I'll just ha' a petition a' alane to mysel--I, an' a twa
or three honest men. Besides, ye're just eight days ower time wi' it."
"What do you mean?"
"Suld ha' sent it in the 1st of April, an' no the 10th; a' fool's day wud
ha' suited wi' it ferlie!"
"Mr. Mackaye," said Crossthwaite, in a passion, "I shall certainly inform
the Convention of your extraordinary language!"
"Do, laddie! do, then! An' tell 'em this, too"--and, as he rose, his whole
face and figure assumed a dignity, an awfulness, which I had never seen
before in him--"tell them that ha' driven out * * * * and * * * *, an'
every one that daur speak a word o' common sense, or common humanity--them
that stone the prophets, an' quench the Spirit o' God, and love a lie, an'
them that mak the same--them that think to bring about the reign o' love
an' britherhood wi' pikes an' vitriol bottles, murther an' blasphemy--tell
'em that ane o' fourscore years and mair--ane that has grawn grey in the
people's cause--that sat at the feet o' Cartwright, an' knelt by the
death-bed o' Rabbie Burns--ane that cheerit Burdett as he went to the
Touer, an' spent his wee earnings for Hunt an' Cobbett--ane that beheld the
shaking o' the nations in the Ninety-three, and heard the birth-shriek o'
a newborn world--ane that while he was yet a callant saw Liberty afar off,
an' seeing her was glad, as for a bonny bride, an' followed her through the
wilderness for threescore weary waeful years--sends them the last message
that e'er he'll send on airth: tell 'em that they're the slaves o' warse
than priests and kings--the slaves o' their ain lusts an' passions--the
slaves o' every loud-tongued knave an' mountebank that'll pamper them in
their self-conceit; and that the gude God'll smite 'em down, and bring 'em
to nought, and scatter 'em abroad, till they repent, an' get clean hearts
and a richt speerit within them, and learn His lesson that he's been trying
to teach 'em this threescore years--that the cause o' the people is the
cause o' Him that made the people; an' wae to them that tak' the deevil's
tools to do his wark wi'! Gude guide us!--What was yon, Alton, laddie?"
"What?"
"But I saw a spunk o' fire fa' into your bosom! I've na faith in siccan
heathen omens; but auld carlins wud say it's a sign o' death within the
year--save ye from it, my puir misguidit bairn! Aiblins a fire-flaught o'
my een, it might be--I've had them unco often, the day--"
And he stooped down to the fire, and began to light his pipe, muttering to
himself--
"Saxty years o' madness! saxty years o' madness! How lang, O Lord, before
thou bring these puir daft bodies to their richt mind again?"
We stood watching him, and interchanging looks--expecting something, we
knew not what.
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