Chronicles of the Canongate, 1st SeriesScott, Walter
General
Chronicles of the Canongate, 1st Series
Scott, Walter
Scotland -- Social life and customs -- Fiction; Scots -- Foreign countries -- Fiction
I have sometimes asked myself what I should have done in case of actual
imprisonment, since I could not bear without impatience a restriction
which is comparatively a mere trifle; but I really could never answer
the question to my own satisfaction. I have all my life hated those
treacherous expedients called MEZZO-TERMINI, and it is possible with
this disposition I might have endured more patiently an absolute
privation of liberty than the more modified restrictions to which my
residence in the Sanctuary at this period subjected me. If, however, the
feelings I then experienced were to increase in intensity according
to the difference between a jail and my actual condition, I must
have hanged myself, or pined to death--there could have been no other
alternative.
Amongst many companions who forgot and neglected me, of course, when my
difficulties seemed to be inextricable, I had one true friend; and
that friend was a barrister, who knew the laws of his country well,
and tracing them up to the spirit of equity and justice in which
they originate, had repeatedly prevented, by his benevolent and manly
exertions, the triumphs of selfish cunning over simplicity and folly.
He undertook my cause, with the assistance of a solicitor of a character
similar to his own. My quondam doer had ensconced himself chin-deep
among legal trenches, hornworks, and covered ways; but my two protectors
shelled him out of his defences, and I was at length a free man, at
liberty to go or stay wheresoever my mind listed.
I left my lodgings as hastily as if it had been a pest-house. I did not
even stop to receive some change that was due to me on settling with my
landlady, and I saw the poor woman stand at her door looking after my
precipitate flight, and shaking her head as she wrapped the silver which
she was counting for me in a separate piece of paper, apart from the
store in her own moleskin purse. An honest Highlandwoman was Janet
MacEvoy, and deserved a greater remuneration, had I possessed the power
of bestowing it. But my eagerness of delight was too extreme to pause
for explanation with Janet. On I pushed through the groups of children,
of whose sports I had been so often a lazy, lounging spectator. I sprung
over the gutter as if it had been the fatal Styx, and I a ghost, which,
eluding Pluto’s authority, was making its escape from Limbo lake. My
friend had difficulty to restrain me from running like a madman up the
street; and in spite of his kindness and hospitality, which soothed me
for a day or two, I was not quite happy until I found myself aboard of
a Leith smack, and, standing down the Firth with a fair wind, might snap
my fingers at the retreating outline of Arthur’s Seat, to the vicinity
of which I had been so long confined.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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