’Twas a wild adventurous life that of a southern Scottish nobleman in the days of the beautiful Stuart; yet not without its pleasures and its charm. He lived in his old keep, a petty monarch within his bounds, surrounded by adherents who would not scruple to shed every drop of their blood in the service of their chief. Bold, athletic, and self-reliant, he held his sway by the charter of his sword; he gained his revenues by the unfailing influence of ‘snaffle, spur, and spear.’ For his relaxation, he leapt on a good horse, and cast his hawk into the air, by the side of many a green nook and fresh brawling stream, or holloaed his hounds on the slot of the flying deer, scouring over the moorland, and bruising the fragrant heather beneath its hoofs. For the business of life, the same good horse came round to the door, champing under his steel frontlet, and the men-at-arms mustered on their bonny bay geldings with laugh and jest, and loud anticipations of plunder. The moon glinted coldly on steel jack and burnished head-piece as they clattered off, and the morning sun rose on the troop returning with its booty—driving jaded cattle before them with their long lances—encumbered with panting, footsore sheep—household plenishing on some of the saddles—armour hacked and besmirched—two or three bloody sconces beneath draggled plumes—and here and there a led horse, coming masterless home.
But the life was at least one of manhood and adventure; a good training for a soldier, and an invigorating substitute for the debaucheries in which, under other circumstances, these bold spirits would have been prone to indulge. When a border noble, with his train, rode into Edinburgh, the vintner hugged himself in his snow-white apron, and the canny burgher made his doors fast ere it was yet twilight, and resolved that no shouts for help on the causeway should lure him at night from his chimney corner into the troubled street.
Walter Maxwell, proceeding quietly up the High Street, and ruminating, not too pleasantly, on his prospects, found himself accosted by his new friend, ‘Dick-o’-the-Cleugh,’ as he was about to turn into his solitary lodging, and get through the evening as well as he could, reflecting on two unpleasant subjects—the continued coyness of his lady-love and his own diminished fortunes, for his employment at the Scottish court was more honourable than lucrative. To be in love usually makes a man unsociable; to be in debt often has a reverse effect. Maxwell, at all events, felt little disposed for an evening spent in his own company.
‘I’ve been the length of Holyrood to see for you!’ exclaimed the borderer with a boisterous welcome, ‘and here I happen on you like a deer that’s ta’en the double when the bloodhound is off the slot. Come away, man, come away; the warden’s gotten a grand spread the night, an’ I was bid to fetch ye, ’gin ye were in the Queen’s presence! And noo’, ye’ll just gang in wi’ me; ye ken we’ve an awfu’ grip, we Liddesdale lads! an’ I would like fine to see if ye can drink, man, as well as ye can fight. I’m thinkin’ little Jock Elliott’s no forgotten ye, Mr Maxwell!’ And Dick laughed heartily at the recollection of his first acquaintance with his present companion.
Maxwell professed his readiness to accept the Earl’s invitation, and linking his arm in that of the stalwart henchman, proceeded in the direction of Bothwell’s lodging, the pair provoking no little ill-will from divers armed retainers in the street, who recognised the cognisance of the Hepburn, and some admiration from the maids and matrons of the Old Town, the latter especially approving of Dick’s stalwart proportions and comely, good-natured face.
‘Yon’s a proper man!’ observed a stout dame with her arms a-kimbo, to a dishevelled and dirty lady, emptying a pail of water scarcely more dirty than herself.
‘He’s no that ill,’ replied the other, desisting from her operations to push back her tangled locks, that she might have a good look. ‘Lass!’ she added in shrill, impressive tones, ‘he’s a godless borderer. I ken them fine by their ’spauld-pieces.[3] He’ll get his licks the night, I’m thinkin’, an muckle guid may they do till him! It’s no sae saft lyin’ on the causeway as doun amang the moss-hags at hame!’ After which ill-omened sentiment, she retired abruptly, shutting her door with a bang.
[3] Plates of steel that defended the arm and shoulder.
Honest Dick, however, took no notice of these and other less unpleasant remarks, but strode boldly on, discoursing, between bursts of merriment, on the encounter with little Jock Elliott, an assault of which he seemed to entertain a highly facetious remembrance.
‘In here, man,’ said he, turning up one of those offshoots from the main street, which is termed to this day ‘a close,’ and dragging Maxwell after him with obvious glee. ‘I ken the place fine by the weather-marks forenent the wa’. It’s an awfu’ toon this, for a body to lose theirsel’! There’s runnin’ water too to guide a man,’ pointing to a sluggish stream of filth that trickled under their feet; ‘but it’s no that clear that it is in Liddesdale. Up the stair, man; yer’ welcome, nae fears!’