pays
localities and fees, and cess and fines, to greedy and unrighteous
publicans, and extortions and stipends to hireling curates, (dumb dogs
which bark not, sleeping, lying down, loving to slumber,) and gives gifts
to be helps and hires to our oppressors and destroyers. They are all like
the casters of a lot with them--like the preparing of a table for the
troop, and the furnishing a drink-offering to the number.”
“There’s a fine sound of doctrine for you, Mr Morton! How like you that?”
said Bothwell; “or how do you think the Council will like it? I think we
can carry the greatest part of it in our heads without a kylevine pen and
a pair of tablets, such as you bring to conventicles. She denies paying
cess, I think, Andrews?”
“Yes, by G--,” said Andrews; “and she swore it was a sin to give a
trooper a pot of ale, or ask him to sit down to a table.”
“You hear,” said Bothwell, addressing Milnwood; “but it’s your own
affair;” and he proffered back the purse with its diminished contents,
with an air of indifference.
Milnwood, whose head seemed stunned by the accumulation of his
misfortunes, extended his hand mechanically to take the purse.
“Are ye mad?” said his housekeeper, in a whisper; “tell them to keep
it;--they will keep it either by fair means or foul, and it’s our only
chance to make them quiet.”
“I canna do it, Ailie--I canna do it,” said Milnwood, in the bitterness
of his heart. “I canna part wi’ the siller I hae counted sae often ower,
to thae blackguards.”
“Then I maun do it mysell, Milnwood,” said the housekeeper, “or see a’
gang wrang thegither.--My master, sir,” she said, addressing Bothwell,
“canna think o’ taking back ony thing at the hand of an honourable
gentleman like you; he implores ye to pit up the siller, and be as kind
to his nephew as ye can, and be favourable in reporting our dispositions
to government, and let us tak nae wrang for the daft speeches of an auld
jaud,” (here she turned fiercely upon Mause, to indulge herself for the
effort which it cost her to assume a mild demeanour to the soldiers,) “a
daft auld whig randy, that ne’er was in the house (foul fa’ her) till
yesterday afternoon, and that sall ne’er cross the door-stane again an
anes I had her out o’t.”
“Ay, ay,” whispered Cuddie to his parent, “e’en sae! I kend we wad be put
to our travels again whene’er ye suld get three words spoken to an end. I
was sure that wad be the upshot o’t, mither.”
“Whisht, my bairn,” said she, “and dinna murmur at the cross--cross their
door-stane! weel I wot I’ll ne’er cross their door-stane. There’s nae
mark on their threshold for a signal that the destroying angel should
pass by. They’ll get a back-cast o’ his hand yet, that think sae muckle
o’ the creature and sae little o’ the Creator--sae muckle o’ warld’s gear
and sae little o’ a broken covenant--sae muckle about thae wheen pieces
o’ yellow muck, and sae little about the pure gold o’ the Scripture--sae
muckle about their ain friend and kinsman, and sae little about the
elect, that are tried wi’ hornings, harassings, huntings, searchings,
chasings, catchings, imprisonments, torturings, banishments, headings,
hangings, dismemberings, and quarterings quick, forby the hundreds forced
from their ain habitations to the deserts, mountains, muirs, mosses,
moss-flows, and peat-hags, there to hear the word like bread eaten in
secret.”
“She’s at the Covenant now, sergeant, shall we not have her away?” said
one of the soldiers.
“You be d--d!” said Bothwell, aside to him; “cannot you see she’s better
where she is, so long as there is a respectable, sponsible, money-broking
heritor, like Mr Morton of Milnwood, who has the means of atoning her
trespasses? Let the old mother fly to raise another brood, she’s too
tough to be made any thing of herself--Here,” he cried, “one other round
to Milnwood and his roof-tree, and to our next merry meeting with
him!--which I think will not be far distant, if he keeps such a fanatical
family.”
He then ordered the party to take their horses, and pressed the best in
Milnwood’s stable into the king’s service to carry the prisoner. Mrs
Wilson, with weeping eyes, made up a small parcel of necessaries for
Henry’s compelled journey, and as she bustled about, took an opportunity,
unseen by the party, to slip into his hand a small sum of money. Bothwell
and his troopers, in other respects, kept their promise, and were civil.
They did not bind their prisoner, but contented themselves with leading
his horse between a file of men. They then mounted, and marched off with
much mirth and laughter among themselves, leaving the Milnwood family in
great confusion. The old Laird himself, overpowered by the loss of his
nephew, and the unavailing outlay of twenty pounds sterling, did nothing
the whole evening but rock himself backwards and forwards in his great
leathern easy-chair, repeating the same lamentation, of “Ruined on a’
sides, ruined on a’ sides--harried and undone--harried and undone--body
and gudes, body and gudes!”
Mrs Alison Wilson’s grief was partly indulged and partly relieved by the
torrent of invectives with which she accompanied Mause and Cuddie’s
expulsion from Milnwood.
“Ill luck be in the graning corse o’ thee! the prettiest lad in
Clydesdale this day maun be a sufferer, and a’ for you and your daft
whiggery!”
“Gae wa’,” replied Mause; “I trow ye are yet in the bonds of sin, and in
the gall of iniquity, to grudge your bonniest and best in the cause of
Him that gave ye a’ ye hae--I promise I hae dune as muckle for Mr Harry
as I wad do for my ain; for if Cuddie was found worthy to bear testimony
in the Grassmarket”--“And there’s gude hope o’t,” said Alison, “unless
you and he change your courses.”
“--And if,” continued Mause, disregarding the interruption, “the bloody
Doegs and the flattering Ziphites were to seek to ensnare me with a
proffer of his remission upon sinful compliances, I wad persevere,
natheless, in lifting my testimony against popery, prelacy,
antinomianism, erastianism, lapsarianism, sublapsarianism, and the sins
and snares of the times--I wad cry as a woman in labour against the black
Indulgence, that has been a stumbling-block to professors--I wad uplift
my voice as a powerful preacher.”
“Hout tout, mither,” cried Cuddie, interfering and dragging her off
forcibly, “dinna deave the gentlewoman wi’ your testimony! ye hae
preached eneugh for sax days. Ye preached us out o’ our canny free-house
and gude kale-yard, and out o’ this new city o’ refuge afore our hinder
end was weel hafted in it; and ye hae preached Mr Harry awa to the
prison; and ye hae preached twenty punds out o’ the Laird’s pocket that
he likes as ill to quit wi’; and sae ye may haud sae for ae wee while,
without preaching me up a ladder and down a tow. Sae, come awa, come awa;
the family hae had eneugh o’ your testimony to mind it for ae while.”
So saying he dragged off Mause, the words,
“Testimony--Covenant--malignants--indulgence,” still thrilling upon her
tongue, to make preparations for instantly renewing their travels in
quest of an asylum.
“Ill-fard, crazy, crack-brained gowk, that she is!” exclaimed the
housekeeper, as she saw them depart, “to set up to be sae muckle better
than ither folk, the auld besom, and to bring sae muckle distress on a
douce quiet family! If it hadna been that I am mair than half a
gentlewoman by my station, I wad hae tried my ten nails in the wizen’d
hide o’ her!”