Of my own folk I have little to tell. Tam Todd has long since gone the way of all the earth, and lies in Lyne Kirkyard with a flat stone above him. New faces are in Barns and Dawyck, and there scarce remains one of the old serving-men who aided me in my time of misfortune. Also many things have changed in all the countryside, and they from whom I used to hear tales as a boy are now no more on the earth. In Peebles there are many new things, and mosses are drained and moors measured out, till the whole land wears a trimmer look. But with us all is still the same, for I have no fancy for change in that which I loved long ago, and would fain still keep the remembrance. Saving that I have planted the hillsides, I have let the moors and marshes be, and to-day the wild-duck and snipe are as thick on my land as of old.
As for myself, I trust I have outgrown the braggadocio and folly of youth. God send I may not have also outgrown its cheerfulness and spirit! For certain I am a graver man and less wont to set my delight in trifles. Of old I was the slave of little things—weather, scene, company; but advancing age has brought with it more of sufficiency unto myself. The ringing of sword and bridle has less charm, since it is the reward of years that a man gets more to the core of a matter and has less care for externals. Yet I can still feel the impulses of high passion, the glory of the chase, the stirring of the heart at a martial tale. Now, as I write, things are sorely changed in the land. For though peace hangs over us at home, I fear it is a traitor's peace at the best, and more horrific than war. Time-servers and greedy sycophants sit in high places, and it is hard to tell if generous feeling be not ousted by a foul desire of gain. It is not for me to say. I have no love for king or parliament, though much for my country. I am no hot-headed king's man; nay, I never was; but when they who rely upon us are sold for a price, when oaths are broken and honour driven away, I am something less of one than before. It may be that the old kings were better, who ruled with a strong hand, though they oft ruled ill. But, indeed, I can say little; here in this valley of Tweed a man hears of such things only as one hears the roar of a stormy sea from a green inland vale.
As I write these last words, I am sitting in my old library at Barns, looking forth of the narrow window over the sea of landscape. The afternoon is just drawing to evening, the evening of a hot August day, which is scarce less glorious than noon. From the meadow come the tinkling of cattle bells and the gentle rise and fall of the stream. Elsewhere there is no sound, for the summer weather hangs low and heavy on the land. Just beyond rise the barrier ridges, green and shimmering, and behind all the sombre outlines of the great hills. Below in the garden my wife is plucking flowers to deck the table, and playing with the little maid, who is but three years old to-day. Within the room lie heavy shadows and the mellow scent of old books and the faint fragrance of blossoms.
And as I look forth on this glorious world, I know not whether to be glad or sad. All the years of my life stretch back till I see as in a glass the pageant of the past. Faint regrets come to vex me, but they hardly stay, and, as I look and think, I seem to learn the lesson of the years, the great precept of time. And deep in all, more clear as the hours pass and the wrappings fall off, shines forth the golden star of honour, which, if a man follow, though it be through quagmire and desert, fierce faces and poignant sorrow, 'twill bring him at length to a place of peace.
But these are words of little weight and I am too long about my business. Behold how great a tale I have written unto you. Take it, and, according to your pleasure, bless or ban the narrator. Haply it will help to while away a winter's night, when the doors are barred and the great logs crackle, and the snow comes over Caerdon.
*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK JOHN BURNET OF BARNS ***