CHAPTER XIV. CROSSING THE BORDER.
The time had now arrived when it was necessary for me to go to Scotland, for a few days. I had two very powerful reasons for this excursion:—first, because an old and valued friend of mine was there, whom I had not met for many years, and whom I could not think of leaving this country without seeing again; and secondly, because I was desirous of visiting the residence of my forefathers on the Tweed, which, although it had passed out of their possession many years ago, was still endeared to me as their home, as the scene of the family traditions; and above all, as their burial place.
The grave is the first stage on the journey, from this to the other world. We are permitted to escort our friends so far, and no further; it is there we part for ever. It is there the human form is deposited, when mortality is changed for immortality. This burial place contains no one that I have ever seen or known; but it contains the remains of those from whom I derived my lineage and my name. I therefore naturally desired to see it.
Having communicated my intention to my two American companions, I was very much struck with the different manner in which they received the announcement.
“Come back soon, Squire,” said Mr. Slick; “go and see your old friend, if you must, and go to the old campin’ grounds of your folks; though the wigwam I expect has gone long ago, but don’t look at anythin’ else. I want we should visit the country together. I have an idea from what little I have seed of it, Scotland is over-rated. I guess there is a good deal of romance about their old times; and that, if we knowed all, their old lairds warn’t much better, or much richer than our Ingian chiefs; much of a muchness. Kinder sorter so, and kinder sorter not so, no great odds. Both hardy, both fierce; both as poor as Job’s Turkey, and both tarnation proud, at least, that’s my idea to a notch.
“I have often axed myself what sort of a gall that splenderiferous, ‘Lady of the Lake’ of Scott’s was, and I kinder guess she was a red-headed Scotch heifer, with her hair filled with heather, and feather, and lint, with no shoes and stockings to her feet, and that
“Her lips apart
Like monument of Grecian art”
meant that she stared with her eyes and mouth wide open, like other county galls that never see’d nothing before—a regilar screetch owl in petticoats. And I suspicion, that Mr. Rob Roy was a sort of thievin’ devil of a white Mohawk, that found it easier to steal cattle, than raise them himself; and that Loch Katrin, that they make such a touss about, is jist about equal to a good sizeable duck-pond in our country; at least, that’s my idea. For I tell you it does not do to follow arter a poet, and take all he says for gospel.
“Yes, let’s go and see Sawney in his “Ould Reeky.” Airth and seas! if I have any nose at all, there never was a place so well named as that. Phew! let me light a cigar to get rid of the fogo of it.
“Then let’s cross over and see “Pat at Home;” let’s look into matters and things there, and see what “Big Dan” is about, with his “association” and “agitation” and “repail” and “tee-totals.” Let’s see whether it’s John Bull or Patlander that’s to blame, or both on ‘em; six of one and half-a-dozen of tother. By Gosh! Minister would talk, more sense in one day to Ireland, than has been talked there since the rebellion; for common sense is a word that don’t grow like Jacob’s ladder, in them diggins, I guess. It’s about, as stunted as Gineral Nichodemus Ott’s corn was.