Morton reached the borough town without meeting with any remarkable

adventure, and alighted at the little inn. It had occurred to him more

than once, while upon his journey, that his resumption of the dress which

he had worn while a youth, although favourable to his views in other

respects, might render it more difficult for him to remain incognito. But

a few years of campaigns and wandering had so changed his appearance that

he had great confidence that in the grown man, whose brows exhibited the

traces of resolution and considerate thought, none would recognise the

raw and bashful stripling who won the game of the popinjay. The only

chance was that here and there some Whig, whom he had led to battle,

might remember the Captain of the Milnwood Marksmen; but the risk, if

there was any, could not be guarded against.

The Howff seemed full and frequented as if possessed of all its old

celebrity. The person and demeanour of Niel Blane, more fat and less

civil than of yore, intimated that he had increased as well in purse as

in corpulence; for in Scotland a landlord’s complaisance for his guests

decreases in exact proportion to his rise in the world. His daughter had

acquired the air of a dexterous barmaid, undisturbed by the circumstances

of love and war, so apt to perplex her in the exercise of her vocation.

Both showed Morton the degree of attention which could have been expected

by a stranger travelling without attendants, at a time when they were

particularly the badges of distinction. He took upon himself exactly the

character his appearance presented, went to the stable and saw his horse

accommodated, then returned to the house, and seating himself in the

public room (for to request one to himself would, in those days, have

been thought an overweening degree of conceit), he found himself in the

very apartment in which he had some years before celebrated his victory

at the game of the popinjay,--a jocular preferment which led to so many

serious consequences.

He felt himself, as may well be supposed, a much changed man since that

festivity; and yet, to look around him, the groups assembled in the Howff

seemed not dissimilar to those which the same scene had formerly

presented. Two or three burghers husbanded their “dribbles o’ brandy;”

two or three dragoons lounged over their muddy ale, and cursed the

inactive times that allowed them no better cheer. Their cornet did not,

indeed, play at backgammon with the curate in his cassock, but he drank

a little modicum of _aqua mirabilis_ with the grey-cloaked Presbyterian

minister. The scene was another, and yet the same, differing only in

persons, but corresponding in general character.

Let the tide of the world wax or wane as it will, Morton thought as he

looked around him, enough will be found to fill the places which chance

renders vacant; and in the usual occupations and amusements of life,

human beings will succeed each other as leaves upon the same tree, with

the same individual difference and the same general resemblance.

After pausing a few minutes, Morton, whose experience had taught him the

readiest mode of securing attention, ordered a pint of claret; and as the

smiling landlord appeared with the pewter measure foaming fresh from the

tap (for bottling wine was not then in fashion), he asked him to sit down

and take a share of the good cheer. This invitation was peculiarly

acceptable to Niel Blane, who, if he did not positively expect it from

every guest not provided with better company, yet received it from many,

and was not a whit abashed or surprised at the summons. He sat down,

along with his guest, in a secluded nook near the chimney; and while he

received encouragement to drink by far the greater share of the liquor

before them, he entered at length, as a part of his expected functions,

upon the news of the country,--the births, deaths, and marriages; the

change of property; the downfall of old families, and the rise of new.

But politics, now the fertile source of eloquence, mine host did not care

to mingle in his theme; and it was only in answer to a question of Morton

that he replied, with an air of indifference, “Um! ay! we aye hae sodgers

amang us, mair or less. There’s a wheen German horse down at Glasgow

yonder; they ca’ their commander Wittybody, or some sic name, though he’s

as grave and grewsome an auld Dutchman as e’er I saw.”

“Wittenbold, perhaps?” said Morton,--“an old man, with grey hair and

short black moustaches; speaks seldom?”

“And smokes for ever,” replied Niel Blane. “I see your honour kens the

man. He may be a very gude man too, for aught I see,--that is,

considering he is a sodger and a Dutchman; but if he were ten generals,

and as mony Wittybodies, he has nae skill in the pipes; he gar’d me stop

in the middle of Torphichen’s Rant,--the best piece o’ music that ever

bag gae wind to.”

“But these fellows,” said Morton, glancing his eye towards the soldiers

“that were in the apartment, are not of his corps?”

“Na, na, these are Scotch dragoons,” said mine host,--“our ain auld

caterpillars; these were Claver’se’s lads a while syne, and wad be again,

maybe, if he had the lang ten in his hand.”

“Is there not a report of his death?” inquired Morton.

“Troth is there,” said the landlord; “your honour is right,--there is sic

a fleeing rumour; but, in my puir opinion, it’s lang or the deil die. I

wad hae the folks here look to themsells. If he makes an outbreak, he’ll

be doun frae the Hielands or I could drink this glass,--and whare are

they then? A’ thae hell-rakers o’ dragoons wad be at his whistle in a

moment. Nae doubt they’re Willie’s men e’en now, as they were James’s a

while syne; and reason good,--they fight for their pay; what else hae

they to fight for? They hae neither lands nor houses, I trow. There’s ae

gude thing o’ the change, or the Revolution, as they ca’ it,--folks may

speak out afore thae birkies now, and nae fear o’ being hauled awa to the

guard-house, or having the thumikins screwed on your finger-ends, just as

I wad drive the screw through a cork.”

There was a little pause, when Morton, feeling confident in the progress

he had made in mine host’s familiarity, asked, though with the hesitation

proper to one who puts a question on the answer to which rests something

of importance, “Whether Blane knew a woman in that neighbourhood called

Elizabeth Maclure?”

“Whether I ken Bessie Maclure?” answered the landlord, with a landlord’s

laugh,--“How can I but ken my ain wife’s (haly be her rest!)--my ain

wife’s first gudeman’s sister, Bessie Maclure? An honest wife she is, but

sair she’s been trysted wi’ misfortunes,--the loss o’ twa decent lads o’

sons, in the time o’ the persecution, as they ca’ it nowadays; and

doucely and decently she has borne her burden, blaming nane and

condemning nane. If there’s an honest woman in the world, it’s Bessie

Maclure. And to lose her twa sons, as I was saying, and to hae dragoons

clinked down on her for a month bypast,--for, be Whig or Tory uppermost,

they aye quarter thae loons on victuallers,--to lose, as I was saying--”

“This woman keeps an inn, then?” interrupted Morton.

“A public, in a puir way,” replied Blane, looking round at his own

superior accommodations,--“a sour browst o’ sma’ ale that she sells to

folk that are over drouthy wi’ travel to be nice; but naething to ca’ a

stirring trade or a thriving changehouse.”

“Can you get me a guide there?” said Morton.

“Your honour will rest here a’ the night? Ye’ll hardly get accommodation

at Bessie’s,” said Niel, whose regard for his deceased wife’s relative by

no means extended to sending company from his own house to hers.

“There is a friend,” answered Morton, “whom I am to meet with there, and

I only called here to take a stirrup-cup and inquire the way.”

“Your honour had better,” answerd the landlord, with the perseverance of

his calling, “send some ane to warn your friend to come on here.”

“I tell you, landlord,” answered Morton, impatiently, “that will not

serve my purpose; I must go straight to this woman Maclure’s house, and

I desire you to find me a guide.”

“Aweel, sir, ye’ll choose for yoursell, to be sure,” said Niel Blane,

somewhat disconcerted; “but deil a guide ye’ll need if ye gae doun the

water for twa mile or sae, as gin ye were bound for Milnwoodhouse, and

then tak the first broken disjasked-looking road that makes for the

hills,--ye’ll ken ’t by a broken ash-tree that stands at the side o’ a

burn just where the roads meet; and then travel out the path,--ye canna

miss Widow Maclure’s public, for deil another house or hauld is on the

road for ten lang Scots miles, and that’s worth twenty English. I am

sorry your honour would think o’ gaun out o’ my house the night. But my

wife’s gude-sister is a decent woman, and it’s no lost that a friend

gets.”

Morton accordingly paid his reckoning and departed. The sunset of the

summer day placed him at the ash-tree, where the path led up towards the

moors.

“Here,” he said to himself, “my misfortunes commenced; for just here,

when Burley and I were about to separate on the first night we ever met,

he was alarmed by the intelligence that the passes were secured by

soldiers lying in wait for him. Beneath that very ash sate the old woman

who apprised him of his danger. How strange that my whole fortunes should

have become inseparably interwoven with that man’s, without anything more

on my part than the discharge of an ordinary duty of humanity! Would to

Heaven it were possible I could find my humble quiet and tranquillity of

mind upon the spot where I lost them!”

Thus arranging his reflections betwixt speech and thought, he turned his

horse’s head up the path.

Evening lowered around him as he advanced up the narrow dell which had

once been a wood, but was now a ravine divested of trees, unless where a

few, from their inaccessible situation on the edge of precipitous banks,

or clinging among rocks and huge stones, defied the invasion of men and

of cattle, like the scattered tribes of a conquered country, driven to

take refuge in the barren strength of its mountains. These too, wasted

and decayed, seemed rather to exist than to flourish, and only served to

indicate what the landscape had once been. But the stream brawled down

among them in all its freshness and vivacity, giving the life and

animation which a mountain rivulet alone can confer on the barest and

most savage scenes, and which the inhabitants of such a country miss when

gazing even upon the tranquil winding of a majestic stream through plains

of fertility, and beside palaces of splendour. The track of the road

followed the course of the brook, which was now visible, and now only to

be distinguished by its brawling heard among the stones or in the clefts

of the rock that occasionally interrupted its course.

“Murmurer that thou art,” said Morton, in the enthusiasm of his reverie,

“why chafe with the rocks that stop thy course for a moment? There is a

sea to receive thee in its bosom; and there is an eternity for man when

his fretful and hasty course through the vale of time shall be ceased and

over. What thy petty fuming is to the deep and vast billows of a

shoreless ocean, are our cares, hopes, fears, joys, and sorrows to the

objects which must occupy us through the awful and boundless succession

of ages!”

Thus moralizing, our traveller passed on till the dell opened, and the

banks, receding from the brook, left a little green vale, exhibiting a

croft, or small field, on which some corn was growing, and a cottage,

whose walls were not above five feet high, and whose thatched roof, green

with moisture, age, houseleek, and grass, had in some places suffered

damage from the encroachment of two cows, whose appetite this appearance

of verdure had diverted from their more legitimate pasture. An ill-spelt

and worse-written inscription intimated to the traveller that he might

here find refreshment for man and horse,--no unacceptable intimation,

rude as the hut appeared to be, considering the wild path he had trod in

approaching it, and the high and waste mountains which rose in desolate

dignity behind this humble asylum.

It must indeed have been, thought Morton, in some such spot as this that

Burley was likely to find a congenial confident.

As he approached, he observed the good dame of the house herself, seated

by the door; she had hitherto been concealed from him by a huge

alder-bush.

“Good evening, Mother,” said the traveller. “Your name is Mistress

Maclure?”

“Elizabeth Maclure, sir, a poor widow,” was the reply.

“Can you lodge a stranger for a night?”

“I can, sir, if he will be pleased with the widow’s cake and the widow’s

cruse.”

“I have been a soldier, good dame,” answered Morton, “and nothing can

come amiss to me in the way of entertainment.”

“A sodger, sir?” said the old woman, with a sigh,--“God send ye a better

trade!”

“It is believed to be an honourable profession, my good dame; I hope you

do not think the worse of me for having belonged to it?”

“I judge no one, sir,” replied the woman, “and your voice sounds like

that of a civil gentleman; but I hae witnessed sae muckle ill wi’

sodgering in this puir land that I am e’en content that I can see nae

mair o’t wi’ these sightless organs.”

As she spoke thus, Morton observed that she was blind.

“Shall I not be troublesome to you, my good dame?” said he,

compassionately; “your infirmity seems ill calculated for your

profession.”

“Na, sir,” answered the old woman, “I can gang about the house readily

eneugh; and I hae a bit lassie to help me, and the dragoon lads will look

after your horse when they come hame frae their patrol, for a sma’

matter; they are civiller now than lang syne.”

Upon these assurances, Morton alighted.

“Peggy, my bonny bird,” continued the hostess, addressing a little girl

of twelve years old, who had by this time appeared, “tak the gentleman’s

horse to the stable, and slack his girths, and tak aff the bridle, and

shake down a lock o’ hay before him, till the dragoons come back.--Come

this way, sir,” she continued; “ye’ll find my house clean, though it’s a

puir ane.”

Morton followed her into the cottage accordingly.

CHAPTER XXI.

Then out and spake the auld mother,

And fast her tears did fa

“Ye wadna be warn’d, my son Johnie,

Frae the hunting to bide awa!”

Old Ballad.

When he entered the cottage, Morton perceived that the old hostess had

spoken truth. The inside of the hut belied its outward appearance, and

was neat, and even comfortable, especially the inner apartment, in which

the hostess informed her guest that he was to sup and sleep. Refreshments

were placed before him such as the little inn afforded; and though he had

small occasion for them, he accepted the offer, as the means of

maintaining some discourse with the landlady. Notwithstanding her

blindness, she was assiduous in her attendance, and seemed, by a sort of

instinct, to find her way to what she wanted.

“Have you no one but this pretty little girl to assist you in waiting on

your guests?” was the natural question.

“None, sir,” replied his old hostess; “I dwell alone, like the widow of

Zarephath. Few guests come to this puir place, and I haena custom eneugh

to hire servants. I had anes twa fine sons that lookit after a’ thing.

--But God gives and takes away,--His name be praised!” she continued,

turning her clouded eyes towards Heaven.--“I was anes better off, that

is, waridly speaking, even since I lost them; but that was before this

last change.”

“Indeed!” said Morton; “and yet you are a Presbyterian, my good mother?”

“I am, sir; praised be the light that showed me the right way,” replied

the landlady.

“Then I should have thought,” continued the guest, “the Revolution would

have brought you nothing but good.”

“If,” said the old woman, “it has brought the land gude, and freedom of

worship to tender consciences, it’s little matter what it has brought to

a puir blind worm like me.”

“Still,” replied Morton, “I cannot see how it could possibly injure you.”

“It’s a lang story, sir,” answered his hostess, with a sigh. “But ae

night, sax weeks or thereby afore Bothwell Brigg, a young gentleman

stopped at this puir cottage, stiff and bloody with wounds, pale and dune

out wi’ riding, and his horse sae weary he couldna drag ae foot after the

other, and his foes were close ahint him, and he was ane o’ our enemies.

What could I do, sir? You that’s a sodger will think me but a silly auld

wife; but I fed him, and relieved him, and keepit him hidden till the

pursuit was ower.”

“And who,” said Morton, “dares disapprove of your having done so?”

“I kenna,” answered the blind woman; “I gat ill-will about it amang some

o’ our ain folk. They said I should hae been to him what Jael was to

Sisera. But weel I wot I had nae divine command to shed blood, and to

save it was baith like a woman and a Christian. And then they said I

wanted natural affection, to relieve ane that belanged to the band that

murdered my twa sons.”

“That murdered your two sons?”

“Ay, sir; though maybe ye’ll gie their deaths another name. The tane fell

wi’ sword in hand, fighting for a broken national Covenant; the

tother,--oh, they took him and shot him dead on the green before his

mother’s face! My auld een dazzled when the shots were looten off, and,

to my thought, they waxed weaker and weaker ever since that weary day;

and sorrow, and heart-break, and tears that would not be dried, might

help on the disorder. But, alas! betraying Lord Evandale’s young blood

to his enemies’ sword wad ne’er hae brought my Ninian and Johnie alive

again.”

“Lord Evandale?” said Morton, in surprise. “Was it Lord Evandale whose

life you saved?”

“In troth, even his,” she replied. “And kind he was to me after, and gae

me a cow and calf, malt, meal, and siller, and nane durst steer me when

he was in power. But we live on an outside bit of Tillietudlem land, and

the estate was sair plea’d between Leddy Margaret Bellenden and the

present laird, Basil Olifant, and Lord Evandale backed the auld leddy for

love o’ her daughter Miss Edith, as the country said, ane o’ the best and

bonniest lassies in Scotland. But they behuved to gie way, and Basil gat

the Castle and land, and on the back o’ that came the Revolution, and wha

to turn coat faster than the laird? for he said he had been a true Whig

a’ the time, and turned papist only for fashion’s sake. And then he got

favour, and Lord Evandale’s head was under water; for he was ower proud

and manfu’ to bend to every blast o’ wind, though mony a ane may ken as

weel as me that be his ain principles as they might, he was nae ill

friend to our folk when he could protect us, and far kinder than Basil

Olifant, that aye keepit the cobble head doun the stream. But he was set

by and ill looked on, and his word ne’er asked; and then Basil, wha’s a

revengefu’ man, set himsell to vex him in a’ shapes, and especially by

oppressing and despoiling the auld blind widow, Bessie Maclure, that

saved Lord Evandale’s life, and that he was sae kind to. But he’s mistaen

if that’s his end; for it will be lang or Lord Evandale hears a word frae

me about the selling my kye for rent or e’er it was due, or the putting

the dragoons on me when the country’s quiet, or onything else that will

vex him,--I can bear my ain burden patiently, and warld’s loss is the

least part o’t.”

Astonished and interested at this picture of patient, grateful, and

high-minded resignation, Morton could not help bestowing an execration

upon the poor-spirited rascal who had taken such a dastardly course of

vengeance.

“Dinna curse him, sir,” said the old woman; “I have heard a good man say

that a curse was like a stone flung up to the heavens, and maist like to

return on the head that sent it. But if ye ken Lord Evandale, bid him

look to himsell, for I hear strange words pass atween the sodgers that

are lying here, and his name is often mentioned; and the tane o’ them has

been twice up at Tillietudlem. He’s a kind of favourite wi’ the laird,

though he was in former times ane o’ the maist cruel oppressors ever rade

through a country (out-taken Sergeant Bothwell),--they ca’ him Inglis.”

“I have the deepest interest in Lord Evandale’s safety,” said Morton,

“and you may depend on my finding some mode to apprise him of these

suspicious circumstances. And, in return, my good friend, will you

indulge me with another question? Do you know anything of Quintin Mackell

of Irongray?”

“Do I know whom?” echoed the blind woman, in a tone of great surprise and

alarm.

“Quintin Mackell of Irongray,” repeated Morton. “Is there anything so

alarming in the sound of that name?”

“Na, na,” answered the woman, with hesitation; “but to hear him asked

after by a stranger and a sodger,--Gude protect us, what mischief is

to come next!”

“None by my means, I assure you,” said Morton; “the subject of my inquiry

has nothing to fear from me if, as I suppose, this Quintin Mackell is the

same with John Bal-----.”

“Do not mention his name,” said the widow, pressing his lips with her

fingers. “I see you have his secret and his pass-word, and I’ll be free

wi’ you. But, for God’s sake, speak lound and low. In the name of Heaven,

I trust ye seek him not to his hurt! Ye said ye were a sodger?”

“I said truly; but one he has nothing to fear from. I commanded a party

at Bothwell Bridge.”

“Indeed?” said the woman. “And verily there is something in your voice I

can trust. Ye speak prompt and readily, and like an honest man.”

“I trust I am so,” said Morton.

“But nae displeasure to you, sir, in thae waefu’ times,” continued Mrs.

Maclure, “the hand of brother is against brother, and he fears as mickle

almaist frae this Government as e’er he did frae the auld persecutors.”

“Indeed?” said Morton, in a tone of inquiry; “I was not aware of that. But

I am only just now returned from abroad.”

“I’ll tell ye,” said the blind woman, first assuming an attitude of

listening that showed how effectually her powers of collecting

intelligence had been transferred from the eye to the ear; for, instead

of casting a glance of circumspection around, she stooped her face, and

turned her head slowly around, in such a manner as to insure that there

was not the slightest sound stirring in the neighbourhood, and then

continued,--“I’ll tell ye. Ye ken how he has laboured to raise up again

the Covenant, burned, broken, and buried in the hard hearts and selfish

devices of this stubborn people. Now, when he went to Holland, far from

the countenance and thanks of the great, and the comfortable fellowship

of the godly, both whilk he was in right to expect, the Prince of Orange

wad show him no favour, and the ministers no godly communion. This was

hard to bide for ane that had suffered and done mickle,--ower mickle, it

may be; but why suld I be a judge? He came back to me and to the auld

place o’ refuge that had often received him in his distresses, mair

especially before the great day of victory at Drumclog, for I sail ne’er

forget how he was bending hither of a’ nights in the year on that e’ening

after the play when young Milnwood wan the popinjay; but I warned him off

for that time.”

“What!” exclaimed Morton, “it was you that sat in your red cloak by the

high-road, and told him there was a lion in the path?”

“In the name of Heaven! wha are ye?” said the old woman, breaking off her

narrative in astonishment. “But be wha ye may,” she continued, resuming

it with tranquillity, “ye can ken naething waur o’ me than that I hae

been willing to save the life o’ friend and foe.”

“I know no ill of you, Mrs. Maclure, and I mean no ill by you; I only

wished to show you that I know so much of this person’s affairs that I

might be safely intrusted with the rest. Proceed, if you please, in your

narrative.”

“There is a strange command in your voice,” said the blind woman, “though

its tones are sweet. I have little mair to say. The Stewarts hae been

dethroned, and William and Mary reign in their stead; but nae mair word

of the Covenant than if it were a dead letter. They hae taen the indulged

clergy, and an Erastian General Assembly of the ante pure and triumphant

Kirk of Scotland, even into their very arms and bosoms. Our faithfu’

champions o’ the testimony agree e’en waur wi’ this than wi’ the open

tyranny and apostasy of the persecuting times, for souls are hardened and

deadened, and the mouths of fasting multitudes are crammed wi’ fizenless

bran instead of the sweet word in season; and mony an hungry, starving

creature, when he sits down on a Sunday forenoon to get something that

might warm him to the great work, has a dry clatter o’ morality driven

about his lugs, and--”

“In short,” said Morton, desirous to stop a discussion which the good old

woman, as enthusiastically attached to her religious profession as to the

duties of humanity, might probably have indulged longer,--“In short, you

are not disposed to acquiesce in this new government, and Burley is of

the same opinion?”

“Many of our brethren, sir, are of belief we fought for the Covenant, and

fasted and prayed and suffered for that grand national league, and now we

are like neither to see nor hear tell of that which we suffered and

fought and fasted and prayed for. And anes it was thought something might

be made by bringing back the auld family on a new bargain and a new

bottom, as, after a’, when King James went awa, I understand the great

quarrel of the English against him was in behalf of seven unhallowed

prelates; and sae, though ae part of our people were free to join wi’ the

present model, and levied an armed regiment under the Yerl of Angus, yet

our honest friend, and others that stude up for purity of doctrine and

freedom of conscience, were determined to hear the breath o’ the

Jacobites before they took part again them, fearing to fa’ to the ground

like a wall built with unslaked mortar, or from sitting between twa

stools.”

“They chose an odd quarter,” said Morton, “from which to expect freedom

of conscience and purity of doctrine.”

“Oh, dear sir!” said the landlady, “the natural day-spring rises in the

east, but the spiritual dayspring may rise in the north, for what we

blinded mortals ken.”

“And Burley went to the north to seek it?” replied the guest.

“Truly ay, sir; and he saw Claver’se himsell, that they ca’ Dundee now.”

“What!” exclaimed Morton, in amazement; “I would have sworn that meeting

would have been the last of one of their lives.”

“Na, na, sir; in troubled times, as I understand,” said Mrs. Maclure,

“there’s sudden changes,--Montgomery and Ferguson and mony ane mair that

were King James’s greatest faes are on his side now. Claver’se spake our

friend fair, and sent him to consult with Lord Evandale. But then there

was a break-off, for Lord Evandale wadna look at, hear, or speak wi’ him;

and now he’s anes wud and aye waur, and roars for revenge again Lord

Evandale, and will hear nought of onything but burn and slay. And oh,

thae starts o’ passion! they unsettle his mind, and gie the Enemy sair

advantages.”

“The enemy?” said Morton; “What enemy?”

“What enemy? Are ye acquainted familiarly wi’ John Balfour o’ Burley, and

dinna ken that he has had sair and frequent combats to sustain against

the Evil One? Did ye ever see him alone but the Bible was in his hand,

and the drawn sword on his knee? Did ye never sleep in the same room wi’

him, and hear him strive in his dreams with the delusions of Satan? Oh,

ye ken little o’ him if ye have seen him only in fair daylight; for nae

man can put the face upon his doleful visits and strifes that he can do.

I hae seen him, after sic a strife of agony, tremble that an infant might

hae held him, while the hair on his brow was drapping as fast as ever my

puir thatched roof did in a heavy rain.” As she spoke, Morton began to

recollect the appearance of Burley during his sleep in the hay-loft at

Milnwood, the report of Cuddie that his senses had become impaired, and

some whispers current among the Cameronians, who boasted frequently of

Burley’s soul-exercises and his strifes with the foul fiend,--which

several circumstances led him to conclude that this man himself was a

victim to those delusions, though his mind, naturally acute and forcible,

not only disguised his superstition from those in whose opinion it might

have discredited his judgment, but by exerting such a force as is said to

be proper to those afflicted with epilepsy, could postpone the fits which

it occasioned until he was either freed from superintendence, or

surrounded by such as held him more highly on account of these

visitations. It was natural to suppose, and could easily be inferred from

the narrative of Mrs. Maclure, that disappointed ambition, wrecked hopes,

and the downfall of the party which he had served with such desperate

fidelity, were likely to aggravate enthusiasm into temporary insanity. It

was, indeed, no uncommon circumstance in those singular times that men

like Sir Harry Vane, Harrison, Overton, and others, themselves slaves to

the wildest and most enthusiastic dreams, could, when mingling with the

world, conduct themselves not only with good sense in difficulties, and

courage in dangers, but with the most acute sagacity and determined

valour. The subsequent part of Mrs. Maclure’s information confirmed

Morton in these impressions.

“In the grey of the morning,” she said, “my little Peggy sail show ye the

gate to him before the sodgers are up. But ye maun let his hour of

danger, as he ca’s it, be ower, afore ye venture on him in his place of

refuge. Peggy will tell ye when to venture in. She kens his ways weel,

for whiles she carries him some little helps that he canna do

without to sustain life.”

“And in what retreat, then,” said Morton, “has this unfortunate person

found refuge?”

“An awsome place,” answered the blind woman, “as ever living creature

took refuge in; they ca it the Black Linn of Linklater. It’s a doleful

place, but he loves it abune a’ others, because he has sae often been in

safe hiding there; and it’s my belief he prefers it to a tapestried

chamber and a down bed. But ye’ll see ’t. I hae seen it mysell mony a day

syne. I was a daft hempie lassie then, and little thought what was to

come o’t.--Wad ye choose ony thing, sir, ere ye betake yoursell to your

rest, for ye maun stir wi’ the first dawn o’ the grey light?”

“Nothing more, my good mother,” said Morton; and they parted for the

evening.

Morton recommended himself to Heaven, threw himself on the bed, heard,

between sleeping and waking, the trampling of the dragoon horses at the

riders’ return from their patrol, and then slept soundly after such

painful agitation.

CHAPTER XXII.

The darksome cave they enter, where they found

The accursed man low sitting on the ground,

Musing full sadly in his sullen mind.

SPENSER.

As the morning began to appear on the mountains, a gentle knock was heard

at the door of the humble apartment in which Morton slept, and a girlish

treble voice asked him, from without, “If he wad please gang to the Linn

or the folk raise?”

He arose upon the invitation, and, dressing himself hastily, went forth

and joined his little guide. The mountain maid tript lightly before him,

through the grey haze, over hill and moor. It was a wild and varied walk,

unmarked by any regular or distinguishable track, and keeping, upon the

whole, the direction of the ascent of the brook, though without tracing

its windings. The landscape, as they advanced, became waster and more

wild, until nothing but heath and rock encumbered the side of the valley.

“Is the place still distant?” said Morton. “Nearly a mile off,” answered

the girl. “We’ll be there belive.”

“And do you often go this wild journey, my little maid?”

“When grannie sends me wi’ milk and meal to the Linn,” answered the

child.

“And are you not afraid to travel so wild a road alone?”

“Hout na, sir,” replied the guide; “nae living creature wad touch sic a

bit thing as I am, and grannie says we need never fear onything else when

we are doing a gude turn.”

“Strong in innocence as in triple mail!” said Morton to himself, and

followed her steps in silence.

They soon came to a decayed thicket, where brambles and thorns supplied

the room of the oak and birches of which it had once consisted. Here the

guide turned short off the open heath, and, by a sheep-track, conducted

Morton to the brook. A hoarse and sullen roar had in part prepared him

for the scene which presented itself, yet it was not to be viewed without

surprise and even terror. When he emerged from the devious path which

conducted him through the thicket, he found himself placed on a ledge of

flat rock projecting over one side of a chasm not less than a hundred

feet deep, where the dark mountain-stream made a decided and rapid shoot

over the precipice, and was swallowed up by a deep, black, yawning gulf.

The eye in vain strove to see the bottom of the fall; it could catch but

one sheet of foaming uproar and sheer descent, until the view was

obstructed by the proecting crags which enclosed the bottom of the

waterfall, and hid from sight the dark pool which received its tortured

waters; far beneath, at the distance of perhaps a quarter of a mile, the

eye caught the winding of the stream as it emerged into a more open

course. But, for that distance, they were lost to sight as much as if a

cavern had been arched over them; and indeed the steep and projecting

ledges of rock through which they wound their way in darkness were very

nearly closing and over-roofing their course.

While Morton gazed at this scene of tumult, which seemed, by the

surrounding thickets and the clefts into which the waters descended, to

seek to hide itself from every eye, his little attendant as she stood

beside him on the platform of rock which commanded the best view of the

fall, pulled him by the sleeve, and said, in a tone which he could not

hear without stooping his ear near the speaker, “Hear till him! Eh! hear

till him!”

Morton listened more attentively; and out of the very abyss into which

the brook fell, and amidst the turnultuary sounds of the cataract,

thought he could distinguish shouts, screams, and even articulate words,

as if the tortured demon of the stream had been mingling his complaints

with the roar of his broken waters.

“This is the way,” said the little girl; “follow me, gin ye please, sir,

but tak tent to your feet;” and, with the daring agility which custom had

rendered easy, she vanished from the platform on which she stood, and, by

notches and slight projections in the rock, scrambled down its face into

the chasm which it overhung. Steady, bold, and active, Morton hesitated

not to follow her; but the necessary attention to secure his hold and

footing in a descent where both foot and hand were needful for security,

prevented him from looking around him, till, having descended nigh twenty

feet, and being sixty or seventy above the pool which received the fall,

his guide made a pause, and he again found himself by her side in a

situation that appeared equally romantic and precarious. They were nearly

opposite to the waterfall, and in point of level situated at about

one-quarter’s depth from the point of the cliff over which it thundered,

and three-fourths of the height above the dark, deep, and restless pool

which received its fall. Both these tremendous points--the first shoot,

namely, of the yet unbroken stream, and the deep and sombre abyss into

which it was emptied--were full before him, as well as the whole

continuous stream of billowy froth, which, dashing from the one, was

eddying and boiling in the other. They were so near this grand phenomenon

that they were covered with its spray, and well-nigh deafened by the

incessant roar. But crossing in the very front of the fall, and at scarce

three yards distance from the cataract, an old oak-tree, flung across the

chasm in a manner that seemed accidental, formed a bridge of fearfully

narrow dimensions and uncertain footing. The upper end of the tree rested

on the platform on which they stood; the lower or uprooted extremity

extended behind a projection on the opposite side, and was secured,

Morton’s eye could not discover where. From behind the same projection

glimmered a strong red light, which, glancing in the waves of the falling

water, and tinging them partially with crimson, had a strange

preternatural and sinister effect when contrasted with the beams of the

rising sun, which glanced on the first broken waves of the fall, though

even its meridian splendour could not gain the third of its full depth.

When he had looked around him for a moment, the girl again pulled his

sleeve, and, pointing to the oak and the projecting point beyond it (for

hearing speech was now out of the question), indicated that there lay his

farther passage.

Morton gazed at her with surprise; for although he well knew that the

persecuted Presbyterians had in the preceding reigns sought refuge among

dells and thickets, caves and cataracts, in spots the most extraordinary

and secluded; although he had heard of the champions of the Covenant, who

had long abidden beside Dobs-lien on the wild heights of Polmoodie, and

others who had been concealed in the yet more terrific cavern called

Creehope-linn, in the parish of Closeburn,--yet his imagination had never

exactly figured out the horrors of such a residence, and he was surprised

how the strange and romantic scene which he now saw had remained

concealed from him, while a curious investigator of such natural

phenomena. But he readily conceived that, lying in a remote and wild

district, and being destined as a place of concealment to the persecuted

preachers and professors of nonconformity, the secret of its existence

was carefully preserved by the few shepherds to whom it might be known.

As, breaking from these meditations, he began to consider how he should

traverse the doubtful and terrific bridge, which, skirted by the cascade,

and rendered wet and slippery by its constant drizzle, traversed the

chasm above sixty feet from the bottom of the fall, his guide, as if to

give him courage, tript over and back without the least hesitation.

Envying for a moment the little bare feet which caught a safer hold of

the rugged side of the oak than he could pretend to with his heavy boots,

Morton nevertheless resolved to attempt the passage, and, fixing his eye

firm on a stationary object on the other side, without allowing his head

to become giddy, or his attention to be distracted by the flash, the

foam, and the roar of the waters around him, he strode steadily and

safely along the uncertain bridge, and reached the mouth of a small

cavern on the farther side of the torrent. Here he paused; for a light,

proceeding from a fire of red-hot charcoal, permitted him to see the

interior of the cave, and enabled him to contemplate the appearance of

its inhabitant, by whom he himself could not be so readily distinguished,

being concealed by the shadow of the rock. What he observed would by no

means have encouraged a less determined man to proceed with the task

which he had undertaken.

Burley, only altered from what he had been formerly by the addition of a

grisly beard, stood in the midst of the cave, with his clasped Bible in

one hand, and his drawn sword in the other. His figure, dimly ruddied by

the light of the red charcoal, seemed that of a fiend in the lurid

atmosphere of Pandemonium, and his gestures and words, as far as they

could be heard, seemed equally violent and irregular. All alone, and in a

place of almost unapproachable seclusion, his demeanour was that of

a man who strives for life and death with a mortal enemy. “Ha!

ha!--there--there!” he exclaimed, accompanying each word with a thrust,

urged with his whole force against the impassible and empty air, “Did I

not tell thee so?--I have resisted, and thou fleest from me!--Coward as

thou art, come in all thy terrors; come with mine own evil deeds, which

render thee most terrible of all,--there is enough betwixt the boards of

this book to rescue me!--What mutterest thou of grey hairs? It was well

done to slay him,--the more ripe the corn, the readier for the sickle.--

Art gone? Art gone?--I have ever known thee but a coward--ha! ha! ha!”

With these wild exclamations he sunk the point of his sword, and remained

standing still in the same posture, like a maniac whose fit is over.

“The dangerous time is by now,” said the little girl who had followed;

“it seldom lasts beyond the time that the sun’s ower the hill; ye may

gang in and speak wi’ him now. I’ll wait for you at the other side of the

linn; he canna bide to see twa folk at anes.”

Slowly and cautiously, and keeping constantly upon his guard, Morton

presented himself to the view of his old associate in command.

“What! comest thou again when thine hour is over?” was his first

exclamation; and flourishing his sword aloft, his countenance assumed an

expression in which ghastly terror seemed mingled with the rage of a

demoniac.

“I am come, Mr. Balfour,” said Morton, in a steady and composed tone,

“to renew an acquaintance which has been broken off since the fight of

Bothwell Bridge.”

As soon as Burley became aware that Morton was before him in person,--an

idea which he caught with marvellous celerity,--he at once exerted that

mastership over his heated and enthusiastic imagination, the power of

enforcing which was a most striking part of his extraordinary character.

He sunk his sword-point at once, and as he stole it composedly into the

scabbard, he muttered something of the damp and cold which sent an old

soldier to his fencing exercise, to prevent his blood from chilling. This

done, he proceeded in the cold, determined manner which was peculiar to

his ordinary discourse:--

“Thou hast tarried long, Henry Morton, and hast not come to the vintage

before the twelfth hour has struck. Art thou yet willing to take the

right hand of fellowship, and be one with those who look not to thrones

or dynasties, but to the rule of Scripture, for their directions?”

[Illustration: Morton and Black Linn--272]

“I am surprised,” said Morton, evading the direct answer to his question,

“that you should have known me after so many years.”

“The features of those who ought to act with me are engraved on my

heart,” answered Burley; “and few but Silas Morton’s son durst have

followed me into this my castle of retreat. Seest thou that drawbridge of

Nature’s own construction?” he added, pointing to the prostrate

oak-tree,--“one spurn of my foot, and it is overwhelmed in the abyss

below, bidding foeman on the farther side stand at defiance, and leaving

enemies on this at the mercy of one who never yet met his equal in single

fight.”

“Of such defences,” said Morton, “I should have thought you would now

have had little need.”

“Little need?” said Burley impatiently. “What little need, when incarnate

fiends are combined against me on earth, and Sathan himself--But it

matters not,” added he, checking himself. “Enough that I like my place

of refuge, my cave of Adullam, and would not change its rude ribs of

limestone rock for the fair chambers of the castle of the earls of

Torwood, with their broad bounds and barony. Thou, unless the foolish

fever-fit be over, mayst think differently.”

“It was of those very possessions I came to speak,” said Morton; “and I

doubt not to find Mr. Balfour the same rational and reflecting person

which I knew him to be in times when zeal disunited brethren.”

“Ay?” said Burley; “indeed? Is such truly your hope? Wilt thou express it

more plainly?”

“In a word, then,” said Morton, “you have exercised, by means at which I

can guess, a secret, but most prejudicial, influence over the fortunes of

Lady Margaret Bellenden and her granddaughter, and in favour of that

base, oppressive apostate, Basil Olifant, whom the law, deceived by thy

operations, has placed in possession of their lawful property.”

“Sayest thou?” said Balfour.

“I do say so,” replied Morton; “and face to face you will not deny what

you have vouched by your handwriting.”

“And suppose I deny it not,” said Balfour; “and suppose that

thy--eloquence were found equal to persuade me to retrace the steps I

have taken on matured resolve,--what will be thy meed? Dost thou still

hope to possess the fair-haired girl, with her wide and rich

inheritance?”

“I have no such hope,” answered Morton, calmly.

“And for whom, then, hast thou ventured to do this great thing,--to seek

to rend the prey from the valiant, to bring forth food from the den of

the lion, and to extract sweetness from the maw of the devourer? For

whose sake hast thou undertaken to read this riddle, more hard than

Samson’s?”

“For Lord Evandale’s and that of his bride,” replied Morton, firmly.

“Think better of mankind, Mr. Balfour, and believe there are some who are

willing to sacrifice their happiness to that of others.”

“Then, as my soul liveth,” replied Balfour, “thou art, to wear beard and

back a horse and draw a sword, the tamest and most gall-less puppet that

ever sustained injury unavenged. What! thou wouldst help that accursed

Evandale to the arms of the woman that thou lovest; thou wouldst endow

them with wealth and with heritages, and thou think’st that there lives

another man, offended even more deeply than thou, yet equally

cold-livered and mean-spirited, crawling upon the face of the earth,

and hast dared to suppose that one other to be John Balfour?”

“For my own feelings,” said Morton, composedly, “I am answerable to none

but Heaven; to you, Mr. Balfour, I should suppose it of little

consequence whether Basil Olifant or Lord Evandale possess these

estates.”

“Thou art deceived,” said Burley; “both are indeed in outer darkness,

and strangers to the light, as he whose eyes have never been opened to

the day. But this Basil Olifant is a Nabal, a Demas, a base churl whose

wealth and power are at the disposal of him who can threaten to deprive

him of them. He became a professor because he was deprived of these lands

of Tillietudlem; he turned a papist to obtain possession of them; he

called himself an Erastian, that he might not again lose them; and he

will become what I list while I have in my power the document that may

deprive him of them. These lands are a bit between his jaws and a hook in

his nostrils, and the rein and the line are in my hands to guide them as

I think meet; and his they shall therefore be, unless I had assurance of

bestowing them on a sure and sincere friend. But Lord Evandale is a

malignant, of heart like flint, and brow like adamant; the goods of the

world fall on him like leaves on the frost-bound earth, and unmoved he

will see them whirled off by the first wind. The heathen virtues of such

as he are more dangerous to us than the sordid cupidity of those who,

governed by their interest, must follow where it leads, and who,

therefore, themselves the slaves of avarice, may be compelled to work

in the vineyard, were it but to earn the wages of sin.”

“This might have been all well some years since,” replied Morton, “and I

could understand your argument, although I could never acquiesce in its

justice. But at this crisis it seems useless to you to persevere in

keeping up an influence which can no longer be directed to an useful

purpose. The land has peace, liberty, and freedom of conscience,--and

what would you more?”

“More!” exclaimed Burley, again unsheathing his sword, with a vivacity

which nearly made Morton start. “Look at the notches upon that weapon

they are three in number, are they not?”

“It seems so,” answered Morton; “but what of that?”

“The fragment of steel that parted from this first gap rested on the

skull of the perjured traitor who first introduced Episcopacy into

Scotland; this second notch was made in the rib-bone of an impious

villain, the boldest and best soldier that upheld the prelatic cause at

Drumclog; this third was broken on the steel head-piece of the captain

who defended the Chapel of Holyrood when the people rose at the

Revolution. I cleft him to the teeth, through steel and bone. It has done

great deeds, this little weapon, and each of these blows was a

deliverance to the Church. This sword,” he said, again sheathing it,

“has yet more to do,--to weed out this base and pestilential heresy of

Erastianism; to vindicate the true liberty of the Kirk in her purity;

to restore the Covenant in its glory,--then let it moulder and rust

beside the bones of its master.”

“You have neither men nor means, Mr. Balfour, to disturb the Government

as now settled,” argued Morton; “the people are in general satisfied,

excepting only the gentlemen of the Jacobite interest; and surely you

would not join with those who would only use you for their own purposes?”

“It is they,” answered Burley, “that should serve ours. I went to the

camp of the malignant Claver’se, as the future King of Israel sought the

land of the Philistines; I arranged with him a rising; and but for the

villain Evandale, the Erastians ere now had been driven from the West.--

I could slay him,” he added, with a vindictive scowl, “were he grasping

the horns of the altar!” He then proceeded in a calmer tone: “If thou,

son of mine ancient comrade, were suitor for thyself to this Edith

Bellenden, and wert willing to put thy hand to the great work with zeal

equal to thy courage, think not I would prefer the friendship of Basil

Olifant to thine; thou shouldst then have the means that this document

[he produced a parchment] affords to place her in possession of the lands

of her fathers. This have I longed to say to thee ever since I saw thee

fight the good fight so strongly at the fatal Bridge. The maiden loved

thee, and thou her.”

Morton replied firmly, “I will not dissemble with you, Mr. Balfour, even

to gain a good end. I came in hopes to persuade you to do a deed of

justice to others, not to gain any selfish end of my own. I have failed;

I grieve for your sake more than for the loss which others will sustain

by your injustice.”

“You refuse my proffer, then?” said Burley, with kindling eyes.

“I do,” said Morton. “Would you be really, as you are desirous to be

thought, a man of honour and conscience, you would, regardless of all

other considerations, restore that parchment to Lord Evandale, to be used

for the advantage of the lawful heir.”

“Sooner shall it perish!” said Balfour; and, casting the deed into the

heap of red charcoal beside him, pressed it down with the heel of his

boot.

While it smoked, shrivelled, and crackled in the flames, Morton sprung

forward to snatch it, and Burley catching hold of him, a struggle ensued.

Both were strong men; but although Morton was much the more active and

younger of the two, yet Balfour was the most powerful, and effectually

prevented him from rescuing the deed until it was fairly reduced to a

cinder. They then quitted hold of each other, and the enthusiast,

rendered fiercer by the contest, glared on Morton with an eye expressive

of frantic revenge.

“Thou hast my secret,” he exclaimed; “thou must be mine, or die!”

“I contemn your threats,” said Morton; “I pity you, and leave you.”

But as he turned to retire, Burley stept before him, pushed the oak-trunk

from its resting place, and as it fell thundering and crashing into the

abyss beneath, drew his sword, and cried out, with a voice that rivalled

the roar of the cataract and the thunder of the falling oak, “Now thou

art at bay! Fight,--yield, or die!” and standing in the mouth of the

cavern, he flourished his naked sword.

“I will not fight with the man that preserved my father’s life,” said

Morton. “I have not yet learned to say the words, ‘I yield;’ and my life

I will rescue as I best can.”

So speaking, and ere Balfour was aware of his purpose, he sprung past

him, and exerting that youthful agility of which he possessed an uncommon

share, leaped clear across the fearful chasm which divided the mouth of

the cave from the projecting rock on the opposite side, and stood there

safe and free from his incensed enemy. He immediately ascended the

ravine, and, as he turned, saw Burley stand for an instant aghast with

astonishment, and then, with the frenzy of disappointed rage, rush into

the interior of his cavern.

It was not difficult for him to perceive that this unhappy man’s mind had

been so long agitated by desperate schemes and sudden disappointments

that it had lost its equipoise, and that there was now in his conduct a

shade of lunacy, not the less striking, from the vigour and craft with

which he pursued his wild designs. Morton soon joined his guide, who had

been terrified by the fall of the oak. This he represented as accidental;

and she assured him, in return, that the inhabitant of the cave would

experience no inconvenience from it, being always provided with materials

to construct another bridge.

The adventures of the morning were not yet ended. As they approached the

hut, the little girl made an exclamation of surprise at seeing her

grandmother groping her way towards them, at a greater distance from her

home than she could have been supposed capable of travelling.

“Oh, sir, sir!” said the old woman, when she heard them approach, “gin

e’er ye loved Lord Evandale, help now, or never! God be praised that left

my hearing when he took my poor eyesight! Come this way,--this way. And

oh, tread lightly. Peggy, hinny, gang saddle the gentleman’s horse, and

lead him cannily ahint the thorny shaw, and bide him there.”

She conducted him to a small window, through which, himself unobserved,

he could see two dragoons seated at their morning draught of ale, and

conversing earnestly together.

“The more I think of it,” said the one, “the less I like it, Inglis;

Evandale was a good officer and the soldier’s friend; and though we were

punished for the mutiny at Tillietudlem, yet, by ---, Frank, you must own

we deserved it.”

“D--n seize me if I forgive him for it, though!” replied the other; “and

I think I can sit in his skirts now.”

“Why, man, you should forget and forgive. Better take the start with him

along with the rest, and join the ranting Highlanders. We have all eat

King James’s bread.”

“Thou art an ass; the start, as you call it, will never happen,--the

day’s put off. Halliday’s seen a ghost, or Miss Bellenden’s fallen sick

of the pip, or some blasted nonsense or another; the thing will never

keep two days longer, and the first bird that sings out will get the

reward.”

“That’s true too,” answered his comrade; “and will this fellow--this

Basil Olifant--pay handsomely?”

“Like a prince, man,” said Inglis. “Evandale is the man on earth whom he

hates worst, and he fears him, besides, about some law business; and were

he once rubbed out of the way, all, he thinks, will be his own.”

“But shall we have warrants and force enough?” said the other fellow.

“Few people here will stir against my lord, and we may find him with some

of our own fellows at his back.”

“Thou ’rt a cowardly fool, Dick,” returned Inglis; “he is living quietly

down at Fairy Knowe to avoid suspicion. Olifant is a magistrate, and will

have some of his own people that he can trust along with him. There are

us two, and the laird says he can get a desperate fighting Whig fellow,

called Quintin Mackell, that has an old grudge at Evandale.”

“Well, well, you are my officer, you know,” said the private, with true

military conscience, “and if anything is wrong--”

“I’ll take the blame,” said Inglis. “Come, another pot of ale, and let us

to Tillietudlem.--Here, blind Bess!--Why, where the devil has the old hag

crept to?”

“Delay them as long as you can,” whispered Morton, as he thrust his purse

into the hostess’s hand; “all depends on gaining time.”

Then, walking swiftly to the place where the girl held his horse ready,

“To Fairy Knowe? No; alone I could not protect them. I must instantly to

Glasgow. Wittenbold, the commandant there, will readily give me the

support of a troop, and procure me the countenance of the civil power. I

must drop a caution as I pass.--Come, Moorkopf,” he said, addressing his

horse as he mounted him, “this day must try your breath and speed.”

CHAPTER XXIII.

Yet could he not his closing eyes withdraw,

Though less and less of Emily he saw;

So, speechless for a little space he lay,

Then grasp’d the hand he held, and sigh’d his soul away.

Palamon and Acite.

The indisposition of Edith confined her to bed during the eventful day on

which she had received such an unexpected shock from the sudden

apparition of Morton. Next morning, however, she was reported to be so

much better that Lord Evandale resumed his purpose of leaving Fairy

Knowe. At a late hour in the forenoon Lady Emily entered the apartment of

Edith with a peculiar gravity of manner. Having received and paid the

compliments of the day, she observed it would be a sad one for her,

though it would relieve Miss Bellenden of an encumbrance: “My brother

leaves us today, Miss Bellenden.”

“Leaves us!” exclaimed Edith, in surprise; “for his own house, I trust?”

“I have reason to think he meditates a more distant journey,” answered

Lady Emily; “he has little to detain him in this country.”

“Good Heaven!” exclaimed Edith, “why was I born to become the wreck of

all that is manly and noble! What can be done to stop him from running

headlong on ruin? I will come down instantly.--Say that I implore he will

not depart until I speak with him.”

“It will be in vain, Miss Bellenden; but I will execute your commission;”

and she left the room as formally as she had entered it, and informed her

brother Miss Bellenden was so much recovered as to propose coming

downstairs ere he went away.

“I suppose,” she added pettishly, “the prospect of being speedily

released from our company has wrought a cure on her shattered nerves.”

“Sister,” said Lord Evandale, “you are unjust, if not envious.”

“Unjust I maybe, Evandale, but I should not have dreamt,” glancing her

eye at a mirror, “of being thought envious without better cause. But let

us go to the old lady; she is making a feast in the other room which

might have dined all your troop when you had one.”

Lord Evandale accompanied her in silence to the parlour, for he knew it

was in vain to contend with her prepossessions and offended pride. They

found the table covered with refreshments, arranged under the careful

inspection of Lady Margaret.

“Ye could hardly weel be said to breakfast this morning, my Lord

Evandale, and ye maun e’en partake of a small collation before ye ride,

such as this poor house, whose inmates are so much indebted to you, can

provide in their present circumstances. For my ain part, I like to see

young folk take some refection before they ride out upon their sports or

their affairs, and I said as much to his most sacred Majesty when he

breakfasted at Tillietudlem in the year of grace sixteen hundred and

fifty-one; and his most sacred Majesty was pleased to reply, drinking to

my health at the same time in a flagon of Rhenish wine, ‘Lady Margaret,

ye speak like a Highland oracle.’ These were his Majesty’s very words;

so that your lordship may judge whether I have not good authority to

press young folk to partake of their vivers.”

It may be well supposed that much of the good lady’s speech failed Lord

Evandale’s ears, which were then employed in listening for the light step

of Edith. His absence of mind on this occasion, however natural, cost him

very dear. While Lady Margaret was playing the kind hostess,--a part she

delighted and excelled in,--she was interrupted by John Gudyill, who, in

the natural phrase for announcing an inferior to the mistress of a

family, said, “There was ane wanting to speak to her leddyship.”

“Ane! what ane? Has he nae name? Ye speak as if I kept a shop, and was to

come at everybody’s whistle.”

“Yes, he has a name,” answered John, “but your leddyship likes ill to

hear’t.”

“What is it, you fool?”

“It’s Calf-Gibbie, my leddy,” said John, in a tone rather above the pitch

of decorous respect, on which he occasionally trespassed, confiding in

his merit as an ancient servant of the family and a faithful follower of

their humble fortunes,--“It’s Calf-Gibbie, an your leddyship will hae’t,

that keeps Edie Henshaw’s kye down yonder at the Brigg-end,--that’s him

that was Guse-Gibbie at Tillietudlem, and gaed to the wappinshaw, and

that--”

“Hold your peace, John,” said the old lady, rising in dignity; “you are

very insolent to think I wad speak wi’ a person like that. Let him tell

his business to you or Mrs. Headrigg.”

“He’ll no hear o’ that, my leddy; he says them that sent him bade him gie

the thing to your leddyship’s ain hand direct, or to Lord Evandale’s, he

wots na whilk. But, to say the truth, he’s far frae fresh, and he’s but

an idiot an he were.”

“Then turn him out,” said Lady Margaret, “and tell him to come back

to-morrow when he is sober. I suppose he comes to crave some benevolence,

as an ancient follower o’ the house.”

“Like eneugh, my leddy, for he’s a’ in rags, poor creature.”

Gudyill made another attempt to get at Gibbie’s commission, which was

indeed of the last importance, being a few lines from Morton to Lord

Evandale, acquainting him with the danger in which he stood from the

practices of Olifant, and exhorting him either to instant flight, or else

to come to Glasgow and surrender himself, where he could assure him of

protection. This billet, hastily written, he intrusted to Gibbie, whom he

saw feeding his herd beside the bridge, and backed with a couple of

dollars his desire that it might instantly be delivered into the hand to

which it was addressed.

But it was decreed that Goose-Gibbie’s intermediation, whether as an

emissary or as a man-at-arms, should be unfortunate to the family of

Tillietudlem. He unluckily tarried so long at the ale-house to prove if

his employer’s coin was good that, when he appeared at Fairy Knowe, the

little sense which nature had given him was effectually drowned in ale

and brandy; and instead of asking for Lord Evandale, he demanded to speak

with Lady Margaret, whose name was more familiar to his ear. Being

refused admittance to her presence, he staggered away with the letter

undelivered, perversely faithful to Morton’s instructions in the only

point in which it would have been well had he departed from them.

A few minutes after he was gone, Edith entered the apartment. Lord

Evandale and she met with mutual embarrassment, which Lady Margaret, who

only knew in general that their union had been postponed by her

granddaughter’s indisposition, set down to the bashfulness of a bride and

bridegroom, and, to place them at ease, began to talk to Lady Emily on

indifferent topics. At this moment Edith, with a countenance as pale as

death, muttered, rather than whispered, to Lord Evandale a request to

speak with him. He offered his arm, and supported her into the small

ante-room, which, as we have noticed before, opened from the parlour. He

placed her in a chair, and, taking one himself, awaited the opening of

the conversation.

“I am distressed, my lord,” were the first words she was able to

articulate, and those with difficulty; “I scarce know what I would say,

nor how to speak it.”

“If I have any share in occasioning your uneasiness,” said Lord Evandale,

mildly, “you will soon, Edith, be released from it.”

“You are determined then, my lord,” she replied, “to run this desperate

course with desperate men, in spite of your own better reason, in spite

of your friends’ entreaties, in spite of the almost inevitable ruin which

yawns before you?”

“Forgive me, Miss Bellenden; even your solicitude on my account must not

detain me when my honour calls. My horses stand ready saddled, my

servants are prepared, the signal for rising will be given so soon as I

reach Kilsyth. If it is my fate that calls me, I will not shun meeting

it. It will be something,” he said, taking her hand, “to die deserving

your compassion, since I cannot gain your love.”

“Oh, my lord, remain!” said Edith, in a tone which went to his heart;

“time may explain the strange circumstance which has shocked me so much;

my agitated nerves may recover their tranquillity. Oh, do not rush on

death and ruin! remain to be our prop and stay, and hope everything from

time!”

“It is too late, Edith,” answered Lord Evandale; “and I were most

ungenerous could I practise on the warmth and kindliness of your feelings

towards me. I know you cannot love me; nervous distress, so strong as to

conjure up the appearance of the dead or absent, indicates a predilection

too powerful to give way to friendship and gratitude alone. But were it

otherwise, the die is now cast.”

As he spoke thus, Cuddie burst into the room, terror and haste in his

countenance. “Oh, my lord, hide yoursell! they hae beset the outlets o’

the house,” was his first exclamation.

“They? Who?” said Lord Evandale.

“A party of horse, headed by Basil Olifant,” answered Cuddie.

“Oh, hide yourself, my lord!” echoed Edith, in an agony of terror.

“I will not, by Heaven!” answered Lord Evandale. “What right has the

villain to assail me or stop my passage? I will make my way, were he

backed by a regiment; tell Halliday and Hunter to get out the horses.--

And now, farewell, Edith!” He clasped her in his arms, and kissed her

tenderly; then, bursting from his sister, who, with Lady Margaret,

endeavoured to detain him, rushed out and mounted his horse.

All was in confusion; the women shrieked and hurried in consternation to

the front windows of the house, from which they could see a small party

of horsemen, of whom two only seemed soldiers. They were on the open

ground before Cuddie’s cottage, at the bottom of the descent from the

house, and showed caution in approaching it, as if uncertain of the

strength within.

“He may escape, he may escape!” said Edith; “oh, would he but take the

by-road!”

But Lord Evandale, determined to face a danger which his high spirit

undervalued, commanded his servants to follow him, and rode composedly

down the avenue. Old Gudyill ran to arm himself, and Cuddie snatched down

a gun which was kept for the protection of the house, and, although on

foot, followed Lord Evandale. It was in vain his wife, who had hurried up

on the alarm, hung by his skirts, threatening him with death by the sword

or halter for meddling with other folk’s matters.

“Hand your peace, ye b----,” said Cuddie; “and that’s braid Scotch, or I

wotna what is. Is it ither folk’s matters to see Lord Evandale murdered

before my face?” and down the avenue he marched. But considering on the

way that he composed the whole infantry, as John Gudyill had not

appeared, he took his vantage ground behind the hedge, hammered his

flint, cocked his piece, and, taking a long aim at Laird Basil, as he was

called, stood prompt for action.

As soon as Lord Evandale appeared, Olifant’s party spread themselves a

little, as if preparing to enclose him. Their leader stood fast,

supported by three men, two of whom were dragoons, the third in dress and

appearance a countryman, all well armed. But the strong figure, stern

features, and resolved manner of the third attendant made him seem the

most formidable of the party; and whoever had before seen him could have

no difficulty in recognising Balfour of Burley.

“Follow me,” said Lord Evandale to his servants, “and if we are forcibly

opposed, do as I do.” He advanced at a hand gallop towards Olifant, and

was in the act of demanding why he had thus beset the road, when Olifant

called out, “Shoot the traitor!” and the whole four fired their carabines

upon the unfortunate nobleman. He reeled in the saddle, advanced his

hand to the holster, and drew a pistol, but, unable to discharge it, fell

from his horse mortally wounded. His servants had presented their

carabines. Hunter fired at random; but Halliday, who was an intrepid

fellow, took aim at Inglis, and shot him dead on the spot. At the same

instant a shot from behind the hedge still more effectually avenged Lord

Evandale, for the ball took place in the very midst of Basil Olifant’s

forehead, and stretched him lifeless on the ground. His followers,

astonished at the execution done in so short a time, seemed rather

disposed to stand inactive, when Burley, whose blood was up with the

contest, exclaimed, “Down with the Midianites!” and attacked Halliday

sword in hand. At this instant the clatter of horses’ hoofs was heard,

and a party of horse, rapidly advancing on the road from Glasgow,

appeared on the fatal field. They were foreign dragoons, led by the Dutch

commandant Wittenbold, accompanied by Morton and a civil magistrate.

A hasty call to surrender, in the name of God and King William, was

obeyed by all except Burley, who turned his horse and attempted to

escape. Several soldiers pursued him by command of their officer, but,

being well mounted, only the two headmost seemed likely to gain on him.

He turned deliberately twice, and discharging first one of his pistols,

and then the other, rid himself of the one pursuer by mortally wounding

him, and of the other by shooting his horse, and then continued his

flight to Bothwell Bridge, where, for his misfortune, he found the gates

shut and guarded. Turning from thence, he made for a place where the

river seemed passable, and plunged into the stream, the bullets from the

pistols and carabines of his pursuers whizzing around him. Two balls took

effect when he was past the middle of the stream, and he felt himself

dangerously wounded. He reined his horse round in the midst of the river,

and returned towards the bank he had left, waving his hand, as if with

the purpose of intimating that he surrendered. The troopers ceased firing

at him accordingly, and awaited his return, two of them riding a little

way into the river to seize and disarm him. But it presently appeared

that his purpose was revenge, not safety. As he approached the two

soldiers, he collected his remaining strength, and discharged a blow on

the head of one, which tumbled him from his horse. The other dragoon, a

strong, muscular man, had in the mean while laid hands on him. Burley, in

requital, grasped his throat, as a dying tiger seizes his prey, and both,

losing the saddle in the struggle, came headlong into the river, and were

swept down the stream. Their course might be traced by the blood which

bubbled up to the surface. They were twice seen to rise, the Dutchman

striving to swim, and Burley clinging to him in a manner that showed his

desire that both should perish. Their corpses were taken out about a

quarter of a mile down the river. As Balfour’s grasp could not have been

unclenched without cutting off his hands, both were thrown into a hasty

grave, still marked by a rude stone and a ruder epitaph.

[Gentle reader, I did request of mine honest friend Peter Proudfoot,

travelling merchant, known to many of this land for his faithful and

just dealings, as well in muslins and cambrics as in small wares, to

procure me on his next peregrinations to that vicinage, a copy of

the Epitaphion alluded to. And, according to his report, which I see

no ground to discredit, it runneth thus:--

Here lyes ane saint to prelates surly,

Being John Balfour, sometime of Burley,

Who stirred up to vengeance take,

For Solemn League and Cov’nant’s sake,

Upon the Magus-Moor in Fife,

Did tak James Sharpe the apostate’s life;

By Dutchman’s hands was hacked and shot,

Then drowned in Clyde near this saam spot.]

While the soul of this stern enthusiast flitted to its account, that of

the brave and generous Lord Evandale was also released. Morton had flung

himself from his horse upon perceiving his situation, to render his dying

friend all the aid in his power. He knew him, for he pressed his hand,

and, being unable to speak, intimated by signs his wish to be conveyed to

the house. This was done with all the care possible, and he was soon

surrounded by his lamenting friends. But the clamorous grief of Lady

Emily was far exceeded in intensity by the silent agony of Edith.

Unconscious even of the presence of Morton, she hung over the dying man;

nor was she aware that Fate, who was removing one faithful lover, had

restored another as if from the grave, until Lord Evandale, taking their

hands in his, pressed them both affectionately, united them together,

raised his face as if to pray for a blessing on them, and sunk back and

expired in the next moment.

CONCLUSION.

I had determined to waive the task of a concluding chapter, leaving to

the reader’s imagination the arrangements which must necessarily take

place after Lord Evandale’s death. But as I was aware that precedents are

wanting for a practice which might be found convenient both to readers

and compilers, I confess myself to have been in a considerable dilemma,

when fortunately I was honoured with an invitation to drink tea with Miss

Martha Buskbody, a young lady who has carried on the profession of

mantua-making at Ganderscleugh and in the neighbourhood, with great

success, for about forty years. Knowing her taste for narratives of this

description, I requested her to look over the loose sheets the morning

before I waited on her, and enlighten me by the experience which she must

have acquired in reading through the whole stock of three circulating

libraries, in Ganderscleugh and the two next market-towns. When, with a

palpitating heart, I appeared before her in the evening, I found her much

disposed to be complimentary.

“I have not been more affected,” said she, wiping the glasses of her

spectacles, “by any novel, excepting the ‘Tale of Jemmy and Jenny

Jessamy’, which is indeed pathos itself; but your plan of omitting a

formal conclusion will never do. You may be as harrowing to our nerves as

you will in the course of your story, but, unless you had the genius

of the author of ‘Julia de Roubignd,’ never let the end be altogether

overclouded. Let us see a glimpse of sunshine in the last chapter; it is

quite essential.”

“Nothing would be more easy for me, madam, than to comply with your

injunctions; for, in truth, the parties in whom you have had the goodness

to be interested, did live long and happily, and begot sons and

daughters.”

“It is unnecessary, sir,” she said, with a slight nod of reprimand, “to

be particular concerning their matrimonial comforts. But what is your

objection to let us have, in a general way, a glimpse of their future

felicity?”

“Really, madam,” said I, “you must be aware that every volume of a

narrative turns less and less interesting as the author draws to a

conclusion,--just like your tea, which, though excellent hyson, is

necessarily weaker and more insipid in the last cup. Now, as I think the

one is by no means improved by the luscious lump of half-dissolved sugar

usually found at the bottom of it, so I am of opinion that a history,

growing already vapid, is but dully crutched up by a detail of

circumstances which every reader must have anticipated, even though the

author exhaust on them every flowery epithet in the language.”

“This will not do, Mr. Pattieson,” continued the lady; “you have, as I

may say, basted up your first story very hastily and clumsily at the

conclusion; and, in my trade, I would have cuffed the youngest apprentice

who had put such a horrid and bungled spot of work out of her hand. And

if you do not redeem this gross error by telling us all about the

marriage of Morton and Edith, and what became of the other personages of

the story, from Lady Margaret down to Goose-Gibbie, I apprise you that

you will not be held to have accomplished your task handsomely.”

“Well, madam,” I replied, “my materials are so ample that I think I can

satisfy your curiosity, unless it descend to very minute circumstances

indeed.”

“First, then,” said she, “for that is most essential,--Did Lady Margaret

get back her fortune and her castle?”

“She did, madam, and in the easiest way imaginable, as heir, namely, to

her worthy cousin, Basil Olifant, who died without a will; and thus, by

his death, not only restored, but even augmented, the fortune of her,

whom, during his life, he had pursued with the most inveterate malice.

John Gudyill, reinstated in his dignity, was more important than ever;

and Cuddie, with rapturous delight, entered upon the cultivation of the

mains of Tillietudlem, and the occupation of his original cottage. But,

with the shrewd caution of his character, he was never heard to boast of

having fired the lucky shot which repossessed his lady and himself in

their original habitations. ‘After a’,’ he said to Jenny, who was his

only confidant, ’auld Basil Olifant was my leddy’s cousin and a grand

gentleman; and though he was acting again the law, as I understand, for

he ne’er showed ony warrant, or required Lord Evandale to surrender, and

though I mind killing him nae mair than I wad do a muircock, yet it ’s

just as weel to keep a calm sough about it.’ He not only did so, but

ingeniously enough countenanced a report that old Gudyill had done the

deed,--which was worth many a gill of brandy to him from the old butler,

who, far different in disposition from Cuddie, was much more inclined to

exaggerate than suppress his exploits of manhood. The blind widow was

provided for in the most comfortable manner, as well as the little guide

to the Linn; and--”

“But what is all this to the marriage,--the marriage of the principal

personages?” interrupted Miss Buskbody, impatiently tapping her

snuff-box.

“The marriage of Morton and Miss Bellenden was delayed for several

months, as both went into deep mourning on account of Lord Evandale’s

death. They were then wedded.”

“I hope not without Lady Margaret’s consent, sir?” said my fair critic.

“I love books which teach a proper deference in young persons to their

parents. In a novel the young people may fall in love without their

countenance, because it is essential to the necessary intricacy of the

story; but they must always have the benefit of their consent at last.

Even old Delville received Cecilia, though the daughter of a man of low

birth.”

“And even so, madam,” replied I, “Lady Margaret was prevailed on to

countenance Morton, although the old Covenanter, his father, stuck sorely

with her for some time. Edith was her only hope, and she wished to see

her happy; Morton, or Melville Morton, as he was more generally called,

stood so high in the reputation of the world, and was in every other

respect such an eligible match, that she put her prejudice aside, and

consoled herself with the recollection that marriage went by destiny, as

was observed to her, she said, by his most sacred Majesty, Charles the

Second of happy memory, when she showed him the portrait of her

grand-father Fergus, third Earl of Torwood, the handsomest man of his

time, and that of Countess Jane, his second lady, who had a hump-back

and only one eye. This was his Majesty’s observation, she said, on one

remarkable morning when he deigned to take his _disjune_--”

“Nay,” said Miss Buskbody, again interrupting me, “if she brought such

authority to countenance her acquiescing in a misalliance, there was no

more to be said.--And what became of old Mrs. What’s her name, the

housekeeper?”

“Mrs. Wilson, madam?” answered I. “She was perhaps the happiest of the

party; for once a year, and not oftener, Mr. and Mrs. Melville Morton

dined in the great wainscotted chamber in solemn state, the hangings

being all displayed, the carpet laid down, and the huge brass candlestick

set on the table, stuck round with leaves of laurel. The preparing the

room for this yearly festival employed her mind for six months before it

came about, and the putting matters to rights occupied old Alison the

other six, so that a single day of rejoicing found her business for all

the year round.”

“And Niel Blane?” said Miss Buskbody.

“Lived to a good old age, drank ale and brandy with guests of all

persuasions, played Whig or Jacobite tunes as best pleased his customers,

and died worth as much money as married Jenny to a cock laird. I hope,

ma’am, you have no other inquiries to make, for really--”

“Goose-Gibbie, sir?” said my persevering friend,--“Goose-Gibbie, whose

ministry was fraught with such consequences to the personages of the

narrative?”

“Consider, my dear Miss Buskbody, (I beg pardon for the

familiarity),--but pray consider, even the memory of the renowned

Scheherazade, that Empress of Tale-tellers, could not preserve every

circumstance. I am not quite positive as to the fate of Goose-Gibbie,

but am inclined to think him the same with one Gilbert Dudden, alias

Calf-Gibbie, who was whipped through Hamilton for stealing poultry.”

Miss Buskbody now placed her left foot on the fender, crossed her right

leg over her knee, lay back on the chair, and looked towards the ceiling.

When I observed her assume this contemplative mood, I concluded she was

studying some farther cross-examination, and therefore took my hat and

wished her a hasty good-night, ere the Demon of Criticism had supplied

her with any more queries. In like manner, gentle Reader, returning you

my thanks for the patience which has conducted you thus far, I take the

liberty to withdraw myself from you for the present.

PERORATION.

It was mine earnest wish, most courteous Reader, that the “Tales of my

Landlord” should have reached thine hands in one entire succession of

tomes, or volumes. But as I sent some few more manuscript quires,

containing the continuation of these most pleasing narratives, I was

apprised, somewhat unceremoniously, by my publisher that he did not

approve of novels (as he injuriously called these real histories)

extending beyond four volumes, and if I did not agree to the first four

being published separately, he threatened to decline the article. (Oh,

ignorance! as if the vernacular article of our mother English were

capable of declension.) Whereupon, somewhat moved by his remonstrances,

and more by heavy charges for print and paper, which he stated to have

been already incurred, I have resolved that these four volumes shall be

the heralds or avant-couriers of the Tales which are yet in my

possession, nothing doubting that they will be eagerly devoured, and the

remainder anxiously demanded, by the unanimous voice of a discerning

public. I rest, esteemed Reader, thine as thou shalt construe me,

JEDEDIAH CLEISHBOTHAM.

GANDERCLEUGH, Nov. 15, 1816.

[Illustration: Interior of Abbotsford--302]

GLOSSARY.

A’, all.

A’body, everybody.

Aboon, abune, above.

Ae, one.

Aff, off.

Afore, before.

Again, against, until.

Ahint, behind.

Ain, own.

Ajee, awry.

Amaist, almost.

Amna, am not.

An, if, suppose.

Ane, one.

Anent, regarding.

Anes, once.

Anither, another.

Arles, earnest money.

Asteer, in confusion.

Atweel, aweel, well.

Aught, own, possessed of; also, eight.

Auld, old.

Awa’, away.

Awe, to owe. “Awe a day in har’st,” to owe a good turn.

Awsome, awful, terrible.

Bab, a bunch.

Back-cast, back-stroke.

Baith, both.

Bang, to beat.

Bannock, a scone.

Bawbee, a halfpenny.

Beild, shelter.

Bein, bien, well provided.

Belive, directly.

Bide, to wait, to suffer. “Bide a blink,” stay a minute.

Birky, a lively young fellow.

Birl, to toss, to drink.

Bleeze, a blaze; also, to brag, to talk ostentatiously.

Blithe, happy.

Blude, bluid, blood.

Boddle, a small copper coin.

Branks, a kind of bridle.

Braw, fine, brave.

Brawly, cleverly.

Braws, fine clothes.

Breeks, breeches.

Brigg, a bridge.

Brogue, the Highland shoe.

Browst, a brewing.

Budget, a carabine-socket.

Busk, to deck up.

“By and out-taken,” over and above and excepting.

Ca’, to call. “Ca’ the pleugh,” to work the plough.

Canna, cannot. “Canna hear day nor door,” as deaf as a post.

Canny, quiet, cautious, snug.

Carcage, a carcass.

Carena, care not.

Carline, an old woman, a witch.

Cast, chance, opportunity, fate.

“Cast o’ a cart,” chance use of a cart.

Certie! conscience!

Change-house, a small inn or alehouse.

Chield, a fellow.

Chimley, a chimney.

Claes, clothes.

Clatter, tattle.

“Clinked down,” quartered.

“Cock laird,” a small land holder who cultivates his estate himself.

Copleen, to complain.

Coup, to barter; also, to turn over.

Crap, the produce of the ground.

Crowdy, meal and milk mixed in a cold state.

Cuittle, to wheedle, to curry favour.

Daft, crazy.

Daur, to dare.

Daurna, dare not.

Deil, the devil. “Deil gin,” the devil may care if.

Didna, did not.

Dighting, separating, wiping.

Ding, to knock.

Dinna, disna, do not.

Disjasked-looking, decayed looking.

Disjune, breakfast.

Div, do.

Dooms, very, confoundedly.

Douce, douse, quiet, sensible.

Doun, down.

Dour, stubborn.

“Dow’d na,” did not like.

Downa, cannot.

“Downs bide,” cannot bear, don’t like.

Drouthy, dry, thirsty.

Dwam, a swoon.

Ee, an eye.

Een, eyes.

E’en, evening; even.

E’enow, presently, at present.

Eik, an addition.

Eneuch, eneugh, enow, enough.

Fa’, fall.

Fairing “gie him a fairing,” settle him.

Fallow, a fellow.

Fand, found.

Fash, trouble.

Faured, favoured.

Feared, afraid.

Fearsome, frightful.

Feck, part of a thing.

Feckless, harmless.

Fend, to provide.

Fire-flaught, flash.

Fizenless, tasteless.

Flyte, to scold.

Forby, besides.

Forgie, forgive.

Forrit, forward.

Foumart, a pole-cat.

Frae, from.

Fund, found.

Gae, to go; also, gave.

Gang, go.

Ganging, going.

Gar, to make, to oblige.

Gat, got.

Gate, way, mode, direction.

Gaun, going.

Gay, gey, very. “Gey thick,” pretty thick.

Gear, property.

Gentles, aristocracy.

Gie, give.

Gin, if.

Gledge, a side-glance.

Gomeril, a fool, a simpleton.

Gowd, gold.

Gowpen, a handful.

Grewsome, sullen, stern, forbidding.

Gude, God; good.

Gudeman, a husband; head of the household.

Gude-sister, a sister-in-law.

Gudewife, a wife, a spouse.

Guide, to manage.

Ha’arst, harvest.

Hae, have.

Haena, have not.

“Hae ’t,” have it.

Haill, whole.

Hantle, a great deal.

Harry, to rob, to break in upon.

Hash, a clumsy lout.

Hand, to hold, to have.

Hauld, a habitation.

Hempie, giddy.

Heugh, a dell; also, a crag.

Hinny, a term of endearment=honey.

Holme, a hollow, level low ground.

“Horse of wood, foaled of an acorn,” a form of punishment.

Howf, a retreat.

Hunder, a hundred.

Hup! used to a horse in order to make him quicken his pace.

“Hup nor wind,” quite unmanageable.

Hurdies, the buttocks.

Ilk, ilka, each, every.

Ill-fard, ill-favoured.

Ill-guide, to ill-treat.

I’ se, I shall.

Isna, is not.

Jalouse, to suspect.

Jimply, barely, scantily.

Jo, joe, a sweetheart.

“John Thomson’s man,” a husband who yields to the influence of his wife.

Justify, to punish with death.

Kail, kale, cabbage greens; broth. “Kail through the reek,” to give one a

severe reproof.

Kail-brose, pottage of meal made with the scum of broth.

Kale-yard, a vegetable garden.

Ken, to know.

Kend, knew.

Kenna, kensna, know not.

Kittle, ticklish.

Kye, kine.

Lane, lone, alone. By a peculiar idiom in the Scotch this is frequently

conjoined with the pronoun: as, “his lane,” “my lane,” “their lane,”

i. e., “by himself,” “by myself,” “by themselves.”

“Lang ten,” the ten of trumps in Scotch whist.

Lassie, lassock, a little girl.

Lave, the remainder.

Leatherin’, beating, drubbing.

Letten, allowed.

Lift, to carry off by theft.

Linn, a cataract.

Lippie, the fourth part of a peck.

Loon, a fellow.

Loot, looten, let, allowed.

Lound, quiet.

Loup, to leap.

Lug, the ear.

Mains, demesne.

Mair, more.

Maist, most.

Mart, a fatted cow.

Mann, must.

Maunder, palaver.

Maut, malt.

Mensfu’, modest, mindful.

Mickle, much.

Mind, to remember.

Mirligoes, dizziness.

Mislear’d, unmannerly.

Mistaen, mistaken.

Many, many.

“Morn, the,” to-morrow.

Muckle, much.

Muir, a moor.

Na, no, not.

Naething, nothing.

Naig, a nag.

Neb, the nose, the beak.

Neist, next.

Neuk, a nook, a corner.

Onstead, a farm-steading.

Ony, any.

Or, before.

“Ordinar, by,” in an uncommon way.

O ’t, of it.

Outshot, a projection in a building.

Out-taken, excepting.

Ower, over.

Peat-hag, a hollow in moss left after digging peats.

Penny-fee, wages.

Dinners, a cap with lappets, formerly worn by women of rank.

Pit, to put.

Pleugh, plough.

Pleugh-paidle, a plough-staff.

Pockmantle, a portmanteau.

Pose, deposit.

Puir, poor.

Putten, put. “Putten up,” provided for.

Quean, a flirt, a young woman.

Rade, rode.

Randy, a scold.

Raploch, coarse, undyed homespun.

Rase, rose.

Rax, to stretch, to reach.

Redd, to clear up.

Reek, smoke.

Rin, to run.

Ripe, to rake, to search.

Rue “to take the rue,” to repent of a proposal or bargain.

Rugging, pulling roughly.

Sae, so.

“St. Johnstone’s tippet,” a halter for execution.

Sair, sore.

“Sair travailed,” worn out, wearied.

Sark, a shirt.

Sauld, sold.

Set, to suit, to become one; also, to beset.

Shaw, a wood; flat ground at the foot of a hill.

Shune, shoes.

Sic, such.

Siller, money.

Skeily, skilful.

Skellie, to squint.

Skirl, to scream.

Sort, to arrange, to supply.

Sort, a term applied to persons or things when the number is small.

Sough, a sigh, a breath. “Calm sough,” an easy mind, a still tongue.

“Sough’d awa,” died gently.

Soup, “a bite and a soup,” slender support, both as to meat and drink.

Sowens, a sort of gruel.

Spak, spoke.

Speer, to inquire, to ask.

Spunk, fire, activity, spirit.

Stamach, stomach.

Steer, to disturb.

Stir, sir.

Stot, a bullock.

Stour, a battle, a fight.

Strae, straw.

Stressed, distressed, inconvenienced.

Stude, hesitated.

Sud, suld, should.

Sune, soon. “Sune as syne,” soon as late.

Sybo, an onion or radish.

Syke, a streamlet dry in summer.

Syne, since, afterwards.

Tae, tane, the one.

Ta’en, taken.

“Tak on,” to engage.

Tauld, told.

Tent, care.

Teugh, tough.

“Thack and rape,” snug and comfortable.

Thae, these, those.

Thegither, together.

Threep, to aver strongly.

Till, to.

“Till ’t,” to it.

“Tippet, St. Johnstone’s,” a halter for execution.

Tirl, to uncover, to strip.

Tittie, a sister.

Tother, the other.

Toy, a close linen cap.

Troth! sure!

Trow, to believe, to think, to guess.

Trysted, overtaken.

Unco, very, particularly, prodigious, terrible; also, strange.

Vivers, victuals.

Wad, would.

Wadna, would not.

Wallie, a valet.

Walth, plenty, abundance.

Wan, got, reached.

Waur, worse.

Wee, little.

Weel, well.

We’se, we shall.

Wha, whae, who.

Whase, whose.

“What for,” why.

Wheen, a few.

Whiles, sometimes.

Wi’, with.

Win, to get. “To win by,” to escape.

“To win ower,” to get over.

Winna, will not.

Winnock, a window.

Wotna, know not.

Wud, mad.

Wull, will.

“What’s yer wull?” what is your pleasure?

Yerl, earl.

Yestate, estate.

Yokit.

yoked.

THE END.