Christie Johnstone. Charles Reade Reade

       * Buceleuch.

      “On this particular occasion, the Duke** makes one of us, my pretty maid.”

       **Wellington

      “I see! Are na yeawfu' prood o' being a lorrd?”

      “What an idea!”

      “His lordship did not go to bed a spinning-jenny, and rise up a lord, like some of them,” put in Saunders.

      “Saunders,” said the peer, doubtfully, “eloquence rather bores people.”

      “Then I mustn't speak again, my lord,” said Saunders, respectfully.

      “Noo,” said the fair inquisitor, “ye shall tell me how ye came to be lorrds, your faemily?”

      “Saunders!”

      “Na! ye manna flee to Sandy for a thing, ye are no a bairn, are ye?”

      Here was a dilemma, the Saunders prop knocked rudely away, and obliged to think for ourselves.

      But Saunders would come to his distressed master's assistance. He furtively conveyed to him a plump book—this was Saunders's manual of faith; the author was Mr. Burke, not Edmund.

      Lord Ipsden ran hastily over the page, closed the book, and said, “Here is the story.

      “Five hundred years ago—”

      “Listen, Jean,” said Christie; “we're gaun to get a boeny story. 'Five hundre' years ago,'” added she, with interest and awe.

      “Was a great battle,” resumed the narrator, in cheerful tones, as one larking with history, “between a king of England and his rebels. He was in the thick of the fight—”

      “That's the king, Jean, he was in the thick o't.”

      “My ancestor killed a fellow who was sneaking behind him, but the next moment a man-at-arms prepared a thrust at his majesty, who had his hands full with three assailants.”

      “Eh! that's no fair,” said Christie, “as sure as deeth.”

      “My ancestor dashed forward, and, as the king's sword passed through one of them, he clove another to the waist with a blow.”

      “Weel done! weel done!”

      Lord Ipsden looked at the speaker, her eyes were glittering, and her cheek flushing.

      “Good Heavens!” thought he; “she believes it!” So he began to take more pains with his legend.

      “But for the spearsman,” continued he, “he had nothing but his body; he gave it, it was his duty, and received the death leveled at his sovereign.”

      “Hech! puir mon.” And the glowing eyes began to glisten.

      “The battle flowed another way, and God gave victory to the right; but the king came back to look for him, for it was no common service.”

      “Deed no!”

      Here Lord Ipsden began to turn his eye inward, and call up the scene. He lowered his voice.

      “They found him lying on his back, looking death in the face.

      “The nobles, by the king's side, uncovered as soon as he was found, for they were brave men, too. There was a moment's silence; eyes met eyes, and said, this is a stout soldier's last battle.

      “The king could not bid him live.”

      “Na! lad, King Deeth has ower strong a grrip.”

      “But he did what kings can do, he gave him two blows with his royal sword.”

      “Oh, the robber, and him a deeing mon.”

      “Two words from his royal mouth, and he and we were Barons of Ipsden and Hawthorn Glen from that day to this.”

      “But the puir dying creature?”

      “What poor dying creature?”

      “Your forbear, lad.”

      “I don't know why you call him poor, madam; all the men of that day are dust; they are the gold dust who died with honor.

      “He looked round, uneasily, for his son—for he had but one—and when that son knelt, unwounded, by him, he said, 'Goodnight, Baron Ipsden;' and so he died, fire in his eye, a smile on his lip, and honor on his name forever. I meant to tell you a lie, and I've told you the truth.”

      “Laddie,” said Christie, half admiringly, half reproachfully, “ye gar the tear come in my een. Hech! look at yon lassie! how could you think t'eat plums through siccan a bonny story?”

      “Hets,” answered Jean, who had, in fact, cleared the plate, “I aye listen best when my ain mooth's stappit.”

      “But see, now,” pondered Christie, “twa words fra a king—thir titles are just breeth.”

      “Of course,” was the answer. “All titles are. What is popularity? ask Aristides and Lamartine—the breath of a mob—smells of its source—and is gone before the sun can set on it. Now the royal breath does smell of the Rose and Crown, and stays by us from age to age.”

      The story had warmed our marble acquaintance. Saunders opened his eyes, and thought, “We shall wake up the House of Lords some evening—we shall.”

      His lordship then added, less warmly, looking at the girls:

      “I think I should like to be a fisherman.”

      So saying, my lord yawned slightly.

      To this aspiration the young fishwives deigned no attention, doubting, perhaps, its sincerity; and Christie, with a shade of severity, inquired of him how he came to be a vile count.

      “A baron's no' a vile count, I'm sure,” said she; “sae tell me how ye came to be a vile count.”

      “Ah!” said he, “that is by no means a pretty story like the other; you will not like it, I am sure.

      “Ay, will I—ay, will I; I'm aye seeking knoewledge.”

      “Well, it is soon told. One of us sat twenty years on one seat, in the same house, so one day he got up a—viscount.”

      “Ower muckle pay for ower little wark.”

      “Now don't say that; I wouldn't do it to be Emperor of Russia.”

      “Aweel, I hae gotten a heap out o' ye; sae noow I'll gang, since ye are no for herrin'; come away, Jean.”

      At this their host remonstrated, and inquired why bores are at one's service night and day, and bright people are always in a hurry; he was informed in reply, “Labor is the lot o' man. Div ye no ken that muckle? And abune a' o' women.” *