LITMIR.BIZ

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Cuddy Headrigg, your leddyship’s poor pleughman, at least wi’ his auld mither’s consent, make murgeons or Jenny-flections, as they ca’ them, in the house of the prelates and curates, nor gird him wi’ armour to fight in their cause, either at the sound of kettle-drums, organs, bagpipes, or ony other kind of music whatever.”

      Lady Margaret Bellenden heard this exposition of Scripture with the greatest possible indignation, as well as surprise.

      “I see which way the wind blaws,” she exclaimed, after a pause of astonishment; “the evil spirit of the year sixteen hundred and forty-twa is at wark again as merrily as ever, and ilka auld wife in the chimley-neuck will be for knapping doctrine wi’ doctors o’ divinity and the godly fathers o’ the church.”

      “If your leddyship means the bishops and curates, I’m sure they hae been but stepfathers to the Kirk o’ Scotland. And, since your leddyship is pleased to speak o’ parting wi’ us, I am free to tell you a piece o’ my mind in another article. Your leddyship and the steward hae been pleased to propose that my son Cuddie suld work in the barn wi’ a new-fangled machine [Note: Probably something similar to the barn-fanners now used for winnowing corn, which were not, however, used in their present shape until about 1730. They were objected to by the more rigid sectaries on their first introduction, upon such reasoning as that of honest Mause in the text.] for dighting the corn frae the chaff, thus impiously thwarting the will of Divine Providence, by raising wind for your leddyship’s ain particular use by human art, instead of soliciting it by prayer, or waiting patiently for whatever dispensation of wind Providence was pleased to send upon the sheeling-hill. Now, my leddy”—“The woman would drive ony reasonable being daft!” said Lady Margaret; then resuming her tone of authority and indifference, she concluded, “Weel, Mause, I’ll just end where I sud hae begun—ye’re ower learned and ower godly for me to dispute wi’; sae I have just this to say,—either Cuddie must attend musters when he’s lawfully warned by the ground officer, or the sooner he and you flit and quit my bounds the better; there’s nae scarcity o’ auld wives or ploughmen; but, if there were, I had rather that the rigs of Tillietudlem bare naething but windle-straes and sandy lavrocks [Note: Bent-grass and sand-larks.] than that they were ploughed by rebels to the king.”

      “Aweel, my leddy,” said Mause, “I was born here, and thought to die where my father died; and your leddyship has been a kind mistress, I’ll ne’er deny that, and I’se ne’er cease to pray for you, and for Miss Edith, and that ye may be brought to see the error of your ways. But still”—“The error of my ways!” interrupted Lady Margaret, much incensed—“The error of my ways, ye uncivil woman?”

      “Ou, ay, my leddy, we are blinded that live in this valley of tears and darkness, and hae a’ ower mony errors, grit folks as weel as sma’—but, as I said, my puir bennison will rest wi’ you and yours wherever I am. I will be wae to hear o’ your affliction, and blithe to hear o’ your prosperity, temporal and spiritual. But I canna prefer the commands of an earthly mistress to those of a heavenly master, and sae I am e’en ready to suffer for righteousness’ sake.”

      “It is very well,” said Lady Margaret, turning her back in great displeasure; “ye ken my will, Mause, in the matter. I’ll hae nae whiggery in the barony of Tillietudlem—the next thing wad be to set up a conventicle in my very withdrawing room.”

      Having said this, she departed, with an air of great dignity; and Mause, giving way to feelings which she had suppressed during the interview,—for she, like her mistress, had her own feeling of pride,—now lifted up her voice and wept aloud.

      Cuddie, whose malady, real or pretended, still detained him in bed, lay perdu during all this conference, snugly ensconced within his boarded bedstead, and terrified to death lest Lady Margaret, whom he held in hereditary reverence, should have detected his presence, and bestowed on him personally some of those bitter reproaches with which she loaded his mother. But as soon as he thought her ladyship fairly out of hearing, he bounced up in his nest.

      “The foul fa’ ye, that I suld say sae,” he cried out to his mother, “for a lang-tongued clavering wife, as my father, honest man, aye ca’d ye! Couldna ye let the leddy alane wi’ your whiggery? And I was e’en as great a gomeral to let ye persuade me to lie up here amang the blankets like a hurcheon, instead o’ gaun to the wappen-schaw like other folk. Odd, but I put a trick on ye, for I was out at the window-bole when your auld back was turned, and awa down by to hae a baff at the popinjay, and I shot within twa on’t. I cheated the leddy for your clavers, but I wasna gaun to cheat my joe. But she may marry whae she likes now, for I’m clean dung ower. This is a waur dirdum than we got frae Mr Gudyill when ye garr’d me refuse to eat the plum-porridge on Yule-eve, as if it were ony matter to God or man whether a pleughman had suppit on minched pies or sour sowens.”

      “O, whisht, my bairn, whisht,” replied Mause; “thou kensna about thae things—It was forbidden meat, things dedicated to set days and holidays, which are inhibited to the use of protestant Christians.”

      “And now,” continued her son, “ye hae brought the leddy hersell on our hands!—An I could but hae gotten some decent claes in, I wad hae spanged out o’ bed, and tauld her I wad ride where she liked, night or day, an she wad but leave us the free house and the yaird, that grew the best early kale in the haill country, and the cow’s grass.”

      “O wow! my winsome bairn, Cuddie,” continued the old dame, “murmur not at the dispensation; never grudge suffering in the gude cause.”

      “But what ken I if the cause is gude or no, mither,” rejoined Cuddie, “for a’ ye bleeze out sae muckle doctrine about it? It’s clean beyond my comprehension a’thegither. I see nae sae muckle difference atween the twa ways o’t as a’ the folk pretend. It’s very true the curates read aye the same words ower again; and if they be right words, what for no? A gude tale’s no the waur o’ being twice tauld, I trow; and a body has aye the better chance to understand it. Every body’s no sae gleg at the uptake as ye are yoursell, mither.”

      “O, my dear Cuddie, this is the sairest distress of a’,” said the anxious mother—“O, how aften have I shown ye the difference between a pure evangelical doctrine, and ane that’s corrupt wi’ human inventions? O, my bairn, if no for your ain saul’s sake, yet for my grey hairs”—“Weel, mither,” said Cuddie, interrupting her, “what need ye mak sae muckle din about it? I hae aye dune whate’er ye bade me, and gaed to kirk whare’er ye likit on the Sundays, and fended weel for ye in the ilka days besides. And that’s what vexes me mair than a’ the rest, when I think how I am to fend for ye now in thae brickle times. I am no clear if I can pleugh ony place but the Mains and Mucklewhame, at least I never tried ony other grund, and it wadna come natural to me. And nae neighbouring heritors will daur to take us, after being turned aff thae bounds for non-enormity.”

      “Non-conformity, hinnie,” sighed Mause, “is the name that thae warldly men gie us.”

      “Weel, aweel—we’ll hae to gang to a far country, maybe twall or fifteen miles aff. I could be a dragoon, nae doubt, for I can ride and play wi’ the broadsword a bit, but ye wad be roaring about your blessing and your grey hairs.” (Here Mause’s exclamations became extreme.) “Weel, weel, I but spoke o’t; besides, ye’re ower auld to be sitting cocked up on a baggage-waggon wi’ Eppie Dumblane, the corporal’s wife. Sae what’s to come o’ us I canna weel see—I doubt I’ll hae to tak the hills wi’ the wild whigs, as they ca’ them, and then it will be my lo to be shot down like a mawkin at some dikeside, or to be sent to heaven wi’ a Saint Johnstone’s tippit about my hause.”

      “O, my bonnie Cuddie,” said the zealous Mause, “forbear sic carnal, self-seeking language, whilk is just a misdoubting o’ Providence—I have not seen the son of the righteous begging his bread, sae says the text; and your father was a douce honest man, though somewhat warldly in his dealings, and cumbered about earthly things, e’en like yoursell, my jo!”

      “Aweel,” said Cuddie, after a little consideration, “I see but ae gate for’t, and that’s a cauld coal to blaw at, mither. Howsomever, mither, ye hae some guess o’ a wee bit kindness that’s atween Miss Edith and young Mr Henry Morton, that suld be ca’d young Milnwood, and that I hae whiles

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