Braehead is the farm the historical Jock Howison asked and got from our gay James the Fifth, “the gudeman o’ Ballengiech,” as a reward for the services of his flail, when the King had the worst of it at Cramond Brig with the gypsies.  The farm is unchanged in size from that time, and still in the unbroken line of the ready and victorious thrasher.  Braehead is held on the condition of the possessor being ready to present the King with a ewer and basin to wash his hands, Jock having done this for his unknown king after the splore, and when George the Fourth came to Edinburgh this ceremony was performed in silver at Holyrood.  It is a lovely neuk this Braehead, preserved almost as it was 200 years ago.  “Lot and his wife,” mentioned by Maidie,—­two quaintly cropped yew-trees,—­still thrive, the burn runs as it did in her time, and sings the same quiet tune,—­as much the same and as different as Now and Then.  The house full of old family relics and pictures, the sun shining on them through the small deep windows with their plate glass; and there, blinking at the sun, and chattering contentedly, is a parrot, that might, for its looks of eld, have been in the ark, and domineered over and deaved the dove.  Everything about the place is old and fresh.

This is beautiful:  “I am very sorry to say that I forgot God—­that is to say I forgot to pray to-day and Isabella told me that I should be thankful that God did not forget me—­if he did, O what would become of me if I was in danger and God not friends with me—­I must go to unquenchable fire and if I was tempted to sin—­how could I resist it O no I will never do it again—­no no—­if I can help it!” (Canny wee wifie!) “My religion is greatly falling off because I dont pray with so much attention when I am saying my prayers, and my charecter is lost among the Braehead people.  I hope I will be religious again—­but as for regaining my charecter I despare for it.” (Poor little “habit and repute"!)

Her temper, her passion, and her “badness” are almost daily confessed and deplored:  “I will never again trust to my own power, for I see that I cannot be good without God’s assistance,—­I will not trust in my own selfe, and Isa’s health will be quite ruined by me,—­it will indeed.”  “Isa has giving me advice, which is, that when I feal Satan beginning to tempt me, that I flea him and he would flea me.”  “Remorse is the worst thing to bear, and I am afraid that I will fall a marter to it.”

Poor dear little sinner!  Here comes the world again:  “In my travels I met with a handsome lad named Charles Balfour Esq., and from him I got ofers of marage—­offers of marage, did I say?  Nay plenty heard me.”  A fine scent for “breach of promise”!