Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Volume 62, No. 383, September 1847. Various

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СКАЧАТЬ style="font-size:15px;">      I of course coincided in the praise of Miss Binkie, but showed so little curiosity as to the contents of the indicated egg, that the Provost thought proper to enlighten me, and hinted at eight thousand pounds. It is my positive belief that the worthy man expected an immediate proposal: if so, he was pretty egregiously mistaken. I could not, however, afford, at this particular crisis, to offend him, and accordingly stuck to generals. As the hour of meeting was approaching, I thought it necessary to acquaint him with the message I had received, in order to account for my exit at so unseasonable a time.

      "It's verra odd," – said the Provost, – "very odd! A' Dreepdaily should be in their beds by this time; and I canna think there could be a meeting without me hearing of it. It's just the reverse o' constitutional to keep folk trailing aboot the toun at this time o' nicht, and the brig is a queer place for a tryst."

      "You do not surely apprehend, Mr Binkie, that there is any danger?"

      "No just that, but you'll no be the waur o' a rung. Ony gait, I'll send to Saunders Caup, the toun-officer, to be on the look-out. If any body offers to harm ye, be sure ye cry out, and Saunders will be up in a crack. He's as stieve as steel, and an auld Waterloo man."

      As a considerable number of years has elapsed since the last great European conflict, I confess that my confidence in the capabilities of Mr Caup, as an ally, was inferior to my belief in his prowess. I therefore declined the proposal, but accepted the weapon; and, after a valedictory tumbler with my host, emerged into the darkened street.

      CHAPTER IV

      Francis Osbaldistone, when he encountered the famous Rob Roy by night, was in all probability, notwithstanding Sir Walter's assertion to the contrary, in a very tolerable state of trepidation. At least I know that I was, as I neared the bridge of Dreepdaily. It was a nasty night of wind rain, and not a soul was stirring in the street – the surface of which did little credit to the industry of the paving department, judging from the number of dubs in which I found involuntary accommodation. As I floundered through the mire, I breathed any thing but benedictions on the mysterious Shell Out, who was the cause of my midnight wandering.

      Just as I reached the bridge, beneath which the river was roaring rather uncomfortably, a ragged-looking figure started out from an entry. A solitary lamp, suspended from above, gave me a full view of this personage, who resembled an animated scarecrow.

      He stared me full in the face, and then muttered, with a wink and a leer, —

      "Was ye seekin' for ony body the nicht? Eh wow, man, but it's cauld!"

      "Who may you be, my friend?" said I, edging off from my unpromising acquaintance.

      "Wha may I be?" replied the other: "that's a gude one! Gosh, d'ye no ken me? Aum Geordie Dowie, the town bauldy, that's as weel kent as the Provost hissell."

      To say the truth, Geordie was a very truculent-looking character to be an innocent. However, bauldies are usually harmless.

      "And what have you got to say to me, Geordie?"

      "If ye're the man I think ye are,

      And ye're name begins wi' a D,

      Just tak ye tae yer soople shanks,

      And tramp alang wi' me,"

      quavered the idiot, who, like many others, had a natural turn for poetry.

      "And where are we going to, Geordie, my man?" said I in a soothing voice.

      "Ye'll find that when we get there," replied the bauldy.

      "Hey the bonnie gill-stoup!

      Ho the bonnie gill-stoup!

      Gie me walth o' barley bree,

      And leeze me on the gill-stoup!"

      "But you can at least tell me who sent you here, Geordie?" said I, anxious for further information before intrusting myself to such erratic guidance.

      He of the gill-stoups lifted up his voice and sang —

      "Cam' ye by Tweedside,

      Or cam' ye by Flodden?

      Met ye the deil

      On the braes o' Culloden?

      "Three imps o' darkness

      I saw in a neuk,

      Riving the red-coats,

      And roasting the Deuk.

      "Quo' ane o' them – 'Geordie,

      Gae down to the brig,

      I'm yaup for my supper,

      And fetch us a Whig.'"

      "Ha! ha! ha! Hoo d'ye like that, my man? Queer freends ye've gotten noo, and ye'll need a lang spune to sup kail wi' them. But come awa'. I canna stand here the haill nicht listening to your havers."

      Although the hint conveyed by Mr Dowie's ingenious verses was rather of an alarming nature, I made up my mind at once to run all risks and follow him. Geordie strode on, selecting apparently the most unfrequented lanes, and making, as I anxiously observed, for a remote part of the suburbs. Nor was his voice silent during our progress, for he kept regaling me with a series of snatches, which, being for the most part of a supernatural and diabolical tendency, did not much contribute towards the restoration of my equanimity. At length he paused before a small house, the access to which was by a downward flight of steps.

      "Ay – this is the place!" he muttered. "I ken it weel. It's no just bad the whusky that they sell, but they needna put sae muckle water intil't."

      So saying, he descended the stair. I followed. There was no light in the passage, but the bauldy went forward, stumbling and groping in the dark. I saw a bright ray streaming through a crevice, and three distinct knocks were given.

      "Come in, whaever ye are!" said a bluff voice; and I entered a low apartment, in which the candles looked yellow through a fog of tobacco-smoke. Three men were seated at a deal table, covered with the implements of national conviviality: and to my intense astonishment none of the three were strangers to me. I at once recognised the features of the taciturn M'Auslan, the wary Shanks, and the independent Mr Thomas Gills.

      "There's the man ye wanted," said Geordie Dowie, slapping me familiarly on the shoulder. – "Whaur's the dram ye promised me?

      "In Campbelltown my love was born;

      Her mither in Glen Turrit!

      But Ferintosh is the place for me.

      For that's the strangest speerit!"

      "Hand yer clavering tongue, ye common village!" said Toddy Tam. "Wad ye bring in the neebourhood on us? M'Auslan, gi'e the body his dram, and then see him out of the door. We manna be interfered wi' in our cracks."

      M'Auslan obeyed. A large glass of alcohol was given to my guide, who swallowed it with a sigh of pleasure.

      "Eh, man! that's gude and strang! It's no ilka whusky that'll mak Geordie Dowie pech. Fair fa' yer face, my bonny M'Auslan! could you no just gi'e us anither?"

      "Pit him out!" said the remorseless Gills. "It's just extraordinar how fond the creature is o' drink!" and Geordie was forcibly ejected, after an ineffectual clutch at the bottle.

      "Sit ye down, Mr Dunshunner," said Toddy Tam, addressing himself to me; "sit ye down, and mix yoursel' a tumbler. I daresay now ye was a little surprised at the note ye got this morning, eh?"

      "Why, СКАЧАТЬ