Rob Roy, Volume 2., Illustrated by Sir Walter Scott (page 2)

“This, good Mr. Jarvie,” said Owen, who, like myself, had been struck dumb during this strange recognition, and no less strange dialogue, which took place betwixt these extraordinary kinsmen–“This, good Mr. Jarvie, is young Mr. Frank Osbaldistone, only child of the head of our house, who should have been taken into our firm at the time Mr. Rashleigh Osbaldistone, his cousin, had the luck to be taken into it”–(Here Owen could not suppress a groan)–“But howsoever”–

“Oh, I have heard of that smaik,” said the Scotch merchant, interrupting him; “it is he whom your principal, like an obstinate auld fule, wad make a merchant o’, wad he or wad he no,–and the lad turned a strolling stage-player, in pure dislike to the labour an honest man should live by. Weel, sir, what say you to your handiwork? Will Hamlet the Dane, or Hamlet’s ghost, be good security for Mr. Owen, sir?”

“I don’t deserve your taunt,” I replied, “though I respect your motive, and am too grateful for the assistance you have afforded Mr. Owen, to resent it. My only business here was to do what I could (it is perhaps very little) to aid Mr. Owen in the management of my father’s affairs. My dislike of the commercial profession is a feeling of which I am the best and sole judge.”

“I protest,” said the Highlander, “I had some respect for this callant even before I ken’d what was in him; but now I honour him for his contempt of weavers and spinners, and sic-like mechanical persons and their pursuits.”

“Ye’re mad, Rob,” said the Bailie–“mad as a March hare–though wherefore a hare suld be mad at March mair than at Martinmas, is mair than I can weel say. Weavers! Deil shake ye out o’ the web the weaver craft made. Spinners! ye’ll spin and wind yourself a bonny pirn. And this young birkie here, that ye’re hoying and hounding on the shortest road to the gallows and the deevil, will his stage-plays and his poetries help him here, dye think, ony mair than your deep oaths and drawn dirks, ye reprobate that ye are?–Will _Tityre tu patulae,_ as they ca’ it, tell him where Rashleigh Osbaldistone is? or Macbeth, and all his kernes and galla-glasses, and your awn to boot, Rob, procure him five thousand pounds to answer the bills which fall due ten days hence, were they a’ rouped at the Cross,–basket-hilts, Andra-Ferraras, leather targets, brogues, brochan, and sporrans?”

“Ten days,” I answered, and instinctively drew out Diana Vernon’s packet; and the time being elapsed during which I was to keep the seal sacred, I hastily broke it open. A sealed letter fell from a blank enclosure, owing to the trepidation with which I opened the parcel. A slight current of wind, which found its way through a broken pane of the window, wafted the letter to Mr. Jarvie’s feet, who lifted it, examined the address with unceremonious curiosity, and, to my astonishment, handed itto his Highland kinsman, saying, “Here’s a wind has blown a letter to its right owner, though there were ten thousand chances against its coming to hand.”

The Highlander, having examined the address, broke the letter open without the least ceremony. I endeavoured to interrupt his proceeding.

“You must satisfy me, sir,” said I, “that the letter is intended for you before I can permit you to peruse it.”

“Make yourself quite easy, Mr. Osbaldistone,” replied the mountaineer with great composure.–“remember Justice Inglewood, Clerk Jobson, Mr. Morris–above all, remember your vera humble servant, Robert Cawmil, and the beautiful Diana Vernon. Remember all this, and doubt no longer that the letter is for me.”

I remained astonished at my own stupidity.–Through the whole night, the voice, and even the features of this man, though imperfectly seen, haunted me with recollections to which I could assign no exact local or personal associations. But now the light dawned on me at once; this man was Campbell himself. His whole peculiarities flashed on me at once,–the deep strong voice–the inflexible, stern, yet considerate cast of features–the Scottish brogue, with its corresponding dialect and imagery, which, although he possessed the power at times of laying them aside, recurred at every moment of emotion, and gave pith to his sarcasm, or vehemence to his expostulation. Rather beneath the middle size than above it, his limbs were formed upon the very strongest model that is consistent with agility, while from the remarkable ease and freedom of his movements, you could not doubt his possessing the latter quality in a high degree of perfection. Two points in his person interfered with the rules of symmetry; his shoulders were so broad in proportion to his height, as, notwithstanding the lean and lathy appearance of his frame, gave him something the air of being too square in respect to his stature; and his arms, though round, sinewy, and strong, were so very long as to be rather a deformity. I afterwards heard that this length of arm was a circumstance on which he prided himself; that when he wore his native Highland garb, he could tie the garters of his hose without stooping; and that it gave him great advantage in the use of the broad-sword, at which he was very dexterous. But certainly this want of symmetry destroyed the claim he might otherwise have set up, to be accounted a very handsome man; it gave something wild, irregular, and, as it were, unearthly, to his appearance, and reminded me involuntarily of the tales which Mabel used to tell of the old Picts who ravaged Northumberland in ancient times, who, according to her tradition, were a sort of half-goblin half-human beings, distinguished, like this man, for courage, cunning, ferocity, the length of their arms, and the squareness of their shoulders.

When, however, I recollected the circumstances in which we formerly met, I could not doubt that the billet was most probably designed for him. He had made a marked figure among those mysterious personages over whom Diana seemed to exercise an influence, and from whom she experienced an influence in her turn. It was painful to think that the fate of a being so amiable was involved in that of desperadoes of this man’s description;–yet it seemed impossible to doubt it. Of what use, however, could this person be to my father’s affairs?–I could think only of one. Rashleigh Osbaldistone had, at the instigation of Miss Vernon, certainly found means to produce Mr. Campbell when his presence was necessary to exculpate me from Morris’s accusation–Was it not possible that her influence, in like manner, might prevail on Campbell to produce Rashleigh? Speaking on this supposition, I requested to know where my dangerous kinsman was, and when Mr. Campbell had seen him. The answer was indirect.

“It’s a kittle cast she has gien me to play; but yet it’s fair play, and I winna baulk her. Mr. Osbaldistone, I dwell not very far from hence–my kinsman can show you the way–Leave Mr. Owen to do the best he can in Glasgow–do you come and see me in the glens, and it’s like I may pleasure you, and stead your father in his extremity. I am but a poor man; but wit’s better than wealth–and, cousin” (turning from me to address Mr. Jarvie), “if ye daur venture sae muckle as to eat a dish of Scotch collops, and a leg o’ red-deer venison wi’ me, come ye wi’ this Sassenach gentleman as far as Drymen or Bucklivie,–or the Clachan of Aberfoil will be better than ony o’ them,–and I’ll hae somebody waiting to weise ye the gate to the place where I may be for the time–What say ye, man? There’s my thumb, I’ll ne’er beguile thee.”

“Na, na, Robin,” said the cautious burgher, “I seldom like to leave the Gorbals;* I have nae freedom to gang among your wild hills, Robin, and your kilted red-shanks–it disna become my place, man.”

* [The _Gorbals_ or “suburbs” are situate on the south side of the River.]

“The devil damn your place and you baith!” reiterated Campbell. “The only drap o’ gentle bluid that’s in your body was our great-grand-uncle’s that was justified* at Dumbarton, and you set yourself up to say ye wad derogate frae your place to visit me!

* [Executed for treason.]

Hark thee, man–I owe thee a day in harst–I’ll pay up your thousan pund Scots, plack and bawbee, gin ye’ll be an honest fallow for anes, and just daiker up the gate wi’ this Sassenach.”

“Hout awa’ wi’ your gentility,” replied the Bailie; “carry your gentle bluid to the Cross, and see what ye’ll buy wi’t. But, if I _were_ to come, wad ye really and soothfastly pay me the siller?”

“I swear to ye,” said the Highlander, “upon the halidome of him that sleeps beneath the grey stane at Inch-Cailleach.”*

* Inch-Cailleach is an island in Lochlomond, where the clan of MacGregor were wont to be interred, and where their sepulchres may still be seen. It formerly contained a nunnery: hence the name of Inch-Cailleach, or the island of Old Women.

“Say nae mair, Robin–say nae mair–We’ll see what may be dune. But ye maunna expect me to gang ower the Highland line–I’ll gae beyond the line at no rate. Ye maun meet me about Bucklivie or the Clachan of Aberfoil,–and dinna forget the needful.”

“Nae fear–nae fear,” said Campbell; “I’ll be as true as the steel blade that never failed its master. But I must be budging, cousin, for the air o’ Glasgow tolbooth is no that ower salutary to a Highlander’s constitution.”

“Troth,” replied the merchant, “and if my duty were to be dune, ye couldna change your atmosphere, as the minister ca’s it, this ae wee while.–Ochon, that I sud ever be concerned in aiding and abetting an escape frae justice! it will be a shame and disgrace to me and mine, and my very father’s memory, for ever.”

“Hout tout, man! let that flee stick in the wa’,” answered his kinsman; “when the dirt’s dry it will rub out–Your father, honest man, could look ower a friend’s fault as weel as anither.”

“Ye may be right, Robin,” replied the Bailie, after a moment’s reflection; “he was a considerate man the deacon; he ken’d we had a’ our frailties, and he lo’ed his friends–Ye’ll no hae forgotten him, Robin?” This question he put in a softened tone, conveying as much at least of the ludicrous as the pathetic.

“Forgotten him!” replied his kinsman–“what suld ail me to forget him?–a wapping weaver he was, and wrought my first pair o’ hose.–But come awa’, kinsman,

Come fill up my cap, come fill up my cann, Come saddle my horses, and call up my man; Come open your gates, and let me gae free, I daurna stay langer in bonny Dundee.”

“Whisht, sir!” said the magistrate, in an authoritative tone–“lilting and singing sae near the latter end o’ the Sabbath! This house may hear ye sing anither tune yet–Aweel, we hae a’ backslidings to answer for–Stanchells, open the door.”

The jailor obeyed, and we all sallied forth. Stanchells looked with some surprise at the two strangers, wondering, doubtless, how they came into these premises without his knowledge; but Mr. Jarvie’s “Friends o’ mine, Stanchells–friends o’ mine,” silenced all disposition to inquiries. We now descended into the lower vestibule, and hallooed more than once for Dougal, to which summons no answer was returned; when Campbell observed with a sardonic smile, “That if Dougal was the lad he kent him, he would scarce wait to get thanks for his ain share of the night’s wark, but was in all probability on the full trot to the pass of Ballamaha”–

“And left us–and, abune a’, me, mysell, locked up in the tolbooth a’ night!” exclaimed the Bailie, in ire and perturbation. “Ca’ for forehammers, sledge-hammers, pinches, and coulters; send for Deacon Yettlin, the smith, an let him ken that Bailie Jarvie’s shut up in the tolbooth by a Highland blackguard, whom he’ll hang up as high as Haman”–

“When ye catch him,” said Campbell, gravely; “but stay–the door is surely not locked.”

Indeed, on examination, we found that the door was not only left open, but that Dougal in his retreat had, by carrying off the keys along with him, taken care that no one should exercise his office of porter in a hurry.

“He has glimmerings o’ common sense now, that creature Dougal,” said Campbell.–“he ken’d an open door might hae served me at a pinch.”

We were by this time in the street.

“I tell you, Robin,” said the magistrate, “in my puir mind, if ye live the life ye do, ye suld hae ane o’ your gillies door-keeper in every jail in Scotland, in case o’ the warst.”

“Ane o’ my kinsmen a bailie in ilka burgh will just do as weel, cousin Nicol–So, gude-night or gude-morning to ye; and forget not the Clachan of Aberfoil.”

And without waiting for an answer, he sprung to the other side of the street, and was lost in darkness. Immediately on his disappearance, we heard him give a low whistle of peculiar modulation, which was instantly replied to.

“Hear to the Hieland deevils,” said Mr. Jarvie; “they think themselves on the skirts of Benlomond already, where they may gang whewingand whistling about without minding Sunday or Saturday.” Here he was interrupted by something which fell with a heavy clash on the street before us–“Gude guide us what’s this mair o’t?–Mattie, haud up the lantern–Conscience if it isna the keys!–Weel, that’s just as weel–they cost the burgh siller, and there might hae been some clavers about the loss o’ them. O, an Bailie Grahame were to get word o’ this night’s job, it would be a sair hair in my neck!”

As we were still but a few steps from the tolbooth door, we carried back these implements of office, and consigned them to the head jailor, who, in lieu of the usual mode of making good his post by turning the keys, was keeping sentry in the vestibule till the arrival of some assistant, whom he had summoned in order to replace the Celtic fugitive Dougal.

Having discharged this piece of duty to the burgh, and my road lying the same way with the honest magistrate’s, I profited by the light of his lantern, and he by my arm, to find our way through the streets, which, whatever they may now be, were then dark, uneven, and ill-paved. Age is easily propitiated by attentions from the young. The Bailie expressed himself interested in me, and added, “That since I was nane o’ that play-acting and play-ganging generation, whom his saul hated, he wad be glad if I wad eat a reisted haddock or a fresh herring, at breakfast wi’ him the morn, and meet my friend, Mr. Owen, whom, by that time, he would place at liberty.”

“My dear sir,” said I, when I had accepted of the invitation with thanks, “how could you possibly connect me with the stage?”

“I watna,” replied Mr. Jarvie;–“it was a bletherin’ phrasin’ chield they ca’ Fairservice, that cam at e’en to get an order to send the crier through the toun for ye at skreigh o’ day the morn. He tell’t me whae ye were, and how ye were sent frae your father’s house because ye wadna be a dealer, and that ye mightna disgrace your family wi’ ganging on the stage. Ane Hammorgaw, our precentor, brought him here, and said he was an auld acquaintance; but I sent them both away wi’ a flae in their lug for bringing me sic an errand, on sic a night. But I see he’s a fule-creature a’thegither, and clean mistaen about ye. I like ye, man,” he continued; “I like a lad that will stand by his friends in trouble–I aye did it mysell, and sae did the deacon my father, rest and bless him! But ye suldna keep ower muckle company wi’ Hielandmen and thae wild cattle. Can a man touch pitch and no be defiled?–aye mind that. Nae doubt, the best and wisest may err–Once, twice, and thrice have I backslidden, man, and dune three things this night–my father wadna hae believed his een if he could hae looked up and seen me do them.”

He was by this time arrived at the door of his own dwelling. He paused, however, on the threshold, and went on in a solemn tone of deep contrition,–“Firstly, I hae thought my ain thoughts on the Sabbath–secondly, I hae gi’en security for an Englishman–and, in the third and last place, well-a-day! I hae let an ill-doer escape from the place of imprisonment–But there’s balm in Gilead, Mr. Osbaldistone– Mattie, I can let mysell in–see Mr. Osbaldistone to Luckie Flyter’s, at the corner o’ the wynd.–Mr. Osbaldistone”–in a whisper–“ye’ll offer nae incivility to Mattie–she’s an honest man’s daughter, and a near cousin o’ the Laird
o’ Limmerfield’s.”

CHAPTER SEVENTH.

“Will it please your worship to accept of my poor service? I beseech that I may feed upon your bread, though it be the brownest, and drink of your drink, though it be of the smallest; for I will do your Worship as much service for forty shillings as another man shall for three pounds.”
Greene’s _Tu Quoque._

I remembered the honest Bailie’s parting charge, but did not conceive there was any incivility in adding a kiss to the half-crown with which I remunerated Mattie’s attendance;–nor did her “Fie for shame, sir!” express any very deadly resentment of the affront. Repeated knocking at Mrs. Flyter’s gate awakened in due order, first, one or two stray dogs, who began to bark with all their might; next two or three night-capped heads, which were thrust out of the neighbouring windows to reprehend me for disturbing the solemnity of the Sunday night by that untimely noise. While I trembled lest the thunders of their wrath might dissolve in showers like that of Xantippe, Mrs. Flyter herself awoke, and began, in a tone of objurgation not unbecoming the philosophical spouse of Socrates, to scold one or two loiterers in her kitchen, for not hastening to the door to prevent a repetition of my noisy summons.

These worthies were, indeed, nearly concerned in the fracas which their laziness occasioned, being no other than the faithful Mr. Fairservice, with his friend Mr. Hammorgaw, and another person, whom I afterwards found to be the town-crier, who were sitting over a cog of ale, as they called it (at my expense, as my bill afterwards informed me), in order to devise the terms and style of a proclamation to be made through the streets the next day, in order that “the unfortunate young gentleman,” as they had the impudence to qualify me, might be restored to his friends without farther delay. It may be supposed that I did not suppress my displeasure at this impertinent interference with my affairs; but Andrew set up such ejaculations of transport at my arrival, as fairly drowned my expressions of resentment. His raptures, perchance, were partly political; and the tears of joy which he shed had certainly their source in that noble fountain of emotion, the tankard. However, the tumultuous glee which he felt, or pretended to feel, at my return, saved Andrew the broken head which I had twice destined him;–first, on account of the colloquy he had held with the precentor on my affairs; and secondly, for the impertinent history he had thought proper to give of me to Mr. Jarvie. I however contented myself with slapping the door of my bedroom in his face as he followed me, praising Heaven for my safe return, and mixing his joy with admonitions to me to take care how I walked my own ways in future. I then went to bed, resolving my first business in the morning should be to discharge this troublesome, pedantic, self-conceited coxcomb, who seemed so much disposed to constitute himself rather a preceptor than a domestic.

Accordingly in the morning I resumed my purpose, and calling Andrew into my, apartment, requested to know his charge for guiding and attending me as far as Glasgow. Mr. Fairservice looked very blank at this demand, justly considering it as a presage to approaching dismission.

“Your honour,” he said, after some hesitation, “wunna think–wunna think”–

“Speak out, you rascal, or I’ll break your head,” said I, as Andrew, between the double risk of losing all by asking too much, or a part, by stating his demand lower than what I might be willing to pay, stood gasping in the agony of doubt and calculation.

Out it came with a bolt, however, at my threat; as the kind violence of a blow on the back sometimes delivers the windpipe from an intrusive morsel.–“Aughteen pennies sterling per diem–that is, by the day–your honour wadna think unconscionable.”

“It is double what is usual, and treble what you merit, Andrew; but there’s a guinea for you, and get about your business.”

“The Lord forgi’e us! Is your honour mad?” exclaimed Andrew.

“No; but I think you mean to make me so–I give you a third above your demand, and you stand staring and expostulating there as if I were cheating you. Take your money, and go about your business.”

“Gude safe us!” continued Andrew, “in what can I hae offended your honour? Certainly a’ flesh is but as the flowers of the field; but if a bed of camomile hath value in medicine, of a surety the use of Andrew Fairservice to your honour is nothing less evident–it’s as muckle as your life’s worth to part wi’ me.”

“Upon my honour,” replied I, “it is difficult to say whether you are more knave or fool. So you intend then to remain with me whether I like it or no?”

“Troth, I was e’en thinking sae,” replied Andrew, dogmatically; “for if your honour disna ken when ye hae a gude servant, I ken when I hae a gude master, and the deil be in my feet gin I leave ye–and there’s the brief and the lang o’t besides I hae received nae regular warning to quit my place.”

“Your place, sir!” said I;–“why, you are no hired servant of mine,–you are merely a guide, whose knowledge of the country I availed myself of on my road.”

“I am no just a common servant, I admit, sir,” remonstrated Mr. Fairservice; “but your honour kens I quitted a gude place at an hour’s notice, to comply wi’ your honour’s solicitations. A man might make honestly, and wi’ a clear conscience, twenty sterling pounds per annum, weel counted siller, o’ the garden at Osbaldistone Hall, and I wasna likely to gi’e up a’ that for a guinea, I trow–I reckoned on staying wi’ your honour to the term’s end at the least o’t; and I account my wage, board-wage, fee and bountith,–ay, to that length o’t at the least.”

“Come, come, sir,” replied I, “these impudent pretensions won’t serve your turn; and if I hear any more of them, I shall convince you that Squire Thorncliff is not the only one of my name that can use his fingers.”

While I spoke thus, the whole matter struck me as so ridiculous, that, though really angry, I had some difficulty to forbear laughing at the gravity with which Andrew supported a plea so utterly extravagant. The rascal, aware of the impression he had made on my muscles, was encouraged to perseverance. He judged it safer, however, to take his pretensions a peg lower, in case of overstraining at the same time both his plea and my patience.

“Admitting that my honour could part with a faithful servant, that had served me and mine by day and night for twenty years, in a strange place, and at a moment’s warning, he was weel assured,” he said, “it wasna in my heart, nor in no true gentleman’s, to pit a puir lad like himself, that had come forty or fifty, or say a hundred miles out o’ his road purely to bear my honour company, and that had nae handing but his penny-fee, to sic a hardship as this comes to.”

I think it was you, Will, who once told me, that, to be an obstinate man, I am in certain things the most gullable and malleable of mortals. The fact is, that it is only contradiction which makes me peremptory, and when I do not feel myself called on to give battle to any proposition, I am always willing to grant it, rather than give myself much trouble. I knew this fellow to be a greedy, tiresome, meddling coxcomb; still, however, I must have some one about me in the quality of guide and domestic, and I was so much used to Andrew’s humour, that on some occasions it was rather amusing. In the state of indecision to which these reflections led me, I asked Fairservice if he knew the roads, towns, etc., in the north of Scotland, to which my father’s concerns with the proprietors of Highland forests were likely to lead me. I believe if I had asked him the road to the terrestrial paradise, he would have at that moment undertaken to guide me to it; so that I had reason afterwards to think myself fortunate in finding that his actual knowledge did not fall very much short of that which he asserted himself to possess. I fixed the amount of his wages, and reserved to myself the privilege of dismissing him when I chose, on paying him a week in advance. I gave him finally a severe lecture on his conduct of the preceding day, and then dismissed him rejoicing at heart, though somewhat crestfallen in countenance, to rehearse to his friend the precentor, who was taking his morning draught in the kitchen, the mode in which he had “cuitled up the daft young English squire.”

Agreeable to appointment, I went next to Bailie Nicol Jarvie’s, where a comfortable morning’s repast was arranged in the parlour, which served as an apartment of all hours, and almost all work, to that honest gentleman. The bustling and benevolent magistrate had been as good as his word. I found my friend Owen at liberty, and, conscious of the refreshments and purification of brush and basin, was of course a very different person from Owen a prisoner, squalid, heart-broken, and hopeless. Yet the sense of pecuniary difficulties arising behind, before, and around him, had depressed his spirit, and the almost paternal embrace which the good man gave me, was embittered by a sigh of the deepest anxiety. And when he sate down, the heaviness in his eye and manner, so different from the quiet composed satisfaction which they usually exhibited, indicated that he was employing his arithmetic in mentally numbering up the days, the hours, the minutes, which yet remained as an interval between the dishonour of bills and the downfall of the great commercial establishment of Osbaldistone and Tresham. It was left to me, therefore, to do honour to our landlord’s hospitable cheer–to his tea, right from China, which he got in a present from some eminent ship’s-husband at Wapping–to his coffee, from a snug plantation of his own, as he informed us with a wink, called Saltmarket Grove, in the island of Jamaica–to his English toast and ale, his Scotch dried salmon, his Lochfine herrings, and even to the double-damask table-cloth, “wrought by no hand, as you may guess,” save that of his deceased father the worthy Deacon Jarvie.

Having conciliated our good-humoured host by those little attentions which are great to most men, I endeavoured in my turn to gain from him some information which might be useful for my guidance, as well as for the satisfaction of my curiosity. We had not hitherto made the least allusion to the transactions of the preceding night, a circumstance which made my question sound somewhat abrupt, when, without any previous introduction of the subject, I took advantage of a pause when the history of the table-cloth ended, and that of the napkins was about to commence, to inquire, “Pray, by the by, Mr. Jarvie, who may this Mr. Robert Campbell be, whom we met with last night?”

The interrogatory seemed to strike the honest magistrate, to use the vulgar phrase, “all of a heap,” and instead of answering, he returned the question–“Whae’s Mr. Robert Campbell?–ahem! ahay! Whae’s Mr. Robert Campbell, quo’ he?”

“Yes,” said I, “I mean who and what is he?”

“Why, he’s–ahay!–he’s–ahem!–Where did ye meet with Mr. Robert Campbell, as ye ca’ him?”

“I met him by chance,” I replied, “some months ago in the north of England.”

“Ou then, Mr. Osbaldistone,” said the Bailie, doggedly, “ye’ll ken as muckle about him as I do.”

“I should suppose not, Mr. Jarvie,” I replied;–“you are his relation, it seems, and his friend.”

“There is some cousin-red between us, doubtless,” said the Bailie reluctantly; “but we hae seen little o’ ilk other since Rob gae tip the cattle-line o’ dealing, poor fallow! he was hardly guided by them might hae used him better–and they haena made their plack a bawbee o’t neither. There’s mony ane this day wad rather they had never chased puir Robin frae the Cross o’ Glasgow–there’s mony ane wad rather see him again at the tale o’ three hundred kyloes, than at the head o’ thirty waur cattle.”

“All this explains nothing to me, Mr. Jarvie, of Mr. Campbell’s rank, habits of life, and means of subsistence,” I replied.

“Rank?” said Mr. Jarvie; “he’s a Hieland gentleman, nae doubt–better rank need nane to be;–and for habit, I judge he wears the Hieland habit amang the hills, though he has breeks on when he comes to Glasgow;–and as for his subsistence, what needs we care about his subsistence, sae lang as he asks naething frae us, ye ken? But I hae nae time for clavering about him e’en now, because we maun look into your father’s concerns wi’ all speed.”

So saying, he put on his spectacles, and sate down to examine Mr. Owen’s states, which the other thought it most prudent to communicate to him without reserve. I knew enough of business to be aware that nothing could be more acute and sagacious than the views which Mr. Jarvie entertained of the matters submitted to his examination; and, to do him justice, it was marked by much fairness, and even liberality. He scratched his ear indeed repeatedly on observing the balance which stood at the debit of Osbaldistone and Tresham in account with himself personally.

“It may be a dead loss,” he observed; “and, conscience! whate’er ane o’ your Lombard Street goldsmiths may say to it, it’s a snell ane in the Saut-Market* o’ Glasgow. It will be a heavy deficit–a staff out o’ my bicker, I trow.

* [The Saltmarket. This ancient street, situate in the heart of Glasgow, has of late been almost entirely renovated.]

But what then?–I trust the house wunna coup the crane for a’ that’s come and gane yet; and if it does, I’ll never bear sae base a mind as thae corbies in the Gallowgate–an I am to lose by ye, I’se ne’er deny I hae won by ye mony a fair pund sterling–Sae, an it come to the warst, I’se een lay the head o’ the sow to the tail o’ the grice.”*

* _Anglice,_ the head of the sow to the tail of the pig.

I did not altogether understand the proverbial arrangement with which Mr. Jarvie consoled himself, but I could easily see that he took a kind and friendly interest in the arrangement of my father’s affairs, suggested several expedients, approved several plans proposed by Owen, and by his countenance and counsel greatly abated the gloom upon the brow of that afflicted delegate of my father’s establishment.

As I was an idle spectator on this occasion, and, perhaps, as I showed some inclination more than once to return to the prohibited, and apparently the puzzling subject of Mr. Campbell, Mr. Jarvie dismissed me with little formality, with an advice to “gang up the gate to the college, where I wad find some chields could speak Greek and Latin weel–at least they got plenty o’ siller for doing deil haet else, if they didna do that; and where I might read a spell o’ the worthy Mr. Zachary Boyd’s translation o’ the Scriptures–better poetry need nane to be, as he had been tell’d by them that ken’d or suld hae ken’d about sic things.” But he seasoned this dismission with a kind and hospitable invitation “to come back and take part o’ his family-chack at ane preceesely–there wad be a leg o’ mutton, and, it might be, a tup’s head, for they were in season;” but above all, I was to return at “ane o’clock preceesely–it was the hour he and the deacon his father aye dined at–they pat it off for naething nor for naebody.”

CHAPTER EIGHTH.

So stands the Thracian herdsman with his spear Full in the gap, and hopes the hunted bear; And hears him in the rustling wood, and sees His course at distance by the bending trees, And thinks–Here comes my mortal enemy, And either he must fall in fight, or I. Palamon and Arcite.

I took the route towards the college, as recommended by Mr. Jarvie, less with the intention of seeking for any object of interest or amusement, than to arrange my own ideas, and meditate on my future conduct. I wandered from one quadrangle of old-fashioned buildings to another, and from thence to the College-yards, or walking ground, where, pleased with the solitude of the place, most of the students being engaged in their classes, I took several turns, pondering on the waywardness of my own destiny.

I could not doubt, from the circumstances attending my first meeting with this person Campbell, that he was engaged in some strangely desperate courses; and the reluctance with which Mr. Jarvie alluded to his person or pursuits, as well as all the scene of the preceding night, tended to confirm these suspicions. Yet to this man Diana Vernon had not, it would seem, hesitated to address herself in my behalf; and the conduct of the magistrate himself towards him showed an odd mixture of kindness, and even respect, with pity and censure. Something there must be uncommon in Campbell’s situation and character; and what was still more extraordinary, it seemed that his fate was doomed to have influence over, and connection with, my own. I resolved to bring Mr. Jarvie to close quarters on the first proper opportunity, and learn as much as was possible on the subject of this mysterious person, in order that I might judge whether it was possible for me, without prejudice to my reputation, to hold that degree of farther correspondence with him to which he seemed to invite.

While I was musing on these subjects, my attention was attracted by three persons who appeared at the upper end of the walk through which I was sauntering, seemingly engaged in very earnest conversation. That intuitive impression which announces to us the approach of whomsoever we love or hate with intense vehemence, long before a more indifferent eye can recognise their persons, flashed upon my mind the sure conviction that the midmost of these three men was Rashleigh Osbaldistone. To address him was my first impulse;–my second was, to watch him until he was alone, or at least to reconnoitre his companions before confronting him. The party was still at such distance, and engaged in such deep discourse, that I had time to step unobserved to the other side of a small hedge, which imperfectly screened the alley in which I was walking. It was at this period the fashion of the young and gay to wear, in their morning walks, a scarlet cloak, often laced and embroidered, above their other dress, and it was the trick of the time for gallants occasionally to dispose it so as to muffle a part of the face. The imitating this fashion, with the degree of shelter which I received from the hedge, enabled me to meet my cousin, unobserved by him or the others, except perhaps as a passing stranger. I was not a little startled at recognising in his companions that very Morris on whose account I had been summoned before Justice Inglewood, and Mr. MacVittie the merchant, from whose starched and severe aspect I had recoiled on the preceding day.

A more ominous conjunction to my own affairs, and those of my father, could scarce have been formed. I remembered Morris’s false accusation against me, which he might be as easily induced to renew as he had been intimidated to withdraw; I recollected the inauspicious influence of MacVittie over my father’s affairs, testified by the imprisonment of Owen;–and I now saw both these men combined with one, whose talent for mischief I deemed little inferior to those of the great author of all ill, and my abhorrence of whom almost amounted to dread.

When they had passed me for some paces, I turned and followed them unobserved. At the end of the walk they separated, Morris and MacVittie leaving the gardens, and Rashleigh returning alone through the walks. I was now determined to confront him, and demand reparation for the injuries he had done my father, though in what form redress was likely to be rendered remained to be known. This, however, I trusted to chance; and flinging back the cloak in which I was muffled, I passed through a gap of the low hedge, and presented myself before Rashleigh, as, in a deep reverie, he paced down the avenue.

Rashleigh was no man to be surprised or thrown off his guard by sudden occurrences. Yet he did not find me thus close to him, wearing undoubtedly in my face the marks of that indignation which was glowing in my bosom, without visibly starting at an apparition so sudden and menacing.

“You are well met, sir,” was my commencement; “I was about to take a long and doubtful journey in quest of you.”

“You know little of him you sought then,” replied Rashleigh, with his usual undaunted composure. “I am easily found by my friends–still more easily by my foes;–your manner compels me to ask in which class I must rank Mr. Francis Osbaldistone?”

“In that of your foes, sir,” I answered–“in that of your mortal foes, unless you instantly do justice to your benefactor, my father, by accounting for his property.”

“And to whom, Mr. Osbaldistone,” answered Rashleigh, “am I, a member of your father’s commercial establishment, to be compelled to give any account of my proceedings in those concerns, which are in every respect identified with my own?–Surely not to a young gentleman whose exquisite taste for literature would render such discussions disgusting and unintelligible.”

“Your sneer, sir, is no answer; I will not part with you until I have full satisfaction concerning the fraud you meditate–you shall go with me before a magistrate.”

“Be it so,” said Rashleigh, and made a step or two as if to accompany me; then pausing, proceeded–“Were I inclined to do so as you would have me, you should soon feel which of us had most reason to dread the presence of a magistrate. But I have no wish to accelerate your fate. Go, young man! amuse yourself in your world of poetical imaginations, and leave the business of life to those who understand and can conduct it.”

His intention, I believe, was to provoke me, and he succeeded. “Mr. Osbaldistone,” I said, “this tone of calm insolence shall not avail you. You ought to be aware that the name we both bear never submitted to insult, and shall not in my person be exposed to it.”

“You remind me,” said Rashleigh, with one of his blackest looks, “that it was dishonoured in my person!–and you remind me also by whom! Do you think I have forgotten the evening at Osbaldistone Hall when you cheaply and with impunity played the bully at my expense? For that insult–never to be washed out but by blood!–for the various times you have crossed my path, and always to my prejudice–for the persevering folly with which you seek to traverse schemes, the importance of which you neither know nor are capable of estimating,–for all these, sir, you owe me a long account, for which there shall come an early day of reckoning.”

“Let it come when it will,” I replied, “I shall be willing and ready to meet it. Yet you seem to have forgotten the heaviest article–that I had the pleasure to aid Miss Vernon’s good sense and virtuous feeling in extricating her from your infamous toils.”

I think his dark eyes flashed actual fire at this home-taunt, and yet his voice retained the same calm expressive tone with which he had hitherto conducted the conversation.

“I had other views with respect to you, young man,” was his answer: “less hazardous for you, and more suitable to my present character and former education. But I see you will draw on yourself the personal chastisement your boyish insolence so well merits. Follow me to a more remote spot, where we are less likely to be interrupted.”

I followed him accordingly, keeping a strict eye on his motions, for I believed him capable of the very worst actions. We reached an open spot in a sort of wilderness, laid out in the Dutch taste, with clipped hedges, and one or two statues. I was on my guard, and it was well with me that I was so; for Rashleigh’s sword was out and at my breast ere I could throw down my cloak, or get my weapon unsheathed, so that I only saved my life by springing a pace or two backwards. He had some advantage in the difference of our weapons; for his sword, as I recollect, was longer than mine, and had one of those bayonet or three-cornered blades which are now generally worn; whereas mine was what we then called a Saxon blade–narrow, flat, and two-edged, and scarcely so manageable as that of my enemy. In other respects we were pretty equally matched: for what advantage I might possess in superior address and agility, was fully counterbalanced by Rashleigh’s great strength and coolness. He fought, indeed, more like a fiend than a man–with concentrated spite and desire of blood, only allayed by that cool consideration which made his worst actions appear yet worse from the air of deliberate premeditation which seemed to accompany them. His obvious malignity of purpose never for a moment threw him off his guard, and he exhausted every feint and stratagem proper to the science of defence; while, at the same time, he meditated the most desperate catastrophe to our rencounter.

On my part, the combat was at first sustained with more moderation. My passions, though hasty, were not malevolent; and the walk of two or three minutes’ space gave me time to reflect that Rashleigh was my father’s nephew, the son of an uncle, who after his fashion had been kind to me, and that his falling by my hand could not but occasion much family distress. My first resolution, therefore, was to attempt to disarm my antagonist–a manoeuvre in which, confiding in my superiority of skill and practice, I anticipated little difficulty. I found, however, I had met my match; and one or two foils which I received, and from the consequences of which I narrowly escaped, obliged me to observe more caution in my mode of fighting. By degrees I became exasperated at the rancour with which Rashleigh sought my life, and returned his passes with an inveteracy resembling in some degree his own; so that the combat had all the appearance of being destined to have a tragic issue. That issue had nearly taken place at my expense. My foot slipped in a full lounge which I made at my adversary, and I could not so far recover myself as completely to parry the thrust with which my pass was repaid. Yet it took but partial effect, running through my waistcoat, grazing my ribs, and passing through my coat behind. The hilt of Rashleigh’s sword, so great was the vigour of his thrust, struck against my breast with such force as to give me great pain, and confirm me in the momentary belief that I was mortally wounded. Eager for revenge, I grappled with my enemy, seizing with my left hand the hilt of his sword, and shortening my own with the purpose of running him through the body. Our death-grapple was interrupted by a man who forcibly threw himself between us, and pushing us separate from each other, exclaimed, in a loud and commanding voice, “What! the sons of those fathers who sucked the same breast shedding each others bluid as it were strangers’!–By the hand of my father, I will cleave to the brisket the first man that mints another stroke!”

I looked up in astonishment. The speaker was no other than Campbell. He had a basket-hilted broadsword drawn in his hand, which he made to whistle around his head as he spoke, as if for the purpose of enforcing his mediation. Rashleigh and I stared in silence at this unexpected intruder, who proceeded to exhort us alternately:–“Do you, Maister Francis, opine that ye will re-establish your father’s credit by cutting your kinsman’s thrapple, or getting your ain sneckit instead thereof in the College-yards of Glasgow?–Or do you, Mr Rashleigh, think men will trust their lives and fortunes wi’ ane, that, when in point of trust and in point of confidence wi’ a great political interest, gangs about brawling like a drunken gillie?–Nay, never look gash or grim at me, man–if ye’re angry, ye ken how to turn the buckle o’ your belt behind you.”

“You presume on my present situation,” replied Rashleigh, “or you would have hardly dared to interfere where my honour is concerned.”

[Illustration: Rob Roy Parting the Duelists–100]

“Hout! tout! tout!–Presume? And what for should it be presuming?–Ye may be the richer man, Mr. Osbaldistone, as is maist likely; and ye may be the mair learned man, whilk I dispute not: but I reckon ye are neither a prettier man nor a better gentleman than mysell–and it will be news to me when I hear ye are as gude. And _dare_ too? Muckle daring there’s about it–I trow, here I stand, that hae slashed as het a haggis as ony o’ the twa o’ ye, and thought nae muckle o’ my morning’s wark when it was dune. If my foot were on the heather as it’s on the causeway, or this pickle gravel, that’s little better, I hae been waur mistrysted than if I were set to gie ye baith your ser’ing o’t.”

Rashleigh had by this time recovered his temper completely. “My kinsman,” he said, “will acknowledge he forced this quarrel on me. It was none of my seeking. I am glad we are interrupted before I chastised his forwardness more severely.”

“Are ye hurt, lad?” inquired Campbell of me, with some appearance of interest.

“A very slight scratch,” I answered, “which my kind cousin would not long have boasted of had not you come between us.”

“In troth, and that’s true, Maister Rashleigh,” said Campbell; “for the cauld iron and your best bluid were like to hae become acquaint when I mastered Mr. Frank’s right hand. But never look like a sow playing upon a trump for the luve of that, man–come and walk wi’ me. I hae news to tell ye, and ye’ll cool and come to yourself, like MacGibbon’s crowdy, when he set it out at the window-bole.”

“Pardon me, sir,” said I. “Your intentions have seemed friendly to me on more occasions than one; but I must not, and will not, quit sight of this person until he yields up to me those means of doing justice to my father’s engagements, of which he has treacherously possessed himself.”

“Ye’re daft, man,” replied Campbell; “it will serve ye naething to follow us e’enow; ye hae just enow o’ ae man–wad ye bring twa on your head, and might bide quiet?”

“Twenty,” I replied, “if it be necessary.”

I laid my hand on Rashleigh’s collar, who made no resistance, but said, with a sort of scornful smile, “You hear him, MacGregor! he rushes on his fate–will it be my fault if he falls into it?–The warrants are by this time ready, and all is prepared.”

The Scotchman was obviously embarrassed. He looked around, and before, and behind him, and then said–“The ne’er a bit will I yield my consent to his being ill-guided for standing up for the father that got him–and I gie God’s malison and mine to a’ sort o’ magistrates, justices, bailies., sheriffs, sheriff-officers, constables, and sic-like black cattle, that hae been the plagues o’ puir auld Scotland this hunder year.–it was a merry warld when every man held his ain gear wi’ his ain grip, and when the country side wasna fashed wi’ warrants and poindings and apprizings, and a’ that cheatry craft. And ance mair I say it, my conscience winna see this puir thoughtless lad ill-guided, and especially wi’ that sort o’ trade. I wad rather ye fell till’t again, and fought it out like douce honest men.”

“Your conscience, MacGregor!” said Rashleigh; “you forget how long you and I have known each other.”

“Yes, my conscience,” reiterated Campbell, or MacGregor, or whatever was his name; “I hae such a thing about me, Maister Osbaldistone; and therein it may weel chance that I hae the better o’ you. As to our knowledge of each other,–if ye ken what I am, ye ken what usage it was made me what I am; and, whatever you may think, I would not change states with the proudest of the oppressors that hae driven me to tak the heather-bush for a beild. What _you_ are, Maister Rashleigh, and what excuse ye hae for being _what_ you are, is between your ain heart and the lang day.–And now, Maister Francis, let go his collar; for he says truly, that ye are in mair danger from a magistrate than he is, and were your cause as straight as an arrow, he wad find a way to put you wrang–So let go his craig, as I was saying.”

He seconded his words with an effort so sudden and unexpected, that he freed Rashleigh from my hold, and securing me, notwithstanding my struggles, in his own Herculean gripe, he called out–“Take the bent, Mr. Rashleigh–Make ae pair o’ legs worth twa pair o’ hands; ye hae dune that before now.”

“You may thank this gentleman, kinsman,” said Rashleigh, “if I leave any part of my debt to you unpaid; and if I quit you now, it is only in the hope we shall soon meet again without the possibility of interruption.”

He took up his sword, wiped it, sheathed it, and was lost among the bushes.

The Scotchman, partly by force, partly by remonstrance, prevented my following him; indeed I began to be of opinion my doing so would be to little purpose.

“As I live by bread,” said Campbell, when, after one or two struggles in which he used much forbearance towards me, he perceived me inclined to stand quiet, “I never saw sae daft a callant! I wad hae gien the best man in the country the breadth o’ his back gin he had gien me sic a kemping as ye hae dune. What wad ye do?–Wad ye follow the wolf to his den? I tell ye, man, he has the auld trap set for ye–He has got the collector-creature Morris to bring up a’ the auld story again, and ye maun look for nae help frae me here, as ye got at Justice Inglewood’s;–it isna good for my health to come in the gate o’ the whigamore bailie bodies. Now gang your ways hame, like a gude bairn–jouk and let the jaw gae by–Keep out o’ sight o’ Rashleigh, and Morris, and that MacVittie animal–Mind the Clachan of Aberfoil, as I said before, and by the word of a gentleman, I wunna see ye wranged. But keep a calm sough till we meet again–I maun gae and get Rashleigh out o’ the town afore waur comes o’t, for the neb o’ him’s never out o’ mischief–Mind the Clachan of Aberfoil.”

He turned upon his heel, and left me to meditate on the singular events which had befallen me. My first care was to adjust my dress and reassume my cloak, disposing it so as to conceal the blood which flowed down my right side. I had scarcely accomplished this, when, the classes of the college being dismissed, the gardens began to be filled with parties of the students. I therefore left them as soon as possible; and in my way towards Mr. Jarvie’s, whose dinner hour was now approaching, I stopped at a small unpretending shop, the sign of which intimated the indweller to be Christopher Neilson, surgeon and apothecary. I requested of a little boy who was pounding some stuff in a mortar, that he would procure me an audience of this learned pharmacopolist. He opened the door of the back shop, where I found a lively elderly man, who shook his head incredulously at some idle account I gave him of having been wounded accidentally by the button breaking off my antagonist’s foil while I was engaged in a fencing match. When he had applied some lint and somewhat else he thought proper to the trifling wound I had received, he observed–“There never was button on the foil that made this hurt. Ah! young blood! young blood!–But we surgeons are a secret generation–If it werena for hot blood and ill blood, what wad become of the twa learned faculties?”

With which moral reflection he dismissed me; and I experienced very little pain or inconvenience afterwards from the scratch I had received.

CHAPTER NINTH.

An iron race the mountain-cliffs maintain, Foes to the gentler genius of the plain. *******
Who while their rocky ramparts round they see, The rough abode of want and liberty, As lawless force from confidence will grow, Insult the plenty of the vales below. Gray.

“What made ye sae late?” said Mr. Jarvie, as I entered the dining-parlour of that honest gentleman; “it is chappit ane the best feek o’ five minutes by-gane. Mattie has been twice at the door wi’ the dinner, and weel for you it was a tup’s head, for that canna suffer by delay. A sheep’s head ower muckle boiled is rank poison, as my worthy father used to say–he likit the lug o’ ane weel, honest man.”

I made a suitable apology for my breach of punctuality, and was soon seated at table, where Mr. Jarvie presided with great glee and hospitality, compelling, however, Owen and myself to do rather more justice to the Scottish dainties with which his board was charged, than was quite agreeable to our southern palates. I escaped pretty well, from having those habits of society which enable one to elude this species of well-meant persecution. But it was ridiculous enough to see Owen, whose ideas of politeness were more rigorous and formal, and who was willing, in all acts of lawful compliance, to evince his respect for the friend of the firm, eating with rueful complaisance mouthful after mouthful of singed wool, and pronouncing it excellent, in a tone in which disgust almost overpowered civility.

When the cloth was removed, Mr. Jarvie compounded with his own hands a very small bowl of brandy-punch, the first which I had ever the fortune to see.

“The limes,” he assured us, “were from his own little farm yonder-awa” (indicating the West Indies with a knowing shrug of his shoulders), “and he had learned the art of composing the liquor from auld Captain Coffinkey, who acquired it,” he added in a whisper, “‘as maist folk thought, among the Buccaniers. But it’s excellent liquor,” said he, helping us round; “and good ware has aften come frae a wicked market. And as for Captain Coffinkey, he was a decent man when I kent him, only he used to swear awfully–But he’s dead, and gaen to his account, and I trust he’s accepted–I trust he’s accepted.”

We found the liquor exceedingly palatable, and it led to a long conversation between Owen and our host on the opening which the Union had afforded to trade between Glasgow and the British Colonies in America and the West Indies, and on the facilities which Glasgow possessed of making up sortable cargoes for that market. Mr. Jarvie answered some objection which Owen made on the difficulty of sorting a cargo for America, without buying from England, with vehemence and volubility.

“Na, na, sir, we stand on our ain bottom–we pickle in our ain pock-neuk–We hae our Stirling serges, Musselburgh stuffs, Aberdeen hose, Edinburgh shalloons, and the like, for our woollen or worsted goods–and we hae linens of a’ kinds better and cheaper than you hae in Lunnon itsell–and we can buy your north o’ England wares, as Manchester wares, Sheffield wares, and Newcastle earthenware, as cheap as you can at Liverpool–And we are making a fair spell at cottons and muslins–Na, na! let every herring hing by its ain head, and every sheep by its ain shank, and ye’ll find, sir, us Glasgow folk no sae far ahint but what we may follow.–This is but poor entertainment for you, Mr. Osbaldistone” (observing that I had been for some time silent); “but ye ken cadgers maun aye be speaking about cart-saddles.”

I apologised, alleging the painful circumstances of my own situation, and the singular adventures of the morning, as the causes of my abstraction and absence of mind. In this manner I gained what I sought–an opportunity of telling my story distinctly and without interruption. I only omitted mentioning the wound I had received, which I did not think worthy of notice. Mr. Jarvie listened with great attention and apparent interest, twinkling his little grey eyes, taking snuff, and only interrupting me by brief interjections. When I came to the account of the rencounter, at which Owen folded his hands and cast up his eyes to Heaven, the very image of woeful surprise, Mr. Jarvie broke in upon the narration with “Wrang now–clean wrang–to draw a sword on your kinsman is inhibited by the laws o’ God and man; and to draw a sword on the streets of a royal burgh is punishable by fine and imprisonment–and the College-yards are nae better privileged–they should be a place of peace and quietness, I trow. The College didna get gude L600 a year out o’ bishops’ rents (sorrow fa’ the brood o’ bishops and their rents too!), nor yet a lease o’ the archbishopric o’ Glasgow the sell o’t, that they suld let folk tuilzie in their yards, or the wild callants bicker there wi’ snaw-ba’s as they whiles do, that when Mattie and I gae through, we are fain to make a baik and a bow, or run the risk o’ our harns being knocked out–it suld be looked to.*–But come awa’wi’ your tale–what fell neist?”

* The boys in Scotland used formerly to make a sort of Saturnalia in a snow-storm, by pelting passengers with snowballs. But those exposed to that annoyance were excused from it on the easy penalty of a baik (courtesy) from a female, or a bow from a man. It was only the refractory who underwent the storm.

On my mentioning the appearance of Mr. Campbell, Jarvie arose in great surprise, and paced the room, exclaiming, “Robin again!–Robert’s mad–clean wud, and waur–Rob will be hanged, and disgrace a’ his kindred, and that will be seen and heard tell o’. My father the deacon wrought him his first hose–Od, I am thinking Deacon Threeplie, the rape-spinner, will be twisting his last cravat. Ay, ay, puir Robin is in a fair way o’ being hanged–But come awa’, come awa’–let’s hear the lave o’t.”

I told the whole story as pointedly as I could; but Mr. Jarvie still found something lacking to make it clear, until I went back, though with considerable reluctance, on the whole story of Morris, and of my meeting with Campbell at the house of Justice Inglewood. Mr. Jarvie inclined a serious ear to all this, and remained silent for some time after I had finished my narrative.

“Upon all these matters I am now to ask your advice, Mr. Jarvie, which, I have no doubt, will point out the best way to act for my father’s advantage and my own honour.”

“Ye’re right, young man–ye’re right,” said the Bailie. “Aye take the counsel of those who are aulder and wiser than yourself, and binna like the godless Rehoboam, who took the advice o’ a wheen beardless callants, neglecting the auld counsellors who had sate at the feet o’ his father Solomon, and, as it was weel put by Mr. Meiklejohn, in his lecture on the chapter, were doubtless partakers of his sapience. But I maun hear naething about honour–we ken naething here but about credit. Honour is a homicide and a bloodspiller, that gangs about making frays in the street; but Credit is a decent honest man, that sits at hame and makes the pat play.”

“Assuredly, Mr. Jarvie,” said our friend Owen, “credit is the sum total; and if we can but save that, at whatever discount”–

“Ye are right, Mr. Owen–ye are right; ye speak weel and wisely; and I trust bowls will row right, though they are a wee ajee e’enow. But touching Robin, I am of opinion he will befriend this young man if it is in his power. He has a gude heart, puir Robin; and though I lost a matter o’ twa hundred punds wi’ his former engagements, and haena muckle expectation ever to see back my thousand punds Scots that he promises me e’enow, yet I will never say but what Robin means fair by men.”

“I am then to consider him,” I replied, “as an honest man?”

“Umph!” replied Jarvie, with a precautionary sort of cough–“Ay, he has a kind o’ Hieland honesty–he’s honest after a sort, as they say. My father the deacon used aye to laugh when he tauld me how that by-word came up. Ane Captain Costlett was cracking crouse about his loyalty to King Charles, and Clerk Pettigrew (ye’ll hae heard mony a tale about him) asked him after what manner he served the king, when he was fighting again him at Wor’ster in Cromwell’s army; and Captain Costlett was a ready body, and said that he served him _after a sort._ My honest father used to laugh weel at that sport–and sae the by-word came up.”

“But do you think,” I said, “that this man will be able to serve me after a sort, or should I trust myself to this place of rendezvous which he has given me?”

“Frankly and fairly, it’s worth trying. Ye see yourself there’s some risk in your staying here. This bit body Morris has gotten a custom-house place doun at Greenock–that’s a port on the Firth doun by here; and tho’ a’ the world kens him to be but a twa-leggit creature, wi’ a goose’s head and a hen’s heart, that goes about on the quay plaguing folk about permits, and cockits, and dockits, and a’ that vexatious trade, yet if he lodge an information–ou, nae doubt a man in magisterial duty maun attend to it, and ye might come to be clapped up between four wa’s, whilk wad be ill-convenient to your father’s affairs.”

“True,” I observed; “yet what service am I likely to render him by leaving Glasgow, which, it is probable, will be the principal scene of Rashleigh’s machinations, and committing myself to the doubtful faith of a man of whom I know little but that he fears justice, and has doubtless good reasons for doing so; and that, for some secret, and probably dangerous purpose, he is in close league and alliance with the very person who is like to be the author of our ruin?”

“Ah, but ye judge Rob hardly,” said the Bailie, “ye judge him hardly, puir chield; and the truth is, that ye ken naething about our hill country, or Hielands, as we ca’ them. They are clean anither set frae the like o’ huz;–there’s nae bailie-courts amang them–nae magistrates that dinna bear the sword in vain, like the worthy deacon that’s awa’, and, I may say’t, like mysell and other present magistrates in this city–But it’s just the laird’s command, and the loon maun loup; and the never another law hae they but the length o’ their dirks–the broadsword’s pursuer, or plaintiff, as you Englishers ca’ it, and the target is defender; the stoutest head bears langest out;–and there’s a Hieland plea for ye.”

Owen groaned deeply; and I allow that the description did not greatly increase my desire to trust myself in a country so lawless as he described these Scottish mountains.

“Now, sir,” said Jarvie, “we speak little o’ thae things, because they are familiar to oursells; and where’s the use o’ vilifying ane’s country, and bringing a discredit on ane’s kin, before southrons and strangers? It’s an ill bird that files its ain nest.”

“Well, sir, but as it is no impertinent curiosity of mine, but real necessity, that obliges me to make these inquiries, I hope you will not be offended at my pressing for a little farther information. I have to deal, on my father’s account, with several gentlemen of these wild countries, and I must trust your good sense and experience for the requisite lights upon the subject.”

This little morsel of flattery was not thrown out in vain. “Experience!” said the Bailie–“I hae had experience, nae doubt, and I hae made some calculations–Ay, and to speak quietly amang oursells, I hae made some perquisitions through Andrew Wylie, my auld clerk; he’s wi’ MacVittie & Co. now–but he whiles drinks a gill on the Saturday afternoons wi’ his auld master. And since ye say ye are willing to be guided by the Glasgow weaver-body’s advice, I am no the man that will refuse it to the son of an auld correspondent, and my father the deacon was nane sic afore me. I have whiles thought o’ letting my lights burn before the Duke of Argyle, or his brother Lord Ilay (for wherefore should they be hidden under a bushel?), but the like o’ thae grit men wadna mind the like o’ me, a puir wabster body–they think mair o’ wha says a thing, than o’ what the thing is that’s said. The mair’s the pity–mair’s the pity. Not that I wad speak ony ill of this MacCallum More–‘Curse not the rich in your bedchamber,’ saith the son of Sirach, ‘for a bird of the air shall carry the clatter, and pint-stoups hae lang lugs.'”

I interrupted these prolegomena, in which Mr. Jarvie was apt to be somewhat diffuse, by praying him to rely upon Mr. Owen and myself as perfectly secret and safe confidants.

“It’s no for that,” he replied, “for I fear nae man–what for suld I?–I speak nae treason–Only thae Hielandmen hae lang grips, and I whiles gang a wee bit up the glens to see some auld kinsfolks, and I wadna willingly be in bad blude wi’ ony o’ their clans. Howsumever, to proceed–ye maun understand I found my remarks on figures, whilk as Mr. Owen here weel kens, is the only true demonstrable root of human knowledge.”

Owen readily assented to a proposition so much in his own way, and our orator proceeded.

“These Hielands of ours, as we ca’ them, gentlemen, are but a wild kind of warld by themsells, full of heights and howes, woods, caverns, lochs, rivers, and mountains, that it wad tire the very deevil’s wings to flee to the tap o’ them. And in this country, and in the isles, whilk are little better, or, to speak the truth, rather waur than the mainland, there are about twa hunder and thirty parochines, including the Orkneys, where, whether they speak Gaelic or no I wotna, but they are an uncivilised people. Now, sirs, I sall haud ilk parochine at the moderate estimate of eight hunder examinable persons, deducting children under nine years of age, and then adding one-fifth to stand for bairns of nine years auld, and under, the whole population will reach to the sum of–let us add one-fifth to 800 to be the multiplier, and 230 being the multiplicand”–

“The product,” said Mr. Owen, who entered delightedly into these statistics of Mr. Jarvie, “will be 230,000.”

“Right, sir–perfectly right; and the military array of this Hieland country, were a’ the men-folk between aughteen and fifty-six brought out that could bear arms, couldna come weel short of fifty-seven thousand five hundred men. Now, sir, it’s a sad and awfu’ truth, that there is neither wark, nor the very fashion nor appearance of wark, for the tae half of thae puir creatures; that is to say, that the agriculture, the pasturage, the fisheries, and every species of honest industry about the country, cannot employ the one moiety of the population, let them work as lazily as they like, and they do work as if a pleugh or a spade burnt their fingers. Aweel, sir, this moiety of unemployed bodies, amounting to”–

“To one hundred and fifteen thousand souls,” said Owen, “being the half of the above product.”

“Ye hae’t, Mr. Owen–ye hae’t–whereof there may be twenty-eight thousand seven hundred able-bodied gillies fit to bear arms, and that do bear arms, and will touch or look at nae honest means of livelihood even if they could get it–which, lack-a-day! they cannot.”

“But is it possible,” said I, “Mr. Jarvie, that this can be a just picture of so large a portion of the island of Britain?”

“Sir, I’ll make it as plain as Peter Pasley’s pike-staff. I will allow that ilk parochine, on an average, employs fifty pleughs, whilk is a great proportion in sic miserable soil as thae creatures hae to labour, and that there may be pasture enough for pleugh-horses, and owsen, and forty or fifty cows; now, to take care o’ the pleughs and cattle, we’se allow seventy-five families of six lives in ilk family, and we’se add fifty mair to make even numbers, and ye hae five hundred souls, the tae half o’ the population, employed and maintained in a sort o’ fashion, wi’ some chance of sour-milk and crowdie; but I wad be glad to ken what the other five hunder are to do?”

“In the name of God!” said I, “what _do_ they do, Mr. Jarvie? It makes me shudder to think of their situation.”

“Sir,” replied the Bailie, “ye wad maybe shudder mair if ye were living near hand them. For, admitting that the tae half of them may make some little thing for themsells honestly in the Lowlands by shearing in harst, droving, hay-making, and the like; ye hae still mony hundreds and thousands o’ lang-legged Hieland gillies that will neither work nor want, and maun gang thigging and sorning* about on their acquaintance, or live by doing the laird’s bidding, be’t right or be’t wrang.

* _Thigging_ and _sorning_ was a kind of genteel begging, or rather something between begging and robbing, by which the needy in Scotland used to extort cattle, or the means of subsistence, from those who had any to give.

And mair especially, mony hundreds o’ them come down to the borders of the low country, where there’s gear to grip, and live by stealing, reiving, lifting cows, and the like depredations–a thing deplorable in ony Christian country!–the mair especially, that they take pride in it, and reckon driving a spreagh (whilk is, in plain Scotch, stealing a herd of nowte) a gallant, manly action, and mair befitting of pretty* men (as sic reivers will ca’ themselves), than to win a day’s wage by ony honest thrift.

* The word _pretty_ is or was used in Scotch, in the sense of the German _prachtig,_ and meant a gallant, alert fellow, prompt and ready at his weapons.

And the lairds are as bad as the loons; for if they dinna bid them gae reive and harry, the deil a bit they forbid them; and they shelter them, or let them shelter themselves, in their woods and mountains, and strongholds, whenever the thing’s dune. And every ane o’ them will maintain as mony o’ his ane name, or his clan, as we say, as he can rap and rend means for; or, whilk’s the same thing, as mony as can in ony fashion, fair or foul, mainteen themsells. And there they are wi’ gun and pistol, dirk and dourlach, ready to disturb the peace o’ the country whenever the laird likes; and that’s the grievance of the Hielands, whilk are, and hae been for this thousand years by-past, a bike o’ the maist lawless unchristian limmers that ever disturbed a douce, quiet, God-fearing neighbourhood, like this o’ ours in the west here.”

“And this kinsman of yours, and friend of mine, is he one of those great proprietors who maintain the household troops you speak of?” I inquired.

“Na, na,” said Bailie Jarvie; “he’s nane o’ your great grandees o’ chiefs, as they ca’ them, neither. Though he is weel born, and lineally descended frae auld Glenstrae–I ken his lineage–indeed he is a near kinsman, and, as I said, of gude gentle Hieland blude, though ye may think weel that I care little about that nonsense–it’s a’ moonshine in water–waste threads and thrums, as we say–But I could show ye letters frae his father, that was the third aff Glenstrae, to my father Deacon Jarvie (peace be wi’ his memory!) beginning, Dear Deacon, and ending, your loving kinsman to command,–they are amaist a’ about borrowed siller, sae the gude deacon, that’s dead and gane, keepit them as documents and evidents–He was a carefu’ man.”

“But if he is not,” I resumed, “one of their chiefs or patriarchal leaders, whom I have heard my father talk of, this kinsman of yours has, at least, much to say in the Highlands, I presume?”

“Ye may say that–nae name better ken’d between the Lennox and Breadalbane. Robin was ance a weel-doing, painstaking drover, as ye wad see amang ten thousand–It was a pleasure to see him in his belted plaid and brogues, wi’ his target at his back, and claymore and dirk at his belt, following a hundred Highland stots, and a dozen o’ the gillies, as rough and ragged as the beasts they drave. And he was baith civil and just in his dealings; and if he thought his chapman had made a hard bargain, he wad gie him a luck-penny to the mends. I hae ken’d him gie back five shillings out o’ the pund sterling.”

“Twenty-five per cent,” said Owen–“a heavy discount.”

“He wad gie it though, sir, as I tell ye; mair especially if he thought the buyer was a puir man, and couldna stand by a loss. But the times cam hard, and Rob was venturesome. It wasna my faut–it wasna my faut; he canna wyte me–I aye tauld him o’t–And the creditors, mair especially some grit neighbours o’ his, gripped to his living and land; and they say his wife was turned out o’ the house to the hill-side, and sair misguided to the boot. Shamefu’! shamefu’!–I am a peacefu’ man and a magistrate, but if ony ane had guided sae muckle as my servant quean, Mattie, as it’s like they guided Rob’s wife, I think it suld hae set the shabble* that my father the deacon had at Bothwell brig a-walking again.

* Cutlass.

Weel, Rob cam hame, and fand desolation, God pity us! where he left plenty; he looked east, west, south, north, and saw neither hauld nor hope–neither beild nor shelter; sae he e’en pu’d the bonnet ower his brow, belted the broadsword to his side, took to the brae-side, and became a broken man.”*

* An outlaw.

The voice of the good citizen was broken by his contending feelings. He obviously, while he professed to contemn the pedigree of his Highland kinsman, attached a secret feeling of consequence to the connection, and he spoke of his friend in his prosperity with an overflow of affection, which deepened his sympathy for his misfortunes, and his regret for their consequences.

“Thus tempted and urged by despair,” said I, seeing Mr. Jarvie did not proceed in his narrative, “I suppose your kinsman became one of those depredators you have described to us?”

“No sae bad as that,” said the Glaswegian,–“no a’thegither and outright sae bad as that; but he became a levier of black-mail, wider and farther than ever it was raised in our day, a through the Lennox and Menteith, and up to the gates o’ Stirling Castle.”

“Black-mail?–I do not understand the phrase,” I remarked.

“Ou, ye see, Rob soon gathered an unco band o’ blue-bonnets at his back, for he comes o’ a rough name when he’s kent by his ain, and a name that’s held its ain for mony a lang year, baith again king and parliament, and kirk too, for aught I ken–an auld and honourable name, for as sair as it has been worried and hadden down and oppressed. My mother was a MacGregor–I carena wha kens it–And Rob had soon a gallant band; and as it grieved him (he said) to see sic _hership_ and waste and depredation to the south o’ the Hieland line, why, if ony heritor or farmer wad pay him four punds Scots out of each hundred punds of valued rent, whilk was doubtless a moderate consideration, Rob engaged to keep them scaithless;–let them send to him if they lost sae muckle as a single cloot by thieving, and Rob engaged to get them again, or pay the value–and he aye keepit his word–I canna deny but he keepit his word–a’ men allow Rob keeps his word.”

“This is a very singular contract of assurance,” said Mr. Owen.

“It’s clean again our statute law, that must be owned,” said Jarvie, “clean again law; the levying and the paying black-mail are baith punishable: but if the law canna protect my barn and byre, whatfor suld I no engage wi’ a Hieland gentleman that can?–answer me that.”

“But,” said I, “Mr. Jarvie, is this contract of black-mail, as you call it, completely voluntary on the part of the landlord or farmer who pays the insurance? or what usually happens, in case any one refuses payment of this tribute?”

“Aha, lad!” said the Bailie, laughing, and putting his finger to his nose, “ye think ye hae me there. Troth, I wad advise ony friends o’ mine to gree wi’ Rob; for, watch as they like, and do what they like, they are sair apt to be harried* when the lang nights come on.

* Plundered.

Some o’ the Grahame and Cohoon gentry stood out; but what then?–they lost their haill stock the first winter; sae maist folks now think it best to come into Rob’s terms. He’s easy wi’ a’ body that will be easy wi’ him; but if ye thraw him, ye had better thraw the deevil.”

“And by his exploits in these vocations,” I continued, “I suppose he has rendered himself amenable to the laws of the country?”

“Amenable?–ye may say that; his craig wad ken the weight o’ his hurdies if they could get haud o’ Rob. But he has gude friends amang the grit folks; and I could tell ye o’ ae grit family that keeps him up as far as they decently can, to be a them in the side of another. And then he’s sic an auld-farran lang-headed chield as never took up the trade o’ cateran in our time; mony a daft reik he has played–mair than wad fill a book, and a queer ane it wad be–as gude as Robin Hood, or William Wallace–a’ fu’ o’ venturesome deeds and escapes, sic as folk tell ower at a winter ingle in the daft days. It’s a queer thing o’ me, gentlemen, that am a man o’ peace mysell, and a peacefu man’s son–for the deacon my father quarrelled wi’ nane out o the town-council–it’s a queer thing, I say, but I think the Hieland blude o’ me warms at thae daft tales, and whiles I like better to hear them than a word o’ profit, gude forgie me! But they are vanities–sinfu’ vanities–and, moreover, again the statute law–again the statute and gospel law.”

I now followed up my investigation, by inquiring what means of influence this Mr. Robert Campbell could possibly possess over my affairs, or those of my father.

“Why, ye are to understand,” said Mr. Jarvie in a very subdued tone–“I speak amang friends, and under the rose–Ye are to understand, that the Hielands hae been keepit quiet since the year aughty-nine–that was Killiecrankie year. But how hae they been keepit quiet, think ye? By siller, Mr. Owen–by siller, Mr. Osbaldistone. King William caused Breadalbane distribute twenty thousand oude punds sterling amang them, and it’s said the auld Hieland Earl keepit a lang lug o’t in his ain sporran. And then Queen Anne, that’s dead, gae the chiefs bits o’ pensions, sae they had wherewith to support their gillies and caterans that work nae wark, as I said afore; and they lay by quiet eneugh, saying some spreagherie on the Lowlands, whilk is their use and wont, and some cutting o’ thrapples amang themsells, that nae civilised body kens or cares onything anent.–Weel, but there’s a new warld come up wi’ this King George (I say, God bless him, for ane)–there’s neither like to be siller nor pensions gaun amang them; they haena the means o’ mainteening the clans that eat them up, as ye may guess frae what I said before; their credit’s gane in the Lowlands; and a man that can whistle ye up a thousand or feifteen hundred linking lads to do his will, wad hardly get fifty punds on his band at the Cross o’ Glasgow–This canna stand lang–there will be an outbreak for the Stuarts–there will be an outbreak–they will come down on the low country like a flood, as they did in the waefu’ wars o’ Montrose, and that will be seen and heard tell o’ ere a twalmonth gangs round.”

“Yet still,” I said, “I do not see how this concerns Mr. Campbell, much less my father’s affairs.”

“Rob can levy five hundred men, sir, and therefore war suld concern him as muckle as maist folk,” replied the Bailie; “for it is a faculty that is far less profitable in time o’ peace. Then, to tell ye the truth, I doubt he has been the prime agent between some o’ our Hieland chiefs and the gentlemen in the north o’ England. We a’ heard o’ the public money that was taen frae the chield Morris somewhere about the fit o’ Cheviot by Rob and ane o’ the Osbaldistone lads; and, to tell ye the truth, word gaed that it was yoursell Mr. Francis,–and sorry was I that your father’s son suld hae taen to sic practices–Na, ye needna say a word about it–I see weel I was mistaen; but I wad believe onything o’ a stage-player, whilk I concluded ye to be. But now, I doubtna, it has been Rashleigh himself or some other o’ your cousins–they are a’ tarred wi’ the same stick–rank Jacobites and papists, and wad think the government siller and government papers lawfu’ prize. And the creature Morris is sic a cowardly caitiff, that to this hour he daurna say that it was Rob took the portmanteau aff him; and troth he’s right, for your custom-house and excise cattle are ill liket on a’ sides, and Rob might get a back-handed lick at him, before the Board, as they ca’t, could help him.”

“I have long suspected this, Mr. Jarvie,” said I, “and perfectly agree with you. But as to my father’s affairs”–

“Suspected it?–it’s certain–it’s certain–I ken them that saw some of the papers that were taen aff Morris–it’s needless to say where. But to your father’s affairs–Ye maun think that in thae twenty years by-gane, some o’ the Hieland lairds and chiefs hae come to some sma’ sense o’ their ain interest–your father and others hae bought the woods of Glen-Disseries, Glen Kissoch, Tober-na-Kippoch, and mony mair besides, and your father’s house has granted large bills in payment,–and as the credit o’ Osbaldistone and Tresham was gude–for I’ll say before Mr. Owen’s face, as I wad behind his back, that, bating misfortunes o’ the Lord’s sending, nae men could be mair honourable in business–the Hieland gentlemen, holders o’ thae bills, hae found credit in Glasgow and Edinburgh–(I might amaist say in Glasgow wholly, for it’s little the pridefu’ Edinburgh folk do in real business)–for all, or the greater part of the contents o’ thae bills. So that–Aha! d’ye see me now?”

I confessed I could not quite follow his drift.

“Why,” said he, “if these bills are not paid, the Glasgow merchant comes on the Hieland lairds, whae hae deil a boddle o’ siller, and will like ill to spew up what is item a’ spent–They will turn desperate–five hundred will rise that might hae sitten at hame–the deil will gae ower Jock Wabster–and the stopping of your father’s house will hasten the outbreak that’s been sae lang biding us.”

“You think, then,” said I, surprised at this singular view of the case, “that Rashleigh Osbaldistone has done this injury to my father, merely to accelerate a rising in the Highlands, by distressing the gentlemen to whom these bills were originally granted?”

“Doubtless–doubtless–it has been one main reason, Mr. Osbaldistone. I doubtna but what the ready money he carried off wi’ him might be another. But that makes comparatively but a sma’ part o’ your father’s loss, though it might make the maist part o’ Rashleigh’s direct gain. The assets he carried off are of nae mair use to him than if he were to light his pipe wi’ them. He tried if MacVittie & Co. wad gie him siller on them–that I ken by Andro Wylie–but they were ower auld cats to draw that strae afore them–they keepit aff, and gae fair words. Rashleigh Osbaldistone is better ken’d than trusted in Glasgow, for he was here about some jacobitical papistical troking in seventeen hundred and seven, and left debt ahint him. Na, na–he canna pit aff the paper here; folk will misdoubt him how he came by it. Na, na–he’ll hae the stuff safe at some o’ their haulds in the Hielands, and I daur say my cousin Rob could get at it gin he liked.”

“But would he be disposed to serve us in this pinch, Mr. Jarvie?” said I. “You have described him as an agent of the Jacobite party, and deeply connected in their intrigues: will he be disposed for my sake, or, if you please, for the sake of justice, to make an act of restitution, which, supposing it in his power, would, according to your view of the case, materially interfere with their plans?”

“I canna preceesely speak to that: the grandees among them are doubtfu’ o’ Rob, and he’s doubtfu’ o’ them.–And he’s been weel friended wi’ the Argyle family, wha stand for the present model of government. If he was freed o’ his hornings and captions, he would rather be on Argyle’s side than he wad be on Breadalbane’s, for there’s auld ill-will between the Breadalbane family and his kin and name. The truth is, that Rob is for his ain hand, as Henry Wynd feught*–he’ll take the side that suits him best; if the deil was laird, Rob wad be for being tenant; and ye canna blame him, puir fallow, considering his circumstances.

* Two great clans fought out a quarrel with thirty men of a side, in presence ot the king, on the North Inch of Perth, on or about the year 1392; a man was amissing on one side, whose room was filled by a little bandy-legged citizen of Perth. This substitute, Henry Wynd–or, as the Highlanders called him, _Gow Chrom,_ that is, the bandy-legged smith–fought well, and contributed greatly to the fate of the battle, without knowing which side he fought on;–so, “To fight for your own hand, like Henry Wynd,” passed into a proverb. [This incident forms a conspicuous part of the subsequent novel, “The Fair Maid of Perth.”]

But there’s ae thing sair again ye–Rob has a grey mear in his stable at hame.”

“A grey mare?” said I. “What is that to the purpose?”

“The wife, man–the wife,–an awfu’ wife she is. She downa bide the sight o’ a kindly Scot, if he come frae the Lowlands, far less of an Inglisher, and she’ll be keen for a’ that can set up King James, and ding down King George.”

“It is very singular,” I replied, “that the mercantile transactions of London citizens should become involved with revolutions and rebellions.”

“Not at a’, man–not at a’,” returned Mr. Jarvie; “that’s a’ your silly prejudications. I read whiles in the lang dark nights, and I hae read in Baker’s Chronicle* that the merchants o’London could gar the Bank of Genoa break their promise to advance a mighty sum to the King o’ Spain, whereby the sailing of the Grand Spanish Armada was put aff for a haill year–What think you of that, sir?”

* [_The Chronicle of the Kings of England,_ by Sir Richard Baker, with continuations, passed through several editions between 1641 and 1733. Whether any of them contain the passage alluded to is doubtful.]

“That the merchants did their country golden service, which ought to be honourably remembered in our histories.”

“I think sae too; and they wad do weel, and deserve weal baith o’ the state and o’ humanity, that wad save three or four honest Hieland gentlemen frae louping heads ower heels into destruction, wi’ a’ their puir sackless* followers, just because they canna pay back the siller they had reason to count upon as their ain–and save your father’s credit–and my ain gude siller that Osbaldistone and Tresham awes me into the bargain.

* Sackless, that is, innocent.

I say, if ane could manage a’ this, I think it suld be done and said unto him, even if he were a puir ca’-the-shuttle body, as unto one whom the king delighteth to honour.”

“I cannot pretend to estimate the extent of public gratitude,” I replied; “but our own thankfulness, Mr. Jarvie, would be commensurate with the extent of the obligation.”

“Which,” added Mr. Owen, “we would endeavour to balance with a _per contra,_ the instant our Mr. Osbaldistone returns from Holland.”

“I doubtna–I doubtna–he is a very worthy gentleman, and a sponsible, and wi’ some o’ my lights might do muckle business in Scotland–Weel, sir, if these assets could be redeemed out o’ the hands o’ the Philistines, they are gude paper–they are the right stuff when they are in the right hands, and that’s yours, Mr. Owen. And I’se find ye three men in Glasgow, for as little as ye may think o’ us, Mr. Owen–that’s Sandie Steenson in the Trade’s-Land, and John Pirie in Candleriggs, and another that sall be nameless at this present, sall advance what soums are sufficient to secure the credit of your house, and seek nae better security.”

Owen’s eyes sparkled at this prospect of extrication; but his countenance instantly fell on recollecting how improbable it was that the recovery of the assets, as he technically called them, should be successfully achieved.

“Dinna despair, sir–dinna despair,” said Mr. Jarvie; “I hae taen sae muckle concern wi’ your affairs already, that it maun een be ower shoon ower boots wi’ me now. I am just like my father the deacon (praise be wi’ him!) I canna meddle wi’ a friend’s business, but I aye end wi’ making it my ain–Sae, I’ll e’en pit on my boots the morn, and be jogging ower Drymen Muir wi’ Mr. Frank here; and if I canna mak Rob hear reason, and his wife too, I dinna ken wha can–I hae been a kind freend to them afore now, to say naething o’ ower-looking him last night, when naming his name wad hae cost him his life–I’ll be hearing o’ this in the council maybe frae Bailie Grahame. and MacVittie, and some o’ them. They hae coost up my kindred to Rob to me already–set up their nashgabs! I tauld them I wad vindicate nae man’s faults; but set apart what he had done again the law o’ the country, and the hership o’ the Lennox, and the misfortune o’ some folk losing life by him, he was an honester man than stood on ony o’ their shanks–And whatfor suld I mind their clavers? If Rob is an outlaw, to himsell be it said–there is nae laws now about reset of inter-communed persons, as there was in the ill times o’ the last Stuarts–I trow I hae a Scotch tongue in my head–if they speak, I’se answer.”

It was with great pleasure that I saw the Bailie gradually surmount the barriers of caution, under the united influence of public spirit and good-natured interest in our affairs, together with his natural wish to avoid loss and acquire gain, and not a little harmless vanity. Through the combined operation of these motives, he at length arrived at the doughty resolution of taking the field in person, to aid in the recovery of my father’s property. His whole information led me to believe, that if the papers were in possession of this Highland adventurer, it might be possible to induce him to surrender what he could not keep with any prospect of personal advantage; and I was conscious that the presence of his kinsman was likely to have considerable weight with him. I therefore cheerfully acquiesced in Mr. Jarvie’s proposal that we should set out early next morning.

That honest gentleman was indeed as vivacious and alert in preparing to carry his purpose into execution, as he had been slow and cautious in forming it. He roared to Mattie to “air his trot-cosey, to have his jack-boots greased and set before the kitchen-fire all night, and to see that his beast be corned, and a’ his riding gear in order.” Having agreed to meet him at five o’clock next morning, and having settled that Owen, whose presence could be of no use to us upon this expedition, should await our return at Glasgow, we took a kind farewell of this unexpectedly zealous friend. I installed Owen in an apartment in my lodgings, contiguous to my own, and, giving orders to Andrew Fairservice to attend me next morning at the hour appointed, I retired to rest with better hopes than it had lately been my fortune to entertain.

CHAPTER TENTH.

Far as the eye could reach no tree was seen, Earth, clad in russet, scorned the lively green; No birds, except as birds of passage flew; No bee was heard to hum, no dove to coo; No streams, as amber smooth-as amber clear, Were seen to glide, or heard to warble here. Prophecy of Famine.

It was in the bracing atmosphere of a harvest morning, that I met by appointment Fairservice, with the horses, at the door of Mr. Jarvie’s house, which was but little space distant from Mrs. Flyter’s hotel. The first matter which caught my attention was, that whatever were the deficiencies of the pony which Mr. Fairservice’s legal adviser, Clerk Touthope, generously bestowed upon him in exchange for Thorncliff’s mare, he had contrived to part with it, and procure in its stead an animal with so curious and complete a lameness, that it seemed only to make use of three legs for the purpose of progression, while the fourth appeared as if meant to be flourished in the air by way of accompaniment. “What do you mean by bringing such a creature as that here, sir? and where is the pony you rode to Glasgow upon?” were my very natural and impatient inquiries.

“I sell’t it, sir. It was a slink beast, and wad hae eaten its head aff, standing at Luckie Flyter’s at livery. And I hae bought this on your honour’s account. It’s a grand bargain–cost but a pund sterling the foot–that’s four a’thegither. The stringhalt will gae aff when it’s gaen a mile; it’s a weel-ken’d ganger; they call it Souple Tam.”

“On my soul, sir,” said I, “you will never rest till my supple-jack and your shoulders become acquainted, If you do not go instantly and procure the other brute, you shall pay the penalty of your ingenuity.”

Andrew, notwithstanding my threats, continued to battle the point, as he said it would cost him a guinea of rue-bargain to the man who had bought his pony, before he could get it back again. Like a true Englishman, though sensible I was duped by the rascal, I was about to pay his exaction rather than lose time, when forth sallied Mr. Jarvie, cloaked, mantled, hooded, and booted, as if for a Siberian winter, while two apprentices, under the immediate direction of Mattie, led forth the decent ambling steed which had the honour on such occasions to support the person of the Glasgow magistrate. Ere he “clombe to the saddle,” an expression more descriptive of the Bailie’s mode of mounting than that of the knights-errant to whom Spenser applies it, he inquired the cause of the dispute betwixt my servant and me. Having learned the nature of honest Andrew’s manoeuvre he instantly cut short all debate, by pronouncing, that if Fairservice did not forthwith return the three-legged palfrey, and produce the more useful quadruped which he had discarded, he would send him to prison, and amerce him in half his wages. “Mr. Osbaldistone,” said he, “contracted for the service of both your horse and you–twa brutes at ance–ye unconscionable rascal!–but I’se look weel after you during this journey.”

“It will be nonsense fining me,” said Andrew, doughtily, “that hasna a grey groat to pay a fine wi’–it’s ill taking the breeks aff a Hielandman.”

“If ye hae nae purse to fine, ye hae flesh to pine,” replied the Bailie, “and I will look weel to ye getting your deserts the tae way or the tither.”

To the commands of Mr. Jarvie, therefore, Andrew was compelled to submit, only muttering between his teeth, “Ower mony maisters,–ower mony maisters, as the paddock said to the harrow, when every tooth gae her a tig.”

Apparently he found no difficulty in getting rid of Supple Tam, and recovering possession of his former Bucephalus, for he accomplished the exchange without being many minutes absent; nor did I hear further of his having paid any smart-money for breach of bargain.

We now set forward, but had not reached the top of the street in which Mr. Jarvie dwelt, when a loud hallooing and breathless call of “Stop, stop!” was heard behind us. We stopped accordingly, and were overtaken by Mr. Jarvie’s two lads, who bore two parting tokens of Mattie’s care for her master. The first was conveyed in the form of a voluminous silk handkerchief, like the mainsail of one of his own West-Indiamen, which Mrs. Mattie particularly desired he would put about his neck, and which, thus entreated, he added to his other integuments. The second youngster brought only a verbal charge (I thought I saw the rogue disposed to laugh as he delivered it) on the part of the housekeeper, that her master would take care of the waters. “Pooh! pooh! silly hussy,” answered Mr. Jarvie; but added, turning to me, “it shows a kind heart though–it shows a kind heart in sae young a quean–Mattie’s a carefu’ lass.” So speaking, he pricked the sides of his palfrey, and we left the town without farther interruption.

While we paced easily forward, by a road which conducted us north-eastward from the town, I had an opportunity to estimate and admire the good qualities of my new friend. Although, like my father, he considered commercial transactions the most important objects of human life, he was not wedded to them so as to undervalue more general knowledge. On the contrary, with much oddity and vulgarity of manner,–with a vanity which he made much more ridiculous by disguising it now and then under a thin veil of humility, and devoid as he was of all the advantages of a learned education, Mr. Jarvie’s conversation showed tokens of a shrewd, observing, liberal, and, to the extent of its opportunities, a well-improved mind. He was a good local antiquary, and entertained me, as we passed along, with an account of remarkable events which had formerly taken place in the scenes through which we passed. And as he was well acquainted with the ancient history of his district, he saw with the prospective eye of an enlightened patriot, the buds of many of those future advantages which have only blossomed and ripened within these few years. I remarked also, and with great pleasure, that although a keen Scotchman, and abundantly zealous for the honour of his country, he was disposed to think liberally of the sister kingdom. When Andrew Fairservice (whom, by the way, the Bailie could not abide) chose to impute the accident of one of the horses casting his shoe to the deteriorating influence of the Union, he incurred a severe rebuke from Mr. Jarvie.

“Whisht, sir!–whisht! it’s ill-scraped tongues like yours, that make mischief atween neighbourhoods and nations. There’s naething sae gude on this side o’ time but it might hae been better, and that may be said o’ the Union. Nane were keener against it than the Glasgow folk, wi’ their rabblings and their risings, and their mobs, as they ca’ them now-a-days. But it’s an ill wind blaws naebody gude–Let ilka ane roose the ford as they find it–I say let Glasgow flourish! whilk is judiciously and elegantly putten round the town’s arms, by way of by-word.–Now, since St. Mungo catched herrings in the Clyde, what was ever like to gar us flourish like the sugar and tobacco trade? Will onybody tell me that, and grumble at the treaty that opened us a road west-awa’ yonder?”

Andrew Fairservice was far from acquiescing in these arguments of expedience, and even ventured to enter a grumbling protest, “That it was an unco change to hae Scotland’s laws made in England; and that, for his share, he wadna for a’ the herring-barrels in Glasgow, and a’ the tobacco-casks to boot, hae gien up the riding o’ the Scots Parliament, or sent awa’ our crown, and our sword, and our sceptre, and Mons Meg,* to be keepit by thae English pock-puddings in the Tower o’ Lunnon.

* Note G. Mons Meg.

What wad Sir William Wallace, or auld Davie Lindsay, hae said to the Union, or them that made it?”

The road which we travelled, while diverting the way with these discussions, had become wild and open, as soon as we had left Glasgow a mile or two behind us, and was growing more dreary as we advanced. Huge continuous heaths spread before, behind, and around us, in hopeless barrenness–now level and interspersed with swamps, green with treacherous verdure, or sable with turf, or, as they call them in Scotland, peat-bogs,–and now swelling into huge heavy ascents, which wanted the dignity and form of hills, while they were still more toilsome to the passenger. There were neither trees nor bushes to relieve the eye from the russet livery of absolute sterility. The very heath was of that stinted imperfect kind which has little or no flower, and affords the coarsest and meanest covering, which, as far as my experience enables me to judge, mother Earth is ever arrayed in. Living thing we saw none, except occasionally a few straggling sheep of a strange diversity of colours, as black, bluish, and orange. The sable hue predominated, however, in their faces and legs. The very birds seemed to shun these wastes, and no wonder, since they had an easy method of escaping from them;–at least I only heard the monotonous and plaintive cries of the lapwing and curlew, which my companions denominated the peasweep and whaup.

At dinner, however, which we took about noon, at a most miserable alehouse, we had the good fortune to find that these tiresome screamers of the morass were not the only inhabitants of the moors. The goodwife told us, that “the gudeman had been at the hill;” and well for us that he had been so, for we enjoyed the produce of his _chasse_ in the shape of some broiled moor-game,–a dish which gallantly eked out the ewe-milk cheese, dried salmon, and oaten bread, being all besides that the house afforded. Some very indifferent two-penny ale, and a glass of excellent brandy, crowned our repast; and as our horses had, in the meantime, discussed their corn, we resumed our journey with renovated vigour.

I had need of all the spirits a good dinner could give, to resist the dejection which crept insensibly on my mind, when I combined the strange uncertainty of my errand with the disconsolate aspect of the country through which it was leading me. Our road continued to be, if possible, more waste and wild than that we had travelled in the forenoon. The few miserable hovels that showed some marks of human habitation, were now of still rarer occurrence; and at length, as we began to ascend an uninterrupted swell of moorland, they totally disappeared. The only exercise which my imagination received was, when some particular turn of the road gave us a partial view, to the left, of a large assemblage of dark-blue mountains stretching to the north and north-west, which promised to include within their recesses a country as wild perhaps, but certainly differing greatly in point of interest, from that which we now travelled. The peaks of this screen of mountains were as wildly varied and distinguished, as the hills which we had seen on the right were tame and lumpish; and while I gazed on this Alpine region, I felt a longing to explore its recesses, though accompanied with toil and danger, similar to that which a sailor feels when he wishes for the risks and animation of a battle or a gale, in exchange for the insupportable monotony of a protracted calm. I made various inquiries of my friend Mr. Jarvie respecting the names and positions of these remarkable mountains; but it was a subject on which he had no information, or did not choose to be communicative. “They’re the Hieland hills–the Hieland hills–Ye’ll see and hear eneugh about them before ye see Glasgow Cross again–I downa look at them–I never see them but they gar me grew. It’s no for fear–no for fear, but just for grief, for the puir blinded half-starved creatures that inhabit them–but say nae mair about it–it’s ill speaking o’ Hielandmen sae near the line. I hae ken’d mony an honest man wadna hae ventured this length without he had made his last will and testament–Mattie had ill-will to see me set awa’ on this ride, and grat awee, the sillie tawpie; but it’s nae mair ferlie to see a woman greet than to see a goose gang barefit.”

I next attempted to lead the discourse on the character and history of the person whom we were going to visit; but on this topic Mr. Jarvie was totally inaccessible, owing perhaps in part to the attendance of Mr. Andrew Fairservice, who chose to keep so close in our rear that his ears could not fail to catch every word which was spoken, while his tongue assumed the freedom of mingling in our conversation as often as he saw an opportunity. For this he occasionally incurred Mr. Jarvie’s reproof.

“Keep back, sir, as best sets ye,” said the Bailie, as Andrew pressed forward to catch the answer to some question I had asked about Campbell. –“ye wad fain ride the fore-horse, an ye wist how.–That chield’s aye for being out o’ the cheese-fat he was moulded in.–Now, as for your questions, Mr. Osbaldistone, now that chield’s out of ear-shot, I’ll just tell you it’s free to you to speer, and it’s free to me to answer, or no–Gude I canna say muckle o’ Rob, puir chield; ill I winna say o’ him, for, forby that he’s my cousin, we’re coming near his ain country, and there may be ane o’ his gillies ahint every whin-bush, for what I ken–And if ye’ll be guided by my advice, the less ye speak about him, or where we are gaun, or what we are gaun to do, we’ll be the mair likely to speed us in our errand. For it’s like we may fa’ in wi’ some o’ his unfreends–there are e’en ower mony o’ them about–and his bonnet sits even on his brow yet for a’ that; but I doubt they’ll be upsides wi’ Rob at the last–air day or late day, the fox’s hide finds aye the flaying knife.”

“I will certainly,” I replied, “be entirely guided by your experience.”

“Right, Mr. Osbaldistone–right. But I maun speak to this gabbling skyte too, for bairns and fules speak at the Cross what they hear at the ingle-side.–D’ye hear, you, Andrew–what’s your name?–Fairservice!”

Andrew, who at the last rebuff had fallen a good way behind, did not choose to acknowledge the summons.

“Andrew, ye scoundrel!” repeated Mr. Jarvie; “here, sir here!”

“Here is for the dog.” said Andrew, coming up sulkily.

“I’ll gie you dog’s wages, ye rascal, if ye dinna attend to what I say t’ye–We are gaun into the Hielands a bit”–

“I judged as muckle,” said Andrew.

“Haud your peace, ye knave, and hear what I have to say till ye–We are gaun a bit into the Hielands”–

“Ye tauld me sae already,” replied the incorrigible Andrew.

“I’ll break your head,” said the Bailie, rising in wrath, “if ye dinna haud your tongue.”

“A hadden tongue,” replied Andrew, “makes a slabbered mouth.”

It was now necessary I should interfere, which I did by commanding Andrew, with an authoritative tone, to be silent at his peril.

“I am silent,” said Andrew. “I’se do a’ your lawfu’ bidding without a nay-say. My puir mother used aye to tell me,

Be it better, be it worse, Be ruled by him that has the purse.

Sae ye may e’en speak as lang as ye like, baith the tane and the tither o’ you, for Andrew.”

Mr. Jarvie took the advantage of his stopping after quoting the above proverb, to give him the requisite instructions. “Now, sir, it’s as muckle as your life’s worth–that wad be dear o’ little siller, to be sure–but it is as muckle as a’ our lives are worth, if ye dinna mind what I sae to ye. In this public whar we are gaun to, and whar it is like we may hae to stay a’ night, men o’ a’ clans and kindred–Hieland and Lawland–tak up their quarters–And whiles there are mair drawn dirks than open Bibles amang them, when the usquebaugh gets uppermost. See ye neither meddle nor mak, nor gie nae offence wi’ that clavering tongue o’ yours, but keep a calm sough, and let ilka cock fight his ain battle.”

“Muckle needs to tell me that,” said Andrew, contemptuously, “as if I had never seen a Hielandman before, and ken’d nae how to manage them. Nae man alive can cuitle up Donald better than mysell–I hae bought wi’ them, sauld wi’ them, eaten wi’ them, drucken wi’ them”–

“Did ye ever fight wi’ them?” said Mr. Jarvie.

“Na, na,” answered Andrew, “I took care o’ that: it wad ill hae set me, that am an artist and half a scholar to my trade, to be fighting amang a wheen kilted loons that dinna ken the name o’ a single herb or flower in braid Scots, let abee in the Latin tongue.”

“Then,” said Mr. Jarvie, “as ye wad keep either your tongue in your mouth, or your lugs in your head (and ye might miss them, for as saucy members as they are), I charge ye to say nae word, gude or bad, that ye can weel get by, to onybody that may be in the Clachan. And ye’ll specially understand that ye’re no to be bleezing and blasting about your master’s name and mine, or saying that this is Mr. Bailie Nicol Jarvie o’ the Saut Market, son o’ the worthy Deacon Nicol Jarvie, that a’ body has heard about; and this is Mr. Frank Osbaldistone, son of the managing partner of the great house of Osbaldistone and Tresham, in the City.”

“Eneueh said,” answered Andrew–“eneueh said. What need ye think I wad be speaking about your names for?–I hae mony things o’ mair importance to speak about, I trow.”

“It’s thae very things of importance that I am feared for, ye blethering goose; ye maunna speak ony thing, gude or bad, that ye can by any possibility help.”

“If ye dinna think me fit,” replied Andrew, in a huff, “to speak like ither folk, gie me my wages and my board-wages, and I’se gae back to Glasgow–There’s sma’ sorrow at our parting, as the auld mear said to the broken cart.”

Finding Andrew’s perverseness again rising to a point which threatened to occasion me inconvenience, I was under the necessity of explaining to him, that he might return if he thought proper, but that in that case I would not pay him a single farthing for his past services. The argument _ad crumenam,_ as it has been called by jocular logicians, has weight with the greater part of mankind, and Andrew was in that particular far from affecting any trick of singularity. He “drew in his horns,” to use the Bailie’s phrase, on the instant, professed no intention whatever to disoblige, and a resolution to be guided by my commands, whatever they might be.

Concord being thus happily restored to our small party, we continued to pursue our journey. The road, which had ascended for six or seven English miles, began now to descend for about the same space, through a country which neither in fertility nor interest could boast any advantage over that which we had passed already, and which afforded no variety, unless when some tremendous peak of a Highland mountain appeared at a distance. We continued, however, to ride on without pause and even when night fell and overshadowed the desolate wilds which we traversed, we were, as I understood from Mr. Jarvie, still three miles and a bittock distant from the place where we were to spend the night.

CHAPTER ELEVENTH.

Baron of Bucklivie,
May the foul fiend drive ye, And a’ to pieces rive ye,
For building sic a town, Where there’s neither horse meat, Nor man’s meat,
Nor a chair to sit down. Scottish Popular Rhymes on a bad Inn.

The night was pleasant, and the moon afforded us good light for our journey. Under her rays, the ground over which we passed assumed a more interesting appearance than during the broad daylight, which discovered the extent of its wasteness. The mingled light and shadows gave it an interest which naturally did not belong to it; and, like the effect of a veil flung over a plain woman, irritated our curiosity on a subject which had in itself nothing gratifying.

The descent, however, still continued, turned, winded, left the more open heaths, and got into steeper ravines, which promised soon to lead us to the banks of some brook or river, and ultimately made good their presage. We found ourselves at length on the bank of a stream, which rather resembled one of my native English rivers than those I had hitherto seen in Scotland. It was narrow, deep, still, and silent; although the imperfect light, as it gleamed on its placid waters, showed also that we were now among the lofty mountains which formed its cradle. “That’s the Forth,” said the Bailie, with an air of reverence, which I have observed the Scotch usually pay to their distinguished rivers. The Clyde, the Tweed, the Forth, the Spey, are usually named by those who dwell on their banks with a sort of respect and pride, and I have known duels occasioned by any word of disparagement. I cannot say I have the least quarrel with this sort of harmless enthusiasm. I received my friend’s communication with the importance which he seemed to think appertained to it. In fact, I was not a little pleased, after so long and dull a journey, to approach a region which promised to engage the imagination. My faithful squire, Andrew, did not seem to be quite of the same opinion, for he received the solemn information, “That is the Forth,” with a “Umph!–an he had said