truth is, that ye ken naething about our hill
country, or Hielands, as we ca' them. They are clean anither set frae the
like o' huz;--there's nae bailie-courts amang them--nae magistrates that
dinna bear the sword in vain, like the worthy deacon that's awa', and, I
may say't, like mysell and other present magistrates in this city--But
it's just the laird's command, and the loon maun loup; and the never
another law hae they but the length o' their dirks--the broadsword's
pursuer, or plaintiff, as you Englishers ca' it, and the target is
defender; the stoutest head bears langest out;--and there's a Hieland
plea for ye."

Owen groaned deeply; and I allow that the description did not greatly
increase my desire to trust myself in a country so lawless as he
described these Scottish mountains.

"Now, sir," said Jarvie, "we speak little o' thae things, because they
are familiar to oursells; and where's the use o' vilifying ane's country,
and bringing a discredit on ane's kin, before southrons and strangers?
It's an ill bird that files its ain nest."

"Well, sir, but as it is no impertinent curiosity of mine, but real
necessity, that obliges me to make these inquiries, I hope you will not
be offended at my pressing for a little farther information. I have to
deal, on my father's account, with several gentlemen of these wild
countries, and I must trust your good sense and experience for the
requisite lights upon the subject."

This little morsel of flattery was not thrown out in vain. "Experience!"
said the Bailie--"I hae had experience, nae doubt, and I hae made some
calculations--Ay, and to speak quietly amang oursells, I hae made some
perquisitions through Andrew Wylie, my auld clerk; he's wi' MacVittie &
Co. now--but he whiles drinks a gill on the Saturday afternoons wi' his
auld master. And since ye say ye are willing to be guided by the Glasgow
weaver-body's advice, I am no the man that will refuse it to the son of
an auld correspondent, and my father the deacon was nane sic afore me. I
have whiles thought o' letting my lights burn before the Duke of Argyle,
or his brother Lord Ilay (for wherefore should they be hidden under a
bushel?), but the like o' thae grit men wadna mind the like o' me, a puir
wabster body--they think mair o' wha says a thing, than o' what the thing
is that's said. The mair's the pity--mair's the pity. Not that I wad
speak ony ill of this MacCallum More--'Curse not the rich in your
bedchamber,' s