“Oh, my name is Townshend,” said I, speaking the truth at random, “and I have come up from England to see if the report of your mountains be true. It is a better way of seeing the world, say I, than to philander through Italy and France. I am a quiet man of modest means with a taste for the picturesque.”
“So, so,” said the little man. “But I could show you corn-rigs by the Cart side which are better and bonnier than a wheen muckle stony hills. But every man to his taste, and doubtless, since ye’re an Englander, ye’ll no hae seen mony braefaces?”
Then he fell to giving me biographies of each of the travellers, and as we were some way behind the others he could speak without fear. “The lang man in the grey coat is the Deacon o’ the Glesca Fleshers, a man o’ great substance and good repute. He’s lang had trouble wi’ thae Hieland bodies, for when he bocht nowt frae them they wad seek a loan of maybe mair than the price, and he wad get caution on some o’ their lands and cot-houses. ’Deed, we’re a’ in that line, as ye micht say;” and he raked the horizon with his hand.
“Then ye go north to recover monies?” said I, inadvertently.
He looked cunningly into my face, and, for a second, suspicion was large in his eyes. “Ye’re a gleg yin, Mr. Townds, and maybe our errand is just no that far frae what ye mean. But, speaking o’ the Deacon, he has a grandgaun business in the Trongate, and he has been elder this sax year in the Barony, and him no forty year auld. Laidly’s his name, and nane mair respeckit among the merchants o’ the city. Yon ither man wi’ him is a Maister Graham, whae comes frae the Menteith way, a kind o’ Hielander by bluid, but wi’ nae Hieland tricks in his heid. He’s a sober wud-merchant at the Broomielaw, and he has come up here on a job about some fir-wuds. Losh, there’s a walth o’ timmer in this bit,” and he scanned greedily the shady hills.
“The twae lang red-heided men are Campbells, brithers, whae deal in yairn and wabs o’ a’ kind in the Saltmarket. Gin ye were wantin’ the guid hamespun or the fine tartan in a’ the clan colours ye wad be wise to gang there. But I’m forgetting ye dinna belang to thae pairts ava’.”
By this time the heavens had darkened to a storm and the great raindrops were already plashing on my face. We were now round the ribs of the hill they call Sgordhonuill and close to the edge of the Levin loch. It was a desolate, wild place, and yet on the very brink of the shore amid the birk-woods we came on the inn and the ferry.
I must needs go in with the others, and if the place was better than certain hostels I had lodged in on my road—notably in the accursed land of Lome—it was far short of the South. And yet I dare not deny the comfort, for there was a peat-fire glowing on the hearth and the odour of cooking meat was rich for hungry nostrils. Forbye, the out-of-doors was now one pour of hail-water, which darkened the evening to a murky twilight.
The men sat round the glow after supper and there was no more talk of going further. The loch was a chaos of white billows, so the ferry was out of the question; and as for me, who should have been that night on Glen Levin-side, there was never a thought of stirring in my head, but I fell into a deep contentment with the warmth and a full meal, and never cast a look to the blurred window. I had not yet spoken to the others, but comfort loosened their tongues, and soon we were all on terms of gossip. They set themselves to find out every point in my career and my intentions, and I, mindful of Mr. Stewart’s warning, grew as austere in manner as the Deacon himself.
“And ye say ye traivel to see the world?” said one of the Campbells. “Man, ye’ve little to dae. Ye maunna be thrang at hame. If I had a son who was a drone like you, he wad never finger siller o’ mine.”
“But I will shortly have a trade,” said I, “for I shall be cutting French throats in a year, Mr. Campbell, if luck favours me.”
“Hear to him,” said the grave Campbell. “He talks of war, bloody war, as a man wad talk of a penny-wedding. Know well, young man, that I value a sodger’s trade lower than a flesher-lad’s, and have no respect for a bright sword and a red coat. I am for peace, but when I speak, for battle they are strong,” said he, finishing with a line from one of his Psalms.
I sat rebuked, wishing myself well rid of this company. But I was not to be let alone, for the Deacon would play the inquisitor on the matter of my family.
“What brought ye here of a’ places? There are mony pairts in the Hielands better worth seeing. Ye’ll hae some freends, belike, hereaways?”
I told him, “No,” that I had few friends above the Border; but the persistent man would not be pacified. He took upon himself, as the elder, to admonish me on the faults of youth.
“Ye are but a lad,” said he with unction, “and I wad see no ill come to ye. But the Hielands are an unsafe bit, given up to malignants and papists and black cattle. Tak your ways back, and tell your freends to thank the Lord that they see ye again.” And then he broke into a most violent abuse of the whole place, notably the parts of Appin and Lochaber. It was, he said,
