wrongs to which my miserable countrymen are subjected?— And yet, who shall warrant me that these people, rendered wild by persecution, would not, in the hour of victory, be as cruel and as intolerant as those by whom they are now hunted down? What degree of moderation, or of mercy, can be expected from this Burley, so distinguished as one of their principal champions, and who seems even now to be reeking from some recent deed of violence, and to feel stings of remorse, which even his enthusiasm cannot altogether stifle? I am weary of seeing nothing but violence and fury around me — now assuming the mask of lawful authority, now taking that of religious zeal. I am sick of my country — of myself — of my dependent situation — of my repressed feelings — of these woods — of that river — of that house — of all but — Edith, and she can never be mine! Why should I haunt her walks?— Why encourage my own delusion, and perhaps hers?— She can never be mine. Her grandmother’s pride — the opposite principles of our families — my wretched state of dependence — a poor miserable slave, for I have not even the wages of a servant — all circumstances give the lie to the vain hope that we can ever be united. Why then protract a delusion so painful?
“But I am no slave,” he said aloud, and drawing himself up to his full stature —“no slave, in one respect, surely. I can change my abode — my father’s sword is mine, and Europe lies open before me, as before him and hundreds besides of my countrymen, who have filled it with the fame of their exploits. Perhaps some lucky chance may raise me to a rank with our Ruthvens, our Lesleys, our Monroes, the chosen leaders of the famous Protestant champion, Gustavus Adolphus, or, if not, a soldier’s life or a soldier’s grave.”
When he had formed this determination, he found himself near the door of his uncle’s house, and resolved to lose no time in making him acquainted with it.
“Another glance of Edith’s eye, another walk by Edith’s side, and my resolution would melt away. I will take an irrevocable step, therefore, and then see her for the last time.”
In this mood he entered the wainscotted parlour, in which his uncle was already placed at his morning’s refreshment, a huge plate of oatmeal porridge, with a corresponding allowance of butter-milk. The favourite housekeeper was in attendance, half standing, half resting on the back of a chair, in a posture betwixt freedom and respect. The old gentleman had been remarkably tall in his earlier days, an advantage which he now lost by stooping to such a degree, that at a meeting, where there was some dispute concerning the sort of arch which should be thrown over a considerable brook, a facetious neighbour proposed to offer Milnwood a handsome sum for his curved backbone, alleging that he would sell any thing that belonged to him. Splay feet of unusual size, long thin hands, garnished with nails which seldom felt the steel, a wrinkled and puckered visage, the length of which corresponded with that of his person, together with a pair of little sharp bargain-making grey eyes, that seemed eternally looking out for their advantage, completed the highly unpromising exterior of Mr Morton of Milnwood. As it would have been very injudicious to have lodged a liberal or benevolent disposition in such an unworthy cabinet, nature had suited his person with a mind exactly in conformity with it, that is to say, mean, selfish, and covetous.
When this amiable personage was aware of the presence of his nephew, he hastened, before addressing him, to swallow the spoonful of porridge which he was in the act of conveying to his mouth, and, as it chanced to be scalding hot, the pain occasioned by its descent down his throat and into his stomach, inflamed the ill-humour with which he was already prepared to meet his kinsman.
“The deil take them that made them!” was his first ejaculation, apostrophizing his mess of porridge.
“They’re gude parritch eneugh,” said Mrs Wilson, “if ye wad but take time to sup them. I made them mysell; but if folk winna hae patience, they should get their thrapples causewayed.”
“Haud your peace, Alison! I was speaking to my nevoy.— How is this, sir? And what sort o’ scampering gates are these o’ going on? Ye were not at hame last night till near midnight.”
“Thereabouts, sir, I believe,” answered Morton, in an indifferent tone.
“Thereabouts, sir?— What sort of an answer is that, sir? Why came ye na hame when other folk left the grund?”
“I suppose you know the reason very well, sir,” said Morton; “I had the fortune to be the best marksman of the day, and remained, as is usual, to give some little entertainment to the other young men.”
“The deevil ye did, sir! And ye come to tell me that to my face? You pretend to gie entertainments, that canna come by a dinner except by sorning on a carefu’ man like me? But if ye put me to charges, I’se work it out o’ye. I seena why ye shouldna haud the pleugh, now that the pleughman has left us; it wad set ye better than wearing thae green duds, and wasting your siller on powther and lead; it wad put ye in an honest calling, and wad keep ye in bread without being behadden to ony ane.”
“I am very ambitious of learning such a calling, sir, but I don’t understand driving the plough.”
“And what for no? It’s easier than your gunning and archery that ye like sae weel. Auld Davie is ca’ing it e’en now, and ye may be goadsman for the first twa or three days, and tak tent ye dinna o’erdrive the owsen, and then ye will be fit to gang betweeu the stilts. Ye’ll ne’er learn younger, I’ll be your caution. Haggie-holm is heavy land, and Davie is ower auld to keep the coulter down now.”
“I beg pardon for interrupting you, sir, but I have formed a scheme for myself, which will have the same effect of relieving you of the burden and charge attending my company.”
“Ay? Indeed? a scheme o’ yours? that must be a denty ane!” said the uncle, with a very peculiar sneer; “let’s hear about it, lad.”
“It is said in two words, sir. I intend to leave this country, and serve abroad, as my father did before these unhappy troubles broke out at home. His name will not be so entirely forgotten in the countries where he served, but that it will procure his son at least the opportunity of trying his fortune as a soldier.”
“Gude be gracious to us!” exclaimed the housekeeper; “our young Mr Harry gang abroad? na, na! eh, na! that maun never be.”
Milnwood, entertaining no thought or purpose of parting with his nephew, who was, moreover, very useful to him in many respects, was thunderstruck at this abrupt declaration of independence from a person whose deference to him had hitherto been unlimited. He recovered himself, however, immediately.
“And wha do you think is to give you the means, young man, for such a wild-goose chase? Not I, I am sure. I can hardly support you at hame. And ye wad be marrying, I’se warrant, as your father did afore ye, too, and sending your uncle hame a pack o’ weans to be fighting and skirling through the house in my auld days, and to take wing and flee aff like yoursell, whenever they were asked to serve a turn about the town?”
“I have no thoughts of ever marrying,” answered Henry.
“Hear till him now!” said the housekeeper. “It’s a shame to hear a douce young lad speak in that way, since a’ the warld kens that they maun either marry or do waur.”
“Haud your peace, Alison,” said her master; “and you, Harry,” (he added more mildly,) “put this nonsense out o’ your head — this comes o’ letting ye gang a-sodgering for a day — mind ye hae nae siller, lad, for ony sic nonsense plans.”
“I beg your pardon, sir, my wants shall be very few; and would you please to give me the gold chain, which the Margrave gave to my father after the battle of Lutzen”—“Mercy on us! the gowd chain?” exclaimed his uncle.
“The
