Rensselaer Republican, Volume 24, Number 11, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 12 November 1891 — The Heir of Linne. [ARTICLE]

The Heir of Linne.

BOOK THE FIRST. THE LAIRD OF LfRIMC

BV ROBERT BrCHANAS.

CHAPTER I. . WILLIE TDK PRF.ACHKtL On the afternoon of an autumn forty odd years ago, a singular scone might have been witnessed in the streets of tbe seaside town Of I>inne. on the south-west coast of Scotland. Townfolk, fishermen, fishwives, old men and women, lads and lasses, were gathered in a crowd near the Cross in the main street, gaping, laughing, and jeering, while following an extraordinary looking Cgure who flourished in one hand a long, ragged stick,attached to which was a sort of banner, composed of an old towel or dish cloth, and held in the other a huge Scots bonnet, very touch the worse of wear. He shambled slowly along, bare-headed -and bare footed, talking loudly as he went, and now and then pausing to address the crowd, in tones now shrill and strident, now low and pitiful, according to the nature of his discourse. r

He was a man about forty, but he might have passed for sixty, so worn ana woe-bigone, so gray and wild did he appear; but? his step was strong and springy, and. despite his awkward gait, he had all the vigor of one in his primp. In walking, he bent forward, narrowing chest and shoulders, but when he paused,flourishing his banner and addressing the crowd, he drew himself to his full height of six feet upwards. Talking, Articulating, flourishing his arms in the air,with his ragged coat blowing in the wind and showing a hairy, naked breast and sinewy throat and arms, he continued on his way. till be paused at the Cross, and stepping on tbe stone step, stood towering a full head and shoulders over the little sea of heads that were turned up to hear him.

Meanwhile the cry was running from door to door, ‘ Willie Macgillvray's horeawa. Prophet Willie’s preaching up and doon the town!” People ran from the shops where they were making purchases, the herring fishers left their nets on the shore and their boats on the quay, the landlord of the Tam O Shanter inn came out to his door, the ragged children ran from every lane and alley with eager cries. His back to the old Cross, his face to the sea, the man lifted up his right hand, flourishing the banner, /and addressed the crowd.

“In the name of the prophet, Macgillvray! In the name of Willie the Hermit I hearken to the words o’ wisdom, spoken to a foolish and a feeble generation! Open your lugs, ye rogues and ye tizzies, and take heed to the emblem I wave before Vo—ay, look upon it and take heed!” A huge roar of laughter interrupted him. ‘ We’re taking heed, Willie!” cried a voice. “What is’t? A dish-cloot, Willie, my man?” The prophet': twinkled staugely.

“Ay, a dish-clout, and what for no? What would you have, Tamnius, yc sinner? Would you have a brand from your smithy fire? Would ye have the Royal Lion o’ Scotland, emblazoned in gold on a crimson flag o’ -he silk? Would "ehave a green tree, ye grinning dt\ il, or kail runt from the garden? 1 take my flag where I flnd .it —a sark bleaching in the hedge, or a young lassock’s pet ticoat from the linen pi\ s, or an old Kites kushiou from the armchair! Away, ye limmers! away, ye sinners! away, ye scum o’ Egypt and o’ Scotland, and get ye dish clouts and cold water from the well, and wash your souls clean! Never heed your faces this day—look to your souls, for the j Lord s coming dov n this wav. and I, i Willie Maegillvray, am his prophet!” i Here, suddenly sinking his voice and channg his tone, he held out the great bonnet, and continued like u mendicant— . All that I ask for mv pains is one bawbee! Gold I cannot take, and silver I will not take; but I seek just one bawLee from each and all.” .There seemed to be no response to his solicitation. The people nudged each other, and grinned, laughed; but iibt a copper was forthcoming—so that the voice again pealed shrill and angry, and the banner was waved impatiently in the’air. ‘-What, ye limmers. nothing! Not a doit, not a bawbee! Will I curse ye with bell, book, and candle, like a priest o’Romel Will out to ye tee threat o’ JielLfire, like the clocking hens o' the kirk! No, ye limme«; no, ye no, ye ignorant loons; I’ll tell ye the time tidings that came to me from the mouths o' the leaders of mankind. In the name of the prophet. .Willie Maegillvray, who had sat at the feet of Robert Owen o' Lanark and •drunken the words o' wisdom from lips o’ W illiam Fulton o’ Kilmarnock! There sone coining to clean tio wqrid, aid what 'or no' with a uish-clout! It's reeking and stinking with dirt! It's as foul as s midden and as black as a common sewer! Will you tell me that the auld wife o’ Rome can clean it—she's tried her best for eighteen hundred years, and fWhat’s -she done but spilt the pot into the fire and filled the house with reck and fume? Will you tell me that Rome can clean it, or Presbvtcry, or Free Kirk, or any kirk, for that's a lie! The one that is coming to do the job—with a disb-clout in her hand— is neither bedizened like the Scarlet Woman, nor clad in silks

and satins like a lady, nor ragged and dirty like you, ye drabs and fishwives of the town! She is modest in her demeanour, and wise in her speech, and bornie o’ blee, with a sweet mouth and loving cheek, and all she wears is the petticoat and short gown of a fair-hair’d lowland lass that milks the kye! Shall I tell ye what ther call her? Will you hearken to her name? Her name then, is Common Sense, own sister to Christian Charity, and first kissen by blood to Sisterly Love! Hearken to that, now! Hearken to that, now hearken to that, ye that have no sense, and no charity, and no love!” Here, just in the warmth of his argument, he stopped short, dropped his banner, and crooned most eously“Lord preserve me, I’m awfu’ dry! Who'll give Willie the Prophet two bawbees to kill the drouth?’’ A loud roar greeted this sally. The smith who had previously spoken—a huge fellow, in his shirtsleeves —then stepped forward—- “ Sing us a song, Willie, my man, and I’ll treat ye to half a mutchkin!” The prophet looked at him with an expression full of mingled suspicion and approval. “I ne’er can sing till my throat's wetted, Taminas! Oil my voice, and I'm your man!” With-a laugh and a nod, the smith strode away to a small public-house in the corner of the quay. Willie followed closely at his heels, and the crowd followed Willie. The smith and the preacher disappeared into the public-house, but, after a few minutes, emerged again, Willie wiping his mouth with the cuff of his ragged coat. “Noo, Willie my man!” cried Vulcan; whereupon, without more ado, Willie sprang into the middle of the street, and in a loud voice, clear, though shrill, sang the following ditty:—

“Come sit down, my cronie, and gie me your crack. Let the wind tak' the cares o’ this life omits back; Our hearts to despondency we ne'er will submit, We’vo aye been provided for, and sae will wo vet: And say will wo yet. and sae will we yet : When w« fell, we aye gat up again, and sae will we yet? “Let the glass keep its course, and gae merrily .roun’, , The sun has to rise tho' the moon should gae dbon, Till the house be rinnin’ roun’ about, 'tis time enough to flit: When we tell we aye gat up again, sae will we yet! And sae will we yet, and say will we yet; When we fell, we aye gat up again, and sae will wo yet:” As the man sang, his face grew transformed, his wild eyes grew soft and dreamy, his whole manner inexpressibly sad and tender. There was no laughter now. The crowd listened as if spell-bound, and the smith, with a great gulp in his throat, threw a handful of coppers into the singer’s hat, crying—- “ Cover that, some of ye!”

In a moment, men and women pressed forward to shower halfpence into the hat, nor did the almsgiving cease, till the sum amounted to several shillings. Gathering the money up in his clenched hand, Willie thrust it into the breast pocket of his coat, and then, with a skip and a jump, ran rapidly up the street, with a flock of shouting children at his heels Suddenly he paused in the middle of the road, in front of a man on horseback, who was comingtalong at a slow trot. The horse paused suddenly and swerved aside, nearly throwing the rider—a thin, cleanshaven. keen-eyed man of between forty and fifty—who uttered an angry exclamation, and aimed a blow with his riding whip at the mendicant's bare head. ‘•Gently, laird, gently!” cried Willie, parrying the blow with his stick and seizing the horse's reins. ‘‘What ails you this bonnie morning?” Then drawing back and bowing low with mock reverence,he added. “Room for the laird o’ Castle Hunger! Room there, you imps and loons, for the great man with his pouches fu’o’ siller to gie to the poor. ” ‘ Out of the way, you drunken fool!” said the horseman, with a scowl, while his horse planted his fore legs firmly, and stood panting before the waving banner. “Do you wish jne to break my neck?” “Not for worlds, laird! Lord for bid I should rob creation of a shin ing light and an example! Who would inherit the flesh-pots and the red wines of Castle Hunger if the laird o' Linne died without'issuq and broke his braw neck on the causey “stones?” j Something in the words uttered, and more particularly in the manner of utterance, seemed to render the rider furious. With a sharp oath he struck his horse smartly over the ears with his riding whip and forced it to spring forward, nearly overturning the mendicant in its career; then, at a hard gallop, he passed up the stftet and out of ’sigat.

CHAPTER 11. ROBIN. William Maegillvray, better known as Willie the Prophet, was one of those extraordinary characters only to be found in the kingdom of Scotland 1 , and rapidly dying out even there. Regarded by many people as a harmless madman, and by those who knew him best as a strange compound of wild enthusiasm and sly common sense, he was known everywhere on the southwest coast, .. here he led a mysterious kind of

life, from hand to mouth. Mean and ragged as was his appearance, he was, nevertheless, a gentleman by birth, and in his early life had taken orders as a minister of the Scottish Church. If the truth must be told, drink had been at the bottom of his eccentricities. After certain out-

rageous performances in the pulpit which led to his expulsion from the only living he ever enjoyed, he had disappeared for several years and been a wanderer on the face of the earth, extending his pilgrimage as far east as the Holy Land, and as far westward as the United States. Reappearing in his native country at about the time when Owen of Lanark was inviting proselytes of all degrees to learn and teach the new doctrines of Socialism, he had joined the little band of Socialist missionaries; but his evil genius pursued him even here, and durihg an extraordinary passage of arms with a certain minister of the Church whom he had invited to meet him on the platform in a three days' debate on the thesis, “Whether Or not orthodox Christianity has been an unmixed benefit to Society,” he bad broken down so ignominiously under the influence of strong driuk, that even the Socialist party regarded him as a devil’s advocate. and eagerly washed their hands of him. From that time forward, he led the life of a vagabond, roaming from place to place, and shelterless as a bird of the air; mobbed sometimes for his shocking heterodoxy, which he took nd trouble to disguise, and which deeply offended the prejudices of most of the population, but protected generally by the good humor of public opinion, which classed him, perhaps rightfully. as a harmless lunatic. In good truth, few of those who listened to him knew exactly what he was driving at, so mixed was his matter and so wild his mode of delivery on these occasions, when, leaving his retreats he burst out into the streets and market places, and proclaimed his prophetic vocation. Those who knew, said that Willie

was by no means so hair-brained as he pretended to be; and, for some reason or other, he had friends far and wide. Pawky farmers, respectable and religious in all their belongings, welcomed Willie to their inglesides, and gave him a shakedown when he wanted it. Peasants and fishermen enjoyed his gifts of conversation and song-singing. His wants being few, there was always some one to minister to them, and he generally contrived to be of service to those who treated him with that kindly consideration. . His fits of prophesying and speechifying came on periodically, under the influence of the liquor which had been his lifelong bane. At other times, he came and went quietly enough, and was sufficiently shrewd to keep his wildest opinions to himself. An hour or so after the scene, or scenes, described in the proceeding chapter/Willie was wandering alone along the sea-shore beyond the town trailing his banner along the ground like the tail of a dog in disgrace and oscillating wildly in his gait. It was the close of a golden day, and the sun was setting in splendor upon the mountainous islands of thesea. Not tvsbund broke the stillness, save the occasional cry of a hovering seagull or the lonely call of a curfew. He walked on unsteadily, muttering to himself, till he had left the town far behind; then, pausing, and leaning on his stick, he looked backward with lack-lustre eyes. The distant houses, the dark quays, were reddening to the sunset, and one or two red-sailed herringefioats were beginning to creep out to the night’s fishing on the almost windless sea. He turued with a sigh, and saw before him a craggy promontory,on the edge of which was a lonely lighthouse the dim beacon of which had just been newly lit. Between the promontory and the path he had followed stretched many miles of rocky sands and reefs of crimson weed left bare by the tide, which was at its lowest ebb. He walked on for some minutes, then, pausing again, threw his banner down, and .cast himself full length on the shingle,closed his eyes, and seemed to go to sleep. Presently, however, he sat upright, and, after passing his hand wearily across his brow, gazed at the sunset, with a look so long, so wistful, so dreamy and absent-minded, that it was some time before he perceived that he was ■ not alone. Just above him, on the rough and scanty grass which fringed the shingle’s edge, stood a tiny figure, looking down upon him, as silent and moveless as himself; a little boy of seven or eight years old,whose dress consisted of a single garment like a girl’s frock—which, indeed, it might once have been—who wore neither shoes nor stockings, and whose long, . golden hair had no covering of any kind. The child did not stir, but stood watching Willie with eyes as sad as his own, yet pitiful as well as wistful—till, drawn by some magnetic attraction of the, little one’s steadfast gaze, Willie started, looked round, and greeted him with a curious smile. “Is that you, Robin?” he said, gently. “I took you for a fairy, Robin, with the light shining on your bonnie golden hair, and your eyes of elfin blue. Come, and sit you here by my side?’ The boy sprang down and seated himself on the loose shingle, gathering up the mingled sand and shells with one hand, but looking steadily into the man's face. “What ails you,. Robin?” asked Willie, a little uneasy under that steadfast gaze. “What brings ye here, and where have ye been?’ 7

“Up the toon, Willie! I saw ye amang the folk, and followed you hereawa’.’’ Willie’s face fell. “I did not see you,Robin,” he said, softly. “But I saw you, Willie; andl saw the folk making fun o' yet and I thought shame o’ ye when I saw ye drinking at the public-hoose!” “I had just two glasses, Robin,” apologetically. “Ye had mair than twa, ” said the boy, firmly. “Ye were drunk, Willie, and you’re half-drunk noo!” This was plain speaking with a vengeance, but Willie did not seem at all astonished. He looked at the child, smiled sadly, and then, reaching out his hand, passed it gently over his long, golden hair. “You’re right, Robin—l’ll not deny it! The spell was on me, and I yielded to the tempter, as you say. But I’m sober now, Robin! It’s away like an ill dream!” Still lightly smoothing the child’s hair, he continued—

r _ .“But there are bonnie dreams as well as ill ones, Robin, my doo! It was a bonnie dream I had the noo, when you came gazing down upon me; I saw a bairn like yourself standing yonder at the gates o’ brightness, and he had golden hair like this, and he was waving his two hands and beckoning me to come and who think you was the bairn but wee Willie Macgillvray—Willie, as he was thirty years sync, a laddie like yourself, Robin? He's living yonder, and waiting till I come; for there’s sense as well as nonsense in what the ministers say about ‘except a man be born again, he canna’ enter the kingdom o’ heaven.’ ” This curiously irrelevant discourse did not seem to astonish the listener at all, With the red light on his sweet.face. Robin listened and nodded; then, pointing seward, he cried — “See till the sun, Willie! Is it no’ bonnie?” The wistful look grew on the man’s wan features, which shone as if anointed. “Yon’s no' the sun, Robin!” he said smiling. “Yon's God!” The child started, as if somewhat afraid; then, catching his friend’s smile, he cried—

“Is God in the sun, Willie?” “God’s yonder, Robin. I can see him plain—His face, and His eyes, and His hair, and the shining of His smile. He’s Watching you and me and the world. Whether we’re waking or sleeping, He' watching. Eh, but He’s looking down on a heap o' dirt and wickedness, and wondering, maybe, why He made it! Could He net have made it better, and made folk wiser, and kept men forever young, and saved them from the curse o’ drink and such abominations? It must be an awful thing to be God, and to think of the responsibility! If I were God, I’d snuff the world out like a candle, and begin it all o’er again with a loving lad and lass, not naked, but decently clothed, and nae De’il to tempt them to wander astray!” Even this raving did not disconcert, or astonish the child, who, seeing an occasion to point a moral, interposed—- “ The De’il made a whiskey, Willie! A’body kens that!” “But God made the De’il” cried Willie, with a grin, rising to his feet. The boy stooped down, and lifted the banner, placing the stick across, his shoulder that he might bear its weight the mdre easiiyT' ttien,~side' by side, the curiously assorted pair turned inland, crossed an arid patch of meadowland, and reached a narrow country road. By this time the gloaming had fallen, and here and there in the sky glimmered a star. r As they passed along, Willie .began to sing, in the clear, pathetic tones peculiar to him—“l’m wearing awa,’ Jean, Like snaw when it's thaw, Jean: I’m wearing awa, to The Lana o' the Leal.” All at once he paused and pointed up. “Did ye ever see bees thronging, Robin, when a body drumm’d to them on an old tin can or a saucepan lid? Well, that’s what he who made the world is now, only it’s a kind of a harp He s playing (harken, Robin, and ye can near—a kind o’ a still, small sound!) and the stars are thronging out with a hum! hum! hum! and flying round and round Him; and they’ll throng and throng all night, aye growing thicker and brighter, till He gathers them into His byke at the grey of dawn. No man can count them; He canna’ count them Hirnse!’; and yet, Robin my man, each star’s a world like this spinning round and round to yon heavenly playing. And the priest can blether, and the minister can sneevel, and the kirks battle together like the beasts o’ the field, in the face of a sight like yon, in the hearing of yon awful music. Look up again; Robin. Strain vour een. my doo, and you’ll see glints o’ light coming and going, and a shining as of a wonderfu’ gate o’ gold. ” “I see the lights, Willie, but na gate,” said the child. “Are the lights angels?” * “They’re ghosts o’ dead men and women coming and going and watching the thronging o' the stars. Eh, Robin, it’s a sad sight, yon, to a.sinful man —a man saddened with the curse o’ drink. But never believe the blether about angels and such like chimeras of the poets. There’s one Milton pictures them like muckle sodgers, with swords in their hands, and powder guns, and cannon to blow each other into snare; and the de’il himself a kind o’ Napoleon Bonaparte, haranguing the sodgers and riding about op a. charger—for . all the world like a scene in a peep-show!

That’s foolishness. Robin—fool’s 1 , ness and havers! Yet theange.s au men and women, and the deals are men and women! The one thing in yon daft chiel Swedenborg that pleased me is that be kenned this; and put it in his long-winded books.’ The boy gazed up intis face, wondering. “I dinna like to look at the stars, Willie. They make me feared!’’ “No wonder!” returned the man, standing bareheaded under the sky. “I said the same thing to Robert Owen once, when we were walking at gloaming on the banks o’ Clyde. ‘They tell me you’re an atheist, Mr. Owen; can ye look up at yonder sky and say without trembling, ‘There is no God?’ Man! Robin, ye should have seen the look he gave me: and do ye ken what he replied? ‘They call me an atheist, Mr. Macgillvray. ’ he said, ‘because I believe in no God but goodness; because I worship no form of evil, and respect no tyranny, be it human or divine.’ I took off _ my bonnet to him then and there—like this. He was a grand man, Robert Owen, and dispelled a heap o' vulgar superstition.” Strange talk, surely, between a grown man and a child; but it was. this very freedom of conversation on’ themes he did or did not understand that fascinated the boy. It never seemed to occur to Wlilie to explain anything, or to assume an inequality of ideas between himself and his companion. He talked away out of the fullness of his simple heart, as to a friend and equal; and though Robin scarcely followed his drift, there was between the two a perfectly sympathetic understanding. “Come awa," whispered Robin, pulling the man by the coat sleeve. “Mither’s . wanting ye, Willie. She sent me into the toon to seek ye.”" Willie hastened on by the side of the boy, who ran to keep up with him. “Why did you not tell me before that she was seeking me? “Because you were drunk, Willie!” replied Robin, sententiously. Willie took the home-thrust in silence; but presently as he hurried along, he muttered to himself—- “ Not so drunk either! I had my ears and eyes! ... I ding’d the truth into them; and then I sang a bit song, and got a handsome collection. . . . And I scaur’d the laird o’ Linne, on his road to Castle Hunger! . . . Not so drunk, but maybe drunk enough for one that was preaching the religion o’ common sense.” “I saw ye scaur the Hard,” cried Robin, panting and looking up to him “I thought he would hae been coupit frae the saddle.” e “He would have gotten his desserts, Robin. I’ll tell you this— a broken neck is is better than a broken heart!” [to be continted.] 1