When Claud was duly equipped by Cornelius Luke, in the best fashion
of that period, for a bien cloth-merchant of the discreet age of
forty-seven, a message was sent by his shop lad, Jock Gleg, to Rob
Wallace, the horse-couper in the Gallowgate, to have his beast in
readiness next morning by seven o’clock, the intending lover having,
several days before, bespoke it for the occasion.
Accordingly, at seven o’clock on Saturday morning, Rob was with the
horse himself, at the entry to Cochran’s Land, in the Candleriggs,
where Claud then lodged, and the wooer, in the sprucest cut of his
tailor, with a long silver-headed whip in his hand, borrowed from his
friend and customer, Bailie Murdoch, attended by Jock Gleg, carrying a
stool, came to the close mouth.
‘I’m thinking, Mr. Walkinshaw,’ said Rob, the horse-couper, ‘that ye
would na be the waur of a spur, an it were only on the ae heel.’
‘We maun do our best without that commodity, Rob,’ replied Claud,
trying to crack his whip in a gallant style, but unfortunately cutting
his own leg through the dark blue rig-and-fur gamashins; for he
judiciously considered, that, for so short a journey, and that, too, on
speculation, it was not worth his while to get a pair of boots.
Rob drew up the horse, and Jock having placed the stool, Claud put his
right foot in the stirrup, at which Rob and some of the students of
the college, who happened to be attracted to the spot, with diverse
others then and there present, set up a loud shout of laughter, much to
his molestation. But surely no man is expected to know by instinct the
proper way of mounting a horse; and this was the first time that Claud
had ever ascended the back of any quadruped.
When he had clambered into the saddle, Rob led the horse into the
middle of the street, and the beast, of its own accord, walked soberly
across the Trongate towards the Stockwell. The conduct of the horse,
for some time, was indeed most considerate, and, in consequence,
although Claud hung heavily over his neck, and held him as fast
as possible with his knees, he passed the bridge, and cleared the
buildings beyond, without attracting, in any particular degree, the
admiration of the public towards his rider. But, in an unguarded
moment, the infatuated Claud rashly thought it necessary to employ the
Bailie’s whip, and the horse, so admonished, quickened his pace to a
trot. ‘Heavens, ca’ they this riding?’ exclaimed Claud, and almost
bit his tongue through in the utterance. However, by the time they
reached Cathcart, it was quite surprising to see how well he worked in
the saddle; and, notwithstanding the continued jolting, how nobly he
preserved his balance. But, on entering that village, all the dogs, in
the most terrifying manner, came rushing out from the cottage doors,
and pursued the trotting horse with such bark and bay, that the poor
animal saw no other for’t, but to trot from them faster and faster.
The noise of the dogs, and of a passenger on horseback, drew forth the
inhabitants, and at every door might be seen beldams with flannel caps,
and mothers with babies in their arms, and clusters of children around
them. It was the general opinion among all the spectators, on seeing
the spruce new clothes of Claud, and his vaulting horsemanship, that he
could be no less a personage than the Lord Provost of Glasgow.
Among them were a few country lads, who, perceiving how little the
rider’s seat of honour was accustomed to a saddle, had the wickedness
to encourage and egg on the dogs to attack the horse still more
furiously; but, notwithstanding their malice, Claud still kept his
seat, until all the dogs but one devil of a terrier had retired from
the pursuit: nothing could equal the spirit and pertinacity with which
that implacable cur hung upon the rear, and snapped at the heels of the
horse. Claud, who durst not venture to look behind, lest he should lose
his balance, several times damned the dog with great sincerity, and
tried to lash him away with Bailie Murdoch’s silver-headed whip, but
the terrier would not desist.
How long the attack might have continued, there is certainly no
telling, as it was quickly determined by one of those lucky hits of
fortune which are so desirable in life. The long lash of the Bailie’s
whip, in one of Claud’s blind attempts, happily knotted itself round
the neck of the dog. The horse, at the same moment, started forward
into that pleasant speed at which the pilgrims of yore were wont to
pass from London to the shrine of St. Thomas a Becket at Canterbury
(which, for brevity, is in vulgar parlance called, in consequence, a
canter); and Claud dragged the terrier at his whip-string end, like an
angler who has hooked a salmon that he cannot raise out of the water,
until he met with Johnny Drizen, the Ayr carrier, coming on his weekly
journey to Glasgow.
‘Lordsake, Mr. Walkinshaw!’ exclaimed the carrier, as he drew his
horse aside--‘in the name of the Lord, whare are ye gaun, and what’s
that ye’re hauling ahint you?’
‘For the love of Heaven, Johnny,’ replied the distressed
cloth-merchant, pale with apprehension, and perspiring at every
pore,--‘for the love of Heaven, stop this desperate beast!’
The tone of terror and accent of anguish in which this invocation was
uttered, had such an effect on the humanity and feelings of the Ayr
carrier, that he ran towards Claud with the ardour of a philanthropist,
and seized the horse by the bridle rings. Claud, in the same moment,
threw down the whip, with the strangled dog at the lash; and, making
an endeavour to vault out of the saddle, fell into the mire, and
materially damaged the lustre and beauty of his new coat. However, he
soon regained his legs, but they so shook and trembled, that he could
scarcely stand, as he bent forward with his feet widely asunder, being
utterly unable for some time to endure in any other position the pain
of that experience of St. Sebastian’s martyrdom which he had locally
suffered.
His first words to the carrier were, ‘Man, Johnny, this is the roughest
brute that ever was created. Twa dyers wi’ their beetles could na hae
done me mair detriment. I dinna think I’ll e’er be able to sit down
again.’
This colloquy was, however, speedily put an end to, by the appearance
of a covered cart, in which three ministers were returning from the
synod to their respective parishes in Ayrshire; for at that time
neither post-chaise nor stage-coach was numbered among the luxuries
of Glasgow. One of them happened to be the identical Mr. Kilfuddy of
Braehill, who had lectured so learnedly about the Temple of Diana on
the preceding Sunday in the Tron Church; and he, being acquainted with
Claud, said, as he looked out and bade the driver to stop,--
‘Dear me, Mr. Walkinshaw, but ye hae gotten an unco cowp. I hope nae
banes are broken?’
‘No,’ replied Claud a little pawkily, ‘no; thanks be and praise--the
banes, I believe, are a’ to the fore; but it’s no to be expressed what
I hae suffer’t in the flesh.’
Some further conversation then ensued, and the result was most
satisfactory, for Claud was invited to take a seat in the cart with
the ministers, and induced to send his horse back to Rob Wallace by
Johnny Drizen the carrier. Thus, without any material augmentation of
his calamity, was he conveyed to the gate which led to Plealands. The
Laird, who had all the morning been anxiously looking out for him, on
seeing the cart approaching, left the house, and was standing ready at
the yett to give him welcome.