The Heart of Mid-Lothian - Penn State University

ground with this carnal-witted scholar, as he had in his
pride termed Butler, that to meet him, of all men, under
feelings of humiliation, aggravated his misfortune,
and was a consummation like that of the dying chief in
the old ballad— “Earl Percy sees my fall!”
Deans raised the Bible with his left hand, so as partly
to screen his face, and putting back his right as far as he
could, held it towards Butler in that position, at the same
time turning his body from, him, as if to prevent his
seeing the working of his countenance. Butler clasped
the extended hand which had supported his orphan infancy,
wept over it, and in vain endeavoured to say more
than the words— “God comfort you—God comfort
you!”
“He will—he doth, my friend,” said Deans, assuming
firmness as he discovered the agitation of his guest; “he
doth now, and he will yet more in his own gude time. I
have been ower proud of my sufferings in a gude cause,
Reuben, and now I am to be tried with those whilk will
turn my pride and glory into a reproach and a hissing.
How muckle better I hae thought mysell than them that
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lay saft, fed sweet, and drank deep, when I was in the
moss-haggs and moors, wi’ precious Donald Cameron,
and worthy Mr. Blackadder, called Guess-again; and how
proud I was o’ being made a spectacle to men and angels,
having stood on their pillory at the Canongate afore
I was fifteen years old, for the cause of a National Covenant!
To think, Reuben, that I, wha hae been sae
honoured and exalted in my youth, nay, when I was but
a hafflins callant, and that hae borne testimony again
the defections o’ the times yearly, monthly, daily, hourly,
minutely, striving and testifying with uplifted hand and
voice, crying aloud, and sparing not, against all great
national snares, as the nation-wasting and church-sinking
abomination of union, toleration, and patronage,
imposed by the last woman of that unhappy race of
Stuarts; also against the infringements and invasions
of the just powers of eldership, whereanent, I uttered
my paper, called a ‘Cry of an Howl in the Desert,’ printed
at the Bow-head, and sold by all flying stationers in town
and country—and now—”
Here he paused. It may well be supposed that Butler,